Read Paperwhite Narcissus Online
Authors: Cynthia Riggs
Paperwhite Narcissus (4 page)
The next morning, Calpurnia was pacing back and forth in her kitchen, nursing a cup of strong black coffee and a serious hangover, when the phone rang. She shuddered, wet a paper towel under the cold water tap to place against her forehead, and answered.
A woman’s voice said, “I need to talk to you.”
“Who is this?”
“Audrey Fieldstone.”
Calpurnia patted her mouth with the paper towel.
“Hello, hello,” said Audrey. “Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
“I need to talk to you.”
Calpurnia paced. “I don’t think so.”
“You can listen, then,” said Audrey. “I know about you and my husband.”
“Is that what you’re calling me about?”
“Indirectly,” said Audrey.
Calpurnia clamped the phone between her shoulder and her cheek, walked to the sink, and rewet the paper towel. She held it, dripping, against her forehead. “I have nothing to say to you. If you’re calling to warn me away from your husband, it’s over.”
Audrey laughed. “Don’t you think I know that? Ambler’s flings are always short-lived.”
Calpurnia pulled out a chair and sat down. “Why are you calling me?”
“‘Why’ is because now my dear husband is two-timing both of us.”
“Audrey, I don’t care.”
Audrey murmured, “I wonder what procurer he’s paying for this one’s services?”
“I don’t want to hear any more.” Calpurnia stood up and was about to disconnect.
“Wait, don’t hang up yet.”
“I’m really in a hurry. Come to the point.”
“J. Ambler is rendezvousing with a certain someone on Nantucket over the next couple of days. Want to guess who?”
“I don’t care,” said Calpurnia. “I’ve got to go.”
“Candy,” said Audrey.
“What!”
“Candy. Candy Keene. Your husband’s second ex-wife. The stripper. Former stripper. A bit passe now.”
“You’re joking!”
“I thought that would interest you.”
“Why Nantucket?”
“You should know.”
Calpurnia rewet the paper towel, wrung it out, and held it against her forehead again. “What do you mean by that?”
“Come, now. You needn’t be quite so dense. He’s driving
S’Putter
over to Nantucket by himself and meeting her there. That cheap floozy won’t step foot on a boat. She has a ‘delicate stomach’, she claims.”
S’Putter
over to Nantucket by himself and meeting her there. That cheap floozy won’t step foot on a boat. She has a ‘delicate stomach’, she claims.”
Calpurnia, despite her own delicate stomach and pounding head, asked, “Are they staying at a hotel?”
“Ambler? In a hotel?” Audrey laughed. “You know him better than that. His floating pleasure palace, of course. Tied up at the dock. Where it’s not the ocean that will rock it.”
Calpurnia sighed. “How did you learn all this?”
“She left a message on his answering machine. Really bright.”
Calpurnia sighed again. “You called just to tell me he’s going to be on Nantucket with Candy Keene? Frankly, I don’t give a damn.”
“I’m proposing to call a temporary truce,” said Audrey.
“No thank you.”
“You’re a pretentious bitch, Calpurnia. I can’t stand you any more than you can stand me.” Audrey’s voice was sharper. “But this is one time we can work together to play a little trick on J. Ambler.”
At this point, Colley came into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door, took out a bottle of Sam Adams, bent down to check his reflection in the polished side of the toaster, and looked over at his wife.
“I’ll call you back,” said Calpurnia to Audrey, and hung up.
That same day, Buddy saw the photo in an old copy of
People
magazine in a stack of reading matter the garage kept for waiting customers. Another mechanic, George Mason, saw the photo first. He was thumbing through the magazine, licking his finger to turn the pages, while Buddy was changing a tire. George showed the picture to Buddy. “I didn’t know you and Audrey was divorced.”
People
magazine in a stack of reading matter the garage kept for waiting customers. Another mechanic, George Mason, saw the photo first. He was thumbing through the magazine, licking his finger to turn the pages, while Buddy was changing a tire. George showed the picture to Buddy. “I didn’t know you and Audrey was divorced.”
“We’re not.”
“Look at here.”
