A.H.: Well, thank you all! So, readers, you’ve heard the latest Anamcara Scuttlebutt right here in the Anamcara Herald.
Did these people have so little going on in their lives that they needed to gossip about my aunt for their amusement? Not all of them, I was happy to see, had negative things to say about Winnie, but why talk about her at all?
Who were these people anyway? And did they still live on the island? Myrtle and Lilly. Most likely. Myrtle Ormsby and Lilly Ewell. This was, after all, a very small island. Just how small, I was beginning to discover.
I scanned the remainder of the year and found two more gossip columns about Winnie, not much different from the first. Except that somewhere along the line, the column’s name had been changed from Anamcara Scuttlebutt to On Island Streets. More dignified. Of course, the present name was the most honest, Anamcara Gossip. Next I scanned what there was of 1951. Very little except for June when my aunt was featured again.
On Island Streets: Disappearing Gardener.
A.H.: Okay, ladies and gent, the Anamcara Herald has heard that the latest scuttlebutt is the missing gardener. What do you think has happened to our seasonal gardener?
Eloise: He’s vanished. Alistair Jeffries has flat out disappeared. He’s come here every year for five years and now he leaves before the planting season is even over. There could only be one reason. Winnie Wainwright! We’ve all seen them together. And he hasn’t just been gardening for her!
Antonia: It’s a shame he’s left early, for whatever reason. He’s clearly the best gardener this island has ever seen. My Martin has more of a black thumb than I do. I don’t know what we’ll do now, in the middle of the planting season.
Henry: It’s possible he went back to Canada. Unless of course, someone did him in before he could get on the boat.
Sally: I think that maybe he did meet his demise right here on this little island of ours. And if he did, I’d bet my new Model A that Winnie Wainwright was involved, however he disappeared.
A.H.: And so you’ve heard it, on the street with our Anamcara Herald.
Chills ran up and down my spine. That couldn’t possibly mean my body was concurring with the absurd conclusion these people had drawn. So, what was it telling me? I jotted the names of the gossips along with the name of the vanishing gardener on a piece of paper, replaced the microfiche to its proper file, and told Seth I was leaving.
“Giving up? Probably for the best.”
“Not exactly.”
“Did you find something?”
“Just a name. But I don’t know if it means anything.”
“What name?”
I showed him the scrap of paper where I’d written the name Alistair Jeffries. “Ever heard of him?”
He scrunched up his forehead, shook his head. “It does sound familiar, but—”
“Island gossip no doubt.”
“Right. Meet me for dinner?”
“Maybe tomorrow. I have a feeling I’m going to want to soak in a nice hot tub tonight.”
He was grinning. Better that I not try to guess his thoughts.
“Lunch tomorrow?”
“Depends what I’m doing. Maybe. Most likely. Okay, yes.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“I just remembered. I can’t make lunch tomorrow. I have other plans.” He looked guilty. Another woman? My intuition told me no. “I’m sorry, Jenny. But I am free for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Seven o’clock? Shall we try some place different?”
“Sure, where?”
I thought for a moment. “Actually, the Flower of Scotland sounds perfect.”
“We could try a different table.” He laughed and blew me a kiss as I headed for the door.
I felt comfortable with Seth, more comfortable every day. Especially since he was moving at just the right speed, a snail’s pace. Unfortunately that was the exact same speed my research was going.
I felt like slapping myself into consciousness. What was I doing spending hours upon hours in Seth’s office staring at microfiche when I had an attic full of resources in Winnie’s cottage. Unless, of course, my spending hours upon hours in Seth’s office had nothing whatsoever to do with microfiche. But I didn’t believe that. I was not the type to make up excuses to myself in order to spend time with a man. At least, I never had been the type before.
* * *
It was the perfect atmosphere. I had created it to please myself, one of the luxuries of living alone. There was the sound of a crackling fire, the Celtic Women singing in the background, some of Winnie’s hand-knit blankets spread across the over-stuffed couch, the soft scent of vanilla candles burning
I settled in with a cup of stronger than usual blackberry-mint tea and a hatbox full of diaries. How odd that my hand should so often find its way to the year 1951, and Winnie’s leather-bound diary.
March 1951
It seems to me that thinking steals far too much of my time. I think—aha! I determine that I shall take a break from it. I shall do all that I can to not think. I shall dance about the field, now that it is spring, and only raining lightly—the rain shall not stop me! I shall paint whenever I feel myself slip into thought. And I shall work on my pottery. Ah, yes, I shall play with clay even though it is my painting that sets me apart as an artist. Of my pottery I have no expectations—a grand stimulus for joy. And I shall meditate, of course, the best cure for thinking.
I am laughing now, at myself, of course. I could never give up thinking. But I can certainly reclaim some of my time that has given way to idle thoughts. I do believe, after all, that it is when we are not thinking that we are truly connected to spirit.
I took a deep breath and inhaled Winnie’s words. I was indeed my aunt’s niece. I flipped the page and read the entry for the following day. I assumed it was the following day although she never specified exact dates. I wondered if that was because she chose to live her life free of time. She did not like being controlled by time. In fact, she wasn’t even convinced it existed.
