Paperwhite Narcissus (14 page)

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Authors: Cynthia Riggs

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“We?”
“You—you’re the lawyer.”
“Ummmm,” said Al.
Tom uncrossed his legs. “You know Jameson is Lynn’s father, don’t you?”
Al said nothing.
“Lynn. My stepdaughter,” Tom said. “The bastard has never paid a cent for her support. She’s sixteen now.”
“Ummmm,” said Al.
“He claims she’s not his child.” Tom sat forward. “All you have to do is look at her.”
“Want me to research the legal procedures for DNA testing, do you?”
“She starts college a year from September. I can’t swing it alone. It’s time he helped out.”
Al thought for a few moments more. “You may not need to go the DNA route. A letter from an attorney should do the trick.”
“Will you write that letter?”
“Let me get back to you,” Al said. “Colley’s hard up for cash at the moment.”
“Tough,” said Tom. “Aren’t we all.” He got to his feet. “I’ll expect a call from you tomorrow, then.”
Al, too, got up and held out his hand. “I enjoyed your last book. Great setting, great characters.”
“Thanks,” said Tom. “I suppose you’ve read
his
review?”
Al shrugged. “No one pays any attention to Colley.”
“I do,” said Tom. He wheeled around, jammed his hat down on his forehead, opened the door, and pounded down the stairs.
In a few minutes Al heard light footsteps coming up the stairs. He got up, opened the door, and was startled when he saw the slim form of Calpurnia.
“This is a pleasure,” said Al, recovering quickly. “I expected someone else.”
“I tried the downstairs door and it was open,” said Calpurnia. “I need to talk to you.”
“This is not a good time. I’m expecting a client. How about first thing tomorrow morning?”
As he was saying “morning,” he heard another set of light footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Your client?” asked Calpurnia, smiling.
“Have a seat,” said Al. He went to the door and opened it, partially blocking the view into his office. “Good evening, my dear. I have an unexpected client. An emergency. Would you mind waiting in the reception area?”
“No way,” said Audrey.
Al continued to block the door. “Have a seat out there and let me fix you a drink.”
“Forget it,” said Audrey, brushing past him into his office, where she stopped abruptly. “What the hell are
you
doing here?”
Calpurnia, seated in the far chair, swished her hair away from her face and smiled.
Al looked from one to the other. “Let me fix you both drinks. Scotch for you, Audrey?”
“Make it a double.”
“And you, Calpurnia, bourbon, isn’t it?”
“No, thank you.”
Al went into the reception area where there was a small kitchen and bar. There was no sound of voices from his office. He returned with two drinks, scotch for Audrey, vodka for himself.
Audrey was sitting in the armchair across from Calpurnia. Al handed her the scotch and sat on the couch. He set his vodka on the end table next to the framed motto.
“Which one of you wants to go first? Sure you won’t change your mind about a drink, Calpurnia?”
“No, thank you.” Calpurnia settled back in the chair and crossed her legs.
“As the attorney for both of you, I must remind you that each of you has a right to privacy.”
“I suspect we’re both here on the same business,” said Calpurnia, swinging a sandal-clad foot.
Audrey raised her eyebrows. “I believe I am the one paying Mr. Fox for this appointment.”
“He’ll double bill us,” said Calpurnia.
Al looked from one to the other. Audrey, chewing gum, was wearing black slacks and a bright silk blouse the exact shade of her hair. The top two buttons were open, showing a chunky gold chain necklace and an edge of black lace bra. Calpurnia wore no makeup. Her dark hair set off her pale face. Her eyes were half-closed. She wore beige slacks with a matching short-sleeve sweater, no jewelry. Al had dealt with each of the two women individually, never together.
“I want my husband’s estate settled right away, Al,” said Audrey. “I don’t need to tell you, he’s left bills I can’t pay until it is settled.”
“Of course,” said Al. “These things take time, Audrey, especially when one is dealing with a sizable estate.” He smirked. “And, of course, my dear, there may be one or two technicalities that have to be worked out, you understand. A man named Buddy has contacted me.”
