Adele recalled Will Speaks telling her he would be back in three hours if he didn’t hear from her sooner.
Both Decklan and Adele found Will standing next to his skiff, looking somewhat apprehensive. He straightened to his full height as Decklan began to make his way down the dock.
“Hello, Mr. Speaks.”
Will’s eyes refused to meet the author’s gaze. Instead he mumbled a reply while focusing his attention on Adele who stood a few paces behind Decklan.
“Mr. Stone, I’m here like I promised Ms. Plank I would be. I’m just doing what I said I would.”
Adele detected a bit of tension between the two men that bordered on outright animosity.
Decklan gave the skiff captain a thin smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Speaks. As you can see, my guest is both alive and well.”
The animosity was no longer hinted. The author’s tone relayed it loud and clear, leaving Adele to wonder about the lingering history between the author and Will Speaks.
“Are you ready, Ms. Plank? The tide is getting ready to change, and with the wind picking up, it’s likely to get a bit choppy. We best be on our way.”
Decklan turned to face Adele. He cleared his throat, and then spoke in a lowered tone.
“If you would stay over as my guest tonight, I would be honored, Ms. Plank. I assure you my intentions are purely professional. The guest room is completely private. I can make us a meal, we can enjoy a bottle of wine, and I’ll be more than happy to continue with the interview.”
Will took a heavy step forward, an act which caused the dock to temporarily sway from side to side.
“I may not be available to pick you up tomorrow, Ms. Plank. We really should get going now.”
Adele’s silence let both men know she was considering Decklan’s offer to stay overnight, which in turn caused Will’s face to take on a condition of worsening panic. Decklan folded his arms across his chest and smiled.
“It might save you some time and another trip out here if we just continue the interview into the evening. Of course, it’s your decision.”
A sudden gust of wind blew across the water, causing the Chris Craft to groan its discontent where it sat tied to the dock.
Will’s voice cut through the din of the wind.
“See? We should be going now, Ms. Plank. A storm is coming. Please, I just want to do my job.”
Why is he so afraid for me? Does he really think Decklan Stone is capable of doing me harm? Or is it something else I’m not seeing?
“I’m quite certain Ms. Plank is capable of making up her own mind, Mr. Speaks.”
Decklan Stone’s tone issued the icy nature of his rebuke against Will’s desire to see Adele taken off the author’s private island. Adele watched, slightly stunned as Will clenched both of his fists tightly at his side. He appeared quite ready to use them. Adele knew there was some unknown conflict at play, something far greater than her immediate well-being. It was a mystery, and mysteries had long fascinated Adele Plank.
“I’m going to accept Mr. Stone’s offer and stay here tonight, Mr. Speaks. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to let you know sooner, but the offer wasn’t extended until just now.”
Will’s face contorted into a petulant snarl as he pointed at Decklan’s face.
“I’ll be telling my father about this. He won’t like it one bit!”
Adele’s mouth fell open. Will suddenly appeared entirely absent the kindness and good nature she’d seen in him earlier. He looked like a man capable of almost anything, regardless of how dangerous that capability might prove.
Decklan Stone stared back at the skiff captain without any sign of fear or intimidation.
“How is your father, Mr. Speaks? Has he recovered fully yet from the stroke?”
The right corner of Will’s mouth twitched as a hissing breath expelled from his lungs.
“He’s doing just fine, Mr. Stone.
Decklan’s face framed a thin, hard smile.
“That’s good to hear. Now if you would like to keep your job with me, I suggest you get off my dock.”
Will glanced over to where Adele stood motionless and silent.
“I’ll be fine, Mr. Speaks. I’ll call you in the morning and let you know when I’m ready to be taken back to Deer Harbor.”
Will looked like he wanted to say more, but he simply nodded and stepped back onto his skiff. He started the outboard motor, steered the boat slowly away from the dock, and then gave both Decklan and Adele a lingering stare before pointing the small boat back toward the marina.
“Mr. Stone, are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
Decklan issued a long, weary sigh.
“That is a very long and troubling story, Ms. Plank.”
“You’ve managed to do quite well for yourself sharing stories.”
The author grinned.
“Yeah, I suppose.”
Decklan looked up at the trees that swayed slowly to the increasing wind.
“It appears he was right.”
Adele shivered as an especially cold blast of wind cut through her clothing.
“Right about what, Mr. Stone?”
The writer gazed at the sky, and its growing cacophony of wind and imminent rainfall.
“A storm is coming.”
5.
Through the gaps in the bedroom blinds Adele watched the faint glow of orange-hued cigarette light outside for nearly twenty minutes. Her alcohol-drenched mind clumsily replayed the dinner and wine she had shared with Decklan Stone.
He had been both a gracious and talented host. His wine selection perfectly matched a meal of pan-roasted duck breast with goat cheese and cherries and a side of fresh greens delivered from the Orcas Island market.
By the time they opened the second bottle of wine, the author’s initial reticence was further diminished, and he began to share a stream of memories, thoughts, and loosely linked recollections with his guest. Following his fifth glass of wine, Decklan hinted again at the events surrounding his wife’s death; it simply took a gentle nudge from Adele.
