Wynn in the Willows (6 page)

“Frank!” Faith called.

Her brother was carefully placing the last chocolate covered strawberry on the three-tier silver serving tray. His thick fingers worked nimbly, placing his delicate touches on the food—his art.

Chef Frank's large features fit his frame. Even his belly told the story of all the good meals he had devoured over the years, sacrificing his health for the sake of his profession. Under the tall mushroom hat, Frank's face lit at the sight of his sister. “Good, you're just in time. I have two more platters for you to take out, Faith. Where are the rest of the servers we hired? I need them in here now.”

“I'll round them up as soon as I introduce you to my new best friend. Wynn, what is your last name again?” Faith asked.

The words, ‘best friend', short-circuited her brain for a split second. “Hello Frank, I'm Wynn Baxter, Roxie O'Malley's niece.”

“Hi there Wynn, nice to meet you!” He wiped his pancake-sized right hand on his apron and shook hers. “Roxie is my favorite Irish redhead. Welcome to the island. Everyone who crashes my kitchen has to help with something. Do you know how to make canapés?” Frank asked without taking a breath between sentences.

“No, but I'm a fast learner.” Wynn rolled up the sleeves on her dress.

“Tell me, what seems to be going the quickest out there?”

“Everything, but my personal favorite is the caviar canapés. Yum.”

“The caviar is the hors d' oeuvre, whereas canapés have at least four ingredients.”

“And each one of them delicious,” Wynn fully agreed.

Frank told her what to mix into the bowl. She began by coarsely chopping the olives, as Frank got to work on artichoke hearts.

Faith returned to swap empty trays for newly filled platters in order to satisfy the ever-growing crowd of mourners.

Frank pulled the chicken from the fire and put his final glaze on it. Soon it was sliced and placed onto warming trays that Frank personally took around to all the guests.

Wynn pondered on the ways of dealing with major passages of life and how they involved food. Someone died—bring the green bean casserole, seven layer salad, bake a roast, baste a chicken. Make a rich cake. Bring sugar cookies and a couple of peach cobblers. Sugar meant solace.

But here on Willow Island, when the death was someone of importance, the food turned out to be gourmet.

 

 

 

 

8

 

Marilyn spoke outside the door of the kitchen, followed by Jackie's and Agatha's voices.

Wynn, who'd been helping with dishes, watched through the narrow space between the door and the wall as she mused about her hiding place in plain sight.

“I'm not going back with you, Mama,” Agatha said. “I would rather live under a bridge than live under your roof again. Jackie said I could stay here with her, and that is exactly what I plan on doing.”

“Jackie only wants you here to get back at me.”

“That's not true,” Jackie sweetly insisted. She stepped towards Agatha, and passed out of Wynn's view. “Can't Agatha stay for a bit, so I won't be rattling around this place without…without Boone?”

“What about your medicine?” Marilyn asked her daughter.

“I'll be sure Agatha takes her mood stabilizers. Marilyn, at least let her stay for a few weeks,” Jackie pleaded.

“How dare you betray me like this, Agatha. If it weren't for me and my money paying for your doctors you'd already be living under bridges along the freeway. It's only my soft heart that has kept me from institutionalizing you.”

“You mean Boone's money,” Jackie said.

“What?” Marilyn countered.

“You said if it weren't for your money. Actually, it's Boone's money. Boone has been more than happy to help. Marilyn, let me take Agatha. It sounds like you need a break.” Jackie remained composed.

“I see your top priority isn't finding Boone's body, and It makes me wonder why.”

“What a cruel thing to say, Marilyn, and it's certainly not true. Down deep, I believe Boone is still with us. I can feel him inside of me, calling to me.”

“Face reality, Jackie.”

“If I am wrong, then I have no fear that Boone's body, or ashes, will turn up at any moment now. Curtis Lansing will see to that. If not, then we'll contact the police, but I suspect this is nothing more than a huge mistake, or a cruel hoax.”

“Police? The police will be contacted? Are you referring to the two brothers who drive golf carts around the island in lieu of patrol cars?”