March, 1951
Today was a glorious day, a day I shall not forget soon. My thinking time was indeed limited. I truly felt in control. It was as if there were two of me today: the thinker and the witness. I actually observed myself thinking. How intriguing that was, to see the patterns of thought that stream endlessly in circles through my mind. No more. Now that I am aware of them, they shall be no more. How satisfying this is.
And today the sun was out. I spent time in the garden. No, not alone.
I believe I am actually blushing at this moment. I shall stop before my thoughts turn to those of a school girl’s—as tempting as that may be!
Why now of all times had she decided to observe and edit her thoughts! Who was he! She had rendezvoused with a mysterious man in the garden. How romantic! My bohemian aunt, how little I knew of the details of her life!
I picked up a different diary. This was from a few years earlier than the other. This one had an embroidered floral cover. A gift? I wondered. It must have cost a great deal back in Winnie’s youth. The writing was slightly more slanted than the later one. Younger, more school girl like. My handwriting had changed too, over the years. In fact, mine changed daily with my moods.
This handwriting seemed fitting. Winnie was, after all, only twenty four at the time. How amazing for a woman of twenty four to own her own property, especially back in the 1940’s and early 50s.
January, 1946
It is still wondrous to me that I live on this island, that I actually own my property, this land, my home. If not for the art gallery in Seattle, I would not. And how incredible that was, meeting the owner at a luncheon. I did not believe my paintings would sell, but that he was being kind to offer to display them. I am still in amazement.
I should not be, I know. For yes, I am the artist, but it is the Creator who paints the painting. I am only a channel. I know this, but when my ego is feeling flattered, I unduly give myself more credit than I might wish to at a
wiser moment.
And so now I shall paint all the more, knowing it can support me and my property. I truly love this spot on the island. I was drawn to it, the moment I arrived here. It might have been the lighthouse. I do not feel isolated although it is far from other homes. I feel as though the lighthouse watches over me. It is as though my angels are living there, high up in the tower where they can see the Strait as well as my cottage. Yes, I am very much at home here.
I closed Winnie’s diary and sat staring at the fire for endless moments, lonely, missing my beloved aunt more than ever, and wondering if some day I too would feel at home here.
Chapter 10
The following morning, I stopped in at Sheriff Sam’s bright and early. No poker game today. Just a blurry-eyed sheriff with mussed hair and a wrinkled uniform. He was chomping on a raspberry jelly donut and guzzling a cup of very black coffee that resembled the consistency of molasses.
“Late night?”
“Hunh?” He looked up slowly. “Oh, hello there, Jenny.”
“Playing poker ‘til dawn?”
“Nope. Not last night.”
I sat down facing Sam and the hefty bags under his eyes. “Something keep you up until the wee hours?”
“Can’t deny that.”
“Something to do with Frankie?”
“Frankie! What makes you think that?”
“Just a hunch,” its accuracy confirmed by his reaction.
He sighed, let go of the handle of his mug, and leaned back in his squeaky chair. I could hear his thoughts of protest but too exhausted to make up a story, he was stuck with the truth. “A pretty good hunch. Saw her driving through town last night just as I was leaving my office. Two nights in a row, I saw her, heading home same time as me. Seven o’clock on the dot. You know what that meant.” He answered before I could speak. “Two nights of no sleep. Once I get that woman on my mind— But seeing her speeding through town in that truck of hers. Pure torture. That’s what it is. I’m heading home earlier tonight. Not risking seeing her a third night.”
I laughed. “But Sam, you’ve no way of knowing her schedule. She does different jobs every day.”
“That’s true. Maybe I should go out the back. Less chance of seeing her.”
“Maybe. Or you could do something really crazy.”
“What would that be?”
“Ask her out?”
He sat up so fast, the arms of his swivel chair hit his desk, splashing coffee onto his blotter. “I couldn’t do that!”
“But you want to.”
“Is it obvious?”
“Just a little. So, why couldn’t you?”
He shook his head as though I were asking him to walk barefoot in a garden of stinging nettles. “Put it this way, if she says no, you can stop dreaming about her and get some sleep.”
“Yeah, but—”
“And move on with your life.”
“Yeah, but—”
“You like being tortured.”
“Guess I must.”
“Okay, but a word of advice.” I paused and only continued after he opened his eyes expectantly. “Most of us at some point look back on our lives, and we regret not the things we have done, but the things we have not done.”
“I think I must be a coward.”
“A cowardly sheriff? I don’t think so.”
“Maybe not a coward about everything.” He dropped the new jelly donut he was about to chomp into. “Just things that have to do with—”
“The heart?”
“I guess.”
“Still have some healing to do there?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, the sooner the better. Let me know if you want to talk some time.” I handed him one of my old minister cards.
He laughed when he read it. “No wonder I could talk to you about— you know.”
“Call anytime.”
“Thanks, Jenny. I just might. So, what’d you come in for? The bones? Haven’t heard anything yet.”
