The Ebony Swan

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  Theresa sat down stiffly on a stool near the worktable. “You have to remember that Eric is an actor first of all. He makes up scenes in his own mind and then lets his notions run away with him. Perhaps that’s why I find him exciting—because he’s never predictable. I’m sorry, Susan. I’ll talk to him. You won’t have any more trouble. I’m especially sorry about Alex’s fall.”

  It was the first time Susan had ever heard Theresa sound contrite, and her feeling of sympathy returned.

  “Is this marriage right for you, Theresa?”

  Her answer came without hesitation. “Eric cares about me as much as he can care about anyone. Alex’s will is a plus, but he will marry me even if she changes it. And Eric is what I want.”

  There seemed nothing more to be said on that subject, but Susan had come to talk with Theresa about something else.

  “I’ve been reading the notes Marilyn made for the end of her biography of my grandfather. They were left with Priscilla Bates, who has just put them in Alex’s hands.”

  “What did she write?”

  “She set down the reason why Juan Gabriel left Peru. And also those strange words my grandfather spoke before he died. Something about Dolores—about never forgiving. He used the word ‘murder.’ Do you know about any of this?”

  “Dolores’s death wasn’t murder,” Theresa said sharply. “His mind was probably wandering. Even if you pushed her, it was hardly murder. The only person who’s been murdered around here is Marilyn.”

  “No one ever told me the details of what happened to her. No one wants to talk about it. I know Peter was accused—but not why. Will you tell me?”

  Theresa considered soberly. “In a way, I was to blame. An old friend was visiting me. I knew she was suffering from severe depression and her own doctor had prescribed a tricyclate drug.”

  “Tricyclates can be pretty toxic.”

  “That’s why I wanted her to see Peter. I know he had helped some of his depressed patients by prescribing a careful, sugar-free diet and various supplementary nutrients. He was willing to treat her but didn’t want to take her off the drug too suddenly. So he offered to refill her prescription at the drugstore and bring it here to the house the next morning. Did anyone tell you that tricyclates were found during Marilyn’s autopsy?”

  This was bewildering. “But how—”

  Theresa went on, sounding grim. “He left the capsules in his office overnight along with some vitamins he’d picked up for Marilyn. They weren’t living together by that time. But when he went to get the tricyclate prescription the next morning it was gone. At first he wondered if he could have misplaced it.”

  “And then his wife died?”

  “Yes—of toxicity that resulted in coma and heart failure. She got the drug in her vitamin capsules. Someone must have broken into Peter’s office—later they found an open window—and emptied the contents of the vitamin capsules, filling them with the distinctively marked tricyclate drug. She took three of the vitamin capsules—her usual amount—and it was enough to kill her.”

  For the first time the full horror of Peter’s situation became clear, and Susan felt a little ill.

  “But how could anyone have known that he had that prescription in his office?”

  “That’s what the police wanted to know. They were pretty skeptical. But someone did know, and Peter thinks that person must have been in the drugstore when he discussed the toxicity of tricyclates with the druggist and bought Marilyn’s vitamins at the same time. Someone knew—and that could be how it happened. The police turned up no other suspect and it suited them to consider Peter guilty. At least the grand jury had the good sense to think otherwise. But the real murderer has never been found.”

  “So unless the truth comes out, Peter will always be under a cloud—is that it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She could understand his wanting to get away and leave all this suspicion behind him. Of course he would never drag anyone else into his troubles. She could understand but she couldn’t accept.

  “But why Marilyn?”

  “Peter thinks she must have discovered something dangerous during her work on the book about Juan Gabriel. Something that shed light on Dolores’s death. Perhaps something you know as well, Susan. So you’d better be careful.”

  The only way to be careful was to go back to Santa Fe, and she had no intention of doing that. Not now, not yet.

  Theresa continued clearing her worktable, turning from Susan with an air of dismissal.

  “Thank you for telling me,” Susan said. On the way out she paused to look back. “You can still paint, Theresa. Why not try again? Something besides eggs.”

  Theresa didn’t answer, and Susan returned to her grandmother’s room. Gracie was just bringing in supper for them both on a tray, and as they ate together Susan told Alex about her talk with Theresa. Her grandmother listened sadly, but had nothing more to add.

  The whole tangled skein was disturbing. Susan felt increasingly helpless and defeated. What could anyone do that hadn’t been tried? But there must be something.

  When they’d finished their light meal, Alex wanted to sit outside on the back porch. Their rockers creaked companionably while they watched a half moon sail through the few clouds left in a rain-washed sky.

  “Tomorrow we’ll go to Tangier,” Alex said after a long silence. “I know it’s time for me to take you there.”

  Susan sensed a note of reluctance in her voice. “Why is it important to make this trip to Tangier?”

  “I can’t explain, but it is important—maybe mostly to me. This is something we must play by ear. Whatever is meant to happen will happen.”

  Her grandmother’s fatalistic note sounded ominous, but Susan asked nothing more. She tried to remember what she had heard about this island when she was small. That name she had never been able to get right was all that came to mind. She had always called it Tangerine.

