She's Not There (21 page)

I told her I wanted the six stanzas of poetry she had. Then I shuffled through the bin and came up with a framed posting of the Jim Crow laws.

“This is authentic?”

“It is.” She turned it over. She'd glued a card on the back telling what newspaper it had come from and the date.

“I know someone who would appreciate this.” Delby. “Do you have anything that has to do with law enforcement?”

She did. An article with a picture of Bruno Hauptmann, arrested by the FBI for the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby. Two grim-faced agents stood on either side of him, holding his elbows. It would put my director in heaven.

“How about for children?”

“Nope.”

I would get Delby's kids T-shirts.

Then Esther showed me a portrait she'd drawn of a man in the uniform of the British Admiralty, circa sixteen hundred-something. She said, “Admiral Adriaen Block. From my imagination. He discovered what is now the state of Rhode Island as well as our island, which he chose to name after himself. He never called the state
Root Island
. That's what it says in the history books—supposedly because roots sustained shipwrecked sailors who washed up there. But I believe a different legend—that Admiral Block became nostalgic for his own home when he first gazed upon our coastline. Named it after his birthplace. The Isle of Rhodes.”

“A much better story, Esther. Is he for sale?”

“No.”

I asked her the price of what I had in my hands. “Fifty dollars.”

“For which?”

“For all you've got there.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“They're worthless.”

“To you, maybe. Not to me.”

“Then pay me whatever you want.”

She turned and went back out to the porch. I followed her and put a hundred dollars on the table where, again, there stood a glass of wine.

“Esther, I'll have to come back for these. My bike doesn't have a basket.”

She didn't answer. She gestured to the floor. She'd picked up her pencil and was staring at the canvas. I put my purchases at her feet and left.

*   *   *

Back at Joe's cottage there was no e-mail from the camp. I headed up there. The girls were sitting in the shade of Lancelot House. They were listless but appeared resolved—playing cards, reading, listening to their CD and MP3 players, expensive ones.

Samantha and Kate and Elijah Leonard were sharing a big bag of potato chips. They saw me as I walked toward them and waved.

“Hi, everyone. I didn't get my e-mail.”

Kate said, “I told you he hated us.”

Samantha explained. “He caught Christen. He went out but came right back because he forgot something just as she was setting up. Probably his stupid hat. Confiscated all our laptops.”

“What?”

“He said we were conspiring to break his rules.”

The little sound I could hear inside myself was my blood coming to a boil. “Where's Christen?”

“In her bunk. We're scheduled for a hike later. Resting up for it, she says. But she's depressed. She feels really bad about Rachel Shaw. She keeps saying we should have tried to be nicer to her. She can't stop thinking about her.”

Kate said, “Me neither.”

I went inside. Christen was lying on her side watching the door. She said, “I don't want to be warned one more time about drugs. The rest of us aren't about to go around experimenting.”

She dragged herself off the cot, got down on her knees, and pawed around underneath. She came up with a couple of pieces of paper. She held out the written list of names and phone numbers and I took it. And then she gasped.

Irwin stood behind me. He looked down at Christen's papers. He said, “I have called the girls' parents. I know you will be happy to hear that three have decided their daughters should return home. That is their choice entirely. If you'd like to call them yourself, Mrs. Everett—or whoever you are—go ahead. But I will cause a great deal of trouble for you, if you don't leave these premises immediately.” He turned his attention to Christen. “I will deal with you shortly.”

I reached into my pocket and came up with my little leather folder. I opened it and he looked down at my badge. I said, “This is who I am. And I do intend to call their parents.”

He sneered. “I have a very clever lawyer. There is no reason for the FBI to ask me so much as one question. Rachel Shaw was eighteen. Dana Ganzi was seventeen, but she was from Georgia. Legally, I was not responsible for either of them, even if they did attend my camp. What happened to them happened off my site.”

He walked out. He didn't sneak out the way he had snuck in. This time he let his heels bang against the floor.

Christen said, “Turd.” She didn't say the word vehemently. I could understand. I can be vehement but only when it's productive. Squandered energy depletes reserves.

