Paperwhite Narcissus (15 page)

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Authors: Cynthia Riggs

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“Delivered,” said Victoria. She glanced up from the notes she had been writing. “I should think you might have learned after two or three wives that you’re not cut out for marriage.”
Colley looked offended. “
They
left
me.
I didn’t leave them. Except for the first one. I should never have divorced her.” He swiveled his chair. “That second marriage was a mistake. Stripper. Artiste. What a phony. Sat around all day in her negligee popping candy into her fat face.”
“You won’t need to worry about her any longer. Any children with the third and fourth wives?”
Colley stood up and looked out of the window. “This is getting nowhere, Victoria. If you know the obit writer, come out with it.”
“I have to be sure, Colley. I don’t want to give you the wrong name and have you riding off in all directions.”
“Just give me the name and I’ll handle it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. We can go to the police, if you want, but if we do, you’ll be sorry.”
Colley sat down again.
Victoria looked at her notes. “You skipped your third wife. Where does she live? And you’ll need to answer me. Any children?”
Colley sighed. “The third ex is from the Vineyard. She married a guy she went to high school with. They live here in Edgartown with her daughter.”
“
Her
daughter, Colley? Or hers and yours?”
Colley said nothing.
“We may be able to deal with this quietly, but not if you’re going to keep things from me.”
“Not my daughter,” Colley said finally. “She was pregnant when she left me. The baby wasn’t mine. I never wanted a kid. The kid was some other guy’s.” He picked up a letter opener and shifted it from one hand to the other. “She swore she’d never slept with another man while we were married.”
“So you had an argument. She claimed she’d been faithful, you claimed she hadn’t been. And she packed up and left?”
Colley said nothing.
Victoria sat for a long while. She looked down at her knobby fingers. She smoothed her worn corduroy trousers. She finally looked up at Colley.
“She’s now Tom Dwyer’s wife, isn’t she?”
Colley said nothing.
“The girl
is
your daughter. You must know that every time you pass her in the street and see her eyes and her build and the way she walks.”
Colley turned his chair away from Victoria.
“How do you deal with your daughter, Colley, pretend she doesn’t exist? Ignore her when you see her? Cross to the other side of the street?” Victoria’s voice was getting lower and firmer. “How can you look at yourself in the mirror?”
Colley still said nothing.
“I suppose you never paid child support, did you? Even when you must have become convinced you were wrong. Or are you never wrong?”
“Now they’re trying to extort college tuition out of me,” Colley muttered, turning back to face Victoria. “When she left me, I offered her child support, even though the kid wasn’t mine.”
“She
was
yours.
Is
yours.”
“Al Fox wrote up an agreement,” said Colley, “but the ex refused to sign it.”
“I can imagine what sort of humiliating caveats you and Al
Fox cooked up between you.” Victoria got to her feet. “I’ll send you my final bill.”
Colley tossed the letter opener onto his desk and stood too. “Who wrote the obits?”
“That’s the last letter or obituary you’ll get from him.” Victoria pointed to the letter. “That paper is not only twenty-four-pound white bond with a high rag content, but if you’ll look at the watermark it says ‘Plover Bond.”
Colley sat again. “Cute. Real cute. I should have guessed. That hack writer Dwyer and his vendetta against me. Goddamned fishermen, all of them. Wrecking the Island for the rest of us.”
“I went fishing with Mr. Dwyer,” Victoria said stiffly. “I caught five blues, and his books are excellent.”
Casey had parked in front of the
Enquirer
and was doing paperwork when Victoria came out of the newspaper office.
“That was the final obituary,” Victoria said with assurance as she got into the Bronco.
“I hope you’re right.” Casey turned onto Cooke Street. Every white-painted, black-trimmed house had a neatly maintained picket fence in front, and every picket fence was still swathed in roses.
Victoria took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When she was a girl, the houses in Edgartown were shabby, except for the captains’ houses on North Water Street. The streets had been paved with crushed scallop shells. She could remember the sound of the crushed shells beneath horses’ hooves as they trotted down to the wharf with a wagon rumbling along behind. Chicory and bouncing bet had lined the streets, not roses. Except for the wild beach roses and the pink ramblers, which tumbled in profusion over her grandfather’s barn, only wealthy people grew roses. Not many wealthy people lived in Edgartown then.
“Who wrote the obits, Victoria? Have you told Colley yet?”
Victoria inhaled the sweet-scented air and let her breath out again. “It was an unfunny practical joke, and the joker knows it now.”
“Most practical jokes are not funny. Who was it?”
“Tom Dwyer.”
“The mystery writer? Your fishing buddy? You’re not serious, are you?”
Victoria nodded.
“His piping plover recipe sure got tongues wagging. Why the obits?”
“Ever since Colley wrote those reviews of Tom’s latest two books, Tom has had writer’s block. I think the obituaries were a way for Tom to get over the block and get even at the same time.”
“Creative types are weird.” Casey shook her head.
“But I think there’s a stronger reason. You know who Tom Dwyer’s wife is, don’t you?”
“Phyl something. I don’t know her.”
“Phyllis Jameson.”
“Oh yeah? Any relation to Colley?”
“Phyllis Dwyer is Colley’s third ex-wife.” Victoria braced herself against the console.
Casey pulled back onto the blacktop. “No kidding!”
“Tom Dwyer and Phyllis were high school classmates here on the Vineyard. They both went off Island to college and after she graduated from Columbia Journalism School, she met Colley, who was wifeless at the time.”
“Oh yeah? Go on.”
“A year into the marriage Phyllis became pregnant.”
“Didn’t think Colley had it in him.”
“Colley didn’t think so either. I understand they had a scene in which he accused her of infidelity.”
“He should talk.”
Victoria nodded. “Phyllis got a divorce, moved back to the Island, and after the baby was born, married Tom.”
A hay truck turned onto the road and Casey slowed. Bits of hay flew up into the air, swirled in the truck’s wake, and patted against the Bronco’s windshield.
“Wonderful smell,” said Victoria, sniffing the air.
Casey sneezed. “Apparently that wasn’t the end of the story?” She sneezed again. “I gotta pass this guy.”
“Phyllis asked for child support, but Colley attached so many strings, she refused to sign the papers Al Fox had drawn up.”
The stripe in the middle of the road went from solid to dashed and Casey pulled around the hay truck. Victoria waved.
“Who’s that?” asked Casey.
“Ira Bodman. He lives in West Tisbury.” She looked thoughtfully at Casey. “He’s single. His wife left him. He has a daughter about the same age as your son.”
“No thanks, Victoria.” Casey eased back into the right lane in front of the truck. “Keep talking.”
“Colley’s daughter Lynn, Tom Dwyer’s stepdaughter, will be a senior at Hyannis Academy this fall. Tom approached Colley for help with college tuition and Colley refused.”
“Doesn’t Colley’s family have money?”
“Colley himself doesn’t. His father set up a trust fund, but Colley can’t touch the principal. After Colley’s death, the newspaper gets half of the money and his children split up the other half.”
“What about his wife?”
“The surviving wife gets half if there are no children. Otherwise, she gets a nice enough allowance.”
“How much is in the fund?”
“Around eight or nine million dollars.”
Casey whistled. “Not bad. Colley’s daughter gets four million. Does Calpurnia know about the daughter?”
“I have no idea. I don’t imagine so. Colley never has admitted he has a daughter.”
They had reached the eastern edge of the State Forest. Acres of tall red pine snags stood out against the sky, skeletal branches contrasting with the new growth of scrub oak and jack pine below.
“Pretty, those silvery trunks,” said Victoria, looking out at the dead red pines.
“They’re a fire hazard,” said Casey. “One of these dry summers we’re going to have a big problem.”
 
