She's Not There (39 page)

Joe said, “No.”

Fitzy said, “Yes.”

I told Joe to stop saying no to everything.

Fitzy just ignored him. He said, “Willa told me Tommy hated her when she was a girl.” He leaned back in his chair. “But hated her for what? Did he know she was pregnant?”

I said, “Maybe. But I know what she was trying to tell you. She'd attempted to comfort the girls one day—told them she was overweight when she was their age. That's why Tommy hated her.”

Fitzy reverted to his usual expression of frustration. “Shit.” Then he said, “Willa would not be found out. She would not admit to being Jake's mother. Not then, not ever. The thing is, what would have happened if she had? Would Ernie have beaten her to death, for Christ's sake? Drowned her? Left her? What was she so afraid of that she'd actually go and poison Esther? What century are we living in here?”

We looked to Joe. He hadn't an answer. He said, “I don't know. I don't understand.”

Fitzy said, “Me neither. But mine's not to understand. I gotta go. Meet the plane. Take Willa in.” He stood up. He put his hand on my shoulder, the injured shoulder. He patted it very gently. “So long, FBI.”

I stood up, too, and he put his arms around me. My shoulder protested, but I stayed in his hug for a long while.

*   *   *

I called my favorite shrink on the question Joe couldn't answer. He found it all quite fascinating. “The group of people you have on that island, isolated as islanders are, is probably the closest thing to children of slaves that exists. They've been deprived over generations. And when there's a maelstrom of secrets, collective paranoia, an overreaching umbrella of shame—well, put it together and you can conclude a psychopathy, particularly if you add to the mix the humiliation and guilt connected to a child born of illegitimacy. Born of rape.

“Poppy, your Willa has led a double life. That alone can drive you bonkers. I'll vouch for that myself.”

He could vouch for it because he was a noted criminal profiler, a respected psychiatrist who happens to have an acute gambling addiction. I thought, There sure are a goddamn lot of addictions out there, though none could come close to Tommy's. To kill his persecutors.

He said, “Her whole life was a web of secrets. But then it was finally all over. She'd found legitimacy with her husband and, because of Joe's efforts to restore the islanders' property rights, a life she could officially claim. She and her husband owned a home, they had their store, the coffee shop. But Willa also had an irrational terror of losing it all if Ernie found out that Jake was her son. Especially if he found out who the father was. Who
was
the father, Poppy?”

“We don't know.”

“You will. You will see the thing that is askew.”

I only needed to hear him say it, and I knew what was askew. The blank line on the genealogy for Jake's mother was to protect Willa. There was no blank line for the father, though, because Esther didn't know who he was when she'd drawn the tree.

The shrink listened to my brain whirring, and then he said, “Had to be the killer, I take it.”

“Yes.” Willa had been the first to trigger Tommy's madness but he stopped short of killing her.

“Why hadn't he killed the girls the year before? When the camp first opened?”

“Not triggered fully. But in anticipating their return, he became uneasy—agitated. At some point last winter, the trigger released and he devised a way to wipe out his tormenters. On the back of that poor fellow, Jake.”

“So, Poppy, this Willa knew her place. And I come from a culture of people who thrive on knowing their place. There's nothing new there as far as I'm concerned. The thing is, why would the dead woman want to betray Willa's secret?”

I thought about why Esther would do any such thing.

“Poppy, was she blackmailing Willa?”

“No. Yes. Sort of. Esther—the dead woman—knew Tommy couldn't care for Jake any longer. She figured his mother should. Esther was a hard, judgmental woman. She threatened Willa with exposure if she didn't perform her duty. After all, Jake was one of them. Tommy was the outsider, something she'd recently come to understand. Jake's mother had to take over. It was an empty threat. The genealogy's blank links proved that. Willa didn't bother to take Esther's version of the family tree once she saw that Esther hadn't actually intended to expose her. She left it. How terrible.”

“Poppy, harsh judgment is how people are kept in their place. Esther learned that. Still, there may have been a secondary blackmail going on. Esther may have insisted Willa tell her who the father was. If Willa wouldn't take care of Jake, his father should.”

I thought about it. Enough to make me shudder. “Yes, she probably threatened Willa. And Willa knew that somehow Esther would find the answer. Maybe thought she already had.”

