“The Coast Guard is calling his death an accident.”
“The Coast Guard is wrong,” said Victoria. “He would never have gone up to the bow with the engines engaged. Unless, of course, there was someone else running the boat.”
Botts folded his arms over his chest. “That’s a grisly way to kill someone.”
“The killer may not have planned to kill him that way. Once Fieldstone went overboard, his chances of swimming to either Nantucket or the Vineyard were slim. The water in June is still too cold for long immersion.”
Botts nodded. “Do you want to check anything topside?”
Victoria gazed up at the deck and the steep ladder.
“If you tell me what you’re looking for, I’ll climb up,” Botts said.
Victoria hesitated. “I think I know enough. Did the Coast Guard check for fingerprints?”
“I doubt it,” said Botts.
“Then I’ll ask Casey to check.”
“She won’t like that. Menemsha is not her town, and murder belongs to the state cops.”
“We’ll see.” Victoria got back into the truck. “Now we have to figure out how the murderer got onto Fieldstone’s boat and how he enticed him up to the bow.”
When Victoria and Botts returned to the Grackle’s barn, John Milton was lying in the warm sun in front of the open barn door and the transformation from stable to office was almost complete. The windows, swung open and cleared of cobwebs, let in a flood of light and sweet air. The rough wood sidings of the stalls had been brushed. The concrete floors were swept and scrubbed. Wendy was on her knees with a bucket of brick-red paint and a sponge.
“What the hell are you doing?” said Botts, scowling.
Wendy looked up and grinned. “I’m painting the floor.” She held up the sponge. “See? I’m, like, making it look like bricks. Watch.” She dipped the sponge lightly in the paint bucket, then carefully stamped another brick on the concrete.
“Matt Pease is picking up school desks and chairs in the old airport buildings. The dumpmaster said we can have them if we haul them away.”
Botts growled and turned away from the workers.
Wendy paused in her brick-printing. “I just remembered, Mrs. Trumbull. Matt’s got pictures he wants you to see.”
Botts stomped off toward the stairs that led to the loft. John Milton got to his feet, scratched behind an ear with a back paw, looked up mournfully as the boss disappeared into the loft, and hobbled over to the back of the barn. Victoria heard the squeal of the pulley that raised his basket.
“Mr. Botts isn’t mad, is he?” Tiffany asked. “We didn’t spend any money.”
“He’s just being a typical man,” said Victoria.
Tiffany rolled her eyes. “We know all about that.”
Victoria looked around at the tidy stalls. “You’re doing a better job than I could have imagined. There’s enough working room for Mr. Botts and all six of his staff members.”
“Six?” said Wendy. “He hired Lynn?”
“I’m sure he will,” said Victoria.
“Awesome!” said Tiffany.
When Matt returned from the dump, Victoria watched him set up the desks and chairs he’d scrounged. When he finished, she asked about the pictures.
“You knew that Katie Bowen covered the story of the half-body washing up at Wasque?” Matt saw Victoria’s expression and added quickly, “You, of course, found the half that could be identified.”
Victoria nodded.
“Katie thought I ought to show you these photos.” He laid the pictures of the two women in the Chris-Craft on one of the new-old desks and Victoria pulled up a chair and sat down. Matt handed his magnifying lens to her.
Victoria studied the photos. “When did you take these?”
Matt pointed to the picture of the two women in the runabout. “That one was taken about two weeks ago, about five days before the funeral.”
“Several days before we found Fieldstone’s body.”
“The Chris-Craft photos were on the beginning of the roll.” Matt scratched behind his ear. “After I saw the boat—an antique, incredibly beautiful—I wanted to know more about her, maybe do a story on who owned her, where they got her, maintenance, that sort of thing.”
Victoria continued to study the photos while Matt talked.
“Domingo, the Oak Bluffs harbormaster?”
Victoria smiled.
“Domingo said he’d seen the boat around. He thought the owner was a woman and that the boat was kept in Vineyard Haven. The Vineyard Haven harbormaster told me the Chris belongs to Mrs. Fieldstone, who keeps the boat at Maciel Marine.”