Sunday was the Fourth of July. The West Tisbury Fire Department held a cookout at the New Ag Hall in the afternoon. Anthony Rebello, the tall, bulky, black-bearded fire chief, seated Victoria at a round table under an umbrella, where she held court.
Villagers milled around the smoky grills. Volunteer firefighters served up hot dogs and hamburgers and, paper plates in hand, the villagers moved on to tables piled with lobsters and ears of corn and roasted potatoes and salads and coleslaw. A knot of people hung around the beer keg, waiting until the pressure was pumped up enough to tease out more beer and less foam. Children and dogs ran around, getting underfoot, getting lost, getting into fights, crying or barking.
Grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Victoria’s schoolmates brought her plates of coleslaw and salad, ears of corn, oysters on the half-shell, bowls of steamed clams and mussels, a lobster, a slice of watermelon, chocolate cake, Toll House cookies, brownies. Victoria ate all she could and surreptitiously fed what she couldn’t eat to John Milton, who had come to the picnic with William Botts and settled himself at Victoria’s feet.
Victoria held out until after the fireworks and then her eyes started to close. She awoke with a start and a small snort. Anthony offered her his arm and escorted her to Elizabeth’s battered convertible, which was parked in front of the hall. Elizabeth drove home with the top down and Victoria watched distant fireworks over Edgartown to the east and Oak Bluffs to the north.
“I won’t need to eat for a week,” said Elizabeth, once she’d parked under the Norway maple and put the duct-tape-mended top back up. She patted her stomach.
Victoria sighed. “Another grand Fourth. I hope Colley’s all right.”
 
