Winnie's Web Page 8

“Don’t worry, you’ll be well looked after.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And think of all that sunshine.”

  Not too good at listening. I felt sorry for the poor frustrated woman who obviously did not want to be taking this trip that was sure to keep her away from Seth’s newspaper. My sense was that it wasn’t Hawaii that was worrying her. It was the thought of taking the trip alone.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be there in no time, and the Rowlands are thrilled you’re coming. They’ll take good care of you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “It will be fine.”

  It was silent for a moment and I was dying to catch a glimpse of the glances that were sure to be exchanged, but controlled myself. When the two younger women headed for the snack bar, I put down my newspaper and peeked at the woman they were escorting to the airport. Her white hair was permed into a short curly style that clung close to her head. She was definitely old enough to be the mother of one of them.

  I walked around the chairs and sat down next to her. “Hello, there.”

  She smiled up at me. She had a sweet smile, a childlike smile. “Hello. Do I know you?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, struck by a pang of guilt for the lie, but it was all in the line of duty, I reminded myself. “I thought so. Aren’t you Jane Miller?” I asked, saying the first name that popped into my head. At least I hadn’t said Jane Eyre.

  “No, my name is Lilly. You must have mistaken me for someone else, dear.” I had hoped for a full name, but would make do with the first.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” That same sweet smile.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said, standing up.

  “Certainly.”

  I turned and smiled at the elderly woman as I walked away. “We meet again.” I sneaked up on the twosome in the Starbucks’ coffee line.

  Eleanor, with her short gray hair, practical shoes, and very tense cheeks whirled around. Her mouth fell open and her eyes looked as though they might pierce a hole right through me.

  “Eleanor, right? From the pub?”

  She didn’t respond.

  Daisy, the buxom, bleached-blond grocery checker, did. “What are you doing here?”

  “Riding the ferry? Same as you are, I suspect. Daisy, right?”

  No response. They were too busy exchanging glances and worried looks. There was no doubt about it. I was the enemy. I just would have liked to know why.

  I decided to ignore their rudeness and be all politeness and see if that broke through the barriers.

  “I’m Jenny McNair, remember? We met at the market last week. It’s nice to see you both again.”

  “Do you know who we are?” Eleanor asked.

  Had she missed it when I’d said her name? Apparently. “If my memory serves me, you’re Eleanor Thatcher.” I mean, you had to be impressed. One introduction and I had the full name down. But that was part of my job, remembering names.

  I turned to Daisy. “And you’re—”

  “Her sister.” And proud of it, I almost heard her say.

  That explained the woman they were both so concerned about. Their mother. Or a beloved great aunt.

  If my intuition was at all keen, I was sure they were trying to get across a message to me. What it was, I had no idea, until a moment later when Daisy said, “We’re George Ewell’s daughters.”

  I didn’t ask who he was. I simply stared at them with that questioning look I give my children when they’re telling me they’re going out for the evening. Well trained children they are, as they never fail to inform me of where and when they will be returning, at least not after the look.

  It was Eleanor, the older sister I assumed—but hard to tell with Daisy’s bleached coiffure and caked-on make up—who read my message.

  “George Ewell? Your aunt never mentioned him?”

  I shook my head. “Not that I recall.”

  They exchanged raised eyebrows and harrumphs. Then I could have sworn, they both mouthed the word, “guilt” right there in front of me.

  “Who is George Ewell?” I asked. “Besides your father.”

  They looked at each other long and hard. Did they tell me? Or did they keep me in suspense? They kept me in suspense.

  “Look,” Eleanor the practical one said. “This is a big ferry. You stick to one end and we’ll stick to the other.”

  “Why would we do that?”

  “So we don’t have to see each other,” Daisy said.

  “I have no problem with seeing you,” I said, in my cocky voice.

  “Well, we have a problem seeing you,” Eleanor said.

  “A big problem,” Daisy said.

  I was beginning to see the family resemblance.

  “I see that. But what I don’t know is why.” I had a feeling that if I knew who George Ewell was, I would be able to answer that.

  They didn’t offer an explanation. I didn’t push it. They left the Starbucks’ line and went for the regular coffee. I stayed in line. If I was going to endure this trip with these hostile women aiming darts at me for the remainder of the ride, I deserved an Americana.

  I sat at one of the booths in the dining area. It was not as far away as they would have liked me to sit, and I could still see them, but I could not overhear their conversation. Something told me not to try. My intuition told me it had to do with this older woman. They were protecting her from something. Maybe me. It disturbed me that they saw me as the enemy. It disturbed me a lot.

  After finishing my coffee and chocolate chip bagel—ah, the comfort that food provides—I went outside. It was not crowded. The clouds had overtaken the sun and there was a strong wind. Most of us do not like being buffeted about. Normally, I wouldn’t mind, but today I was feeling more vulnerable than usual. I didn’t last long, even tucked in under the shelter of the upper deck.

  When I returned to the dining area, the threesome was nowhere in sight. They must have gone to the ladies’ room or down below to their car. There was some reason they did not want me near this fragile woman.

