“Where is he?” she yelled, frozen in place. “Christopher?!”
She heard footsteps behind her and swung around to come face to face with a grinning and obviously intoxicated Jon Coffin.
“How many times must I tell you, Mrs. Winslow? He’s not here.”
“What have you done with him?”
“Zebediah and a few others didn’t think we could trust New Bedford when it came to justice on our island. You know how folks feel about the mainland.”
“Tell me what you’ve done with him.”
“Zebediah thought we should take justice for the doc into our own hands. He and the boys have merely taken your mucker lover back where he came from.”
Stella shook her head, unable to make sense of the words. How could they have taken him back to Ireland? “What do you mean, where he came from?”
Before Jon could speak, Stella knew the answer to her question. It was perfectly, and horrifyingly, clear. She turned on her heels and ran back up the stairs to the outdoors, where she was grateful to find Grover still there waiting for her.
She heard Jon yelling behind her as she lifted herself into Grover’s saddle.
“You and the mucker should have been quieter about your plans, Stella,” he called, taunting her.
Stella cursed herself for her carelessness the previous day. She should have realized Zebediah had heard her talking. But she’d been so sure he’d been dozing from the bromide and not paying her the slightest attention.
She shook her head and forced herself to forget about the mistakes she had made yesterday. The only thing that mattered now was that she find Christopher. And she knew exactly where he was. He’d come here from The City of Columbus, washed up on the island thanks to the ravages of the sea. Stella knew without a doubt that Zebediah and his henchman had taken Christopher back to Gay Head.
Stella rode through the night along the path she had planned to take with Christopher, Grover’s hooves thundering beneath her as she urged him to run at his fastest speed. She rounded the bend in the woods and saw the red glow of the lighthouse come into view. Her heart nearly stopped as she saw the light of torches competing with the lighthouse in the night sky. Judging by the amount of torches bobbing in the distance, Zebediah had enlisted a mob to help him go after Christopher.
“Hurry Grover, please,” she cried out, digging her heels into the horse’s sides. Grover neighed in response and crashed through the bushes at the edge of the path. The horse and his rider continued on into the clearing around the lighthouse.
Stella heard screams and catcalls followed by delirious laughter. She slowed Grover to a walk and tried to push down the fear exploding in her chest. She could see Christopher in the center of a group of men, his hands tied behind him and his head covered by a hood. The men pushed him forward as they waved shotguns in the air. Zebediah walked ahead of them holding a gun over his head and crying out for justice.
Stella slipped off of Grover and ran towards the crowd just as Mr. and Mrs. Mayhew emerged from the keeper’s house.
“What in God’s name is going on out here?” Mr. Mayhew called.
The mob stopped as one, and Zebediah turned to address Mr. Mayhew.
“Sorry to trouble you and your wife, sir. We’re only here to see justice done for one of our own.”
“What are ya talking about, man?”
Zebediah pointed towards Christopher with his gun. “This here mucker killed Doc Winslow. We’re only making sure he pays for that is all.”
Mr. Mayhew started to walk towards the group, but he was stopped short by the shotguns instantly pointed at his chest.
“We don’t want no trouble with you, sir,” Zebediah said. “Just leave us to our business.”
Stella ran up next to Mr. Mayhew and lunged for Christopher. “Leave him alone,” she screamed. “He’s innocent!”
Zebediah let out a guffaw of laughter and pushed her down on the ground with a shove. “Well gentlemen, look who we have here. The mucker’s hussy come to plead for his life.”
Stella leapt to her feet and tried again to reach Christopher. “I will plead,” she said. “You don’t know what you’re doing here. He’s innocent! Leave him be!”
Zebediah grabbed Stella by the arm and thrust her towards two of his gang. “You fellows hold onto her. Don’t let her get in my way.”
He motioned for two others to keep their guns on Mr. and Mrs. Mayhew. “And you two guard the keeper and his wife here. Don’t want them causing any trouble either.”
“God in heaven, man,” Mr. Mayhew said. “What’s the matter with ya?”
Zebediah took a swig of rum and tossed the now empty bottle onto the ground next to him. “Nothing the matter with me, sir. Nothing that a dead Irishman won’t cure.”
Stella screamed and wrestled against the men who held her arms in an iron grip. “Please don’t. Please, no!”
Zebediah laughed and removed the hood from Christopher’s face. “You want a last look at him, love?”
Christopher looked at Stella with eyes wide with terror. He was unable to speak as Zebediah quickly thrust the hood into his mouth as a gag.
“I’m sorry, Christopher,” Stella cried. “I’m so sorry.”
Zebediah pushed Christopher towards the edge of the cliffs, pulling him up with impatience when he stumbled to the ground.
“We’re just finishing what started when that ship wrecked, mucker. You should have died in the sea that night and left our doc alone.”
“He didn’t kill Josiah,” Stella screamed, her voice crazed. “Please listen to me!”
Zebediah motioned for his man to hold Christopher tightly as he walked to his side and placed his gun against Christopher’s skull.
“God help us all,” Mrs. Mayhew mumbled under her breath. “Dear Lord in heaven.”
“Please,” Stella screamed. “Please don’t!”
