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Winnie's Web Page 10


  Minnie, Myrtle, Sally, Eloise, Antonia and Lilly. Sally I had seen, and I knew she had been around in the old days. But short of hanging out at the local beauty parlor, I had no idea where to find her. And if I did, would she talk to me?

  Lilly I knew. Lilly Ewell. After I’d made my way down the list of A’s, I turned to E. There it was. George Ewell. On Culver Street. Chills ran down my spine. I didn’t know why except that I was looking at the name and address of someone who was alive and well in the 1949 phone book, but not now.

  I had to focus on the men’s names: Gerald, Randy, Martin, and Henry. Fortunately I had a memory for names.

  By the time I’d reached the F’s, the room was feeling very stuffy. I just needed a few names, a few people besides Lilly Ewell, who had lived on the island in 1949 and still lived there today. Myrtle! Of course. She was alive and well today and working at the post office, and had been in the old gossip column, assuming it was the same Myrtle. I turned the pages to O. There it was, Myrtle Ormsby. Either she’d married young or she had never married. My guess was she had never married. Otherwise her husband’s name would have been there instead. I jotted down her name and address. I could find her at the local post office, but I was curious to see if she still lived in the same place. I would check the current phone book when I got home.

  I went back to the F’s. Then the G’s. Bingo. Henry Grissam and Henry Gilbert were listed on Anamcara. So far I had come across ten more Henry’s who were listed on other islands. It must have been a popular name during that era. I wrote down the addresses and last names of my two Henry’s. Who knows if one of them was the Henry from the 1951 column, but at least I had something to work on.

  I made it through the K’s in the first phone book before I started to feel lightheaded. Had I forgotten that I was an air sign? I considered heading straight to the ferry, but opted for a walk on the beach. I drove along the bluff until I reached a reasonably isolated area and parked. I wasn’t an air sign for nothing. When I stepped out of the car and onto the path above the beach, the sea air filled more than my lungs. My whole being felt refreshed.

  Grateful I’d worn tennis shoes, I strode down to the beach with renewed energy, inhaling and exhaling deeply enough to make strangers stare. I didn’t care what strangers thought. Besides, there were only a handful of people in view.

  Only one figure stood on the beach. It was an unusual enough sight that I stopped at the bottom of the steps to watch. It was one of those figures that cause you to take notice and wonder if perhaps it is an angel in disguise. A child, trapped in the body of an old man, he moved with the tides.

  He looked like a small boy, trying to catch the waves in his hands, or perhaps expecting a gift to float out of the water and into his arms. I suspected that he was all but bald beneath his tweed deer stalker hat. When he turned for an instant, I saw that his face was covered with a burly beard. He wore gray sweat pants, tennis shoes, a raincoat that landed just above his knees, and a wool scarf.

  What is it about the unusual that is so captivating? Yet we distance ourselves so adeptly from those who are different, from the odd, the less fortunate. Fear? Fear of catching their disease of being different?

  Another figure had moved into my peripheral vision, but I stayed fixed on the old man. That was only until I felt the smile. Then I turned and saw him. I too smiled.

  “Seth! What are you doing here?”

  “Same question I was about to ask you.”

  “I was doing some research at the library and needed a break.” I produced my wee notebook from my jacket pocket as though I needed proof.

  Seth laughed. “I should have known.” He glanced down at the notepad. “Discover anything?”

  “Not a lot. Hey, maybe you can help me. These are the names from the gossip columns from 1949 and 1951.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “How old do I look?”

  I laughed. “Sorry. But maybe you could tell me if they’re still alive, living on the island.”

  He glanced at the names. His eyebrow furrowed and his smile turned to a frown. “Some of them are gone.”

  “Left the island?”

  “Or died.”

  “Oh.” When you lived on an island this size, everyone must have felt like family, especially to a newspaperman who had never married.

  “Antonia is gone.”

  I didn’t ask whether she’d left or died.

  “And Martin.” Seth glanced out at the water. Then he cleared his throat and looked back at my notepad. “Geez, Jenny. There are a lot of Henry’s on the island. More than a few Sally’s. Lilly, you know.”

  “And I figure Myrtle is Myrtle Ormsby.”

  “Most likely. Although I do remember another Myrtle. But she didn’t live here long.”

  “What about these names from the recent column?” I held up the list.

  “Sally. Could be any of four or five.”

  “But she was in the gossip column the other day.”

  “I didn’t do the interview. You could talk to Jake, the kid who works for me part time.”

  “Think he’ll remember?”

  “Jake?” He laughed and shook his head.

  “Wait a minute.” I closed my eyes and visualized Sally sitting under the knife—rather scissors—at Marilyn’s beauty parlor. She had mentioned prettying herself up for someone. What was his name. “Reggie! She mentioned her Reggie.”

  “Ah, that would be Sally Beacon.”

  I grabbed my pen from my pocket and wrote down her last name. “Great. Why didn’t I think of asking you in the first place.”

  “I don’t know,” he teased. “Why didn’t you? Any more names?”

  “A couple. I held the notepad closer to him.”

  Seth laughed. “Gerald and Randy? You don’t know who they are?”

