Winnie's Web

  “I’m sorry, Myrtle.” I touched her hand softly.

  She wiped at her eyes with the other hand. “So am I. He was a fine man. Just not a particularly strong one.”

  I didn’t ask her how he had died. That would have been too much for her, and I had other ways of finding that out.

  After I left Myrtle, I found Winston and drove straight to the ferry. Ned greeted me with his usual cockeyed grin.

  “Things getting any better, Jenny?”

  “Actually, I think so.” Outside of my disappointment in Seth, I was feeling a lot more welcome on my island that had progressed from tiny to small.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Ned gave me the directions I needed and I found my way to the only mental health institution on Gael Island. It was seventy-five years old, definitely the place where Jeffrey Ormsby had spent his final years.

  They forced me to show them my private investigator’s license before they would give me the answer I was looking for. I wasn’t surprised. I think a part of me must have known. Suicide. He had used his bed sheet to hang himself. It was still painful for Myrtle to think about. In her mind, it meant that he wanted to leave her. But I would have bet that it had nothing to do with her, that it was the pain inside that he was trying to escape.

  I sat in the middle of the garden on a bench, watching the residents of this mental institution. Wasn’t that why they were all here, trying to escape something?

  Those of us who do survive the outside world, do so for one reason. We feel supported enough to face the challenges of everyday life and the challenges of the choices and decisions we make on a moment to moment basis. Those who don’t survive, aren’t necessarily weaker, I decided. Perhaps their challenges are greater. Or perhaps they have separated themselves from their true source and no longer feel supported and loved.

  I laughed at myself. A pretty simplistic explanation for all mental illness. But it worked for me

  A walk on the beach, I decided. Despite the drizzle and the fog, right now I needed fresh air and the scent of salt water.

  I found him in his favorite spot. He too had escaped the inner turmoil by shutting down his memory. I was standing on the beach with him. His nurse had left us alone, grateful for a chance to take a walk. She trusted me. Besides, he was more lucid than usual today, not frantically running about chasing waves or mumbling, “not a fly.”

  “Tell me what happened, Martin,” I said softly.

  He was staring at the photograph I had pulled from my purse, of himself and his wife, Antonia, and his friends.

  “What happened,” he repeated.

  “To Maggie and George.”

  It was as though I had struck him with a lightning bolt. His eyes widened and he stood up straight as though his memory had returned.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t hurt a fly, you know.”

  Ah, so that was the reference to a fly.

  “I know that,” I assured him. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “An accident.”

  “Why didn’t you explain that to the police?”

  “Couldn’t. Wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Why not? George was your best friend.”

  He nodded. “Like brothers.”

  “They would have believed you.”

  “No.” He stepped closer to the water, letting the waves wash the edges of his boots. For a moment I thought I had lost him again.

  “You loved each other.”

  “Yes, and we both loved the same woman.”

  So George Ewell had loved Maggie. The question was, had he been unfaithful to his wife?

  “How did it happen?” I asked.

  “What happen?”

  “How did George die?”

  “George die.” He was slipping away. But at least I’d found my answer. One of them anyway.

  I held the other picture up for him, the picture of a young woman who had captivated so many hearts and wreaked havoc on a tiny island so many years ago. “What happened to Maggie, Martin? Did she drive off the cliff in George’s car?”

  His eyes glazed over as he stared at the photograph. He muttered some unintelligible words. And then he was gone, back to chasing waves and muttering to himself. The safe haven of a lost memory.

  * * *

  I held the photograph of the two couples in my hand.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked.

  “From my aunt’s album.”

  “I thought you didn’t have any from that time period.”

  “I found some more. It’s George and Lilly Ewell with your parents, isn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “Why didn’t you really want me to know he was your father, Seth?”

  He shrugged and continued his lie. “I was embarrassed, I guess.”

  I shook my head and looked up at him. His blue eyes weren’t so bright anymore. I would forever be leery of blue-eyed men.

  “The truth, Seth. You can trust me with the truth.” That was what it was, after all. “The truth is—” He couldn’t say it. He didn’t trust me with the truth.

  “Your father killed his best friend.”

  He turned pale and leaned back against his desk in a gesture of defeat. “How did you figure it out?”

  “He told me.”

  “The General told you?”

  “I believe there’s a metaphysical reason for every physical illness. Alzheimer’s has to do with refusal to deal with the world as it is. I figured it was something pretty big that he didn’t want to deal with.”

  “But how did you figure—? And how did you figure out that he’s my father?”

  I shook the photograph in my hand. “He looked very familiar. The jaw line gave it away actually, it’s just like yours. And of course, hearing your voices on the beach the other day. They’re so similar. And then I guess it started stirring in my subconscious that these four were such good friends.” I looked down at the photograph. “Do you know what happened?”

  “Not really. Just guessed.”

  “When?”

  “When he started to go downhill. It was after my mother died. He’d walk around muttering things about George and some woman.”

