More Than Words: Stories of Strength

by Carla Neggers

  Jess shook her head. “My mother’s book club read it. They all liked it. He fictionalized some obscure but compelling Canadian historical event. I can’t remember what it was.”

  “I guess it wasn’t that compelling.”

  “No, it was.” She tried to think. “I seem to remember it had a seafaring theme. It might have been about a Canadian ship that sank in the war. Something like that.”

  O’Malley frowned. “A ship sinking? You think that was it?”

  “I’m not sure, but I know it had to do with the ocean. It might have been set on the west coast, though. I seem to remember something about Vancouver.”

  “Marianne told me something last night—” O’Malley broke off and flipped the book over, staring at the black-and-white photograph of the author. “I’ll be damned. Look at this, Stewart. It’s our guy.”

  “Summers?”

  “Alexander Crane. May be it’s a pseudonym and John Summers is his real name, but they’re the same guy.”

  Jess looked at the photograph, and the resemblance was there, unmistakable if not striking. The man staying with them at the Wild Raspberry was the same man identified as Alexander Crane in the photograph on the back cover of his book.

  O’Malley tapped the photo with one finger. “He’s grown a beard, his hair’s grayer and he’s lost weight and dropped the pipe-and-tweed look for the middle-aged hiker—”

  “But it’s the same man,” Jess said. “Why would he come here in disguise?”

  “So he could research a tragedy and look for sunken treasure without drawing attention to himself.”

  Jess nodded. “It makes sense.”

  Leaving the room the way they found it, they took the Alexander Crane novel with them and headed back downstairs.

  Marianne was setting out tea on the back porch, working quietly, obviously preoccupied. Jess hated having to tell her that one of her guests was, at best, staying there incognito. At worst, he was deliberately exploiting her and her friends for one of his books.

  “Do you have a minute?” O’Malley asked softly.

  Marianne didn’t respond at first, then nodded, motioning to the wicker furniture. “Sit down, please.”

  Jess and O’Malley took side-by-side wicker chairs while Marianne sat on the very edge of a settee, her knees together, hands clasped in her lap as if she knew they were going to tell her something she didn’t want to hear.

  “How much do you know about John Summers?” Jess asked.

  “Not much. He’s been a good guest. Quiet. Friendly. Very intelligent.”

  O’Malley adopted the sensitive cop demeanor he used with traumatized witnesses. It was genuine, but he was also a professional. “How does he pay you?”

  “Cash.”

  Jess said nothing, and neither did O’Malley as Marianne regarded both of them with fear and a measure of suspicion. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Maybe nothing bad,” O’Malley said. “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  “He’s not a friend of my ex-husband’s. I’d know—” She took a shallow breath. “He’d never send a surrogate.”

  “Summers isn’t who he says he is.” O’Malley gave her the news about her guest in a straightforward manner, his tone gentle but not emotional.

  “We’re fairly certain that his real name is Alexander Crane,” Jess added.

  Marianne’s eyes widened, not with fear or annoyance, but with tremendous relief and excitement, as if she were more than a little thrilled at the news. “Alexander Crane? You’re kidding. Why, when John arrived here, my friends and I talked about how much he looks like Crane. We thought it was a coincidence. None of us looked into it. I mean, Alexander Crane is so well-known, and it just didn’t occur to us—” She stopped a moment. “I never thought he’d lie about his identity.”

  “John, or Alexander Crane?” Jess asked.

  Marianne understood what she meant. “I only know Crane by reputation. John—” Color rose in her cheeks, and she sat back, a touch of annoyance settling in. “Why would he lie? I don’t understand. I would treat him like any other guest. I wouldn’t care if he was a famous anything. He must know that by now, if he didn’t at first.”

  O’Malley handed her the book, so that she could see the photo for herself. “Is Alexander Crane a pseudonym?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of. No, I’m sure it’s not.”

  “You never checked Crane’s picture when you and your friends realized he resembled your guest?”

