Unlawfull Alliances Page 10

  They nod. They are reflecting upon my words. I give them an exercise. To think back on their lives and see how they have been the antagonist of their life stories. They pull out pen and paper and begin writing.

  My heart is warmed. It feels good to help others along their path of growth.

  * * *

  His food had not been touched. Joe’s sadness over Amy’s death and the compassion he felt for Scott and their baby son endeared him to me all the more.

  I put my hand on his shoulder as he sat alone in the den, his face having found a permanent place in his hands. “Are you all right, honey?”

  He grabbed my hand and held it. “Of course. I’m fine. Yes. Of course.”

  “It touches my heart, Joe, that you’re so deeply affected by this.”

  He cleared his throat that was raw with emotion. “It’s close, you know. It’s someone we know . . . knew.”

  “And someone so young.”

  When he sighed, his chest expanded and then deflated with a deep shudder. He was still clasping my hand as if it were a lifeline. Was that another way that death affected us? Did we hang onto one another more tightly? Did we appreciate one another more?

  I sat down on the arm of his chair, rubbing his back in a circular stroke. It was soothing for both of us. It was that human contact, the knowing that there was still breath in the other.

  “I can’t stop thinking about that little baby—just beginning life—” He swallowed hard. He was not a man who allowed himself to cry easily. “How could this happen, Jenny? What do you think happened?” He looked up at me with questioning eyes.

  “The police think she took tranquilizers and then either deliberately or accidentally drowned herself in the hot tub.”

  “Yes, but— What do you think?”

  I shook my head, not understanding.

  “What does your intuition tell you?” He was asking me something he had never asked before. He had never given credibility to my inner senses. Now, suddenly, touched by death, he had opened himself up to the possibility that there was more in life than what we could see.

  Malcolm MacGregor, my professor and friend, had tried to tell him.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Joe said.

  MacGregor smiled. “I rather think you’ll see it when you believe it.”

  Joe shook his head and turned away. Even a scientist could not convince my Joe that there was a universe out there filled with wonder and mystery of which we mere humans had little knowledge.

  MacGregor did not give up. He took the scientific approach. “You can’t see energy. Nor can you deny it exists.”

  Joe was listening.

  MacGregor tried to reel him in. They talked energy, the kinetic and potential kind, based on scientific theory. Safe territory.

  “It’s like the mind,” MacGregor said. “It has to stop. That’s how we know something else is out there.”

  The fishing line jerked. Joe was resisting.

  “It’s like a pendulum,” MacGregor said. “It must stop in order to keep going.”

  “Okay, but what does that have to do with our minds?” Joe asked.

  “Breathe,” MacGregor told him.

  Joe did. “Okay?”

  “Did you notice that between each breath, you stop breathing for an instant?”

  Joe breathed again and shrugged his acknowledgment.

  “The moment your breath stops, your mind stops. It is in that silence that we renew ourselves, that we find our source—that which we cannot see.”

  MacGregor had said no more. He knew that Joe would hear no more.

  He was right. My husband, the pragmatist, would hear little of this. Until now, when one of those mysteries of life has crashed down upon us.

  I answered his question. “I believe that Amy was murdered.”

  His hand went to his heart as if I had stabbed him.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shock you.”

  “No. You didn’t. It’s just that— If it was murder, Jenny, and you were with her shortly before . . . Don’t you see? You could have been caught in the line of fire.”

  The telephone rang, startling us both back into the physical world. I answered on the third ring.

  “Is that you, Jenny?” Aunt Winnie’s voice was faint.

  “Aunt Winnie? What is it? Are you all right? You sound—”

  “I know we discussed your coming this summer, but could you come visit me sooner, dear? Do you think?”

  “I’ll take the first boat out in the morning,” I told her. And before I hung up. “I love you, Aunt Winnie.”