  “Should I?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt. Gerald Thatcher is Eleanor’s husband, and Randy Crebbs is Daisy’s husband.”

  Feeling better instantly, I exhaled, releasing a stream of toxic energy. The enemy was shrinking. It seemed now that the main group of anti-Winnie advocates centered around the Ewell girls.

  “What about this guy Burt?” I asked.

  “Burt Burrows. He and his wife Marilyn own the beauty parlor.”

  I laughed. “Of course. Thanks, Seth. That helps immensely.”

  “Happy to be of service.”

  “You’re not still trying to make up to me for those columns on Winnie, are you?”

  He blushed. I actually saw a blush. “A little, I suppose.”

  I punched him lightly in the arm. “Good.”

  For a moment I thought he was going to bend down and kiss me, but something caught his eye and he looked away. Then suddenly he was running toward the beach. I followed him down to the water where the old man had been. Seth found him on the other side of some rocks, standing knee deep in the water. Seth put an arm gently over his shoulder and guided him back onto the sand.

  “Come on, General. It’s time to go home.”

  “Home,” the old man mumbled. Then he stopped walking and stared out over the vast waters of the Strait. “This is home.”

  Seth nodded, but guided him back up the beach to where I was standing.

  “General, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Jenny McNair.”

  The old man nodded, then slowly as though he needed to tell himself what to do each step of the way, he put out a hand to shake mine. “Nice to meet you, Jenny.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you.”

  We stood there for an unusually long time, holding our outstretched hands together as though somehow through that touch we could really know each other. It was one of those things we might do, were we not inhibited by the constraints of society. Then he released my hand and looked away as though he had never seen me at all. A sadness swept through me and suddenly I understood the agony of those whose loved ones waver between remembering and not.

  I looked at Seth with questioning ey
es. He answered my thoughts.

  “Someone I used to know,” he said softly. He stroked my cheek, then escorted the General up the steps to the bluff.

  Chapter 11

  Despite the sun shining in all its glory, I built a fire in the fireplace. It made it homier, and it reminded me of Winnie. She built fires in any season, any time of day. “Fires warm the heart,” she would say, “and the soul.”

  I curled up on the couch with my new library books on koi ponds. I knew instantly I would be relying on Frankie for all technical decisions. My mind wasn’t on it. It should have been. I wanted that koi pond, the sooner the better. But my thoughts kept drifting off to other times.

  May, 1946

  I have been here five months now. I cherish every moment. I must be a hermit at heart! Well, in the winter at least. Now that it is spring, I feel a need to be with others. Perhaps I shall visit with Myrtle today.

  I have written to my friends to come visit. One is sure to accept my invitation. We will paint together. How glorious that will be!

  Nineteen forty six. I was reading about a day in my aunt’s life, more than fifty years ago, yet the way she wrote, it felt as though it were happening at that moment. Perhaps I would visit with Myrtle today too.

  They were friends. At least on that day back in 1946. I would find out if it had remained that way.

  I set my aunt’s precious floral diary back in its box with the others, finished my tea, and left the cottage once again. I did not like being alone as much as I had thought I would. But I had an excuse to seek out company. I was investigating a crime. Not officially, but it had been committed on my property, or at least, the body had been buried here. I had a right to investigate. Someone had to put an end to the rumor that my aunt had murdered one of her lovers.

  The clock in the old church tower was ringing five as I pulled up in front of the post office. The light clicked off, and out came Myrtle. She was tiny with light gray hair. She was dressed up for work, with a wool scarf and coat over her dress. She held onto the railing as she slowly maneuvered the stairs which was when I noticed the tennies. I was glad to see that practicality had won over elegance. It was wonderful that she was still working at her age. Perhaps it kept her feeling young and useful.

  So as not to startle her, I waited until she was walking toward me to speak. “Hello, Myrtle?”

  “Yes?” She looked at me, her eyes scanning my face, then the bigger picture, then back to the face. “Are you—? You wouldn’t be Winnie’s great niece, now would you?”

  “Yes, I’m Jenny McNair.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Her breath caught and her hand went to her chest. “Yes, you are. I see the resemblance now. Oh, my. You look so much like her.”

  “Do I?”

  “Absolutely. She often wore her hair down as well.” She grinned. “Although it was quite unconventional at the time, you know. It was so beautiful, just like yours.”

  Beautiful? My boring brown hair?

  She motioned for me to turn around which I did on command.

  “Hers did not have that reddish tint to it, but it was lovely too.”

  “Well, thank you,” I said quite awkwardly. I never had been good at accepting compliments. Something to work on.

  “Did you know your aunt and I were great friends at one time?”

  “I thought that was the case. That’s why I came to see you. Do you think we could go somewhere and talk for a few minutes?”

  “Certainly. It’s still warm out, why don’t we go across to the park.”

  I smiled. She considered sixty degrees to be warm. I put my arm under her elbow and we crossed the street together. The words that had stuck in my mind were, “at one time.”

  We were alone in the park but for the elderly gentleman who had smiled at me in the pub. He kept his record, smiling again. He was beginning to feel a wee bit like a guardian angel, something I did believe in.