  By the time we reached Anacortes, I felt as fragile as this woman looked. I knew better than to let Eleanor and Daisy get to me, but my tools seemed to be failing me. I did not feel like turning around and taking the next ferry back to Winnie’s island. That meant a night in Seattle. As soon as I was on land, I pulled out my cell phone and called my friend Meredith. No answer. I drove straight from Anacortes to Charlie’s. Fortunately I still had a key, leftover from my youth when I had chosen to live with my father instead of living with my mother.

  I loved Charlie’s house. It was cozy and welcoming. Maybe it was just the comfort of the familiar. The first thing I did was build a fire. It only took me twenty minutes this time. The place had been empty for a couple weeks now. Then I poured myself a glass of his favorite brandy and settled in by the picture window that looked out over Puget Sound.

  It wasn’t but a stone’s throw to MacGregor’s house, but should I call him? Surely he wouldn’t mind if I showed up on his doorstep with no notice whatsoever. Still, I hesitated. I had not been prepared for this trip. I had no clothes to change into for dinner. And I didn’t know if I was up to having a conversation, even with MacGregor.

  MacGregor. The house felt even warmer when he came into my thoughts. Maybe he was home now. Maybe he was walking from his den to his kitchen at this very moment to brew himself a good cup of tea. Darjeeling was his favorite. He would brew it properly in a well-heated teapot. If he was home, what would he be wearing? Jeans. He wore jeans a lot, and a tennis shirt with a sweatshirt on top. Navy blue or gray. And on the odd day, red. Or maybe he’d be wearing his favorite navy blue Scottish rugby jersey with a purple thistle on the chest.

  I laughed at myself. That was good. I could use a little laughter in my life right now.

  I sat at Charlie’s picture window for over an hour. It was the most peaceful I had felt in a long time. And here I had thought I would find peace on
the island after the chaos of my last few months in Seattle. But I knew better. Peace was not in a place. It was inside of me. But the truth was, for the first time since I’d moved to the island, my thoughts were not on a skeleton and spiteful islanders. They had flowed back to memories of moving up to Seattle from California to live with Charlie, after my parents had divorced. They were on those fun years from fourteen to eighteen when Charlie and my step mom, Catherine, and I had laughed and played and danced together. And they were on MacGregor.

  I picked up the phone and dialed his number. While I listened to the ring, I stood at the dining room window, looking toward his house, as though I could see him walking across the living room to his kitchen telephone. Disappointment spread through me at the sound of his recorded voice.

  “You have reached the home of Malcolm MacGregor. I am not available at this moment. Actually, I won’t be available for a few moments to come. I will be at the University in Bellingham until Friday morning. Leave a message and I will return it promptly on my return home.”

  Should I leave a message? I slammed down the phone as though I might get caught at what I was doing. Left over fear, left over guilt from my formative years with my mother, still inherent in my body.

  I hit the redial button on Charlie’s telephone, this time smiling through MacGregor’s message. There was something comforting in his voice.

  After the beep, I said, “Hey, there, MacGregor, sadly you missed your chance to take me to dinner in Seattle. Looks as though you’ll have to make that trek up to the island after all. I popped in, or rather, ferried in, to Seattle for the day. Call me when you get back to town. I assume you’ve figured it out by now—this is McNair. I’m spending the night at Charlie’s, heading back to the island tomorrow.”

  It wasn’t until I hung up that I realized that right now I was having trouble calling the island home.

  Chapter 9

  “It’s about time you showed up here,” Seth greeted me when I walked into his office two days later.

  “Hey, you were the one who kicked me out.”

  “I just meant for a day. Not even a whole day! You were supposed to come back for lunch, not desert the island!”

  “Sorry. I ended up in Seattle.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “Don’t ask.” Had I forgotten he was a newspaperman? That was like telling a five year old not to look when they heard Santa’s reindeer on the roof.

  He confirmed my thoughts. “I’m asking.”

  “What can I say? I follow my intuition. That’s just how I am.” Might as well get that established up front. It had been a sore subject in my marriage for way too long.

  “And it told you to go to Seattle?” It wasn’t my intuition that seemed to bother Seth. Just its message.

  “Not exactly. It told me to take a ferry ride. So I did. It just turned out to be a longer ride than I’d thought.” Before he could ask me anymore questions, I threw one at him. “Tell me, Seth, who is George Ewell and what connection did he have to my aunt?”

  He winced. It was not my imagination. He actually winced. And then his lips closed really tightly as though they refused to speak. Then came a sigh, a second sigh, and finally, “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I ran into Daisy Higgins and Eleanor Thatcher on the ferry to Anacortes, and they made a point of telling me they are his daughters. It was very clear they assumed the name George Ewell would mean something to me, but it doesn’t. I’ve never heard of the man.”

  A slow nod. If my intuition was on today, he was deliberating over how much to tell me. “He died several years ago,” was all I got.

  “How?”

  “I don’t really remember the details. A car accident, I believe.”

  Was that true? A newspaperman not remembering details? But it was several years ago.

  “How many years ago?”

  “Before I was born.”

