Paperwhite Narcissus (16 page)
Read Paperwhite Narcissus Online
Authors: Cynthia Riggs
“Of course!” said Victoria.
“‘Of course’ what?”
“The horse stalls would make ideal office space.”
“You’re talking money we don’t have.” Botts stopped. “Money
I
don’t have.”
I
don’t have.”
“Nonsense. All we need is a broom and dustpan. The barn has great character. Wendy and Tiffany can clean the stalls, and we can find furniture at the dump.”
“When can we start?” Tiffany said.
“Six staff members,” Botts muttered. “Six.”
The girls were sitting on the loft floor with their backs angled to accommodate the slope of the roof.
Wendy said, “You know, I bet, like, Lynn would love to work here. I mean, this place is awesome.”
“Lynn?” said Botts.
“She lives on the Island,” said Tiffany. “She’s in our class at Hyannis Academy.”
“Lynn?” said Victoria.
“Lynn Dwyer. You must know her, Mrs. Trumbull. Her dad, like, writes mysteries.”
“Lynn Dwyer.” Victoria repeated.
Wendy nodded. “She says everybody knows her dad. He’s a fisherman
and
a mystery writer.”
and
a mystery writer.”
“Well,” said Botts. “Well, well.”
“Seven is a lucky number,” said Victoria.
Victoria and Botts left the girls to clean the horse stalls with push brooms, trash can, window cleaner, and a heap of rags, and headed to Menemsha.
They passed Chowder Kettle Lane and continued on to the small fishing village.
“Have you eaten yet?” Botts asked.
Victoria shook her head.
“Neither have I. After lunch I’ll go up to the Coast Guard Station while you check Fieldstone’s boat.”
They stopped at the small shack, newly opened for the season, that advertised the best quahog chowder on the Island and Botts went in to order. Victoria sat outside at a picnic table.
The air smelled of honeysuckle, wild roses, and the ocean. A slight sea must have been running because Victoria heard the bell buoy on the other side of the jetty. Bees worked the honeysuckle on the fence behind her. She unzipped her sweater.
Botts came out of the restaurant with two containers of chowder and packets of oyster crackers. They ate while the bees hummed, gulls mewed, and the buoy chimed.
Botts finished his chowder first. He folded the cardboard soup container in on itself and tossed it into the trash receptacle. “I’ll get a copy of the accident report, Victoria. I’m not sure what you’ll be able to tell from looking at the boat.”
“I’m not either,” Victoria admitted. After she’d scraped out the last morsels of clams and potatoes from her own container they drove over to the boat launching ramp, a short distance
from the galley shack.
S’Putter
was high off the ground on wooden cradles.
from the galley shack.
S’Putter
was high off the ground on wooden cradles.
“I shouldn’t be more than three-quarters of an hour,” Botts said when he dropped Victoria off.
“I don’t mind waiting.”
Victoria leaned on her stick and watched until the truck was out of sight. Then she walked around the boat, watching where she put her feet on the uneven ground. The bow faced in, pointing up toward the red-roofed Coast Guard Station on the hill overlooking Menemsha Basin.
The air was full of seagulls, swooping at fish in the tidal waters that raced through the inlet into Menemsha Pond. Victoria stopped, shaded her eyes with a hand, and looked up. A steep ladder leaned against the port side of the boat. She stepped back to get a better overall view and still had to crane her neck to see the top of the boat’s tuna tower, where the lookout could watch for fish. The view of the water from there must have been spectacular. She was no great judge of height, but the tower must have been at least twenty feet above the waterline.
Victoria had sudden misgivings. Who was she to think she could find something on or around the boat that the Coast Guard had missed? The Coast Guard was trained to do this sort of work. She wasn’t.
But the Coast Guard investigators had seemed so young. The lieutenant in charge was no older than Elizabeth, her granddaughter, and his helpers seemed like high school children playing dress-up in their trim uniforms.
She might, after all, have an edge of experience they lacked. Victoria turned back to the boat.
She examined the ladder that leaned against the side of
S’Putter.
The rungs seemed far apart. She held the sides, put one foot on the bottom rung, and looked up. The ladder was shaky. She set her foot back on the ground.
S’Putter.
The rungs seemed far apart. She held the sides, put one foot on the bottom rung, and looked up. The ladder was shaky. She set her foot back on the ground.
She walked slowly to the boat’s stern. The blades of the twin
propellers were twisted, as she’d heard they were, and the starboard shaft was bent slightly. What had she expected to see?
propellers were twisted, as she’d heard they were, and the starboard shaft was bent slightly. What had she expected to see?
Beach grass rustled against the hull of an overturned dinghy that lay in the sand next to the cradled boat. Behind the dinghy Victoria saw a beach plum bush with a great quantity of small green plums. She must remember to return in October, when the plums ripened, and pick them for jelly. She brushed dried seaweed from the hull of the dinghy and sat down to think.
The Coast Guard had concluded that Fieldstone had fallen off the bow, had been swept under the boat, and been sliced by the propellers. The Coast Guard was forever warning boaters against bow riding for this very reason.
Victoria drew circles in the sand with her stick while she thought. The boat’s engines must have been engaged and the boat moving forward. Why would Fieldstone leave the wheel with the boat moving like that? He was an experienced boater and would probably have disengaged the engines before he went forward. Victoria shook her head. There was no way he could have fallen accidentally. Certainly not over the bow. Had someone pushed him?
Victoria rose from her seat on the overturned dinghy and continued to study Fieldstone’s boat. She could see faint marks along the smooth finish on the starboard side. Possibly marks from another boat’s fender?
She moved toward the bow and looked up again, half-closing her eyes. She could imagine Fieldstone facing someone, perhaps arguing with him. She could picture that person shoving Fieldstone and Fieldstone toppling over the bow pulpit.
She made a sketch in her notebook. In the seconds after Fieldstone went overboard, he’d have tried to twist to avoid the propellers. Instead of hitting his head, the props cut across his spine. Victoria shuddered. He must have died quickly. Even the most hardened killer would have been appalled at the slaughter that resulted.
She was still thinking when Botts returned and parked his pickup next to the
S’Putter.
S’Putter.
“I’ve got a copy of the accident report,” he said. “We can go over it on the way back to West Tisbury. Did you learn anything?”
Victoria showed him her sketch of the stick man toppling into the water. “You can see how his backbone must have met the propellers.”
Botts studied Victoria’s sketch. “Not pretty.”
Victoria put her notebook back into her cloth bag. “Someone killed him. No question about it.”
“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.
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?”
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.
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.
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