William Botts, founder and editor of the West Tisbury Grackle, was in his office in what had once been the hayloft of a barn. He was a gnomelike man with disheveled gray hair and a puckish expression. The Grackle was a one-page sheet Botts ran off on the library’s copying machine and sold for ten cents a copy from boxes posted outside the senior center and Alley’s store. He was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when Victoria mounted the rickety stairs that led up from the horse stalls. He looked up as she hoisted herself onto the floor of the loft.
Botts, who was at least twenty years younger than Victoria, set the remains of his sandwich on the rim of his coffee cup, wiped his hands on his tan pants, and arose from his editorial seat. “Mrs. Trumbull,” he said. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Victoria perched on the edge of an overstuffed chair, avoiding a broken spring that showed through the upholstery. “I wanted to talk with you.”
“Sorry about that chair.” He tugged a brightly colored Mexican serape out from under a large graying black dog, who moaned and got unsteadily to his feet. William shook out the blanket and laid it over the seat cushion behind Victoria.
“Thank you,” she said.
Botts returned to his seat behind the desk, which was piled high with paper. “So that egomaniac fired you, eh?”
“That’s what it amounts to,” said Victoria. “I’m here to apply for a job on the Grackle.” She settled back in the overstuffed chair with its now-covered spring and waited.
Botts folded his arms on top of his piled-up papers and eyed Victoria over his half-frame glasses. He, too, waited.
Finally Victoria said, “Colley got an obituary in the mail this morning. Reporting his death.”
“His own?” Botts raised his shaggy eyebrows.
Victoria nodded. “The obituary said he was found in the newspaper morgue, hanged by his prep school tie.”
“I heard you saved him yesterday.”
“He thought I’d caused the accident. Now he’s convinced that I sent him the obituary.”
Botts leaned forward. “I don’t suppose you did?”
Victoria peered at him through half-closed eyes and ignored his question. She fished the note out of her cloth bag and handed it to Botts, who studied it, then looked over his glasses at her.
She waved a knobby hand at the note he held. “That letter is clearly a threat. Yet neither Colley nor our chief of police seems to be taking it seriously.”
“I must say, Victoria, I agree with them.” Botts handed the note back to Victoria.
“Our police chief plans to do nothing.” Victoria smoothed her white hair. “If you hire me, William, I’ll get to the bottom of this. You’ll have a scoop for the Grackle.”
Botts shook his head. “I only report West Tisbury goings-on and I don’t pay salaries.”
“The money is not important. It’s a matter of principle,” said Victoria.
Botts leaned back with his hands behind his head. The black dog looked up at him, then put his head down and closed his eyes.
Victoria eased herself out of the deep, uncomfortable chair. “I’ll give you time to think it over, William. When you hire me, you’ll have an experienced newspaper correspondent and a new angle on stories. You won’t have to pay me a cent. At least, not right away.” She stood, bracing herself on her walking stick. “It’s time the Enquirer had some competition.”
“From a one-page broadsheet?” Botts muttered. “With a circulation of fifty?”
“It’s a start,” Victoria said. “You don’t happen to be driving my way, do you? It’s beginning to rain.”
Matt Pease was waiting outside Colley Jameson’s office with his camera bag when Colley returned from lunch. Rain was coming down heavily. The waterproofing of Matt’s raincoat was long gone and when he took his coat off, the shoulders of his gray sweater were darkly wet.
Colley gestured Matt into his office. He removed his tweed hat and his own raincoat and hung them on the coat rack in the corner of his office. He checked his reflection in a mirror behind the coatrack and ran a comb through his hair. Then he turned to Matt.
“Have a seat, Matt. Quite a storm we’re having. Can I offer you a warmer-upper?” He reached into his bottom drawer and brought out his silver flask and two silver shot glasses.
“No thanks,” said Matt.
Colley poured himself a small drink and put the flask away. He downed the drink, wiped his mouth and his shot glass with his handkerchief, and put the glasses back in the drawer. “Just what’s needed, day like today.” He refolded his handkerchief and put it in the breast pocket of his blazer.
