Winnie's Web

by Felicity Nisbet

  I nodded. “A bit.”

  “Probably best I didn’t have any. Too busy with my other child.”

  “The newspaper?”

  “It’s more than a fulltime job.”

  “Have you seen the General lately?” I asked.

  “What made you think of him?”

  “The newspaper. Didn’t he write for it?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I saw him on Sunday. Took him to lunch.”

  “You’re wonderful, you know that?”

  He looked taken aback. “Why, because I took someone to lunch?”

  “Because no matter how busy you are, you find time for an old friend.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “What?”

  “Old friends are important.”

  I wouldn’t argue with that. “How old is the General?”

  He looked down at me suspiciously. “Why are you asking? As if I didn’t know. Jenny, I really don’t think he could tell you anything about the past. His mind—”

  “I know, but he seems to live in the past.”

  “He lives in his own world. Not necessarily the real past.”

  “But what if he knew something. He lived on this island back in the early fifties, didn’t he?”

  “He’s not well, Jenny. I really don’t think you should add any aggravation to his life.” He said it sternly enough that I dropped the subject.

  But it was too late. The mood was broken, and I realized that once again I had sabotaged a romantic evening with Seth. I was beginning to think there was a reason for that, not a conscious reason, but it was definitely becoming a pattern. I suspected it had to do with fear, the fear that comes with being in a relationship and being betrayed.

  I lay in my bed that night, a diary on my nightstand that I was trying not to read. But I couldn’t sleep and reading helped.

  January 28, 1950

  I despise myself. Sneaking around like this does not suit me. But we must if we are to share our love. There are too many we could hurt if they knew. And yet I cannot control myself. I love him too much. He is my life now. How am I to control that? I cannot. And so I must live with despising myself.

  I slammed the diary closed and tossed it back onto the nightstand. I could not read any more of my aunt’s guilt. I could not judge her. It was not my place to judge her or anyone else for that matter. I did not know her circumstances and even if I did, I had no right to judge.

  Still, it nagged at me. I had, after all, an intact image of my aunt and the life she had lived, and sneaking around to see her lover for fear of hurting others, did not fit into that picture. And I suppose it reminded me all too well of my own wounds. I would not read any more of these diaries. I did not need them to solve this crime. I would rely on other research, and my intuition, and even my analytical brain.

  There had to be a logical explanation for George Ewell’s body being buried beneath a rose garden. Who would want to kill George Ewell? From everything I had heard about him, he was a beloved resident of this island. He owned the hardware store, he made furniture with his hands and his heart. His only weakness seemed to be his jealousy of a seasonal gardener. But his wife was devoted to him. That was clear.

  So, who killed this upstanding citizen? And if it wasn’t George Ewell who went over the cliff in his car, who was it? And the other question to which I still had no answer—why did the Ewell girls hate my Aunt Winnie? And why didn’t Lilly? What did they know, or think they knew, that their mother didn’t know?

  Daisy and Eleanor had to have a reason for hating my aunt. My heart was beating more quickly now, and I knew a theory was beginning to form. What did the girls know that their mother didn’t know? And why was George Ewell so adamant against hiring a gardener for even one day? Unless he was jealous of the gardener for another reason. Not just his wife’s attraction to him, but another woman’s love for him. Was that what Daisy and Eleanor knew? Did they believe their father had had an affair with my aunt? And had he? Had my wonderful dear aunt had an affair with a married man? One thing I did know, there was another love in her life besides Alistair. Her December love whom she met in secret moments. The question was, was he a married love?

  Suddenly I was sitting up in bed, staring across the room at the garden painted by my aunt. Maybe it was the reverse of my old theory. I now knew for a fact that George Ewell hadn’t killed Alistair Jeffries in a fit of jealousy. But instead, could it have been Alistair Jeffries who had killed George Ewell in a fit of jealousy?

  Is that why he had left the island so many years ago and had not come back until now? Had he made a decision to punish himself by exiling himself from the woman he

  loved?

  It was not something I would find the answer to at one o’clock in the morning. I finally drifted off to sleep at some hideous hour, fighting the thought that this

  new theory made all too much sense.

  * * *

  I knew where to find him. If he wasn’t at the pub, he would be in the park garden. I would wait for him by the fountain. There was a definite chill in the air, but no rain. I waited for close to an hour, but I didn’t mind. I too loved gardens.

  Unfortunately that didn’t relieve my anxiety. What was I going to say? “So, did you murder someone fifty years ago?” How could I even think this about him? This sweet man who gently pushed roots back into the soil so that plants could live. This kindhearted spirit who was trusted by birds and squirrels.

  “You’re here for a reason.”

  I looked up at him and nodded. “How did you know?” I had forgotten that he was a kindred spirit.

  His smile was enough of a reminder and an answer. He sat down beside me. “You’re wondering why I left the island.”

  “Yes.”

  He said nothing. Not a word. For ten minutes we sat in silence.

  I was the one to break it. “Alistair, did you know a man named George Ewell?”

  “Who?”

