Twillyweed

by Mary Anne Kelly

  She stopped tidying and walked over to him, sinking onto the floor beside the bed.

  “Because Patsy says I never can leave the table until I finish up my potatoes. And now I don’t have to?”

  “That’s right, sport.” She smiled gently. “No potatoes unless you want them.”

  “And you’re not going away from Twillyweed tonight?”

  She gave him a fierce hug. “I’ll never leave you unless it’s all right with you!”

  This seemed to mollify him. She sighed with relief. They’d gotten over the hump. The most important thing was she’d gained the little fellow’s trust. She felt a kind of pride. Yes, for the first time in a while, hell, her whole life, she felt as though she were making a difference. “What song will it be, now, tonight? ‘The Summer Wind’?”

  “No.” He made a satisfied wiggle into position under the covers. “‘You Are My Sunshine.’”

  She sketched him while she sang the same absorbing verses over and over until he dropped off—she’d captured most of him in shadow, just a telling edge of him in light, and, pleased with what she’d done, she rolled the drawing up into a scroll. There was something about pain and sorrow that helped art, leaked the important stuff into your work, made it poignant. It was too bad, but there it was, true. When she was sure Wendell was deep asleep, she crept, shivering, past the yellow-taped basement door and up to her room in the turret. She opened the drawing and put it on the nightstand already splattered with paint, weighting the edges down with Patsy Mooney’s left-behind seashells. Nothing would be the same without Patsy Mooney, she mulled. For the moment, Mr. Piet looked after them, and Jenny Rose had to admit he managed things very well. There would have to be a wake and a funeral when they released the body. She sucked in her breath. The poor old soul. She hadn’t deserved to die that way. Glumly, she walked the series of windows around the turret and lowered all the slatted rattan shades she’d earlier raised up for her precious light, knotting them shut by their cords, one by one. Patsy Mooney had kept them down all the time. “Begonias don’t like too much light,” she’d explained. Or had she known even then that he was after her? She remembered Patsy’s darty little eyes as she’d assured her about the basement apartment, No one will get you here. Had she known then he was that close to finding her? Suddenly Jenny Rose stopped, hearing something. Was someone there? “Hello?” She cocked her head. But who would be coming up at this hour? Wendell? She checked that the monitor was on. So sensitive it was she could hear the soft drone of his snores. No, it wasn’t anything, she was just nervous. Anyone would be. She opened her closet door and inspected her few clothes. There was one robe she’d had since she had been in the south of Turkey. She’d never worn it, saving it for a special occasion. It was an antique, gold-threaded wedding garment, a sort of coat. She’d bargained for it in the bazaar, drinking mint tea with shopkeepers who themselves wore long medieval robes as they’d sat around a smoking lantern. She stroked the course gold-woven thread and the slippery corroded lining, stained a bit with rust. She held it to her chest and twirled around the attic floor to no music—then stopped. She had heard something. Someone. A chill ran up her spine. But wait—maybe it was Wendell, upset from Patsy’s death! She unlatched her door, flung it open, and stood at the top, peering down the whitewashed winding staircase. There was the smell of motor oil—and something green. From behind, a hand slipped into the waist of her shirt and another covered her mouth to stifle the beginnings of her scream.

  It was Glinty. Couldn’t he ever make a noise like a normal person? Her head fell back onto his shoulder and he rasped, “Jenny Rose. Don’t you remember? ’Twas good, was it not?”

  Not knowing if she was all right or not, she nodded her head yes. He let go his grip and maneuvered her into the room. He latched the lock.

  “How did you get in?”

  “Ach, that was easy. Any thief could get into this mad system of wobbly windows.”

  She rubbed her neck where it always got kinked. “So it’s a thief you are now?”

  “No. I didn’t say that.” He leaned his gangly body into hers and she could smell the pot on his breath. His eyes, rich with umbrage, burned into hers. “I’ll not have you call me a thief.”

  Reassured by his taking insult, she lowered her voice seductively, “What would you have me call you then?”