  12

  The small airport was across the Rappahannock River, and Alex hadn’t flown out of it in years. Juan Gabriel had always preferred to go by boat when he ventured out on the Chesapeake. So did she. But for this trip she wanted to waste no time on the water. Tangier was no more than a few minutes away by air. The Gowers’ friend Fred Parks had come to fly them over in his “Bamboo Bomber.” That had been the nickname for this particular type of plane when they’d flown in the war. Only a few were left in the country now, and Fred was enormously proud that this one had been completely restored, so that it was now state-of-the-art.

  They were waiting for Fred to complete his flight briefing before boarding. Officials from Richmond were here with important visitors, and had preempted the runway.

  To Alex any delay was welcome. She could feel tension in every muscle, and no effort of will lessened her anxiety.

  Fred Parks, who had been born on Tangier, was busy telling Susan about the island as they waited in the airport building.

  “The island is two and a half miles long and a mile wide,” he informed her. “The inhabited parts are only seven feet above water. It was probably settled by members of Captain Smith’s crew, who left ship while he was exploring the Chesapeake, though our favorite island storyteller claims that it was settled by criminals who were tossed out of England back in the 1600s—men who came from the Cornwall coast and brought their own manner of speech with them. You’ll still find us hard to understand at times. We can run our words together, and there’s a singsong quality. Tourists say, ‘What?’ a lot.”

  “You talk like most Virginians,” Susan said.

  “I know.” He sounded regretful. “The old speech is beautiful and it’s a shame to lose it. But these days kids grow up and go away to college. Or sometimes off to war. And they come home—if they do come home—speaking in a different way, like the rest of the country. Those of us who use the old speech sometimes feel self-c
onscious about it, and we mostly use it among ourselves.”

  John Gower had gone to war, Alex remembered. She had watched the newspapers anxiously for news of his outfit. Oddly enough, it had been Juan Gabriel who told her that John had been wounded and shipped home. She hadn’t wanted to care so much, but she hadn’t breathed comfortably until she knew that his wound was minor and he had gone back to his island and crabbing.

  Fred ran on. “Of course radio and television have changed everything. The whole world’s more closely connected these days. Maybe that’s good, but individuality can be lost. At least there’s still an isolation about Tangier that sets it apart.”

  John Gower had spent his early life elsewhere, so he had no trace of the island speech by the time she’d met him. He had gone to the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, of course, and that too would have changed his manner of speaking.

  How was she to deal with seeing him again? As the time drew near, she felt a tightening of the anxiety that gripped her. The young girl, who remembered everything, was wide awake and all too eager to take over the older Alex’s emotions. Alexandria Montoro tried to ignore her. Only disappointment could result from too much remembering.

  You’re an old woman now, she told the girl. Your young love is an old man. YOU don’t exist anymore, and neither does he.

  She still felt concerned about Emily’s words on the phone. How much did she know? How complete had John’s betrayal been?

  Never mind that. She couldn’t deal with any of this ahead of time, and her thoughts drifted to Drina, who had once held the world’s spotlight, and whom Juan Gabriel had tamed only partially. How frighteningly well he had understood the character he wrote about in The Black Swan. Understood out of his own creative genius. He had never known the truth about her love for John Gower. She’d been strong enough to conceal the pain of her loss. And she had recovered. The worst part had been having to live a lie when Dolores was born.

  Outside on the ramp the people from Richmond were still bowing and waving and having their pictures taken. Alex stood at a window and watched absently, glad that Fred had found a willing listener in Susan.

  Fred Parks was younger than John and Emily—probably in his sixties—and he’d made flying the love of his life. In the old days he’d barnstormed from one country town to another all over the South. Until flying became so commonplace that no one came out to watch, or to spend money for rides in a small plane. Now he lived with his wife in Florida, returning to Tangier when the spirit moved him. Alex knew by heart all the things he was telling Susan, and she listened with a sense of nostalgia. These matters had appealed to her in the past, when she had loved a waterman.

  She remembered about the “cut” channel out in the bay, which was the old Susquehanna riverbed whose depth now offered the main shipping lane between Norfolk and Baltimore. The season started in May, depending on the whim of the fish, and lasted until early December. Tangier Island had always been a great center for crabbing as well as for fishing.

  Reedsville, which had been a great fishing center, had been one of the richest little towns in Virginia. Captains’ houses out of the past had weathered the years with beauty and grace. Once there had been widows’ walks atop slanting roofs, but most of these were gone because they cost money to keep up, and captains’ wives kept track of their husbands more easily these days by radio. Women’s fears for their men at sea were as great as ever, but news came more easily today.

  “We can get on board now,” Fred said, standing up. Susan offered her grandmother an arm, but Alex waved her off. She had sacrificed pride by bringing her cane, and it gave her a firm “third leg.”

