* * *
Sasha stopped by after I returned from Gael Island. The date had gone well. Frankie hadn’t told her the details, but she hadn’t stopped smiling and blushing since she’d spent the evening with Sam.
“Is that the same woman who rides around in her macho pick up truck wearing a cowboy hat and boots?”
“Yep, and the same woman who makes digging a ten by ten feet hole look like a walk in the park.”
“And the same woman who rides her horse bareback as though she’s glued to its back?” I said.
“The very same.”
“Poor Nigel.”
“Why poor Nigel?” Sasha asked.
“Looks like her time is going to be occupied by another man.”
“Don’t worry, she’ll find time for her visits with Nigel. I just hope Sam isn’t the jealous type.” She laughed. “Hey, should we hit up Sam for details about their date?”
“I do need some information from him anyway.”
We left our freshly-brewed tea and ran down the porch stairs to my car.
“I’m not saying a word,” Sam said when he looked up from his desk and saw us converging on him.
“Oh, come on, Sam,” Sasha pleaded. “We were, after all, the ones who planned your date.”
He was grinning. “I do need to thank you for that.”
“So, it went well?” I asked.
“Mmm,” was all he said, but the rosy tint in his cheeks and the gleam in his eyes said a lot more.
“Did you kiss her goodnight?” Sasha braved.
He glared at us, but the gleam was still there. “A gentleman doesn’t tell.”
“Okay,” I said. “If that’s all the thanks we’re going to get—”
“’Fraid so. But I do think I owe you ladies a dinner—at least.”
Sasha and I looked at each other with matching raised eyebrows. “Fine,” we said.
“Now, if you don’t mind, although you may find it hard to believe, I do have some work to do.” He opened a file in an attempt to look busy.
“This is official business,” I said. “Could you check the vitals on Jeffrey Ormsby?”
“Ormsby? Father? Brother? Or was Myrtle married at one time?”
“Apparently.”
He turned to face the computer and started punching keys. “You sure?”
“According to Sally Beacon.”
He looked skeptical, but hit the keys again. “Nothing.”
“How odd. Does that mean he may have died off the island?”
“Even if he did, if he was a resident of the island, he’d be in here. So would records of his birth date.”
“How easy is it to get into these records?” Sasha asked. My thought exactly.
“If you’re thinking someone came along and removed some of my records—highly unlikely.”
“But possible,” I said.
“Not impossible,” he said.
The question was why would they?
* * *
When I got back to the cottage I could tell that Frankie had been working on my new koi pond. I shivered at the memory of my aunt’s pond and what had happened to it. I would be very relieved to have happy and healthy koi swimming around in the garden again.
I lit the fire and poured out the tea Sasha and I had abandoned, and brewed a new cup. Then I curled up on the couch as close to the fire as I could get. I had a sudden impulse to leave all this behind—the cottage and the mysterious bones we had dug up. But it wasn’t like me to leave things undone or unsolved. Besides, too many strange things were happening lately. Missing microfiche and missing vitals. This murder was no longer something that had happened a half century ago. It was still going on now and if I had any hope of living in Winnie’s cottage, I had to resolve it, if only for my own peace of mind.
But when my eyes scanned the pile of letters and diaries that seemed to have found a permanent place on my living room table, I remembered that I had all the information I needed. In her own words, Winnie had said that she left the island because Alistair had left—or so she thought. She had no idea he had been murdered and buried on her land—if indeed he had been. And she was shocked by what someone had done to her rose garden and her koi pond. These were not the words of a guilty woman.
So why was I still driven to solve this murder—which I was now convinced was indeed a murder? Because the body was buried on my land? Because I had found it? The day I had moved to the island? Or was it simply that I had trouble letting go of unresolved cases?
I picked up the lavender and pink paisley diary with which Matthew had seemed especially entranced.
October 16, 1949
This island is so different from anything I have known before. I grew up in a small town, but it did not feel so small as this. Nothing has felt as small as this. And yet, the irony is that I can walk to the beach and look out upon the waters that go on forever. I cannot see the end of the water. I am grateful for this. It helps when the island is feeling particularly small.
I wonder if it is because I can see the end of the island that I feel its smallness. I can see the edge where land meets water on two sides, south and west. Living on the mainland, one knows they can travel beyond the edge of town, and it continues on for a very long time, unlike this island which ends with the water.
I must not complain. I am so grateful to be here. It shall become my sanctuary if I let it. It shall become a place of healing for me where there are no expectations of me. I am free to do as I please. How fortunate can someone be? None is so lucky as I am. I have escaped the confines of society, the expectations of family. I am free. I cannot imagine ever feeling more grateful than I do at this moment.
This was the first entry in which she had included the exact date. Somehow that made it feel even more intimate. Just knowing it was the sixteenth day of October, 1949, made it a real day, so real that I could see the leaves changing colors on the maple tree on the east side of the house. I could smell the moisture in the air that was hovering above the island. I could feel that autumn day as though it were this very moment. I became so absorbed that chills jolted my spine and an eeriness overcame me, but I did not stop reading.
