Winnie's Web Read online

  And last but not of least interest, Women’s Furnishings. That included everything from dry goods to silk hosiery and foundation garments. Everything one would need to furnish a woman. And the women in the ads had neat, tight curled hairdos, ribbons in their hair or if dressed up, they wore hats, always wearing skirts and blouses with shoulder pads or dresses, and if casual, aprons over them. Even the casual house dresses were accompanied by high heels. This was the world in which Winnie and Maggie had been young ladies. Winnie must have been a rebel, I was sure, even back then. I could not see her with tight curls in her hair or ribbons and definitely not high heels and padded shoulders.

  It was interesting but I’d found nothing pertinent. No shocking discoveries. No insights. At least nothing I recognized. Yet.

  Slightly disappointed and having suffered enough nostalgia for one day, I put away the phone book and took the books I had checked out to my car and took a walk, inhaling air, air from the 21st century.

  Before heading back to Anamcara, I stopped in at the grocery store. I stocked up on essentials and enough fresh food to get me through the week. On my way to the car, I spotted a newspaper stand. Today’s newspaper. Seth’s newspaper. This time the article didn’t end with the facts. It continued into speculation. Local speculation.

  Despite hating the idea of supporting this man in any way, I slid my two quarters into the machine and snatched up a newspaper. Something to read on the ferry, I rationalized. Thirty seconds into the article, I realized I would have been a lot better off gazing out at the water or sitting under a seagull’s perch, for that matter.

  What kind of newspaper man was this! Actually printing peoples’ speculations on the skeleton and who it was and what it was doing on my aunt’s property. The gall!

  “Where’s the local newspaper office?” I asked Ned as I was pulling onto land.

  “Middle of downtown. Next to the bookstore.”

  “Thanks, Ned.”

  I broke the speed limit the entire drive into town. I didn’t care if I had frozen food in my car. And I didn’t bother putting money in the meter.

  I walked into the office and straight up to the desk that said Seth Williams. That was easy. There were only two desks and one was empty.

  “Where do you get off writing peoples’ inane speculations about—”

  “Jenny McNair, I presume?”

  He stood up and extended his hand. I ignored it. He smiled. I ignored that too. “How could you have printed this story? There’s no truth in it. Aren’t newspapers supposed to print the truth?” I avoided his eyes. They were blue. I hated blue eyes. Except on Holly. And Paul Newman.

  “In news articles, of course.”

  “So what was all this garbage about my aunt having murdered one of her lovers?”

  “This wasn’t a news article. It was a local column, called, Anamcara Gossip. It runs once a week. We interview people on the street and they tell us what’s happening on the island. The locals love it.”

  “I bet they do. Listening to malicious gossip about an innocent woman.”

  “I’m sorry, Jenny. It just happened to be what they’re talking about on the island.”

  “Gossiping about a wonderful woman who just died a few months ago?”

  “I’m sure there was no malicious intent.”

  “Accusing my aunt of being a murderer!” I glanced down at the paper. “Killing her lovers? Who would say such things about my aunt? And then to print it in a newspaper!”

  Seth sighed and sat back down in his wooden swivel chair. “I shouldn’t have printed it. You’re right.”

  “I know I’m right. And how did they find out about the skeleton in the first place? How did you find out?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t reveal my sources.” That smile again. I ignored it again. “Is there some way I can make it up to you?” He was standing up again.

  “Only if you can make time go backwards and erase all remnants of this article from existence.”

  “I can try. In the meantime, can I buy you dinner?”

  He’d caught me off guard. An uncommon event. If memory serves me at all accurately, I stood there for a half hour with a flushed face, stuttering and stammering. Finally, I was able to utter three semi-intelligible words. “No, thank you.” Then I think I backed my way to the door, the newspaper still stuck in my fist. I may have muttered, “groceries” and “melting” on my journey across the room.

  After driving home and putting away my soggy groceries, I made myself a cup of lemon mint tea. I did not want to read about the island news, but my eyes kept drifting toward Seth’s newspaper. Finally giving in, I read about the school board’s decision to extend the school year by one day. Apparently that took a great deal of deliberation and there was scarcely time to discuss other business.

  The librarian, Roxie Tomkins, was adding an extra storybook hour for children. That was going to be on Monday mornings. There was an apology from the movie theater owner on Gael Island. The new movie had not arrived on schedule so would be delayed by a week.

  I actually read the gardening column. It was quite interesting, not that I understood much about gardening, but I suspected after some time on the island, I would know a great deal more. I had always liked the idea of growing my own organic vegetables. A romantic notion perhaps, but who knows. Now that I had time and land . . . not all of it had been contaminated with toxic energy.

  Then came the police report. A purse snatching—the snatcher turned out to be the six year old son of the victim. An old woman reported someone spying on her from behind her garden hedge—turned out to be her gardener who had forgotten to tell her he had changed his schedule. A pack of gum stolen from the local gas station. The only real crime in the lot. Hmmm, no mention of a rose garden spy on the Wainwright property. Nor any mysterious bones. Soon enough, I was sure. Now that the word was out, Sam would be forced to include it in the report.