“Actually, I was hoping you might find some information on this man for me.”
I showed him the scrap of paper with Alistair Jeffries’ name on it. He copied the name down on his notepad and promised he’d do a search through old police records. “Any year in particular?”
“Nineteen fifty one.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“After you finish your coffee.”
He laughed. “Yeah. That might help.”
I got up to leave. “I’ll check back with you this afternoon.”
“Okay. And Jenny, thanks for— you know.”
“Anytime.”
Just as I reached the door, he said, “You really think I should ask her out?”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“She could say no.”
“Right. And you’d move on. If you’re willing to, that is.”
I left Winston outside the Sheriff’s office and walked to the corner and up Brighton Way to the library.
“Roxie, right?” I asked the woman who was turning over the Open sign at the door. Despite the forlorn look in her eyes and her face that bordered on haggard, I judged her to be a little younger than I was. There was a meekness to her aura, as though she were screaming at the world, “I’m not good enough.”
Whoa. I didn’t usually get such strong messages about people whom I didn’t know. These feelings of inadequacy must have been so ingrained in her, that they were how she identified herself.
“Yes, I’m Roxie,” she said in a whisper although no one else was in the building. “How did you know?”
I nodded toward the name plate on her desk which said Roxie Tomkins. “You aren’t related to Max Tomkins by any chance, are you?”
“Why, yes. He’s my father.”
I smiled. “I should have known. Is that where you got your love of books?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Jenny McNair.”
“Oh!” Was that a good oh? A startled oh? An angry oh? “You’re Winnie’s niece.”
“Great niece.”
She smiled. Whew. Another member of the Friends of Winnie Society. “I just love—loved your great aunt. She was so kind to me.”
“I’m glad.”
“If there’s anything you ever need—”
One thing was becoming very clear. The people on this island who liked my Aunt Winnie, were very anxious to return her kindness and generosity.
“Actually, I was hoping you could help me out. Do you happen to have any historical information on the island?”
“Oh, I’m afraid not. This library is too small. You’d have to go to Gael Island for that.”
“Not even old phone books?”
She shook her head. “They won’t even let me request them. Don’t want them traveling.”
“I understand. Well, thank you, and it was a pleasure meeting you, Roxie.”
“You too, Jenny.” Something had changed at the mention of Winnie’s name. I didn’t think it was my imagination that a stronger sense of self-worth had emerged, and even her gaunt complexion seemed to flush ever so slightly, revealing a young woman who had the potential to be quite pretty. What an impact my aunt must have had on her.
I walked the two blocks back to my car, then drove directly to Ned’s ferry. Three cars were ahead of me in line, so we boarded immediately. The twelve minute ride felt like five. It was one of those gorgeous days when nature can’t decide if it’s summer or fall. The sun was convinced that it was summer; the breeze was pushing for autumn.
It was only my second trip to the Gael Island library but it felt like home. I handed over my card and they handed me the keys to the local history room. It could have been bigger. It could have had more air, but I was grateful it was, at all. Otherwise I would have had to make the trip to Seattle. Gingerly, I pulled the 1949, 1950, and 1951 phone books off the shelf, and carried them as though they were a ring bearer’s pillow, to
the nearest table. They deserved respect. They were over fifty years old.
I started with the 1949 book. It included all the islands which would make my research slower, but I couldn’t complain. The total population of all the islands during that period most likely fell under one thousand. I turned the pages one at a time until I found the letter J. Six pages of J’s. And no Jeffries. It was the same for the other two phone books. I was not surprised since he had come to the island each year for a few months. It was not his permanent residence.
I quickly found my way to the yellow pages and the gardeners. Three listings, but all on bigger islands. Not one gardener on Anamcara. At least not one who advertised in the yellow pages.
I leaned back in my chair. I was here for a reason. I couldn’t give up. There had to be something else here. I walked over to the map drawer and flipped through the file until I came to Anamcara Island. I pulled out the map that said 1945. It was a small map, as was the island. Spreading it out on the table, I was shocked to see how little it had changed. Very few new roads were apparent at first glance. Main Street of course, and Brighton Way. No Brighton Green at the time.
I smiled at the sketch, indicating Winnie’s lighthouse. There it stood, peering out at sea to beckon the sailors. The new public lighthouse was in place by then, further north at the point that jutted furthest into the Strait. The road that was now cut into the back of Winnie’s property from Sasha’s and Frankie’s houses was nonexistent back in 1949. I was glad it existed now. I didn’t feel quite as lonely, knowing they were only minutes away.
I folded the map and slipped it back into its file. What now? I wasn’t about to leave behind my new favorite research spot. I sat back down with the phone book and opened it to the A’s. I pulled my detective notebook from my purse, along with my trusty pencil.
I ran my finger down the first names beside the A’s. It could take a while, but not as long as it would were I searching the Seattle phone book, trying to match first names with last. I jotted down all the names I could remember from the 1949 and 1951 columns, as well as the recent gossip columns into my notebook. Unfortunately most of them were women and what were the odds of listings being under the woman’s name in that era?
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