  I suppose under those circumstances, he had an excuse for not remembering. Still, what wasn’t he telling me? And why?

  “Go on.”

  “The rumor I heard was, he left his wife for another woman.”

  “So, what was the connection to my—” Surely not. Surely he hadn’t left his wife for my Aunt Winnie. But what other reason would his daughters have for hating me and my aunt?

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that. As I said, I wasn’t around at the time.”

  “You weren’t, but the newspaper was.”

  “What are you thinking?” He put up his hand. “Oh, no, not more microfiching.”

  “’Fraid so. I’ll be searching anyway, might as well be looking for two stories. “By the way,” I said, settling in at the viewer, “Daisy and Eleanor’s mother’s name wouldn’t happen to be Lilly, would it?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Ha!” he said on his way to the bank vault. “If I’ve learned anything about you, it’s that nothing is always something.”

  I raised an eyebrow. He had a point. I took off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves, tied back my hair, and set to work. After spending a couple hours in 1953, I suddenly asked myself what I was doing. This was definitely not the way to be going about this. I closed my eyes and let all thoughts slip into oblivion. I don’t know how long I was in a meditative state, but when I came out of it, the year 1949 was blinking in my neon vision. Maybe it was because that was the date of one of the letters I had read from Winnie’s attic. Maybe not. I closed my eyes again and 1951 appeared beside the 1949.

  “Seth, do you think you could bring me 1949 and 1951?”

  He looked up from his typewriter. Was it my imagination or was that really an irritated look on his face?

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing, I was just deep in thought.”

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I know better than to interrupt an artist at work.”

  He laughed. “It’s okay, Jenny. Don’t worry about it. It’s just an article on salmon. And I’m not sure I’d call myself an artist. What was it you wanted?”

  “The microfiche for 1949 and 1951.”

  “You’ve finished with that whole batch I brought you?”

  “No, but my intuition zeroed in on 1949 and 1951.”

  “Your intuition?” Oh, no, here we go again. Another man who hates the word intuition. But then he smiled. “Must be handy.” Was he too perfect or what? Except for his blue eyes, that is, and his aftershave, and his gossip column. Other than that . . .

  He went into the storage vault, and returned with another box of microfiche. I started back to work, but a few months into 1949, I hit a gap. “This is very odd,” I said as much to myself as to Seth.

  “What?” He had walked across the room and was peering over my shoulder.

  “There seem to be some missing months.”

  “Maybe they got mixed up.” He thumbed through the box and concluded, “They’re not here.”

  My stomach tightened and my breath caught. I was definitely in the right year. “How can that be?”

  “I don’t know, unless—”

  “Unless what?”

  “Well, while you were gone, there was a break in.”

  “What?”

  He nodded toward one of the back windows which was covered with plywood.

  “Someone broke into your office?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “When?”

  “Just last night. Some time after six. I left work earlier than I have been lately.” He smiled. “No distractions.”

  “What did they take?”

  “Well, we weren’t sure at first. It looked as though they’d just taken some cash I had lying in my desk drawer. Didn’t even bother with the computer. But now—”

  “You think someone stole some of your microfiche?”

  “Is that crazy? Of course, it could be a simple case of misplaced, lost, or never created microfiche.”

  “True.” But my intuition told
me that the missing months were the critical months. “A bit too coincidental, wouldn’t you say?” I grabbed the box for 1951. Four months were missing.

  “My God, Jenny, if they were stolen, that means you could be in danger.”

  What it meant was that someone knew exactly what I was looking for and was not about to let me find it. “Don’t worry about me, Seth, but I do feel terrible about your office being broken into.”

  He sighed and I felt a hundred times worse. He must have read my guilty expression because he looked at me with those blue eyes of his and ran his fingers down my cheek ever so gently. “Don’t worry about that. Just watch your back, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “Now that . . . I just don’t want—”

  “What, Seth?”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you, that’s all.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  He gathered up the microfiche and said, “I guess this wasn’t any help after all.”

  “On the contrary, it helped a lot. I must have been on the right track or someone wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of disappearing some issues. Don’t put it away just yet. I’ll keep looking at it a while.”

  “Jenny!”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  He groaned and handed me the box. I pulled out the end of 1949 and went back to viewing.

  It was only minutes before I found something. Finally. In the gossip column, of course.

  Anamcara Scuttlebutt: Visitors to the Island

  A.H.: So, friends, what is the scuttlebutt of late? Anything new on the island? Any visitors from afar?

  Minnie: Oh, yes. I fear Winnie Wainwright has even more visitors than usual and they seem to get stranger with every visit!

  Myrtle: I would have to say we definitely have a lot of visitors right now. I don’t think I would call them strange. They’re artists, that’s all.

  Martin: I’m not sure I should be included here, considering that I’m the editor of this rag, but since you keep shoving that pad and pencil of yours under my nose, I’ll just say we do have more visitors on the island right now than usual. Must be this beautiful weather of ours.

  Lilly: I think it’s lovely to have so many visitors on the island, cousins from Milwaukee, grandchildren from Seattle, none as interesting as Winnie’s artist friends, mind you. But all lovely.