Unlawfull Alliances

by Felicity Nisbet

“I must tell you, when Scott first told me you were a minister, I was a bit surprised, but now it seems the perfect thing, really. I suppose it seemed odd because I’m just not used to female ministers.”

  “There are more and more of us.”

  “Yes, and so there should be.” She patted my hand gently. It wasn’t done with condescension, perhaps because she had genuinely meant it.

  Since I did not know why I had come to see Rosemary, other than to offer my condolences, I had no way of knowing if I had accomplished my goal. It didn’t matter though, I decided. Having given the woman a few moments of distraction was enough.

  Again, not knowing why or exactly where I was going, I pulled into the ferry holding area. Excellent timing. The eleven twenty was just starting to load. I drove onto the ferry and went up the stairs to the lounge, bought myself a cup of Starbucks—I guess I hadn’t had enough coffee to last a week, after all—and headed for the outside deck. I was alone. It wasn’t crowded today. Not a commuter ferry, and few others wanted to shiver and have their hair flying every which way for the nearly half hour trip to Bainbridge Island. Even the smokers weren’t desperate enough to withstand the elements.

  I soaked up the fresh air. I wasn’t an air sign for nothing. It helped me understand why Matthew, my Pisces son, loved water. Just as he longed to be in the water, I craved my fresh air. Another subject for discord between Joe and me, whether to leave the bedroom window open a crack at night or not. Joe was an earth sign. We had compromised over the years. Six months closed, six months open. It seemed to have worked. At least, not too much resentment had built up over it.

  I drove across the ferry ramp and up the hill to Highway 3. Traffic wasn’t bad, and I reached Silverdale in twenty-five minutes.

  Leia Randall was sitting on a wooden bench under a majestic madrona tree when the nurse introduced us. “Leia, this is Jenny Campbell. She’s come to visit with you. She was a friend of your daughter’s.”

  Leia’s eyes brightened at the mention of Amy. She patted the bench and I sat down beside her. “You knew my Amy?”

  “Yes, I did,” I told her.

  Tears filled her eyes and the nurse quickly handed her a handkerchief, then left us alone. I put my arm around Leia, as if she were a small child in need of comfort. She was indeed childlike, and I saw easily where Amy had gotten her beauty. The blue eyes, the rich black hair, and the angelic shape of her face, all came from her mother.

  “She was such a sweet girl,” Leia said.

  She seemed to understand that Amy was gone, unlike during her visit with Charlie. But the nurse had told me she found it easier to talk to women than to men. She had also told me she was having a particularly lucid day. I took that to mean one thing—she understood that her daughter was dead.

  “Leia has never quite gotten over the death of her husband, I think,” the nurse had said.

  “Wasn’t that some twenty years ago?” I asked.

  “Yes, but when you see it as abandonment, it’s hard to get past it.”

  Surprised that she had disclosed as much information to me as she had, I attributed it to the fact that I had given her my ministry card.

  We talked for a long time, Leia and I. She told me about Amy and her love for books and her daily trips to the local library. A grand old building that must have been a haven for her. No wonder she continued to choose the library over bookstores.

  And Leia told me of her piano playing and her kind boss who had let her daughter use her piano. “We were very poor, you see. After my husband left us, well, I had to go to work, but all I could do was wait tables.” She wiped her nose with her handkerchief. “It was hard. Very hard.”

  “It must have been, especially raising a child on your own, although I imagine Amy was a great comfort to you.”

  “Oh, yes. I don’t know what I would have done without her. I don’t think I could have kept going.”

  What did she mean by that? If not for Amy, might she have contemplated suicide?

  “Was it hard for you when Amy got married?” I asked.

  She stared at a limb of the madrona tree as if its leaves held the wisdom of the world. “Very hard. So young.”

  “She was young, wasn’t she?”

  “But she was so in love. I couldn’t stop her.”

  “Did you try?”

