The Paperwhite Narcissus

by Cynthia Riggs

  Victoria listened intently.

  Hope continued. “I rushed into the room. There was that distinctive smell of bitter almonds. She’d knocked over the box of candy and it was all over the floor. I thought of cyanide right away.”

  “Cyanide acts quickly, doesn’t it?” Victoria asked. “In a matter of seconds?”

  “Depends on the dosage, Aunty Vic. Cyanide makes the cells in your body unable to use oxygen, so essentially you suffocate. When I first saw Miss Keene, she was breathing really fast, and was already that awful pink color.”

  “What causes the color?”

  “Oxygen can’t get to the body’s cells, so it stays in the blood. That’s what causes the patient, or victim, I guess, to look flushed like that. Almost a cherry red.” Hope glanced at her great-aunt. “But you asked how quickly it acts. A pea-sized amount will kill a big man in less than a minute. Miss Keene must have gotten a pretty good dose.”

  “Is there no antidote?” Victoria asked.

  “Sort of,” Hope said. “If the dosage is small enough, you may have time to administer something like amyl nitrate. But between the time I saw her eating the candy and probably less than a minute later when I went by again and saw her thrashing around, it was too late. Cyanide poisoning is pretty rare, but I’ve had courses on poisons, and when I smelled that distinctive bitter almond smell, I immediately alerted Doc Erickson, who was on call. Believe me, he came in a big hurry.”

  “How horrible for you,” said Victoria.

  Hope shrugged. “I’m a nurse. I’ve seen worse, Aunty Vic, believe me.”

  “Now what?” Victoria asked.

  “The state police are in charge, I guess. They have a detective named Horner or something who came by earlier to ask her about the shooting. She offered him a piece of her candy. Divinity fudge.”

  “I take it he didn’t accept the offer.”

  “No, he didn’t. Not every piece of candy was poisoned, though,” said Hope. “They’ve already run preliminary tests.”

  “I suppose they’ll want to question everyone who visited her at the hospital and also find out who sent her that candy,” Victoria said.

  Hope looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get back to work. It’s been wild around here this afternoon.”

  “I can imagine,” said Victoria. She stood and Hope hugged her.

  As they rejoined Botts, who was waiting outside Acute Care, Hope said, “You know, Aunty Vic, I’m not supposed to be telling you all this stuff.”

  “I didn’t hear a word,” said Victoria.

  Botts was scribbling something in his notebook. He put it in his pocket and stuck the pencil stub behind his ear. “Still working on Colley’s dime, Madam Detective?”

  Victoria nodded. “I told you, the killings are connected. How long do you guess it will be before Colley gets the next obituary?”

  Al Fox didn’t always wear his toupee. However, he was wearing it this afternoon, the day after Candy Keene’s death. It was an expensive hairpiece, one of three that he usually wore only when conferring with female clients. He never wore a hairpiece when he was sailing or skiing or playing tennis.

  He was conferring with a client now, Calpurnia Jameson. Calpurnia was in his office, pacing back and forth with long strides. Each time she came to the window that overlooked Pease’s Point Way, she paused, then swiveled and paced to the opposite wall, which was covered with framed New Yorker cartoons having to do with lawyers. Each time she reached that leg of her pacing, she’d flick her shiny dark hair away from her face with a toss of her head.

  “Where on earth did you get that hideous thing?” she asked, stopping in front of his desk long enough to read a cross-stitched motto surrounded by a border of cross stitched daisies in an enormous heavy silver frame embossed with rosebuds. “It takes up half of your desk.”

  The motto read, “The first thing we do, Let’s kill all the lawyers.”

  “Shakespeare,” Al Fox said. “King Henry the Sixth, part two.” He stood. “I’ll move it to where it doesn’t block your view.”

  “As if I care,” Calpurnia murmured.

  He lifted the framed motto and set it on an end table next to the couch. “A client made it for me.”

  “Did she provide the frame, too?”

  “The client was a he, and yes, he provided the frame.”

  “Some taste. Twenty pounds of silver?”