Buddy stood up. He was holding a lug wrench in one hand. He wiped his other hand on the back of his jeans and stared at the photo and caption, which George pointed out to him. The photo was in an article about a golf tournament in Georgia and was one of several photos in a lavish full-color layout. It showed a couple at a cocktail party in glittering evening dress. The couple was identified as J. Ambler Fieldstone and his elegant redheaded wife, Audrey.
Buddy stared at the photo and caption. “Shit!” He hurled the lug wrench across the garage. It hit the metal door with a clang, left a dent, fell onto the concrete floor, and bounced. “‘Elegant’!” said Buddy. “‘Redheaded’? Gimme one of your cigarettes.”
“Thought you quit.”
“Shit,” said Buddy again, holding out a shaking hand. “Goddamned fucking bitch.”
An hour before first light the Friday after Audrey had called Calpurnia, two fishermen were surf casting at the southeastern corner of the Island.
Stars faded as sky and sea changed to predawn gray, separated by a faint horizon line. Simon Newkirk now could see where he’d been casting. A wide band of breaking waves tumbled and foamed from the near shore and swirled toward the low clouds that hung over Nantucket, fifteen miles to the southeast. The turmoil marked the tidal rip that churned up food for the bluefish that were running now.
Simon and his fishing buddy, Tom Dwyer, stood in the swash from the breakers. Both wore chest-high waders. Tom, the taller, huskier of the two, had on a bush hat and was smoking a pipe. Simon was bareheaded. They stood some distance apart to keep their lines from tangling. The roar and hiss of the surf, the wind, and the cries of gulls made it difficult to talk. For the most part, they fished without speaking.
A dozen times during the three hours they’d been here, one or the other had hooked a bluefish. Each time, Simon marveled at the way the blue struck, once cutting the metal leader on his lure. He put two of the fish he’d caught in a Styrofoam cooler. The rest he released.
To the southeast, the horizon was becoming more distinct. As Simon watched, the sky changed from gray to a glowing red. In a sudden burst the sun rose behind the clouds and the churning rip sparkled in the light.
Tom took his pipe out of his mouth. “Red sky. Storm’s brewing,” he shouted above the noise of breakers and wind. “Maybe hit tonight or tomorrow morning.”
“How much more time do we have, Tom?”
Tom checked his watch, which was set to show the times of high and low water. “Tide should run out for another ten or fifteen minutes.” He put his pipe back between his teeth. “I could use a cup of coffee about now.”
Simon nodded. “I brought sandwiches and a Thermos.”
“Sounds good.”
Simon tugged sunglasses out of a vest pocket and put them on. “How many keepers you got?”
“Four twelve-pounders,” Tom called back. “Two for Phyl, Lynn, and me, two for my neighbor, Matt Pease.” He cast again, hurling the lure far out into the rip.
Simon moved closer to hear better. “Matt Pease, the photographer? I didn’t realize he lived near you.”
“He and his wife live two doors down. Nice kids.” Tom stabbed the butt of his rod into the sand and relighted his pipe. “They’re expecting a baby next month.”
“Talented kid. Colley’s lucky to have him.”
“Jameson’s cut Matt’s summer hours.”
“Just as we head into the busy season?”
Tom nodded. “Colley brings in summer interns. College kids. They work for free.”
“That’s not right,” Simon said.
“Damn right it’s not right. But that’s Colley Jameson for you.”
“I imagine he’s not easy to work for.”
“Unpredictable cuss. In fact, he’s a goddamned bastard.” Tom spit into the sand.
Simon looked at him in surprise.
Tom shaded his eyes from the glare on the water. “Tide’s turning. Where’s that coffee?”
They reeled in their lines and trudged back to the four-wheel-drive vehicle, which Tom had parked near the dunes. They shrugged out of their heavy waders and stowed them in the back of the car, then added their surf-casting rods to the ones already on the roof rack.
Tom opened his tackle box and removed a thin-blade filleting knife and a whetstone. “Might as well clean my fish now.” He sharpened his knife, moving the blade back and forth with smooth strokes. “Colley Jameson,” he muttered around the pipe stem he held in his teeth. “I’d like to get my hands on Colley
Jameson.” The knife blade whispered against the stone. “Want me to clean your fish?”
Jameson.” The knife blade whispered against the stone. “Want me to clean your fish?”
