“And they actually tried to stone her?”
Hettie nodded. “It’s true. Hiram, the do-gooder, found her and her son in dire circumstances. He managed to get them out of the camp and used his influence to obtain visas. He took them with him to Europe and I guess the rest is history. And, now, she’s Mrs. Levine.”
“And her boy?”
“He’s here, too. Nice-looking kid, about eleven or twelve years old. Smart as a whip, I hear.”
“What about his father, her first husband?”
“No one really knows. Perhaps he’s dead.”
“And what do the Palmers and Morrisons think about these new additions to our island community?”
“Oh, Nancy’s nose is out of joint, to be sure, but isn’t it always? And, as usual, the Morrisons are tight-lipped. Who knows what they’re thinking.”
We chatted a few minutes more, but were interrupted by Raoul, who insisted we come back inside and join the rest of the guests.
“Oh, bother,” said Hettie. “I guess you’re right.”
“Of course, I am,” countered Raoul. “Kate, bring your father and young man inside immediately. We will be sitting down to dinner soon.”
At the table, Jeremy and I sat opposite the Levines. Dinner was an elaborate affair and talk was lively. I tried to probe Jeremy a bit about his time in the Navy, but he refused to elaborate. I could see he was becoming irritated by my curiosity, so I decided to wait until we were alone to once again broach the subject.
I got a chance to ask Hiram about the Internet and he advised that repair work on the cable would be completed by tomorrow or the next day. This was greeted with a round of applause by all and an “if looks could kill” glare from Nancy.
We were all enjoying an after-dinner sorbet when I decided to advance a subject that was preying on my mind.
“I’ve been reading a book I found that’s about the history of Storm Island.”
“What book is that?” asked Nancy.
“It’s called The Witches of Storm Island,” I replied. “And it traces the history of a group of women who fled Massachusetts to avoid persecution. It begins when the group colonized Storm and follows them through to their eventual arrest and subsequent execution.”
Atirah Levine leaned forward, her eyes drilling into me. “Tell us about it,” she commanded.
“Well, if the facts in the book are true, sometime after the Salem witch trials, a group of Wiccans, or wise women, and their families decided it wasn’t safe to live in Massachusetts or anywhere in New England any longer. They were led by a woman named Maude Pritchard, a widow. Together, these folks pooled their belongings and journeyed to the islands off the coast of Maine, many of which were uninhabited. When they got here, they decided to make Storm their new home.
“Once on the island, they divided themselves into four distinct groups and each group was assigned land on one of the four compass points to settle and build their farms.”
“Why the compass points?” asked Mary Morrison.
“According to this book, it was Celtic tradition. The points represented the four basic elements … earth, fire, air, and water.”
Mary nodded as if this made eminent sense. “Go on….”
“Well, they lived on Storm for about five years and prospered. The men of the tribe fished the local waters. But it was the women’s work that brought in most of their income. You see, they farmed … medicinal herbs, mainly … and, after the harvest, they dried them and sent them back to the mainland for sale. Apparently, during this era, doctors and midwives were few and far between, so many folks had to rely on natural remedies to ease childbirth and treat illnesses.
“As you might expect, the Puritans were not happy about this and believed that the women of Storm were practicing witchcraft and Satanism. They railed about this in sermons and at town halls until, finally, the government felt it had to take action.”
“What happened then?” asked the usually reticent Hector Palmer, surprising everyone.
“Well, first, they complied a list of the women who had absconded with Maude Prichard and, bringing along the local militia, sailed to Storm. Once they got here, they rounded up all those on their list, along with their spouses and offspring. A mock trial was held and all were found guilty of witchcraft. After that, some of the women were crucified.”
“How horrid!” exclaimed Mary Morrison.
“Yes, it was. But those women were the lucky ones … most of them lived. The others were burnt at the stake.”
“How terrible,” added Hettie. “And what happened to the Prichard woman? Was she killed?”
“Curiously, Maude Prichard was not among those crucified or burnt. Try as they might, the militia and clergy couldn’t find her … she had simply disappeared. And, that, my friends, is the dark history of Storm Island according to this book, and I’m wondering if any of you know anything more about this or can vouch for the veracity of this account.”
Hiram Levine chuckled. “I don’t know much more about the witches than what you’ve just described. It was a pretty harrowing time to be alive, I’m sure. But what about the bootleggers? Has anyone enlightened you about Storm’s involvement in that industry?”
“Bootleggers?”
“Yes, bootleggers, rum runners. In the early nineteen twenties, four of the New York crime families came to Storm. They purchased the island and built summer homes on the four compass points. Why they chose those locations is a mystery, but I don’t think it had anything to do with the Celts. It was probably because of the views or something like that. In any case, one of the families, I think it was the Rossettis, built this house, Stormview. Of course, it’s undergone modifications over the years, but the basic structure was built with laundered money.”
“Mobsters building summer homes,” I mused. “Not strictly right out of The Godfather, is it?”
