by Kristy Tate
I sat back down on the stone wall. Moss grew between the worn stones. I scraped at it with my fingernail. I couldn’t imagine what danger Pastor Grayson was warning me about. I had so many questions about my family history and I never got any answers.
I rolled the moss between my fingers. A twig in the woods behind me broke. I looked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of a dark figure running through the woods. I watched Phil Henderson vault over a fallen tree then disappear down a bank that led to the river.
In the village a cry went up. Several men, most well over eighty, congregated by the flagpole. Frank and Jeff came trotting down the street, each carrying a shotgun. The men scattered into the woods. Pastor Grayson, his voice hard and commandeering, strode away with his pistol drawn, every inch the Seattle police officer that he’d once been.
While Phil Henderson, Pastor Grayson, and the pursuers chased down the hill, I decided to look for Artie and James, and retrieve my paints from the playhouse. I even toyed with the idea of taking Henry’s book of poems. I turned and headed in the opposite direction of the manhunt.
The path to the Dunsmuirs seemed especially quiet. I supposed every able-bodied Listerite man and dog had gone to the other side of the island to hunt Phil.
The noon sun reached its zenith and warmed the back of my neck as I walked up the hill past the Jensons’ farm. I wondered what would happen if I really turned out to be Helen Dunsmuir’s granddaughter. Maybe I could claim some right to the house and save it.
The Jensons’ front door opened, and two people came out to stand on the porch. Sheep, cows, and goats stood between us, baaing, mooing, and bleating respectfully. Even across the distance and animal noises I recognized Ryan’s laugh. That I could be so acutely aware of him bothered me, and I turned my back to them and hurried toward the Dunsmuir house.
Aside from the company of squirrels and rabbits, I walked alone through the valleys and woods. Occasionally I had that odd pin-prickly sense of being watched and I walked faster. From what I knew now, the woods held a lot of ghosts.
I stopped at the top of the hill to look down at the family property. A twig snapped behind me, and I glanced around. I didn’t see anyone, but another twig snapped and my thoughts turned back to Phil Henderson, so I moved more quickly toward the playhouse.
But I didn’t need to worry about Phil, because through the playhouse window I saw his boat moving away out on the water. He had gotten away.
#
I found my paints where I left them on the table. Looking at the bed I remembered how I’d thought the playhouse had been a love nest for Henry and Nelly, and it had been, but it hadn’t been as illicit, as I thought. I felt ashamed of myself and mentally apologized to Henry and Nelly as I upended the mattress. I breathed a sigh of relief when I found the ribbon-tied letters.
I didn’t feel any guilt. I felt as if Henry and Helen wanted me to have the letters. They wanted me to know that love, the long lasting and forever sort of love, really did exist.
I told myself I would send James the letters after I made copies. Even if he turned out to be the murderer… No, I wouldn’t think that way.
If by some small miracle I turned out to be the granddaughter of Helen and Henry Dunsmuir, no one would begrudge me this borrowing and sharing. Maybe I could have the letters and poems organized chronologically, printed, and bound into a book as a gift to James and Artie.
I heard footsteps outside. Slipping the letters into my bag, I threw the rag rug over the gaping hole of the tunnel and kicked the loose floorboards under the table. I scooped up my paint supplies and the slung the bag over my shoulder. The bottle of linseed oil escaped, and I bent to scoop it up just as the door opened.
Pastor Grayson stopped in the doorway, one hand braced against the door, his feet spread so that he filled the exit. “Charming little getaway spot,” he smiled. He didn’t move but watched me. I felt like trapped prey.
“Pastor Grayson,” my mind raced with questions, but the only one I could articulate was, “What are you doing here?”
He laughed softly. “A better question, my dear, is what are you doing here? What is this place and how did you know about it?”
“I found it by accident,” I said, moving behind the small captain’s chair. “It must have belonged to the Dunsmuirs.”
“So, you’re claiming your birthright?” He leaned against the doorjamb, in a falsely casual manner. He reminded me of a cat ready to pounce.
“I told you, I had never heard of Emmaline Dunsmuir until today.”
“Forgive me, my dear, but I don’t believe you.” He raised his hand to his waistband and fingered his gun.
