“Nettie,” Sabrina said as she stood. “I’ve got to go. I think I know where to find the sword and diary.”
***
There was no wind in the marsh. At least, not down among the roots and mud. Above her head the top of the marsh grass fluttered in the sunny breeze, but among the rustling, scratchy stalks the air was green and stale.
“I know I’m going the right way,” Sabrina said, trying to convince herself. She trudged on through the stinking mud, slapping at bugs and watching as new battalions of the little beasties hummed their way toward her. Brown goop covered her legs well past her knees, and sweat glued her shirt to her back. It was the smell that was overwhelming, however, not the heat, the mosquitoes or even the creepy crawlies she kept seeing out of the corner of her eye. The smell of rotting vegetation, stagnant water and rich soil was almost overwhelming.
“Almost there, almost there.” She didn’t know that at all, but the words made her feel better, so she kept saying them. She heard a splashing, sliding noise off to her right. Alligator? She shivered and hurried on.
Just about when she had decided she was completely lost, and doomed to wander the marsh of Comico Island for the rest of her short, miserable life, she stumbled upon the small clearing holding the treasure tree.
“Thank goodness,” Sabrina gasped as she stumbled over to one of the rotting old bus seats and collapsed in a cloud of dust and gnats. She breathed heavily for several minutes, gazing around at the quiet clearing as her breathing slowly returned to normal.
“I made it!” For a woman who was convinced that her car moved itself every time she went into the grocery store, leaving her to wheel the grocery cart in futile pursuit, she was delighted with her accomplishment.
After she caught her breath, she stood up and walked to the far side of the clearing. She’d noticed the ground was freshly disturbed the first time she was here. At the time, she thought an animal had been digging in the clearing, but now she thought she knew what lay under the raw dirt.
She had been in such a hurry that she didn’t think to bring a shovel or a spade, so she started digging with her bare hands. She didn’t have long to dig. No more than a foot under the ground she struck the long hard shaft of the sword. Digging carefully, she uncovered the plastic bag lying under the sword.
Inside was a small, leather-bound book.
Sabrina took the book and sat back down on the bus seat, not even noticing the dust billowing around her.
Two pieces of paper were slipped within the pages of the book. Carefully, she extracted one and unfolded it, wincing as the ancient paper tore a little along where it had been folded.
It looked familiar. It didn’t take her long to recall where she had seen something like it. Over the mantle at the Tittletott House. This was also a deed to the island, dated 1716, which was four years earlier than the Tittletott’s deed.
And it was made out to Roland Thierry Wrightly.
Sabrina had heard the story from Lima. She knew that Roland Thierry Wrightly the First legally owned the island before it was given to Lord Tittletott when Wrightly was exposed as a pirate.
It was the letter folded up beside the deed that surprised her.
It was a letter to a real estate lawyer, from Rolo, asking the lawyer to review the enclosed information and give his opinion on whether the Wrightlys could lawfully reclaim their rightful property, namely, much of the land on Comico Island.
Chapter Twenty-five
It took her the rest of the night to decipher the story from the diary. The curlicue letters and the awkward language made the diary hard reading, but even when her eyes started drooping she wasn’t able to put the book down. Roland Thierry Wrightly the First started writing in the diary when he was sixteen, and while he wasn’t a consistent diarist, he was conscientious about writing whenever anything important happened in his life.
Sabrina read about the death of Roland’s father, and how the young man threw himself into learning his father’s commerce business. Roland increased his father’s small concern into a booming business with over ten ships. As he grew older, Roland began questioning the wisdom of importing everything from England, and switched his focus, at great cost, to selling within the colonies themselves, carrying tobacco and rice to New England and trading for meat and wheat. He met his wife, Sarah Campbell, a Scottish immigrant who came to America with her parents when she was a child.
Sabrina shook her head in bemusement, putting the diary down and fixing herself a cup of hot tea. For a notorious pirate with a reputation for viciousness, Roland Wrightly’s words were imbued with thoughtfulness. Though he didn’t dwell on his own kindness, he obliquely mentioned several occasions when he helped his less wealthy neighbors through a particularly hard winter, or after a summer storm. He loved his wife to distraction. He did not sound like a vicious, bloodthirsty pirate.