  “No, of course not. I never for a second thought he and John really were one in the same, just that John resembled Alexander Crane.” She rubbed the picture with two fingertips, as if she had to make sure it was real. Tears rose in her eyes. “I never—” She inhaled sharply. “Trust is a big issue with me. I don’t like being lied to.”

  “He might have had valid reasons,” Jess said quietly.

  O’Malley shrugged. “I guess it’s better to find a famous writer is hanging out in your attic than a bank robber.”

  “Or your abusive ex-husband,” Marianne mumbled. “How could he let me think—”

  She didn’t finish, stumbling to her feet, shaken and upset, just as John Summers—aka Alexander Crane—walked out onto the porch. “Liar,” she whispered, crying, and pushed past him.

  He went white and glared at Jess and O’Malley.

  But the glare didn’t last. His shoulders sagged, and he shook his head, sighing. “I knew you were on to me. Did you search my room? I honestly don’t blame you. I don’t know why I just didn’t tell you the truth. Or Marianne.”

  “Why the false identity?” O’Malley asked.

  “Privacy. I’m researching a new book. It’s a sensitive subject in this area. I thought it best…” He sank into a chair, looking miserable amidst the cheerful surroundings. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Jess could feel the guy’s agony. “But you didn’t expect to fall for Marianne.”

  He didn’t raise his head. “Given her background, I don’t see how she’s going to understand.”

  “Don’t sell her short, Mr. Crane,” Jess said. “It could depend on your reasons.”

  O’Malley was obviously not that interested in the romantic undertones of what was going on. “What about the snooping?”

  Crane raised his head, frowning. “What snooping? I’ve conducted all my research off the premises. Marianne…I suspect she has information I could use, but I was waiting for the right moment to tell her who I am and ask her indulgence. No, not waiting,” he amended. “Postponing. I didn’t want to face her sense of betrayal.”

  “You two have spent a lot of time together over the past month,” Jess said. “You must have told her something about yourself.”

  “The surface stuff was all lies, but my thoughts and feelings—what matters most to me—” He broke off, exhaling loudly. “Damn it. I’ve blown it completely.”

  “Maybe you should talk to her,” Jess suggested.

  O’Malley got up, his cop radar obviously still pinging madly. “She thinks someone’s gone through an old trunk of hers.”

  “That wasn’t me! My God—you mean she thinks I’ve been sneaking around her house? I had no idea anything of the sort was going on. I knew she was upset about something, but it never occurred to me—” He seemed genuinely distraught. “I wish she’d told me about the snooping. I’d have told her the truth about me immediately.”

  “Then you didn’t step over the line to research your book?” O’Malley asked.

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “You don’t have to. I have a pretty good idea. An heiress and her Irish sailor boyfriend drowned just beyond the cove. Local legend says she had jewels and gold coins—”

  “I’m not interested in treasure,” Crane protested.

  “Maybe not, but you’re interested in their story. If Marianne decides to go to the police�
�”

  “The police? For what? Operating under a false identity for research purposes may be a question of trust, but it’s not that serious.” He stopped, glancing from O’Malley to Jess and back again. “Tell me more about Marianne’s suspicions.”

  “The contents of the trunk in the living room are from the early twentieth century,” O’Malley told him. “Marianne’s great-grandparents lived in this area. She says someone’s been into the trunk.” He regarded Crane a moment, then went on. “The letters in your room are from that same era.”

  “But I—” The writer seemed truly repentant, but also very unwilling to discuss his work. “I was waiting to ask her for information on her family’s past. Her great-grandmother and Pat’s great-grandmother were best friends when the Osprey—that’s the name of the ill-fated boat with the supposed treasure—went down. Pat’s great-grandmother lived here, in this house. Marianne’s great-grandmother lived in the village.”

  Jess thought she could put the pieces together now. “So that’s why you picked the Wild Raspberry. It wasn’t just because it was in the area and had a room. It’s because the women who own and operate it are descendants of characters in your book.”