“Only if you’re comfortable, Decklan. Otherwise, we can wait and discuss it another time.”
The author took a sip of wine and issued a very brief, almost imperceptible wince followed by a quick shake of his head.
“No, we can talk about it, what little there is to talk about.”
Decklan’s voice withered into silence. Adele sat across the small dining table with her hands folded patiently. When Decklan finally spoke, she realized how tense her body had become, and then glanced down to make certain the recorder was on.
“We were up early that day because we intended to make Roche Harbor before the tide change. Docking is a lot easier during slack tide, so we wanted to arrive by late morning. Everything takes a little longer on a boat. You check the bilge, the fluid levels, let the engines warm up, untie, and finally you’re on your way. The journey was fantastic. Calm water, a surprisingly warm morning breeze, and we even saw a small pod of whales as we neared Spieden Channel right before the entrance to Roche.”
Decklan emptied half the wine from his glass and then his chin fell toward his chest as if retelling the events made him too weak to lift his head.
“Calista was beautiful, as always. She adored Roche Harbor and the people there loved her just as much. It reminded her of Sag Harbor and the Hamptons, places she went with her family as a child. We were both in good spirits, happy, rested, and looking forward to a day in Roche. I captained the Chris Craft through the water at a comfortable eight knots. By the time we made the turn into the harbor, it was well into slack tide – perfect. Soon we were tied up at the guest dock and greeted by our friend, Tilda, who owns the Roche Harbor Hotel.”
“This Tilda, does she still own it?”
Decklan nodded.
“Yes, I believe so, though I haven’t spoken to her for many years. She was a beautiful woman back then. Red-haired, tall, athletic, a transplant from the East Coast the sam
e as Calista and me. Her parents had purchased the hotel years earlier and she, being their only child, inherited it. Initially, her parents still owned it, but by then they spent a lot of time in New York, so Tilda had become the face of the business. It was a pleasant face. It suited her.”
“And Tilda and your wife were friends?”
Again the author nodded.
“Yes, good friends. Tilda was just a few years older so they shared much in common.”
Adele noted how Decklan paused. Her mind was working double time trying to read between the lines.
“We had brunch at the café overlooking the marina, a few laughs, and then Calista went to use the hotel phone to call a taxi to take her to Friday Harbor on the other side of the island. There was a bookstore there, and she had ordered a copy of something she wanted to read, I believe it might have been Updike’s, Couples. She didn’t elaborate much on why she was going to the bookstore. I personally knew Updike enough to say I didn’t care for him, and Calista was somewhat sensitive toward my opinion on the matter.”
“And what did you do while she was in Friday Harbor?”
Decklan emptied the second bottle of wine into his glass and took another drink.
“Yes, an appropriate question isn’t it? I stayed back at the boat to do various chores. There is always something that needs to be done on a boat. Those who’ve haven’t owned one could never possibly understand. I didn’t mind. I rather enjoy it. More often than not, I would end up talking with another boater on the dock, exchanging water stories and such. Truth be told, it’s a wonderful existence, a day on the dock in a place like Roche Harbor. I highly recommend it.”
Adele pretended to take a drink from her nearly full glass, but it was a deceptive gesture. Her head was already buzzing and she didn’t want her mind further degraded by the effects of yet more alcohol. She wanted to keep her clarity intact as Decklan Stone continued to tell the story of the day his wife died.
“And then what happened? Did Calista return to the boat?”
The author winced again as a soft grunt passed between his pursed lips.
“Yes, right on time with book in hand. I wasn’t on the boat though.”
“Where were you?”
Decklan took another drink.
“I was up at the hotel.”
Adele felt her brows lift upward.
“With Tilda?”
Decklan shot the journalist a disapproving glance. He didn’t care for what the question insinuated, even though he understood her reason for asking.
“I was at the hotel washing a cut on my right hand. I had been replacing an exhaust hose, and one of the clamps had broken, leaving a sharpened edge that caused a sizable gash. There wasn’t a medical kit on the boat so I went to see Tilda, thinking she might have one I could use.”
“And that’s when your wife found you with Tilda in the hotel?”
Decklan made no attempt to hide the annoyance in his voice.
“Yes, Tilda was bandaging my hand. That is all she was doing.”
Outside the home, a small tree branch was being pushed up against the side of the house by the wind.
“Was your wife unhappy to see you alone with her?”
The author swirled the remaining wine in his glass, and his eyes moved slowly upward toward Adele.
“No, not just yet. She wasn’t angry until later. In fact we had dinner with Tilda and then hurried to get to the boat so we could make the trip back home before nightfall. We started to argue as soon as Tilda was no longer around. Calista drank quite a bit during dinner, and I had drunk too much as well. Neither of us was in a condition to be on the water, but there we were in near-darkness, making our way back here, to the island. I was at the helm above while she stayed in the aft cabin down below. Every few minutes she would come up to accuse me of having another affair, and I would take that as my cue to have another drink from a bottle of scotch I had opened just before leaving Roche Harbor.
Decklan put his wine glass down and then pushed it away with a look of disgust.
