Missing Witness (21 page)

Putrie was grinning and laughing too. But for a different reason.

He had made his decision. He had chosen to reveal the latest information to Blackjack Morgan. But Putrie also had his own game plan—an intricate mental construct, a result of his research into Edward Teach, his missing treasure, Stony Island, and the history of that section of the Outer Banks. And he did not share that.

As Morgan and Putrie both laughed, looking at each other, the younger man was thinking about his private little joke.

And Orville Putrie had his own idea about who, sitting at that table, was going to have the last laugh.

30

“A
REN
'
T THESE FLOWERS ABSOLUTELY DELIGHTFUL
? They really are my favorites. I even learned the technical name…Sarracenia flava. But we call them trumpet pitcher plants.”

“They do…they really do look like long trumpets…or like a long, thin vase, looking up to the sky. Do they catch water?”

“Yes. They are indigenous to the North Carolina swampy areas. And isn't the yellow color just the most beautiful thing?”

Fiona agreed, as Frances Willowby finished giving her the little guided tour of the Willowby gardens.

The two of them entered the conservatory. The maid was already there setting the tea and dessert cart.

“As I recall, you like your tea with sugar and cream and a little lemon.” Mrs. Willowby motioned for the maid to pour the tea.

“How thoughtful of you to remember,” Fiona said brightly.

“And you enjoyed our freshly baked scones—so I had some brought with the tea today.”

The maid pulled the sliding glass doors shut as she left.

“So how are you and your husband enjoying your summer here along the Outer Banks?”

“Oh, it's a lot of fun,” Fiona said with a smile. “The change of pace has been fantastic.”

“And your singing career. Your music. Are you taking a break from that this summer also?”

Fiona laughed. “Well, I'm supposed to work on composing a few new songs. The plan was for me to rough out a few of them this summer. Then to turn the roughs over to my musical director, who was going to do all of the instrumentation. Fill in the scoring. And then make some tentative plans for a recording session next year after I have my baby. Will and I have already been talking about building a recording studio on our property, next
to our home in Virginia. That way I wouldn't have to leave the family every time I cut a new CD.”

Frances Willowby was delicately sipping her tea from a china cup, but she was studying Fiona carefully. “It must be wonderful to have a musical ability like that.”

“Oh, and I was just thinking what a remarkable, accomplished woman you were. A famous model when you were younger. Then you leave that career, get married to Randolph Willowby, and become one of his closest advisors in his business pursuits. And then you help design and build this beautiful estate. And what a green thumb! I know you have staff to help you, but I was so impressed that you designed the gardens yourself and did many of the plantings.”

Mrs. Willowby's eyes brightened, and she smiled warmly. She wondered what it was that she liked so much about this young pregnant woman whose life was so very different from her own. “How is your pregnancy coming—if I may ask?”

“That's fine,” Fiona said. “Thanks for asking. Very smoothly. We came down to the beach for the summer so I could take it easy because of some complications I had in the first trimester. But everything seems to be okay. I've had no further problems. The Lord's been very good to us.”

The older woman narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips ever so slightly at Fiona's last comment. After a slight pause, she spoke.

“Did you have problems driving over here yourself? I would have been glad to send my chauffeur to pick you up.”

“That's so kind. But I still drive myself around. I like the feeling of keeping active.”

“How is the case coming for Reverend Joppa?” Immediately after she said it, she added, “Or perhaps I shouldn't ask that. I know when cases are in court you can't always talk about them.”

“Thank you for asking. As you can imagine, it's a very difficult process. Trying to piece together what happened several hundred years ago.” As she spoke, Fiona tried to ignore the feeling that Will was emotionally abandoning her because of his increasing commitment to the Joppa case.

But she looked at Frances and dutifully decided to delve a little deeper.

“That's the reason I asked you about your late husband the last time I was here. I was really wondering whether your husband had any specific information about the history of Isaac Joppa. Or the charges of piracy against him. Anything that may have led your husband to believe that Joppa was innocent of those charges.”

“Is there something in particular that makes you believe my Randolph may have had some information?”

“Not really,” Fiona said. “It's just that my husband, Will, thought there must have been a motivate for Mr. Willowby to put that in his will. He must have had some idea that Joppa's innocence could be proven.”

Frances Willowby looked away, gazing out through the windows into the garden beyond. She seemed distracted.

“You like coming here, don't you?” she finally asked. “I can tell. You're a woman who lets her enthusiasms show. I like that.”

Fiona smiled and looked down, blushing.

“Am I that easy to read?” she asked with a laugh.

“Oh, it's not all that bad,” Mrs. Willowby said. “To be transparent. To be honest in what you feel. And what you show to other people. No, it's not that bad at all.”

The older woman had a wistful look on her face as she glanced down momentarily. After a moment of reflection, she continued.

“Randolph and I…we had something very special…a wonderful marriage…”

Fiona watched her patiently and nodded.

“Yet…” Her voice trailed off.

“And yet…as he stood facing death…fighting cancer…he changed. Partly, I felt it was for the best…but part of me longed for the old Randolph. The man I had fallen in love with. Wild, yet ferociously disciplined. Brilliant mind, yet full of the mischief of a ten-year-old boy. Successful in his business endeavors far beyond what most men can ever imagine. But there was still a side of him that was ordinary, perhaps even humble. He loved people. And he loved me…”

Frances Willowby bent her head forward into her hands. “What is it…” she went on, her voice quivering, “about love…that is so…so impossible, and so painful?

