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  She ignored my insinuation and went back to Puff and Frizz who was obviously finished being puffed and frizzed, but Marilyn was not about to let her out of her seat. She continued fiddling with her hair, tweaking, combing, spraying, for the next ten minutes until her poor client begged her to stop.

  Then there was an awkward fifteen more minutes with me sitting and reading a magazine and trying not to give into the toxic scents of the substandard sprays, rinses, and shampoos, while Marilyn puttered about, sweeping up hair, sterilizing combs, and checking her nails to be sure her polish was intact.

  Finally her next appointment arrived. Her name was Sally. Sally from the newspaper? How many Sallys lived on the island? How many Sallys who were in their eighties but had the memory of a twenty year old when it came to remembering all the artists and gardeners who had visited my aunt some fifty years ago?

  “What will it be today, Sally?” Marilyn asked with all the friendliness she’d been storing up for the past half hour.

  “Oh, just a wash and trim, dear,” the older woman answered. “And a perm, of course. Got to look nice for my Reggie.” She giggled.

  Marilyn glanced up at me, then grinned at Sally. It was one of those Cheshire Cat grins. She was up to something and it was only seconds before I found out what. “So, how does it feel to be a celebrity?” she asked Sally.

  “What? Oh, the newspaper. Not the first time I’ve been in the gossip column, you know. I’ve lived on this island for most of my life. I’d say I’ve been in it at least thirty times over the years. And I’ve been the subject of gossip a few times as well,” she said with unabashed pride.”

  “So, what’s your theory?” Marilyn asked, her eyebrows twitching. “Whose body do you really think it is?”

  “Oh, my, I don’t know. If I had to guess— Hmmm.” Sally’s index finger tapped her chin as Marilyn adjusted the towel behind her neck. “The gardener! My guess is that dashing gardener who all the ladies admired so much.”

  Marilyn gave me a spiteful glance before tilting Sally’s chair back and dunking her white hair in the basin.

  I dropped my magazine onto the chair beside me, stood up, looked Marilyn in the eyes, just as Charlie had taught me to do, and said, “I’ll come back when you’re not so busy.”

  She looked startled by my declaration. She obviously didn’t know it was a lie.

  After only one stop on my trail of investigative gossip, I needed a break. I did not want to hear anymore theorizing about my aunt doing in the gardener. I headed for the Flower of Scotland. The pub was all but empty except for a couple who was deep in conversation at the table furthest from the door. One man sat at the bar, a teapot and tea cup in front of him. If I wasn’t mistaken, it was the same gentleman who had been here the first time I had come in, the one who had been chased out of the other pub. He was wearing the same tweed cap and bulky tan cardigan. He spotted me in the bar mirror and smiled the same smile he had offered before. I returned it.

  This time I would have joined him at the bar, had Pen not bounded out of the kitchen in time to intercept me. “Come in, dear. What can I get for you? The usual?”

  I had a usual after only one visit? “Absolutely.”

  “A Belhaven and fish and chips, it is.” She wrote the order on a slip of paper, passed it over the counter to the bartender who in turn, handed it to a busboy who was on his way to the kitchen. Then she sat me down at a table and joined me.

  “So, how are you doing after yesterday’s newspaper? I’m so sorry about that! Such nonsense. Don’t lose a moment’s sleep over it.”

  “I’m afraid I already have.”

  She tsked and shook her head, her short graying hair flying up and landing back in place as though it had never been disturbed. “Just know that some of the people on this island are less than kind. But please don’t let it taint your view of all of us. Excuse me a moment, dear.”

  She jumped up from the table, grabbed a beer off the bar that the server had neglected to notice, ran it across the room to a customer, and came running back to the table. No wonder she was so slim. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, don’t let it taint your view of all of us.”

  “But why, Pen? Why would they say such vicious things about my aunt?”

  She sighed and leaned back in her wooden chair. “Hard to say. Boredom perhaps?”

