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Summary
Summary
In this fifth book in the Victoria Trumbull series, the ninety-two-year-old sleuth finds herself embroiled in a series of murders after she is fired from her job as West Tisbury correspondent for "The Island Enquirer "(the editor claims the newspaper needs a younger look).
Victoria, determined to show that age is no barrier to news papering, immediately throws her weight behind "The Grackle," intent on turning the two-page West Tisbury newsletter into a formidable competitor of the" Enquirer." And it looks as though she will.
In the meantime, the "Enquirer's" narcissistic editor has been receiving a series of obituaries, each naming him as the deceased. He would dismiss them as a sick joke, but the obituaries follow the actual deaths of people close to him. Rather than going to the police, he grudgingly rehires Victoria to uncover the identity of the obituary writer. Victoria knows almost everybody on the Island, and she may be the only person who can solve the mystery before the editor needs a genuine obituary of his own.
In "The Paperwhite Narcissu"s, as in the four previous books in the series, Cynthia Riggs explores the rich and varied setting of Martha's Vineyard in a way that only a native Islander can. The story glides from Wasque, the desolate southeast corner of Chappaquiddick, to the Coast Guard boat ramp in Menemsha; from the elegantly maintained Captains' houses in Edgartown to the wild Atlantic Ocean beach at Quansoo.
A delightfully cozy read, steeped in rich characters and a sense of place, this latest Victoria Trumbull mystery is sure to charm long-time fans and first-time readers.
Author Notes
Cynthia Riggs , a thirteenth-generation Islander, lives on Martha's Vineyard in her family homestead, which she runs as a bed-and-breakfast catering to poets and writers. She has a degree in geology from Antioch College and an MFA in creative writing from Vermont College, and she holds a U.S. Coast Guard Masters License (100-ton).
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
When Colley Jameson, the harried, hard-drinking editor of the Island Enquirer, refuses to reinstate Victoria Trumbull's weekly column, even after the 92-year-old sheriff's deputy saves his life when his tie gets stuck in a printing press, Victoria offers her services elsewhere in Riggs's delightful fifth Martha's Vineyard mystery (after 2004's Jack in the Pulpit). William Botts, editor of the West Tisbury Grackle, a one-page news sheet that sells for a dime, is happy to take on Victoria as an unpaid reporter, especially after she scoops the Enquirer with a story about two halves of a body found at widely separated locations. The deceased turns out to be an unloved developer, and the plot soon thickens with a fatal poisoning, threatening letters, disgruntled ex-wives and a third murder. By this point in the series, Riggs has achieved an easy style and comfortable pace that perfectly suit her heroine. Vineyard watchers may miss the focus on environmental concerns of earlier books, but they'll be relieved to find that the Enquirer and Grackle bear no resemblance to the two actual Martha's Vineyard newspapers. Agent, Nancy Love. (May 9) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Fans of Riggs' Martha's Vineyard mysteries already love the series' ninetysomething protagonist, Victoria Trumbull. This fifth adventure will only strengthen that bond. The delightful Victoria is at her best here, confronting Colley Jameson, the obnoxious editor of the Island Enquirer0 , who has threatened to replace her West Tisbury news column with a younger person's outlook. Then, when Colley begins receiving odd obituaries about himself that coincide with murders occurring in the area, he reluctantly hires Victoria to investigate. As Victoria tries to figure out who is responsible for three murders and the threats against Colley, numerous suspects appear, including bitter ex-wives and one greedy ex-husband. In addition to the usual colorful supporting cast of West Tisbury eccentrics, Riggs introduces an utterly charming new character, the grumbly William Botts. Founder and editor of the one-page Island Grackle0 , Botts leads a simple life--until Victoria begins writing for him and causes his subscriber numbers to skyrocket. As usual, Riggs paints a thoroughly compelling picture of island life. Like Victoria, this series gets more charming with age. --Jenny McLarin Copyright 2005 Booklist
Kirkus Review
