The Paperwhite Narcissus

by Cynthia Riggs

Botts set his pencil on his desk. “What was this ‘something’ you found?”

  “I was being really conscientious.” Katie’s voice caught. “That was my first big story, the body on the beach. A really big story even before we knew it was J. Ambler Fieldstone. When we found out …” she looked up at Botts. “You broke the story, didn’t you?”

  “Mrs. Trumbull did,” said Botts.

  “Well, when we knew it was Fieldstone,” Katie went on, “I decided to look through the files to get some background on him. When I got to the F file I found this envelope addressed to Colley that had slipped down between the F and G folders.” She paused. “It had already been opened.”

  Victoria listened. Botts was trying to balance his pencil on its eraser end.

  “The return address was Fieldstone’s development company. So I took the letter out, of course, thinking it was probably an ad order or something.”

  “But it wasn’t,” said Botts.

  Katie shook her head. “It took me a while to figure out what the letter was about because it was written in a kind of code. When I first read it, the letter seemed to be a straightforward business deal, but then I realized everything had a double meaning, you know what I mean?”

  “Was the letter from Fieldstone?” Victoria asked.

  Katie nodded. “He seemed to be referring to Colley’s wife, Calpurnia, although he didn’t mention her by name. He talked about her as ‘the merchandise,’ and he seemed to be offering Colley a lot of money for the deal, and the deal seemed to include a percentage of ownership in the newspaper.”

  “Do you remember exactly what the letter said?” Victoria asked.

  “I made a copy of it and put the original back in the files where I’d found it. Right about then, Colley came into the file room.”

  “Did he realize what you’d discovered?” asked Botts.

  “I don’t think so. I was closing the file drawer when he came in.”

  “What was his problem, then?” Botts asked.

  Katie looked uncomfortable. “I’m on medication,” she said, and blotted her eyes.

  “You needn’t tell us anything you don’t want to,” said Victoria.

  “Yes, I do,” said Katie. “I’ve got bipolar disorder, Mrs. Trumbull, and I take medication for it.”

  “What they used to call manic-depression,” said Botts.

  Katie nodded. “My doctor’s been adjusting the dosage, and right after we found—you found, that is—Mr. Fieldstone’s body, I had a sort of psychotic episode.” Katie blew her nose.

  “No wonder.” Victoria found another napkin in her pocket and gave it to Katie. “This was on the day after the body was discovered?”

  “I just freaked out and told Mr. Jameson off.”

  “Was he making passes at you?” Botts asked.

  “Yes, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “Doesn’t sound psychotic to me,” Botts said.

  “Well I said a few things I shouldn’t have.” Katie blotted her eyes. “I used some pretty nasty words. Then when he saw me in the file room, he said he wanted to talk to me in his office. That’s when he fired me.” Katie sniffed. “That’s when he said I was unreliable.”

  “You’re ‘well shet of him,’ as your great-grandmother used to say,” said Victoria. “What do you plan to do now?”

  “Are you serious about my working for you, Mr. Botts?”

  Botts started to say something, but Victoria interrupted. “We can only offer you a temporary job.”

  “I’d love to work for you. Even temporarily. Thanks, Mr. Botts!”

  Five days after she’d been shot, Candy Keene was nicely recovered. The bullet had missed, by some miracle, every vital organ and major blood vessel in her body. She was ensconced in a comfortable bed she could raise or lower with the touch of a control button, in a private room in the Martha’s Vineyard Hospital, with a window that looked out onto a rose garden, and an attractive young police officer who was stationed at her door to screen her flood of visitors.

  She was dressed for visitors. She wore a fluffy hot-pink angora bed jacket over a matching pink satin negligee. A hairdresser—not her own Boston hairdresser but an Island person—had retouched her hair and arranged it in a sort of careless disarray. A manicurist had painted her nails a pink that exactly matched her nightie. She, herself, had applied her own makeup, subtly enhancing the invalid image.