It wasn’t until near the end of the diary that the treacherous story began to unfold. Roland was awarded the deed to Comico Island as a token of the governor’s esteem. Roland was proud, and he took his new responsibilities very seriously.
A few years after that, reports of vicious pirate attacks began to appear more often in Roland’s diary. Roland was very concerned, as twice his ships were hit by Walk-the-Plank Jack, and he was heartbroken when all the men on the ships were killed. Finally, the governor appointed Lord Russell Tittletott, a retired admiral in the English navy, to hunt down the pirates.
Roland was impressed with Lord Tittletott’s progress as the retired admiral hunted down and brought to justice several less notorious pirates. They were friends, though Roland knew Tittletott resented the fact the governor had not deeded Comico Island to him instead of to Roland. As the months passed, and Walk-the-Plank Jack was still at large, Roland began having doubts about the man he had considered a friend. Small things: a fleeting glimpse Roland caught of the pirate ship which looked suspiciously like Lord Tittletott’s ship. And then, there was the cuckoo clock. It had hung on the wall of the captain’s cabin inside one of Roland’s ships. The ship was attacked, the cargo and several miscellaneous items including the cuckoo clock stolen, and all the crew killed. Roland Wrightly saw the cuckoo clock on the wall in Lord Tittletott’s house.
After confronting Tittletott about the clock and being genially rebuffed, Roland began to suspect he was being framed. Booty from a ransacked ship was found on his property on Comico Island. Authorities in different ports were tipped that some of his cargo may be illegal, which caused him inconvenience and time.
That was when Roland Wrightly gathered together a small fortune in gold and silver and buried it, drawing a small map in his diary to show where it was buried. He saw the end coming and wanted his wife and unborn child to be provided for.
A week later, Wrightly sailed out of Hurricane Harbor on his way to the West Indies on a routine trip.
There was no other entry from Roland Wrightly.
There was a short letter on the very last page, written by Sarah Campbell Wrightly to her son. By that time, Lord Tittletott had sailed triumphantly into Comico Harbor with Roland Wrightly’s ship, complete with stolen cargo and pirate flag as proof that Wrightly had been the infamous Walk-the-Plank Jack. The governor rewarded Lord Tittletott the title to Comico Island.
But a crew member, Cedric, who was on Roland Wrightly’s ship when it was attacked, managed to escape the drowning fate of his shipmates. And he recognized Lord Tittletott as the vile pirate who cut down Roland Wrightly and then forced the rest of the crew to walk the plank, one by one. Cedric clung to a piece of wood for three days before washing up on shore, after which he made his way back to Comico Island to tell Sarah what really happened to her husband.
In the letter, Sarah wrote that she was saving the diary and her husband’s sword—apparently it was an heirloom and not Roland’s everyday sword—as a legacy for his son, so he would know the truth about his father. She urged him to continue searching for his father’s treasure, as she wasn’t able to loca
te it. The map that Roland Thierry Wrightly the First had drawn was torn. The directions to the treasure tree were clearly discernible, but the other side of the map was indecipherable. Sarah wrote that the Tittletotts had grown too powerful for the Wrightlys to hope to challenge. She hoped succeeding generations would know the truth about their famous, maligned relative, and that sometime, when the time was right, a Wrightly could right the wrong.
Sabrina put down the diary and yawned. Calvin had fallen asleep a long time ago, and his little body twitched as he dreamed.
Was this diary a motive for murder? Would someone kill Rolo to keep him from revealing the truth behind the ancient story? If this diary could be used to prove that Lord Tittletott won the title to the island illegally, then it was just possible that all of the Tittletott island holdings could be questioned. That was a powerful motive for murder. What response had the real estate lawyer given to Rolo? And why were the diary and sword buried under the treasure tree?
