“Thank you, Bob,” she whispered and he nodded.
The interior of the church was paneled with wood and painted a light pink. Narrow windows emitted cheerful shafts of light which played over the varnished pine pews. There were no flowers in the church, but instead vases of gold, green and auburn marsh grass adorned the coffin.
At the front of the church, Sabrina saw Nettie, Dock, Thierry and an unfamiliar young woman with a little girl. Sabrina smiled.
“Pssss, Miss Sabrina,” someone hissed, and Sabrina saw Lima Lowry waving from three rows away to gain her attention.
Sabrina smiled and averted her eyes, hoping he would take the hint and stop waving his arms like a pinwheel.
“Miss Sabrina!” His tone was definitely increasing.
Sabrina tried a small wave and looked away.
Lima wasn’t having any of it.
“Pssss, Miss Sabrina!”
By this time the entire church was watching Lima.
“What?” Sabrina mouthed silently.
“Did you hear that someone shot at Brad Tittletott this morning?” Lima said in a whisper as subtle as a shotgun blast, especially when Sondra Lane brought her band’s rendition of “Heartbreak Hotel” to a snazzy finale, and Lima’s words echoed in the sudden silence.
“Thank you, Lima,” Sabrina said firmly. Lima nodded in satisfaction and turned back toward the front, oblivious of the stir he had caused.
Sabrina saw Brad sitting by himself two rows in front of her. He stared stonily ahead and ignored the curious looks directed his way.
Sabrina gave him a thoughtful look and looked back toward the front where a man dressed in a flannel shirt and suspender pants had wandered to the front of the church. A black robe hung down his back like Batman’s cape. He seemed to be looking for something behind the pulpit.
Someone shot at Brad this morning? Who? And why, with all the suspicion flying around him, was Brad at Rolo’s funeral?
Because Brad and Rolo were best friends when they were children, she realized, despite all that had happened since then. That kind of pure friendship is unsullied by complicated adult emotions.
The man in the cape was down on his hands and knees behind the pulpit. He said “aha!” and pounced on a polished stick and held it up triumphantly. He turned to stare at the congregation, swaying slightly, the stick raised like a director’s baton.
The congregation stared back.
“Marriage,” he said, waving the stick experimentally. “We are all gathered here to celebrate—” His confused glance fell on the coffin.
“It’s a funeral, Pastor Josh!” someone yelled.
“I see. Yes, that would explain the—” Pastor Josh put down the stick, fumbled for his glasses and began sorting through the paper on the pulpit. “Oh yes,” he said with some relief, “here we go. We are all gathered here in memory of our beloved brother, um…” He paused, flipping through some papers. “Our beloved brother, um…” The flipping became frantic.
“Roland Thierry Wrightly the Eleventh,” Nettie said from the front row. “Get it together, Pastor Josh, or I’ll preach the sermon myself.”
“Oh yes. Certainly. We are all gathered here in memory of our beloved brother, Rolo, my dear cousin Rolo.” A big fat tear rolled down Pastor Josh’s cheek.
“My dear cousin Rolo has gone on to heaven now,” he said in a stronger voice, falling into the familiar sermon-giving rhythm, “and while we all will certainly miss him, we must remember that heaven is like a used car lot, can I hear an amen. Just think about how you feel as you walk around that lot with a wad of money in your pocket and you know that you can buy any car there, and that emotion is pure happiness. That is how Rolo will feel for all eternity, and we can rejoice for him.
“This reminds me of something that happened to me the other day. A young man came onto my lot—I won’t use any names—and this young man was looking at a low-mileage, clean Ford F-150, and he liked that truck, yes he did, can I hear an amen, and he wanted to buy that truck, but he said to me, he said, ‘Pastor, I surely like that truck, but I don’t think I should have to pay that price you have stuck to the windshield,’ and I said, ‘Wayland McCall—’”
A couple rows in front of Sabrina, a young man jerked upright and looked around as his neighbors turned to snicker at him. Pastor Josh had picked up the stick again and he was using it to point at the blushing young man.