“This is for the doc,” Zebediah said. He grinned and pulled the trigger of his gun.
Stella’s screams permeated the night sky, drowning out even the sound of the crashing waves below. “No,” she cried. “No!”
“Put him back where he came from, boys,” Zebediah said, his face and clothing splattered with blood.
The men walked to the edge of the cliffs and tossed Christopher’s now lifeless body over the side and into the pounding surf below.
Zebediah walked back towards the rest of the group with a grin on his face. He motioned towards Stella. “I dare say there’s no more need to hold onto her now.” He tipped his hat in a grotesque gesture to Mr. and Mrs. Mayhew. “And please take your weapons off these good folks.”
The men let go of Stella and walked off with Zebediah, leaving no one remaining on the cliffs but Stella and the Mayhews.
Stella cried out for Christopher and ran towards the edge of the cliffs.
“Stop, child!” Mrs. Mayhew called. “There’s nothing we can do for him now.”
“Stella!” Mr. Mayhew yelled.
Stella could no longer hear the voices around her or the frantic neighing of her frightened horse. Feeling dizzy, she looked down and saw the ground swirling up to meet her. She lost consciousness and collapsed into the outstretched arms of Mrs. Mayhew.
****
2013
Hannah stared at the screen of the microfilm reader and tried to comprehend what she had just read in the newspaper reels that covered the table in front of her. The ticking of the clock on the wall above her head echoed in her ears as the rest of the library sounds faded into a vacuum around her. She couldn't say what she had expected to find when she began her quest to learn about Stella Winslow and her connection to the wreck of The City of Columbus. But she knew it hadn't been anything this brutal.
Hannah knew that acts of vigilantism were not a particularly rare occurrence in the early days of the Vineyard. She remembered reading a history of the island which mentioned a man who had been accused of betraying his niece and found himself tarred and feathered and tied up in a boa
t that was cast adrift off the coast of Gay Head. Unsurprisingly, the poor man was never heard from again. The island had been a harsh, isolated, and remote environment for centuries, and islanders believed in handling matters in their own way. While the vigilante violence was long gone, the character traits of independence and self-reliance had never gone away.
But the Martha’s Vineyard Hannah had been reading about since the early morning hours was not one she could reconcile at all with the summer resort she loved so much. Still, she knew that the murder of Christopher Casey had indeed happened atop the cliffs of Aquinnah, no doubt not far from the overlook where she had spent so many summer evenings watching the sun slowly descend into the ocean below. She didn't know if she'd ever be able to look at the cliffs again without imagining the fate of Christopher Casey.
Hannah had discovered numerous accounts of the murder written by the same Boston Globe reporter who had published the story about The City of Columbus rescue. Chesham had covered the murder of Josiah Winslow and the resulting trial of Casey and remained on the island after Stella Winslow and the lighthouse keeper and his wife had all accused a group of vigilantes of murder. It was difficult even now to read how the accusations had been virtually ignored, and the magistrates had refused to press charges against Zebediah Johnson or his companions. It was obvious from the tone of Chesham's reports that as far as most islanders were concerned, justice had been served. Chesham had left the island in disgust, and Hannah couldn't help but share the reporter's feelings while reading his accounts more than a century later.
Hannah leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms above her head. Feeling stiff, she rolled her shoulders and tried to work out the kinks in her back. She had been sitting in the hard wooden desk chair for far too long and her body was letting her know it.
This was Hannah's last day on the Vineyard. She was scheduled to return to Boston in the morning. She had an early boat, and part of her couldn't wait to get back to the mainland and her daily life. But a bigger part of her felt disappointed that she still didn't know the whole story about Stella Winslow. The library was nearly ready to close, and Hannah didn't have the time to scroll through any more old newspapers. And even if she did have the time, she didn't have the energy to read more of the microfilm. Her eyes couldn't handle it.
But she felt agitated and disappointed because she still didn't know what had prompted Stella's ghost to make contact with her and lead her in the direction of Christopher's story. What had the suicide clue she had left on Hannah's bed at the Hammett House referred to? Hannah still didn’t know who had committed suicide. Obviously, it hadn't been Christopher.
Hannah packed up her reels and returned them to the librarian at the desk. She smiled and said a quick goodbye before heading back outside to her car. She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight which now seemed harsh after so many hours inside.
Getting in her car, Hannah decided to go back to the place where this whole search had started, the Aquinnah cliffs. Perhaps there she could make sense of what she had learned and figure out what she was missing in the whole story. There was obviously something more to know about Stella Winslow and her involvement with the doomed Irishman. Hannah just needed to understand what that something was. And how to find it.
She drove to the cliffs and found a parking spot near the steps leading up to the overlook. Hannah ordered her customary cup of coffee and took a seat on the bench she had occupied when she had first come to the cliffs looking for the woman on the webcam. Staring out at the now peaceful ocean below, Hannah tried to imagine the horror of Christopher's murder at this same spot. She shivered and tried to block the scene from her mind. It wasn't something she wanted to associate with a place that to her had always been so serene.