  I didn’t want to, but my fingers turned the page on their own as though they knew the way. They had been there before, after all. Anamcara Gossip: Anamcara Bones. No faces. Not even last names. How was that for taking responsibility for your words? And these were my new neighbors! Sally, Randy, Burt, Gerald, Myrtle. They must have had a field day accusing my aunt of murder.

  A.H.: I don’t think I need to ask what the hot topic on the island is this week. We have our own little Anamcara Whodunit to solve.

  I assumed A.H. stood for Anamcara Herald. Or perhaps something else, but then ass and hole were not words a proper minister would use—at least not in the same sentence.

  Sally: Must have been that sculptor! Remember the one who came to stay with Winnie Wainwright in that cottage and then vanished after the summer?

  Randy: They all vanished! And there was more than one sculptor. I heard there were three or four! At the same time! One of them must have displeased her, if you know what I mean.

  I wanted to scream! Not only was this Randy accusing my aunt of murder, but of bringing in lovers—several of them! I took a sip of my tea and a deep breath—after swallowing.

  Burt: What a woman!

  Gerald: You sound like you admire her for it! That woman was certainly not one to admire, bringing all those artist types to this island.

  Myrtle: She was a wonderful artist, you know.

  I wondered if she had four pairs of eyes glaring at her when she spoke those words.

  Myrtle: Well, did any of you ever see her paintings?

  Maybe Myrtle was a friend of my aunt’s. I’d have to find out who she was and thank her for standing up for Winnie. Hadn’t I heard that name? Yes! Myrtle Ormsby. She worked at the post office. The town gossip according to Sasha, Frankie, and Sam. I was glad she liked my aunt, at least her art work.

  Sally: What about that gardener? I remember a gardener who came to the island every spring for a few months And that young girl who came to stay with her, remember her—

  Gerald: Best not to bring her up. I say it was one of the old gal’s lover
s.

  A.H.: And so it goes on Anamcara Island. That’s it until next time. Who knows, by next issue we may have solved our mystery—with a little help from our Anamcara Gossips.

  I put down the newspaper. Then, realizing I was alone, I let out a deafening scream. After several long ear-piercing shrieks, accompanied by pacing and rampaging through the living room, I collapsed onto the couch. How could anyone talk about my aunt like that? How could she have lived on this island with so many people who didn’t appreciate her and obviously who had not bothered to know her? And how could I not have known?

  When Sasha came over a few minutes later, I wondered if she’d heard my scream. She hadn’t. She just had a feeling I’d like someone to talk to. She was right about that. I handed her the crumpled newspaper which she read while I brewed more tea. Calming Chamomile this time.

  “How could I not have known how people on the island felt about her?” I asked.

  “Because you didn’t feel that way. You knew your aunt. You loved her. What others thought, didn’t matter. Besides, there are plenty of people on this island who adored her.”

  “Did she ever mention who?”

  “No. She never even talked about it. We mostly talked art and philosophy. But I was in town with her enough times to know she had her fan club and it was not small.”

  “That’s a relief. After a few unpleasant experiences in town and then reading this garbage, I was seriously considering moving back to Seattle.”

  “I’m taking that was literally. You’ll give Anamcara a chance won’t you?”

  “A chance. But, Sasha, tell me, do you think it bothered Winnie that a lot of people in her community obviously disapproved of her?”

  Sasha put down her cup of tea and thought for a moment. “You know Winnie. She would have realized it was about them and had nothing to do with her.”

  True. If anyone was wise enough to know that, it was my Aunt Winnie. Still, it bothered me. I just didn’t know what I was going to do about that.

  I spent the evening reading. Mostly old letters and diaries. It was slow because the handwriting was faded and seemed foreign. It was from a different era. But I persevered. I wanted to know all there was to know about my mysterious aunt whom I had loved and adored.

  I found two more letters from friends, accepting her invitation to come paint with her. No mention of sexual rendezvous or orgies. Just some artist friends painting together. How had the town twisted that into scandalous behavior? Where there’s a will, there’s a way, I suppose. The threat of those who are different. And Winnie was that. A nonconformist. An independent woman. How threatened they must have felt.

  Most of her diary entries were about her art, the feelings about each painting as she painted it. My favorite cover was the one she had painted herself, a mini replica of one of her ocean paintings.

  April, 1949

  My first entry in my new diary. I selected a plain cover so that I could create it myself. I am pleased with how it turned out. It is the same ocean scene with the rocks and the grand evergreens in the foreground that I finished painting last week. I do believe it is very similar, except for the clouds. The days when I painted the large version, the clouds were lower in the sky. They are much higher in this painting, fluffy and light as I love them. Oh, I love them any way they are. I do indeed. And so I paint them often.

  Is it vain to be pleased with the result of the cover? I do not think so. No, it could not be vanity. I am simply the vehicle for the Creator’s creations. That is all. Vanity does not play a part here.

  And now back to my painting. I am beginning a new work. I think perhaps the garden. The rose bushes are not as in bloom as I would like, but perhaps as I paint, they will flourish from the attention!