“They only drive the golf carts in the summer.” As Jackie defended them she moved back into Wynn's view, but now she blocked the view of Marilyn.

The front door was open. The breeze off the lake ruffled Jackie's dark hair and picked at the hem of her dress. Jackie kept clenching and opening her hands. “There are patrol cars for them to use during the winter months.”

“Somehow I have no more confidence in your funeral director—who lost my son—than I have in Officers Tom and Jerry.”

“Their names are Don and Berry.”

“Whatever. When I get back to the mainland, I'm hiring a private detective.”

“You do that, Marilyn. I welcome the added help.”

“Mother, I am of age and I am going to stay with Jackie,” Agatha insisted, backing further away as she touched her cameo brooch. “I don't care if I ever see you again.”

How could Agatha not want a relationship with her mother? All her life Wynn had yearned for her mother. Did one always want what they didn't have? Ever since returning to the island, Wynn felt her mother's presence everywhere; she couldn't rid her from her senses. Small pieces of memories erupted, and then blew away like morning fog on the lake. Other times it was as if her real spirit was buried in the graveyard alongside her dad. Wynn felt tears deep inside her throat. Or was it something that the women would refer to as faith?

If there truly was a God, then there had to be a day of reckoning, or punishment for Ruth, for abandoning her daughter to her grandparents. Wynn forced the thoughts out of her mind.

Marilyn looked even more furious. “OK, Agatha, you can stay, but after two weeks with Jackie, you'll be begging me to let you come home. I've had a lifetime of your problems. Let Jackie handle you from now on. I'll have my life back.” Marilyn capitulated. “By the way, Jackie, I'll need my share of Boone's life insurance money as soon as possible. When can I expect it?”

Jackie's face bloomed with genuine surprise. “I-I haven't even contacted the insurance company, yet, and now with Boone's body missing, I'm sure they'll launch an investigation of their own. There is no telling how long it will take.”

“Then I'll need some funds to tide me over.” Marilyn demanded help. “Boone would want it this way.”

“You've spent all of Boone's last check?”

“Of course. I have expenses, too!”

“There's not much left in our personal account right now, and I don't have access to his business account. I'll talk to our accountant by the end of the week to see what can be done.”

“End of the week? Make it Monday, first thing.”

“Are you sure you don't have any money to use until this is all settled?” Jackie's voice cracked.

“There's not old money in our family, only old people.” Agatha laughed.

“All right. I can write a check for a few thousand. It's the best I can do for you right now. Just make sure it lasts. I still have my cleaning lady, and the gardener, and then there are the…”

“I'll take it!”

“Good, then I'll get my purse.” Jackie headed towards the kitchen.

Not wanting to be discovered, Wynn dashed across the room to the sink. The women breezed through the room without a glance in her direction.

Marilyn walked out alone, struggling down the steps with a large suitcase, and a check pursed between her lips. The cabbie jumped out, took hold of the luggage and crammed it into the trunk. Within seconds, they pulled out of the drive. Immediately the air seemed cooler; the sunshine a bit brighter.

The guests began to leave. The hired servers were cleaning up the rest of the kitchen allowing Wynn to resign her post.

She walked out onto the patio to, hoping there was still plenty of lobster bisque and fresh fruit for the guests. Sparkling water would go down so nice, too – after being in the hot kitchen.

It was disappointing to see the tables being folded and loaded back into the catering trucks. On the other side of the patio Jackie sat on the lounger. An envelope was crushed tightly in her hand.

Roxie hovered protectively.

“What's wrong?” Wynn asked.

Jackie twisted the paper in her hands. “Someone is holding Boone's body hostage.”

“Hostage! This is a joke, right?”

“Here! Read for yourself!” Jackie held out the letter.

 

Now that we have your attention, we want you to know that we have Boone's body in our possession and are willing to trade it for the ruby ring. Details will follow.

 

“Where did you get this?” Wynn asked.

“It was in the stack of sympathy cards on the table. The author didn't sign it—but I suspect Marilyn.” Jackie was wringing her hands.