Ninety-two-year-old Veronica Trumbull (Jack in the Pulpit, 2004, etc.) ignites a publishing war on Martha's Vineyard that almost breaks the library's copy machine. Oh, yes. She also solves several murders. When she's finished attending to her duties as a sheriff's deputy, Veronica writes the West Tisbury social column for the Island Enquirer.But when publisher Colley Jameson fires her after 50 years of service, Veronica takes her skills to William Botts's rival publication, the West Tisbury Grackle, a broadsheet he reproduces on the library photocopier. Then the mail brings Jameson a clever obituary describing his own premature death, and the dead body of controversial developer J. Ambler Fieldstone, whom Jameson's editorials supported, turns up on the beach in two pieces. Charging exorbitant rates, Veronica deigns to help Jameson investigate the threatening obituary while feeding Botts inside information about Fieldstone's death--journalistic tidbits that drive the Grackle's circulation beyond the copier's capacity. The modest Botts cringes at his success and Jameson rages. The arrival of another obituary convinces Veronica that Fieldstone's death was no boating accident: numerous people hated him, beginning with his wife and Jameson's wife, with whom he was having an affair. The obituaries and dead bodies keep piling up, but Veronica is equal to it all. Fans may enjoy the geriatric gyrations. Others will dream of vacations in places less insular. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
After a much-disliked property developer is murdered, 92-year-old sheriff's deputy Victoria Turnbull (Jack in the Box) gets the case. With her ageless spirit and encyclopedic knowledge of the Vineyard, she soon narrows the field of suspects. For all collections. Riggs, a 13th-generation Islander, lives in West Tisbury, MA. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Paperwhite Narcissus CHAPTER 1 The breeze blew off Nantucket Sound, past the lighthouse that guarded the entrance to the harbor, past the freshly painted captains' houses lining North Water Street, past white picket fences laden with yellow, pink, and white roses. The breeze whispered through the screened front windows of the Island Enquirer, carrying the scent of honeysuckle, roses, and the sea. Ordinarily, Victoria Trumbull wallowed in the newness, richness, and sensuousness of a June day like this. But not today. She didn't hear the tidy sounds of hedge clippers and lawn mowers. A boy painting the trim around the newspaper's windows called out, "Hey, Mrs. Trumbull," and she paid no attention. The boy shrugged, and dipped his paintbrush into his pail again. Victoria opened the gate in the picket fence, strode up the walk, heedless of the way her lilac-wood stick jabbed the bright green moss that bordered the uneven bricks, marched through the open front door, and stopped at the reception desk. Faith Norton, the receptionist, greeted her with a broad smile. "Good morning, Mrs. Trumbull. Nice day." "Where is he?" said Victoria. "Mr. Jameson? I think he's back by the press. Want me to call him?" "That won't be necessary." Victoria pushed her way through the inside door that opened into a room with a dozen desks. She ignored the greetings of several people who looked up from their computer screens as she passed and continued through a second inner door that led to the far back room. There, the hugeold press was churning out a steady stream of this week's edition of the Island Enquirer. A short man with too-dark hair spun around as Victoria pushed the door shut behind her. "What are you doing here, Victoria?" he shouted over the noise of the press. He was wearing a white shirt with broad blue stripes, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a tie that Victoria recognized as his prep school tie, loosened at his throat. "I need to talk to you, Colley Jameson," Victoria shouted back. "Hell of a time." The editor gestured at the press, which was spitting out pages of the real-estate section. "Call and make an appointment." He spun back to the press, his jowls quivering, his tie flying out in an arc. Victoria got as far as shouting "Appoint--!" when the press snatched up the end of Colley's tie along with the ads it was printing. Colley tried to free his tie from the jaws of the press, but the press ran on and his tie tightened around his neck. In that instant, Victoria threw down her walking stick, flung herself at the giant red button on the side of the press, and slammed it with her gnarled hand. The press stopped with a shudder. Except for Victoria's heavy breathing and Colley's muffled oaths, the pressroom was deathly quiet. "Well?" Colley mumbled, his mouth pressed into the photo of a water-view trophy home. "Do you want me to cut your tie? I'll have to find scissors." "Jee-sus Christ," Colley mumbled. "Do something!" Victoria found a pair of long editorial shears in the composing room next door and returned. "Careful!" Colley mumbled as she snipped close to his nose. Reporters, photographers, rewrite people, the ad sales team, the keeper of the morgue, the receptionist, swarmed into the room, drawn by the silence of the press. Once freed, Colley glared at the crowd that had gatheredaround him. "What the hell are you gaping at! Get back to work, all of you." There were a few snickers and Colley's face flushed a dark, unhealthy red. Someone said, in a stage whisper, "What's black and white and read all over ... ?" "Get out!" Colley loosened what was left of his tie and pulled it off over his head. Everybody but Victoria had gone. She handed the cutoff tie ends to Colley, who put them in his shirt pocket. "It would be polite to say thank you," she said. "The hell I will," said Colley. "If you hadn't distracted me ..." Victoria pointed a knobby finger at the sign on the wall that stated, in ultra-large letters, NO TIES OR LOOSE CLOTHING AROUND THE PRESS. Colley