“Listen, you're all going to be okay, Christen. The trooper is in Rhode Island now. He's going to do everything he can to get you home.”

“Or maybe we'll get ourselves home. We're working on a plan to get a boat.”

“Christen, it would have to be a boat big enough to handle at least twenty of you.”

“I know.”

I felt a tad incredulous, but she was sixteen years old. I humored her. “Can you handle a boat that size?”

“Poppy, I'm talking about
chartering
a boat—a boat with a
crew
.”

Forgot. These were rich kids.

8

I called my director when I got back to the cottage. He was in Yemen. I spoke to our top-dog legal consultant instead. I asked his advice about calling the girls' parents. He asked me what other options were in play. I said Irwin had already called them and that a Rhode Island state trooper was focused on getting the camp closed. He told me someone else would have to make the calls; I would be interfering with the camp director's first amendment rights. “Whereas, if someone unofficial does the calling, an informal conversation would not be considered as such. Not so with calls from you.”

I said, “I'll call anonymously. Tell them I visited the camp as a mom with—”

“Poppy. You must remain above it. An officer of the law cannot play with the law.”

“I know.”

I would wait to hear from Fitzy before I played with the law. Maybe phone calls wouldn't even be necessary.

*   *   *

Fitzy and Joe returned that night with Fred, dropped him off, and arrived at the cottage. Joe was feeling more social. He broke out a couple of six-packs. “Fred didn't want to come back,” Joe said. “We had to make him understand he had nowhere else to go.”

“Poor slob of a guy,” Fitzy said.

“Poor slob of a wife, married to him,” I said. “Shall we drink to both sides of the story?”

The two of them looked at each other and decided to join me. We hoisted our dripping cans.

In Providence, Fitzy had discovered that Irwin wasn't Blair Irwin, he was originally Lester Boren. Between his christening and his present ID, he'd been several people, each transformation offering him new insight into loopholes that kept him just ahead of an indictment while he scammed people. He had broken no laws—didn't have so much as a parking ticket that anyone could come up with—and as of now he'd not breached a single statute, or even a rule, to give cause to close his camp.

Fitzy said, “Kids are at the mercy of their insolvency. They can't vote, they can't make contributions to political parties, they hold no power. In other words, we're stymied. I went to Social Welfare. Woman said the girls' parents have the right to remove them from the camp if they are dissatisfied with the service they are receiving. Quote, unquote. So I said to this bozo who I'm quoting, ‘Usually when there's a suspicious death, the state checks on the service the dead person was or was not receiving.' But, quote, unquote, these deaths happened away from the camp. Would have been a different story if the girls had died in the dining hall. Shit. So I told her to consider a day trip to Block Island, just have a look. Told her I'd give her two to one she'd come up with a reason to close the camp within one minute of laying eyes on it. So finally she said she'd try to send someone next weekend. Best I could do. I'll have another beer, Joe.” He leaned back and closed his eyes.

I told them about my conversation with the FBI lawyer. Fitzy said, “I'll ask Esther to make the calls.”

Joe said, “I think it's a lot to expect of her.”

“Yeah, it is. Doesn't mean I shouldn't ask. She's pretty upset about what's happening. Maybe she'll go along. Give me the list, Poppy.”

I went and got it for him. I said, “I think we're all right for now. Irwin's got a guard at night and the girls are scared. They're sticking together.”

Fitzy's eyes opened; he gazed at the ceiling. “Scared is good.”

None of us spoke for a while. We let ourselves enjoy our cold beer out of the icy cans. Fitzy was far away. I said, “Fitzy, what happened to you?”

“When?”

“Where did you start the downward spiral? What are you doing here on rest and recreation when you should be on top of the heap?”

He came back. “Who asked you to nose into my spirals?”

Joe started to make an excuse for me but I didn't give him a chance. “Sorry, Fitzy. I'm used to being in charge. When one of my guys gets—”

“I'm not one of your guys.”

“No. But you're my friend.”