“I said, ‘Wayland McCall, let me ask you a question. Do you go into a restaurant and order a hamburger and fries and then when the bill comes, say, ‘I don’t think I should have to pay that?’ Do you go to the general store and pick out twenty dollars worth of groceries and then tell Greg Tubbs, ‘I don’t think I should have to pay for these?’ There is something wrong with people today, can I hear an amen, there is something wrong when they think that the world owes them a big-screen TV, a nice car and a Foreman grill. Nobody ever got something for nothing, that’s what I say, and that’s what the good book says, I think in John or Luke. Responsibility!” Pastor Josh roared, slamming the stick down on the pulpit and half the congregation jumped. “That’s what we need, a sense of responsibility! If you want to buy a house, save for it. If you want good roads, pay your taxes! And do it with a smile, and a ‘thank you, Lord, for giving me my health and the road signs that warn me that some poor, unsuspecting critter may be crossing the road!’”
Sabrina looked around and saw people nodding, with thoughtful expressions on their faces.
“So here we are to say good-bye to our brother Rolo, a good man, and lest you feel sad, lest you have tears in your eyes, just remember, that in our own time, we will see him again, and we too will be spending eternity in our own personal car lot with plenty of money—money we earned, mind you—in our pocket.”
Pastor Josh seemed drained, and he swayed for a moment, toying with the stick on the pulpit. “So then, ashes to ashes, dust to um…” He stopped and fumbled through his papers. “Dust to, um…”
“Dust,” people were saying under their breath, so many of them that a sibilant hiss rose through the air.
“Um, let’s see…ashes to ashes, dust to…hmm…”
“Dust!” Lima roared. “Dust to dust!”
“Yes, of course. Dust to dust. God is good, God is great, thank the Lord it’s time to eat.”
With that, Josh used his arms to spread his cape like great wings over his head and trotted down the middle of the aisle. Six men went to the front of the church and surrounded the coffin, bearing it carefully out of the church. Shaking her head, Nettie, dressed in a plain dark dress, and holding a candle topped with a flickering flame, came down the aisle, followed by Dock, Thierry and the strange woman and child, all holding white candles.
Sabrina looked around in consternation as the people around her began pulling candles out of their pockets and a pack of matches was passed down the aisle. Even Bicycle Bob had a candle, though his was a red candle, burned down to almost a nub.
Sabrina forgot about the candles when she saw Elizabeth Tittletott, Gary, and Virginia pass down the aisle and out of the church. She’d assumed Brad came alone. As the last of the islanders streamed out of the church, holding their lit candles, Sabrina fell in behind.
The crowd of people walked down Lighthouse Road and took a right down Long Road, the paved road that headed toward the deserted end of the island. Sabrina had driven down to the far end of the road when she first arrived on the island and was rewarded with views of marshland, rolling dunes and ponies.
Once on the Long Road, the crowd took another right and Sabrina saw a metal archway bearing the name “Dunetop Cemetery.” The hill of sandy dirt was dotted with tombstones.
Sabrina followed the crowd up the hill and down the backside, where a mound of fresh dirt and a hole in the ground marked Rolo’s final resting place. The six burly men lowered Rolo’s coffin to the ground beside the grave site and Nettie opened the lid. Sabrina joined the gathering around the edge of the grave behind Nettie and her f
amily. Pastor Josh had disappeared, though Sabrina could hear something that sounded suspiciously like snoring drifting from a nearby bush.
“Thank you all for coming out today. Rolo would have been happy to know that we didn’t forget him.” Nettie paused, and wiped at her eyes. “Despite what everybody may think, Rolo was a good boy. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.” Nettie gestured toward the young woman and she stepped forward, holding the hand of the little girl. “This is Rolo’s wife Sherry, and his daughter Little Nettie, who wouldn’t be here if Miss Sabrina, our new neighbor, hadn’t made a couple of phone calls and arranged the whole thing!” Nettie had to stop again. “They came all this way from Oregon to see where Rolo was born, and where he died. I’m trying to talk Sherry into staying here.”
Sherry, who had shoulder-length auburn hair, a thin face and eyes blotched from crying, smiled at her mother-in-law.
“Now, I’d like to call up Bruce Teasley who was one of Rolo’s good friends when they were kids.”