  The bartender set my beer on a Three Finger Jack Lagers coaster.

  “I’ll have the same,” Pen told him, then grinned at me. “It’s my day off. I just stopped in for a bit.”

  I suspected she did that often.

  “So, where were we?” she said just as I was trying to figure out how to bring the conversation back to town gossip. “Yes, I’d say boredom, at least on some people’s parts. Others— I just can’t say what makes them tick. It’s been a mystery to me since I came to this island.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “Oh, thirty years ago now.”

  “And were they unfriendly back then?”

  “Indeed they were. A few of them anyway. Same few, I suspect, as have gotten to you.”

  “Because you started a pub in competition with them?”

  “Ah, no. The Flower of Scotland was here before the Crown and Anchor.”

  “So, they started theirs in competition with you.”

  “Indeed. But it hasn’t bothered me a whit.”

  I could see that. She was a lot like my aunt, no nonsense, honest. It was easy to see why they’d been friends.

  “So, what was it that made them unfriendly to you?” I asked her.

  She took a sip of the Belhaven the bartender had brought her. She was not going to answer this question thoughtlessly. “Now don’t let this disturb you, Jenny. I don’t want that. But I can’t lie to you. Maybe I should just hold my tongue.”

  “It’s okay, Pen. Really, it is.”

  “Okay, then.” She nodded and continued, “You see, when I first came to Anamcara, your aunt befriended me. Us, Mickey and me. She was wonderful. We were young. I was pregnant with my first. Had no where to stay. No Inns or Bed and Breakfasts here. But we were determined to make it our home. So, until we could find a place to settle, she took us in. She was like that, you know. If Winnie saw the soul in you, you were family.”

  I knew that about my great aunt. But the truth was, she saw the soul in everyone. She was one of those rare human beings who could wade through the personality muck and get to a deeper level, which may have explained why none of this personality stuff had bothered her—at least not enough that she had felt the need to tell me about it before she died.

  “Well, as quickly as we were befriended by Winnie, we were the enemies of others.”

  “Are you saying that you were snubbed because of your association with Winnie?”

  “Some of the people on this island did not approve of her lifestyle, being an artist and all.”

  “You mean, because she was an artist—”

  “Many people associated artists with bohemian lifestyles some years ago.”

  “That’s not all, is it?” My intuition told me there was more, a lot more. Whether or not Pen would tell me all of it at once, was another matter.

  “Winnie had a notion for taking people in, like Mickey and me. She had a lot of artist friends. They would come to visit, to paint with her for weeks, sometimes months at a time. Not so much after we arrived, but when she first moved here apparently. Then it tapered off a bit.”

  “And?”

  She looked me straight in the eye. I liked that about her. “People made assumptions. They believed that this young woman was leading a wild life, taking in different lovers every month. You know the sort of thing. And of course, on an island this size, these stories spread as quick as Scotch Broom.”

  “Especially with the help of a gossip column in the local newspaper. Why would a newspaper print things like that? Like yesterday?”

  “Don’t be too hard on Seth, dear. It must have been very upsetting for you, I’m sure, to r
ead all that. But he does try to do his job which includes pleasing the residents of this island. A difficult task at best.”

  “Still—”

  “I agree, it was poor judgment on his part. He all but admitted that to me last night.”

  “Did he?”

  “Indeed. He came into the pub, right after you made a visit to his office, I believe.”

  “Tried to drown his guilt in his beer?”

  “Something like that. If it helps, he didn’t actually do the interview. His assistant did.”

  “But he is the editor.”

  “True enough. True enough.”

  My fish and chips arrived. The fish was cod and the batter was light, just the way I liked it. I splashed some malt vinegar on top and dug in. Before Pen left, I asked her about the gentleman at the bar.

  “Don’t know him, really. Only arrived on the island recently. His name is Nigel, I believe. Why do you ask, dear?”

  “Because he actually smiled at me. His being new explains that. He must not have heard about my aunt’s bohemian ways.”

