by Sarah Jio
“No,” I said. “We’re expecting another guest.” Just then, a woman at the bar stood up and waved from across the room. She was striking, petite, with rosy cheeks and light brown curly hair fastened in a gold clip.
“Hello,” she said, walking toward Jennifer and me. She couldn’t have been much older than my sons, maybe in her sixties. “You must be Anne.”
“Yes,” I said, trying to place the familiar feeling I sensed when I shook her hand. “And this is my granddaughter, Jennifer.”
“Hello to you both,” she greeted us warmly. “I’m Genevieve.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I said. “Shall we sit down?” She carried a large canvas bag with navy stripes. I wondered what was inside.
“That would be lovely,” she replied.
The hostess directed us to a table by the window. When the waiter appeared, I ordered a bottle of white wine.
Genevieve smiled. “I can hardly believe you’re here,” she said, shaking her head. “You seemed like such a mythical figure. I mean, your name was in the registry of nurses during the war, but you still seemed like such a figment.”
A hush fell on the table as the waitress filled our glasses with wine. I took a sip and it warmed me as it traveled down my throat. “So I take it you know of the bungalow about a half mile from here,” she said, turning to Jennifer. “Just a little hut. You’d miss it if you blinked.”
I nodded. “I know the place.”
“It’s funny,” she said, taking a sip of wine and leaning back in her chair thoughtfully. “The locals won’t go near the place. They say it’s cursed. I avoided it all my life, especially as a girl. On a picnic with our parents down on that very beach, my brother and I stumbled upon it, but neither of us would dare step inside.” She shrugged. “But at some point I suppose my curiosity got the better of me. About twenty-five years ago, I climbed through one of the windows, took a look around. Wouldn’t you know it, a week later I found out my husband was having an affair and my mother was dying of breast cancer.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jennifer said, topping off each of our glasses with more wine.
“So you believe in its curse, then?” I asked.
Genevieve swirled the wine in her glass for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said. “Part of me does, and yet part of me feels there is so much good that resides there too. I felt it when I was there.” She scrunched her nose. “Does that even make sense?
“It does,” I said. “It’s how I’ve come to feel about the bungalow myself. I spent a great deal of time there alone.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small white envelope.
“Here,” she said, smiling. “I found this on the floor in a corner of the bungalow. I believe it belongs to you.”
I took a deep breath before lifting the flap of the envelope. My fingers felt around inside and met something hard and cold. The sparkle of the blue jewels refracted the setting sun. My pin. The one Kitty had given me. I gasped, reading the inscription on the back, an inscription lost in time. Thick tears welled up in my eyes and the room blurred.
“Surely there were a dozen Annes on the island at one time or another,” I said, puzzled. “How did you know this belonged to me?”
“I did my research,” she replied, smiling.
“And in your research,” I said, pausing, “did you happen to come across a Westry?” I looked at Jennifer. “Westry Green?”
Genevieve nodded. “Yes, I found a book of his, in fact—in the drawer of the desk in the bungalow.”
“A book?”
“Yeah,” she continued. “Just an old novel from the nineteen thirties. His name was written on the inside cover.”
I grinned, remembering Westry’s hope to keep our ties to the bungalow hidden.
“It took me a great deal of time,” Genevieve continued, “but I found him. We spoke many years ago, before I’d taken on the project I wrote about. I’ve tried reaching out to him since, with no luck.” She sighed. “The phone number’s been changed, and no one seems to know what became of him.”
I looked at my lap, folding the ivory napkin there in half, and then in half again.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to imply that he—”
“What did he say?” Jennifer asked, swooping in to lighten the moment. “When you spoke?”
Genevieve smiled and gazed up at the ceiling as if to recall the exact details. “It was out of the pages of a novel,” she replied. “He said that he once loved you a great deal, and that he still did.”
“Why didn’t he just call or write?” I said, shaking my head.
Genevieve shrugged. “I suppose he had his reasons. He was eccentric, Mr. Green. I suppose all artists are, though.”
I frowned in confusion. “Artists?”
“Why yes,” Genevieve replied. “Of course, I haven’t seen any of his work, but I know that he has, or rather had, quite an impressive collection to his name. Paintings, sculpture. He studied art in Europe after the war, and settled down somewhere in the Midwest, where he taught art at the university level.”
“Genevieve,” I said, “you said he had an impressive collection. What do you mean?”
“He donated it all to various galleries,” she said. “I recall him saying that art was meant to be shared, to be seen, not cloistered.”
I smiled. “That sounds like the Westry I knew.”
Jennifer cleared her throat. “Genevieve, you mentioned that Westry did sculpture,” she said, looking at me for approval. “Do you know the medium? Clay? Bronze?”
I knew where her mind was going. The island had a way of drawing connections that weren’t real.
“I’m not sure,” Genevieve said, shrugging. “He was very brief about his work. And I could be wrong entirely. It was so long ago. My memory has faded some.”
Jennifer and I watched as she pulled a yellow notebook out of her bag and set it on the table.
“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” she asked cautiously.
“Of course not,” I said, using my right hand to steady the clinking water glass in my left.
