The Secret of Hailey's Comments

by Kristy Tate

  I wavered. She had a point. “You shouldn’t have bought that drawing of Pinkerton,” I blurted out. “Why did you?”

  “Is that what this little hissy fit is all about?” She stood up.

  My back stiffened and I turned away. “I don’t have hissy fits.”

  “Don’t be silly, darling. You’re quite well-known for your hissy fits.” She followed me into the living room.

  I wheeled toward her. “I’m not quite well known!”

  “Exactly. You’re not well known at all, which is why I bought that cat creature. I would like to buy more and show them to my contacts. You need exposure.”

  “I don’t want exposure!” My voice squeaked and my heart pounded. “I don’t want to be you!”

  Grammy returned to the kitchen, sat down at the table and picked up the bottle of pills. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence settled over us and was finally broken by the doorbell.

  Wyeth scrambled to his feet with a sharp bark. Grammy stood and hurried toward the bedroom. Ryan already? I looked at my watch. It had only been twenty minutes.

  “Go ahead, open the door. I’ll hide,” Grammy said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ned shifted on his crutches. He had beads of either rain or perspiration on his brow. I could tell his coming had taken a great deal of exertion by his labored breath. He leaned against the doorframe. “Thank goodness you’re still here,” he said, swiveling to watch a car turn down my drive.

  Ned studied the Mercedes then Ryan with narrowed eyes. Ryan had changed into a pair of well-fitting jeans and a Husky’s sweat shirt. He waved at us as he climbed from the car.

  Ned turned back to me, leaning forward so that our foreheads nearly touched. “Can I speak to you privately?” he whispered.

  I held the door open for Ned. He swung his crutches then his body into the room. “I’ll be just a minute,” I called to Ryan. Somewhere I knew that Grammy was watching him, taking note of the two men. I flushed, followed Ned into my library and closed the double doors behind us.

  Ned wheeled on his crutches and turned his Coke-bottle bottle lenses on me. “How well do you know him?” he whispered, jerking his head in Ryan’s direction.

  “Not very well,” I admitted.

  “Is he capable—” Ned swung on his crutches a tad closer. “Do you think he could be dangerous?”

  I looked at the door that separated us from Ryan. “Dangerous? You said the smear was chocolate. I saw you lick it!”

  “Ah, but I’m not allergic to nuts.” Ned nodded his head at me as I slowly sank down onto the sofa.

  The Elizabeth George novel that had been perched on the arm of the sofa slid onto my lap. I picked it up and set it on the table. “Anaphylactic shock?”

  Ned pulled the desk chair over and sat down directly opposite of me, his broken leg stuck out straight between us. “That candy had been made with nut oil.”

  “Emma?” Ryan called from beyond the library doors.

  Ned continued in his stage whisper. “Do you think that man…”

  I shook my head. “No. Why would he?” I thought of the commission. It was substantial, of course. “There are plenty of others with much more to gain and stronger motives. Wouldn’t Helen have had obvious symptoms like hives and swelling?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Ned raised his eyebrows at me and nodded his head toward the closed door. “I still wouldn’t spend any time alone with him, or anyone you don’t trust.”

  “We don’t even know if Helen Dunsmuir had been allergic to nuts. Was it peanuts? For all we know she may have eaten a Reese’s peanut butter cup every night.”

  “Call and find out,” Ned urged. “There’s no need for you to go back to that island.”

  A horrible thought occurred to me.

  “Emma?” Ryan called again, sounding less patient.

  I stood and opened the library door so he could see us. I threw him a look and Ned lifted a hand off his crutches for a small wave, but he didn’t smile.

  “I’m meeting Jeff at 7:20,” Ryan said, hands in pockets, rocking back and forth on the balls and heels of his feet.

  I turned back to Ned. “Could Brazil nut oil be dangerous?”

  Ned nodded. “Of course, if you’re allergic. In fact, the Brazil nut is known as one of the world's most radioactive foods due to the tree's accumulation of radium from the soil. It’s thought that the concentration of radium in the Brazil nut is 1,000 times higher than in other foods.”

  Ryan gave me a puzzled look. “What’s the nuts?”

