“It’s hard to tell who she is.” Katie looked up at Matt. “She looks a little bit like Audrey Fieldstone.”
“Look at the other woman,” said Matt.
The other woman was even more difficult to make out. She was reaching into the backseat of the boat. Her dark hair was blowing in front of her face.
“Calpurnia wears her hair something like that,” said Katie. “But there’s no way it can be Audrey and Calpurnia. When did you take the picture?”
“Early afternoon, about five days before the funeral.”
Ed, eating quickly, was halfway through his sandwich. “Had Fieldstone’s body been found by then?”
Matt shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“His body—half of his body—washed up on Friday, almost two weeks ago,” said Katie. “I covered the story.”
“The boat belongs to Audrey Fieldstone. She keeps it in Lagoon Pond, at Maciel Marine.”
“Is that Calpurnia with her?”
“Here’s another photo taken the day before the funeral.” Matt shuffled the prints again and picked out one taken on Main Street not far from the Whaling Church. In the picture were two women, one with dark hair walking away from the photographer, her back to the camera. The other was clearly Audrey, frowning, a hand partially raised as if to ward off something. She was wearing a dark anorak.
Katie took a deep breath. “Audrey and Calpurnia.”
“What do you make of that?” Matt asked. “Four or five days before the funeral they’re in Audrey’s boat. They must have been on speaking terms. Was Fieldstone already dead? And did they know?” He shuffled the photos back to the one of Audrey with her hand raised. “Yet look at this. Audrey is not exactly friendly, but she’s acknowledging Calpurnia. At the funeral she’s really hostile.”
Ed looked at his watch and wadded up his napkin. “I hate to leave, but I have to get back to the station house. I’ll give you a call, Katie.”
After Ed left, Katie asked Matt, “What’s going on?”
“I don’t have a clue. They have every reason to hate each other. But why are they together in Audrey’s boat?”
“Is it possible that Audrey didn’t know about her husband and Calpurnia? And found out before the funeral?”
Matt shook his head. “I doubt it. Everybody on the Island knew about the affair. And everybody knew how the two women felt about each other.”
“Sometimes wives can be in deep denial.”
“I don’t know,” said Matt. “Doesn’t make sense, their going out in that boat together.”
“You’ve got to show these photos to Victoria Trumbull. If anyone can make sense out of them, she can.”
“I’ll be at the historical society museum, Victoria.” Botts said as he dropped Victoria and the two girls off at the Enquirer for their interview with Colley. Victoria went into the newspaper office with them.
They stopped at the reception desk and Victoria introduced the girls to Faith. “These two young ladies are here for their appointment with Colley.”
Faith looked at her calendar. “Mr. Jameson must have forgotten. He’s with his attorney right now.”
Victoria’s face flushed. “The girls have come from off Island at Colley’s request. They made a special trip.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Trumbull.” Faith rose out of her seat. “I don’t know what to say. Would you care to wait?”
Victoria tapped her fingers on the reception desk. “When do you expect him back?”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Tiffany. “We don’t, like, want to be a bother.”
“He probably won’t be more than an hour,” Faith said.
Victoria turned to Tiffany. “Mr. Jameson made an appointment with you. You set aside your entire day to meet with him for a half-hour. It’s not much to ask of him that he remember the appointment that he made.”
Tiffany and Wendy looked at each other. “Really, Mrs. Trumbull. We can come back another day,” said Tiffany.
Victoria turned to Faith. “Is Alfred Fox his lawyer?”
“Yes. At Pease’s Point Way.”
“I know where it is. Come along, girls,” said Victoria. “That’s only two blocks from here.”
“Perhaps I’d better call Mr. Fox’s office?” Faith said. “To let him know you’re on your way?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Victoria said, and marched out, the two girls trailing after her.
Al Fox had hung his toupee on the coat rack by the door, where it looked like a dead raccoon. It was a fine hairpiece, but it itched, and he preferred to wear it only occasionally.
He was sitting behind his kidney-shaped desk, made from a slice of maple burl. The sun reflected off his head and his polished desk and into Colley’s eyes. Colley moved his chair to one side, thinking about Victoria as he did.
“Isn’t there some way I can get at the principal of the trust fund?” he asked Al Fox.
Al fiddled with his letter opener, a dagger he’d picked up in Majorca. “Your father tied that trust fund up every which way. He made sure you would receive a regular allowance, but the principal will go, upon your death, half divided among your issue, half to the newspaper trust, and an allowance to your surviving wife.”
Colley got up from the chair, walked over toward the wall and studied the framed New Yorker cartoons of lawyers. “There are no children.”
“If it is proven that there is no issue, your surviving wife will have the use of one half of the fund until her death, at which time the money goes to the newspaper.”
“Can’t I borrow against the fund?” Colley stopped at the framed embroidered quotation that was now taking up most of the space on the end table beside the couch.
“No way.”
“‘Let’s kill all the lawyers,”’ Colley read.
Al shrugged. “Right or wrong, your father didn’t want you to have control of that trust fund. He and his Boston lawyers worked out the wording. I didn’t.”
