Paperwhite Narcissus (18 page)

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Authors: Cynthia Riggs

BOOK: Paperwhite Narcissus
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When Victoria reached the upstairs office, Martha Jo was standing over her desk, sorting a pile of papers into stacks. She smiled when she saw Victoria. Her face, usually pale, was pink and blotchy and her eyes were red-rimmed.
“Can I help you, Mrs. Trumbull? I’m afraid I’m not myself today.”
“I’m so sorry. You were the one who found Mr. Fox, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” Martha Jo looked down at the papers she was sorting. “I really miss him. A lot of people didn’t like Mr. Fox. But he was a good boss.” She looked away.
“Have the police finished up?”
Martha Jo nodded. “The cleaning people will be here tomorrow morning. The police left powder all over everything. His couch … his beautiful leather couch …”
“Do you mind if I look around?”
“Not at all, Mrs. Trumbull. I’ll be out here, if you need me. I can’t face going in there.”
Victoria walked across the soft carpet of the reception area and entered Al Fox’s office. Every surface that someone might have touched was dusty. Victoria stood inside the doorway and looked around.
She took in the leather couch, the two leather easy chairs, the coffee table, and the two end tables that made up a relaxed setting for clients. A dark reddish-brown stain had soaked into the leather of the end of the couch nearest her. The stain covered part of the arm and one of the cushions. It had dripped down the front of the couch onto the oriental rug beneath. The office smelled of rust.
Victoria moved into the room. The big desk, usually brightly polished, was filmed with the police dust. There was nothing on the desk but a telephone and a pencil and a couple of ballpoint
pens. No desk calendar, no diary, no papers of any kind. Victoria supposed the police had taken those things as evidence. No letter opener. She recalled how Al Fox had toyed with that Majorcan dagger every time she’d been in his office. The police had probably taken that, too.
The framed embroidered Shakespeare quote was missing, of course. She’d heard that that was the murder implement. Somehow, it seemed unlikely that someone could be killed with a framed picture. She supposed that if you hit him just right … But why all the blood? She’d also heard that his hairpiece had been stuffed into his mouth. The killer’s warped sense of humor? Al Fox, the mouthpiece? Victoria shook her head. None of it made sense. She stood in the center of the office for a long time, ten minutes or more, leaning on her stick with both hands, studying the couch, the desk, the framed cartoons on the wall, the carpet, the bloodstain. Finally she returned to the reception room.
Martha Jo was seated at her desk, labeling file folders.
Victoria pulled up the visitor’s chair next to her desk. “I suppose the police took his desk calendar and diary?”
“Yes.”
“And that letter opener as well?”
Martha Jo looked up, surprised. “I don’t think so. I haven’t seen it since …”
“Did the police say anything about going through his files?”
“They said they might send someone over later to go through them. Mr. Fox was terribly secretive about his cases. I tried to organize his files, but he didn’t want me to touch some of them.” She shook her head. “All I handled was wills and real-estate transactions, that sort of thing. But nothing personal. Mrs. Jameson and Mrs. Fieldstone and Mr. Jameson and Mr. Fieldstone were always in here, always separately, and I have no idea what they talked about.”
“You didn’t type any letters for them?”
“Mr. Fox had his own computer, and he typed out the private things he didn’t want anyone, not even me, to see.”
“I didn’t notice his computer,” Victoria said. “I suppose the police took that away?”
“Yes.” Martha Jo blew her nose on a tissue she’d been holding.
Victoria indicated the file folders on Martha Jo’s desk. “What are those?”
“Papers from Mr. Fox’s file cabinet. I’m trying to organize them for the police. I don’t honestly know what is supposed to be done with these. Most lawyers have associates who take over in case of death. Mr. Fox worked alone.” She sighed.
“It must be difficult to decide what to do with those scribbled notes.” Victoria indicated one of the piles Martha Jo had sorted out.
“He looked so tidy on the surface, but he was actually a mess. These were stuffed into his top drawer.” She riffled through a stack of crumpled sheets torn from a yellow legal pad. “There’s no way of knowing whether they’re important or not. I guess it won’t hurt to show you, Mrs. Trumbull. Look at these.” She handed Victoria a dozen of the yellow sheets.
The papers were covered with doodles, cartoon sketches of people, clients, perhaps? Intersecting circles inked in darkly, swirls and curlicues, stars, three-dimensional boxes, elaborate flowers.