  Pen laughed and said, “Or maybe he approves.”

  After I finished my fish and chips, I hit the village book shop, appropriately named The Village Book Shop. I browsed through the aisles of books, not because I thought it was a good way to overhear local gossip, but because I loved browsing through aisles of books. When I pulled a book about gardening off the shelf, the man behind the counter said, “That’s an excellent one if you’re planning to start a vegetable garden.”

  Whew. He was friendly. He must have liked my aunt. Or maybe he didn’t know who I was.

  “I am actually—my first vegetable garden,” I said, flipping through the pages. I was sold. It had lots of pictures. I placed the book on the counter, tucked my trusty notepad and pencil inside my quilted backpack and pulled out my quilted wallet.

  “Are you visiting someone on the island?” the shop keeper asked, leading me to surmise that most people did not come to visit this particular island itself.

  “No, actually, I’ve just moved here.”

  He stared at me for an uncomfortable moment, then scratched his salt and pepper beard. Suddenly his friendly smile turned to a frown. “You’re not—”

  “Jenny McNair,” I said. It hadn’t taken me long to remember that I had dropped the Campbell when I divorced Joe.

  “Jenny— You’re Winnie Wainwright’s niece?”

  “Great niece.”

  He nodded. “Of course. Welcome to the island. I’m Max Tomkins.”

  Not what I had expected, especially after the hint of a frown when he was trying to figure out who I was. I must have become conditioned to expect hostility.

  I mumbled a quiet “Thank you.”

  “So, how do you like living on Anamcara?”

  “Well, I’ve only been here a few days so I can’t really give it an accurate assessment. It is beautiful though.”

  “Yes, it is. Especially your aunt’s property.” He sighed. “With the orchard and her rose garden and that lovely old lighthouse.”

  “Yes.” I wondered if he’d somehow missed the newspaper for a couple days. Otherwise how could he be talking about my aunt’s beautiful land when everyone else was talking about a long section beside that very same rose garden, only now it was creepy and mysterious.

  I followed Max’s gaze to the wall beyond the two bookshelves. Several paintings hung there. Ocean bluffs, sea lion caves, lighthouses, and two abstracts.

  “Are you an artist? Did you paint all these?”

  “Oh, no, only a couple. I take art on consignment. This one here is your aunt’s lighthouse.” He smiled. “Yours now.”

  “Oh, yes, I recognize it.” If I hadn’t had one of Winnie’s paintings of the lighthouse hanging in my living room already, I might have bought it.

  I moved closer to the abstracts—not my style, but they definitely appealed to me. When I noticed the scripted name in the corner, I grinned. “Sasha’s?”

  “Sure are.”

  I handed Max the money for my book. He made change and slipped the book into a bag.

  “No need to waste a tree.” I slipped the book out of the bag and handed it back to him. “Thank you very much,” I said.

  “You’re welcome. Come again, Jenny.”

  “Definitely. Good-bye, Max. It was nice to meet you.”

  I heard a sigh of relief flow out of my body as soon as I hit fresh sea air. I didn’t know what I would have done if Max Tomkins, local book shop owner, had been one of the enemies. I could handle not going into the big market on the island, and one of the pubs, and the hairdresser’s, but while not frequenting the local bookstore might have been easy on my pocketbook, it definitely would have been hard on my soul.

  I walked past the newspaper with my head held high, glancing in the window only once. That was long enough to spot Seth Williams sitting behind his desk, at his old manual typewriter. It was also long enough to notice the neglected computer across the room. It was definitely long enough to ignore the Bill Pullman look he had about him, the look Sandra Bullock fell hard for. And it was long enough for him to look up and wave.

  I ignored the wave, kept walking, and sensing that he was now getting up from his desk to once again apologize, I nipped into the cafe next door. I set my new book down on a table, went up to the counter, and ordered an Americana from the teenager with an earring in his lip.