  “It’s not a book yet,” he said, his voice barely audible. “So far it’s just notes. The story’s a mix of fact, fiction, myth and speculation. I’m not convinced the so-called treasure ever existed. I just wanted to get a feel for the area, the land, the air, the people.”

  “The treasure exists,” Marianne said from the doorway, calmer now.

  Crane surged to his feet, his anguish obvious. “Marianne, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth sooner—”

  “You haven’t told me the truth yet, Mr. Crane. I only know it from Mr. O’Malley and Ms. Stewart.”

  “I wanted to tell you. I must have started to a hundred times, but I knew that once I told you, I’d have to leave. And I didn’t want to.”

  “Because of your book,” she said stiffly.

  “No. I’ll burn every word I’ve written tonight if it’ll help restore your trust in me.”

  O’Malley cleared his throat. “So about this treasure…”

  Marianne smiled at him. “It’s buried in the backyard.”

  Crane was stunned. “What?”

  O’Malley turned to Jess and grinned. “I’ve never done buried treasure, have you?”

  She hadn’t.

  “After I realized someone had been snooping around,” Marianne went on, “I got out one of my great-grandmother’s diaries and started reading it. There’s a passage about the Osprey. Several passages, actually.” She paused, pouring tea into a Beatrix Potter mug and staring at it, as if somehow it could help her to explain. “She and her friend Yvonne, Pat’s great-grandmother, found the jewels and coins and buried them.”

  “Why?” O’Malley asked.

  Crane didn’t say a word. He was listening with intense interest, even fascination, as if all his research was making sense now as Marianne spoke about two long-dead friends.

  “I think it was fear and a sense of romance that made them do what they did,” she surmised. “They were ordinary women—they weren’t heiresses. They were afraid they’d be accused of stealing or, worse, of having caused the Osprey to sink.”

  Jess tried to imagine two teenage girls from that era coping with such a tragedy so close to home. “And the romance? Where did that come in?”

  “They didn’t believe anyone should profit from such a tragedy,” Marianne said with a touch of pride. “And they didn’t want to give the jewels and coins back to the family. They blamed the family for what happened.”

  Crane shifted in his chair, some of his guilt and misery lifting. “The family was dead-set against the marriage, and not just the woman’s parents. Her uncles and aunts, her grandparents, her older brothers and sisters—they all ganged up on her.”

  “So the girlfriends here in the sticks didn’t want them getting back the loot,” O’Malley said, and Jess knew he was trying to cut through some of the emotion in the room.

  Marianne nodded. “If they’d tried to sell any of it themselves and were caught, they’d be rightly accused of stealing. It washed up on shore across the street from here, near the tide pool where you and I talked last night.”

  “Fate,” Jess said. “What an amazing story.”

  O’Malley wasn’t finished with it. “You said the treasure’s buried in the backyard. Does that mean you know where?”

  “It means I dug it up.” Her eyes sparkled, and she let out a breath. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am that my ex-husband hadn’t somehow figured out that I might have buried treasure on the premises. I dug it up last night to check it was still there and reburied it immediately. It’s under an old-fashioned pink rosebush that Pat’s great-grandmother and my great-grandmother planted together to mark the spot. They’re both still there—the rosebush and the treasure.”

  “Your friend Pat,” Jess said. “Does she know?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I haven’t said anything to her.” Marianne dropped onto a chair, almost spilling her tea. “Oh. Oh, dear. Pat. She must have known our great-grandmothers’ secret.”

  Jess exchanged a glance with O’Malley. “Pat cleans Mr. Crane’s room,” she said. “She could have figured out why he was here and been afraid he’d accuse your great-grandmothers of stealing the treasure.”

  “Poor Pat!” Marianne sighed. “She must have guessed there was something in the old photo albums and diaries in my trunk.”

  “Any indication she got to the rosebush before you did?” O’Malley asked.

