Chapter Thirty-Eight #2
Willow turned to her godmother’s desk, stacking its piles of books and papers on the floor and carefully moving the computer monitor onto the bed.
Now she could fully see the ornately carved desk.
This was no mere piece of furniture, it was a work of art, and it took her breath away.
The curved back of the desk had been carved in the shape of a tree, with songbirds peeking from between its limbs; its long vine-like branches twisted and curled sinuously around drawers and shelves all the way down to the elegantly curved legs.
Several drawers sat half-open, as though someone had searched them recently.
Willow examined the desk, but she found nothing of interest in the papers and books on or around it; whoever had been sneaking into Cameron House was human, not a ghost, and had surely long since removed anything remotely relevant.
But her mysterious typist had sent her here, to this room, today; what was she missing?
In the chaos of last night and this morning, Willow had let herself put the question of Sue’s and Effie’s murders, and Geralt’s as well, aside.
But now, especially with their only two real suspects dead—themselves also murdered…
Naomi could, in theory, have gradually poisoned Geralt.
But could Naomi really have lured Sue up to the widow’s walk and pushed her over the edge?
Sue had always been strong; surely there would have been a struggle if Hank, Naomi, or frankly anyone had come upon her to push her off the roof, and the police would have investigated it as a potential homicide.
And as for Effie—Naomi had told Willow that she and Geralt didn’t come to the island full-time till after Effie died.
Effie’s murder couldn’t be attributed to Naomi; but Hank, as a full-time islander, might have been here in March.
But if Hank and Naomi had killed all three Cameron House heirs, then who had killed them? And why?
She closed her eyes, forcing herself to relax, to let her mind shift back into a mental free-association-playback mode, a state that made interesting connections possible and sleeping incredibly difficult … Sue and Effie. Hank. Naomi.
Geralt.
Geralt in the hospital. Naomi leaving him there to have a few drinks at the Raven. Hank waiting in the Jacuzzi.
The text from Naomi the day Geralt died: We thought he was improving, but …
And Diana, that night: They tried dialysis to filter it out, but they couldn’t get ahead of it.
The investigation into Geralt’s poisoning. Poisoning over time, poisoning on the day of his collapse. What if he was still being poisoned after he was admitted to the hospital? Was anyone investigating that?
But why? What would Naomi have to gain by it? She was his wife and would inherit everything—which, according to the morning’s papers, was mostly a pile of debt, anyway.
Willow’s mind kept playing through the past few days, the conversations, the possibilities … paternity suits … “Geralt Talbot impregnated me with an alien baby” …
Had they started in exactly the right place that first evening? And then gotten distracted?
Off the grid … can’t find a record of any baby, alien or otherwise …
No record didn’t necessarily mean no baby.
And if Marisa Talbot could go back to the Midwest with no one in Maine the wiser, this poor woman—Marianne Forrest, that was her name—could have too.
Changed her identity, had her baby, no one knowing her story.
Keeping the child away from Geralt Talbot and Maine altogether, until …
she died about twenty years later. Suicide …
And perhaps Marianne had given birth to a child, a daughter, who had every reason to hate the man who had sired her.
Who, after losing her mother, might also have changed her name and built a whole new identity.
Who had, perhaps, found her way back to her birth father, become friends with his wife, staying in their houses, traveling with them.
Taking care of odd jobs—like, for example, procuring Geralt’s lemon nutrient water.
Staying with Naomi in the hospital, and then sitting with him, unattended, so Naomi could slip out for some time of her own.
Willow knew just enough French to know that “from the forest” could translate as du bois.
Audra.
“My God,” she murmured.
She had to tell Nick. She had to tell all of them. Most importantly, she had to get out of this house right now.
The movement behind her was quick and nearly silent, and Willow was too slow. Before she could turn, a hand grasped her ponytail and yanked her head back; a needle thrust sharply into her neck right by the hairline and someone swept her feet out from under her.
Willow crumpled to the floor. She struggled against the wave of heaviness creeping over her, but soon her body went limp, and her vision blurred into nothingness.
“Go to sleep, Willow,” she heard Audra’s mocking voice say as though receding into the distance.
“You and I need to have a talk. But for now, you have a nice little rest.”
Then everything was darkness.