  “What’s that?” he asked, with a tone of voice that revealed that he thought I was from a different planet.

  “An espresso with extra water.”

  “How much water?”

  I pointed to a mug on the shelf. “Half of that.”

  Shrugging less than enthusiastically, he fumbled with the espresso machine, finally producing a hot brown liquid. It took him another five minutes to figure out that he could top off the espresso with the hot water used for tea. Then he forgot to charge me. I wondered how long he’d been working here, and how much longer he would be. I was also beginning to rethink my choice to avoid Seth by coming into this cafe in the first place. But despite his rude manner, the kid had not published despicable comments about my great aunt in his newspaper.

  “Planning on doing some gardening?” I knew who owned the voice before I turned around. He had found me after all.

  “Not that it’s any of your business. Oh, sorry, I forgot, you’re the local newspaperman just doing his job. Can I assume tomorrow’s headline will be, ‘Owner of human bones plants vegetable garden.’” Oooo, when did I get so hostile? And aggressive? Not like me at all. Well, maybe just a little.

  I sat down at my table and opened my book. He didn’t leave. I knew that, not because I was looking at him—which I wasn’t—but because I sensed his energy still hovering behind me. Although I must have looked at him long enough to notice that he was wearing jeans and a wool sweater, a cream colored fisherman’s knit that seemed very popular on the islands. And his hair was blond, dirty blond. And his eyes were the same blue as Joe’s eyes—a definite point against him.

  He pulled out the chair beside me and sat down. I gave him the look I give, rather used to give, my children when they actually believed that they were going to get away with something.

  He recognized the look and stood up. “Sorry. I was just hoping to talk to you.”

  I gave him a similar look. This one said, “I don’t think so.” Or maybe, if I was doing it exceptionally well today, it was saying, “Guess again.”

  This one he ignored. He pulled out the wooden chair again and sat down again. “Please, Jenny, let me apologize.”

  “You already did.”

  “But apparently it didn’t get through to you.”

  “Oh, it got through just fine. I just decided not to accept it.”

  He sighed. It was a big sigh, the kind that puffs up your cheeks when you exhale. It’s also the kind that makes me feel guilty. I don’t know why. Probably something left over from childhood when my mother tried to convince her c
hildren that they were responsible for what mood she was in on any given day.

  “If there were any way to undo the damage—”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Then you forgive me?”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “And you’ll let me buy you dinner?”

  “I definitely didn’t say that—”

  “Tomorrow night? Seven o’clock? Would you like me to pick you up, or would you prefer to meet somewhere.” He looked straight into my eyes. “Say, the Flower of Scotland?”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  He smiled. He had a nice smile. “See you tomorrow.”

  It wasn’t until the cafe door had swung shut behind him that I realized that I had just accepted a date for the first time in over twenty years. With a man I despised, no less. Way to go, Jenny.

  Chapter 6

  My investigation into gossip seemed fruitless. That is, until I crossed the street and was walking past the market to my car.

  Outside of the bank were none other than Daisy the voluptuous grocery clerk and Eleanor the stern mistress of the Crown and Anchor. I quickly unlocked my car, set my purse and my new book on the front seat, and grabbed an old newspaper from the back seat. I opened the newspaper, walked as close as I dared to the two women who were so entrenched in their quarrel that they had failed to notice me. I leaned back against the building and played sleuth.

  “It’s ridiculous! You can’t just keep hiding the newspaper from her!”

  “Just seeing that woman’s name in print! Do you want her to see it?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I don’t either. It could trigger memories of— The last thing she needs is to have this dredge up all that old business and memories of—”

  I cringed, wondering if whichever of the two had stopped speaking mid-sentence, had recognized my Birkenstocks. I stayed frozen in position until the voices started up again.

  “You’re right. She really doesn’t need this.”

  “But she’s going to wonder why her newspaper keeps disappearing.”

  “Tell her Seth is on vacation.”

  “And if she sees him in town?”