Carrying the book with her, Sabrina climbed the steps to her room and lay down without even taking off her clothes. Tomorrow would be a long day. It was Halloween.
And Rolo’s funeral.
***
He had to come out sometime. He couldn’t stay in there forever.
Thierry shifted position and patted his pocket, feeling the reassuring lump of the pistol. The morning sun licked at the dew around his pants cuffs.
“Hiya Thierry, whatcha doing?” Wayland McCall hefted the crab trap he carried and nodded at Thierry.
“Hanging out,” Thierry said, and turned his head back toward the Tittletott House. He was conscious of Wayland’s gaze on him but Thierry ignored it. He never much liked Wayland anyway, ever since they were kids and Wayland turned them all in to his daddy for holding midnight races on the island ponies. As a matter of fact, he’d love to give Wayland a fist in the gut right now, that’s just the way he was feeling.
“Pshaw,” Thierry said, which was one of his dad’s favorite expressions before he went crazier than a Mitchell’s Day surfer. He shifted position against one of the posts holding up the pier.
The front door of the Tittletott House opened and Virginia came out onto the front porch with a water pitcher. She took so long watering the potted palms and picking off dead fronds that Thierry almost went up there and took the pitcher out of her hands and did it himself. The whole time he was worried she would see him over here and wonder what he was doing.
He never liked Virginia the way the rest of them did. She was good-looking if you liked a trim body and pretty face. No, Thierry wasn’t immune to a pretty face. But she was cold inside. Pure ice. Thierry liked a girl with a little more fire, like curvy Molly Lowry. Now she was something, though she wasn’t talking to him since she found out he wasn’t going to be the big shot president’s assistant like he told her he was going to be. She didn’t seem interested in just a plain old carpenter.
Virginia went back inside and Thierry shifted so he faced the house full on again.
“Thierry, you better get on home and get dressed for your brother’s funeral, you hear? You can’t go dressed like that, and it’s in two hours.”
Thierry scowled at Aunt Mary Garrison Tubbs. She was always looking down on him, like he smelled or something. She had always raved about his brother Rolo, and look at what he had gone and done. After Rolo left the island, Aunt Mary never said another word about Rolo, but it didn’t make her like Thierry any more.
“I’ll go when I’m good and ready,” he grumbled.
“What did you say? Speak up boy, you’re always mumbling.” She stopped in the middle of the street, oblivious of the car behind her. She tapped her foot, and glared at Thierry.
“I got something to do first,” Thierry said, a little louder.
“Well, see you get home soon. Your mama needs your help.” Aunt Mary stared at him a moment longer, trying to catch his eye, but Thierry acted like he was looking at an old work boat coming across the harbor. Was it Nick Teasley? Why, yes it was.
Aunt Mary snorted and marched on down the street. The car behind her roared past her, the driver making obscene gestures. Tourist.
Thierry resumed his watch of the Tittletott House, massaging the butt of the pistol in his coat. He had to come out sometime.
Thierry remembered not too long ago when he would have walked right inside like he belonged there. His mama always sniffed at him, like he was getting uppity because he was hanging out with Towners. But his mama had plenty of Towner friends, it was just the Tittletotts she hated. Well, hated was kinda strong. He couldn’t imagine his mother hating anybody. But Nettie and Elizabeth Garrison Tittletott had a long history. Nettie was the pretty one, from what Thierry heard, and Elizabeth the snobby one, with all the money behind her. Elizabeth was sweet on Dock when they were in school.
Thierry could almost recite the story by heart, Nettie had recounted it so many times. Dock had those dark Wrightly looks, and he was a smooth-talking, handsome young man. And he only had eyes for Nettie. They married the day after they both graduated from high school. Elizabeth Garrison eventually married CQ Tittletott, who was fifteen years older.
And that should have been that. But over the years, the two women kept up a rivalry that started in kindergarten. Thierry wondered if when he was old and wrinkled he would still hate Wayland McCall because Wayland finked on him when they were twelve years old.
Brad came out the front door of the Tittletott House. Thierry started and then turned away and pretended he was inspecting one of the boats tied up on the pier. Brad didn’t even look in his direction as he hurried down the street.