“Appreciate it.” Simon carried the paper bag of sandwiches and his Thermos to where they’d left their catch, unscrewed the lid, and poured coffee. “What’s with you and Colley? Sounds like something more than the way he treats his employees.” Simon set a cup next to Tom, who was squatted down near the swash line.
“I’ll wait, thanks.” Tom slipped the thin blade into a fish belly, slit the belly from tail to head, tugged out the guts, and tossed the bloody mess to the sea gulls that circled around him. He held up his hands. “Colley? You don’t want to know. One of these days, though …”
He rinsed the fillets in the surf, stowed them in plastic bags, wiped his knife carefully, scoured his hands clean with wet sand, and joined Simon with his coffee cup.
They sat on the beach for almost an hour, sipping coffee, eating sandwiches, and talking. Simon took in the sweep of sea and sky. Far out he could see breaking waves. The line of waves gradually approached the shore as he watched. There was an ominous feeling that came with the change of tide.
“Impressive, isn’t it,” Tom said, “changing of the tide. Incoming, now. Like clockwork.” Simon watched the waves break closer and closer. “What do you suppose that is?” he pointed to a dark object several hundred yards offshore.
Tom shaded his eyes. “Looks like a seal. You see them occasionally this time of year.” He wadded up his sandwich wrappings and stowed them in the paper bag. “That tasted good. Nothing like salt air to work up an appetite.”
Simon stood. “Whatever it is seems to be drifting, not swimming.”
They watched the floating object and talked companionably for another half-hour as the tide carried whatever it was towards the beach. Tom relighted his pipe. “I’d better get my binoculars.”
Simon could see now that the object was no seal, but he still couldn’t identify it.
Tom returned with the binoculars and stood near the water. “Can’t tell.” He handed the glasses to Simon. “What do you think?”
The object was the size of a small seal, dark, flexible. Something trailed from it, cloth or plastic or seaweed. Each breaker brought it closer.
Simon refocused. “Looks almost like a body.”
“Not big enough,” said Tom. “Let me have the glasses.”
A wave crested and Simon caught a glimpse of dark cloth before the breakers engulfed whatever it was. It was clearly not a person, or at least not a whole person.
“Close enough now for us to bring it ashore.” As the object rose to the crest of a comber, Tom added quickly, “Forget the waders. We have to go after it.”
Both men kicked off shoes, and, fully dressed, waded into the surf.
Simon took a deep breath before a breaker knocked him down, but he’d managed to grasp a handful of something that felt like jeans material. He hung on and struggled to his feet just as the next wave knocked him down again.
“You okay?” Tom reached out to Simon with his free hand and helped him to his feet. Together, the two men dragged the sodden, jeans-clad thing onto the beach.
When Simon finally registered what it was they had fished out of the sea, he let go and stared at Tom.
“Shark attack?” he mumbled.
Tom wiped his hands on his wet chinos. “Wonder what happened to the upper half.”
At the
Enquirer
, Katie Bowen borrowed one of the newspaper’s tape recorders, snatched up her notebook, and rode her bicycle down the hill to the small three-car ferry that shuttled between Edgartown and Chappaquiddick.
Enquirer
, Katie Bowen borrowed one of the newspaper’s tape recorders, snatched up her notebook, and rode her bicycle down the hill to the small three-car ferry that shuttled between Edgartown and Chappaquiddick.
“Reporting on the body that washed up?” Captain Brad asked her once he got the ferry underway.
“My first big assignment.” Katie’s voice was a low husky growl. “Colley’s off Island, so the assistant editor assigned me to the shark attack. All Colley gives me is stuff like the West Tisbury selectmen’s meetings.”
The ferry crossing took less than five minutes. More like two minutes.
“Take care,” Captain Brad said, as Katie pedaled off the ferry and headed down the tar road.
The asphalt surface lasted for about two miles, then became a sand track. Katie had difficulty controlling the bike. She was short and the bicycle was a couple of sizes too large for her. Wherever the sand was not packed down, her bicycle skidded. By the time she reached Wasque, the point of land Islanders pronounced
Way’-squee,
she was hot, dusty, out of breath, and angry with the assistant editor for not letting her use the
Enquirer’
s Jeep.
Way’-squee,
she was hot, dusty, out of breath, and angry with the assistant editor for not letting her use the
Enquirer’
s Jeep.
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