  “Not quite. Anyway, it’s silver plate,” said Fox.

  Calpurnia continued pacing, hands in the pockets of her custom-fitted jeans.

  “You wanted to see me about Colley.”

  Calpurnia turned again. “I want to squeeze every last penny out of him, the self-absorbed bastard.” She swiveled. “He makes ordinary self-centeredness seem positively philanthropic.”

  Al Fox nodded. “I know all about Colley Jameson.”

  “He’s close-mouthed about what he’s worth.” She turned again. “What is he worth, by the way, Al?”

  “Not much.”

  “His newspaper makes a fortune.” She stopped at the window and looked out.

  “As you know, he’s got four ex-wives. You’ll be number five, if you’re saying what I think you are.”

  “He’s down to three exes as of yesterday.”

  Al Fox said nothing.

  Calpurnia paced.

  Al Fox said, “You know, of course, that he doesn’t own the newspaper.”

  Calpurnia stopped abruptly. “What?!”

  “The Island Enquirer is owned by a trust.”

  “What about his father’s money?”

  “His father knew Colley. His widow will get a small pension. Of the remainder, one half of the trust fund goes to any issue, divided equally among them, and the other half goes to the Enquirer.”

  “He has no children. At least, none that I know about.”

  Al Fox smiled. “If it turns out there are no children, it’s quite simple. One half of the trust fund goes to his widow, the other half to the newspaper. Upon her demise, her half reverts to the Enquirer. Otherwise, it’s untouchable. Colley gets a small income from the fund. Period.”

  “You mean, in order to get the money from the trust fund I have to stay married to him?”

  Al Fox nodded. “Until his death. Or,” Al Fox looked at Calpurnia and smiled, “unless you can figure out some way to have him convicted of a crime. Almost any crime. According to the trust’s conditions, Colley, in effect, would be dead, and his children would inherit accordingly. If he has no issue, their portion goes to his spouse.”

  “Ah!” said Calpurnia.

  “Colley’s going to get another obituary, William.” Botts was dropping Victoria off at her house. “The question is, what form will this one take? So far he’s been hanged, bitten in half by a shark, and shot with his own gun.”

  “Two for one with Miss Keene,” said Botts.

  “Come in for a moment. Do you have time?”

  Botts checked his watch. “Enough.”

  Victoria brewed tea, and they seated themselves at the cookroom table.

  “Whoever is writing those obituaries,” Victoria said, “has what might pass as a sense of humor and knows how to write.” She glanced at Botts. “We can rule you out, I suppose?”

  “You suppose right.” Botts tapped his fingers on the table.

  “The first obituary was typed. You have a typewriter.”

  Botts said nothing.

  “Tom Dwyer,” Victoria said. “Tom invited me to go fishing with him. I believe I’ll call him and accept.”

  Botts raised his eyebrows. “Surf casting?”

  “Certainly.”

  Botts moved his mug in circles on the table. “Is it likely Dwyer wrote the obits?”

  “Now that I think of it, it’s entirely possible, though I can’t imagine why.” Victoria reached for the phone book and flipped the pages.

  “Do you think it’s wise to go off alone with him?” Botts continued to fiddle with his mug.

  “The obituary
writer and the killer are not the same person.” Victoria found Tom Dwyer’s number, picked up the phone, and dialed. “His answering machine,” she said, after a pause. “I’ll call later.”

  “Whoever killed Fieldstone had to know boats. Dwyer knows boats.”

  “He’s not the killer,” Victoria insisted. “The person who shot Candy Keene knew about the Thursday target practice. Candy never had a chance to tell us who lured her out that afternoon.”

  “He also had to know how to make divinity fudge and where to obtain cyanide.”

  “He may have bought the fudge,” said Victoria. “We can put Katie to work tracking down candy shops that sell divinity.”

  Botts shook his head. “The killer wouldn’t have risked that. It’s an easy enough recipe.”

  “We need to eliminate the shops first.” Victoria sipped her tea. “It’s not difficult to obtain cyanide. New Zealanders use it to kill possums.”