  Among her visitors, once she’d recovered enough to admit them to her presence, were Al Fox, her lawyer, who looked quite nice in his toupee; the female police chief from West Tisbury and her ancient sidekick; the gangly teenager and his father who’d been target-shooting the day she’d been shot—the father wasn’t bad looking; Colley Jameson, her third ex-husband, although he thought he’d been her one and only; and that dreadful Mrs. Danvers from Town Hall, who’d brought Candy’s mail and some things from her house that Candy had wanted.

  Mrs. Danvers was still there, standing at the foot of the high-tech bed. Candy, with some effort, was trying to look weak for Mrs. Danvers’s benefit.

  “I told that female police chief—what’s her name?”

  Mrs. Danvers pursed her lips. “Chief Mary Kathleen O’Neill.”

  Candy sighed. “I told that woman I didn’t want anyone shooting so close to me.” She looked up mournfully. “You’ll be getting a letter from my solicitor.”

  “Attorney,” said Mrs. Danvers. “Solicitor is British.”

  “Well, the selectmen will be getting a letter from him. He brought a draft by this morning for me to approve.”

  “Whatever,” said Mrs. Danvers.

  Candy indicated the plastic Stop & Shop bag Mrs. Danvers was holding. “Is that my mail?”

  “Mail and the items you wanted from your house,” said Mrs. Danvers. “Do you think you’re strong enough to take the bag, or shall I hand you one thing at a time?”

  “Please. That would be so kind of you.” Candy lay back on the satin and lace pillow that Al Fox had given her when he’d brought the letter for her approval.

  Mrs. Danvers pulled items out of the bag. “A shoe catalog,” she said. “Dress catalogs. An underwear catalog.” She handed Candy a flyer from Victoria’s Secret. “The Enquirer.”

  “Is there anything in the paper about me?” Candy asked, trying not to seem eager.

  “Front page,” said Mrs. Danvers. “With a picture that must have been taken at least twenty years ago.”

  Candy reached out for the newspaper. “One of my publicity stills. From my career as an artiste.”

  Mrs. Danvers continued to pull things out of the bag. “Letters, cards, bills, junk mail. A package from,” she looked at the return address, “Frederick’s of Hollywood. A box of candy that was on your hall table.”

  “That came before …” Candy’s voice caught and she looked up at Mrs. Danvers. “Before I was gunned down …”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Danvers.

  “Divinity fudge. My favorite.”

  “Indeed.”

  “From one of my admirers.” Candy looked up at Mrs. Danvers. “May I offer you a piece?”

  “You may. However, I don’t care for divinity fudge,” said Mrs. Danvers. “Too sweet. I don’t like nuts. I can’t bear almond flavoring.”

  Candy set the fudge on her bedside table next to the latest Tom Dwyer mystery she’d been reading. “If you’ll let me have my purse, I’ll pay you for your time.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Mrs. Danvers, her mouth down, her nose lifted slightly. “I believe you have another visitor.” She folded up the plastic bag, put it under the box of candy, and left, nodding, on her way out, to the police officer who was guarding the door.

  “Harpy,” Candy muttered. She was about to reach for the box of candy when an extremely good-looking man she had never seen before came into her room. He was wearing a blue blazer and pressed gray slacks, a pale blue shirt, and a tie with stripes that matched everything he had on. She lay back quickly and closed her eyes.r />
  “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” he said softly. “I’m Detective Horner from the State Police.”

  Candy opened her eyes. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Horner. Detective Horner.”

  Candy smiled.

  “I’d like to ask a few questions, if you’re up to it.”

  Nice voice, too. “I’m up to it if you are,” said Candy, half-closing her eyes and smiling. “Would you care for a piece of fudge?”

  “No, thank you.” He took a small notebook out of an inner pocket.

  While Candy Keene was entertaining from her hospital bed, Botts, in his loft office, was sitting back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. Victoria was doing all the talking.

  Victoria gave Katie the slip of paper on which the harbormaster had written the phone numbers of the two girls. “Your first assignment, Katie, is to contact these girls.” Victoria had almost called Katie by her great-grandmother’s name, Constance. “Set up a meeting with them here on the Vineyard, if possible. They may need to come over for a second interview with Colley.”

  Katie wrinkled her nose.

  “You and William and I can meet with them at my house. At their convenience, but soon.”