Matt leaned forward in his chair. “Mr. Jameson, I wanted to talk to you about my summer hours.”
Colley’s expression changed slightly. “There’s not much to discuss, Matt.” He leaned back in his chair.
“The baby’s due next month and I need the money.”
Colley assumed a sympathetic expression. “I understand how difficult it is for you, Matt.” He straightened his tie, lifted his chin, and stretched his neck.
“When I drop below twenty hours a week, I lose health benefits.”
“I have to tell you, Matt, I never have guaranteed a permanent position on the Enquirer. I have young photographers lining up for their chances during their summer vacation.” Colley straightened the pile of papers on the side of his desk. “In fact, I interviewed two young women just this morning.”
“It’s not right to cut back hours of year-round staff like that.”
Colley cleared his throat. “If you don’t like the way I manage the Enquirer, Matt, move on. Work for one of the off-Island dailies where the pay is better.” He smiled. “I’ll give you a good recommendation.”
“This Island is my home.”
Colley shrugged. “What can I say? I’m not in the business of providing charity. You want to stay on the Island, get yourself a summer job. Plenty of openings this time of year. Wedding photos. Great market.”
“I’ve been with the Enquirer for five years now. Even before you took over. I believe I’ve proven myself.”
“Indeed you have,” said Colley. “I have no intention of letting you go. Come September, you’ll get your full forty hours again.” He leaned back in his chair. “But think for a minute. There are good jobs off Island. Cheaper housing, cheaper cost of living, the whole nine yards.”
Matt stood. “You’re firing me, aren’t you?”
“Not at all. I’m in business to make a profit for the paper and, while I’m at it, to train young newspapermen. And women, of course. Staff salaries are my biggest expense. It’s in my interest to cut back hours of the higher-paid staff for the summer. Not what I’d call a big deal.”
“Mr. Jameson, I was born on this Island. My dad was a Linotype operator when your dad bought the paper. I want to raise my kids here, not off Island. I’m not asking you for a handout. You need additional photographers during the summer. I can train them. Please, I beg you. Don’t cut my hours right at this time.”
Jameson stood up, too. “I hear you, Matt. You’ve made your point.”
“Will you at least consider my request?”
“I have considered your request. You have choices, Matt. I don’t.” Colley came out from behind his desk. “Now, Matt, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got catch-up to do.”
Matt got to his feet, scowling.
Colley walked over to his door and opened it. “Thanks for stopping by, Matt. Have a good weekend.”
CHAPTER 4
Friday’s thunderstorm had left the Island freshly washed. The restaurant on the Gay Head cliffs was open for Sunday brunch. The Menemsha bicycle ferry had started its summer runs across the narrow channel. In West Tisbury, the bell in the Congregational church steeple was ringing for ten o’clock service. Geraniums and white petunias lined the sidewalk in front of the Bunch of Grapes bookstore in Vineyard Haven. Rain had knocked petals from the roses that covered the picket fence in front of the Enquirer, wh
ich was closed on Sunday. Boats were arriving in the Oak Bluffs harbor from Falmouth to spend the day. This was the last weekend before boaters would need reservations.
The Hatteras sportsfisherman slowed and entered the harbor between the jetties at the entrance. The yacht turned and backed slowly into its slip.
A dock steward raced from the harbormaster’s shack along the boardwalk to help with lines.
When the stern was within a foot of the seawall, the dark-haired woman, who’d been standing at the transom, leaped ashore and strode off, swinging her canvas satchel.
Fieldstone, at the controls in the tower, yelled out, “Hey, get my lines, will you?”
The woman ignored him. She continued down the seawall, head high. She stopped at a silver Toyota parked parallel to the seawall, unlocked the door, got in, started the engine, backed out, drove off with a skid of sand, and disappeared down the road that bordered the small pond across from the harbor.
“I’ve got your lines, sir,” the dock steward called out. “You’re looking good.”