“I was drunk. We both were, but unlike Calista, it was my responsibility to get us home safely. I failed to do so.”
Adele didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she took a much-needed gulp of air. The media coverage of Calista Stone’s death had never mentioned her husband being under the influence of alcohol when she reportedly fell off the Chris Craft.
Adele was hearing Decklan Stone’s true confession.
“At the halfway point back, Calista stopped coming out to yell at me. I assumed she had fallen asleep. Traveling on the boat often made her sleepy. So I continued moving toward Orcas Island. I remember passing the southern tip of Jones Island and then entering Deer Harbor. The weather was fine; there was a bit of moonlight to help illuminate the way home.”
Adele cleared her throat and leaned forward in the chair across the kitchen table from where the author sat.
“And did you keep drinking during that time?”
Decklan looked away. The shame too great to have it reflected back in Adele’s eyes.
“Yes,” he said in a whisper.
Then the author’s nostrils flared and his jaw set as he growled the same word.
“Yes, I…kept…drinking. So much so, I can barely recall tying up to the dock. I knocked on the side of the boat, called out for Calista to come out, and then, in a fit of stupid anger, thought I was leaving her there. I went up to the house without her. I left my wife alone that night without making certain she was OK. Why? To this day I can’t explain it.”
“But she had likely already fallen off the boat by then.”
Decklan stared at the ceiling and shook his head.
“Yes, but if I had known she wasn’t on the boat, there may still have been time to save her. Calista wasn’t a terribly strong swimmer, but strong enough to at least give herself a chance. She needed someone to come find her, someone to save her. It should have been me. My behavior, my horrible, irresponsible behavior left her to die, struggling in those dark waters until she could struggle no more.”
The author rose from the table, lifted his arms, and extended them outward from both sides of his body.
“So you see, Ms. Plank, the rumors are true. I am a murderer. I killed my wife.”
Adele watched silently as Decklan lowered his arms and swayed from side to side on unsteady legs as tears once again formed in the corners of his eyes.
“Most people have the privilege of waking up from a nightmare. The next morning I woke up to one. Adele’s side of the bed remained empty. I was sober enough by then to realize how irresponsible I had been. I made my way back to the boat and then found it empty as well. I called out for Calista, looked throughout the house, all over the island. She was gone. I panicked, not wanting to think the worst, but knowing it to be a possible explanation for her absence. I called the police, explained to them our return from Roche Harbor and that she might have gone missing at some point during that time. The dispatcher suggested that perhaps Calista had simply called over to Deer Harbor for a ride to the main island. I was embarrassed to have not thought of that possibility. In fact, I then believed that had to have been what happened. The county sheriff called me back to say no such call by Calista had been made, and my worst fears returned. The sheriff took over from there and within the hour, initiated a search party of several boats that covered the entirety of the waters between here and Roche Harbor.”
“And was that Sheriff Speaks, Will’s father? The one you questioned Will about having a stroke?”
Decklan grunted.
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“You don’t like him?”
The author folded his arms across his chest and looked away, letting Adele know he was thinking of ending the interview.
I can’t let that happen.
“Did he arrest you?”
Decklan’s eyes flashed with hints of anger.
“No, that was never a possibility. Sheriff Speaks
interviewed me later that day and then had me come to Friday Harbor for a follow-up interview the next day. By then Calista had been designated as missing and likely dead. The sheriff said they found one of her shoes floating in the water about a mile from Deer Harbor. She was gone. I kept looking for her. The authorities, the sheriff, they just stopped. He insisted she couldn’t have survived, not for that long. He was the one who finally convinced me of the worst, and I suppose I’ve never really forgiven him for being the bearer of that terrible news.”
“So case closed, just like that?”
Decklan’s head nodded and his shoulders slumped, every inch the broken man.
“Yeah, just like that. The official report indicated it to be death by accidental drowning.”
Adele felt her brow furrow, knowing something was being left out. Decklan saw the gesture and then sat back down in his chair.
“You have good instincts for knowing when you’re not being told the whole story.”
Adele folded her hands in front of her, looking and sounding far more fearless than she in fact felt.
“So why don’t you go ahead and tell me the whole story, Mr. Stone?”
The author’s perfectly manicured nails repeatedly tapped the top of the table while he considered the request. He stared into Adele’s eyes for several seconds, gave her a pained smile, and then abruptly stood back up.
“Albert Camus said that one needs more courage to live than to die. I think I’ve lived just long enough to finally and fully understand that very sentiment. I am not a man of courage, Ms. Plank. It’s been a long day and I’ve grown very, very tired. The thirtieth anniversary of Manitoba, what brought you here, is for me more burden than remembrance; it requires reliving things I have spent much of my life trying to forget. There comes a point when one simply wants to rest, you know? To silence the voices of discontent, loss, and guilt that grow louder and more abusive with each unfortunate day.”
Decklan turned and made his way upstairs, while his parting words continued to echo in Adele’s head as she watched the burning cigarette outside her window.
He wants to die. I’m to be his final interview and then he’s going to kill himself. When he gave me the beach glass he said it would be something to remember him by.
The Writer Page 4