October 30, 1949
I have been out dancing in the leaves! How glorious nature is! I love this island. Well, not the people so much. I have not found them as kind as I would like. They do not seem to like unmarried women. I believed that is only the women on the island. The men seem to like unattached women just fine!
It does not matter. None of it matters when nature welcomes me so.
December 2, 1949
The rain has not stopped for many days. I do not know how much longer I can endure this. I must do something. Paint perhaps. Something so that I can stay here.
I should not complain. No, I have no right to complain when I have so much. This home has been such a gift. Ahh, yes, I feel better just remembering that. It helps to write. I have been reading too. I have my sewing and crocheting and knitting. This must be enough.
I have not seen him for days. I think it is the rain that keeps him away. Another reason I do not embrace the rain. I cannot think this way. I must be grateful. I am grateful. He will come soon. Whenever he can. I know this. I know that he too wants to come to me. That is what keeps me going. That, and my gratitude.
So, the rain got to my aunt after all! A hermit’s life no longer appealed to her as it had in 1946. I always thought the rain had helped her paint, the way it helped me mold pots, calming me and helping me stay focused. Or maybe I assumed that about my aunt since it was true of me. And, of course, she was never a complainer. But more interesting was that she was waiting for her love. Was it the gardener? Or another love? And why would the rain keep him away?
Suddenly I wanted to read more about him. I snapped up the leather diary where she had talked about meeting him in the garden.
March, 1951
Bliss. I thought only my painting could make me feel this way. And my connection to spirit. Oh
, I was wrong. I do love him. Have I not told him in so many ways? The look in my eyes must convey what my heart feels. The way I stroke his cheek. The way I run to him when he arrives at the property. The way I watch him as he works in my garden.
He is a dancer in the garden, a poet, an artist. When he pushes the seedlings into the dirt so gently, he is a poet crafting his words. When he trims the roses, he is an artist stroking his canvas. The animals come to him freely. They trust him. They do not hesitate. They know who he is. They see the purest essence of his soul. Just as I do.
Perhaps one day I shall tell him of my feelings in words. Perhaps soon.
I read more entries of their meeting in the garden. She would paint while he would plant. They would sit together in the sunlight, talking, laughing, holding hands. Nothing more. I hoped that I would read of a kiss at least, but I did not find it in this diary.
She never mentioned him coming inside the cottage. Maybe they only met in the garden. How odd. But perhaps he was a true gentleman and did not think it proper to come inside the home of a lady unescorted. I suspected this was something else I could add to my list of things I would never know. If my thoughts were accurate, how ironic it was that some people on this island believed my aunt to be a woman of ill repute who had artists and gardeners living with her.
I would have loved to see a photograph of this man who was clearly so important to my aunt. But I was yet to find any photographs from that era of Winnie’s life. Surely she must have painted a portrait of her beloved in the garden. But I had been through every corner of her attic and there were no such paintings to be found.
I closed my eyes and traveled back in time to my childhood. I could not remember any painting of a man hanging in this cottage. The only portrait was of the beautiful woman in the guest bedroom.
A light tap on my door jolted me from my time warp. Before I reached the door I heard Seth’s voice calling out, “Jenny?”
I swung open the door. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself. I’m beginning to think you were only using me to get to my microfiche.”
I laughed. “You’ll never know.”
“Oh, yes I will. I have my ways of getting answers. I am a newspaper man after all.” He stepped into the cottage and closed the door behind him. Then he reached out and I walked into his arms. Maybe he was right. Maybe his newspaperman technique was working.
“I’ve had a visitor,” I said.
“I heard.”
“You heard?” Had someone spotted Charlie’s car at my house?
“Your son, Matthew, I assume.”
“Yes. He got home from Scotland and came up to visit for a couple days.”
I held my breath while waiting to see if there was going to be mention of anyone else. Thankfully, there wasn’t. I could explain Charlie’s stopping by to investigate the scene of the crime, but not an all-evening visit.
“You could have brought him to meet me, you know.” He followed me into the kitchen where I put on the kettle for tea.
“I know that. It’s just that it’s—”
“Too soon to be in a relationship?”
A relationship. Was that what we were in? “This was the first time we’ve seen each other since he’s learned of the divorce. We really needed some time for just the two of us. It was good. We stayed here most of the time, talking, and reading my aunt’s old diaries, and Matthew did some writing.”
“Something we have in common?”
I smiled. That hadn’t occurred to me. It was nice that it had occurred to him.
I brewed a fresh pot of tea and put some left over bread pudding in the oven to warm. When I returned to the living room, Seth was sitting in the exact spot that Matthew had coveted, equally absorbed in letters and diaries.
“Captivating stuff, isn’t it?” I told him.
“Simply by the fact of its age. Some of these letters are especially intriguing.”
“I’ve been focusing on the diaries. But I can’t read too much at once.” Unlike my son who had made it through several in a couple days. “Did you read about the gardener?”