  I looked over at him. Was it a cover up? I chose to believe otherwise. “Lilly Ewell’s husband. He died several years ago, 1951 to be exact.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t recall the name.”

  I believed him, but then, I wanted to believe him. “Alistair, did you leave the island because of another man? Was there another man in my aunt’s life?”

  His forehead wrinkled and he was looking at me as though I were speaking a foreign language. “Not that I was aware of.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  So he really didn’t know about her other love. If he did, he was doing an excellent job of blocking it from his romantic memory.

  “Then why did you leave?”

  He sat in silence for a moment. I thought it might last forever, but finally he spoke. “It wasn’t because of another man, Jenny. It was because of another woman.”

  Chills ran up and down my spine and my arms prickled with a sensation that confirmed the truth of his words. Was that the reason for their sneaking around? Was that who Winnie was referring to when she spoke of those they would hurt if they knew? I stood up. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you tell me.”

  “Do you want me to explain?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I think I need to go for a walk.” Or better yet, a ride on the ferry.

  “Please, Jenny, let me explain.”

  “You don’t have to explain anything, Alistair. It’s really none of my business.”

  “I’d like to. Please.” He took my hand and gently pulled me back down beside him. I wrapped my navy pea coat more tightly around me and leaned into the back of the bench for any warmth it might provide.

  “I met your aunt in Seattle. It was 1949. She was there for an art show and I was there for a gardening presentation. We were staying at the same hotel.” He paused and from the look in his eyes I knew he was reliving that moment.

  “I believe I loved her the moment I saw her. We did not have a lot of time together, but enough to know that we wanted to spen
d more time together. I knew she lived on Anamcara Island, so I made a trip to the island the following spring. It was something I did each spring anyway—traveling to different places to teach and show people how to garden.” He paused again, only this time the moment was eaten away by a deep sigh. “The reason I only came to the island for a few months during the year was because I was married.”

  So my aunt had loved a married man.

  His voice turned husky. “I never meant to hurt anyone. I just loved Winnie so much, I couldn’t stay away from her. But we had precious little time as it was. I was only here in the spring, sometimes summer.”

  The dates in my aunt’s diaries flashed brightly in my memory. “And one winter, one December . . . and January.”

  “No, never in winter.”

  Had she loved two married men? Was that possible?

  “Did she know you were married?”

  “No. She never knew. The last time I saw her—”

  “What?”

  “I wanted to tell her but I was afraid she would despise me. I left the island with a plan. I did not tell her. I think now I wish I had. I went home to Canada to tell my wife I was divorcing her. Then I planned to return to the island and Winnie for good.”

  “What happened?”

  “While I was on the island my wife had had an accident. It left her paralyzed from the waist down. She blamed me for not being there.”

  “And you blamed yourself. And stayed in a loveless marriage out of guilt.”

  He bent forward to rest his face in his hands. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”

  “And you never came back to tell Winnie? You never wrote—?”

  “I was a coward. I thought so many times of telling her. I wrote letters—began letters that were never sent. The more time passed, the more difficult it was . . . “

  I put my hand on his back, feeling his breath flow in and out as though it were keeping time, time that would soon be running out.

  * * *

  I took my ferry boat ride after all. After Alistair and I had lunch together at the pub, I went home, packed a small bag, and drove Winston to the ferry.

  I believed Alistair. I believed he did not remember George Ewell, and I believed that the reason he had left the island was because of his plan to leave his wife and return to Winnie a free man.

  That put me back to square one. We did have an identified body. But we were no closer to figuring out who had buried that body beneath my aunt’s rose garden. What next? More interviews with Sally Beacon and Myrtle Ormsby and Lilly Ewell?

  Maybe it was time to let it go. Maybe it was never meant to be solved, at least not by me. But was it in me to do that when the body was buried on my land? Not likely. Not with my curiosity. That wasn’t all I was having trouble letting go. Frustration or not, I was more than likely going to read every word of my aunt’s diaries until I figured out who her December love was.

  Chapter 20

  I arrived at night. The skyline was lit against a backdrop of clear cold air. I was tempted to stop downtown at The Elliot Bay Book Company but was too anxious to see Charlie and Matthew. I drove straight to West Seattle where they were waiting for me.

  Being with them was like sitting by the fire, wrapped in a warm shawl. Charlie had made his special blend of tea that was guaranteed to keep you awake into the wee hours. Tonight I didn’t mind. I wanted to be awake. Matthew told me about all his classes, elaborating on his creative writing course in great detail. He was more reluctant to talk about the women on campus but after a few prying questions, he confessed that there was one in particular with whom he was spending a lot of time. I looked at Charlie, but he raised his eyebrows as a gesture of denial that he knew any more than I did.

  “Maybe you can bring her up to the island for a visit,” I said.

  He laughed. It was his “sure, Mom” laugh. I could only dream. Or hire my favorite spy to find out her name and number and invite her myself.

  “Okay, on to the next subject. Tell me about your latest case, Charlie.”

  “Yours is far more interesting. I’m just dealing with ordinary insurance fraud and divorce and deceit. Any news on your body?”