  And I would have bet that they did. How patient my aunt was, to take the time to write about her art. But then, she had never owned a television. Her art was her life, at least as far as I knew. I wondered if she’d ever owned a pet.

  I laughed aloud when that thought went through my mind. Perhaps it was sparked by my own desire to some day own a dog. Now that Joe was no longer a part of my life, it was likely to be a dream that I would fulfill.

  Not one to conform to the norm of reading pages in order, I turned to another diary entry at the end of the book.

  October, 1949

  I am so pleased to have company. It is wonderful to have my dear friend here. I do worry that she is not as happy as she had hoped. And not as free.

  I do hope she shall stay a while. She is welcome here as long as she chooses to stay. It is different with company, but we respect each other’s need for solitude. And she does draw me from my reclusiveness. She helps me to be more social. Perhaps I will invite some friends over for a gathering. That is a lovely idea, not one I would have thought of, had my dear friend not come to visit.

  The telephone rang and I nearly jumped off the couch. I was still not used to the shrill blare of the telephone. I snatched the receiver off its cradle and answered.

  “McNair?”

  “MacGregor?”

  “Aye. How’s life up on your wee island, lass?”

  “Wee indeed,” I said.

  “You don’t sound charmed by it.”

  “It will take some getting used to.” I didn’t explain the reason behind this to my old professor from Seattle. I was more interested in hearing when he was going to come take me to dinner as promised. “So, when do I get the pleasure of your company, MacGregor?”

  “Soon, I hope. I came back from Scotland to a bit of a mess, but as soon as I straighten things out, I’ll take the ferry on up there.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “A good one, I hope.”

  “Definitely.” Was I flirting with the man? What was wrong with me? A desperate divorcee on the loose? But then, I had to admit, when I thought about it, I had always flirted with Malcolm MacGregor, even when I was his student. It was innocent enough though. After all, I was engaged to my husband at the time. Besides, it was just the kind of relationship we had, MacGregor and I. Fun, flirtatious, comforting, and purely platonic.

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “So am I.”

  “I wish it could be tomorrow.”

  So did I.

  Chapter 5

  Until the sheriff had finished his investigation of Winnie’s garden, I could not put in a koi pond. Instead, I had Frankie help me design and landscape a vegetable garden on the opposite side of the house. On Frankie’s advice, I kept it small. Three rows of crops, each six feet long.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t make them longer?”

  Frankie shook her head. She was wearing a cowgirl hat today. It was black felt with a string of turquoise beads around the brim. She looked like a cross between Zena, the Warrior Princess, and a country western singer. “I’ve seen too many novice gardeners give up after a few weeks.”

  “You mean, you’d just as soon not witness the neglect and demise of another vegetable garden.”

  “Right. Now how about that ice cold mineral water you promised me? With a couple of mint leaves?” She pulled them off the plant and handed them to me.

  “How do you like living here?” I asked Frankie when we were sitting on the front porch sipping our wannabee mint juleps.

  “It’s okay. I’ve only lived here eight months. Great riding trails,” she said with an impish gleam in her eyes.”

  “Riding trails? Motorcycle or horse?” Looking at her hat, I knew the answer as soon as I asked the question.

  She laughed. “Horse. Especially the trail on the west end of your property.”

  I smiled. “It’s yours. Any time.”

  “Winnie’s exact same words, I do believe. Thanks, Jenny.”

  “My pleasure.” As I was sure it was Winnie’s. “Anything else you like about living here? Besides Sheriff Sam having a crush on you?”

  She laughed, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of color creeping up those beautiful cheeks.
“My business is doing pretty well.”

  “Have you found people friendly?” I hoped she didn’t feel as if she were being interrogated.

  “At first? Not very. There are some of those island snob types. But the others, once they got used to the idea of a female gardener, and saw that I could handle the job, they started coming around.”

  So that was their reason for being unfriendly to Frankie. But I wasn’t a female gardener. And as far as I could figure, no one on the island, not even Sasha, knew I was a minister/private detective. I was seriously beginning to believe that there were some people on this island who did not want my Aunt Winnie moving to Anamcara Island fifty years ago and who did not want me moving here now.

  It was time to pull out my high tech cutting edge investigative tools. After Frankie left, I gathered up a notepad and pencil and headed into town. I was going to snoop. On everyone and anyone I could find.

  First stop, the hair dresser. It was a scary concept, entering hostile territory and offering up your hair for sacrifice. Hopefully they hadn’t seen what Julia Roberts and Joan Cusack had done to Richard Gere in Runaway Bride. The clown look was definitely not me.

  The glare from Marilyn Burns—Barnes—Burrows or whatever it was, was tempered only by her curiosity. She let me sit for ten minutes before leaving her puffed and frizzed client and coming over to me.

  “What do you want?” Friendly as a bee on honey.

  “A trim?”

  “Do you have an appointment?” She knew perfectly well I didn’t.

  “There’s a sign in the door that says that walk-ins are welcome.”

  “When I’m not booked up.”

  I nodded slowly, then glanced at the empty chairs on either side of me.