Audrey stopped chewing. “I’ll need to talk with you privately about Buddy.” She started chewing again. “I’m here because Colley Jameson owes my husband’s estate almost a million dollars.”
Calpurnia took a deep breath and let it out audibly.
“Oh?” said Al. “A million, is it? For what, may I ask?”
“Colley sold shares in the
Enquirer
to Ambler, and now we learn that Colley doesn’t own—and never has owned—the newspaper. I want that money back. Nine hundred thousand,” Audrey added.
Calpurnia unbuckled her leather purse and removed a business-size envelope with
Island Enquirer
and an Edgartown address printed in the upper left corner. “It’s four hundred and fifty thousand, not nine hundred thousand.” She handed the envelope to Al, who put on his reading glasses.
After he’d studied the papers for a few minutes he looked over his glasses at Calpurnia. “I’m not sure I understand your role in this. Seems to me this is something Colley has to work out.”
“I’d like to know what my husband did with the four hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“Nine hundred thousand,” said Audrey.
Al held the paper up. “Calpurnia is right, according to this. It’s a notarized copy of a dated receipt from Colley Jameson to J. Ambler Fieldstone for four hundred fifty thousand, one half of nine hundred thousand, with the remaining four hundred fifty thousand to be paid by Ambler when the stock is handed over.” Al looked from Calpurnia to Audrey and back. “There was another consideration that we won’t go into.”
Calpurnia’s pale face flushed.
Al continued. “The stock has not changed hands, of course.”
“I haven’t been able to find a trace of that money,” Calpurnia said.
Al put the paper back in its envelope and handed it to Calpurnia. “Colley didn’t consult me on selling stock he didn’t own, nor did he take me into his confidence about how he disposed of the money. He claims he’s not into drugs.”
“He’s not,” said Calpurnia.
“Nor gambling?”
Calpurnia shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Women?”
“He has his pick of summer interns and he pays them with bylines.” Calpurnia folded her arms across her chest. “Now that he’s getting a bit shopworn, he’s having to give them bigger bylines.”
Al took off his glasses and ran his hand over his toupee. “Damned if I know what he’s done with that kind of money.”
Audrey sipped her drink. “Four hundred fifty thousand, then. I want that money and I want it now.”
“What could he have done with it?” Al murmured. “He tried to borrow money from the trust fund. Tried to borrow money from
me
.” He started to say something about blackmail, but stopped.
“What do you plan to do about all this, Al?” Audrey took a last swallow of her drink and set the glass next to the silver-framed motto. “That thing is grotesque.”
“A client stitched it. Expensive frame,” said Al.
“Hang it in your closet behind your toupees.”
Calpurnia got up from her chair. “It sounds as though I need to hire myself a more competent attorney.” She turned to Audrey. “Does
my
husband need police protection from
your
husband’s goons?”
Audrey snapped her gum before she replied. “I think
your
husband needs protection from himself.”
Calpurnia tossed her hair away from her face and stalked out. Al listened to her footsteps on the stairs, across the downstairs hall, and the sharp click of the outer door.
Audrey rattled the ice in her glass.
“May I refresh your drink?” Al asked.
Audrey handed him the glass. “I think I’m going to need it. What about Buddy?”
“Buddy came to see me a couple of days ago. Nice chap.” Al returned with the refilled glass.
Audrey took a swallow.
Al went to his desk, opened a drawer, took out a lined yellow legal pad with notes scribbled on it, and returned to the couch. “According to Buddy, you and he were married fourteen years ago in a civil ceremony in Jersey City, New Jersey. Is that right?”
“Sounds about right,” said Audrey.
“That was fourteen years ago.” Al looked up from the notes. “How long were you married before you divorced Buddy?”
“None of your business,” said Audrey.
“But, my dear, it’s very much my business. I’m your attorney. Buddy is claiming you and he are still married, that there never was a divorce. Surely he’s mistaken?”
“We’re not married,” said Audrey.
Al sat forward. “Where were you divorced? Do you have any papers proving the divorce? Better think this over, Audrey. You know as well as I do what the consequences are if you’re still married to Buddy. Bigamy is the least of your worries. There’s a small matter of a very large estate.”
