Chapter Twenty
All Willow wanted to do was go back to the cabin and sleep and pray that she would wake in the morning to a world that made sense.
Instead, she found herself meeting Naomi Talbot in a little pub across the bay on Great North. She almost ignored the text when it dinged its alert on her phone, but then she relented, guessing Naomi could use a friendly face. It didn’t sound like she had many to call on.
Willow pulled her car into the well-lit parking lot next to a vintage maroon sports coupe and entered the wide shingle-style building whose large wooden sign proclaimed it to be the Raven.
It was crowded; the buzz of voices and clattering plates and silverware was partially masked by a small jazz combo in the corner; keyboard, bass, and drums backed up a smooth saxophone riffing on an old Cole Porter tune Willow could not quite place.
Willow watched the little band while she waited for the hostess, blinking in surprise as she recognized the keyboard player.
The woman in the casual, white button-down blouse and jeans bore little resemblance to the hostile lavender-clad organist who had frozen Willow out of the organ loft yesterday morning—but it was, without a doubt, Mrs. Patricia MacFarlane Ramsey.
Even more surprising, Willow realized the little jazz group was good—really good.
Patricia might be heavy-handed on a church organ, but she played effortlessly through the chord changes of the old standard.
Most shocking of all, the woman looked relaxed and was almost smiling.
The patrons applauded as the band finished the tune; Willow, hardly aware she was smiling as well, applauded too.
As the band looked up briefly to acknowledge the accolades, Patricia’s eyes somehow shot straight to Willow, and for a moment, the older woman’s smile froze into the cold rictus Willow remembered.
Then, unexpectedly, it relaxed. The other woman gave her a regal half nod; Willow, remembering to keep her smile on, nodded back.
This felt like progress.
The hostess led Willow to the corner booth Naomi had secured in a smaller side room off the main space, out of sight of the musicians; given how much Patricia and Naomi detested each other, this was probably a good call, Willow reflected.
Deciding it was best to not even mention the combo or its keyboardist, Willow asked, “How’s Mr. Talbot doing? Any improvement?”
Naomi shook her head; faint lines of exhaustion threaded her flawless face, and her eyes were bleak.
“Nothing. He hasn’t regained consciousness at all.
They don’t—I suspect they don’t think he’s going to make it, and no one has the nerve to tell me.
” She looked up and brushed her hair out of her face.
“I needed to get out of there for a few hours, sleep in my own bed. Audra’s sitting with him; she and the nurses both said I needed to eat something and get some rest.”
“I’m sorry if I’m prying. Maybe it’s none of my business, but do they have any idea what—”
“Lithium,” Naomi answered shortly. “He’s dealing with a massive overdose of lithium; don’t ask me where it came from.”
Willow blinked in surprise. “Lithium? You mean like the batteries—?”
“I mean like the medication, most likely. Lithium carbonate or something. It’s prescribed for people with bipolar disorder. But Geralt’s not bipolar—his status as a grumpy old reprobate is consistent and overall monopolar—and it’s not a medication he’s ever been prescribed.”
A server came by, setting down by Naomi a pint of dark beer and two glasses of what looked like bourbon.
“What’ll you have? It’s on me, or rather on Geralt, and they have like a hundred different kinds of beer here.
” She picked up the menu again. “And what about food? You know what,” she said, not waiting for Willow to answer, “I’ll have the brownie sundae.
” She set down the menu emphatically. “My husband’s in the hospital, probably dying, I haven’t eaten bread or refined sugar in years, so screw my waistline—this has been a horrible day to end all horrible days, and I want a goddamn sundae.
Extra whipped cream, please. You want one too? ”
The other woman’s hands were moving a little too erratically, and something in the hard glitter of her eyes made Willow suspect these were not Naomi’s first drinks of the evening.
Willow declined the beer but decided she, too, wanted the goddamn sundae.
Naomi downed one of the bourbons in a single gulp and looked up at Willow, meeting her gaze dead on.
“I know what you’re thinking. No, I’m not drunk, and I won’t get drunk, as much as I’d like to.
I just…” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head in grieving puzzlement.
“I don’t know where he would have gotten the meds from.