  Her eyes glazed over, and I thought perhaps I had gone too far, and pushed her into a sheltered place that she might not choose to leave for a long while. It was several minutes of silence before she let me inside her thoughts.

  “I was scared for her. I did not want her to suffer. No mother wants their child to suffer.” She shifted on the bench, taking her thoughts and her sense of time with her. “She has suffered enough, losing— losing her father so young. I do not want her to go through what I went through.” She sighed and inhaled the scent of wisteria as it wafted past us on the breeze. How easily she slipped into another time, no doubt finding comfort there. I took a few moments to enjoy nature’s reminder that it was spring, and to allow Leia to gently bring herself back to the present.

  Sensing the time was right, I asked my next question. “Why do you think Amy and Daniel married so young?”

  “Oh, she was crazy about him. And he about her. There was no other reason, I’m sure.” Her fingers wound around the hanky, in and out, twisting and turning it into knots. “Some people said it was to get away from home, but I know that wasn’t so. Amy loved me. We had our troubles, of course, like any mother and daughter, but she was devoted to me. Even after she married the rich man in Seattle, she came to visit me every single week.”

  “You mean Scott Morrison?”

  “Yes, him.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Not well, but he was very pleasant. And good to Amy.” Her mind drifted off again, but I was surprised by how calm she seemed. “She didn’t love him though. She told me that. She never loved him.”

  “Why did she marry him?”

  “I told her to.”

  “You told her to?”

  “Oh, yes. I wanted her to be safe.”

  “Even if she didn’t love him?”

  “Yes. That wasn’t as important. Her first marriage hadn’t worked out now, had it, and she loved him.”

  “Why didn’t it work out, Leia? Do you know?”

  She shook her head several times before sharing her thoughts with me. “She wouldn’t tell me. Just kept saying it ended, that was all.”

  “And then she married Scott.”

  “Yes. I was glad, mind you, because it meant she wouldn’t ever have to worry for anything again. He could buy her anything her heart desired, but—”

  “But?”

  “But sometimes I was sad.”

  “Why?”

  She hugged her handkerchief like it was a baby. “I wanted her to be happy and she wasn’t, so I was sad. You see, it was Daniel she loved. He was her first love.” She sighed deeply, then said, “But this other one would never leave her.”

  Did she think Daniel had left Amy? Was I wrong in my assumption that she had been the one to leave?

  “This Scott would stay with her. She told me so, and even if he died, he’d make sure she was taken care of. I didn’t have to worry. He’d take care of me too, she promised. That’s why I get to be in this fancy place here. Before I was in a different one, but now—” She gestured with her arm toward the beautiful grounds. A thought popped into my head. With Amy gone, would Leia be provided for? But surely, as devoted a daughter as Amy was, she would have made certain of that.

  “So you see, it’s worked out for the best, Amy marrying this rich one,” Leia continued. “He’ll take care of her. That’s the most important thing, isn’t it? She’ll be okay. My baby girl will be okay. And so will I.”

  She was off again, to the comfort of illusion. This time I knew it would be a long while before she would come back.

  As beautiful as this nursing home was, a sense of relief came over me as I drove out of the p
arking lot and back around the peninsula to the small town where Amy had grown up, and where she had met and fallen in love with Daniel Walters.

  The high school was easy to find by the crossing signs. I parked in the faculty parking lot. The second time today my timing was good. The final bell rang as I was opening the office door. This time I showed my detective agency card, explaining to the principal my reason for the visit.

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t here when Amy Randall attended school, but there are some teachers who were.” And who would hopefully remember Daniel Walters.

  “Could I speak with them?”

  With the modern era of microfiche, it only took him ten minutes to find three teachers who had taught Amy. The first one was Mr. Anderson, her algebra teacher.

  “Yes, I remember Amy.” I’d brought a photograph, just in case people didn’t remember the name. The newspaper had made that easy, with a spread of photos about her and her recent death, ‘possible suicide’ the paper had called it.