  Chapter 8

  The state ferries don’t stop at Anamcara Island. A shuttle ferry takes you from one of the bigger islands. It runs whenever old Ned thinks that it should run. Anamcara isn’t a commuter island. Nor is it a tourist island. That was why Aunt Winnie had chosen it.

  There was a chill in the air when we left Anacortes, but it seemed to disperse as we moved further out into the Strait of Juan De Fuca. The sun was bright and the wind was gentle. I grabbed my navy pea coat, thigh length, and my home knit hat and left Winston, my trusty Volvo, well wedged between neighboring cars. I was lucky to get on this morning. Mine was the second to the last car to make the morning ferry. I hadn’t accounted for the ever increasing tourists who seem to visit the islands earlier each year.

  I climbed the steep flight of stairs and then another to the deck that would have wooden benches. The horn sounded and the boat slipped away from its safe harbor, into the vast waters of Western Washington. I stared out at the foamy sea that stretched on forever. It was just what I needed. Had Aunt Winnie known that? I hoped she had called for no other reason than that she had somehow known that I needed a few days away, with her, on the island. It would not be the first time she had known that.

  A seagull cried out as it flew past me. Cameras snapped, reminding me of when Holly and Matthew were children and I used to take them up to Winnie’s island. It wasn’t so long ago, was it, when they would watch the seagulls with a child’s delight, Holly tossing crumbs high into the air, Matthew chasing after the birds—believing that he could catch them.

  Life in the moment, never more vivid than in the eyes of a child.

  “There is only now.” Winnie’s voice echoed through my mind. “Take each moment for what it is and cherish it.”

  Joe and my mother laughed at Winnie’s bits of wisdom. They had that in common.

  I never laughed, not even in an effort to please them or to appear one of them because I cherished Winnie’s words. Over the years I had kept a notebook with her words. I started it at age seven. Every trip I made to Winnie’s, I filled at least two pages. Until I turned nine, and my mother decided her Aunt Winnie was a batty old bohemian and a bad influence on me. That was when my visits to the island had stopped. They did not resume until after the divorce and I had moved to Charlie’s. He let me visit any time I pleased. He even said he figured that was why he’d chosen Seattle to move to after the divorce. It wasn’t so far from Winnie. At thirteen I had pulled my book out of a dusty old trunk and revived it, filling its pages with more of Winnie’s wisdom.

  “You are a beloved child,” she had told me. It was the first entry I had made when I visited her again after those four empty years. “Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  Later, when Bryn and Cameron visited Charlie and after they moved in with him, I had shared my notebook with them. At night sometimes, I would read from it. Cam would come into Bryn’s and my room and the three of us would cuddle up together in my bed. We would let the words float into our minds, and try to understand them, each in our own way.

  I wiped my eyes. It must have been the sea mist, I told myself. Other than that first trip to the island at thirteen when I was to be reunited with my great aunt, this was the first time I wanted a ferry ride to pass quickly.

  It was no doubt avoidance that caused my mind to slip into thoughts of Amy Morrison. Better that than face the real reason
for Winnie’s call. I was still in shock, I realized. Death was not something close to me. Especially not the murderous kind. What kind of person would take another’s life? A life that was so young? What had provoked them to the point of committing murder, an action that could not be undone? Do they realize that? Do murderers know that they can’t take it back, change their mind? I wonder.

  Yes, Joe, call me Hamlet if you will, but I wonder and I will continue to wonder and ponder and deliberate and cogitate and even analyze. It’s what makes me decent at this work, my fondness for analysis. That, and my intuition—when it’s working.

  I allowed my mind to go back to work. All signs pointed toward Scott Morrison, the cuckolded husband, seeking vengeance on his wife and her lover. All signs but one. My intuition which, I reminded myself, was not particularly reliable of late. Still, I knew enough to consider more than the obvious. Charlie 101. So, if not Scott, who?