“As I said in my letter, a young woman was murdered on this island long ago,” she began. “I’m trying to put the story to rest, to find justice.”
Jennifer and I exchanged a knowing look.
“I understand that you were a nurse here and that you were off duty the night of the tragedy.” She leaned in closer. “Anne, did you see or hear anything of significance? There’s been such a shroud of secrecy around the circumstances of the murder. It’s like the island swallowed her up without a single clue. You may be my last hope for justice.”
“Yes,” I said, “I do know something.”
Genevieve opened her notebook. “You do?”
I clasped my hands in my lap, thinking of Westry’s convictions about keeping the secret. Even after years of analysis, turning the story over and over again in my brain, I’d never understood his intentions, or whom he’d been protecting. Perhaps bringing the secret to light would give me the answers I’d longed for.
“Atea,” I said. “Atea was her name.”
Genevieve’s eyes widened. “Yes,” she said.
Jennifer squeezed my hand under the table.
“She was a beautiful woman,” I continued. “I knew her only briefly, but she exuded the goodness of the island.”
Genevieve nodded and set her pen down. “Many of the islanders never came to terms with her death,” she said. “Even today. The ones who are old enough to remember still speak of it as a great evil that occurred on their shores. It’s why I’ve made it my mission to find justice, for her, for all of them.”
“I can help you,” I said. “But I’ll need to take you somewhere. I know of a clue that may bring you the justice you’re seeking.”
The sunset, orange with violet hues, caught my eye outside the window. “It’s too late tonight,” I said. “But can you meet us near the shore in front of the hotel tomorrow morning?”
&n
bsp; “Yes,” Genevieve said, smiling gratefully. “I can be there as early as you like.”
“How about nine thirty?”
“Perfect,” she said. “I can hardly wait.”
That evening, Jennifer’s cell phone rang inside her purse on the balcony, where I sat watching the waves roll softly onto the shore. The sea sparkled in the light of the crescent moon overhead. “Honey,” I called out to her through the French doors, “your phone’s ringing.”
She bounded out to the terrace in a pair of green pajama pants and fumbled through her bag. “That’s funny,” she said. “I didn’t think I’d get any reception out here.”
“Hello?” she said into the phone. I listened half heartedly to the one-sided conversation. “You’re kidding.” She listened for what seemed like an eternity. “Oh.” She paused, disturbed by something, then smiled. “Well, I’m very grateful. Thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll ring you when I’m back in Seattle.”
Jennifer ended the call and sat down in the wicker chair next to mine. “It was the woman from the archives,” she said, stunned. “They found him. They found the artist.”
I blinked hard, remembering her exchange with Genevieve earlier. Can it be possible? “He’s not . . . is he?” I hated to admit it, but Jennifer’s imagination had me hopeful.
“I’m sorry, Grandma,” she said. “No. It’s not Westry.”
I nodded. “Of course,” I said, feeling childish for linking the stories the way I had.
She watched a seabird fly overhead, following it with her eyes until it was out of sight. “The artist died four years ago,” she continued.
“Sorry, honey,” I said, patting her hand.
“It’s OK,” she replied, forcing a smile. “At least the mystery’s solved now—well, sort of. Now that I know who he is, I might be able to talk to his family.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Wish we had a bottle of champagne around.”
“Why?”
“To toast the occasion.”
Jennifer gave me a confused look.
“Honey,” I said, “you finally found your guy.”
Jennifer leaned her head against my shoulder. “You’ll find yours, too,” she said. “I have a feeling that it will all work out.”
“Maybe,” I said, hoping she couldn’t hear the doubt in my voice, because my heart told me I was too late.
Just as we had planned, Genevieve met us on the beach the next day after breakfast. “Morning,” she said, approaching with a cheerful smile. She carried a backpack, and her curly hair pushed out of her white floppy sun hat.
“Thank you so much for meeting me today,” she said once we were a good distance away from the hotel. “I can’t tell you how exciting it is to be closer to the answers.”
“I hope I have the right ones,” I said quietly, preparing myself for what lay ahead. “Tell me what you know about the crime already.”
“Well,” she said, adjusting her backpack, “I know only what the islanders know, or believe they know—that the man who committed the murder was responsible for a series of pregnancies on the island, several native women and an American nurse.”
Kitty.
I nodded. “I didn’t see him,” I said quietly, looking out at the stretch of white sand before us. “It was too dark. But the only man it could have been was Lance.”
“Lance?”
“Yes,” I said. “He was the man my best friend, at the time, was seeing. He left her in a terrible predicament—pregnant and alone, while he continued his philandering with the native women.”
Genevieve stopped suddenly and turned to me. “Anne,” she said, “I don’t understand. If you knew all of this, why didn’t you tell? Why didn’t you report it?”
I sighed, clasping my hands tightly together. “I know how it must sound, but it’s more complicated than that.” The bungalow was close, so I gestured to a bit of driftwood near the shore. “Let’s sit for a moment. I’ll tell you what I know.”
We sat down on a beam that had washed up on the shore, gray and smooth from years of battling with the surf. I pointed behind us. “That,” I said, “is where I watched him put a knife to her throat.”