  “A better question is who’s the nut,” I said hurrying to my bedroom. I found a bag on my bed. Gram had filled it with pajamas, more underwear from Cleo’s Closet, and toiletries. On top was a collection of letters from Gram’s Royal Loyals. I shoved the letters under my pajamas, before changing into warmer, dryer clothes. I took my bag and jacket out to the two men.

  “Can you find out what this is?” I asked Ned, showing him the oil spot on my jacket . “I think I know, but I hope I’m wrong.” I turned to Ryan. “We need to go. I can explain on the way. It might still be nothing.” I started toward the car. Wyeth followed, but I grabbed his collar and handed him to a stunned Ned.

  “Wait!” Ned tried to move his crutches but was seriously handicapped by Wyeth who barked in protest. “Why go? Why not just call the police?”

  “If I’m wrong then I don’t want the police involved,” I called over my shoulder. I opened the Mercedes’ back door and threw in my bag. “You do the analysis. If it is Brazil nut oil, call Lucy and Frank Morgan on Lister Island then call the police.”

  We got in the car, and as we pulled away I could see Grammy watching me from the kitchen window.

  #

  “Brazilian nut oil, huh?” Ryan’s face looked grim. I could tell he was going as fast as he could in the rain. The late Saturday afternoon the traffic was mild, and Ryan deftly weaved the Mercedes between a FedEx truck and blue-haired lady driving a Saturn. The wet pavement glistened with drizzle and reflected taillights.

  My stomach rumbled. Ryan reached beneath his seat and pulled out a white bag tied with a red ribbon. I looked him questioningly before opening it. He smiled and looked smug. The bag was full of Lindor chocolate balls.

  “My favorite,” I murmured.

  “I tried to find the mint balls, but the store was out.” He kept his eyes on the open road, his gaze straight ahead and his expression unreadable. “You had a jar of them at your desk at the academy, and I saw you eating one almost every time you left the gym.”

  I unwrapped the truffle and popped it in my mouth. “You watched me leave the gym?” I asked, trying to not drool as I spoke with the ball in my mouth.

  He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “I’m surprised you noticed.”

  His smile faded and he looked over at me. “I’m surprised you noticed Brazil nut oil in a bag of trash.” Inside Ryan’s car I felt warm and safe. Beyond the windows was a wet world with dark forests, misty islands, and poisoned chocolates.

  “Do you think I ate the murder weapon?” I said, unwrapping another Lindor truffle and looking it over.

  “You ate the chocolate. The nut oil will be the clincher. How’d you recognize it?” Ryan looked over at me, flexing his fingers around the wheel.

  “I took a class at the art institute where we made our own paints from natural sources, and we used Brazil nut oil. When I spent the night in James’ tent, I found a broken bottle of oil in his trash. The smell reminded of something from somewhere else, do you know what I mean? It was like seeing you at the gym; you didn’t belong there and at the academy. It’s like seeing a surfboard in the desert, or a bag of flour in a vegetable garden. It’s not bad, but it’s just not right. It’s out of the natural order of associated things.”

  “The natural order of associated things,” Ryan repeated. He looked at me and grinned. “I love your lingo.”

  “My what?”

  “Your lingo, phraseology. Who else uses s
entences like ‘the natural order of associated things?’” His smiled widened. “Except, of course, Hailey Clements.”

  I didn’t smile. “Don’t change the subject.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe we should tell Artie first.”

  Ryan’s mouth turned into a straight line. “You’re not telling anyone anything. Besides, what if she tips off James?”

  I ignored his authoritative directive. “Tips off? Is that Law and Order phraseology?”

  He shook his head. “I’m more of a Columbo guy.” Ryan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and changed his tone. “Why are you coming? It’s not safe for Wyeth, but it’s safe for you?”

  I watched the white lines on the freeway slide past. He was right, I was potentially putting myself in the path of danger. But I felt compelled to solve this mystery. “We don’t even know if she had allergies—” I began slowly.

  Ryan interrupted, “Call and ask.”

  “Who?”

  “Lucy, of course.”

  I twiddled Ryan’s phone between my fingers. “The only place on the island that gets cell service is the Jensons, remember? I can’t call them.”

  “Because they’re on your suspect list?”