  Marianne shook her head. “I’m sure she just wanted to make certain there was nothing incriminating in the trunk. She must have been reading bits and pieces of the diaries at a time, when she could get to it. I have to find her and reassure her. I want her to read the diaries! There’s so much about both our great-grandmothers in it. It’s inspiring.”

  Crane got to his feet, his earlier melancholy gone. He cleared his throat. “Marianne, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to join you—as a friend—when you talk to Pat. The book I’m writing—” He smiled tenderly at her. “There’ll be other books.”

  “Mr. Crane—”

  “Alex.”

  She smiled then, her earlier tension and fear having disappeared, and set her tea down as she rose. “Thank you. I’m sure together we can convince her she has nothing to fear.”

  After Marianne and Crane headed out, O’Malley got up and dumped his tea over the porch rail into the grass. “What do you think was in it?”

  “Tea leaves,” Jess said.

  “Nah. Something else. Tasted like someone put out a cigarette in it.”

  “It’s Earl Grey tea, O’Malley.”

  He grinned at her. “I knew that.”

  “I know you did,” she said. “You’re just being obtuse on purpose.”

  “Had to break the spell before you got teary-eyed.”

  “Think Crane and Marianne are—”

  “They’re destined for each other,” he said, finishing her thought. “It’s like the muses drove the two of us here just to bring them together.”

  “Maybe so,” Jess said. “What about us?”

  “We didn’t need the muses to drive us together, Stewart. We needed them to give us a swift kick.”

  “O’Malley—”

  “I’ve been in love with you a long time, Jess. A long time.”

  “Me, too…with you. I just—” She quickly picked up the tea dishes, not knowing what else to do with herself. “I’m used to having you in my life, you know. As a friend.”

  “You’re doing a pretty good job of getting used to me in your life as a lover.”

  She felt a rush of heat, then laughed. “I am, huh?”

  He grinned at her. “I’d say so.”

  “I’ve been afraid of losing you altogether if the lover part didn’t work out.”

  “I know.”

  “But friend and lover. That’s the bes
t of both worlds. I like that a lot. What about you?”

  “Jess—damn. You’ve been in my life for ten years. I want you there for a hundred years. Hell, I want us to be together forever.”

  She believed him—he’d never been anything but straight with her. “What about the hockey sticks and the weights rolling around on the floor? And the way you’ve been living your life?”

  “Ask the same questions about yourself.”

  She couldn’t hold on to the tea dishes anymore and set them back on the table. “I’d say that I’m ready to make changes.”

  “So am I.” He slipped his arms around her and kissed her, lingering close to her mouth, smiling. “I enjoy the hell out of kissing you.”

  “Your brothers—”

  “Will be ecstatic. They like you. They think a lawyer in the family’s just what we need. We’ve got everything else covered.”

  She smiled, feeling safe and warm and more content than she could ever remember. “They’ve been teaching me hockey on the sly so I’d know what to do with you.”

  He winked. “You know what to do with me.”

  “I have a mean slapshot.”

  “I can do a wicked body check.”

  She suddenly caught her breath. “I wonder how long Marianne and Crane will be gone.”

  “Not long enough.” O’Malley pointed to the window, where their hostess, the author and Pat were making their way into the backyard. “The muses are having their fun with us now. It’d be rude to carry you upstairs when there’s buried treasure to be dug up.”

  They decided to join Marianne, Pat and Alex Crane out at the rosebush. As she pulled herself together, Jess noticed the Shelternet sign again.

  The courage to click.

  Marianne Wells’s new life—with all its challenges and rewards—had started with that first positive step of going to www.shelternet.ca and finding the help she deserved.

  She was an inspiration, Jess thought. No question about it. Last night, after the blueberry wine, Marianne had shown her and O’Malley the Shelternet Web site. It had put Marianne in touch with a local shelter, just as it did thousands of women all across Canada. The site combined compassion and technology and provided a safe, anonymous environment for women to take those first scary, tentative steps into living a violence-free life.