Genevieve covered her mouth.
“I hovered in the shadows until he was gone, then ran to her. I held her in my arms as she fought for life, for air.” I shook my head. “There was nothing I could do for her. She was dying. Westry appeared moments later. He and I remembered the stash of morphine in my bag. The nurses always kept supplies of it in their medical cases. It could end her pain; we both knew that. I was reluctant at first, but as I watched her labored breathing and heard the way her lungs gurgled, I knew it was the only way. The morphine was more than enough to end her suffering, and end her life. She died in my arms.”
Genevieve patted my arm. “You did the right thing,” she said. “It’s what any of us would have done in the same situation.”
I wiped away a tear. “It’s what I’ve told myself all these years, but in my heart, I knew I could have done more.”
“Like report the crime?” Genevieve asked.
“Yes.”
“Tell me why you didn’t.”
I nodded. “It was Westry’s idea to keep quiet. He told me it was for our own good, that we would be charged for the murder. But I don’t think that was the real reason. Westry would never run from justice unless there was an important reason.” I looked out to the shore, remembering him on that night, so sure, so strong. He had known something I hadn’t. “He spoke of protecting someone,” I continued. “If we went to the authorities on base, he feared that something terrible might happen. I trusted him.”
“Do you have any inkling of what he may have meant by that?”
“I don’t,” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “Believe me, I’ve thought about that night for seventy years now, and I’m no closer to understanding his concerns than I was seventy years ago.”
Genevieve sighed.
“But,” I continued, “as I mentioned last night, I do have something to show you. A clue. I tucked it away the night of the murder, hoping it may be of use one day years from then, when the truth was ready to be told. That time may be now.”
I stood up, and Genevieve and Jennifer followed my lead.
“Would you like me to take you to it?”
“Yes,” Genevieve said eagerly.
Jennifer steadied me as we pushed through the brush and made our way farther into the jungle. Look at me, schlepping through the jungle at my age. But age didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered but truth, and I was intent on finding it.
I stared ahead, attempting to get my bearings. “Yes,” I nodded to myself. “It should be right over here.”
The landscape looked different, of course, but I knew when I saw the large palm in the distance that we were close. I pushed ahead of Jennifer and Genevieve and hastened my pace until I reached the base of the old palm. I knelt down and sank my hands into the moist soil, excavating as much dirt as I could. It has to be here.
“Can I help?” Genevieve asked, hovering over the pile of dirt I’d amassed with my bare hands.
I shook my head. “Just a few minutes longer, and I should have it.” Soil caked my hands and arms. It got under my nails in a way that may have bothered me years ago, but I didn’t care now. I’d never been so close to justice. I could smell it. And a moment later I could feel it.
My hand hit something hard about a foot below the surface, and I worked harder to secure an opening to retrieve it. I gasped.
“Grandma, are you OK?” Jennifer whispered, kneeling beside me.
“Yes,” I said, producing the package I’d hidden so long ago. I unwrapped the ragged fabric, formerly the hem of my dress, which was now in shreds from moisture and insects, and produced the knife.
“The murder weapon,” I said to Genevieve. “I searched for it after he threw it into the jungle, then I buried it hoping to find it again when the time was right.”
Like a fore
nsic expert, Genevieve pulled a ziplock bag from her backpack and carefully placed the knife inside. Then she handed me a wet wipe for my hands. “The time is right,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” I said solemnly. “Just bring Atea the justice she deserves.”
“I will,” Genevieve replied, examining the knife through the bag. “These inscriptions—the unit and issue numbers—they have to mean something.”
“They do,” I said. “They’ll lead you to Lance.”
“Good,” she replied, tucking it into her bag. “I can look this up with help from the army’s historical society. They keep records of everything from the war. It’s how I found you, after all.”
I smiled to myself as we walked in silence back to the beach. It felt good to set the truth free, and I felt lighter for it.
Genevieve’s cell phone rang inside her backpack, and Jennifer and I excused ourselves to the shore, where I submerged my hands in the salty water, cleansing them of any residual dirt—and evil—that had clung to the knife.
“I’m proud of you, Grandma,” Jennifer said, kneeling down next to me. “That took a lot of courage, what you did.”
“Thank you, dear,” I said, patting my hands dry on my pants. “I should have done it years ago.”
We walked back up the beach to where Genevieve stood, still talking on her cell phone. “Yes, honey,” she said. “I promise, I’ll be home later and we can have that dinner together we talked about.” She paused. “Love you too, Adella.”
The hair on my arms stood on end. That name. I haven’t heard it uttered since, since . . . I looked at Jennifer and the expression on her face told me she’d made the connection too.
“Excuse me,” I said to Genevieve moments later. The hotel was in sight now, and I could hear the splashing and laughter of swimmers echoing up the shore. “I couldn’t help but overhear you say the name Adella.”
“Oh,” she said, “yes, my daughter.”
“It’s such a beautiful name,” I said. “You don’t hear it often.”
“You don’t,” she said. “I’ve never met another Adella in my life, actually. It’s my middle name. I was adopted, you know, and it was supposedly the name my birth mother had chosen for me.”