“It’s true. Until today, I had thought my mother, Mally Dunn, was an orphan without any family connections.” I ran my hand through my hair and bit my lip. “Why aren’t you chasing Phil Henderson with the others?”
With his hand on the grip of his gun, Pastor Grayson stepped into the room. “There are more than enough fools on that errand,” he said.
I gripped the captain’s chair with one hand and the linseed oil with the other. “Did you follow me here?”
My thumping heart told me I wasn’t safe. I’d heard that rape victims always claimed to hear an inner voice of warning. I tried to remember what I’d learned in a self-defense class—keys in the eyes, an elbow to the neck, a knee to the groin, a heel to the knees. There were only four feet to the door. If I could get past him, I could out run him. But if he got a hold of me I probably couldn’t get away. He outweighed me by at least fifty pounds. Plus, he was armed with ammunition much more powerful than linseed oil. He came close. I sashayed, trying to maneuver him over the rug so he’d fall into the tunnel.
What would Hailey say? “Rely on your strengths.” So I began to talk.
“Tell me about the will,” I said, catching at ideas.
Pastor Grayson shook his head. “You know there isn’t a will.”
My mind skittered, looking for motives and reasons. “Sure there is, and there’s a copy, too, isn’t there? That’s what you and James have been looking for—the copy.”
Pastor Grayson moved slightly toward the window and I turned my chair to face his new position. “Who decided to kill Helen? Was it you or James?”
“God.” Pastor Grayson’s expression turned dark.
My heart raced. “Who?”
Pastor Grayson rocked from one foot to another, his hand still on his gun. “I told you, it was God. God killed Helen. Weren’t you listening to the morning sermon? Our days are numbered, only the Lord knows our numbers.”
“Did you know Brazil nuts are the world’s most radioactive food?” I asked, tightening my grip on the chair.
“Brazil nut oil?” Pastor Grayson barked an ugly laugh. “Is that how it was done?”
I froze, stunned by the sudden admission. I think it must have caught the pastor by surprise as well.
“You’ll never be able to prove anything,” he said.
“But there is something to prove, right?”
“My dear, don’t we all have something to prove?”
My mind raced as I tried to find new stalling tactics. Pastor Grayson’s sudden move interrupted my thoughts. He sprung forward and grabbed my arm. We both tumbled down the tunnel. Landing hard on the dirt, I kicked away from Pastor Grayson and skittered on my rear a few feet. I’d lost both shoes, but I still had my glasses. And the bottle of linseed oil. My eyes adjusted to the dim light and I gripped my bottle, yielding it as a weapon.
Pastor Grayson roared in anger and lunged toward me. I tried to run, but he caught me and held me so tightly I could hardly breathe. A theory came to me with sudden sharpness.
“James,” I gasped, “James killed Helen Dunsmuir. And you have the will. Not an original, but a copy. You went to James, because you knew he wasn’t the sole benefactor, and that without a will, he would be. Helen must have known about me.” While I talked I struggled to unscrew the lid from the linseed oil.
“You forgot
the Jensons. You see, if they buy the island they promise to provide security for me. I could be released from my contract with the church and this island hell of saints and sinners.” Pastor Grayson chuckled. “Mostly sinners. Wouldn’t you agree my dear? Fight a little,” he whispered in my ear. “I like a little fight. He plunged his hand inside my blouse and squeezed my breast. I jerked away and flung the linseed oil in his face.
He screamed and grabbed at his eyes. I stumbled in the dark, stubbing my toe on something large and solid. God, who I was quite sure hadn’t killed Helen Dunsmuir, heard my prayer. I stooped down, picked up the football-sized rock and aimed for Pastor Grayson’s head. It landed squarely with a sickening thud. “Forgive me,” I whispered, watching the pastor crumble to the floor.
I turned, ran through the tunnel, and tumbled headlong out the opening. I landed face-down in the pool of water. Confusion swirled around me until I found my glasses. I shook them, wiped them on my shirt and noticed that Pastor Grayson had ripped my blouse and left an angry red welt on my chest. My knees shook and I stumbled over to a piece of driftwood. I plunked down, leaned back and closed my eyes.
