I nodded slowly, stalling as thoughts and reasons ran through my head, finally settling on, “There are other ways to help him.”
“Such as?”
“Helping him understand why his wife is dead.”
He didn’t argue with me on that one. “So, what do you want from me?”
“An answer to the question I asked you at Amy’s funeral.”
“And what was that?” He grunted and scratched his stomach that stretched more than a slight bit over his belt. Not my idea of a prince charming, but I suppose some women go for the crass type, Dana Gimble included.
“Why did you dislike Amy Morrison so much?”
He sighed and the walls came tumbling down. He was not all crassness and male chauvinism. He had a feminine side too.
“I care about this law firm, Mrs. Campbell. Other than my family, I care about it more than anything.” As if supposing that was enough of an explanation, he turned and looked out the window. I wondered if he was expecting me to disappear before he turned back. If so, he would be disappointed. “And I care about Scott.” Ironically, at the precise moment he revealed himself to be a sensitive and caring human being, he also implicated himself. I wondered if he realized that.
He stood and nervously paced back and forth behind his desk, no doubt deciding what to tell me and what not to. His choice to reveal some of his knowledge, alerted me to the fact that there was some he was not sharing with me.
He stopped pacing, turned to face me, and blurted out, “She was cheating on the boy. That’s why I didn’t like her. You understand?”
I nodded.
“I like him. I like Scotty. He’s a good kid, always has been, despite the grief Anthony gives him. Doesn’t deserve to have his wife cheat on him. Doesn’t deserve it at all. I never did think she was good enough for him. He deserves better. Maybe now he can find it.” As if remembering I was there, he said, “Are you satisfied now?”
“Actually you haven’t told me anything I didn’t know. Well, actually you have told me something. You’ve told me that you know who Amy Morrison was having an affair with.”
“And just how did I do that?” He walked past me to the open door and closed it.
“Otherwise how would you know?” That and my intuition running on a high octane level of confidence.
“Maybe Scott told me. He confides in me, you know.”
“Maybe.” I stared at him, a hint of a smile on my lips.
“But you don’t believe me.”
I raised a single eyebrow. “Unlike you, he didn’t know for certain that she was having an affair. And he did not know with whom it was. In fact, that was the reason Scott hired my father in the first place.” I took a deep breath before asking, “Who was it, Jim?”
He sat back down in his leather desk chair, slowly rotating himself into position to see the Space Needle. Jim must not have been the one to hire the office receptionist. Their energy and pace could not have been less compatible. Maybe that was the point, to balance each other out.
After a few minutes of my wearing patience, he turned back to me. “If I thought it would help Scotty in any way for me to answer that question, I would.”
I would not penetrate there. There was little use trying. “Let me ask you something else then. Your relationship with Erica Stratton intrigues me.”
This time he was the one to raise a single eyebrow. “And why is that, Mrs. Campbell?”
I wanted to tell him to call me Jenny, but passed up the opportunity. “You almost act like a brother and sister. You seem like old friends, with whom you’re not afraid to be yourselves, and yet for the most part all you do is snipe at each other.”
“Perceptive, aren’t you? I guess you could say Erica and I have a lot in common.”
“Besides hating Amy Morrison?”
“You could say that. We also had the same reason for hating her.” The words had slipped out before he could catch them. He knew he had said too much. What he didn’t know is that I didn’t have a clue why it was too much, just that it was.
He sighed heavily, stood up again, shoved his hands into his pants pockets, and looked me straight in the eye. “This doesn’t leave the room, you understand?”
I nodded.
“You don’t use this information in any way except to help Scotty, you got it? If you hurt that boy in any way—”
“I care about him too, Jim. Enough to continue with this case on my own so I can appease his mind”—and my own—”and to help him get on with his life.”
“Okay. The reason I despised Amy Morrison was because she was having a goddamned affair.” He paused. I held my breath. “With his goddamned father.”
Chapter 17
“I’m still in shock, Charlie.”
“Why did you keep after it, Jenny?”
“Because something told me that Jake Holbrook was not the other man in Amy’s life. They were friends. He listened to her. He was probably one of the few people she could be herself with.”
“How did you know it wasn’t more than that?”
“I suppose because of her background. It’s not impossible—Amy and Jake as lovers, a cute couple in fact, but from what Daniel told me about her, Amy was searching for a father figure. Even Daniel was seven years older than she was.”
“Then why did she marry Scott? He doesn’t fit the father figure image at all.”
“That’s why she would be sure to seek out an older man as a lover.”
“Anthony Morrison.”
“Much to Erica Stratton’s dismay. But I wonder if it started before or after Amy married Scott. If she married him to be around Anthony. No, I can’t see her doing that.”
“Neither can I.”
“Her mother did tell me she encouraged her to marry him for the security. And maybe she didn’t realize that she was attracted to the family more than the man. Wealth, power, prestige, all that. Well, it’s all just a guessing game now, isn’t it? So, what next, Charlie? Where do we go from here?”
“I dinna ken, lass. We can’t divulge this information, remember? You made a promise to Jim Gimble.”
“Who obviously cares more about Scott’s feelings than his own father does.”