  He laughed. Then he grew serious. He pulled her forgotten pair of underwear from his pocket and said, “The thing is … I can’t stop thinking of you.”

  She snatched the undergarment and shied away backward. “Look, I know you must think I’m this easy slut but, well, actually I was an easy slut, wasn’t I? But—”

  “Shut up.” He tilted his head and caught her mouth with his and sealed it off with the tip of his tongue. Locked together, they tangoed backward to her bed and fell onto it.

  The light winked in the east above Glen Cove when Glinty finally moved to untangle himself. They were both still half awake. He licked the kink in her neck where it always bothered her and Jenny Rose groaned with pleasure. Magically, the kink had disappeared. She turned onto her back. “I’ll be missing you when you sail off,” she told him, half sweetly, half reproachfully.

  He looked away. “I’ll not be going anywhere.”

  “Will you not? Scotland won’t call to you when this murder business is over? Or when you’ve made your fortune?”

  “I hate Scotland,” Glinty confided. “It’s the midges, mostly. They’ll eat you alive.” He wiped his brow with the inside of his arm. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious. I’ll not go back. I’ve no one there. No. It’s America I love.” His eyes twinkled. “Land of the free.”

  She shot him a look. Was he being sarcastic?

  He turned serious. “You feel the way I do, don’t you? About us? Because I’ve got to know …”

  “I do,” she admitted, surrendering, touching her heart with the tips of her fingers.

  He ground his body into hers in sheer delight. “Now. Give me something,” he whispered.

  “What?” she blinked.

  “A token. Something with the smell of you.”

  She smiled, a little love drunk, and burrowed into the pillow. “Take whatever pleases you.”

  He stood up and climbed into his jeans. Holding her eye, he lifted the Turkish wedding robe.

  “Not that,” she said with a pout.

  “You said anything.” He raised a brow.

  “Anything else.”

  He opened her top drawer and came out with a silky black-and-yellow bra. “This?”

  “It doesn’t smell of me, dodo. It’s clean.”

  He moved toward her and clenched her arm behind her back, then looped the strap through his finger and traced it all across and around her limp body, behind her back and up between her legs then under his nose. “Now it does,” he said with a growl. He let her go and she collapsed into a heap. “I’ll call you later,” he promised.

  She watched as his slim, fluid body moved in the half-light. He was cruelly pale, his hairs black and in a fine marking down his narrow front and back. She wondered idly how she would get him to pose for her without insulting him. He finished dressing then stopped at the door and he opened the latch. “Oh,” he said, like it just came to him, “and when they ask you where you were at the time of the murder, just tell them you were with me.” He smiled at her tenderly. “Tell them I come to you in the night. That way they won’t have you as a suspect.”

  And as she heard the door latch click and he slipped with no sound down the winding stairs, her hand returned unconsciously to the kink in her neck. He might be her alibi—but so would she be his.

  Claire

  The unfamiliar ticking of the seven wall clocks I’d wound back to business woke me absurdly early the next day. I remembered Patsy Mooney and said a quick prayer for her immortal soul, then one that they’d catch he
r husband quickly. Whether he did it or not, it was best to know the truth. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and slipped into a cool white blouse and jeans. Jake sat ready at the door, impatiently moving from cheek to cheek.

  “All right, I’m coming.” I laughed, looking around the tidy room. All was fresh and clean, and the flimsy white curtains rippled out horizontally. I don’t think I’d ever liked a place so much. I grabbed a pale-pink cardigan I’d picked up at a garage sale and was crazy about. It was amazing to be able to go for walks on a beach I hadn’t had to drive to. We took our time and luxuriated in the fresh breeze, then strolled over to the docks where there seemed to be a lot going on. Sailors are early risers and the dock was busy with folks scrubbing their decks and mending sails. My heart leaped a bit at the sight of Morgan Donovan sailing up to the dock.

  “Ahoy,” he greeted me. Then, pushing his cap back, “Where’d you find him?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Come aboard!”

  I crouched on the deck to be at his level while petting Jake, “I can’t. Have to go to the station house this morning.” I shrugged. “Time for my interrogation.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  But I was shy now. He was rich. It was different. “I thought I’d walk.”