  “Where did you get that information?”

  “I have my sources,” said Victoria. “By the way, the two girls are coming over tomorrow on the noon boat from Woods Hole. Katie’s arranged to pick them up in Oak Bluffs at twelve forty-five and bring them here. Are you free around one o’clock?”

  Botts stood up. “I’ll clear my calendar, Madam Reporter.”

  Victoria suspected, when the phone rang, that it might be Colley and that Colley had received a fourth obituary. She was right.

  “What does it say this time?” Victoria asked.

  “How close are you to identifying this guy?”

  “Close,” said Victoria. “What does it say?”

  “Jee-sus Christ, Victoria.” She heard a rustling of papers. “This one says, ‘Colley Jameson, fifty-five, was found dead in his hospital bed yesterday, apparently the victim of food poisoning. When found, Mr. Jameson, who was in the hospital for minor cosmetic surgery, had a partially eaten dish of Jello on a tray in front of him …’”

  “That’s unkind,” Victoria said. “The hospital’s food is delicious.”

  “The hospital’s food isn’t the issue, Victoria. What are you doing about this?”

  “I’ll fax you a report the day after tomorrow from the office of the West Tisbury Grackle,” said Victoria. “We have a fax machine there. I’ve got a meeting tomorrow.”

  Casey called Victoria at home that evening. “Victoria, I know you’re mad at me, but I tried to reach you when the news came through about Candy Keene.”

  “Oh?” said Victoria.

  “You weren’t at home and you weren’t at the Grackle office.”

  “I was in the field,” said Victoria. “But I had a scanner.”

  “Well,” said Casey. “I didn’t know that. The state police have asked me to check for some stuff in Candy Keene’s house tomorrow morning and I wondered if you’d like to come with me?”

  “I’m going fishing,” said Victoria.

  There was a long silence from Casey.

  “With Tom Dwyer,” Victoria said. “The mystery writer. The one with the piping plover recipe.”

  “I know who he is. How come you’re going fishing with him?”

  “He invited me.”

  “I don’t think that’s real smart, Victoria. I mean, after all, you are …”

  “Don’t you start that too,” said Victoria, and hung up.

  Casey called back immediately. “Want me to take you to Edgartown tomorrow morning? For your fishing date?”

  “No, thank you. He’s picking me up,” and Victoria hung up again.

  CHAPTER 13

  Victoria awoke at four-thirty to the dawn chorus, every bird in the universe, it seemed, announcing the new day. A robin led off. Then doves and cardinals, Carolina wrens, blue jays, chickadees, and flickers chimed in until their songs drowned out the occasional early morning car on the Edgartown Road and the ever-present sound of surf on the south shore. Victoria had known all the birds, once, but now she could identify only the most common ones.

  The headlights of Tom’s car turned in to her drive. She was waiting for him, a picnic basket next to her on the stone step.

  He swung the passenger door open and helped her up into the high seat. “Morning, Victoria.”

  “It’s going to be a lovely day,” she said, once she had unzipped her sweater. “Where will we be fishing?”

  In the dim light from the dashboard she could see Tom’s profile, a smile around the pipestem clamped between his teeth. “You’re not to tell anyone, Victoria. Promise?”

  She smiled. “I promise.”

  “I’ve got a secret place on Chappy, around the corner from Wasque. There’s an offshore eddy where the fish congregate.”

  “I suppose your secret place is in the midst of the piping plovers’ nests?”

  “We can walk there instead of driving, if you’d like.”

  “How far is it?”

  Tom grinned. “From Katama? Not far. Four and a half, maybe five miles.”

  The road ahead was gradually becoming more visible in the growing light. “I’ve brought breakfast,” Victoria said, changing the subject. “Coffee, sandwiches, and some oranges.”

  “Great.” Tom was still grinning.

  “Does the Chappaquiddick ferry run this early?”

  “We won’t be going over on the ferry. We’re driving along the beach.”