Fieldstone left the controls, scrambled down the ladder, muttering “Damned bitch,” and caught and fastened the stern lines. He then went forward with a boat hook and snagged the bow lines from the pilings. He was breathing hard. “Thanks. Chuck, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” the steward said.
“I’m back sooner than I expected to be. Would you see that the boat is cleaned?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Linens laundered. Stow the wine where it won’t get shaken up. Food. You dock attendants can have the food.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll probably be going out early next week. Can you have her shipshape by then?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fieldstone gathered up his gear, handed Chuck a fifty-dollar bill, and headed toward his Outback.
“Thank you, sir!” Chuck called out.
Fieldstone lifted his hand in response, got into his car and, in a screech of tires, drove in the opposite direction from his erstwhile fishing buddy.
Fieldstone’s wife, Audrey, came home a day early from Boston. The club president’s husband had suffered a stroke and the weekend seminar was cancelled.
Audrey was driving past the Oak Bluffs harbor when she saw the Hatteras coming in between the jetties. She parked her car by the Steamship Authority wharf, unwrapped a stick of chewing gum, popped it into her mouth to freshen her breath, and walked toward her husband’s slip. She was just in time to see a long-legged, dark-haired woman leap off the boat as it backed into the slip. The woman landed on the dock and strode away, swinging her canvas tote angrily, got into her car, slammed the door, and drove off.
Audrey recognized the woman immediately. Colley Jameson’s wife, Calpurnia.
Audrey had watched through narrowed eyes. Calpurnia was tall and slim—skinny, really—and almost flat-chested, whereas she, Audrey, currently a redhead, had a voluptuous figure, large high breasts, a slender waist, nice full hips, and shapely legs. Her thighs were a bit heavy, but she was working on them.
J. Ambler Fieldstone was Audrey’s second husband. Her first marriage had never been legally terminated, although she’d lost track of Buddy years ago. She’d never told Fieldstone she’d been married before, of course. She had almost forgotten that she was still Buddy’s wife as well as Fieldstone’s.
Audrey ducked into the doughnut shop on the corner. She sat on a stool by the window where she could continue to watch. She saw the dock steward take the lines, saw her husband’s white hair and angry red face, saw him hand the kid a bill, saw him get into his Suburu and drive off in the opposite direction from Calpurnia.
“Can I get you anything?” The boy at the counter lowered his eyes to her chest and looked up quickly. Audrey watched him with a slight smile. “Coffee? A doughnut?”
“No thanks.” Audrey got up from the stool and pushed through the door, stalked to her car, and drove directly to her attorney’s office in Edgartown. She parked in the lot behind the building and went upstairs.
Martha Jo Amaral, the attorney’s secretary, a solid woman with graying hair, looked up from her computer keyboard and said brightly, “Good morning, Mrs. Fieldstone. Mr. Fox is with someone right now. Can I get you some coffee?”
“How long will he be?” Audrey demanded.
“Maybe ten or fifteen minutes?” Martha Jo replied.
Audrey paced to the end of the reception area and back. “You can get me a good stiff drink,” she said.
“Certainly, Mrs. Fieldstone.” Martha Jo left her desk and reappeared with a tumbler half-full of scotch. Audrey took the drink and flounced onto one of the pale leather chairs in front of Martha Jo’s desk.
Audrey had grown up in Secaucus, New Jersey, where her father was a farmer. When she was seven, she had sworn a mighty oath to herself that when she grew up she would get away from pig farms and pig smells. When she turned sixteen, she married Buddy.
While she was musing on how far she’d come since Buddy, Al Fox came out of his office with his client, a man Audrey had seen around the Edgartown Yacht Club. The man nodded to Audrey and shook hands with Fox.
Fox was totally hairless. No eyebrows, no eyelashes, no shadow of a beard. His scalp shone in the bright morning light. “You don’t need to worry about a thing, Fred,” the attorney assured his client. “I’ll take care of all the details.” He turned to Audrey and held out his arms. “How can I help you, my dear?”
Audrey brushed past him. “Let’s go into your office.”
