The Paperwhite Narcissus Read online

  There was a slight hesitation before Audrey said, “Where do you want to meet?”

  The rain continued off and on for several days and finally stopped. The ground was still soggy. It was the Thursday following Fieldstone’s funeral. Victoria was again sitting in the overstuffed chair in the Grackle loft when the scanner cut in. The communications center reported that a woman had been found shot near the Tiasquam Brook in West Tisbury. Botts turned up the volume. The police and ambulance were responding. No word on the woman’s condition or name.

  Victoria levered herself out of the chair. “May I use your phone?”

  Botts pushed it toward her.

  When Victoria finished speaking she handed the phone back to Botts, tugged her blue cap out of her bag, and settled it on her head at a rakish angle. “Casey will pick me up here in a couple of minutes.”

  “Looks as though I may have to give you a raise,” Botts said.

  “You want to guess who the victim is?” Casey asked Victoria, who had settled into her seat in the Bronco.

  “Who?”

  “Candy Keene. She’s still alive, or was when the call came in.”

  “Colley’s ex-wife,” Victoria added.

  “The ecdysiast.” Casey avoided a large puddle and turned out of Botts’s drive.

  “Who found her?”

  “A couple of guys, father and son. The ones who target-shoot every Thursday afternoon in the field next to the brook.”

  “Did one of them shoot her by accident?”

  “I don’t think anyone knows at this point. Miss Keene filed a complaint against them a couple of weeks ago. Ironic if one of them shot her.”

  By the time they reached the field that adjoined Candy Keene’s house, the ambulance had arrived. Casey parked behind Doc Jeffers, who was getting off his Harley. He held up a gloved hand in greeting. “Busy week,” he said. He was wearing his black leather cape with a silver-and-blue caduceus embroidered on the back, two snakes twined around a winged staff, and heavy leather boots festooned with steel chains. He lifted his black bag out of the carrier on the back of his motorcycle and clanked off in the direction of the group that had gathered in the hayfield.

  Casey raised the collar of her jacket against the raw wind. “You might as well wait here, where it’s warm, Victoria. I’ll find out what’s going on and be right back.”

  Victoria had tied a scarf printed with wisteria blossoms over her cap. She reached for her stick and opened the door without answering.

  The father and his son were standing at the edge of the field near the thicket that edged the brook. The father was wearing a red-and-black plaid wool jacket, the son was wearing a purple-and-white Vineyarders T-shirt. The son was about thirteen, a tall skinny redhead with freckles that stood out on his pale face. His father held two rifles in one hand; his other hand was on his son’s shoulder. The older man was a taller, bulkier version of the boy.

  Victoria, bundled up like a peasant woman in babushka, trenchcoat, and rubber gardening boots, followed Casey, who identified herself to the father.

  Three EMTs were bending over the figure on the ground near the shrubbery. They had strapped the victim onto a stretcher. While Victoria watched, they carried her to the ambulance and transferred her into the back. The ambulance started up, the siren cut in, and the flashing red lights disappeared down State Road in the direction of the hospital.

  Victoria turned back to the man and boy.

  “I’m Sean Michaels,” the father said. “And this is my son Sean.”

  Young Sean was shivering. “I didn’t know she was there,” he said. “I didn’t see her at all.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Casey said gently. “I know you’ve got permission from the owner to shoot here.”

  The father shifted uncomfortably. “Thursday is my day off. We wanted to get in one last practice shoot before my cousin Wilfred moves his hay.” He pointed to a stack of about a dozen hay bales with a bedraggled paper bulls-eye. “We set up those bales last fall.”

  Casey took notes.

  “Are you the one who found the woman?” Victoria asked the boy.

  “Yes’m.”

  His father explained, “We’d finished for the day. I was wiping the guns. Me and the boy planned to clean them once we got home, you know?”

  Casey nodded.

  “I was about to take the guns to my truck, clean up the place. But never did. Sean walked down to the brook to see if there was any watercress. That’s when he found her. Just this side of the bushes.”