  I gave him a hard look and then looked out the window. “Right now, James tops the list. But honestly, isn’t it all far-fetched? If Helen was allergic to Brazil nut oil, why would James, or someone staying in James’ tent, leave the oil for me to find?”

  “It wasn’t left for you to find. You weren’t supposed to be on Otter’s Play Yard rooting for something to eat. Call Artie.”

  “I can’t. She’s so in love with him. It’ll break her heart.”

  “Better now than when she’s in Africa.” Ryan took his eyes off the freeway to give me a don’t-argue-with-me look. “You should know I’m only bringing you as far as the terminal. From there I want you to get in your car and go home.”

  Our eyes locked. I remembered Grammy’s hissy fit comment and felt a renewed swell of anger. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  Ryan’s eyes shifted back to the freeway. “You’re right. But I can throw you out of my car.”

  “In the rain? You can’t be serious. Besides, why do you get to go and I have to be left behind with the dog?”

  Ryan grip tightened on the steering wheel. “I don’t ‘get to’ go. I have a business transaction.”

  “With a potential killer. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Is this a question for Hailey’s Comments? Why don’t we call and ask her opinion on your going to an island with a murderer.”

  “Feel free to write her.”

  “I’m talking to you.”

  “Maybe we should just not talk.” I turned my head and looked out the window.

  “Emma—”

  “Even if the police don’t find anything linking James and the Brazil nut oil to Helen’s death, I have to warn Artie.”

  “Do you think she’ll listen? Can’t you warn her from the mainland?”

  He was right, of course, but since I didn’t want to hear his reasoning, I said, “Remember, we’re not talking.”

  I continued to stare out the window, watching the rain stream horizontally across the glass. The silence in the car grew heavy. I allowed myself to look at Ryan once, but he just watched the freeway with a scowl. I knew he wouldn’t pull over and physically remove me from his car. Just like he probably knew I wouldn’t be left behind.

  #

  I huddled against the thin metal side of Jeff’s party boat and watched the sun sink on the Sound’s horizon and the gray islands slide past. The boat moved snail-like across the water. The thin rain gathered on top the canvas bimini and fell on the plastic floor. Puddles of water sloshed across the boat.

  Ryan’s normally affable features had turned hard. His jaw was set, and his eyes squinted against the spray of the Sound. He was almost unrecognizable from the man who spent afternoons flirting with the tennis-skirted women. He caught my eye briefly before turning his attention back to the water, his expression indecipherable. What was he thinking?

  I hoped that Helen Dunsmuir didn’t have a nut allergy. I hoped that she had downed daily masses of peanut butter and cashews. I hoped that I didn’t have to tell Artie about my suspicious run-in with Brazil nut oil, but I couldn’t think of a logical reason for James to have it. Brazil nut oil just doesn’t belong in the same sentence with tents, camp stoves, or latrines. It defied that “natural order of associated things.”

  I watched Jeff drive the boat. He had the corner of his lip between his teeth, one white knuckled hand gripping the wheel, the other braced against the boat’s frame.

  The wind whipped around the jacket Ryan had lent me. The sleeves hung down over my hands, and I could sit on its length. I felt safe and warm in his jacket and with him, even though I barely knew him. His anger with me was almost palpable, and I didn’t like it at all.

  We rounded a corner and the dock that jutted off Lucy and Frank’s property came into view. The lights from their home cast long streaks of gold across the dark water. They must have heard our approach, because Frank, Lucy, and someone else emerged from the back door.

  “A welcoming party,” Jeff said, breaking the silence.

  He slowed the engine, and we puttered into the landing. I recognized Pastor Grayson as the group leader. We reached the dock and I pulled Ryan’s jacket tight and nodded toward Pastor Grayson. “He has his gun drawn,” I said.

  Jeff looked at me so sharply he forgot to watch the approaching dock. The boat and dock collided. Cold water splashed over our feet, and I began to shake even before Pastor Grayson spoke.

  The pastor stood on the shore in the dying light. His collar looked bright against his dark shirt. The breeze played with his graying comb-over, but his grim face didn’t match his hair’s happy dance. Frank and Lucy also looked somber.

  Pastor Grayson held a broken pair of green, wire rim glasses in his palm. “Do you recognize these?”