Before Fox joined her, he paused at the door. “Hold my calls, will you please, Martha Jo.”
“Certainly, Mr. Fox.”
As he was shutting the door, Audrey blurted out, “I want a divorce.”
Fox led Audrey across the thick carpet overlaid with oriental rugs to a leather armchair that faced another leather armchair across a glass-topped coffee table and at right angles to a leather couch.
“Have a seat,” he murmured.
Except for a slight paunch, Al Fox had the build of an athlete, a tennis player or a swimmer.
“I want to get that two-timer for every cent he’s got,” said Audrey, still standing, her eyes glittering.
When she stopped, Al Fox said quietly, “You recall, don’t you, that you and J. Ambler signed a prenuptial agreement? He didn’t believe in divorce, and, as I seem to recall, you didn’t either.” He smiled.
Audrey perched on the edge of one of the soft chairs, and Al Fox sat behind his desk. “I didn’t expect that bastard to run around on me with that woman.”
“We went over the prenup in detail,” Fox said. “I doubt if we can break it. I’ll do what I can, but I think you’ll have to be satisfied with a modest settlement. A very modest settlement, I might add. He and you had top legal advice when you signed that document.” He cleared his throat and played with the letter opener on his desk. “I wouldn’t make too many waves, if I were you.”
“That agreement should be invalid if …” Audrey didn’t finish.
Fox smiled. “It should, shouldn’t it?” He steepled his hands and put the tips of his fingers under his chin.
Audrey stood, started to say something clever and smart-ass and cynical, decided she’d better not, and stormed out of the office instead, slamming the door behind her.
When Colley arrived home that evening, he found Calpurnia upstairs in their bedroom with the door closed. The bedroom was hers now. Colley had been banished to the guestroom since last Easter.
He knocked.
Calpurnia’s voice was muffled. “Go away.”
“I’m fixing drinks, darling.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Come down when you’re ready. I’ll light the fire.” Colley went downstairs into the long, narrow front room that overlooked South Water Street and the harbor. Fog had set in and the evening was chilly. The house smelled of damp old wood. Somewhere in Nantucket Sound a foghorn moaned.
Colley moved the
fire screen aside and held a lighted match to the paper underneath the logs. Then he mixed two drinks at the bar at the end of the room, scotch for him, bourbon for Calpurnia.
He had almost finished his first drink, sitting in one of the chintz-covered wing chairs that flanked the fireplace, reading William Bott’s West Tisbury Grackle, when Calpurnia came into the room. Her eyes were puffy, her face swollen. She had changed from the jeans and sweatshirt she had been wearing earlier in the day into a diaphanous caftan printed with a lavender and blue floral design.
Colley straightened his tie and got up politely. Calpurnia sat in the wing chair that faced his.
“I can use that drink now,” she said.
“I’m sure you can.” Colley added more ice to her glass and took it to her.
“Thank you.”
They said nothing more for several minutes. Colley examined the nails on his left hand and burnished them on the lapels of his blazer. He continued to study the broadsheet. Calpurnia stared into the fire. The foghorn moaned in the sound.
Calpurnia finished her drink. Colley looked over his spectacles, got up, and refilled both her glass and his.
She held her drink in both hands in front of her face. “I assume you know what I’m so upset about?”
Colley took off his glasses. “I have no idea.”
“Don’t be so goddamned sanctimonious.” Calpurnia slipped off her shoes and drew her slender feet under her.
Colley sucked on the earpiece of his glasses.
“You knew I went out with J. Ambler Fieldstone on his boat, didn’t you.” A statement, not a question.
“I’ve known for some time that you and Fieldstone were having an affair.” He straightened the crease in his trousers and crossed his right leg over his left.
“You set me up, didn’t you?”
“Now, darling,” Colley said.
“Don’t you ‘now darling’ me, you … you pimp!”
Colley held the earpiece of his glasses and swung them in an arc. “And what does that make you, may I ask?”
The Paperwhite Narcissus Page 3