  “Just what you already know. It wasn’t the gardener after all, but Lilly Ewell’s husband, George.”

  “The gardener?” Matthew asked.

  “Yes. Alistair Jeffries. Came to the island every spring for a while. Was in love with your aunt.”

  “Aha! That’s the one she talked about in her diary. The one she loved to watch while he worked. Poetry in motion.”

  “Right. But it turns out there may have been another love. And it may have been George Ewell.”

  “You think Aunt Winnie was having a fling with a married man?” Matthew asked.

  “It looks like a possibility. George’s daughters hated her, hate me just because she was my great aunt. The only explanation I can come up with is that she and George were in love.”

  “At the same time as the gardener?”

  “It doesn’t feel right to me either, but all signs are pointing in the direction of two lovers. Including what she said in her diaries.”

  “I don’t remember reading about two lovers. You’re confusing me, Mom.” Matt shook his head as though he were trying to clear away the cobwebs.

  “Hey, I’ve been confused since I moved to the island. Something else really has me bewildered. You remember the lighthouse on the edge of the property? I’ve been up there a couple times and there is not a single speck of dust. It’s as though someone is looking after it.”

  “Now you’re worrying me, Jenny.”

  “It’s not my imagination, Charlie.”

  “I know that, darlin’. I’m worrying about someone coming onto your property.”

  “I’m okay. I don’t feel any negative energy from the lighthouse.”

  “Just the rose garden?”

  “It’s getting better now that I’ve replaced the koi pond and made it a home for some very large koi.”

  “Still, Jenny—someone sneaking into your lighthouse?”

  “It seems to have a history of attracting secret rendezvous.”

  “No kidding,” Matthew said.

  Charlie and I looked over at him. “What?” Charlie asked.

  “I just meant that woman, that friend of Winnie’s who would meet her lover in the lighthouse.”

  Despite my refreshed cup of tea burning my tongue, chills engulfed me. “What woman, Matthew? What friend of Winnie’s?”

  “You know. The one in the diary.”

  “Winnie wrote about a woman in one of her diaries?”

  “No, not Winnie’s diary. Her diary.”

  “Okay, now you have me confused. What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about one of the diaries I read when I was up at your house.”

  “You’re saying that one of Winnie’s diaries wasn’t written by Winnie?”

  “Something like that.”

  My breathing had become shallow. I could feel it struggling inside my body. “Which one?” I asked.

  Matthew laughed. “I don’t know. It kind of reminded me of an Easter egg, I guess.”

  “An Easter egg?”

  “Yeah, pastels. Paisley. I just remember she talked about hating the rain because it kept her lover away.”

  “That wasn’t Winnie?”

  “Of course not! Mom, you know Aunt Winnie loved the rain.”

  “I know, but—” I’d had my head so buried in the trees that I had stopped seeing the forest. “What else did she say? How did you know it wasn’t Winnie? Was it the handwriting?”

  “Not really, the handwriting in all of them was pretty similar. Actually, Winnie’s own writing changed from time to time. The words just didn’t sound like Winnie’s voice.” He shook his head, as though trying to remember specifics. “Nothing about it sounded like her.” An observation more easily made by someone with the soul of a writer.

  “Tell me more. Please.”

 
“I really can’t remember. I didn’t realize you thought they were all written by Winnie or I would have said something. I do remember she wrote about missing her love.”

  “See, that could have been Winnie because her gardener was only on the island in the spring.”

  “I guess,” Matthew said, “but Winnie was never a complainer. Her friend was more—I don’t know—self-centered maybe? She just didn’t sound anything like Winnie.”

  “But how can you be sure it wasn’t Winnie?”

  “Because she talked about Winnie?”

  “Are you sure? When?”

  “Somewhere towards the end, I think.”

  I should have read more, frustration or not.

  “She said something about being grateful for the lighthouse where she met her lover because she did not want Winnie to find out. Something about not wanting to burden her.”

  Suddenly exhaustion hit, and I realized I had been holding myself together with worry and adrenaline. I had not wanted to believe my aunt had intentionally had an affair with a married man, the husband of a friend. I had not wanted to believe my dear aunt was involved with any of this. But part of me had been disloyal to her and had believed in the possibility. I had betrayed her. I had let her down by believing she could do anything deceitful. As relieved as I was to learn these were another woman’s actions and not my aunt’s, I realized I had indeed allowed myself to judge someone when I had no right to.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, luv.” Charlie put a hand on my back. He knew me too well.

  “I feel terrible,” I croaked.

  “You had no way of knowing. All the evidence was there.”

  I laughed. A familiar line. “And we all know how well the apparent evidence can lead us astray.”

  “Ah, yes, but we fall into that trap all the same. Now, I think we need to get some sleep. Matthew’s staying over as well so we can have a lovely breakfast together.”

  “We’re going out, right?” Matthew asked.

  Charlie cuffed him gently in response to his insult. “Aye, we’ll go to your mum’s favorite cafe for some lovely scones.”

  But I wasn’t easily to sleep that night. As exhausted as my body was, my mind was still on overdrive. Who was this friend of my aunt’s? And who was her secret love?