I keep track of his prescriptions, and his doctors have confirmed I have all the details right.
Did he get it from somewhere else, or did someone, like, intentionally—I mean, the cops are asking us so many questions. ”
She hasn’t quite accepted it, Willow realized. She’s still thinking this could have been an accidental overdose or a drug interaction of some kind. She hasn’t made the jump to “Who tried to kill my husband?”
Then again, Willow thought, if Geralt had been deliberately poisoned, the spouse was always the first person the police looked at—Naomi had access, she had opportunity, and, as his sole heir, she had motive. But Naomi’s bewilderment looked genuine, her sorrow palpable.
Was she that great an actor? Willow didn’t think so.
Impulsively, Willow reached across the table to where Naomi’s hand lay and gave it a quick squeeze; Naomi squeezed back, holding for a moment. Then she let go as the server approached with two heaping bowls of ice cream and fudge sauce.
The whipped cream was clearly homemade, and the ice cream, flecked with vanilla bean bits, melted a little where it met the warm brownie beneath it. The women basked in chocolate-laden bliss for a few minutes before Naomi set down her spoon and faced Willow again, looking uncomfortable.
“Okay, so yeah, I guess I did want some company, but that’s not the real reason I wanted to meet you tonight.”
Willow put down her spoon as well and waited.
“First of all,” she said, “the police confiscated Geralt’s cup from the party, the one he drank from there.
Since that was the last place he ate and drank before he—I just feel like you should know.
” She leaned in. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you need to be careful who you trust on this island, okay? ”
“Your husband said almost the same thing to me, a few hours before he collapsed.”
“Did he?” Naomi asked thoughtfully, picking up her spoon for another bite of hot fudge.
“Look. I know you’re new and all, but the thing your aunt and her bohemian second-career friends probably never told you is that most of the folks on these islands have to live through the year on what they can earn over the summer tourist season.
Less than half of the lobstermen are equipped to fish all winter, and there isn’t enough work. ”
Willow protested. “Hang on—first, she’s not my aunt, and second, that’s not fair. How do you—”
“Where do I get off dissing middle-class business owners who love history and the environment and pitting them against the plight of the underemployed worker, when I’m married to the richest guy on the island and walking around in twelve-hundred-dollar boots?
” Naomi’s voice took on a slight edge as she jabbed into the sundae.
“I didn’t start out here, and I sure never expected to be this person.
I was a physical therapist, for God’s sake, living paycheck to paycheck and paying down my student loan debt, living in a one-bedroom apartment I could barely afford like everyone else I knew.
I met Geralt when he came in for rehab after his hip replacement.
Trust me, this lifestyle is not where I started.
Why do you think the blue bloods all hate me so much? ”
Because you’re young enough to be his granddaughter and they assume you’re after his money, Willow thought, but didn’t say it out loud. Also, Twelve-hundred-dollar boots? People actually pay that much for footwear?
Naomi grimaced. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be defensive.
It’s not you. It’s that house. It’s Effie Cameron.
When she died and left the mansion to a stranger—I know, I know”—she held up a hand before Willow could argue again—“she wasn’t a stranger, not really, but around here, if you can’t trace your lineage back six generations, you’re automatically from Away.
” There was the silent capitalization again, Willow thought.
“So Effie leaves her the house. Then Sue falls in love and is ready to get married—to a woman, yet—and dies suddenly, without a will. If it had been after the wedding, Rina Montalto would have inherited everything, but since Sue died without spouse or children, the house would go to Geralt. Except Rina’s got it all up in her bonnet to do the whole historic-landmark-status thing and maintain the house for the Friends of the Historical Society or whatever it is, and it’s pissing a lot of people off. ”
“Not least your husband.” Willow’s mind shot back to the hushed conversation in the church foyer.
Naomi rolled her eyes. “Geralt was pissed off about everything. And there wasn’t much doubt he’d get the house; Effie’s will was pretty clear.”
“What would he do with it?” Willow refused to refer to Geralt in the past tense, not yet, not one second before she had to. And she noticed, and found it a little off-putting, that Naomi could do it without the slightest flinch.