Chapter Forty-Six
Three days later, Willow slipped Sue’s old key in the Cameron House front lock—Willow’s key now—and turned it easily. She stepped inside. The entry hall shone in the early-morning sunshine, and the stained glass sent bright specks of colored light dancing through the room.
A crow flapped its way down the stairs and out the front door; Willow ducked, but the movement brought a twinge to her bandaged shoulder.
“Master Thomas, if I’ve told ye once, I’ve told ye a hundred times—that creature does nae belong in the house, and if I see it again, I’ll be tellin’ yer mam, and she’ll have sommat to say—Oh, good mornin’, miss.
” From the second-floor landing, the maid in her black dress and starched white apron broke off her scolding and smiled down at Willow.
“Ye look a fair sight better than ye did a few days ago.”
“Sorry, Peggy!” the boy said, scampering down the front stairs past the exasperated maid and out the door.
His face brightened when he saw Willow. “Going out now—Oh, and hi, Miss Willow!” he called back before disappearing off into the lupine field after the crow.
The good-humored Peggy shook her head indulgently, and then she was gone as well.
In the three days since her showdown with Audra DuBois on the widow’s walk, Willow had done little more than sleep and binge-watch detective shows.
Rina had brought enough lasagna and red sauce to keep both her and Finn fed for weeks, Joe and Frank stopped by with fresh bread from their bakery, and Mac and Diana were keeping her stocked with pastries (even if Mac ate half of them).
Her memory of what had happened after Audra fell from the roof walk was hazy.
She had made her way back downstairs somehow.
Sometimes in her memory, the tall lobsterman had been beside her, supporting her; in other foggy moments, she thought it had been Nick’s arm helping her down the four flights to the bottom.
An ambulance had arrived as well, and the pair of EMTs worked frantically over Patricia before transferring her to a stretcher and driving away.
There had been statements to the police, the same story over and over like on the day Geralt had collapsed.
Rina sat beside her the whole time, holding her hand.
Effie sat on Willow’s other side, though no one else could see her. Willow had no idea what to say to the police, but Joel, sitting on the porch swing a few feet away, helped her abridge the truth into a believable and ghost-free version of events until the police were satisfied.
Willow remembered retrieving the photos and birth certificates from Sue’s desk and showing them to Nick and Rina, who were as shocked as she had been.
She remembered the island’s EMTs checking her and urgent care on Great North treating the gash in her shoulder.
The doctors had assured her that her wound, thanks to Sue’s coat, had been shallow enough to avoid permanent damage to her muscles but would hurt like crazy for a while.
She should rest, drink lots of fluids, and not lift anything heavier than two pounds for the next couple of weeks.
But this morning, Willow had awakened feeling almost herself again.
She’d showered, dressed, and walked—as fast as her recovering body would allow—back to the big old house that had changed her life: first by almost ending it and then by saving it.
There was one big question still unanswered, and one Cameron who had remained scarce over the past few days.
Willow climbed the staircase to the second floor, moving slowly and nursing her lingering aches and bruises.
The last time she had looked here, she had been sure she had found the lever that should have opened the hidden hallway, but it had not worked.
Her suspicion that Annabel simply hadn’t wanted her there that day was borne out when today it opened easily, revealing the passage to the little garret bedroom.
She made her way to the sunny chamber and sat down at the heavy secretary desk.
Sue’s desk had been full of secrets, and those secrets had changed Willow’s life. Now she wanted a look at Annabel’s.
“Okay, Annabel,” she said. “Anything else you can show me?” She began her search.
The lever was tucked under the desk; when she found it and shifted it, a whole section flipped and clicked into place, revealing a heavy manual typewriter.
There was a single sheet of paper in it with three typed lines of text:
at last words of truth are drawn from the depths of the heart and the mask torn off reality remains --Lucretius
And then, a little farther down the page:
took you long enough
Willow grinned. Of course. Who else could it have been? “So, there you are. Nice to meet you, Abel R. Douglas. Novelist and note writer.” Then her eye was caught by something tucked beside the typewriter.
A bundle of yellowing envelopes, tied with a string of faded green yarn.
A few hours later, Catherine and Willow sat together at a sunny front table in the village library. Catherine untied the yarn and gazed down at the pile of letters. She looked up at Willow, who nodded.
“These were Annabel’s? From her son?” Catherine asked in a hushed voice.
Willow nodded.
“And she wrote the novels? All of them?”
Willow nodded again.