took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his hands. "You'd better wash your face, too, before the ink sets," Victoria said. "I'll be in your office." Colley's office was on the second floor of the old building, separated from the reporters' desks by a waist-high partition topped by a clear glass window. As Victoria walked down the aisle between desks, she was met with grins and thumbs up and a salute. A few minutes later, a freshly scrubbed Colley, his striped shirt open at the neck, walked between the desks. On either side, reporters' fingers flew over keyboards. The editor shut the door, glared at Victoria, who was waiting in his visitor's chair, and sat at his desk. Victoria, facing the bright June sunlight that streamed through the window behind him, couldn't see his expression. Her back was straight. She held both hands on her stick. Her beaky nose was high, her eyes were hooded. Her wrinkles were set in an expression of disapproval. Colley opened the bottom drawer of his desk, brought out anornate silver flask, unscrewed the top, and took a deep swallow. He tightened the cap and put the flask back in his drawer. He wiped his mouth with a blue-bordered handkerchief that had matched his tie, refolded it neatly, and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. Victoria said nothing. Colley swiveled his chair left and right, left and right. "You have to keep up with the times, Victoria. The Enquirer needs a new look. More youth appeal." "That's why you fired me?" "I didn't fire you. I suggested that you retire. There's a difference." Colley fiddled with a beach stone holding down a stack of papers on his otherwise tidy desk. "You've been writing that West Tisbury social column for, what, fifty years now?" "News column, not social column. I've been writing the West Tisbury news column since the year you were born." "Forty-nine, then. It's about time you retired. Give younger writers a break." "Bah," said Victoria. The sunlight coming from behind Colley was making her eyes water and she dabbed at them. Colley looked down and toyed with the beach stone paperweight. "You know, don't you Colley, there are laws that protect workers against age discrimination." "You don't need protection, for God's sake," Colley snapped. "You are ninety-two, after all." "Exactly my point." Victoria withdrew a crumpled letter from her cloth bag. "Do you plan to defend this in court?" She tapped the edge of the letter on Colley's desk. Colley sighed. "Can you afford to lose another discrimination suit?" Colley swiveled his chair and looked out of the window at the street below. Victoria waited. Finally he turned back to his desk. "Stop tapping that damned letter, will you?" There was a knock on the door and Faith, the receptionist, entered with the mail. She glanced at Victoria, then stepped behind Colley's desk. "Didn't you notice, Mr. Jameson? The light is right in Mrs. Trumbull's eyes." She lowered the shade. Victoria said, "Thank you," and Faith dropped the mail on Colley's desk and left. Colley picked up the top envelope and slit it open with a silver-handled letter opener. Victoria was still in the same position, her expression unchanged, when he finally looked up. He pushed the remainder of his unopened mail to one side. "What the hell do you expect me to do, Victoria?" Before she could answer, he went on. "I get nothing but crap from everybody." He flicked his hand at the mail on his desk. "Letters from every damned environmentalist on this Island. All riled up because I support the golf course. The affordable housing types are furious because I accept upscale real-estate ads. Open space people are angry because I back the idea of a mini-mall. Do any of these do-gooders buy ads? Hah!" Colley stood up, raised the blinds again, and glared out of the window. Victoria started to say something, but Colley went on. "They don't believe me when I say that I'm as much of an environmentalist as the best of them." He tapped his chest. "I'm the one defending the piping plovers. By sticking up for the damned birds, now I've outraged all the fishermen." "Only the surf casters," Victoria said. "But ..." "The damn fishermen run their buggies all over the dunes. I write one editorial supporting the birds and look at the mail I get. Shall I go on?" He sat again. "You asked me ..." Victoria started. Colley continued. "Readers cancel subscriptions because I accept too many ads. Advertisers cancel because they don't like my editorials. I get sued for harassment, sex discrimination, andnow age discrimination. How does anyone expect me to pay the bills?" He grunted. "I've got four ex-wives to support, for God's sake." He jabbed his finger at his chest. "I have to have armor-plated skin to publish this goddamned newspaper." "I see I'm wasting my time." Victoria tucked the crumpled letter back in her cloth bag, stood, and headed for the door. As she opened the door, Colley said, "You never told me what you expect of me." Victoria turned. "You're right. I didn't." THE PAPERWHITE NARCISSUS. Copyright (c) 2005 by Cynthia Riggs. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010. Excerpted from The Paperwhite Narcissus by Cynthia Riggs All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.