Audrey took a gulp of her drink. “Fix it, then, Al.”
Al laughed. “A post-dated divorce? Maybe a Mexican divorce?”
“Pay him off.”
“He claims he likes the idea of being married to you. Says he’s making a good salary as a mechanic and can support you just fine. Nice guy. Doesn’t want any part of Fieldstone’s millions. Billions, I should say.”
“He’s playing cutesy. He can be bought.” Audrey finished her drink in one long swallow and stood. “Take care of it, will you? And do something about the money Colley owes me.”
“Mechanics make good money,” said Al. “You won’t have to work. I don’t think Buddy wants you to work. You’re still young enough to start a family.”
“Bugger off,” said Audrey, and strode out.
Al put the yellow pad back in his top drawer, took the empty
glasses to the kitchen behind the reception area, went back to his office, and turned off his desk light.
He was about to turn off the overhead light when he heard footsteps on the stairs again. He looked at his watch, sighed, and opened the door.
The next morning, Martha Jo Amarel found the body. When she arrived early in the morning to finish up some letters, the front door was unlocked. This didn’t surprise her, since Mr. Fox was notoriously lax about security and few Islanders even owned keys to their houses. However, ever since she had started working for him, Martha Jo had been attempting to train him in the need for security. This was an attorney’s office, after all. She was positive he hadn’t arrived at the office yet. That would have been completely out of character.
She hung her sweater on a coat hanger and stowed it in the closet, turned on her computer, and opened the window that faced onto Pease’s Point Way. The office seemed stuffier than usual.
The morning breeze wafted the smell of the sea and the scent of roses into her office and Martha Jo set to work happily. She could always get a lot done before Mr. Fox arrived and the telephone started to ring.
After she’d finished typing both letters, addressed the envelopes, stuck on stamps, and tucked the letters under the envelope flaps for Mr. Fox’s signature, she looked at her watch. After ten o’ock. She pursed her lips in mild disapproval. A client was scheduled for ten. Fortunately, he—Martha Jo looked at her calendar and corrected herself—
she
hadn’t shown up yet. Martha Jo carried the letters to Mr. Fox’s office, knocked on his door by habit, opened the door, paused for an instant to absorb what she was seeing, and then screamed.
The client, Mrs. Jameson—Calpurnia Jameson—came into the reception area at that moment.
“What is it?” she said. “What’s the matter? What happened?”
Martha Jo stumbled out of Mr. Fox’s office and leaned on the doorframe. Her face was paler than usual.
“Are you all right?” Calpurnia seized Martha Jo’s arm and shook her. “What is it?”
Martha Jo’s eyes rolled up so only the whites showed. She slid down the white-painted doorframe, and collapsed on the floor.
“Oh for God’s sake,” Calpurnia muttered. She went to the water cooler, removed a paper cup from the dispenser, held it under the spigot, and pressed the button. Bubbles gurgled to the top of the water jug. Calpurnia carried the full cup of water back to Martha Jo and splashed a few drops in her ghastly face.
Martha Jo opened her eyes. “Police,” she murmured. “Call the police.”
Calpurnia helped Martha Jo to her feet and handed her the cup of water. She then went to the open door of Al Fox’s office.
“Good Lord! I might have known,” she said, loud enough for Martha Jo to hear, and backed away from the room.
Martha Jo had recovered enough to dial 911. She and Calpurnia waited for the police, Martha Jo behind her desk, Calpurnia in one of the two visitor’s chairs. Both had their arms crossed tightly. Neither spoke.
The Edgartown police arrived within a few minutes and the ambulance and EMTs came shortly after.
The officer in charge, a sturdy black woman whose name tag read BARBARA DEMPSEY, came out of Al Fox’s office and turned to Ed Prada, who was on duty that morning. “We need the hearse. Call Toby. And call the state police. Better use your cell phone.”
“Yes, ma’m,” said Ed.
Al Fox’s body was lying on its back on his mocha-cream leather couch. The cross-stitched Shakespearean quote in its
heavy silver frame was lying on the floor, the glass smashed, the frame bent. Only part of the saying was visible, the part that read, “ … kill all the lawyers.”