“And you talked to Maciel?”
“Bob Maciel takes care of the Chris, treats it like his own boat. Tunes up the engine, polishes the copper tubing. Goes over the brightwork with a chamois after Mrs. Fieldstone takes it out.”
Victoria leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Does she use the boat much?”
“A couple of time a week during the summer, according to Bob. Takes out houseguests. Wants to show off the boat, you know. She’s a pretty good skipper, he says, not afraid of anything.” Matt slipped the photo to the bottom of the pile. “And this one,” he said, pulling out the photo of Audrey raising her hand to Calpurnia, “was taken the day before the funeral. Not exactly a friendly greeting.”
Victoria drummed her fingers on the desktop, pursed her lips, looked off into the distance, then got to her feet, bracing her hands on the desk. “Do you know if the Enquirer is open today?”
“It’s closed. Colley’s given everyone the day off because the Fourth was on a Sunday.”
“I’ve got to talk to him.”
“I’ll take you first thing tomorrow, if you want.”
Victoria picked up her stick. “I’d better ask William to take me. But thank you.”
“Sure thing,” said Matt.
Oddly enough, no one in town seemed to have picked up on the resemblance between Lynn Dwyer and Colley Jameson. But then, she’d been away at boarding school since seventh grade, home only on weekends when no one was around, and summers when the Island was crowded with summer people.
Both her mother and Tom had discouraged her from applying for a job at the Enquirer, so when Tiffany and Wendy, her classmates, told her the Grackle was looking for summer interns, she decided to apply for a writing job there. She took the bus to West Tisbury and walked from Alley’s, where the bus left her off, to the Grackle office.
Wendy bounced out to greet her. “What do you think?”
Lynn grinned and sunlight glinted off her braces. “Awesome!”
“Come up to the loft and meet Mr. Botts. He’s, like, editor and publisher. He’s dying to meet you,” said Wendy.
“Do you think he’d let me, you know, write?”
“Ask him. We told him you’re a dynamite writer, just like your dad. He’ll hire you. He needs a writer.”
Lynn followed Wendy up the steps to the loft and there, facing her, was a gnomelike man with white tufts of eyebrows, a pencil behind his ear, and a serious scowl on his leathery face, hunched over an antique typewriter exactly like the one her father used.
“Mr. Botts,” said Wendy, “this is Lynn.”
Botts snatched off his glasses. “You’re Dwyer’s girl?”
“Yes, sir,” said Lynn.
“Can you write?”
“Yes, sir,” said Lynn.
The dog on the floor next to Botts opened his eyes and thumped his tail.
“I can’t pay you.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Botts.”
“Have you published anything?”
“Yes, sir.” Lynn handed him her scrapbook of clippings from the Hyannis Academy Scroll.
Botts put his glasses on and turned back to his typewriter. “You’ll have to talk to the personnel department,” he muttered. “Mrs. Trumbull.”
CHAPTER 19
The next morning was the sort of rare day Islanders call “typical Vineyard weather.�
�� The sky was a brilliant clear blue with puffy summer clouds. The humidity was low, the temperature in the high sixties. Victoria, wearing a clean pair of corduroy trousers and a worn-thin sweatshirt with ALICE ROCK emblazoned in faded letters, was waiting on the steps when Botts pulled up.
“I gather you saw something in Matt’s photos,” he said, helping her into the passenger seat.
“I’m not sure what I saw. I know I need to talk to Colley.” She was quiet until they passed the youth hostel. “I can think of one theory that fits all three killings,” she said.
“Oh?” said Botts.
Victoria rolled her window down partway. “Calpurnia expected Ambler Fieldstone to leave his wife for her. When she learned that Colley had set her up with Ambler as if she were a call girl, Calpurnia was humiliated and outraged.” She glanced at Botts who was watching a slow-moving car ahead of them. “Enough to kill, I think.”
Botts said nothing.
They were almost at Willow Tree Hollow before Victoria spoke again. “Have you seen the photos?”
Botts shook his head. “I heard Colley is desperate to get hold of them.”
