Chapter 42
Mrs. Bonefat is straightening the books in the reception room when I return.
She doesn’t comment on my disheveled appearance, with my flying spindle hairdo likely looking more like tangled fishing line, or my nose swollen from sniffling.
The pain of Koa’s disappointment floods me with sadness.
Perhaps it was inevitable that things would change between us once we came into plumage, so to speak, but I’d hoped we’d always be friends.
Perhaps that, in itself, was the problem.
With a nod toward the housekeeper, I climb the stairs. Buddy has already switched off the lights on the second floor, though the night sconces along the staircase and hallways are always lit.
I am surprised to find Mrs. Bonefat climbing the stairs behind me. “I have no idea what is going on outside the house.” She shudders. “Sea wolves, indeed.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Sh!” She slices up a hand. “But I do like to know what is going on inside my house. And something is troubling me.”
We reach the top of the staircase, and I give her my full attention. There is no one to hear us at this level, except for the books.
“I saw Cookie talking to that lawyer this afternoon. She asked him if women could be hanged.” Her bony chest heaves, from either exertion or disgust.
“What did he say?” I hold my breath, as if once again trapped in a tangle of bull kelp.
“He assured her that the State of Washington has never hanged a woman.”
“That is a comfort,” I gasp, relieved in more than one way. At least Cookie wouldn’t let me swing. “I’m afraid a rumor has started that I killed Mr. Sanders.”
She snorts loudly. “Well, I have an idea who started it. I overheard the priest talking to the sheriff about you.”
My body goes quiet except for the rapid thumping of my heart.
“He told the sheriff you confessed to wanting to”—she glances behind her at the library, which Buddy has already closed for the night, and her voice becomes a whisper—“do something violent.”
The words stab me through the heart. Father Pinnyhorne, in whose talk box I have found some refuge these past few years, threw me to the wolves.
He told me not to worry, that God watches his flock.
But perhaps there is no sanctity when it comes to murder.
Especially the murder of Nowhere’s beloved patron.
At least now I don’t have to fear the priest’s betrayal any longer. Mrs. Bonefat watches me with her osprey-like intensity, the whites of her eyes glowing eerily.
“Do you think I killed Mr. Sanders?”
“Of course not! Why would I be telling you this?” she snaps, tugging sharply at the lapels of her black jacket.
“Truth be told, I have overheard many of your conversations too. If you are a killer, it is a killer of peace and quiet. It is a wonder I have not gone mad with all the hustle and bustle.”
I am about to apologize but remember she won’t hear apologies from me. “With your extensive experience in, er, overhearing, who do you think could’ve done our Mr. Sanders harm?”
“Whoever they are, they do not live in this house.”
Flossie stands before me, shame licking her ears. The emerald earbobs twinkle from their spot on my dresser.
“Who put those there?” I ask.
“I thought you did.”
Did Cookie return them? A parting gift.
“Was the letter with them?”
“No.” She hangs her head. “I have packed my things, miss. I leave tomorrow morning.”
“Just tell me why you took the jewelry.”
She looks at her feet, shoulders caving. “I know I done wrong. But there’s a new crutch for me brother that can help him get round by himself. He’s cheeky as a baby’s bottom but clever, miss. With the crutch, he can earn his own way.”
My heart squeezes, and moisture fills my eyes. “He shall have his crutch. And if I get out of this, I promise we shall bring your brother here to work at Nowhere, maybe as a clerk. Does he like figures?”
“Oh yes, miss. He’s good with figures.” She bursts into tears. “I’m sorry, miss. If they take you away, it will be my fault.”
“Hush. There is something I need you to do for me. But first, call Eva.”
I lean against the window, letting the night soothe my vision.
I can’t rely on Jeddah for an alibi. Sheriff Orr will be departing at noon tomorrow, and there’s a good chance I will be a guest on his boat.
With the priest having revealed my confession, the lawman has more than enough circumstantial evidence to arrest me, probably more than he had with Shimmelfen.
My only hope lies in revealing my father’s killer at the derby tomorrow.
If I can find evidence that Mr. Tavernish, my grandfather, killed my father and then link him to Mr. Sanders, perhaps that will create enough doubt about me.
It is midnight when I finally crawl into bed. The vast island of my mattress has become a dark forest, a landscape with no answers.
Avenge him. Free this island. Save yourself.
Have I done any of the things Mr. Sanders asked of me?
Certainly I have not avenged my father. The killer is still at large.
Was it Tavernish, a blue blood who sends his daughters and granddaughter to finishing school, and for whom a daughter’s illicit affair would’ve been ruinous?
Or Gotze: an act of vengeance against a man he believed was in league with his hated sea wolves for nearly wiping out his business?
Or someone else entirely—a lurker in shadows?
As for freeing the island, the killer of the seals has been discovered, but if I don’t reveal Jeddah, folks will continue to fear what hides behind fog.
And saving myself? That is for time to tell. Exactly twelve hours of it.
From the sea path Sveyn, Boots, and I watch Nash, Mr. Tavernish, and Mr. Gotze on the dock, inspecting the chosen fishing vessels, including our own gray Hure. People have already situated themselves along the sea path for viewing the anglers. The sea wolves are absent today.
“Gilly looks in fine form,” says Sveyn from beside me, his navy coat gleaming with the gold SSI insignia. “How I’d love to see him take down that clothes hanger Gotze.”
