Chapter 40
Father Pinnyhorne stretches out his back and crosses over to Nash and me. “Why, hello.”
The sight of Cookie has so flustered me, I lose my tongue for a second. Nash watches me struggle, but I angle myself away from him. “Father, I hoped to speak with you a moment. Is this a good time?”
“There is never a bad time to enter God’s house.” The father glances from me to Nash, still clutching the Bible.
“Ah, I guess I’ll just go read this.” Nash waves the Bible, then makes his way out.
The priest glances at the confession box. “Are you in need of the sacrament?”
“No. May we?” I file into the closest pew, and he joins me.
We sit side by side, my head reaching just above the height of his shoulder. How heavy is the yoke he pulls? And what toll has being the storehouse for the island’s problems taken on him?
He folds his hands, staring peacefully at the mahogany cross that hangs behind the pulpit. I try to summon some peace as well, but I feel as unsettled as the sea at high wind.
“I know the sheriff spoke to you… about me. Did you vouch for me?”
The priest glances down at me, mustachio swooped low.
“I told him the truth. That I gave you your penance and then went a-visiting. I am sorry, but Jeddah should be able to provide an alibi. I know he hasn’t always been kind to you, but I’ll encourage him to do the right thing.
He listens to me. And I made sure the sheriff knew that it is my belief you are honest and good, and that you could never have killed Mr. Sanders. ”
A lump rises in my throat. “Thank you.”
“Do not worry. God watches his flock.”
“Did Mr. Sanders ever tell you about his friend Harry Tang?”
His lips purse and his eyes tighten. A thousand questions fill the brief moments that follow. Of course he wouldn’t have known my father, but did Mr. Sanders confide in him during his last confession? Perhaps shared his worries with the priest?
“Not in a secular context,” he says at last, “and anything else I cannot reveal. I am sorry.”
“Right.” I take comfort in the fact that at least he will not tell the sheriff about my urge to do violence. “If someone confesses to killing one of God’s creatures, like a seal, then receives a penance, but continues killing seals, can he continually be absolved?”
Father Pinnyhorne blows out a breath. “If he is genuinely remorseful, with a sincere desire not to commit the sin again, there is always room for forgiveness. One must look at what will awaken the consciousness of the individual, and what will serve the greater good.”
“Like the painting of a church?”
“Perhaps.” He buttons his lips, well versed in the art of keeping secrets.
My dining room has been lifted from a crowded chamber of masculine achievement to a thing of elegance, the pastel walls appointed with a selection of Viridian Sanders-Byre’s artwork. Luxurious bouquets of dahlias spill over the mahogany credenzas. Cream curtains frame a startling pink-blue sky.
But beneath the window-boat lamp, a symbol of a dream never fulfilled, I find no comfort.
This might be my last supper at Nowhere. And there may be a Judas among us.
Eva perches on my left, then Nash, his body contoured against the corner of his chair, then Mr. Cosmos, his shock of white hair a little beacon at the end of the table.
On my right sits Sveyn, then Boots. Thanks to Flossie, I am dressed in a gown of blackberry silk, the flying spindle hairstyle pulling tightly at my scalp.
Who has been sharpening their knives? And who stole that letter? I avoid looking at Eva, not wanting her to see my doubt, and focus on Cookie’s perfectly cooked game hen, drizzled with bloodred currant jelly.
If the others suspect I am a murderer, no one lets on. People seem more keen to talk about the sea-wolf “attack,” which Mr. Cosmos describes as “exciting.”
My mind wanders to Koa. Will he, or the priest, be able to get Jeddah to do the right thing? At least then the loss of the letter will not mean the loss of my head.
“After that disaster of a party, and now a sea-wolf attack, it’s safe to say orders will not be pouring in,” says Sveyn in his too-loud voice. If the Brain Trust is planning to dethrone me, now would be the time.
“Please, let us not call it an attack,” I say weakly. “A congregation, perhaps.”
Sveyn’s utensils stab and saw his plate, hurting my ears. “Nevertheless, Boots and I would like to propose a new venture.”
“Tourism.” Boots presents the word as if opening a new box of cigars.
So this is what they’ve been whispering about. “Tourism?” I repeat, the word tasting funny in my mouth.
“Mount Consternation is just sitting there, providing fodder for overactive imaginations,” Sveyn rolls on.
I suddenly remember the holes dug atop Mount Consternation. Had the digger suffered from an overactive imagination?
Sveyn’s good eye challenges me. “With all the rumors about evil spirits, people are curious about Nowhere. Let’s embrace the scare.
You’re already a curiosity yourself, a maid receiving a windfall, and now, with people thinking you have some magic influence over the sea wolves”—he flutters his fingers in the air—“people will be falling over themselves to visit.”
“Or falling over themselves to avoid us.” My toes grip the soles of my shoes. “Mr. Sanders wanted to understand the sea wolves, not antagonize them. And he certainly wouldn’t want people tearing up his island for tourism.” Not to mention capitalizing on the luridness of his own death.