“True.”
“There are still a lot of unanswered questions, Charlie.”
“Perhaps there are, but they’re all just family skeletons, none of our business really.”
“Unless they point the path to murder.”
“Which they don’t, Jenny. It’s quite apparent that it was Amy who struck Jake.”
“But why wouldn’t she have stopped? He was a good friend. Surely she would not have left him there on the side of the road.”
“Unless she didn’t realize whom she had hit. If she was upset about something and took off like a crazy woman and hit him accidentally, there’s a good chance she had no idea whom she had hit until—”
“I told her. And then she was so upset about it, that she—”
“Aye. Now we’ve only to wonder if drowning was her intention or an accident.”
Either way, the guilt was still there, even though I knew she would have heard the news from someone else, if not from me.
“That’s the end of it, Jenny. If you want something to do, you can help me with a lovely insurance case I’m working on or some research I’m doing for Malcolm. Now will you stop thinking about it?”
“Sure, Charlie, just as soon as I recover from the news that Amy and Anthony were betraying Rosemary and Scott. Twice over.”
* * *
But I could not stop thinking about it. I was like a dog who got hold of a tether and pulled and tugged and chewed until it broke free.
There was only one cure for me when I got like this. I rode the ferry back and forth between Seattle and Bainbridge Island.
Required to leave the boat between rides, I walked out into the holding area and returned as soon as they boarded. I was here for the ride, and the fresh air that breathed renewed life into me. The
healing well under way after my second trip to the island, I left the terminal and walked up the street to Winslow Way.
I stopped at the book store, bought a Sonia Choquette book, then went across to Winslow Green where my favorite store, is. I kept it down to four purchases today. A necklace symbolizing faith for Holly, a wool sweater for Matthew, despite the fact that he was leaving for the sweater capital of the world in a week, a cap for Joe, and a cloth covered journal for myself. It wasn’t Christmas, but maybe that’s what I was looking for.
Then smiling all the way, I walked down the hill to the pub. I chose a table near the window at the back, overlooking the harbor. It was quiet, too late for the lunch crowd, too early for dinner. I was even smiling when I put in my order. A pint of Guinness and a cheeseburger, Swiss not cheddar, with lots of grilled onions on it. How long had it been?
I rarely ate beef, in fact, almost never, except when I came to the island. Alone. I wondered if Joe knew this about me. If he did, he was the only one.
Like Amy, I thought. A beer and cheeseburger girl. If only we had become friends. In time.
Stop thinking about it, Jenny.
I stared out the window, wondering what it would be like to own a boat. A hole you pour money into, Charlie used to say when his second wife, Catherine, suggested they move into the elitist world of small boat owners. I liked that time in my life, I had decided long ago. I had thought it would bother me moving in with my father and his new wife, but it hadn’t. As different as she and I were, we liked each other. It was a big change from my relationship with my mother, a refreshing one.
Catherine had not resented me, as I had feared. I was old enough then, thirteen, not to be a nuisance or require any looking after on her part which was the reason she had avoided having children of her own. Low maintenance, I think she had called me.
We had become fast friends. I taught her the little I knew about pottery and gardening, and she gave up her firm stance on never allowing dust on her clothes or dirt, under her fingernails. She taught me how to thread my hair into French braids, and twist it into an ever so elegant bun. She taught me how to select and apply the make-up, perfectly suited to my complexion. She gave me lifelong lessons, Catherine did, in tolerance and perseverance—she took me shopping.
We were good friends, she and I. Despite the divorce—her third, Charlie’s second—we still are. That too is refreshing.
I paid the bill, stopped off at the rest room, read the bulletin board, and left the pub, quite satisfied with my ability to control my thoughts. For almost two hours I had basked in the nurturance of fond memories.
I headed back up to Winslow Way and along to the ferry terminal. I could live on this island, I decided. Hmm, now that the kids were grown and about to be gone, maybe Joe would consider a move. Well, maybe not. Not if it included a daily ferry commute. Although, I’d heard it’s a very relaxing commute, providing you leave your car at home.
I walked down the hill and through the parking lot, visualizing myself pulling up in the early morning to drop off my husband for the commute. It wasn’t bad at all. Relaxing in fact. I was smiling at the image. I liked my idea. It definitely warranted discussion, even with my stubborn, set in his ways, husband.
Before going into the terminal, I stopped in the parking lot to help a woman who was having trouble getting her baby and the car seat out of her car at the same time. I carried the car seat and diaper bag while she pushed the baby in the stroller. The product of divorce, she explained, transferring a child every week via the ferry. Life’s little realities struck once again.
But, since I was in control here, I was not about to allow even the slightest hint of a depressing thought to enter my mind. I thought back to the days of Matt and Holly’s childhood and when traveling light was not a term we used. That was when we bought Winston, my Volvo station wagon, the one that is still so near and dear to my heart. There were many years when you could not see the back-seat upholstery between the two car seats, the sixteen toys, and the nutritional and not so nutritional snacks. The trunk was filled with strollers, diaper bags, a cooler for lunch and drinks, and every size and shape of ball you could imagine. Joe believed in introducing his children young to the finer things in life such as sports and picnics. We picnicked in those days. Cheap and easy and no worries about spills.