  “I’ll take you by boat.”

  That stopped me. “To the station house?”

  “Sure.”

  “But it’s too early.”

  “We’ll go the long way. Bring the dog. Here. Take my hand.”

  Without thinking, I took it. It was as though we latched on to each other. I lowered myself on board, not caring who saw, and he helped me into a life jacket. I held my breath at the nearness. Getting Jake on was another story. He wouldn’t come until he pretty much figured we’d leave him if he didn’t hop aboard. Morgan and I laughed when he finally flounced, all fours, onto the glistening deck and slid to a safe spot near the mainsail where he huddled for the duration. Morgan went about untying knots, casting ropes, guiding us away from the dock. When we took off, I was surprised at how fast we moved. I leaned myself into the wind the way he did and we scooted away, the force of the wind taking hold and the mainsail filling. In one movement, he secured and coiled the halyard and we skimmed the bright water past a fleet of other boats. Terrified and thrilled, I held on for dear life. Morgan, a cigar butt in the corner of his mouth, eased against the rudder and lay back, at ease. I thought I’d never seen him so like himself, so … what was it? Happy. Before you knew it we were out far. It was beautiful. He lowered the sails and let the boat drift. I turned and faced him. He leaned across me and took hold of the tiller and tied it. There’s nothing like the clean, sweet smell of a man. I felt like nuzzling my cheek against the reddish fur of his arm. But I wouldn’t. Of course I wouldn’t. “This is heaven,” I said. “What’s that over there?”

  “Connecticut. One day when you have more time I’ll sail you over.”

  “I’d love that.”

  “Tell you what … I’ve got some leftover chicken below.” He jumped up. “You hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  “And some wine? You like wine, I think.”

  “Too early for me.” I laughed. “Haven’t even had breakfast! I’ll make tea.” I went below, filled the kettle, and set about lighting the kerosene stove. He went back to the tiller. Jake lay basking in the sun and I thought, Hmm, this is good; anywhere we go we can take him. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I couldn’t help noticing the wines Morgan had in his little stowaway rack. I pulled one out. A Silvio Nardi, Brunello di Montalcino, Italia 2005. Impressive. I reached for the teapot and mugs shackled up on the shelf. Wobbling and careful not to knock anything over, I took them topside on a tray and centered it on the cabin trunk. I raised the pot to put the tea bags in and it rattled. I lifted the lid to wipe it out and at that moment I saw the frozen look on Morgan’s face. My first thought was, he’s hidden something in there. A surprise? I looked down. It was a key. A red key.

  It took some seconds for my mind to struggle through this revelation, but only one to know it.

  I kept looking down at the key, then out at the sea. He’d let his guard down. For me. But of course he remembered the teapot, seeing me with it. The moment I saw it, I knew. I looked to him. He saw it, too. He realized his mistake but didn’t miss a beat. Disappointment must have collapsed my face. I remember I must have said something, something about the tea, maybe. We stood there together for some seconds in the sunshine, hovering between pretense and knowing. Then I tipped it over and the key fell into my hand. It was cold and hard. I clenched it and I felt him wince, his plans caved in.

  It was damned and we both knew this. We would always know it. Once you knew, you couldn’t go back and not know. He checked both ways peripherally, as though to be sure no one sailed near. What if there was no stopping him, no conscience and no honor, just the cunning draw toward what worked best for him? My mind raced. He must have strangled Patsy Mooney to get that key. And a chill lit up like wings, growing from my back to my shoulders. He started toward me and I went rigid with fear. Jake, sensing my terror, leveled off an objection from the depths of his throat. Morgan hesitated and in that moment I watched him reject this idea, change his mind, go on to the next plan. As smoothly as a man in a dance, he moved backward and, still holding my eyes—regret more than anger in his eyes—he left me there and went below. I tucked the key in my pocket. It was only a short while, but it felt eternal. And I knew he was coming back because what I knew threatened his existence. White fear gripped me and blanked my vision. And then, doing what he wouldn’t think I would think to do, I flung myself without a backward glance under the short rope and overboard into the fast-moving depths. Right behind me, Jake splattered in.