Bruce Teasley, carrying a cast iron skillet, stepped to the front and talked about Rolo and some of the stunts they pulled when they were boys. As he finished, he placed the skillet in the coffin.
One by one, several people spoke about Rolo and placed a skillet in the coffin.
“It’s amazing how people who hadn’t thought about Rolo Wrightly for fifteen years have so many nice things to say about him,” Lima said.
“Don’t be cynical,” Sabrina said out of the corner of her mouth. “All right, I give up. What’s with the iron skillets?”
“Weeell now.” Lima shifted his weight from one bright white boot to the other. Sabrina thought he had probably spray-painted the boots for the occasion. “It’s a tradition that goes back to my grandpappy’s day. We don’t have much high land on the island, and when it came to a-burying, most folks just put their loved ones in their back yards. Kept it all in the family, so to speak. The only problem was, when a hurricane or nor’easter came along, the winds pushed the water right up into everybody’s back yards. It was common after a storm to have coffins bobbing around in the harbor like buoys. So people started thinking about weighting down the coffins a little, so they wouldn’t float off. And about the heaviest things they could think of, and something almost everybody had, were cast iron skillets. Now, whenever anybody gets buried, we make sure there’s at least five or six skillets in the coffin, just in case a storm comes and tries to float that coffin away. And then there’s Shelby’s Fishing Pole—”
“Sabrina, would you mind saying a few words?” Nettie asked.
Sabrina was speechless as Nettie looked at her inquiringly.
She stepped to the front of the crowd, carrying her skillet, and looked down at the peaceful, bearded face in the coffin. Rolo was dressed in a dark suit, and his hair had been trimmed. Any signs of his murder must be covered by the suit, because he looked serene and whole, as if he would open his bright blue eyes and ask Sabrina if she was taking care of his grandmama’s roses.
“I didn’t know Rolo very long, or very well,” Sabrina began, turning to face the crowd, and using her carrying voice, the one she used when she spoke in the echoing auditorium, and wanted to make sure the squirming boys in the very back could hear. “But in the short time I knew him before his death, I think Rolo and I made a connection. He told me about his family and talked about his love for his grandmother’s roses. We talked, really talked, and if I was able to help him during a difficult time, then I’m glad.”
Sabrina noticed that Sergeant Jimmy McCall was waving a hand at her, and she paused a moment, staring at him in puzzlement. “Rolo Wrightly was a good man,” she continued. “I feel honored that I knew him, even for so short a time.” She turned to the coffin and placed the skillet beside Rolo in the coffin. She felt the tears burning in her eyes, and she wanted to go before she started crying in earnest.
“Thank you all for coming out.” Nettie stood beside the coffin, holding a fishing pole. “All that’s left is Shelby’s Fishing Pole—”
“Wait,” a voice said from the crowd, and Brad Tittletott stepped forward. “I’d like to say a few words.”
Nettie looked at him for a long moment, and then nodded and stepped back to let him speak.
“Rolo was,” Brad began, and swallowed hard. “Rolo was the best friend I ever had when I was a kid. He showed me what friendship is supposed to be. I wanted to say—“
“You have no right,” Thierry cried, pushing to the front of the crowd. “You have no right to act as if you cared about my brother when you killed him!” He pulled out a pistol from his pocket and aimed it at Brad. “I won’t miss this time. Blood for blood, Brad! You’re going to die for killing a Wrightly!”
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Thierry Roland Wrightly, you put that down!” Nettie said sharply, her voice thin with fear. “Right now, do you hear me?”
“He killed Rolo, Mama.” Thierry’s his hands were shaking as he held the gun. “Can you believe it? A Tittletott killing a Wrightly, imagine that.” He gave a harsh laugh. “I should have known better than to have ever trusted a Tittletott.” His voice rose as he gestured with the gun.
“Thierry,” Sergeant Jimmy McCall said calmly. “Give me the gun, and we’ll talk about this. If Brad killed Rolo we’ll take him to jail, I promise you. He won’t get away with this. You know me, Thierry. I wouldn’t lie to you.” The fat police officer in his tight uniform and sweat stains spreading across his back should have looked ludicrous, but Jimmy McCall was anything but ludicrous. His voice was calm and soft, as if coaxing a wild dog from a burning building.