  Young Sean said, “She’ll be okay, won’t she?”

  “The EMTs say she’s still alive,” Casey said.

  “I didn’t mean to shoot her,” young Sean said.

  His father tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder. “We weren’t shooting in that direction, son.”

  “Where were you standing?” Casey asked.

  The father paced about a hundred yards away from the hay bales, parallel to the brook, to a stamped-down area. “We always stand here so we don’t crush too much hay. We keep our backs to the road and shoot at the target. There’s no house in that direction.”

  “And the woman, where was she?”

  The father pointed toward the brook. “Right about there, at right angles to the line of fire.”

  “Well away from it, looks like,” said Casey.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the father.

  “Did you hear her call? Or cry out?” Victoria asked the boy.

  Young Sean shook his head. “No, ma’am. She was just lying there, like.”

  “Who called the police?” Victoria asked.

  “My dad, on his cell phone. He called nine-one-one. I covered the lady with my jacket.” He looked at Casey, his face troubled. “Do you think I can get my jacket back?”

  “I’ll make sure you do,” said Casey.

  As Victoria walked, her boots left prints that filled in with water in the soft ground. Above them, scud raced below the higher clouds.

  “Let’s go to the station house to finish up,” Casey said. “You can get hypothermia even in June when you’ve given up your jacket and you’re worried.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the father said.

  “I’ll meet you at the police station. I’ve got to call the state police before we leave. They’ll need to check the scene.”

  “I didn’t mean to shoot anybody,” the boy said again to his father.

  Sean held the boy close to him. “I think you may have saved her.”

  On the way to the police station, Casey said, “You know, Victoria, I don’t see how the kid could have shot her. He’d have to have done it deliberately and with his father watching.”

  “Unless he was careless and pointed his gun in that direction and accidentally pulled the trigger.”

  “Not likely,” said Casey. “Big Sean was teaching the kid how to shoot properly. I checked him out before I gave my okay. The poor kid. We’ll know more after the state police check the ballistics.”

  They passed Alley’s and Casey turned right down Brandy Brow. Victoria removed her scarf, shook it out, and folded it neatly.

  “I’ll take you home, Victoria. It’s been a full day.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Victoria and Elizabeth were eating breakfast the next morning when Casey stopped by. “I’ve been to the hospital,” she said. “Candy Keene is still alive. The bullet didn’t come from either the boy’s gun or his father’s.”

  “Is the boy all right?” Victoria asked. “Would you like a blueberry muffin?”

  “No, thanks. I’d love some coffee, though.”

  Elizabeth went into the kitchen and Casey sat at the cookroom table. “The kid is relieved, but still worried about the woman. I took his jacket to him.”

  “I suppose we won’t know what she was doing in the field until she can tell us,” Victoria said.

  Elizabeth set a mug of coffee in front of the chief. “Cream and two sugars, right?”

  “Thanks. I ou
ght to cut back on the sugar.”

  “Are the state police still there?” Elizabeth asked.

  “They’ve cordoned off the hayfield and are searching for evidence. They’ve called the shooting attempted murder.” Casey finished her coffee. “I’ve gotta go, but I thought you’d want to know about the bullet.”

  “And the boy,” said Victoria.

  “Why would anyone shoot her?” Elizabeth asked, when Casey had gone. “I mean, nobody I know really liked Candy Keene, especially after she tore down that beautiful old house. But that’s no reason to shoot her.”

  “Someone must have known that the boy and his father practice there on Thursdays and decided their shots would cover the sound of his.”

  “Everybody in West Tisbury knew they practiced shooting then.” Elizabeth passed the plate of sausages to her grandmother. “Another muffin, Gram?”

  “Please.”

  Elizabeth helped herself to another sausage. “You knew Ambler Fieldstone kept his boat in the Oak Bluffs Harbor, didn’t you?”

  Victoria shook her head.

  “An expensive sportfishing boat,” Elizabeth said. “When he took it out that last time, he told the dock stewards he’d be gone a couple of days. The harbormaster wasn’t concerned when he didn’t return.”