“Who says?”

Joe looked at his watch. “Drink up. We're going to church.”

Rather an extreme statement. Fitzy said, “Well, Poppy, I guess you heard what I heard. Hey, Joe, when did you lose your marbles? Was it something I said?”

Joe stood up. “I haven't quite lost them. There are six or seven left. We need to do something, and this is something no one should miss. Poppy can't leave Block Island without experiencing one of our most satisfying tourist attractions. It'll get our mind off things here.”

Joe never wanted to get his mind off work. But this wasn't his work. It was mine and Fitzy's.

Fitzy said, “You did say church, right, Joe? Well, my stomach's growling so I think I'll take a pass and head for—”

“We'll eat right after. First we're attending the Star of the Sea's Sunday Evensong service. Church is Episcopal liberal, doesn't stand for anything except offering an enjoyable hour of entertainment. There's always a full house and we don't want to be late.” He paused. “Hear that?”

We did. Ferry horn.

“All the ferry services put on an extra boat—from Point Judith, New London, from Sag Harbor—to take the tourists back home again. The choir's made a name for itself. The whole island will be there. Maybe the nutcase himself will show up.”

I guess I raised an eyebrow.

“I want to be helpful, Poppy, even if I choose not to be involved.”

I insisted on changing my clothes. “I don't go to church in shorts.”

Fitzy said, “I don't go to church, period.”

“Tonight we're all going,” Joe said. “Poppy, we should leave in ten minutes.”

“Call the stylist, then, and cancel my appointment. I'll be ready.”

While I dashed around the bedroom, the fax machine started shooting out pages. I glanced at them. They were for me, from Delby. I gathered them up. I'd have something to read during Evensong.

When I came out, Fitzy looked at the folder under my arm. “If she can bring office work along, I'm bringing some beer.”

Joe drew the line.

Fitzy pulled himself out of his chair. “Well, FBI, let's look at it this way—if another kid meets up with the picnic man while we're in church, we'll be able to rule out the choir as suspects.”

“Fitzy, shut up.”

“It's a valid observation.”

It was.

We drove across the island to the harbor and up the east side of the pork chop passing Esther's dirt driveway. Just before the curve leading to the South Light we turned left onto a track. I'd never seen the tiny church called the Star of the Sea Chapel. Perched on the edge of the bluff, it wasn't visible from the road. Joe said it had weathered wind and storm since 1938, when the hurricane of the century—the twentieth—demolished everything along the coastline. Star of the Sea had been rebuilt on the same spot then, just as it had been destroyed and then rebuilt following the hurricane of the preceding century—the nineteenth.

After Joe's historical presentation, I said, “Why didn't they move the church inland?”

“Because then it wouldn't be the Star of the Sea, it would be the Star of the Road, which means no one would come.”

The church was already packed. We squeezed into one of the last rows. The tourists chitchatted noisily, as if they were at the movies, and they were dressed for the movies, in shorts and jeans. To think I wasted a good thirty seconds deciding what to wear. Then the organ rang out, a heavy loud chord, and the congregation, like a class of kindergarteners, was stilled.

Billy and Mick led the procession down the aisle, Billy carrying a Bible, Mick holding something that looked like a divining rod aimed at the floor. The minister followed and then the choristers, eighteen of them, in white robes and red collars, half the faces very familiar. They sat in two facing rows on either side of the altar. The organist hit a chord.

The chorus may have had only eighteen voices, but they created a strong, breathtaking sound that rang through the space yet was softened by the acoustics of the old wood building, unlike the usual tone of a church choir's songs reverberating off stone walls. I whispered, “Joe, I can't believe this! Sounds like a hundred people are singing.”

“You should hear them in spring and fall when they're all home. Chorus is doubled in size. Sounds like a thousand.”

Willa sang, Ernie sang, Doris Prentiss sang, her miserable-looking husband was made to sing, the taxi brothers sang, and Tommy too. Jim Lane's kid was a soloist. He would have been head chorister at St. Paul's if he'd been born in London.