Just as I was acknowledging myself for my mind control, Scott popped into my thoughts. His infant son would never experience the joy of a family outing with his father and mother. A life cut short. Never would he experience the joy of running and jumping on his parents’ bed on a Sunday morning. Never would he be greeted at the end of the day with the open and loving arms of both father and mother. By leaving this world when she did, Amy had missed that. Carelessly missed that.
Tears filled my eyes. As I snatched a Kleenex from my purse, I realized that in an instant, my mind had taken me from a pleasant memory to the aftermath of death. So much for controlling my thoughts. When I found my car after the ferry ride back to Seattle, it must have been those thoughts that made me take the left fork of the road instead of the right, and head directly to Rosemary Morrison’s house.
She greeted me herself. The housekeeper was getting the baby. His father would be over to pick him up soon. She was sad to see him leave, even for the night. She had become so attached to him. But it was good for Scott to be ready to look after him again. I agreed.
“How are you doing, Rosemary?”
“Oh, I’m doing quite well. We’ve had a lot of help and support—and visitors.” She patted my hand. “I just have to keep busy.” She grinned and her face looked younger than it had in a while.
“What will you tell the baby when he’s old enough to ask questions?”
“Oh, I think we’ll just tell him that— I don’t know.” She waved her hand through the air. “It’s not something we need worry about yet, thank goodness.” Another smile. She did that well, through the pain and tears. Just like Amy had done, I thought. Had she learned the art of denial from Rosemary? And was it those lessons on how to numb your feelings in order to survive that had allowed Amy to betray a woman she had looked up to as a mother?
“By the time he realizes that his beloved mother is gone, little Danny will feel so loved by the rest of the family, that he’ll handle it just fine.”
There was something in the way she had spoken those words that caught my attention, and it wasn’t just the peculiarity of her meaning. The word beloved had struck a sharp note. Or was I overanalyzing again?
“And Anthony,” I said. “How is he doing?”
“Anthony? He’s fine. Oh, you mean how is he doing with— Yes, he’s handling it as well as can be expected. We’ve all had to rally our resources, so to speak. We’re a tough bunch though, we Morrisons are. We’ve had to be. Stoic through it all.” There was a quiver in her voice that revealed feelings she had decided were better left untouched.
She went to the bar and refilled her glass of brandy, then turned to offer me the same. Unsure of how it would mix with beer, I declined.
“It’s been a very difficult time for you, hasn’t it?” I said softly when she sat down beside me.
She nodded, as if afraid to speak for fear the tears would start, tears that she had never allowed. She had to remain stoic after all. It was what her husband expected of her. Would she be so willing to please him, I wondered, if she knew of his betrayal? She must have known of his affair with Erica. Or had she chosen to remain unaware of what everyone else knew? Only a woman deep in denial was capable of that. Or a woman who was relieved to have her husband off philandering so that he would leave her alone, because the truth was, she did not love him.
Then why all the effort to look spectacular before his arrival home, her make up recently redone, her dress changed, no doubt, after spit ups from the baby who gave her so much joy, her figure the envy of women half her age. Why all the effort? Because she had learned to play and look the dutiful wife role well. It was a role she had felt
comfortable playing perhaps, but it was just that, wasn’t it? A role. It was not who she was. But she was a survivor.
She was not an analyzer as Joe so aptly pointed out his own wife was. No, Rosemary was not a person who allowed tormenting thoughts into her mind. But something told me, nor was she naiveté and froth. There was a deeper layer there, one that knew the truth.
“What is it?” she asked. “You’re looking at me quite oddly, Jenny.”
“I’m sorry, but I just realized something.”
“What, my dear? What is it?”
“You knew, didn’t you? You knew about it.”
“Knew about what?” Her serious tone now matched mine.
“The affair.”
She leaned away from me. I was forcing her to think about that which she had so well trained herself not to think of. She stood up and walked over to the window, not unlike Daniel Walters and Jim Gimble had done when I brought up subjects that were painful to them.
“You’re not talking about Anthony and Erica Stratton here, are you?”
“No,” I said quietly, witnessing as the protective barriers fell away.
“Yes, I knew.”
“And you didn’t do anything?”
She turned from the window to face me as if I were the villain. “What could I do? Tell me! What? Without destroying my son, what could I do?”
“You could have told them to stop or you would go to Scott.”
“But I am the one person who cares most about Scott. I was the one who was afraid that he would find out.” She was shaking her head as if trying to understand how I didn’t get this. “I was the one who wanted him protected from the truth.”
“He’s a grown man, Rosemary. Isn’t it time you trusted him to handle the truth?”
“But this!? It was bad enough, his wife— But his father!? My God.” It was a choice she had made. Not one I could have lived with, but we were different, she and I.
I stood up to leave. I did not want to stay here any longer. I was anxious to get home to my own, amazingly healthy and functional family.
Rosemary reached out and touched my arm, in search of common ground that women sometimes find simply because they are women. “We do whatever we have to, to survive each day. Don’t judge me harshly for it, Jenny.”
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