  “Maggie?”

  “Yes, Maggie. I think they both loved her and had a fight over her or something. Did he tell you?”

  “Only that it was an accident. I asked him why he didn’t just report it. He said they wouldn’t believe him because they both loved the same woman.”

  Seth nodded as though this made perfect sense. “And maybe he was trying to protect their wives too.”

  “Yes, and now you’re trying to protect him.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Is that why you hid the microfiche, Seth?”

  He looked up at me. “What?”

  “You faked the break in and hid the microfiche so I wouldn’t see it.”

  His chest caved and he refused to look at me. “How did you know?”

  My eyes blurred as they looked around the newspaper office. For a moment I was in another time, a time when a young man worked alongside the man he most loved and admired, his father.

  I took a deep breath and brought myself back to the present. “That one was a guess. You were the one who didn’t want me to figure out what happened. What was on that microfiche?”

  “Not a lot, but enough to lead you to my father.”

  “Any mention of Maggie?”

  “Yes. The first batch was about her arrival on the island. The later stories were speculation on what had happened. The consensus seemed to be that she and George Ewell were running off together and drove off the cliff in the fog.”

  “Why would you worry that I’d trace it to your father?”

  “Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, you never assume the obvious. You would have read all the other stuff that talked about Martin and Antonia Williams mourning the loss of their friend and comforting his widow. You w
ould have wanted to interview them. You would have asked me questions. You would have tracked down my father.”

  He was right. If I was half the detective I liked to believe I was, I would have done exactly that. “And you didn’t want me anywhere near your father.”

  “I’m sorry, Jenny. I feel sick about lying to you, or misleading you. I just wanted to protect him. He’s suffered enough.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then you understand.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  He reached out a hand. I didn’t take it.

  “Do you think maybe we can pick up where we left off?”

  I took a step backwards. “No, Seth.”

  “But if you understand where I was coming from.”

  “I understand that. But it’s about trust. Rather lack of trust.”

  What hurt me the most, I think, was that he didn’t know that about me, that I too knew Martin Williams had suffered enough. He didn’t trust me to realize that his mind’s imprisonment was his way of punishing himself.

  Chapter 25

  It was over. I called Charlie that evening.

  “Now you can come down to Seattle for a long visit.”

  “Soon.”

  “Uh oh, I hear some hesitation there, darlin’.”

  “No, I’m just—”

  “Not sure the case is really closed?”

  “No, I’m sure of that, Charlie.”

  “So, why the hesitation?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because Seattle is where Joe lives.”

  “You don’t have to see him.”

  “No, but I think about him.”

  “Isn’t it time you closed that case as well?”

  I exhaled and looked up at the fire glowing in my fireplace. “I’ll be down in the next day or two.”

  I hung up feeling a sense of relief. I would call Meredith tomorrow to make sure we could get in at least one lunch and a pottery session together. And Matthew, of course, would meet Charlie and me at the pub. I hadn’t thought to ask Charlie if MacGregor was in town, but I would find that out soon enough.

  But the longer I sat in front of my fire in my cozy cottage, the more I realized I wouldn’t be going to Seattle in the next couple days. Maybe a couple of weeks, but right now, I needed to stay here, now that I finally felt at home.

  * * *

  I walked into the bookstore before Max had even turned over the closed sign. He took a step back when he saw me.

  “What is it, Jenny? What do you want now?”

  “To tell you something.”

  “What?” Suddenly I could see that young boy in his face. The meek, young artist who believed that the only way his life would go well was if he owned a lighthouse.

  “Two things, actually. First of all, it’s time you let go of this lighthouse myth. Losing the lighthouse is not to blame for a failed marriage. And it’s time to focus on what wonderful things you do have in your life—this island, this bookstore, and your beautiful daughter.”

  He was more than a little bit startled. Good. He had heard me.

  “Now that we have that straight, the second thing is, I would appreciate it very much if you continued to look after the lighthouse. Actually, if you’d like, you can consider it your personal artist’s loft.”

  The glow in his eyes was followed by tears. “After I’ve been sneaking up there for all these years? And the way I felt about your aunt?”

  “As my aunt would say, it’s none of her business how you felt about her.” Because it really had nothing to do with her.

  He grabbed me and hugged me. It was an awkward gesture, no doubt an infrequent one.

  “I think Roxie could use a few of those,” I told him.

  He was wiping his eyes as he stepped away from me. “Thank you, Jenny. Thank you.”

  “Let me know when you want to move your supplies in. Sasha and I can give you a hand.”

  One more thing resolved. I was on my way to feeling a part of this odd island community. There was only one person to whom it would take a while to reconnect. I didn’t know if I ever would. But I would learn to live with him on the same island. As those thoughts ran through my mind, I glanced in the window of his newspaper office. He looked up at me. We both knew we would not be having dinner together.

  * * *

  Alistair came by the following morning. He was leaving the island.