Colley’s face was getting pink. “Part of my problem is that you’re representing a bunch of my ex-wives, and you and they are squeezing me dry.”
“Come now, that’s not fair,” said Al, running his hand over his smooth head. “I represented only two of the four, and one of those is dead now. You made your own deal with college sweetheart number one, I didn’t. Granted, number two took you to the cleaners …”
“With your help.”
“Shall we say she stripped you clean? Ha, ha!” said Al, with no trace of mirth.
Colley didn’t laugh.
“She was my client. You weren’t. Ecdysiast. Ha, ha!” Al took off his glasses and wiped them on a tissue. “Number three—where is she, by the way?”
“She remarried.”
“Number three didn’t want a penny from you—‘dirty money,’ according to her. I tried to convince her she was entitled to a sizable alimony.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Colley.
“Not at all. Number four’s checks go to Majorca.”
“Understand you’re hand delivering my checks to her.”
“I’d say you got off easy,” Al said, ignoring the remark. He played with the letter opener, twisting it around and around in his hands. “You should stop shedding wives, Colley. You can’t afford the luxury.”
“The fact remains,” said Colley, seating himself again, “that trust fund has better than eight million dollars in it, and all it’s doing is growing.”
“Not these days, it isn’t.”
The intercom on Fox’s desk buzzed and he pressed the switch. His assistant Martha Jo was on the line. “Mr. Fox, Victoria Trumbull and two girls are here to see Mr. Jameson. Shall I send them in?”
Al raised his hairless eyebrows. “What have you done now, Colley?”
At the Waterfront Pub, Matt and Katie got up from the table and Matt left a tip under the napkin holder.
“Ed already tipped her,” Katie said. “You’d better save your money.”
“The waitstaff doesn�
��t get paid enough. By the way, after I leave here I’m going over to the Enquirer to pick up my paycheck. Did you get your severance pay yet?”
“No. I didn’t want to chance running into Colley.”
“Let’s go over there now, together.”
They walked down North Water Street with the harbor on their left, the white-painted captains’ houses on their right, each house angled to face the harbor. On the way to the Enquirer, people said hello, nodded, lifted a hand in greeting, stopped to talk.
A stocky man in white painter’s overalls approached them. “Hi Matt, Katie. Nice day.”
“Seth. How you doing?”
“Not bad. You?”
“Great.”
“Hear you’ve got a new job working for the competition, Katie. That right?”
“Kind of,” said Katie.
“Well, good luck.”
In another week, in another couple of days, the streets and brick sidewalks of Edgartown would be filled with strangers wearing slacks and shirts printed with whales and seagulls and bluefish. A week from now, neighbors would be too busy to chat.
“How is the new job?” Matt asked Katie.
“Interesting,” Katie answered cautiously. “Mr. Botts had always dreamed of writing and publishing a nice newsy one-page newsletter in his quiet retirement. Now he’s got a staff of three, he’s embroiled in a murder investigation, and the Grackle has gone to four pages. His wife is demanding that he buy an answering machine to handle subscriptions that are pouring in. Mrs. Trumbull keeps adding staff. He’s not at all happy.”
“Does he need photos?”
“Ask Mrs. Trumbull. She’s orchestrating everything.”
They turned the corner onto Main Street.
“And there she is,” said Matt.
Victoria Trumbull and Colley Jameson were striding, side by side, along Main Street. Behind them, looking uncomfortable, were Tiffany and Wendy.
“I wonder what happened?” said Katie. “Mrs. Trumbull has that look she gets.”
Victoria’s large chin jutted out. Her nose lifted. Her deep-set eyes were hooded. Her back was straight. She held her lilac stick by its middle like a baton, horizontally, as if she might use it to emphasize some point. However, she was not talking.
Colley was.
“Wouldn’t you love to hear what he’s saying?” said Katie.
What Colley was saying was, “You didn’t need to show up at my attorney’s office with those girls in tow, Victoria.”
“You made an appointment with those two girls.”
“I’d have gotten back to the newspaper sooner or later. I had to discuss something with my attorney.”
“You made an appointment with them and you forgot it.”
“You didn’t need to show up at his office.”
The two girls lagged behind, taking small, slow steps. One of them ran her hand along the picket fence, avoiding the rose canes that were trained along the top.
Colley went on the offensive. “Have you found out who’s writing those phony obits yet? I’ve been signing a lot of checks made out to one Victoria Trumbull.”
Victoria stared ahead. “I’ve identified the writer.”
Colley stopped. The two girls behind him also stopped. The blonde fingered a rose that was hanging over the fence. Pale yellow petals dropped to the brick sidewalk.
“Who is he?” Colley demanded.
“I haven’t completed my investigation,” said Victoria. “I’ll let you know when I do.”
“For Christ’s sake, Victoria. I don’t want to see another one of those damned things.”
“Unlikely unless someone else is killed. I know who’s writing them and I’ll take care of the writer.”
“I suppose you’ll continue to bill me?” Colley started to walk again and the two girls moved away from the fence.