“The photos show Audrey and Calpurnia together on Audrey’s boat, possibly the day Ambler Fieldstone was run over. Colley wants the pictures for blackmail. I’m convinced of that.”
“Against his own wife?”
“Against Calpurnia and Audrey. All Colley needs to do is show those pictures to the authorities to reopen the investigation. We know Colley needs money for some reason. Quite a large amount.”
“And you think he’ll get that by exposing his wife as the killer and getting Audrey to pay? I don’t think so, Victoria.”
Victoria was quiet again until they reached the airport entrance. “What about this: With Fieldstone dead, Audrey inherits a fortune and Calpurnia gets her revenge. They both benefit. Suppose they got together to kill him. Both women know how to run power boats.”
Botts shook his head. “That might explain the women together in Audrey’s boat, but the photo is no secret. Matt’s showed it to several people. Colley can hardly say, ‘Give me two- or three-hundred thousand dollars, and I’ll give you the photo.’”
The car ahead of them signaled for a left turn onto Airport Road and they were able to speed up.
“Furthermore,” Botts continued, “I don’t think the deaths of Candy and Al Fox fit your theory.”
“But they do,” said Victoria. “You knew, didn’t you, that Candy flew to Nantucket to meet with Ambler the day he was killed? She may have learned, or guessed, that Calpurnia and Audrey met up with him …” She stopped.
“Go on,” said Botts.
“It’s an awfully gruesome way to kill someone,” said Victoria. “Even someone you loathe.”
“How do you figure the Candy and Al Fox killings?” he asked when he was back up to speed. “Who lured Candy into the field and shot her? Was it Calpurnia or Audrey? Surely not both of them. Which one sent her the cyanide divinity fudge?” Botts laughed. “And why would either of them kill their lawyer?”
Victoria turned toward him. “What’s so amusing?”
“The murder weapon. The framed Shakespeare quote about killing all the lawyers.”
Victoria drummed her fingers on the arm rest. “Every lawyer in the world has that quote hanging in his or her office. Candy undoubtedly told Al Fox she was suspicious of one or both of the women. One of them convinced Candy that she should be out in that field the day the boy and his father were shooting. Candy complained to Casey about the shooting practice so close to her.”
They swooped into Quampache, one of the glacial drainage channels that marked the halfway point between West Tisbury and Edgartown. Victoria’s grandfather had always pronounced the valley’s name “Quam’-pa-chee.” But Leonard Vanderhoop, a Wampanoag from Gay Head, told Victoria at the senior center that the Indian pronounciation accented the second syllable, so Victoria adopted the new, to her, pronounciation.
“You think Calpurnia shot Candy?”
“It seems likely. Calpurnia knows enough about guns to aim and pull the trigger. Since the shots didn’t kill her, her aim wasn’t great. Candy would never have suspected Calpurnia.”
“Tell me this, Victoria. What does Calpurnia say when she calls Candy—‘I want to meet you in the field behind your house where the boy and his father are shooting to show you a new dress I just bought’?”
“You needn’t be sarcastic.”
“I suppose the poisoned divinity was easy enough. ‘From an admirer.’ That would be enough for Candy, I’m sure. Anyone might have sent that to her.”
A flock of wild turkeys started across the road and Botts stopped until they reached the other side.
“You’re going to ask me why Calpurnia would have killed Al Fox, aren’t you?”
Botts smiled.
“Candy probably told Al Fox that she believed the two women had killed Fieldstone. Knowing Al Fox, he probably told Calpurnia.”
“You think all this leads up to Colley being the next victim. He hasn’t been threatened, as far as we know.”
“Calpurnia wouldn’t threaten, she would act. Once she’s killed three people, Ambler Fieldstone, Candy, and Al Fox, she has nothing to lose. By killing Colley, she’ll have completed her revenge and will inherit, she thinks, close to four million dollars.”
“Does Calpurnia know about Colley’s daughter?”
Victoria sat up straight. “We need to warn Colley, and we need to warn Lynn’s mother and stepfather.”
“The whole scenario sounds far-fetched to me.”
“Can you think of another explanation?”