  “I need to talk to Domingo,” said Victoria. “Was he on duty that day?”

  “It was his day off. Just two dock stewards and me. Fieldstone had two young women with him when he went out.”

  “Really? Who were they?”

  “I’d never seen them before. From the way they were acting, they hadn’t been around boats much.”

  “Has anyone seen them since?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Not that I’ve heard.”

  Victoria started to butter the muffin, but set her knife down. “How old were they?”

  “Mid-teens,” Elizabeth answered.

  “What did they look like?”

  “Pretty. One dark-haired, one blond.”

  “I met two girls on the bus the other day who fit that description. They applied for jobs at the Enquirer.” Victoria picked up the muffin again and put it on the side of her plate. “Fieldstone wasn’t known as a rake, was he?”

  “‘Rake?’ That’s quaint, Gram. I don’t think he was hitting on them.”

  “And no one has reported them missing?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What could have happened to them?” Victoria picked up the muffin again, but still didn’t eat. “Two girls on an older man’s boat go for an outing. His body washes up on the beach several days later. Where were the girls when he was killed? Could Fieldstone run his boat by himself?”

  “Easily.”

  “We’ve got to locate those two.” Victoria picked up the muffin again. “Here you’ve made a nice breakfast and we’re discussing …”

  “Murder,” said Elizabeth. “You think Fieldstone was murdered, don’t you?”

  Victoria nodded and bit into her muffin.

  Victoria walked to the police station after lunch. “Murder and attempted murder. We’ve got to find those girls. And why did Candy Keene go to meet her killer?”

  “We can’t do anything, Victoria. The boating death is in the hands of the Coast Guard. The shooting belongs to the state police and Candy Keene’s not dead. Colley’s got to take his obits to the Edgartown police. Not to me.”

  Victoria started to protest.

  Casey held up her hand. “It’s frustrating, Victoria, but that’s the way this Island’s law enforcement is.”

  Victoria’s face set. Casey sighed. “Do what you want, but you can’t do it officially.” She stood up. “I’ve got a meeting in Chilmark. Call if you need me.” She held up her cell phone.

  Victoria, too, got to her feet. “On your way, drop me off at the Grackle office, if you will, please.”

  Botts was at his desk working the keys of his old Underwood with two fingers when Victoria reached the loft.

  Victoria studied him thoughtfully. “How many people on this Island still use typewriters?”

  “A half-dozen. You, me, and a few others.”

  “Where do you get your typewriter repaired?”

  “I don’t,” said Botts. “It never breaks down.”

  “What about ribbons?”

  “I order them on the Internet.”

  Victoria sat. “Casey’s fallen prey to bureaucracy,” she said. “Therefore, it’s up to us to investigate.”

  “What’s this ‘us’ business?”

  “You’re publishing a newspaper, aren’t you?”

  Botts took off his glasses. “I want to publish a one-page broadsheet in my retirement. Not a newspaper. What are we investigating now, the death of Fieldstone?”

  “What do you think?”

  He put his glasses down beside his typewriter. “Where do you intend to start?”

  “At the Oak Bluffs Harbor. With the two girls Fieldstone took out on his boat. What are you writing?” Victoria stepped over to his desk and looked over his shoulder. She read a few lines. “A romance? A bodice ripper?” She laughed.

  “Pays the bills,” said Botts.

  “What name do you go by?”

  Botts pulled the sheet of paper out of his typewriter. “Tara Waterstreet.”

  “I’ll look for her in the library.”

  “You won’t find her,” said Botts. “Let’s go.”

  Once down the rickety stairs, Victoria hoisted herself into the passenger seat of Botts’s pickup truck and they headed for Oak Bluffs. On either side of the road new bright green beech leaves sparkled among the new pink oak leaves and dark pines.