“Ha!” Thierry jeered. “You expect me to believe that a Tittletott can’t get away with murder on this island? They’ve been doing it for centuries.”
Sabrina raised her head in surprise. Had Thierry read the diary?
All this time Brad had been standing quietly, his head bowed as if accepting whatever fate was meted out to him. He looked up then, and Sabrina realized that Brad, at least, knew about the diary. She could see the recognition in his eyes.
“I didn’t kill Rolo,” Brad said, but his voice was defeated, and he didn’t sound convincing.
“Yes, you did,” Thierry cried. “I saw you put the note under the door that night! I was coming back from the Pub, real late, and I saw you in front of Nettie’s Cookie Shop, looking around as if you didn’t want anyone to see you. Then you put the note under the door. I saw you! Rolo met you at the treasure tree and you killed him! I know you killed him!”
“No, no.” Brad was shaking his head. “I didn’t kill him, I swear I didn’t.”
“Then where were you the day of the murder?” Thierry asked in a hard voice.
“Yeah,” someone shouted from the crowd. “Where were you, Brad Tittletott? You weren’t at the Lighthouse Beach, we all know that. So where were you?”
Brad was shaking his head, back and forth like a metronome.
“What’s more,” a rotund lady said as she stepped out of the crowd, “I saw ‘im that day, plain as day. I didn’t want to say nothing, because I wasn’t sure, but I know I saw him coming down the street, down in Waver Town, hat pulled low, and he had mud on his boots. He thought nobody knew who he was, but I sawed him.”
Brad stopped shaking his head, and was staring straight ahead, his eyes unseeing.
“Well, Brad,” Jimmy asked. “Did you arrange to meet Rolo at the treasure tree? We have a sample of your handwriting, remember. If you wrote the note, we’ll find out soon enough.” Jimmy was now standing next to Thierry, facing Brad. Jimmy had assessed the situation, it was plain, and saw that Thierry was so wrapped up in the public spectacle that he had let the gun drop to his side. Jimmy was in easy reach of the gun if Thierry raised it again.
Brad shut his eyes.
“He was with me! He didn’t kill Rolo! He was with me!” Stacey Tubbs, looking very young in a white dress, her hair tied in a pony tail at the back of her neck, stepped forward out of the crowd to stand at
Brad’s side.
“Stacey!” Greg Tubbs, heavy chins swinging, stared in disbelief at his daughter.
“He was.” Stacey slipped her arm through Brad’s.
“No, Stacey,” Brad said, almost inaudibly.
“We’ve been together for over a month now. And the day Rolo was murdered we were at my house. Mummy and Daddy were at the store. We were there all day. In bed.” She looked around at the faces of her family and friends, as if determined to share every nitty-gritty detail now that the truth was out in the open.
“No, Stacey,” Brad said in a louder voice. “I don’t want you lying for me.” He took the girl by the shoulders and moved her away, out of the possible track of a bullet. “I wasn’t with Stacey all afternoon, though we were together earlier in the afternoon. I love her,” he said simply, and Stacey glowed with happiness. “But I left to go meet Rolo at two. I did send him the note asking him to meet me at the tree. Thierry was right about that. But I didn’t go to kill him. I went to tell him that—” he broke off, looking around at the curious, concerned faces of those around him. “I went to tell him that I would tell everyone the truth the night of the rally. That I would tell what really happened the night the silver was stolen.”
There was an excited murmur of voices, and a shifting of the crowd as people pushed closer to Brad so they could hear.
“When Rolo first got back to the island, we met and he swore that he would tell everybody about the Tittletotts, and what I did that night. He was so angry. I think he must have kept the anger bottled up for all these years. There was something about me running for president that really set him off. I’m not sure why, but that made him angrier than anything else.” Brad grew more confident, and his voice strengthened.
“I asked him not to, told him I would give him money to go away, that I was sorry, but that I couldn’t give up my whole life for him.” Brad laughed, a harsh cynical sound. “I won’t repeat what he said. I left then, and he swore the truth would come out. I asked who would believe him?
Island Intrigue Page 21