Catherine opened one of the letters and skimmed it, then another. “I figured. I suspected Annabel had to be our mysterious author as soon as you told me about the books hidden in her chest.”
Willow looked surprised. “What about them?”
“She had books by both Bronte sisters, Louisa May Alcott, and George Eliot in there?” Catherine gently laid down the first two letters and retrieved a third.
Willow nodded. “Yes, and one other I can’t quite remember, something with a phantom.”
“I’d bet it was A Phantom Lover by Vernon Lee.” A satisfied smile spread across Catherine’s face. “A veritable who’s who of women writers who first published under male pseudonyms.”
Willow blinked, and then burst out laughing. “I didn’t even think of that, but it seems very like her.”
Catherine nodded, still reading the letters. “These are … beautiful. And so sad.”
“I found them in Annabel’s desk with her typewriter, in a concealed compartment—not even very concealed; I just didn’t know to look for it. They’re Douglas’s letters from the front, the ones he wrote while he was at war.”
Catherine looked up, her eyes shining. “Like the novel,” she said, a little breathless.
“Except for this one.” Willow extricated the final envelope from the bottom of the pile, pulled out a letter, and handed it to Catherine.
Catherine scanned the letter. “It’s from her. From his wife. The nurse.” She looked back up at Willow in wonder. “It’s real. The story.” She ran her finger over the stack of letters. “You’ve read these? It happened in life the way it did in the book?”
“It’s real,” Willow said. “Douglas did get married to an army nurse he met overseas, and the hospital was destroyed within a few days of his departure.”
“The baby,” Catherine murmured. “It was a girl.” Then she scanned down to the signature at the bottom of the page. “The mother signs her name as Annemarie. No last name.” She looked up at Willow. “Do we have any idea where she settled?”
Willow shook her head. “No return address. She could be anywhere.”
“She could be anywhere,” Catherine echoed, then lifted her chin defiantly. “But we’ll find her. Somehow.”
“Find who?” Neither woman had heard Nick enter the library; they turned in surprise at the sound of his voice.
“The mysterious unidentified widow of Douglas Ramsey, Annabel Cameron’s son, who was killed in the Second World War,” Willow said.
Nick’s face brightened. “Nice. You were able to find information on her?”
“Of course,” Willow said dryly. “We have a first name. Which may or may not be her real name. And that she gave birth to a daughter.”
Nick blinked. “And? That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Willow winked at Catherine. “But given our librarian’s research superpowers, I doubt it will slow her down for long.”
Catherine frowned. “It’s not much to go on.”
“No, it isn’t,” Nick agreed, “but if anyone can pull it off, I suspect it’s you.”
Willow swiveled her chair around to face him. “So what brings you off the mainland on a workday?”
He grinned. “I had been thinking, given we finally have a nice day, and you two were a huge amount of help in solving this whole mess—”
“Even if I nearly got killed in the process,” Willow put in.
“Which you wouldn’t have if you’d listened to me and stayed at the inn—we were working it out and would have gotten there.
” He grabbed a chair, swung his leg around, and sat down on it backward.
“Turned out, that bottle you picked up was the clincher piece of evidence, after all. And then the background check told us Audra wasn’t who she said she was, but by the time it came through, we had no idea where to look for her.
Then Finn woke Rina, and she realized you’d sneaked out at some point, and we didn’t know where you were either.
” He pinned her with a good-natured—mostly good-natured—glare.
“It was a given that if something was up, you were probably in the middle of it. If Mrs. Ramsey hadn’t managed to make an emergency call, sort of miraculous given her condition, who knows what might have—” He stopped and rolled his eyes.
“God, woman, you can turn anything into an argument.”
Willow held up her hands in mock helplessness. “Who’s arguing? I didn’t say anything.” She paused. “How is Patricia doing?” she asked hesitantly.
“Alive,” he said. “Pretty messed up; she’s got a lot of surgeries and rehab ahead of her before she can even stand trial.” He shrugged. “She admitted to everything—it was like she wanted to get it off her chest in case she didn’t make it. She won’t be a free member of society anytime soon.”
Willow was silent. Patricia had stood up to Audra, had made the call that got Nick out to the house—but she had also killed Effie and been a party to all the recent murders on the island … including Sue’s.
Nick got up and righted the chair. “But I’m not here to talk about her. I’m inviting the two of you to lunch. At the Dockside. On me. Diana and Mac are already there, and Rina’s coming.” He grinned. “Best lobster rolls on this or any island. What do you say?”
Willow nodded emphatically. “You’re on.”