  Myrtle and I sat on the bench across from his. “Do you know him?” I asked her.

  “No,” she hesitated a moment, “I don’t believe I do. I think he must be a visitor to the island. Keeps to himself. Now, what did you wish to ask me, dear?”

  That was an excellent question, one I hadn’t bothered to ask myself before coming here. “You mentioned that at one time you and my aunt were good friends. Did that stop at some point?”

  “Not really. We were always friends, but it changed, as friendships do.”

  “Did something specific change it?”

  “Not really specific, no. Friends change, grow apart, that’s all.” She shoved her glasses up higher on her nose and folded her hands together in her lap. Her arms had wrinkles and excess skin similar to Winnie’s the last several times I had seen her. “Well, surely you know this about her—she was your aunt—great aunt. Winnie was somewhat unconventional, you might say. She was an artist, after all. Different from most of the islanders. I’m not an artist, you see.”

  “I think I understand.”

  “But I always admired her. And when we’d see each other in town, we were always friendly. We’d have a cup of tea together sometimes. We were just different, that’s all.” Her eyes glazed over and she was staring off into the distance as though she were seeing a different time.

  “She was marvelous, Winnie was. She never let anyone, society included, tell her what to do. And what an artist! I’ve always admired her art, and her spunk.”

  “Yes. She was wonderful.”

  “I’m so sorry, you must miss her terribly. I know you were close to her.”

  “Yes, very close. And I do miss her.”

  “I’m sure she would be pleased to know that you came to stay on the island.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right. Myrtle, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m hoping you can help me. I need to know some things about a specific time period.”

  “I’ll certainly try. What time period is it?”

  “The late forties.”

  “Ah, yes. The war was over. Rock and roll and poodle skirts would soon make an appearance.”

  She thought I was speaking in general, as though I were doing a research report. “What was happening on the island at that time?”

  “Oh, I imagine the same things that were happening everywhere else.”

  “Specifically the years 1949 and 1951. Did anything unusual, or exciting happen on the island during those years?”

  “Oh, dear, my memory is not that good.” The sudden change of her red cheeks to a white pasty color contradicted that.

  “What is it?”

  “What? Oh, nothing, dear, nothing at all.”

  “Did you remember something?”

  “Remember something? No, I don’t think so. But I really must excuse myself. I do have my cat to feed.”

  “Yes, of course. Maybe we can talk another time.”

  “Yes, of course. It was lovely to meet you, Jenny. Welcome to our little island.”

  And all its mysterious ways.

  I had an hour until I was meeting Seth. I walked Myrtle back to the post office where her car was parked, then I went next door to visit Sheriff Sam.

  “Find out anything?” I asked.

  Sam looked up and grinned. “Hi, Jenny.”

  “What? Why are you smiling?”

  “Can’t a man smile?”

  Sam’s deputy, Dan, winked at me as he headed for the door. “See you all later.”

  “Now I know something is up.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Your deputy’s not-so-subtle wink. Did Frankie just drive by or something? No, then you’d be tormenting yourself with thoughts—unless . . . “

  “What?”

  “Unless you asked her out.”

  His cheeks turned a bright shade of pink.

  “You did! She must have said yes or you wouldn’t be grinning like that.”

  Suddenly overcome by shyness, he nodded.

  “That’s great! Where are you taking her?”


  “I haven’t planned it all out yet. Thought we might go down to the water and do some clam digging.”

  “Sam! A first date?”

  “It’s romantic out there in the moonlight.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “When is this date?”

  “Saturday night.”

  “Good. I’ll talk to Sasha and we’ll help you plan your evening.”

  “Thanks, Jenny. I appreciate it. And on that Alistair guy, nothing showed up. Sorry ‘bout that.”

  “It’s okay. Maybe you could check 1949 for me.”

  “Will do. I’ll let you know if I find anything. Still haven’t heard on the bones yet.”

  “Let me know when you do.”

  I headed back along Main Street to Brighton Green and across the street to the Anamcara Herald. Seth was still hard at work so I popped into Max’s bookstore.

  It never hurt to see a friendly face, especially on the island. No one was at the counter, so I browsed through the gardening section again. This time I was searching for koi ponds. Maybe I could find one that used layman’s language, unlike the one I had found at the library. Apparently my timing was not particularly good. Max must have thought he’d turned the open sign over.

  He was in the back room, talking to someone. Roxie, if I wasn’t mistaken.

  “You’ve got to pull yourself together. You can’t go about weeping all the time.”

  “I can’t help it. It’s just how I am.”

  “Maybe if you went to the doctor, she could give you something for it.”

  “For what, Dad? Feeling bad?”

  “Yes! You’re obviously depressed. They have medicine for that.”

  There was a thud as though someone threw something on the floor. Since I was standing in the middle of a bookstore, it was a pretty good bet that it was a book. I tried not to listen, but their voices were too loud to block out. I put the book on koi ponds back on the shelf. I could come back and buy it tomorrow.

  “It’s not medicine I need!” Now she was yelling. “It’s—it’s—never mind!”

  Just as I was reaching for the doorknob, Roxie appeared, her face red from crying.