  Boarding the plane wasn’t difficult, since Alex hadn’t lost all agility, and she could manage the few steps of a small stepladder Fred had brought to help her onto the wing. From there she stepped easily down into the cabin, managing to stay on her feet despite the pitch of the floor. Fred had explained that the old plane was what was called a tail-dragger, which accounted for the steep slant. The cabin was generous in size, and seated five comfortably. There was no aisle. A wide seat across the back would accommodate three if necessary, and there were two seats in front for pilot and passenger, or copilot. Alex lowered herself onto the rear seat and suggested that Susan sit beside Fred up in front, where she could view the approach to the island. Alex would look out the window beside her if she cared to, but there were clearer pictures in her memory of what lay down there on Chesapeake waters.

  Revving up was noisy, and it was a relief when they sped down the runway and were quickly airborne. Fans and an air conditioner kept the cabin comfortable. The noise of the engines lessened, and now they could talk over the sound if they chose. Susan looked back now and then to make sure she was all right. Nurse and patient, Alex thought wryly. Yet she knew it was more than that. Susan’s growing affection had become clear, though Alex couldn’t decide whether this was good or bad. Since Marilyn’s death, and since that damaged floorboard in Juan Gabriel’s study, there were too many uncertainties, and perhaps Susan must be sent away before she could become too deeply involved. Gilbert had warned her about that in the first place.

  From the plane the two shores of Virginia seemed separated by only a narrow strip of water, distances reduced from the air. Fred circled the island so that Susan could look down upon it before they descended.

  Leaning close to the window, Alex saw again the little cluster of white houses, the spire of the Methodist church, the lacing of the island by canals. The few streets were narrow lanes running straight in grid fashion, except where inlets cut into the shore.

  The entire island was at the mercy of sea and storm, and there had been serious hurricane damage in the past. Everyone prayed that the new seawall would protect the land from washing away completely.

  In so many ways the island seemed worlds away from the rest of Virginia. Tourist boats could be used, but there had never been any easy visiting back and forth. In the past, women had remained behind their doors when strangers appeared. It was only in the sixties that changes began to take place.

  Alex could still remember the names of various sections. She’d enjoyed the sound of them when she was young: Hog Ridge, Meatsoup, Sheep Hill, and Black Dye, among others. The Big Gut Canal split the island, and she could see it now below the plane—a straight, carved line from north to south.

  Though the little airport building was at the north end of the island, the airstrip began at the south, so the plane came in over the beach, just below. Alex surprised herself by crying excitedly, “Look, look!” when she saw the strip of sand.

  An older Alex could hardly bear to look, and she was glad when the beach vanished beneath the plane’s tail as they touched down on a bumpy runway. They slowed, rolling along asphalt almost as choppy as the water of the bay, until Fred turned onto the ramp where two other planes were parked. He switched off the engines and got out to tether the plane and place chocks behind the wheels. Then he helped Susan out and came back for Alex.

  When she got to her feet, she found her bad leg painful, but she took Fred’s hand without letting anyone know of her discomfort. She crossed the wing as best she could and descended the small ladder.

  On the ground the morning sun was bright and hot in this treeless space. The tiny airport building had been constructed since her day. It was only one room and “facilities” and was dwarfed by the hangar behind it. Emily Gower came out of the miniature waiting room that also served for air control, and walked toward them. Her smile seemed stiff and formal, and Alex knew this would not be an easy visit. But then, she’d never expected that it would be.

  Fred Parks still had family on the island, and when Emily had thanked him, he told Alex he would see them later and went off. An island conveyance awaited them—one of the golf carts that served as public transportation. Cars were not allowed and most of the residents used bicycles or motor scooters. The golf carts
served as taxis and took tourists around, as well as meeting incoming planes.

  Emily introduced Ginny, their driver—a young woman in red shorts and a flowered shirt, an unheard-of costume in the early days Alex remembered. Alex was helped onto the front seat, while Emily and Susan sat behind. The cart could have carried several more passengers in its cross seats.

  “We’ll go straight to the house,” Emily said. “John has been at the boatyard this morning. Since he’s no longer crabbing, he’s part owner, and part boat builder as well. He’ll join us for lunch.”

  Another respite, Alex thought gratefully. She’d begun to feel numb. Nothing she might do now would change anything. She had brought this visit about, but undoubtedly fate had its own plans, and she was no longer in charge. Emily seemed more like a stranger than her old friend, which was Alex’s own fault.

  Perhaps now, when they were both old, the rift could be mended. The past must no longer be allowed to matter. Perhaps that was what Emily had meant when she’d said that it “was time.”

  “This is a good day for you to come,” Emily told Alex. “When the tourist boat is in, those of us who aren’t needed go indoors and stay there until the crowd is gone. Not that we don’t welcome our visitors—when they’re friendly and well-behaved, as most of them are. And as we try to be. But this island is where we live and work, and sometimes we’re stared at like creatures in a zoo. We do try to offer warm courtesy, and we want to receive the same.”

  By this time Emily was long an islander, and when an outsider became a native, she could show a special fervor about the place she’d adopted. Alex knew this from her own experience in being transplanted to Virginia. If a different choice had been made, she might have been a Tangier Islander herself, and she no longer knew whether she had been right or wrong in her choosing. Perhaps today she would find out.