I felt emotionally and physically dirty and violated. The rock I’d thrown at Pastor Grayson was heavy, solid, and maybe even lethal. I began to shake. What if I’d killed him? But what if I hadn’t? Any minute he could stumble out the tunnel and exercise his own version of the law. I rocked forward to rest my head against my knees and willed myself to get up, but I just couldn’t move my shaking legs. Something or someone rustled in the tunnel. My instincts screamed at me to run.
I scrambled up to find Dina and Dean. I hadn’t heard their approach on the sand.
“Emma,” Dean scowled, “what happened to you?”
I lifted my face to him and he must have seen the tears behind my glasses. I blinked, this time sure that I heard movement in the tunnel.
Dina looked at the scratches on my arms and legs, the dirt between my toes, the twigs in my hair, and sniffed. She still wore the sundress but had changed out of the heels. Her gaze lingered for a moment on my exposed bra, then she lifted her hand to her own chest as if she just realized that we both wore underwear from Cleo’s Closet.
“We’re boating back to the farm,” Dean said. “Would you like a ride?”
I glanced back at the tunnel, expecting Pastor Grayson to roar out of the den momentarily. I nodded. “Jeff said he’d take me to Edmonds at three,” I said, surprised at the normalcy of my voice. We walked toward the boathouse.
Dina started and pursed her lips.
“So you’re riding back with Everett,” Dean scowled.
“No, or rather, I didn’t know Ryan was going too,” I stumbled on a rock and Dean caught my elbow.
“Listen, are you sure you want to leave? Didn’t you rent the cottage for a month? You’ve only been here a few days. We were just getting to know each other, and there were so many things I could show you. You don’t know all the fun you could have.”
Fun? I didn’t need any more “island fun.” I kept hearing Pastor Grayson’s voice saying, “and the Jensons.” I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t want to know. I wanted to go home.
Buttons, paints and shoes weren’t the only things I’d lost in the tunnel. I’d also lost a measure of trust and faith. Behind every face and every smile I now saw cunning and selfishness. I let Dean help me into the boat and into a soft, vinyl seat beneath the bimini.
Dean knelt in front of me, his chest inches away from my knees. He looked earnestly in my eyes and brushed a lose strand of hair away from face. “What happened? Why are you crying? Why is your blouse ripped and your lip puffy?
I gingerly touched my lip and it stung. I had blood on my finger. As an advice columnist, I thought I knew everything, and suddenly I didn’t even know something as personal and intimate as my own lips. I blinked back tears, conscious of Dina’s hostile stare.
She stood behind the wheel, her crimson nails stark against the platinum steering wheel. Despite the frilly dress, she looked commandeering. “Dean,” Dina interrupted. “As fascinating as her story might be, maybe we should save it for when we’re home. She looks like she could use a stiff drink.” Dina cocked her head toward the cabin and Dean obediently jumped up.
“Of course, what would you like? We’ve got a stocked bar,” Dean offered.
Dina turned the key, and boat started with a roar. She pulled away from the dock, leaving behind a white wake.
I shook my head. I needed my wits. “Water would be great.”
“Are you sure? You look like you could use a whiskey,” Dean said.
“Which would sting my lip. I want water.”
Dean shrugged then turned into the cabin. “Hey, toss me a couple of waters.” he called.
“What kind?” someone called back.
Dean turned to me. “Flat or sparkling?”
My heart began to thump in my throat. “Who’s down there?”
Dean smiled as if I were a child and called back down to the cabin without waiting for me to answer. “Flat.”
I leaned forward, my head between my knees and willed myself not to vomit. James was on the boat. I was on a boat with a murderer. I steeled myself. “He doesn’t know I know. He doesn’t know I know,” I repeated it like a mantra. We weren’t too far away from the dock, I could jump and swim to shore, back to Pastor Grayson’s embrace.
Dean handed me the water. I looked up into his face, trying to read his culpability. My fingers shook as I tried to unscrew the lid.
Artie emerged from the cabin, and her eyes widened when she saw me. “Sweetie, look at you! You’re a mess!” Her eyes rested on my Cleo’s Closet bra. She took a swig of beer then cocked her head. “Kind of a sexy mess. I like it.”