“Not at the moment. If you’re convinced that Calpurnia is the killer, you need to talk to the state police. I’ll take you there, if you’d like.”
“They’ll need proof, and I don’t have proof. I’ll have to talk to Colley first.”
They didn’t talk about the murders after that. Botts turned right onto Main Street, right again onto South Summer Street, and dropped Victoria off in front of the Enquirer.
A few roses still bloomed along the picket fence, but rose season had passed and now the small garden in front of the newspaper office was filled with newly planted bright annuals, blue ageratum, red salvia, yellow marigolds.
Down the aisle between the reporters’ desks, in the editor’s office, Colley was on the phone with his back to the door, his feet on the windowsill. He swiveled around, scowled, and put his hand over the mouthpiece. “I’m on the phone, Victoria.” Turning back to the window, he continued his conversation.
Victoria knew he expected her to leave. Instead, she sat in her usual chair and heard him say, “ … I’ll have the balance when I arrive.”
“Colley, I must talk to you. Right now.”
Colley looked up at her again and his scowl faded slightly. He said into the phone, “I’ll call you back. Give me your number again.” He jotted the number on a notepad and hung up.
Victoria moved the visitor’s chair and sat down.
“What the hell is bugging you now, Victoria?”
“I’ve changed my mind about the murders.”
“Bravo,” said Colley. “A first.”
Victoria leaned forward. “I told you I thought the killings were over. I believe, now, that they’ve been leading up to at least one more death, possibly two.”
Colley laughed. “Let me guess. You think I’m the target. You’re here to warn me.”
“It’s not amusing, Colley.”
“Come, now, Victoria. You’re being ridiculous. Tom Dwyer doesn’t have the guts to kill me.”
“I’ve told you repeatedly, he’s not the killer.”
“You’re not getting senile, are you, Victoria?”
Victoria flushed. “You’re the common element in all three murders.” She tapped her gnarled forefinger on his desk. “You’ve got to listen to me.”
“I certainly don’t have to listen to you.” Colley leaned back in his chair. “Fieldston
e’s death has been declared an accident. No question.”
Victoria shook her head.
“Granted, both Candy and Al Fox were killed. But I’m the logical suspect in both of those, don’t you agree?” He patted his chest, straightened his tie, and smiled. “One less alimony payment to make and a new and better lawyer.”
“This is not a joking matter, Colley. You’ve made a number of enemies.”
Colley waved his hand dismissively. “You did what I asked you to do, Victoria, and at a usurious price. You identified Dwyer as the sick character who was writing those obits. Thank you. Leave the murders alone, will you?” He sat forward again. “The police don’t need some interfering old lady bothering them.” He stood. “I have to get back to that phone call. I appreciate your concern. I’ll accompany you to the door.”
“Don’t bother.” Victoria stood up, went out of the office, and strode between the rows of reporter’s desks, looking straight ahead, eyes glittering. As she went down the stairs, she held the rail firmly. She stopped at the reception desk.
Faith looked up. “Do you need something, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“You keep Colley’s schedule, don’t you?”
“When he remembers to tell me his appointments, yes.”
Victoria leaned on her stick. “Do you know if he’s planning an off Island trip sometime soon?”
Faith paged through her desk calendar. “He’s going on vacation at the end of September. Three weeks. Things slow down then.”
Victoria acted casual. “I suppose he’s going to Vermont to view the leaves?”
“He’s going to miss the New England fall colors. He’s heading for Arizona.”
“That’s a lovely state,” said Victoria. “One of my grandnephews goes to school in Phoenix. Will Colley be near there?”
Faith shook her head. “He gave me a phone number, but I don’t know where he’s staying.”
“My grandnephew would love to meet him, if Colley’s nearby.”
“Would you like the phone number?” Faith riffled through some papers on her desk.
“May I?”
“I don’t know why not, Mrs. Trumbull.” Faith wrote the number on a slip of paper and handed it to Victoria, who thanked her and went out to Botts’s truck, which was still parked in front of the building. He opened the passenger door for her.
The Paperwhite Narcissus Page 16