Hannah thought back to the newspaper article about the Boston suicide that Stella had left for her as a clue. She felt frustrated once again that the ghost chose to be so cryptic. Could she not have simply written out who had committed suicide? Hannah flipped through the drama's players in her mind and stopped when she reached the image of Stella's husband Josiah. She remembered the large, beefy man who had stood so sternly at the rescue boat while Chesham took a photo. And suddenly, she thought she understood.
Aside from Christopher, Josiah was the only person in the story who had died. And, like the Boston doctor who had taken his own life, Josiah had clearly been a respected and trusted figure on the island. Perhaps most important of all, his death had been the reason Christopher, believed to be Stella's lover by most on the island, had been killed. According to the accounts of Christopher's arrest, Stella had loudly insisted that Christopher was innocent. And in fact she had sworn that he had been with her at the time of her husband's death. Clearly, no one had believed her.
Had Stella believed Josiah had committed suicide? Hannah took a sip of her chowder and rolled the idea around in her mind. Was this the reason Stella had made contact with Hannah? Did she want someone to know that her husband had in fact killed himself?
But why would he have done such a thing? What would make Josiah Winslow kill himself and frame someone else for his murder? She could understand wanting to frame Christopher if the reports about his affair with Stella were true. Anger and rage over betrayal and infidelity had driven many people to such cruel and desperate acts. But who would take their own life to get revenge on someone else? What could Josiah Winslow possibly have to gain from a plan that by necessity included his own death?
It didn't seem like much of a revenge plan to Hannah. In fact, it seemed completely insane to think that a man would shoot himself just to pin the murder on someone else. There were certainly better ways to avenge a grievance. But perhaps Josiah Winslow had been so blinded by rage he hadn't been thinking clearly. Or perhaps there was some other reason entirely why he would want to take his own life.
Hannah finished her coffee and took a last look at the cliffs before heading back down the steps to her car. She had to get back to her real life now, and to the work that actually paid her bills, but she had no intention of leaving the story of Stella Winslow behind. Something, call it instinct, a hunch, or perhaps another nudge from a spectral being intent on revealing the truth, told her that she needed to learn more about Josiah Winslow’s death.
How she was going to learn more about the death of a man buried for 125 years was a mystery to her. But she knew it had to be done. And she knew she would figure out a way to do it.
****
Hannah walked into her Boston apartment, feeling as if she'd been gone for months instead of days. She knew as soon as she stepped through the door that something had changed.
“Jon?” she called out, setting her keys on the rack next to the door. “You home?”
She didn't expect an answer, since it would be unusual for Jon not to be at the hospital in the middle of the morning, and she didn't get one.
Hannah walked into the dining room and immediately saw a note on the table. For an instant, she thought it was Stella's ghost leaving more papers for her to read. She shook her head and laughed at her own silliness, recognizing the handwriting on the piece of paper as Jon's. Picking up the note, her chuckle quickly vanished.
“Hannah, I've moved out and am staying with Becky. I've left the furniture here for you. I think we both know this is for the best. Jon.”
Short and to the point, without an ounce of affection or love. Or even of regret. Hannah tossed the note back on the table and sat down on her dining room chair. Which really was her chair. Hannah scowled at Jon's suggestion that he had been doing her a favor by leaving the furniture in the apartment. Quite big of him, since he had still been in medical school when Hannah bought 90% of the furniture in their place.
Hannah glanced around the apartment and couldn't deny that it was actually a relief that Jon was gone. And if he'd already moved in with his surgical nurse Becky, he'd clearly been involved with her for some time. Hannah had suspected this, and even questioned him about it, but he'd consis
tently denied it. Hannah took some comfort in the fact that she'd suspected he was lying. But she was angry that she hadn't let him know it.
Too late for that now, she thought. She let out a breath and got up from the table. Retrieving her bag from the living room floor, Hannah walked to her bedroom and unpacked the few items she had brought with her to the Vineyard. She rolled up her dirty clothes and tossed them into the hamper in her closet, put her toiletries and few cosmetics back in their home in the bathroom, and hung up her raincoat. With that, she was done unpacking.
She sat down on her bed and tried to process the fact that Jon really was gone. While she didn’t think she could handle the emotional issues right now, and wanted to simply stuff them away, she knew she had to deal with the practicalities involved. For one thing, she needed to make sure the bills for the apartment were squared away. The last thing she needed was to come home and find her electricity turned off because Jon had left without paying the bill.
As Hannah ticked through the bills in her head, she realized that she actually didn’t have a problem at all. The bills were all in her name, and had been since she and Jon had first moved here. He was still in school at the time, and it had made more sense to have everything in Hannah’s name since she was already gainfully employed. Back then, it had seemed like a fair trade to pay the bills while he was finishing school. After all, he’d be making significantly more money once he was done and working as a surgeon and could take over his share and more then.
Sitting on her bed now alone in the apartment they had shared, Hannah couldn’t believe her own stupidity. Jon had been using her for years and she had simply rolled over and allowed it. While he had indeed paid for his share of their expenses once he’d started working, he’d never made up for all the years Hannah had been their sole breadwinner. She had been an idiot, and there was no one to blame but herself. She should have kicked Jon out years ago.
The Ghosts of Aquinnah Page 15