“He was quite an artist, wasn’t he,” Victoria said, leafing through the papers. Occasionally she stopped and read what she could of the scrawled notes. She saw a notation, “$450,000—$900,000?” underlined five or six times, with the zeros inked in, and next to that a comment printed in capital letters, “WHAT FOR?” And “Dwyer’s girl.” On another page, surrounded with sketches of daisy chains she saw, “Buddy” with a phone number. And on the same page, “annulment? Mexican divorce?? payoff???”
Victoria looked up from the papers. “Who’s Buddy?” she asked Martha Jo.
“I’m not sure. He was connected in some way with Mrs.
Fieldstone, I think. The first time I saw him was right after Mr. Fieldstone’s death. He talked with Mr. Fox for at least an hour.”
“Did Mr. Fox bill Buddy for the hour?”
Martha Jo shook her head.
Victoria continued to page through the scribbled notes from Al’s desk drawer. She saw “DNA” circled with rays extending from the circle, and leaves and flowers and vines drawn all around.
“What are you going to do with these?” Victoria asked.
“I was going to shred them. I didn’t see anything on them that could be of any use.”
“Let the police examine them before you do that.” Victoria held up one of the elaborate sketches of vines and flowers, bunches of grapes and tendrils. “This is wonderful. Do you suppose I might have copies of a few of these?”
“Certainly, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Martha Jo. “Something to remember Mr. Fox by. I’ll copy them for you, if you’d like.” She took the papers from Victoria and switched on the copying machine. While Martha Jo waited for the machine to warm up, she held up the doodle of grapes and vines. “I’m glad you suggested that, Mrs. Trumbull. I’m going to make a copy of this one for myself. He was always doodling.” She wiped her nose and put the tissue back in her pocket. “I think he could have been a fine artist, if he’d wanted.”
A soft rain had fallen during the night. The wind veered around to the west, carrying the clear, bright sound of the town clock across Doane’s pasture and the brook.
Victoria was kneeling on her flat padded bench, weeding the flower border. Her hands were muddy from the wet ground. She probably should wait until it dried a bit but the morning was too beautiful to waste. Elizabeth had not yet gotten up. McCavity was lying on his back next to her in a heap of pulled-up weeds, soft belly fur exposed, paws in the air, the pupils of his eyes tiny slits.
The police Bronco pulled into the driveway and Casey leaned out of the window. “You’re up early, Victoria. What’s with McCavity?”
“Catnip,” said Victoria. “I’ve been pulling it out of the iris bed.”
“I haven’t seen you for several days. Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”
Victoria eased herself up with the handles of the kneeler and straightened her back. She clapped her hands together, knocking off clods of wet earth. “I’ve been involved with the murders. No one else seems to be concerned about them.”
“That’s not true, Victoria. The state police are working on both murders.”
“Three murders.” Victoria picked up her kneeler and started toward the house.
“I hate to interrupt your gardening.”
“I’ve done enough for this morning.”
“I’ll carry that in for you.”
Victoria handed her kneeler to the police chief. “I keep it in the entry with the gardening tools.”
“I know,” said Casey.
Casey took cups and saucers from the cupboard over the sink while Victoria put on a fresh pot of coffee.
“I went to Al Fox’s office yesterday,” Victoria said, when they were seated at the table. “I don’t see how a framed picture, even a heavy one, could have killed him.”
Casey started to interrupt, but Victoria hadn’t finished. “Furthermore, I don’t understand how there could have been so much blood. Head wounds bleed profusely, I know, but even so, there was a great deal of blood. And I don’t understand how blood from a head wound could have spilled down the cushions the way it did. The cushions were not under his head.”
“The picture didn’t kill him,” Casey said, once Victoria had come to a stopping place. “Doc Jeffers says Fox was probably stunned with the picture. His head was cut by slivers of broken glass, then, apparently when he was still alive, his toupee was stuffed into his mouth and he was stabbed. That’s what killed him. The stab wound. Brutal. The police are looking for the murder weapon now.”
Victoria set her cup firmly in its saucer. “Why didn’t you tell me this right away? I might have helped.”
“I keep telling you, Victoria, I’m not on the case. I got to work earlier than usual this morning and the state police had left a message for me to call. I found out about the stabbing only a couple of minutes ago and came right over. What do you know that the state cops don’t?”
“Al Fox’s letter opener is missing, a souvenir dagger from Majorca.”
“Sharp enough to kill?”
“A souvenir, but yes, pointed and sharp.”
“Let me use your phone, Victoria. I’ll call the state guys back, let you talk to them.”
 
After Victoria described the missing letter opener to the state police, Casey dropped her off at the
Grackle
office and promised to pick her up later. It was still early, a little after eight o’clock. Victoria walked to the back of the stables and found Matt working at a table, pasting photos onto large sheets of layout paper. Botts watched, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.