Al Fox’s head was bare, shiny except where it was cut. The resulting flow of blood had bypassed most of his scalp and run down onto the soft leather of the couch. What had not soaked in had congealed in a sticky-looking puddle.
His face was partially covered by his hairpiece and it became apparent, even before anyone touched the body, that the hairpiece had been stuffed into Al Fox’s mouth.
The state police declared the law office a crime scene and ushered Martha Jo and Calpurnia out of the building and into the fresh June morning, where they seated themselves on a park bench in the grassy triangle out front.
“We’ll need to ask you a few questions, Martha Jo,” the state trooper said. “I guess, Mrs. Jameson, we’ll need to talk to you, too.”
Calpurnia nodded. “Of course.”
Martha Jo said, “Do you suppose I could go back upstairs and get my sweater? I feel a little chilly.”
“I’ll get it for you, ma’m,” the trooper said. “Wait right here, if you don’t mind.”
While they waited for him to return with Martha Jo’s sweater, Calpurnia muttered, “Wonder what the obituary will say this time.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Martha Jo, her arms wrapped tightly around her sturdy body.
“Nothing,” said Calpurnia.
 
Before Victoria got the call from Casey reporting Al Fox’s apparent murder, she heard from Colley, who sounded almost self-satisfied.
“You said you know who’s writing those goddamned obits, Victoria. He’s done it again. I’ve got another goddamned one. Obituary number five. Get here right away, will you?”
Victoria hung up and was about to call Casey to ask for a ride into Edgartown when the phone rang and it was Casey, telling her about Al Fox.
Victoria explained about the latest obituary.
“I’ll be right there,” Casey said.
Five minutes later, they were on their way to Edgartown, siren wailing. Victoria pulled down the visor so she could see in the mirror how her blue baseball cap looked; when she was satisfied, she moved the visor back up and settled into her seat.
“Five obituaries,” said Casey. “There were only two deaths. Three, now. Not five.”
“The first was Colley’s tie getting caught in the press,” said Victoria, counting on her knobby fingers. “Hardly a death, but that was the start of the obituaries. The first had him hanged. The second was Ambler Fieldstone’s boating death, and the obituary had Colley attacked by a shark. Candy’s death accounted for two obituaries.” Victoria stopped talking while Casey passed a slow-moving tractor. Then she continued. “The obituary for her nonfatal shooting said Colley had shot himself. Candy’s divinity fudge death was the fourth and the obituary said he’d been poisoned by hospital food.”
“Wonder what the killer has come up with this time.”
“The killer can’t possible be the obituary writer,” Victoria insisted.
“He has to be pretty close to the murder for Colley to get the obit this soon. I heard about Al Fox’s murder less than,” Casey looked at her watch, “less than fifteen minutes ago.”
Traffic was light, but the few cars they overtook had pulled off to the side at the sound of the siren. They were in Edgartown by the time Casey pulled her jacket cuff back over her wristwatch. She slowed at the school zone and turned right at the jail, which had the most beautiful roses on Main Street, tended by inmates.
“I’ll drop you off at the paper, then I’m going over to Al Fox’s. Don’t do anything rash, you hear?” When Casey saw Victoria’s expression she added, “They won’t let you anywhere near the
crime scene. You’d have to wait in the Bronco. You might just as well talk to Colley.”
Once inside the building, Victoria nodded to Faith, went through the back door, and climbed the stairs that led to the editorial offices. Only a couple of reporters were at their computers.
Victoria stopped at the door to the morgue. “Where is everyone? It’s awfully quiet.”
Charity looked up from the files she was sorting. “They’re covering Mr. Fox’s murder. But Mr. Jameson is waiting for you in his office.”
Victoria continued down the aisle between the reporters’ desks and stepped into Colley’s office.
“What took you so long?” he grumbled. “This guy,” he slapped a paper in front of him, “This guy got the obit to me before Fox’s body was discovered. He’s the killer. And you say you know who he is.”
Victoria shifted the chair at right angles to the window and sat down. “I know who wrote the obituaries. He has a serious something against you, and I need to hear from you what that is.”