Artie couldn’t know that James had killed his grandmother, or that somehow the Jensons were involved. It would be too much. In a pinch, maybe I could save myself, but I didn’t know if I could convince Artie that she needed to be rescued. I promised myself that the drama, for me, had ended. I would go home as quickly as I could. From there, under the protection of Harold’s careful eye, I would disclose to the Washington State Patrol what I’d learned.
My heart beat even more rapidly. Maybe Pastor Grayson was dying in the tunnel. No one but me knew he was there. Could I really leave him there for the two hours it took me to get home? He probably needed immediate medical attention. My eyes wandered from Dina, to Dean, to Artie. I couldn’t trust them. I trusted Artie’s innocence, but I didn’t trust her abilities. Pastor Grayson didn’t deserve my worry or concern.
How had this happened to me? I’d come to Lister for quiet, reflection, and art. It was to be my Waldon Pond. I was to be Thoreau, but instead I was some bare-breasted chick in an action adventure show. I decided to keep my mouth shut, my head down, and for once I would keep my opinion to myself.
Chapter Eighteen
The sun shone bright in a cornflower blue sky. High noon, no clouds, a warm sun, a perfect day. Inside the cabin, Artie began to pluck on the guitar. She sat on the red cushions, a colorful bird surrounded by teak and brass. “Don’t worry, be happy,” she sang, and I wanted to tell her that she should worry. Worry at this point would be wise, useful, even. We were on a boat with swindlers and possibly murderers. The proverbial boat without a paddle.
I couldn’t stop shaking. Dean noticed, went below, and returned with a World Cup sweatshirt, which I draped around my shoulders.
“Put it on, silly,” Dean said, sitting down too close, his thigh pressing against mine. If I leaned against him, he’d put his arm around me. I scooted a fraction away from Dean, conscious of Dina watching. I became painfully aware of my every move. I couldn’t put on the sweatshirt because if I needed to swim it would weigh me down. I calculated the distance to shore—still swimmable.
Artie began to strum “La Bamba.” I couldn’t let her sail away with James without knowing the truth. I needed to figure out how to tell her without being overheard and without arousin
g suspicion.
“La, la, la,” she sang.
I hoped she would believe me.
“More company,” Dina said through tight lips.
Dean stood up then swore. “It’s joker Henderson. I thought Grayson arrested him.”
Dina swore too, and I followed her gaze to another boat coming up fast. Why would Jeff allow Ryan to drive? The inflatable skittered across the Sound. A scream tore through the roars of the dueling boats when Phil Henderson raised a rifle and pointed it our way. Without thought, I jumped into the water. I didn’t even realize until my mouth filled with water that I was the screamer.
The water swallowed me, muffling the sound of the exploding inflatable, but I could still feel the vibrations of the sound. The punctured inflatable curved in a graceful, airborne arch, tossing passengers and gear. Empty orange life preservers flew like confetti. Ryan’s body cartwheeled skyward then pummeled downward. He hit the water neck-first and disappeared into the Sound.
I swam toward what had once been the inflatable. I saw Jeff’s black bobbing head, his tattooed forearms cutting through the water, but I couldn’t see Ryan. I had lost my glasses. I willed Ryan to surface, but when I reached the deflated, shredded boat, the safety bubble bobbed on the water in a pool of gasoline. Shouts and gunfire rang from the yacht and Phil’s boat. I swam as hard and straight as I could toward the floating debris, pushing aside the wreckage. Bullets pinged around me, splashing into the Sound. Splinters of wood flew from the besieged yacht.
I treaded water for a moment and searched the accident scene until I my leg made contact with something solid. Taking a deep breath, I pushed below the surface, scanning for Ryan. I saw him floating away toward the dark deep, his shoes dragging him downward. His body was limp and lifeless and a small curl of blood floated around his head.
I grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed toward the surface. I rolled him over so that he could breathe and called to Jeff. He swam several yards ahead, in strong, sure strokes toward the shore. I pulled Ryan’s body against mine, his head lolling against my shoulder as I back-floated, kicking violently in any direction away from the fighting boats.