  “She was a good student, as I recall.”

  “Did she have many friends?”

  He couldn’t help me there. “I remember she was quiet,” he said, “not the rebellious type. A dedicated student.”

  Mrs. Santee, the history teacher on my list, was more helpful. Amy had been in her class for two years. “She was a loner. It worried me.”

  “She didn’t have any friends?”

  “It wasn’t that she was unfriendly, just shy. She was more mature than a lot of the students.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, for one thing, she was never into the latest styles or anything like that.”

  But then she couldn’t afford to be.

  “Or popular music, fads, boys, that kind of thing. She loved books, I know that. At lunch hour, I’d often see her sitting on the steps, reading.”

  “A library book?”

  “Yes, now that you mention it—”

  “Usually romances?”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “I’m not sure—” She smiled, remembering. “Yes, she did like romances. I recall teasing her about that. But she also liked to read good literature.”

  Something she and Daniel Walters had in common?

  “She was a very serious student, and a musician,” Mrs. Santee continued. “I believe she wanted to go on to college. It wasn’t financially possible so I encouraged her to study at a community college over in Seattle which has a strong music department, and then possibly she could take night classes at an adult university. She was a wonderful pianist.”

  “You heard her play?”

  “Oh, yes, she was in the orchestra. The conductor took full advantage of her talents, always gave her a piano solo.” I glanced at the paper in my hand—Mr. Warren, music teacher. But before I talked to him, I had one more question for Mrs. Santee. “Do you remember a young teacher by the name of Daniel Walters?”

  “What subject?”

  “English, I believe.” Mr. Anderson had not remembered him. “He was only here for a couple years, then moved to Bellingham.”

  “Do you have a picture?”

  “Unfortunately no, but I can describe him.” When I got to the deep blue eyes, she smiled.

  “Oh, yes, Daniel! All the women on the faculty were crazy about him. He was adorable. Why are you asking about him?”

  “He married Amy.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” A sly smile appeared on her aging face. “No wonder he didn’t give any of the teachers a second glance.”

  “They were very discreet, I believe, didn’t get married until after she graduated, of course. But I was hoping to understand the reason for their marriage.”

  “Well, if you want my opinion, he was quite a catch. And Amy was beautiful. And very mysterious. Yes, I do believe I can see them together. Of course, with her dreadful background, living in that horrible neighborhood, and even in a shelter at one point when her mother couldn’t pay the rent, I could see her accepting a marriage proposal. Especially from a man like Daniel.” Her smile told me that she hadn’t been beyond a crush herself.

  “He was quite a bit older than she was.”

  “That wouldn’t be the first time, especially considering Amy’s maturity, and her background, having lost her father so young.”

  “Of course.”

  I thanked Mrs. Santee, and made my way across the campus courtyard to the music building. As soon as I opened the doors, I was hit with a wave of nostalgia. I had, after all, at Charlie’s urging, played the saxophone in my high school orchestra. Why had I quit? I wondered. According to my father, I was pretty good. Maybe one of these days I’d take it up again. But not for a while. Joe was still in recovery over my becoming a minister. Then there was the issue of his wife, the detective. The saxophone would definitely have to wait.

  Mr. Warren looked like a musician. He was a big burly man with a thick red beard to match, sparse hair on his head going every which way. Either a musician or a mad scientist.

  “A remarkable pianist,” he said. “She could play anything. The girl was born with music inside of her. Played with the jazz band too. That’s when she really came to life. But she was a strange one. Sometimes it seemed as if she were”—he paused, searching for the right words—”hypnotized.”

  Shivers ran down my back. “What do you mean?”

  He laughed. “I don’t know, you’ll have to excuse me. I tend toward the dramatic.”

  “But you must have meant something. Hypnotized is not a word I would use lightly.”

  “No.” He covered his beard with his large hand. I wondered what instrument was his preferred. Those large hands could easily take on anything, although the piccolo would have been a challenge.