Colley toyed with his beach stone paperweight. “I suppose it’s time I went to the police. Save myself some money.” He glanced up at Victoria without lifting his head. “You and your so-called assistant are costing me as much as my ex-wives.”
“That’s your problem, not mine.” Victoria settled into her chair. “As you know, I urged you, right from the beginning, to go to the police. However, I’ve changed my mind. It’s not a police matter after all. It’s the writer’s idea of a joke. What you thought from the beginning.” She held out her gnarled hand. “Let’s see what he’s said this time.”
Colley slid an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch sheet folded in thirds across his desk. Victoria picked it up and unfolded it. The message this time was in calligraphy, elegant thick and thin lines and swirls of India ink artistically centered on the page with a border of hand-colored daffodils.
Victoria examined the border and looked up at Colley. “Narcissus,”
she said. Before she read the message, she turned the letter over, examined the back, then held it up to the light. “You know what kind of paper this is, don’t you?”
“Twenty-four-pound white bond,” said Colley. “High rag content. I suppose you think you’ve found a clue.”
“The writer is out-and-out telling you who he is.”
Colley folded his arms over his chest and gazed out of his window.
“This is different from the others,” Victoria said. “When did it arrive?”
Colley continued to stare out of the window. “In this morning’s mail.”
“Was there a postmark?”
“Buzzards Bay.”
“That’s where all our letters go if we forget to put them in the ‘Island only’ mailboxes.”
“For God’s sake, Victoria. Everyone knows that.”
Victoria continued. “From Edgartown, letters go to the steamship dock in Vineyard Haven. From Vineyard Haven they go by ferry to the mainland, where a truck carries them to Buzzards Bay to get postmarked.”
Colley sighed.
Victoria continued. “Once they get stamped with ‘Buzzards Bay’ another truck carries them back to the ferry, the mail returns to the Island, and a mail carrier takes them right back to the same post office in Edgartown—the only post office in Edgartown—where they were mailed in the first place and where the recipient has a post office box.”
“Thanks for telling me, Victoria. I’ve only lived on this Island for five years.”
“In other words,” Victoria tapped the letter with a knobby finger, “this was mailed at least two days ago.”
“Okay, then. Before Al Fox was killed. Which proves conclusively that the killer and obit writer are one and the same.”
Victoria read from the letter, which was centered like a formal
wedding announcement. “Viewing hours for the late Colley Jameson, editor and publisher of the
Island Enquirer
, who drowned in Uncle Seth’s Pond, are from ten o’lock AM until two o’clock PM …”
“You don’t need to read it out loud,” said Colley.
“ … and from seven o‘clock PM until nine o’clock PM at the Rose Haven Funeral Parlor on Friday and Saturday.”
Colley sighed again.
Victoria continued. “In lieu of gifts to charity, viewers may bring a daffodil bulb to plant at the edge of the pond as a memorial.” Victoria laughed and handed the letter back to Colley.
Colley thumped the beach stone on his papers. “It’s not the least bit funny. It’s not clever. It’s stupid.”
“You do know the myth about Echo and Narcissus?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No matter,” said Victoria. “Tell me about your wives.”
Colley sat up straight. “Where did that come from? What do my wives have to do with anything?”
“From what I understand, your first wife was your college sweetheart. Where is she now?”
“You’re wasting my time, Victoria.”
“Bear with me.”
Colley fiddled with the stone. “She married a petroleum geologist six or seven years ago. She and her husband live in Bartlesville, Oklahoma.”
“Do they ever come to the Island?”
Colley shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“You’re not paying her alimony, are you? Or child support?”
“Where’s this leading? Of course, I’m not paying her alimony or child support. We didn’t have children.”
“Candy Keene was your second wife, right?”
Colley nodded. “Silly woman.”
“I assume you’re no longer making payments. To an heir? Child support?”
Colley turned his back to the desk.
“Are you?”
“Certainly not.”
“What about your third and fourth wives? I know Calpurnia is your fifth. I don’t know anything about the other two.”
“My fourth ex lives in Majorca on a handsome monthly stipend Al Fox extorted from me, and that he delivers to her. In person.”

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