“We need to let the police and Mr. Lansing know and wait for developments.” Roxie said with an air of practicality, as if discussing who to have for tea.

“I will take care of that.” Jackie's tone was wobbly, but she straightened her shoulders and said goodbye to the last of her guests. “Roxie, you should go home and rest, Wynn, take her with you. I have Agatha here and I plan to notify the police of everything.”

Roxie stared hard at Jackie and something passed between them, unspoken.

Wynn marveled at their silent communication, a testament, once again, to old friends who knew each other well.

Wynn and Roxie said their goodbyes to one another at the Tree House.

Thoroughly exhausted from the long and emotionally charged day, Wynn got ready for bed. Coming out of the bathroom, her gaze caught sight of the backpack on the table. She unzipped it and took out the old container she found in the car.

The subtle gold swirls against the dark navy color were delicate, as though hand painted with a small brush held by patient hands. Mysterious.

Wynn tried snapping the lock open, but the metal was too thick and sharp. Maybe a knife would pry it open, but she held back; concerned it would scrape the lovely design. Perhaps old photos or love notes? It was fun to think about.

She brought the box into her room, and then set it on her night stand, staring at it as she climbed into bed.

At midnight, just as Wynn drifted off, the sound from a motor traveling past woke her. She lay there looking up at the moon thinking about a little toy she and her dad built.

It was a model engine powered boat, painted blue and white. They tested it the bathtub where it worked just fine. Why didn't they try it out on the lake? Whatever happened to that boat, anyway? Why was she thinking about this now? And why did the word ‘twirling' suddenly come to mind?

Wynn flipped her pillow to the cool side. She'd always loved boats and the sea. Maybe she should have become a sailor instead of a scientist. She had been scratched on rocks and thorns, she had gotten poison ivy so often that she began to regard the rash as freckles, and she had gotten stung by ground bees more than she cared to remember. Something was bubbling up inside of her.

Roxie would probably refer to it as a spiritual awakening, but Wynn thought she might be getting closer to the truth. Never before had she felt close to other women. Was it because of her mother being so remote? In school, she found most girls dull because they obsessed about boys, and dates, and twirling in their new dresses bought from high end department stores.
So that's why she thought of twirling.

Wynn turned over in bed holding the old container like a beloved teddy bear and went back to sleep.

 

 

 

 

9

 

Wynn's hair flew wildly as she rode atop a large leaf from the Scalesia forest above the Galapagos Islands, relishing the reverberation of life forms. If only she had remembered to bring along her binoculars. A sound of pellets smashed against her leaf, nearly thumping her from the sky.

“Wynn! Wynn! Are you up there?” The voice popped the wind, sending her careening towards the earth. She landed with a thud.

Wynn opened her eyes to look around; stunned that she was inside of a room and not knocking around in the sky. Sometime between sleep and waking, she had wrapped up in her feather comforter and rolled clear off the bed. Disoriented, she blinked against the sunlight streaming into the open window. She stared bleary-eyed at the clock on the wall. “It's seven in the morning!”

“I know it! I need your help!” the voice from below called again.

It had been a week since Boone's not-funeral. Roxie had gone every day to support Jackie in her time of need.

Wynn had continued to do her research, content in the knowledge that if Jackie or Roxie needed her, they'd say so.

Wynn shook loose the sheet that ensnared her right ankle. She stumbled over the tattered shoebox containing fifteen years worth of cards that she reread as part of her nightly ritual. Just as she reached the window a handful of pebbles hit again.

“Finally! There you are!” Jackie breathlessly called.

“Jackie? What are you doing here?” A pebble had lodged itself between the screen and the window frame. Wynn popped the screen until she was able to grab hold of it. “Hey, this is a Petoskey stone! Where did you find this?”

“They're all over the place down here.” Jackie snapped. “Roxie's not at home. Do you know where she is?”

“No, I haven't any idea. What's up?”

“I have an appointment with my accountant in twenty minutes and I don't want to go alone. I have a feeling he has bad financial news for me,” Jackie explained.