  “Righto,” said Katie.

  “Has Colley paid you yet?” Botts asked Victoria.

  “He gave me a retainer.”

  “A check?”

  “I deposited it right away. We’re working on his time now.” She eased herself out of the overstuffed chair. “Did you know that the Coast Guard towed Ambler Fieldstone’s boat from the shoals near Tuckernuck to the Coast Guard station in Menemsha?”

  “Want to take a drive up there?” Botts asked.

  “Certainly,” said Victoria. “He’s paying mileage.”

  After Detective Horner left, Candy picked up the copy of the Enquirer Mrs. Danvers had brought her and read the article about her shooting. Colley had written the article, carefully omitting the fact that he’d been married to her at one time. Well, she’d gotten even with him. Al Fox, her solicitor, had made sure of that.

  Candy examined the photo, tilting her head first one way, then the other. It was a good photo, Candy thought. Certainly not twenty years old. But from her acting days. Colley must have found it in the files. The story was continued on an inside page and she read every word.

  The same issue of the Enquirer had more about Fieldstone’s death. She shuddered. She didn’t care much for boats, herself, and she’d come awfully close to going with Ambler instead of flying to Nantucket that day. There she’d been, waiting for him, thinking the bastard had stood her up, getting madder and madder. And all that time, there he was, two halves of him floating in the ocean.

  She turned the page. Colley had written a sappy editorial about Fieldstone and his golf course, and Candy read every word of that, too. The Enquirer, Colley had written, would continue to support the fine work J. Ambler Fieldstone had begun. Another golf course was badly needed on the Island. The Enquirer, wrote Colley, would work closely with Fieldstone’s organization and would continue to run the informative advertising Fieldstone had scheduled.

  “La-di-dah!” said Candy out loud, and tossed the paper onto the floor. She reached for the box of candy, opened it, and selected a large, fat piece from the middle.

  She would love to be there when Mrs. Danvers read the letter from her solicitor. Al Fox was a solicitor, not a mere attorney, whatever that harpy said.

  Candy bit daintily into the white fudge, licked her nicely manicured fingers, and bit again. She finished the first piece, blotted her mouth carefully so she wouldn’t smear her lipstick, and took another, smaller, piece. Divinity fudge was so much more refined than chocolate. She preferred almond flavoring to vanilla, too. Imagine that woman not liking almond flavoring.

  Who could have sent it to her? She didn’t recall seeing a name on the note that came with the box, simply a typed message, “From a long-time admirer.”

  The hospital’s food was delicious, so Candy didn’t want to spoil her appetite for supper. But that was almost three hours away. One more little piece, she told herself, selecting just the right one.

  CHAPTER 12

  The drive from West Tisbury to Menemsha took Botts and Victoria through thick oak and beech woods that made a canopy of interlacing branches over their heads, then through open sheep pasture bounded by rough stone walls. Beyond the pasture to their left was the great sweep of the Atlantic, a brilliant blue this afternoon.

  Botts turned on the scanner he kept in his truck.

  Victoria snorted. “Worse than television and cell phones. Can’t you do without that device for a half-hour?”

  “We,” said Botts, looking sideways at Victoria, “are newspaper people.”

  Victoria frowned and settled back in her seat.

  Once they reached the center of Chilmark, which consisted of a store, a library, a school, a post office, a bank, a church, and an art gallery, they turned right at Beetlebung Corner.

  “What do you expect to find on his boat?” Botts asked. “And how do you intend to justify this as an expense in connection with the obituary puzzle?”

  “The deaths are related,” Victoria said.

  “One death,” said Botts. “Miss Keene is recovering. And Fieldstone’s boat? The Coast Guard has undoubtedly been all over it. What can we find that they couldn’t?”

  “I simply want to see it for myself,” said Victoria.

  “The boat’s probably still in the water.”

  “I’m sure the Coast Guard hauled it out and set it up on a cradle. That’s what they’d do.”

  Botts had started down the steep winding hill that led into the fishing village and the Coast Guard station when the scanner cut in.

  “Doc Jeffers, please call in to the communications center immediately.”