Hiram laughed. “Yeah, they built summer homes, but Storm was not just a place to come for vacation. No, it became the port of call for bootlegged liquor smuggled into the United States from Europe and other places. That’s why they really invested in the island.”
“But wouldn’t the Feds have caught on? I mean, four crime families suspected of smuggling liquor, buying an island? Doesn’t that seem a little obvious to you?”
“Yes, it does, my dear, and the families anticipated that. So, before they built their homes, they constructed a huge labyrinth beneath the surface of the island … a maze of tunnels, all interconnecting and leading to the wharf where the liquor was off-loaded. Cases of booze would be transported through the tunnels to storage rooms beneath the ground where they would await transport to the mainland for distribution.”
I leaned back in my chair, amazed. A labyrinth of tunnels beneath the surface of Storm! Could one of them lead to the little stone silo? I recalled the third and fourth couplets of the summer poem,
But lower your eyes to the earth below,
For there the mother waits.
And you may find an open door,
That might decide your fate.
Yes, it made sense. But how to find the tunnel?
I turned my attention back to Hiram, who was still talking about the bootleggers and how they transported the liquor.
“Hiram,” I interrupted. “About the tunnels. Are they still there? Does anyone use them?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure some of them have caved in over the years.”
“Was there ever a map of them?”
“Could be, but I’ve never seen one.”
He turned in his chair toward Terrance Morrison, who was sitting at the far end of the table with his wife, Mary.
“Hey, Terry,” he called. “When your house burned down in the fifties, did they find any of the tunnels?”
Terrance Morrison looked at him with distaste. “No, I don’t believe so,” he said tersely. “In any case, I wasn’t here. But I’m sure the contractor would have said something if he’d found any.”
“The
tunnels led to the houses?” I asked.
Hiram nodded. “Some of them did. The families also used this place for meetings of America’s crime bosses and it was useful to have a place to hide should the Feds show up.”
“Interesting,” I mused. “Well, what happened? How did Storm pass out of their hands?”
Hiram giggled. “They all got arrested, my dear, and sold off their holdings. I think, and correct me if I’m wrong, Nancy, the Palmers were the first to purchase.”
I glanced down the table at Nancy Palmer, who nodded slightly in response.
“And, over the years, my family and the Morrisons bought in. Your family, Katy, were the last.”
I turned to Jeremy. “Do you know anything about these tunnels?”
He smiled. “A little. We wanted to hunt for them when I was a kid, but our parents always warned us off. Told us they would collapse on us and we’d be buried alive and stuff like that. I think my uncle did some research into them, though.”
“You mean, Sloane?” I asked.
“Yeah. Like I told you. He was always interested in the history of the island.”
Our conversation was interrupted when Raoul pushed his chair back and stood.
“Shall we adjourn to the great room,” he asked, “for after dinner drinks and cigars?”
He walked around to the foot of the table and helped Hettie from her chair as the rest of us similarly left our seats.
The party broke up shortly thereafter and Jeremy and I said our goodbyes and walked down the path home.
The Imaginary Silo
IT WAS A beautiful, clear night and we strolled slowly down the path. When we got to the carriage house, Jeremy lit a fire while I changed from my fancy duds into a pair of sweats and my robe.
“Do you think your uncle really knows about those tunnels?” I asked when I joined Jeremy in the living room.
“He might. Why? Do you think they’re significant in some way?”
“Yes, I do. You remember I told you the little stone turret had no entry that I could find. Maybe the only way inside is from below – through one of the tunnels.”
Jeremy frowned. “That imaginary building again?”
“Listen,” I said. “I know it sounds crazy, but the silo is there. I’ve been out to it several times and actually, last night, while you were sleeping, I went there again.”
He stopped short and turned to me. “What?”
“I couldn’t sleep. You were dead to the world. I got up to get a water and saw a light glowing through the window … the light of an oil lamp. Before I knew it, I was in the woods. I found the place easily. It was almost as if something or someone were guiding me to it.”
Jeremy started to interrupt, but I raised my hand to silence him.
“Hear me out, will you please?”
He took a deep breath and nodded.
“Okay. I used my step stool to reach the window so I could look inside.”
“Step stool? You took a ladder with you last night?”
“No, not last night. The window is too high for me to see into so, I think it was the second time I was there, I took the step stool with me. And, I left it there.”
Jeremy looked at me skeptically.
“I know, I know,” I said. “I should have told you this before, but it all sounded so weird. But that’s not important. Inside the building, there’s a desk and an oil lamp. On the desk, sits a journal, just like the ones my mother used to write in. The first time I was there, it was open and written inside was Poem for Summer.”
“And, why is that important?”
“Because that’s how my mother started all her journals … every summer with a poem. And this journal was no exception. Listen.”
I recited the poem from memory, putting emphasis on the last four lines.
He stared at me, his expression now sad and puzzled. “So, what does that have to do with anything? Katy, can you hear yourself? You talk as if that building, if it exists at all, has some sort of life force and you know that’s just plain nonsense. And, if the silo is real, who do you think’s writing in this journal? Your mother? Her ghost? Honey, it just doesn’t add up.”