Thierry abandoned his pretense and ran after him. Brad was walking so fast Thierry almost lost him when he turned down Post Office Road.
“Don’t think you can lose me,” Thierry muttered, though he was pretty sure Brad hadn’t even noticed him. Wasn’t that just like a Tittletott? A couple of days ago, Brad acted like Thierry was his best friend. I’ll make you a director of refuse, Brad said. Just help me with the campaign, and I won’t forget about you when I’m in office.
And Thierry helped him. He’d admit it now, he was flattered when Brad started talking to him that night down at the Pub. Brad had just announced that he was running, and everybody was buying him drinks. They started talking, and the rest was history.
Brad never noticed him much when they were kids. Brad and Rolo were best friends, and they didn’t have much time for the “junior rats,” as Brad called Thierry and Gary.
Then Rolo went away and things changed. Lately, people looked at Thierry with respect because he was always with Brad, and wasn’t that a hoot!
But all that was over now. Thierry grasped the butt of the pistol and increased his speed. He wasn’t going to let him out of his sight.
Brad turned and ducked into the back of Tubb’s store. Thierry stopped, confused. What in the heck was he doing going in the back of Tubb’s?
Thierry found a nearby tree and leaned up against it. He could wait.
Brad had to come out sometime. He couldn’t stay in there forever.
And then Thierry would have him.
Chapter Twenty-six
If it wasn’t for the cast iron skillet, Sabrina wouldn’t have been late for Rolo Wrightly’s funeral.
Sabrina overslept that morning, and then she couldn’t decide what to wear. And then she felt a stabbing pain in her eye, and it had taken her almost fifteen minutes to look up her symptoms in her medical book. She ruled out entropion and a stye, and it was only a matter of time to see if acute glaucoma developed.
And then, she couldn’t find the cast iron skillet.
“STOP that!” Sabrina snapped at her tiny yellow companion.
“CHEEP cheep!” Calvin replied in perfect imitation of her tone. Calvin had taken to following Sabrina from room to room, wagging his head and imitating her agitated mumblings.
“Do you see the skillet?” Sabrina asked in exasperation, standing in her stockinged feet in her
best dark blue dress as she stared around the kitchen.
Calvin glanced around the kitchen and then back up at her face.
“I don’t either.” Sabrina sighed, and glanced at her watch again. Almost twelve.
If she knew why she was looking for the skillet she might have searched for the darned thing with a bit more patience. But Nettie didn’t explain when she called this morning and asked Sabrina to bring the skillet, the one she knew was in the house somewhere.
Calvin grew tired of her antics and pulled himself up onto his favorite windowsill where he nodded off. Sabrina started pulling out drawers and opening cabinets which she knew she’d already looked through.
Finally, she found the skillet in the living room, being used to catch water for a rampant fern.
Sabrina grabbed her hat and dashed for the door.
It was already twelve noon, and the streets were deserted. Closed signs were posted in all the shop windows, and the old boat dock was full of battered work boats which usually would have been out on the water this time of day. The island of Comico had turned out to mourn the passing of one its sons, no matter how wayward that son had been.
She heard the music as she neared the High Tide Baptist Church. For all the world, it sounded like a jazzy blues band playing “Love Me Tender.”
It was a jazzy blues band playing Elvis’s “Love Me Tender.” Led by Sondra Lane from Sweet Island Music on a keyboard, the four person band sat behind a wall at the front of the church and sweet-talked the strains of music from their various instruments. Judging from the misty smiles and nods of approval, the funeral-goers deemed this an entirely appropriate choice of music.
The church was packed with islanders wearing their best flannels and house dresses. Sabrina stood at the back of the church until Bicycle Bob, sitting on the edge of a pew, began subtly edging closer to the plump matron beside him, who edged against her husband to retreat from Bicycle. Soon the entire row of people was squishing, and Bicycle patted the seat beside him. Sabrina gratefully sat down, balancing the rusty skillet on her lap.
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