“When you came here for the first visit,” she continued, composing herself, “I thought perhaps it was my sense of embarrassment—”

“Embarrassment?” Fiona asked, slightly befuddled. “Embarrassment about what?”

“About the secrets…the little confidences…perhaps not important to anyone else except Randolph and me…”

Mrs. Willowby straightened up, putting her hands in her lap, and stared directly at Fiona.

“I imagine you love your husband very much.”

“With all my heart. And all my soul…” Fiona said, trying to decipher the comments from the other woman.

“And if your husband were to die…and something that he wrote…” Frances continued, “some comment which might be embarrassing or questionable, even in the smallest little way…you would probably not want others to read it, would you?”

Fiona was beginning to understand. Frances knew something, but her loyalty to her husband and his memory, and the love they had shared, had kept her lips sealed till now.

“It must be so very hard for you,” Fiona said with sympathy, “to have to share facts about your late husband with a stranger like me.”

Frances smiled and raised a finger for emphasis. “I may not know you very well, Fiona…but I could not now call you a stranger. From the very first I felt some connection between the two of us. I can't explain it. But perhaps—when all is said and done—by the end of this summer, before you return to Virginia…perhaps we'll be friends.”

Fiona leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “I would like to be your friend, Frances. I would like that very much.”

Frances didn't respond, but gazed away off into the distance. Then she turned—not as if she were rising to leave the room, though. She reached over to a drawer in the end table next to her and pulled it open slowly. There was a thin black leather book lying in it, which she carefully picked up.

Frances held the black leather book in both hands, clutching it to her chest.

“The last six months of his life my Randolph kept a diary. You must know how I struggled. There are no scandals here, no lurid secrets…simply Randolph's thoughts in the last months of his life. But there are some comments…some concerning me…that were difficult for me to read. Fiona, I would ask only that you remember how much he and I loved each other as you read this diary. And as you and your husband decide whether it may be of any use in your lawsuit.”

She held the book out tentatively. As Fiona took it she also took Frances's hand in hers and squeezed it.

“I can only imagine how difficult this is for you…and how courageous it is for you to want the truth to come out, whatever it might be. You can rest assured that my husband, after reviewing this diary, will use only the information he feels is absolutely essential to his case.”

Frances nodded, although some uncertainty still lingered on her face.

“And yet,” Fiona continued, “as important as this diary might be, I'm not here just for those things. You have to know that.”

The older woman studied Fiona and gave her a half smile.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I wanted to meet you again because I enjoy being with you. Because I find you to be a fascinating woman. Because I feel we could be friends. And also, I had the distinct impression there were some unresolved questions weighing on your heart.”

Frances tilted her head ever so slightly. Then she placed her hands in her lap and looked straight at Fiona.

“Perhaps there are some things that need to be said. Some questions…things I need to get off my heart. I don't know about your schedule…do you have the time?”

Fiona placed her hands tenderly on the round contours of her belly and replied with a broad smile. She didn't know whether it was because of Will's preoccupation with the case…or her own fears about her pregnancy. But whatever it was, she was treasuring her talks with this lonely, cultured millionairess.

“Frances, I have all the time in the world.”

31

F
IONA DROVE HOME TO THE SEA COTTAGE
and showed Randolph Willowby's diary to Will, who was buried in books on the history of piracy and paperwork from the Joppa case.

After glancing at the diary, he gave it back to Fiona and suggested she read every word, making notes of anything significant for their case.

“You're no fun,” Fiona muttered quietly to herself.

“What?”

She repeated it, this time loudly.

“What does fun have to do with it? We've got a case to win,” Will said firmly.

“What happened to the guy who was going to pamper his wife?”

“What about the wife who insisted that her husband take this case?”

Will was tempted to point out that they would not just be winning this case for Reverend Joppa—not even for Isaac Joppa's tarnished reputation. It would be a victory, of sorts, for Uncle Bull. Striking a blow for justice against Blackjack Morgan.

Instead, he refocused on the pile of information in front of him on the kitchen table.

There was a moment of silence. Then the combatants separated. Fiona, a little sullenly, took the diary out to the front porch, where she eased herself into the hammock to read.

Will had been searching for an expert witness with strong credentials in the area of early American history, particularly focused on the Carolinas. He had located Dr. Derek Hubbel at Yale University. He taught that exact subject—and had published several scholarly books on it. Will asked Jacki Johnson back at the firm to contact Hubbel.

Meanwhile, Will had to try to get hold of Dr. Rosetti to see if any of his background information about Blackjack Morgan, or about the battle
with Edward Teach at Ocracoke Inlet, would help him prove Isaac Joppa's innocence.

Rosetti was loading gear onto his research ship when he got the call on his cell phone. He was not happy.

He snapped the phone open as he swung a waterproof briefcase and an armful of yellow rain slickers over the side of the ship.

“What?” he yelled. “Who is this?”

“My name is Will Chambers. I'm a lawyer. I need to talk to you—”

“Lawyer? I've got no time for lawyers…” Rosetti snapped, then yelled out to the crew on board, who could not hear him clearly anyway, “Like I have time for lawyers! We're finally getting this project underway and I get a call from another lawyer…”