“But it does add up. Don’t you get it? The poem is telling me … telling us … that the way in is from underground, the tunnels. One of them must go to the silo.”
He was silent for a moment, watching me. As I talked on, I paced in front of him. I knew I was getting agitated trying to explain everything, but I couldn’t seem to calm myself down. Finally, I pulled out my cell.
“And, I can prove it. Last night, I took pictures of the building. Here,” I said, handing him my phone. “They’re the last three on the roll. You’ll see. I’m not imagining this.”
He looked at me, frowning, then turned his attention to the phone. I watched as he scrolled through the photos, his frown deepening. Finally, he looked back up at me.
“Katy, there’s nothing here.”
“What?” I exclaimed, grabbing the phone from his hand.
Quickly, I re-opened my photos and scrolled to the ones I had taken the night before. I looked at the first one, then the second, and, finally, the third. Jeremy was right. They were all blank, pictures of nothing.
“But, I know I checked them…”
“It’s okay, Katy,” he said soothingly. “Maybe you put your thumb over the lens. Happens to me all the time. Don’t get yourself all worked up. The silo exists. End of discussion. Now sit down beside me and let’s talk about something else.”
I stared at him. Was he just trying to placate me? I bit my bottom lip, then decided to let it go. It was late and I was tired. If he continued to disbelieve, I’d just have to find another way to convince him.
The next day when I woke, I was alone. I inhaled the smell of fresh coffee and smiled. Jeremy must be in the kitchen. I grabbed a quick shower, then put on my robe and joined him at the breakfast table.
“Hey,” I said, sitting down. “Pour me a cup. It smells delicious.”
Jeremy grinned. “Comin’ right up.”
He brought the pot to the table along with a plate full of scrambled eggs and bacon. As we ate, I thought about our unfinished conversation the night before. It was time for me to revisit it and convince him, if I could.
“Listen,” I said. “About last night and the silo…”
He held up his hand, stopping me. “You want to get into that again?”
“Yes, I do. I know you don’t believe me. But everything is true. The silo exists.”
“It’s not just that disappearing building, Katy. It’s everything.”
“Everything? What do you mean?”
“Honey, everything you’ve told me is, you’ve got to admit, pretty weird. And those folks last night, your aunt and uncle and the rest, I just can’t see any of them trying to drug you. Can you? Some of them, the Palmers and Morrisons, are a bit stand-offish, but Raoul and Hettie? Hiram and Atirah? I don’t see it. And, even if one, or all of them, did do it, why? You can’t answer me that, can you?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Was he turning against me again?
“No,” I finally answered. “I can’t tell you why. At least, not anything definitive that you would believe. But it happened, and when I get the lab results back from the mousse, you’ll have your proof.”
“Okay,” he said, reaching for the phone. “Call them.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Call the lab. When you were in the shower, the phone rang. It was them. Said they were putting your report in the mail, but if you wanted an answer sooner, to give them a ring.”
I grabbed the receiver from his hand, then looked at the message pad where he had jotted down their number, and began dialing. They answered on the third ring.
“Hi,” I said. “This is Dr. Pomeroy. I understand the results are back on the specimen I dropped off. Can you read them to me now?”
After giving them some identifying information, the receptionist transferred
me to one of the technicians who pulled the report and read it to me: Chocolate, sugar, eggs, cream, and Grand Marnier. No drugs or other illegal substances. The mousse was clean.
I thanked them and hung up.
“Well?” asked Jeremy.
“Okay,” I finally said. “So it wasn’t the mousse. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t drugged. I was. You have to believe me.”
He didn’t answer, just poured himself another cup of coffee. He stared at the cup, then took a sip.
“Katy,” he finally said. “I understand about what happened in California. You had a breakdown and, yes, that doctor gave you experimental drugs when you were hospitalized. That I believe and he should be punished. But the rest? It makes no sense. Maybe you’re still recovering from whatever it was that caused you to crack up in the first place.”
I listened dumbfounded and a little angry. “You don’t believe me at all, do you?”
“Katy, I’m trying. But….”
He shook his head, stood, then walked toward the door.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, following him. “Where are you going?”
“I think I’ll go home,” he responded. “I want to be alone to think about this.”
I was going to protest, but he put his arms around me and gazed into my eyes.
“Now, don’t make a big deal outta my leaving,” he said. “I just need a little space right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He leaned forward and kissed me lightly, then, before I could say anything, turned and walked out the door. I watched him get in his truck and drive off, without a backward glance.
Confused and upset, I sat on the sofa. What had just happened? I’d thought he was on board with things, that he had faith in me. Had he just been humoring me all along? And what was all that googly-eyed crap between him and the Levine woman? It was almost as if they’d met before … like they knew each other. I thought about his stint in the Navy. Maybe he had met her when he was over there. Or, maybe not her, but someone like her.
Storm Island: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery (The Kate Pomeroy Gothic Mystery Series Book 1) Page 18