 
Victoria slept late the next morning and awakened to the smell of coffee and rum-raisin muffins. She dressed hurriedly in her gray corduroy trousers and a turtleneck shirt printed with small rosebuds.
“Morning, Gram. It’s supposed to be hot today. You’ll be too warm in that outfit.”
“I don’t pay attention to weather reports.” Victoria helped herself to her usual shredded wheat with sliced banana, then looked up at her granddaughter. “You may need a sweater later.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Want me to drop you off at the
Grackle
on my way to work? The harbor’s crazy busy this whole week.”
“Thank you.”
After they’d washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen, Elizabeth drove her grandmother to the
Grackle
office. Victoria waved good-bye and climbed the stairs to the loft. Botts was hunched over his Underwood. He looked up, the bags underneath his eyes more pronounced than ever.
“One hundred and fifty-two subscriptions now. My wife hasn’t been able to use the phone for her own calls.”
“I thought you got an answering machine.”
“Yes, but no sooner does one person hang up than another would-be subscriber gets on the line.”
Victoria patted John Milton, who wagged his tail and looked up with eyes less baggy than Botts’s. “Wonderful!”
“I don’t
want
to publish a big city daily, Victoria. I keep telling you I don’t
want
to compete with the
Enquirer.
I liked what I had before. One page of West Tisbury news. Printed on the library copier. Subscribers I knew. Nice small-town stuff.”
Victoria shook out the bright serape that covered the easy chair’s bare spring, put it back on the chair, and sat down. “You can’t halt progress.”
“I don’t call this progress. Now I have a hundred and fifty-two subscribers and a staff of four to worry about.”
“Four?”
Botts nodded. “Matt Pease joined us.”
“Good.”
“He’s a photographer, not a writer. That means we have to run pictures. We’re going from four pages to eight this week.” Botts sighed and tapped his pencil on his desk. “This is not what I want out of life, Victoria.”
“That reminds me, Matt has some photographs he wants me to see.”
“Photographs? Of what?”
“He didn’t say.” Victoria made a note to herself. “The subscriptions will cover staff salaries, now that I’m no longer on retainer to Colley.”
“That’s another thing. With Colley’s money dried up, subscriptions won’t cover our costs. I’ll have to accept ads. Which means I have to get someone to sell ads.”
“Good.”
“Not good, Victoria. Where am I going to put all these staff people?” Botts gestured around the loft. His desk was in the middle of the floor. The trap door through which he raised and lowered John Milton’s basket was immediately behind his desk. On either side of his desk, the roof sloped down toward the floor, meeting it at a sharp angle. Light streamed through the big, open hay window at the back of the loft. In the one small space where another desk conceivably could be squeezed, a black area on the roof boards and a matching area on the floor beneath indicated a serious leak.
“The library copier can’t handle the new eight-page format, nor can it handle the volume I now have to print, so I’ve had to work out a deal with Tisbury Printer.”
“They’ll advertise.”
“They’ve already agreed. Their ad is running this week.” Botts flipped his pencil onto a pile of papers on his desk. “I don’t have a spare moment to write.”
“You need a business manager.”
Botts groaned. John Milton looked up and thumped his tail. The telephone rang and Botts answered. His entire end of the conversation was a series of grunts.
He hung up the phone with a decisive slap. “According to my wife, we’re now up to two hundred and three subscribers.”
Victoria scribbled something else. “You’ll need to raise subscription rates. We’ll do more promotion. Perhaps an ad in the
Enquirer.
That would show Colley.”
“No,” said Botts. “No, no.”
The phone rang again. After a conversation that Victoria didn’t try to follow, Botts told the caller how to get to the
Grackle
office. “I’ll be here all afternoon, I’m afraid.” He hung up and folded his arms on his desk.
“Who was that?” Victoria asked.
“Two more job applicants. The high school kids.”
“Tiffany and Wendy?”
Botts nodded.
“So they decided not to work for the
Enquirer
after all.”
Botts tugged off his glasses, polished them, and put them back on. “I’m too old for this, Victoria.”
“I think Wendy, the blond-haired girl, is interested in advertising. I’m sure Tiffany would like experience in the business end.”
“
High school kids
?”
Victoria looked up from her notebook. “You know, don’t you, that age discrimination applies to everyone?”
“How do you expect me to pay them, Madam Reporter?”
“The girls will work for room and board. They want the experience. Colley was foolish not to hire them.”
“And just where are you going to find a place for them to live on Martha’s Vineyard in the height of the season?”
“They can stay at my house,” said Victoria. “I’ve got plenty of room.”
Botts leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head, and looked up at the slanted boards of the roof. “And what will we use for office space? There’s no room here.”
“I’ll think of something,” said Victoria. “If you need a break, why don’t we drive up to Menemsha now and examine Fieldstone’s boat?”
“I have to wait for my new staff members.”
John Milton got unsteadily to his feet and put a large black paw on Botts’s knee.
Botts patted the dog and stood. “Come on, boy.”
John Milton climbed into his basket, which Botts then lowered to the barn’s ground floor, where the stalls still smelled of hay and horses.

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