“I thought newspaper layout was all done by computer these days,” Victoria said.
“Gimme a break.” Botts turned his back on her and stomped out through the wide barn doors in the direction of his house.
“Now what’s his problem?” Victoria asked.
Matt grinned. “Subscriptions are up to three hundred and twelve.”
“What are you working on?”
Matt held up a sheet of photos and large type. “Trustees of Reservations took out a full-page ad. They’re having a field day this weekend on Chappaquiddick.”
“Field day?”
“Free kayak and canoe rides, a trip along the beach in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Bird walks. Several boat owners have volunteered to take people for rides on Cape Poge Bay. Including—guess who?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Audrey Fieldstone.”
“In her Chris-Craft? The antique boat?”
Matt pointed to one of the photos on the layout page. Here’s a picture of the Chris. Beautiful, isn’t she.”
Victoria craned her neck to look. “That’s different from the picture Colley wants.”
“The ones he wants all show Calpurnia and Audrey together.”
“What do you plan to do with them?” Victoria asked.
Matt shrugged. “I was so pissed off at him—excuse me, Victoria—that I wouldn’t sell them to him for any price. I don’t have any plans for them.”
“I hope you have them in a safe place.”
Matt stacked the pasted-up pages to one side and started on a fresh sheet. “Mrs. Fieldstone plans to take her boat to Chappy a couple of days early.” He reached for another photo, moved it around on his layout, then cropped it to fit. “Trustees has set up a temporary floating dock next to Dike Bridge.”
“Why does she want to go so early? She’ll have to stay on her boat, won’t she?”
“I guess,” said Matt. “Her boat doesn’t have a cabin, but she can stretch out on the banquette in a sleeping bag. There’ll be four or five other boats tied up at the dock, I guess. The ferry from Edgartown doesn’t run after eleven, so no one from the Vineyard will bother her.”
“They can drive along the barrier bar,” Victoria said with assurance. “I’ve been that way myself recently.”
“They’ve closed the beach road now. The police and the Trustees put up signs, warning people to stay off. The ocean’s going to break through the bar any minute.”
Victoria sat down at one of the desks next to Matt’s layout table. “How is the advertising coming along?”
“Good. Enough to cover costs, salaries for eight staff members, and a bit left over.”
“Eight? Who’s the eighth?”
“Mrs. Botts.”
“Do
I
get a salary now?”
“Yup.”
“Well.” Victoria patted her hair. “How many pages in this issue?”
“Sixteen,” said Matt. “Lots of ads, lots of photos, lots of good stories. Katie is a real pro, you know, and Lynn’s writing is okay. Straightforward. Mrs. Botts has decided the newspaper is great fun, after all, now that we’re making money.”
“It’s too bad William can’t accept his success.”
“Mr. Botts hates the whole idea. He’s talking about starting up another one-page newsletter.”
“What will he name that one?”
“
Chanticleer
.”
Victoria laughed. “A medieval rooster fits William’s image.”
Matt cropped another photo with a pair of long scissors and, tilting his head first to one side, then another, added it to the layout. “Colley’s feeling the competition, I hear.”
Victoria coughed softly. “I wanted to talk to you about Colley.”
“Yeah?” said Matt, looking up from his work.
“I have an idea he may be the next victim.”
“Serve him right,” said Matt.
Victoria smoothed her trousers over her still handsome legs and picked a stem of dried grass off one of the worn knees. “When’s your baby due?”
“Momentarily. Suitcase is all packed and I carry my cell phone with me.” He held up the small instrument. “What did you want me to do about Colley?”
“You live fairly close to him, don’t you?”
“Too close.”
“Would you keep an eye on him? Call me if you see anything unusual?”
“Why not ask his wife? She’s lucky enough to live with the guy.”
Victoria traced the deeply carved initials on the desktop that made it too uneven to use as a writing surface. “I’m not sure about Calpurnia.”
Matt laughed. “You think she might do him in? I wouldn’t blame her. She’s got good reason, I hear. If she can get away with murdering him, she stands to inherit a chunk of money from that trust fund.”
Victoria looked up from the graffiti on the desk. “Why do you suppose Colley needs so much money?”
“You mean the four hundred fifty thousand he got from Field-stone?”
Matt laughed again, harder. “To get a facelift, maybe? He’s showing his age. Every time he looks in a mirror …”
The Bronco pulled up in front of the barn and Victoria got to her feet.
Matt said quickly, “I’ll watch him when I can, Victoria. Can’t promise to do a real stakeout, but if I happen to notice something fishy, I’ll call you.”

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