“We have a written agreement,” said Victoria. “Until I take care of the matter, I will continue to bill you.”
They had reached Summer Street, where the Enquirer had its offices.
“Hi, Mrs. Trumbull.”
Victoria looked up and smiled. “Katie. And Matt Pease. Nice to see you again.”
Colley scowled.
“Are you heading our way?” Victoria asked. “To the newspaper?”
“To pick up our final checks,” Matt said.
Colley’s scowl deepened. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about those photographs, Matt?”
Matt clutched the envelope he was carrying. “No, sir,” he said. “They’re not for sale.”
“That remains to be seen,” said Colley.
CHAPTER 15
It was late that same afternoon when Martha Jo left work. She took her beige sweater from a hanger in the closet and went to the door of Al Fox’s office. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do before I go, Mr. Fox?”
“No, thanks, Martha Jo. I’ll close up.”
“I wish you’d lock up, Mr. Fox. You really should pay more attention to security.”
Al looked over his glasses and grinned. “This is the Vineyard, not the mainland.”
“This is an attorney’s office, Mr. Fox.”
He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “I don’t keep sensitive material in the office.”
“Nevertheless …”
Al took off his glasses and asked politely, “Do you have big plans for tonight?”
“I’m going to work in my garden until dark, do my laundry, wash my hair, and finish my book.”
“What are you reading?”
“Tom Dwyer’s latest mystery.”
“The one Jameson wrote such a scathing review about?”
“I can’t imagine why. I think it’s his best so far.” Martha Jo slung her sweater over her shoulders. “If there’s nothing further you need, Mr. Fox, I’ll be leaving. You won’t stay late, will you?”
“I shouldn’t be here much longer than nine-thirty or so. A client is coming by after supper.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll grab a sandwich at the deli.” He stood up. “Enjoy your evening with Tom Dwyer.”
“Good night, then, Mr. Fox.”
A half-hour later, after Al had finished his sandwich and tossed the wrappers into his wastepaper basket, he heard footsteps on the stairs up to his office. His client was earlier than he’d expected. He hurriedly adjusted his toupee, brushed crumbs off his desk, and busied himself with the papers he’d been working on when Martha Jo left.
When he heard a knock on the outer door he called out, “The door’s not locked.” He straightened the collar of his shirt and looked up. The visitor was Colley Jameson.
“Not you again,” Al grumbled.
“I thought you might still be here.” The newspaper editor waved at the toupee. “Expecting someone else?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I have an appointment with a client in,” Al checked his watch, “a little over an hour. What brings you here tonight?”
“We didn’t finish what we were discussing earlier,” Colley said, settling himself in one of Al’s leather chairs and straightening the crease in his trousers.
“I already gave you the answer when Mrs. Trumbull, er, arrived.”
“I didn’t get around to asking you about obtaining some photos Matt Pease took.”
“I understand he’s no longer working for you.”
“Not full time,” said Colley.
“Did he take the photos with your camera?”
“No.”
“Develop them on your time on your premises with your equipment?”
“No.”
“If he doesn’t want to sell them to you, you don’t have a leg to stand on. What’s in the photos that you want so badly?”
Colley shifted in his seat. “My wife and Audrey Fieldstone.”
“Together?” said Al.
“I believe so.”
“Have you seen the photos?”
“No.” Colley shook his head. “But I have reason to believe one of them may
shed light on Ambler Fieldstone’s so-called accident.”
“I suppose you could get the Coast Guard to subpoena the photos.”
“I’d rather not involve the Coast Guard.”
Al Fox laughed. “Thinking of a touch of blackmail, are we?”
Colley adjusted his tie. “I didn’t get a chance to explain my financial situation to you this afternoon.”
“Seems to me you did,” said Fox.
“I’ve got to get hold of four hundred fifty thousand, Al, and soon.”
“Are the photos worth that much?” Al stared at Colley for several seconds. “A half million?”
“This has nothing to do with the photos. I’ve changed the subject.” Colley examined his fingernails. “Four hundred and fifty thousand is what I need, not a half million.”
“What in God’s name do you need that much money for, Jameson?”
“I’ve made a financial commitment I’d rather not talk about, and I’ve got to borrow against the trust fund.”
“We’ve been through that,” said Al, scowling. “The discussion’s closed.”
“When Victoria Trumbull showed up with those girls I hadn’t been here more than ten minutes.”
“The discussion’s closed,” Al repeated. “Sorry.”
“You know how to slither around technicalities, Al. I’ve seen you do it. Shaking loose a few hundred thousand out of eight million shouldn’t be much of a problem.”
Al leaned back in his chair. “See here, Colley, the lawyers who wrote the trust up for your father knew what they were doing. You know how it’s to be distributed. Half to your issue, half to the newspaper trust, and a nice pension to whatever wife is,” Al smirked, “still married to you at the time of your death.”
“I have no children.”
Fox smiled. “Really?”
“Jee-sus, Al, you’re insufferable,” said Colley, shifting uncomfortably in the soft seat. “You know my situation. My expenses are going up and the worth of that damned stock is dropping every day.”
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