  In Vineyard Haven, storekeepers were painting the fronts of stores, cleaning windows, and arranging fresh displays. Window boxes were bright with geraniums, petunias, and ageratum. When they reached the shipyard they waited while two shipyard workers, a man and a woman, wheeled a boat on a trailer across the road. Everywhere there were signs of people getting ready for summer.

  The drawbridge that spanned the cut into Lagoon Pond was open. Botts waited while a sailboat motored out of the pond into Vineyard Haven Harbor. He passed the entrance to the hospital and parked at the head of the Oak Bluffs Harbor. In another week, he would not be able to find a parking place. He set a milk crate on the ground for Victoria to use as a step and held his arm out for her.

  They walked along the boardwalk that skirted the harbor to the harbormaster’s shack, a small building that perched over the water on stilts. When they squeezed through the narrow door, Chuck looked up from the computer.

  From the window that faced the harbor entrance, Victoria could see an osprey sitting on its nest. The nest was built on top of a telephone pole, and was a collection of sticks and fish bones that grew larger and more untidy every year.

  A few minutes after they arrived, the harbormaster, Domingo, joined them. He was a short dark man with large dark eyes. Victoria introduced Botts and explained what she wanted. Domingo wet his thumb and shuffled through a sheaf of papers in a clear plastic box nailed to the wall, took one out, put on the glasses suspended from a cord around his neck, and studied the paper.

  “Your granddaughter was on duty that afternoon. I was off Island. Chuck was here.”

  Chuck looked up. “Yessir. Curtis and me.”

  The harbormaster went to the door of the shack, put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled. A short, dark-haired high school boy appeared on the catwalk that led to the shack, hiking up his unbelted trousers.

  “Both of you were here when Fieldstone took off, weren’t you?”

  “Yessir,” said Curtis.

  “Tell Mrs. Trumbull whatever she wants to know. She’s doing some police work.”

  “Yeah?” Curtis’s eyes were bright.

  “Both of us handled his lines,” Chuck said.

  “Why did he need two of you?” Botts asked.

  Chuck flushed. “It was pretty quiet. Mr. Fieldstone took a couple girls on board who didn�
�t have experience.”

  Botts took his notebook out of his shirt pocket and his pencil from behind his ear.

  “Do you know anything about the girls?” Victoria asked. “How old were they?”

  Curtis said, “They’re juniors at Hyannis Academy.”

  “Seniors next year,” said Chuck.

  “You didn’t happen to get their names, did you?” Victoria asked with a smile.

  The two looked at each other uncertainly.

  “Answer Mrs. Trumbull’s question.” The harbormaster turned to Victoria. “Harbor staff are not permitted to fraternize with boaters.”

  “Yeah,” said Curtis reluctantly. “Tiffany and Wendy.”

  “Phone numbers,” the harbormaster demanded.

  “Did you get their phone numbers?” Victoria asked.

  “Well, yeah. We did,” Curtis said. “We thought we might, like, go off Island for a game or something, you know.” He brought a green Gore-Tex wallet out of his back pocket, opened it with the ripping sound of Velcro separating, riffled through dog-eared cards, and found a harbor receipt with the two names written illegibly across the front.

  “Let me see that,” said the harbormaster.

  “But you said …” Curtis protested.

  “Fraternizing I can overlook. Numbered harbor receipts I’ve got to account for.”

  “Do you have a receipt for Mr. Fieldstone?” Victoria asked.

  The harbormaster jerked his head toward Chuck. “Look it up for Mrs. Trumbull.” He held out his hand. “And give me that receipt you wrote all over.”

  Chuck leafed through the card file.

  “Let’s get back to the girls,” Victoria said. “Were they friends or relatives of Mr. Fieldstone’s?”

  “They missed the ferry to Hyannis,” said Curtis. “I seen them running up to the dock, but the ferry already cast off.”

  Chuck turned away from the card file. “They came to the shack. Asked could we help them.”

  The harbormaster rolled his eyes, stepped outside, leaned against the railing, and lit a cigarette.

  Victoria said, “So you told them Mr. Fieldstone was about to take off to go fishing and suggested he might give them a ride?”