  My mind flashed around the party scenes. Erica Stratton was jealous of the beautiful young woman. Was jealousy enough of a motive? Had Amy succeeded where Erica was rejected—by Scott? Or was there more to it? What did she know that she had not shared with me? What had she meant about Amy being dedicated to making certain her marriage stayed intact? The only thing I could come up with was money. What else did she have to lose from a divorce? It was a question I planned to ask Erica when next we met, which I would be sure to make happen soon.

  And Erica’s husband, Richard Stratton, the rejected pursuer and wannabe car salesman. Not impossible. The human ego could only take so much. His was no doubt on the edge, considering that his wife was the icing that kept his devil’s food job intact.

  And then there was Anthony Morrison. What would motivate him to murder his daughter-in-law? His son’s honor? Perhaps. But, the question was, did he care? If he knew, that is. It seemed to me something Scott would keep from his father. Yet, Anthony Morrison was the type of man to know all, see all. He liked being in control, of his life, of his law firm, and of the Morrison fortress. Perhaps that was it, more than his son’s honor was at stake. Had Amy tainted the image of how Morrison women, wives in particular, were expected to behave? But avenge your family’s honor with murder? It seemed more likely that it would take a passionate emotional attachment, such as Rosemary had for her son. But surely not. She liked Amy, or was she acting the role—well, I might add— knowing all along what she was planning to do to revenge her son? Clearly she loved him, but was she capable of murder?

  Surely there must be other suspects. I closed my eyes and set myself in the sunshine of the Morrison garden party. There was one more person, besides Erica Stratton, who openly detested Amy Morrison. Jim Gimble, the crude, burly, bearded other senior partner of the firm. What did he have against her? That one was a mystery that was definitely worth looking into. Of course, these were only the people I knew of in Amy’s life. I would have to add others to the list from the one that Charlie was working on at that very moment.

  The ferry blasted its signal for those of us on deck to return to our cars. I inhaled a last breath of my sea breeze and pushed through the heavy door. As soon as I reached my car, I dialed Charlie’s number.

  “Jenny, where are you? I can barely hear you.”

  As best I could, with the poor connection, I brought him up to date on my whereabouts and my thoughts. “Any news at your end?”

  “Jerry’s convinced Scott Morrison killed Amy and Jake.”

  “Why?”

  “I told Jerry what we know, Jenny.”

  “I understand.” I agreed. Then why did I feel so crummy about it?

  “Besides, it wouldn’t have taken long for them to find out. After questioning a few people, they’d have discovered our trail and followed it themselves.”

  “True.”

  “But they haven’t ruled out suicide or accidental death. However, they’re watching Scott’s every move, I’m sure.”

  “Fingerprints, Charlie? Did they find any?”

  “Just members of the family.”

  “What about Jake?”

  “None.”

  “Anything on the hit and run?”

  “The police are working on it. They’ve found some witnesses who heard a car accelerate suddenly to a high speed. Pretty good indication that it was intentional.”

  “Did they hear how long it had been idling before it accelerated?”

  I knew the answer before he said it. “Highly unlikely. We never notice the normal, do we? Only the unusual.”

  “If only they’d seen it.”

  “What are you thinking, Jenny?”

  “Oh, just something MacGregor taught me.” I laughed. “Kinetic energy and potential energy. I don’t know. It just seems important to know how long the car was in a state of potential energy. That would tell us if it was premeditated. And if it was premeditated, I cannot believe that Scott Morrison did it. He does not have it in him to plan a murder.” Nor to commit one, as far as I was concerned.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Was there any ID on the type of car, Charlie?”

  “Just that it was white. They’ve lifted some paint from the fibers of Jake’s clothing. White all right. Now they just need to find the car that matches.”

  “And no eye witnesses to the actual hit.”

  “Not one, lass. They did find a couple who saw the car a block away—rather, a flash of white. It was breaking all speed records by that time.”

  “But that doesn’t tell us if it was intentional or if the driver was fleeing from fear. Have you compiled a list of suspects yet?”

  “Not a long one. Apparently Amy Morrison was a solitary type. Many acquaintances, few friends.”