“Yes. I wish she’d written more about him. Do you think they ever—?”
I laughed. “I hope so.”
Seth didn’t say anything. He had stopped smiling. I could sense his heart rate speeding up. His look was intense. It reminded me of the way Joe used to look at me way back when we were young, before children, before marriage, before the mundane had infiltrated our relationship. And long before mendacity.
Despite my drifting thoughts, Seth’s attention did not falter. The night was in my hands. How brave was I? I could, at that moment, take his hand and lead him up the stairs to the bedroom, or simply walk over to him and sit beside him on the couch. Instead, I responded to the timer on the oven door. The symbolism did not escape me. Apparently I needed more time. I guess I was not very brave after all.
* * *
Sam called the following morning and told me to come by his office. I grabbed my jacket and purse and headed for town.
“Got a package from the forensic anthropologist.”
“This early?”
“Late yesterday. I would have called you, but—”
“Frankie?”
“Second date.”
“Aha. Where?”
“Just went to the pub in town here.”
The one night I’d stayed home and cooked for myself! “Sounds like things went well.”
“Don’t want to jinx anything.”
“Okay, tell me about the package.”
“Just a few notes of observations. One leg a slight bit shorter than the other. A couple chipped teeth. Stuff like that.”
“Anything on the cause of death?”
“Figure it was a blow to the head. Could have been struck by something sharp or maybe fell and hit his head on a rock.”
Maybe an accident—pure and simple. But why the damage to the koi pond and rose garden?
“They sent some photographs of the skull. They suggested we try to get a photograph of any possible victims and superimpose them.”
“Where are we supposed to find a fifty year old photograph of this guy—especially a clear one?” I’d already searched Winnie’s albums and had come up empty—not that I’d know the man from his picture, but I was yet to find an album from her days as a young woman.
“I called Myrtle Ormsby this morning. She’s stopping by with one on her way to work.”
“Did I hear my name?” The door squeaked open and in padded Myrtle in her tennies, a paper- wrapped bundle under her arm.
“Thanks for coming in so early, Myrtle.”
“Happy to do it. Long as you buy me my coffee and bun this morning, you cute thing you.”
Sam grinned. “My pleasure.”
Myrtle unwrapped her treasured photograph album, opened it to the second page, and pointed out two pictures. “Which would you like to use?”
“The frontal shot,” Sam said.
As Myrtle eased the picture from her album, I studied it. Chills ran up and down my spine. Here was the man from my aunt’s garden, the man who had turned so many women’s heads, the man who had turned so many gardens into treasures, the Pied Piper of Anamcara. I could see why. Tall, handsome, thick brown hair, broad shoulders, well-defined jaw line. And those rich brown eyes that even animals trusted.
“Are you ready?” Sam asked after setting up the equipment and projecting the photograph onto a white wall.
Just as he was about to overlay Alistair Jeffries’ photograph with a picture of the skull, I said, “It won’t match.”
He stopped and looked at me. “How do you know.” He continued sliding the picture on top of the other one. “My God, you’re right. How—? Not that psychic stuff again.”
I didn’t tell him otherwise. I said good-bye and went for a walk. I needed fresh air. I needed to think. Or maybe I needed not to think.
I walked in a big loop around the outskirts of town, trying to focus on every deta
il of every moment. I stared at the blades of grass in people’s gardens, and I listened to the birds. I even studied the peeling paint on the fence outside of the library.
My cell phone rang somewhere between the pub and the bank.
“Jenny?” Charlie said through the static.
“Hey, Charlie.”
“I’ve found out something for you—about this Alistair chap.”
“I know. It wasn’t—”
“He—” The static crackled for a moment, then ended all together, along with Charlie’s voice. I would call him back when I got home.
I was glad it wasn’t Alistair. It was horrible to think that he was buried for all those years in Winnie’s garden and she didn’t know it. But now we were starting from scratch again. Jeffrey Ormsby and George Ewell and Reggie Beacon were off the hook on jealousy-of-the-gardener charges. There went my theory about George Ewell. And I still didn’t have a clue why the Ewell girls hated my aunt—and me. Besides that, once again the question was, not just who did it, but if it wasn’t Alistair, who was it?
I found myself in the park, my favorite spot to sit and not think. I was heading for my usual bench, but stopped when I saw him. He must have felt my presence because he turned and smiled. “Hello, Jenny.”
“Hello, Nigel,” I said in a whisper. “Or should I say, Alistair?”
He looked startled for a moment, then smiled. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you would figure it out. You’re so much like your aunt.”
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were? Why didn’t you tell any of us?”
“I suppose I wanted some time here to myself without being bothered. A little time to remember on my own.”
“To relive better times?”
“Precisely. How did you figure it out?” He finished pushing the disturbed roots of a huckleberry plant back into the soil.
“Aside from the fact that you spend more time in this garden park than I do?”
“Mmm, a tip off.”
“Myrtle Ormsby had an old photograph of you.”
“From fifty years ago? And you recognized me?”
“Your eyes. Your—”
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