  “One of these days the ocean will cut through the bar. I remember that happening when I was a child,” said Victoria. “Katama Bay poured into the ocean and swept the bar away and Chappaquiddick was cut off from the Vineyard.”

  “Almost time for it to happen again,” said Tom.

  They approached the outskirts of Edgartown and he turned onto Meetinghouse Way. “Avoiding traffic,” he said, although there wasn’t a car in sight.

  He stopped at the South Beach parking area and got out of the car. “Letting air out of the tires so we can drive in soft sand,” he told her.

  As Victoria waited, the sun came up over the horizon. Golden light shone through thin crests of curling breakers. Not a footprint marred the beach as far as she could see in either direction.

  “Ready?” Tom asked, getting back into the vehicle.

  “Ready,” said Victoria. “I’ve fastened my seat belt.”

  Tom drove east, dunes on their left, the ocean on their right. Victoria opened her window and sat up straight to see better. The car wallowed in the soft sand, making Victoria feel slightly seasick. The scenery passed by faster than she could ever hope to walk.

  Within a half-mile the dunes petered out and Victoria and Tom were on the thin barrier bar with nothing but beach grass on either side between them and water. To their left, Katama Bay stretched out in a wide steel-blue sheet. To their right, the Atlantic Ocean gnawed away at the slender strip of sand that formed their road.

  Victoria felt as though she were riding a circus car on a tightrope. Occasionally, a wave sent swash skimming across the bar, leaving a trail of foam that hissed as they drove through. The solid ground of Chappaquiddick seemed distant and it was. Safety was at least two miles ahead of them. Victoria felt a kick of adrenaline, excitement, or fear, she wasn’t sure which. Tom drove slowly, ten miles an hour, then five miles an hour, then three, dodging places where the sand looked especially soft. Two miles would take, how long? Ten minutes? Fifteen? The minutes were more like hours. During those few minutes the ocean could break through and sweep the road out from under them, and sweep them with it.

  When they reached Chappaquiddick at last, Victoria let out breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Tom hadn’t spoken the entire time.

  She broke the silence. “I’ve always come to Chappaquiddick by ferry. Never along the beach.”

  “The way the surf is washing over the bar, it won’t be long before it cuts through. Then the only way over will be by ferry.” The sand was firmer now, mixed with gray soil. Tom took his pipe out from between his teeth. “I brought a rod for you.”

  “I haven’t held a surf-casting rod for a l
ong time,” said Victoria.

  “You’ll catch enough fish for supper, I guarantee.”

  Less than a mile farther, they reached Wasque, the southeastern corner of Chappaquiddick and of Martha’s Vineyard. Victoria looked out at the tidal rip that angled out from the shore, a churning maelstrom as far as she could see. “Is that where you found your half of the body?” she asked.

  Tom pointed with his pipe. “Right there.”

  “I’m glad we decided to drive, not walk,” Victoria admitted.

  “We’re almost there. I don’t think I ran over any plovers on the way.”

  “I suppose if you had, we could have tested your recipe. ‘Four and twenty plovers baked in a pie.”’

  Tom laughed. “It was stew, not pie.”

  He parked near the dunes, well away from the surf, helped Victoria out of the car, and set up a folding aluminum chair for her near the water. He handed her an eight-foot-long surf-casting rod.

  “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” said Victoria.

  “That’s why we’re here. To fish.” When he finished attaching a lure to Victoria’s line he cast it far out into the rip. “When you get a strike, start reeling in and call me.” He set her rod into a holder he’d jammed into the sand. He laughed when he saw her expression. “You can do it, kid.”

  Victoria sat tensely, waiting for a bluefish to tear off with Tom’s expensive gear. After a while she relaxed slightly. Neither Tom nor she had gotten a strike. Tom reeled in her line and cast again.

  “I’ve read most of your mysteries and like them,” Victoria said. “Especially the recipes.”

  “Thank you. That’s a compliment coming from another writer. The Enquirer panned my last two.”

  Victoria unzipped her sweater. The sun was well above the horizon now and the day was getting warm. “Who wrote the reviews?”