“Then there it is.”

 

16

Back at Joe's cottage, I called Delby to tell her I'd be back late that afternoon.

She said, “Good.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. But do you remember that fireman?”

“What fireman?”

“The Irish guy, the one with that sexy accent. The marshal from Boston.”

“Oh. Yes, I do.”

“Thought you'd remember. Guy's gorgeous.”

All firemen are hunks according to the girls of Camp Guinevere. “Delby, what about him?”

“He's left you a couple of frantic messages. I thought they could wait till you checked in. But he called again just now. He's here in town. Drove down from Boston on his day off because he has to see you.”

“Tell him I can see him tonight. Arrange something.”

“Tonight. Okey-doke. Got a minute to talk to a contrite Auerbach?”

“Sure.”

“Now?”

“Put him though.”

He was right there on his line. He said to me, “How are your ears?”

“Fine.”

“Poppy, it is wonderful that the ear is such an incredible organ. It can survive anything but a direct and prolonged attack. Your hearing is a hundred percent?”

“I believe so.”

“Better get checked out.”

“Auerbach, I'm grateful for your concern. Now tell me what you want.”

“I need to explain to you how it all works. I wanted you to appreciate that the structure and functional design of the ear is so incredibly perfect—beyond perfect, even, because there's the binaural facility of our having
two
of them, one on either side of our head. The organ allows for a huge gathering range and inherent directional finders. So when you were in a place where sound could not escape but only reverberate, in a place with concrete walls, which are the best monolithic nonporous barriers for achieving high airborne sound insulation—and add to that the electrified horn-loaded drivers in the cellar—well, what happened was this: you suffered the
brilliance
of the ear. The
brilliance!
”

Oh. Now I felt so much better.

*   *   *

My hearing was fine. I knew that when I'd heard Spike's meow that morning before Joe did, below the bedroom window. Might have been because I was wide awake, hadn't slept, and Joe was unconscious. I ran to the door to let him in, one bedraggled cat, still fairly soaked, his fine tail now ratlike. I picked him up and hugged him to me. Far more strong a snuggle than he preferred. He squirmed out of my arms and leaped to the floor. The thump was what woke Joe and he came down in time to see me emptying a can of Chicken of the Sea tuna into Spike's bowl instead of his usual Nine Lives.

*   *   *

While I was packing, Spike kept climbing in and out of my suitcase, standing on my clothes. His paws, of course, were muddy. It was nice that he didn't want me to leave, just the way he didn't want to leave himself. I'd told Joe to find an adoptive home on the island for Spike. With Aggie just around the corner. Or Jim Lane's kid or someone else. The cat was a Block Islander. Joe agreed, said I was right.

While Joe packed, he kept telling me we'd talk about all this. I was sure we would.

I picked up the box I'd gotten from Esther's. I took out the little framed pieces of poetry. There was an extra one that I hadn't read. Esther must have put it in the box with the others—a little gift. I stopped packing to read more of John Greenleaf Whittier's lines from “
The Palatine
,” the stanzas describing what happened after the ship was lured onto the shoals.

O men and brothers! what sights were there!

White upturned faces, hands stretched in prayer!

Where waves had pity, could ye not spare?

In their cruel hearts, as they homeward sped,

“The sea and the rocks are dumb,” they said:

“There'll be no reckoning with the dead.”

But they were wrong, Mr. Whittier. Ask my friend Fitzy, he'll tell you. The sea and the rocks will tell 1all if you stop and listen to them. In the end, you have no choice but to reckon with the dead. And it's my job to see to it that you do.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Block Island is a place of beauty, serenity, and unforgettable clam rolls. My characters, and a bit of the island's history and geography found herein, are entirely the product of my imagination and bear no relation to actual people and places.

Also by Mary-Ann Tirone Smith

The Book of Phoebe

Lament for a Silver-Eyed Woman

The Port of Missing Men

Masters of Illusion

An American Killing

Love Her Madly

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mary-Ann Tirone Smith is the author of six previous novels, including
Love Her Madly
, the first of the Poppy Rice Mysteries, which was chosen as a
People
Magazine Page-Turner of the Week. She has lived all her life in Connecticut except for the two years she served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Cameroon.

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First Edition 2003

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eISBN 9781466872141

First eBook edition: April 2014