  “What’s that all about?” Victoria asked.

  “Shhh!” Botts pulled over to the entrance to Chowder Kettle Road and turned up the volume.

  A second voice came over the scanner. “Do you need EMTs or an ambulance?”

  “No, we need the medical examiner to report to the hospital,” said the communications center voice.

  “ME,” said Botts. “That means somebody died under unusual circumstances.”

  “At the hospital?”

  “Sounded like it, didn’t it?”

  “Candy Keene!” Victoria gasped. “Turn around.”

  Botts made a U-turn and started back up the hill. “Still on Colley’s mileage?”

  “Absolutely,” said Victoria.

  Botts followed North Road to the intersection with the great split tree, then drove fast enough so Victoria was uncomfortable in the swaying truck. Past the shipyard and the fuel tanks, over the bridge, up the hill to the emergency entrance. Botts parked next to a state police vehicle, an Oak Bluffs police vehicle, several pickup trucks with red lights over the cabs, and the West Tisbury police Bronco.

  “Casey’s here,” said Victoria, hurt.

  Botts comforted her. “You’ve been in the field. Out of touch.”

  Victoria led the way through the doors of the emergency room, where a group of uniformed police officers had gathered near the desk. Casey was standing with her back to the entrance and Victoria passed by her without speaking.

  “What’s going on?” Botts asked one of the officers.

  “Sorry, sir,” she responded. “We can’t divulge any information at this point in time.”

  Casey turned at the sound of Botts’s voice. Victoria ignored her. “Follow me,” she said to Botts. She headed down the long hall behind the emergency room, turned right into another long hall with windows and benches on either side, and turned left into a wing marked ACUTE CARE.

  A tall, slender, dark-haired nurse was standing at the desk filling out forms. She turned, and her face brightened. “Aunty Vic! What are you doing here?”

  Victoria introduced Botts. “William, this is my great-niece, Hope.”
r />   They shook hands.

  “William and I have come to pay another visit to Miss Keene,” Victoria said.

  Hope’s face was suddenly sober. “You must not have heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “She died about an hour ago.”

  “But she was doing so well,” Victoria said. “I was here just this morning. What happened?”

  “Come with me, Aunty Vic, where no one can hear. If you don’t mind, Mr. Botts, I need to talk to my aunt alone.” Hope led Victoria partway down the long hall outside the Acute Care wing, and they sat on one of the benches by the window.

  “Well?” said Victoria.

  “She was doing okay,” Hope said. “We were planning on discharging her tomorrow.” Hope looked around as if to make sure no one was listening. “To tell you the truth, Aunty Vic, that woman was a real pain in the ass, excuse my language. ‘Get me this, get me that,’ as if we were her servants and this was a high-class hotel. And she wasn’t really sick.”

  “She was recovering from being shot, though,” said Victoria.

  “You’d have been out two days after that shooting, Aunty Vic. She was here almost a week. Seemed like a month.”

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t quote me,” said Hope. “You know Mrs. Danvers, don’t you? The West Tisbury town secretary?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Victoria.

  “Well, Mrs. Danvers brought Miss Keene her mail and some stuff from her house she’d asked for and no one thought anything of it. Mrs. Danvers greeted Andy, the policeman guarding the door, and went right in.”

  “Mrs. Danvers didn’t throttle her, did she? Or stab her?”

  “No, no,” said Hope, shaking her head. “Mrs. Danvers gave her the mail and a couple of parcels from her house, one from Frederick’s of Hollywood that the UPS guy delivered, and a white pasteboard box of candy. Miss Keene apparently knew about the candy. It had come to her house before she was shot. She offered a piece to Mrs. Danvers, who refused it, said she didn’t like almond flavoring.”

  “Cyanide,” said Victoria.

  “Exactly,” said Hope. “I went past the door while she was picking at the candy, nibbling it. I said hi to Andy, who was gathering up his stuff to go off duty. When I went past her door less than a minute later, I saw her thrashing around.” Hope waved her hands in the air. “She’d turned a bright pink, and, excuse me, but my first reaction was to notice that she was the exact same color as that fluffy bed jacket she was wearing.”