  Maybe I wouldn’t be adding more names to my list after all.

  “What do you think, Charlie? Do you still think it was murder?”

  “Afraid I do, luv. More than ever.”

  “Why?” I pushed my cell phone closer to my ear so I could hear him through the static.

  “Just a hunch, Jenny, just a hunch. Now, dinna fash yerself over this. You enjoy your visit. Give Winnie my—” The connection was lost, but I knew the word that had vanished into the ethers.

  I did not start my engine until the car ahead of me did. Then it was only moments before I buckled my seatbelt and drove across the deck and up the ramp and back onto solid ground.

  It was not far to Ned’s ferry landing. I was there in under three minutes, pleased to see that there was a line of three cars. The small ferry could carry no more than twelve, and if memory served me well, would make a trip for four or more.

  When I pulled into line, Ned waved, grinning as he recognized me. I unrolled my window to greet him. “Hello, Ned!”

  “Hey, there, Jenny! How are you?”

  “Well, and you?”

  “Fine. I’m just fine. Here to see your aunt?”

  “Yes. I’m a bit concerned about her.”

  Ned nodded. The sudden sadness in his eyes confirmed my fears, but an instant later he was smiling. “Don’t you worry now, Jenny. She’ll fight this one too. She’s somein’ else, that aunt of yours.”

  I exhaled, letting the comfort of his words warm me.

  “I’ll get you there as quick as I can. She’ll be anxious to see you,” he said, and walked past the line of cars to push a button to release the arm.

  He balanced the boat with two cars on each side and no sooner than I had turned off my engine, we were off. I did not get out of my car for the fifteen minute trip, but instead closed my eyes and rested. It had been a long day, a long couple of days. “Be sure to give your aunt my best,” Ned said as he waved me off the boat.

  “I will, Ned.”

  I drove north on the two lane highway, turning west at the first opportunity. Aunt Winnie lived in a quiet corner of the island. It wasn’t far from town, but her property, due to its size, had the feeling of being isolated from the rest of the island inhabitants and sometimes, the rest of the world.

  Knowing Winni
e, she had chosen it for that reason. Or perhaps it was the lighthouse that had appealed to her. I had heard a few stories about that lighthouse, stories of lives saved and romances born. I chuckled. Winnie was full of stories.

  I left my overnight bag in the car and ran across the stone path to Winnie’s front porch. It was not just a cottage, this. It was a history-laden haven. I longed to curl up in the swing with the cozy mattress and quilt, my head in Aunt Winnie’s lap, or seated beside Bryn and Cam, fighting with them for an extra inch of space or another chunk of watermelon.

  I was smiling when I tapped on the front door. My hand was reaching for the doorknob just as it swung open.

  A young woman with flaming red hair and bright green eyes greeted me. “You must be Jenny.”

  “Yes.” I shook her hand that she had extended.

  “I’m Sasha, a friend and neighbor of your aunt’s.” She laughed when she saw my startled reaction. “I know, I’m a bit young to be a buddy of an eighty some year old woman, but—”

  “No one is too young to be a friend of Winnie’s. It was the neighbor part that surprised me.”

  “Oh! My house is the closest on the north side. Also, they’ve recently put in a road at the north end of Winnie’s property, so we don’t have to drive around anymore.” She closed the door behind me and glanced toward the staircase. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “She didn’t tell you.” Sasha inhaled a deep breath. It seemed to take forever for her to speak again, and when she did, her words did not answer my question. “I’ll let your aunt tell you.”

  I put my hand on her arm and said, “Please.”

  She nodded. “She’s not been well.”

  “That’s what I thought, but—”

  “Not much longer,” Sasha cut me off.

  Tears were welling up in my eyes as I ran up the stairs to my Aunt Winnie’s bedroom.

  “My sweet Jenny.” She looked so tiny, perched in the middle of her four-poster bed. But as she looked up at me, there was joy in her eyes.