“Actually, I think this tourism idea has potential,” says Eva in a voice more animated than usual.
I turn an astonished gaze to my secretary, who until now has never contradicted me publicly.
Dressed in slate velvet, with her hair swept into a knot, Eva is as elegant as a peregrine falcon perched on a high cliff.
“At the least, it would boost the visibility of our business,” she adds.
Any other day I might take pleasure in her evolving confidence. Tonight it only fills me with dread. “But Mr. Sanders called his estate Nowhere because he liked his privacy.”
“That was only to boost the allure,” says Sveyn. “We all know how much he loved his parties.”
Mr. Cosmos gives me a sympathetic smile. “It’s your estate now. You could rename it Somewhere if you please.”
A round of chuckles sweeps across the table.
Nash, whose gaze I’ve been avoiding, raises his hand to the boat chandelier. “Perhaps it is time for us to build the window-boats. My uncle did always want to understand the sea wolves better.”
Sveyn and Boots noisily voice their interest, though my ears burn at Nash’s use of “us” when his role in our enterprise is over.
Of course, I am the one who invited him in.
He is already set up to take his place as heir, no thanks to me, and with the Brain Trust’s faith in me eroding, maybe even gone completely, Nash will have Sveyn and Boots eating out of his hand soon.
I should’ve kept my secrets to myself, tucked high up in the tree where no one could find them.
At some point a plate of peaches is placed before me, drizzled with a good amount of honey, thanks to Dora…
Cookie assigned Dora honey duty on Monday mornings. She’d have had ample opportunity to go where she wanted. She could’ve slipped back up to the servants’ quarters, stolen into Flossie’s room, and retrieved my missing letter for Nash.
But why was Flossie so quick to absolve Dora of blame? She claimed Dora was in the kitchen making breakfast. Did Flossie misspeak, or was she… covering for Dora? But why?
Conversation slithers around me, none of the words going in. My body buzzes as if a hive has grown inside my stomach and all the bees want out.
I rise, chair screeching. Buddy rushes to help me, but I shake him off. “Please excuse me,” I say, fleeing the room.
The tinny scratching of pots being scoured greets me as I duck into my former workspace, thick with dinner smells. Cookie is absent, and the rest of the staff are in their pots and don’t notice me.
Where is Dora?
The storeroom, most likely. My stomach clenches.
She always goes there when shirking her work.
Continuing through the kitchen, I open the door to an enclosed room, ten paces long, where rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves hold all manner of jars, cans, sacks, and barrels.
In the last row, Dora sits at the inventory desk.
The surface is bare, save for a half-written letter—not Mr. Sanders’s—and a mostly drunk glass of wine.
Drinking on the job? I resist the urge to slap the glass off the table. “You. You stole my letter. Give it back and I may go easy on you. Refuse, and you will be sent home on the first boat out of here tomorrow.”
“I didn’t take your letter. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play with me. You took it from Flossie’s hiding place this morning during your honey duty.” I can’t stand the way her curls spring out of her cap.
“Her loose floorboard, you mean? That used to be my secret hiding spot,” she snaps. “I was just looking for a pin I lost. What did I find? Emerald earbobs. Pretty fine treasures for a lady’s maid.”
My limbs grow heavy. I lent Flossie the pair from Lydia’s jewelry box.
“How did you get into her room?”
“I’m the one who showed her how to pick a door lock.” She grins. “She was pinching your jewelry. And you trusted her so much. Maybe she’s the one you should be sending home.”
My cheeks burn, though I’m not sure what hurts the most: that Flossie stole, or that once again I was so deep in the folds of my own troubles, I gave no thought to her matters. “What did you do with them?”
“I showed Cookie her secret stash. She told me she’d take care of it.”
“And what of the letter?”
“I still don’t know what letter you’re talking about. Sure, she had some papers in there and her stupid diary, but I’m no snoop.”
“Where is Cookie?”
“She left on the afternoon ferry, assuming the sea wolves didn’t gobble it up. Oh, but we have the good Lucy Nowhere to save us, don’t we?”
I ignore that last part, the memory of Cookie leaving the confessional box stepping into my head. She was wearing her straw traveling hat.
“Who made dinner?”
“I did. Why do you think I’m drinking this wine?”
Suddenly feeling off-balance, I lock my knees. The sacks of grain on the lower shelf look like a row of heads with their uneven dimples, some sullen, some laughing, some pitying. Nothing makes sense. Why would Cookie up and leave without telling me? Why was she making a confession?
A sour taste coats my tongue. Dora watches me force breath into my lungs, a wry smile on her face. My gaze falls on her letter, addressed to Bert Wimby, and a memory stirs. He’s old and probably needs me to change his diapers, but maybe he’ll kick the bucket soon.
“You’re not accepting his proposal, are you?”
“Why not? Clearly I am not appreciated here.”
I shake my head. Just minutes ago I was on the verge of sending her away. How things change in a minute. “I wouldn’t send that letter just yet.”