  “I think it’s time.”

  “Where will you go, Alistair?”

  “Probably back to Scotland. I have lifelong friends there.”

  I knew how precious that was. I had one of those. Caroline. My friend from kindergarten who had moved to Ojai, California a little over a year ago.

  I looked up at the photograph I had framed and placed in the center of my mantel. Winnie and Maggie. They too would have been lifelong friends, I suspected, had Maggie lived a lifetime.

  “How close were they?” I asked Alistair.

  He followed my gaze. “Despite how different they were, very close. Winnie looked after Maggie. She never judged her.”

  “But Winnie was closer to her sister Nellie, right?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m puzzled. Winnie never mentioned Maggie in her diaries. Why?”

  “Maybe she didn’t like talking about people.”

  I laughed. “True. But she did mention you.”

  “She was bursting with feelings for me and couldn’t contain herself.” He was blushing and chuckling at the same time, but I suspected he was right.

  “But Alistair, she didn’t even mention Maggie going over the cliff, dying. How could she not have written about that?”

  “Maybe she didn’t know that’s what happened to her.”

  “Surely there must have been plenty of talk around the island.”

  “You said she left for a month, remember?” He looked down at his clasped hands. “After I left.”

  “But I can’t imagine the gossip stopping after a month.” Just one more thing I would never understand.

  After I hugged Alistair good-bye, I brewed some fresh tea and curled up on my couch. The diaries and hat boxes were still covering my coffee table. Tomorrow I would put them away. It was time.

  All the same, I picked up Maggie’s diary, one last time.

  May 6, 1955

  What shall I do? How could I have let it go this far? I am an ingrate. Who can help me now?

  I cannot endure this fighting any longer. I am destroying a lifelong friendship. I must leave this island. But how, now that— Where shall I go?

  I still was not certain whose lifelong friendship she was destroying. Hers and Winnie’s or George and Martin’s. Perhaps both.

  Maybe that was why Winnie did not write of Maggie’s death. Perhaps she and Maggie had parted ways before that. But that was not like Winnie. She would not judge Maggie. Nor would she abandon her.

  And Nellie, what of Nellie? Surely she and Winnie would have remained friends. I turned my attention to the letters. The one from Nellie asking Winnie to help Maggie.

  I turned over the envelope. There it was in plain letters. N. MacBride. Was that her married name or her maiden name? It didn’t matter. Charlie would track her down either way. If Nellie MacBride was still alive, I could give her Winnie’s portrait of her sister and her sister’s diary of her time on the island, her final diary. And perhaps she could give me some answers.

  Perhaps I would be going to Seattle sooner than I had expected after all.

  * * *

  “So many regrets. So many.”

  “You know what Winnie would say about that. Life and regret are incompatible.”

  She laughed, her wrinkled face beaming with memories of her friend. “Oh yes, I do remember hearing her say those very words.”

  “Tell me. Did you ever see Winnie again?”

  Her blue eyes that had faded with age became sad. “Never. That is what I regret—what makes me most sad.”

  “More tea, Ms. MacBride?” Ch
arlie asked as he lifted the teapot to pour.

  I glanced at the clock on Charlie’s mantel. “I think we’d better be going.” I stood up and waited for her to do the same, but she sat there in the comfort of Charlie’s overstuffed couch.

  “After all these years—going to Winnie’s precious island.”

  “I’ll be with you.”

  “Yes,” She looked up at me and smiled.

  We drove to the ferry. There were not a lot of passengers today. I was glad for the quiet, and so, I suspected, was she.

  We found a table in the cafe where we sat and talked and sipped our tea and nibbled on our scones.

  “There’s something else I’d really like to know,” I said.

  “What is that, dear?”

  “Why is it my aunt never wrote about you in any of her diaries? Not once did she mention your name.”

  “Oh!” Her hand covered her mouth.

  “What is it?”

  “Your question. For some reason it took me back to that time. It felt as though it were just a few days ago.”

  “You know why she didn’t write about you?”

  “Oh, yes. I know very well. You see, dear, I was a rather selfish young girl. I was very flighty, but your aunt loved me despite that. When I saw her writing in her diary one time—after we had had an exchange of words—I accused her of writing about me. She said she wasn’t. I broke down crying and pleaded with her to never write about me. I couldn’t bear to think she would say something about me—even to herself!”

  There were tears in her eyes. I patted her mottled hand. “It’s okay, Maggie. It’s really okay.”

  “I still feel bad for how I affected Winnie’s life. Not only did some of the islanders turn against her because of me, but I stopped her from writing whatever she wanted to write.”

  “You know Winnie did not gossip. Even to herself.”

  “Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time to forgive yourself?”

  “But a man died because of me. How do I ever forgive myself for that?”

  “A man died because he and another man were arguing and got into a fight, and during that fight, he fell and hit his head on a rock.”

  “Yes, but—”

  I looked at her with a single raised eyebrow and she smiled.