  The boat sped away. The strong current pulled us. Both shores were far away, irretrievably far. I gasped for breath and struggled out of my shoes. My clothes pulled me down and my eyes stung with brine. To my horror I saw the Gnomon tilt, then veer and turn. Oh, no. Fear clutched me and I reached for Jake, who paddled toward me, but the current was too strong in the other direction. I watched him get carried away, paddling madly, his eyes strained and wild and frantic like a horse in a blood race, and I knew despair. I heard someone call out from somewhere and I saw Morgan at the helm, decisive, leveling off, aiming the boat toward me. He was talking into a walkie-talkie. Desperately I tried to think of a way to get clear, but I knew there was none. I dove under in desperation, my eyes open.

  He swept past me and I came up gasping for air. The Gnomon turned at breakneck speed to come again, the wind in her sails, but a yawl off course appeared like a ghost and loomed up with tremendous suddenness and I swam toward it. There were two men on board. They were three sheets to the wind, but they were men. Then the Gnomon pulled alongside me and Morgan was leaning over the side and reaching out his arm and shouting at me. I mean really shouting. “What the bloody hell are you doing!” he yelled, heaving a line toward me, veins of fury standing out on his forehead. “Are you daft? You stupid woman! What’s wrong with you?”

  It was his tone. He wasn’t acting like a red-handed murderer at all. He was acting like my father when we kids thought we were smart and almost killed ourselves climbing up on the roof and jumping into the raked-up leaves. Had I been wrong? I was wrong, wasn’t I, I realized, sputtering. Those men had seen me. He wouldn’t kill me with onlookers, anyway. Arms reached out from the other boat, but I let him hoist me up onto the Gnomon. I was so relieved to be out of the cold water. They fished Jake out with a shark hawler and held on to him until they pulled alongside. Then he leaped across. You couldn’t have stopped him. He crouched beside me, brackish, panting, I could hear his addled breath. My arm went around him and I clung to him.

  “You’re out of your mind!” Morgan continued ranting while he went to fetch two warm blankets and put them around us.

  The two men
on the other boat waved us away with doubtful expressions.

  “That’s the last time I take a lass out on the boat. That’s it!”

  I was beginning to feel a little stupid. But had he not tried to hit me with the Gnomon? Now I was mad. I shouted, “I thought you were trying to hit me with the boat!”

  He yelled back, “I fucking hell was not! I was trying to come get you, you daft female! Jesus Christ! What happened? Why the bloody hell did you jump overboard? Did you dive in after the dog?” He lowered his voice. “Why would you think I’d hit you with the boat?”

  I reached into my pocket and came up with the key. We looked at each other. Then he said, “Are you hurt?”

  “No! It’s the key. The key that was around Patsy Mooney’s neck!”

  “Well, what’s it doing here?”

  “That’s what I want to know! It was in your teapot, as if you didn’t know!”

  He drew back. “I didn’t.”

  “The hell you didn’t! Why did you give me that look?”

  “What look?”

  “When I opened the teapot.”

  “I thought you found a bloody mouse. It wouldn’t be the first time. They hole up in there.”

  I didn’t buy it. “Come on!”

  “You come on! I ask you out on my boat and the next thing I know it’s man overboard. What do you think; it’s a joke? You could have been killed! Or worse! There are worse things than being killed!” He slumped forward. “Jesus. You’ll be giving me a heart attack!”

  He did look pale. I moved forward. “You mean you didn’t know anything about the key?”

  He shook his head. “No. What do you think? If I did, you imagine I’d have sent you to it?”

  That made sense. I began to shiver uncontrollably. “Come on.” He dropped anchor and hauled me downstairs.

  “I just thought you’d forgot about it,” I explained as he rubbed my head with a rough towel.

  He gaped at me. “Ach, I see. I murder Patsy Mooney for a key and then I leave it in a wee teapot for you to find and then I kill you, too.” He raised his eyes. “Brilliant.”