  Ryan, who had managed to help Jeff dock the boat, came to wrap a protective arm around my shoulders. His body felt comforting and solid beside me, yet I couldn’t stop shaking.

  “Emma Clements,” Pastor Grayson said, taking a step forward, “you’re under arrest.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I sat on one corner of the lemon-colored sofa, a fat tabby sat on the other. The tabby refused to make eye contact, and his tail twitched his displeasure. Across from us, Miss LaRue swayed in her ladder-back rocker, her knitting needles clicking a staccato. A rag rug lay under our feet. Bookshelves ran floor to ceiling along three walls. A picture window sat above the sofa and a wood burning stove with a collection of logs stacked beside it stood in the corner. The meticulous room smelled mildewy. I sneezed and wondered what poor soul had to dust the books. Some looked as old as the island.

  Outside a full moon rose inch by inch over the trees, and one by one the stars appeared. I couldn’t believe they meant to keep me here over night. I tried a different tactic. “This is kidnapping.”

  Miss LaRue gave me a hostile look but her clicking needles didn’t slow. “I assure you, Pastor Grayson has full police powers.” She pressed her lips into a tight line and focused her bifocals on her needles.

  I sighed. “Those are my glasses he found, but I didn’t hide the painting in the tunnel. I saw Phil Henderson hide the painting. I told Artie and James that.”

  Miss LaRue shook her steel gray curls at me. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the case,” she said primly. Who would make an eighty-year-old, hundred-pound hunchback a jail keeper? I could overpower her and outrun her. I sneezed again. As if she could read my thoughts, Miss LaRue removed the afghan from her lap, shuffled over to the stove and tossed in a log the size of warthog with one hand. She shuffled back to her chair and resumed knitting.

  The fire radiated heat, but I couldn’t get warm, and I refused to use the pillow and blanket that were given to me. The cat blinked at me, and I gave him a dirty look.

  I
woke shortly after 3:00 a.m. with a cricked neck and the tabby curled at my side. Miss LaRue had abandoned her rocker and knitting. The needles pierced a fat blue ball of yarn. I quietly edged off the sofa and went to check the door. It was padlocked. The windows were also secure. I could have broken the glass, but I didn’t think it would do me much good. I was on an island, and I wasn’t going to steal a boat or swim to the mainland. I hadn’t done anything wrong so far, and I wasn’t going to start now. I sat back down and wondered how long they could legally hold me. I thought of calling Grammy and heralding Harold. They would come with both guns blasting. I would call in the morning.

  I stood back up and the tabby opened one eye. He stretched a paw toward me, but I didn’t stay on the couch. Instead I inspected the books. I had to hold them up one at a time to the dim moonlight streaming through the window to read the titles and settled on Meet the Lister Islanders, copyright 1969.

  Since the tabby had the best spot of moonshine, I pushed him off and sat down with the photography book. The cat walked away with his tail held high. I worried that he’d climb the stairs to Miss LaRue’s room and tattle on me, but he held his peace and settled into the yarn basket.

  I pulled the still folded blanket over my legs and held the book up to the moonlight. The town square looked about the same.

  A Memorial Day picnic photograph showed a handful of uniformed Veteran’s of Foreign Wars gathered around a flagpole. I scanned the photos and captions looking for the Dunsmuirs. I found Henry standing beside Phil Henderson’s father. Henry had his hand on the groundskeeper’s shoulder and both men were smiling.

  I searched the photographs and captions for Mrs. Henderson. I scanned the women in their straight pants and geometric and flowery print patterns on smocks and ribbed blouses. The men wore Fred Rogers cardigans and Father Knows Best button downs. I couldn’t find Nelly.

  My hand froze mid page. There was a young Lucy and Frank. Lucy wore hippie beads, clogs, and a top that didn’t cover her bare midriff. Frank, barely recognizable beneath a beard, had his eyes partially closed. They were laughing and leaning against each other. Frank looked down at Lucy with devotion and love, and Lucy had her eyes focused on someone beyond the photo. Maybe that’s how love is. One devoted, the other looking away. Maybe couples didn’t love equally, because they couldn’t. Individual emotions vary so wildly. My thoughts turned to my own parents and a shadow fell across the page of my book. I blinked, but the shadow remained.