Gilly stands on the prow of his boat, arms braced on the rail and nose sniffing the wind. He is remarkably calm for the rough seas he has weathered, a man ready to do battle. Jeddah has not yet returned, and a young boatman fills his place.
A sun with too much glare and too little warmth draws everything with sharp edges, though there is no sign of the lanky fisherman’s son.
Jeddah deserves the full force of my anger for disappearing with the key to my cell.
But somehow I cannot muster the energy to hate him.
He tried to reach out in friendship that day atop Chapel Hill, but I rebuffed him.
If I hadn’t, maybe things would be different.
On the marina, Mr. Tavernish glances up at us from under his finely brushed bowler.
His paisley vest bulges like a full net of pink shrimp.
Would knowing our connection knock the smug look off his face?
Even if he did not murder my father, I will never feel more than a low-grade loathing for the man.
Blood may bind us, but does not make us kin.
Koa was right, I define me. And right now, I am held up by more than my own two feet. An entire network of land and sea depends on me to stand tall, even as the thought of iron bars tightens around my chest.
Boots gives Tavernish a genial wave, but mutters to us, “Well, it’s nice to be looking down at that cock-a-doodle for a change.”
For the first time I feel a strange kinship to the Brain Trust, especially in my own SSI uniform: a navy coat, a pleated skirt, and a sailor hat. We may disagree behind the scenes, but in public we are one. Their tourism idea still rubs me wrong, but they weren’t plotting to overthrow me.
I catch Eva’s eye from where she is standing near the mouth of the marina by a heavy bronze scale. She pulls out her pocket watch and holds up five fingers. Five more minutes.
I nod back. I’m relieved she is not the letter thief. I have temporarily lost the use of one right hand and cannot imagine the loss of another.
Even if my tenure here ends in three hours.
Nash, casually elegant in a loose coat and marigold tie, salutes me, then pronounces through the speaking trumpet, “May the best company win!”
As soon as the boats are launched, I hurry down Nowhere Road back to the house. Flossie will deliver the secret messages to the island bosses precisely thirty minutes from now.
The sight of Prosper and her mother ambling down the sea path, both eye-catching in georgette dresses with low-hanging sashes, slows my step.
Despite my rush, something compels me toward the women.
I meet them just past the yew tree that marks Jawbone Beach, ignoring the shiver that climbs over me.
No wild boars have been found in Nowhere these past couple of days.
Perhaps the crowds are keeping them away.
“Well, if it isn’t the heiress of Nowhere.” Prosper’s star of a beauty mark folds into a dimple.
Her mother’s smile looks more like a frown as she appraises my uniform. “You really should apply for finishing school. Fishing derbies are hardly women’s business.”
“Maybe I shall.” I gesture to a nearby bench, and we all settle in.
“Our president, Nash Sanders-Byre, recently discovered something among his mother’s belongings I think you would like.”
“Oh?” Temperance’s fan splays open, and she and Prosper both peer toward the marina, where Nash is still pressing palms. He breaks off from the crowd and casually makes his way down Nowhere Road toward the big house. Temperance’s lips twist into a smile. “Such a handsome, well-spoken young man.”
“So what did you find?” The dainty brim of Prosper’s straw hat does not provide much shade, even if it is the current fashion.
“A painting of your Aunt Truth. I’m sure Nash would love to show you at some point.”
Temperance sinks against the back of the bench. “Truth. How remarkable. Of course, his mother, Viridian, was an artist.”
“Yes. I was struck by the similarities between you and your sister.” Large dark eyes, eyebrows that slash toward a straight nose, a short chin, and a pouting mouth. Prosper has the same features. I wish I had time to get to know my cousin better. I wonder if she would like to know me.
Temperance clucks her tongue. “Truth was much more beautiful.”
“I wish I’d known her.” Prosper curls her gloved hand around her mother’s. “You never talk about Aunt Truth.”
Temperance shakes her head, sadness filling her face. “She died the year I went to finishing school. I never got to say goodbye.” Her chin lifts bravely toward the sea.
I grip the wood slats of my seat. “Do you know my butler briefly worked for your husband as a lumberjack around the time your sister passed?”
“Yes, I heard that, though I hardly remember him. After that Can Man murder, it was chaos.” Temperance’s dark eyes grow glassy. “Simon left, and then of course Truth died.”
All other noise falls away. The name plucks at a memory. “Who is Simon?”
Temperance tilts a smile away from me. “The lead chop. His real name was Simon Sayes, but everyone called him Simon Says, like the game, because you did what he asked. He was very charismatic.”
The memory returns to me. Buddy had said Mr. Tavernish had a run of bad luck after the Can Man incident. His lead chop, Simon Says, was shot in the leg—an accident of some sort, but Mr. Tavernish had to let him go.
“Mother, are you blushing?” Prosper teases.
Temperance’s fan flits like a caught bird. “He was quite handsome. I cried when I had to leave the island for school, even though it was Truth who he always brought roses for.”
Prosper whips her mother playfully with her sash tie. “If he was so beloved, why did Simon Says leave?”
Temperance’s perfect posture slouches. “I was at school, but I heard he got shot and couldn’t work.”
The women’s chatting sounds far away. Had Simon Says competed with my father for Truth’s affections? Jealousy would certainly be a motive for murder. A more sinister thought occurs to me. Did Tavernish ask his lead chop to kill my father, then silence him with a bullet?
The possibilities grow and tangle like vines of old-man’s beard. How will I ever untangle the truth before my own fate is locked up?