  “The best I can describe it”—He interrupted himself to stroke his beard— “It was as if music spoke to her, called to her. She couldn’t not play.” He turned to look at me. “Like any obsessed artist really, a writer who gets up all hours of the night to write, a dancer who won’t hang up her toe shoes even when her feet are bleeding, a potter who molds that piece of clay over and over again until she gets it perfect. The obsessive nature of the artist as a young woman.” He laughed at himself.

  But I could see that about Amy, and I appreciated his explanation. “Do you think she was lonely?”

  “Lonely? Possibly. But if she was, it was self-imposed. Everyone liked her. She just wasn’t like the other kids. She was more serious.”

  “Do you remember a young teacher by the name of Daniel Walters?”

  “Oh, sure. Nice guy. All the women were crazy about him, everyone was.”

  “Did you know he married Amy?”

  “No, I didn’t. No wonder no one could get closer than a violin’s length to him. There was actually a rumor going around for a while that he was gay.”

  “Because no one ever saw him with a woman?”

  “Right, but I knew better.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course.” He grinned and winked at me. I laughed and thanked him for his insights and his candidness.

  The more I learned about Amy Randall Morrison, the more bewildered I became. Her teachers’ descriptions made her sound more like the solemn Amy of recent days than the portrait Daniel Walters had painted of her. But could I trust his picture of her? Or was it the only time in her life that she had allowed in joy.

  Chapter 14

  I spotted Charlie sitting at the cafe across the street from his office. I parked his Bentley and hurried inside, anxious to hear what had happened with Scott. Charlie’s news was sure to have more impact on this case than anything I had discovered.

  I had been in that unconscious right brain state all day, driving around the Kitsap Peninsula, asking random questions without any plan. It was a great place to be, if you were writing or composing or doing anything artistic. I wasn’t sure how great it was when you were trying to solve a murder—if it was a murder. But it seemed to be how I did things, involuntarily alternating between my analytical self
and that right brain space where I allowed a higher wisdom to flow. So, wasn’t that higher wisdom quite capable of solving a murder? If it wasn’t, who was?

  “Hey, there, darlin’.” Charlie beamed when he saw me.

  “They serve scones now, Charlie? Did you talk them into that?”

  “Aye, couldn’t very well frequent a cafe without scones.”

  I snapped up his raisin scone and took a bite. “Not bad, looks like you taught them how to make them too.”

  “Offered a recipe, is all, and a few tips. What can I get you? An Americana and a croissant?”

  “Actually, I think tea and a scone will hit the spot rather nicely.”

  Charlie put in my order while I went to the ladies’ room to freshen up. It had been a long day. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, surprised by my pale complexion even after the fresh air I had enjoyed on the return ferry. Too little sleep, and too much worrying. Not only about this case, but here it was only a few short weeks before my daughter’s high school graduation and her departure for New York. And my son was going off to Scotland for the summer. Empty nest syndrome was peering over my shoulder.

  “Are you okay, Jenny?” Charlie asked when I joined him at the table. I was pleased to see my tea and scone had already arrived.

  “Just a bit tired, Charlie.” Actually more than a bit. I could have done with a hammock at that very moment. I closed my eyes and saw myself swaying gently back and forth in a hammock strung between two lovely trees, birds chirping as I slept.

  “Daydreaming, are you, Jenny?”

  I opened my eyes. “Aye, Charlie, I confess I am.”

  “Well, enjoy it. Don’t let me disturb you.”

  I smiled. “So tell me, what happened today?”

  “You tell me what’s going on with you first.”

  “Oh, I’ve just not been getting enough sleep. Last night in particular. I was up listening to Amy’s piano CD’s, and watching her favorite movie. And the kids, you know—”

  “Aye. If it’s Matthew you’re worried about, you needn’t. He’ll be well looked after. I’ll see to that.”

  “Thanks Charlie. But I think Holly in New York is more worrisome.”