Fox Island (8 page)

“As you wish.”

Tony stared at the man as he inched down the
stairs.

Bennington scooted up the sidewalk toward
the road before he turned back. “Thanks for your help, Mr.
Shadowbrook. I’m glad you were here. I really didn’t want to speak
directly to Jessica, and you’ve been so helpful. I was risking an
angry scene, not good for either of us. And keep writing those good
books. I’ve read your whole Sackett series.”

“No, that was...” Tony started to protest,
but the stately gentleman slid into a tan Lincoln and backed it
down the long, uphill driveway.

Angry? Why would anyone be angry?

Tony, Price and Melody ate turkey pasta
salad, purchased from the local Food Mart, off white paper plates
tucked into wicker holders. A low-hanging sun glittered off the
salty waters of lower Puget Sound. Just as it sank beyond the
Olympic Peninsula, a ring of wispy clouds tinged peach, then melon,
then tangerine surrounded it. Tony tore a hunk of sourdough bread
and smeared it with something that resembled margarine from a
plastic tub.

“I don’t believe it,” Melody blurted out.
“You actually talked to a man who dated my great-aunt Jill?”

“Your grandmother and her sister were
extremely pretty ladies back then. I suppose they both had their
share of dates,” Price suggested.

“Grandma Jessie always said Jill was such a
perfectionist. She refused to date any of the boys on the Island.
Something to do with them not having the social standing she
required.”

“Well, all I know is this guy met Jill after
your grandmother’s wedding and broke up with her a few weeks
later.”

“And now, he decides to come for a visit?”
Price dug deep into a white cardboard carton and raked out the last
square chunks of turkey.

“I guess at the end of your life you relive
some ‘what ifs.’”

“Speaking of which,” Melody broke in. “What
if Grandma Jessie still lived here and went to the door. He might
have thought it was Jill. The old guy could have had a heart
attack. Whoa, you could have included that into your book.”

Price chuckled. “You’re starting to sound
like Tony.”

Tony glanced up, fork poised in the air.
“What did you ladies discover about the Island’s history?”

Price spoke between bites. “Arthur Murray
once came for a short vacation … met with the San Souci girls for a
private dance lesson.”

“The San Souci Club really were the Fox
Island socialites, weren’t they?”

“Still are,” Melody reported.

Price set down her fork and wiped her mouth
with a green calico napkin. “Mrs. Johnson reported that her father
was one of the original members of the ‘Law and Order Society of
Fox Island and Hale Passage.’”

“The vigilantes? I read a little something
about that down at the museum. There were thirty members who
contributed $134 for dues. Something about needing to stop the
sneak thieves and footpads. But I haven’t found any record of them
doing any-thing.”

“Well,” Price added, “according to Mrs.
Johnson, her father always said he figured the thief had joined the
vigilantes in order to avoid suspicion, because the stealing
stopped after the group was formed. Then the organization seemed to
fade out of existence.”

Price strolled to the railing and leaned her
elbows on the gray cracked paint of a two-by-six, between a sundial
and clay baby ducks. She tossed her head back as a delicate sea
breeze drifted against her tanning skin. “It’s sort of sad.”

“About there being no more crime?”

“No, about Mr. Bennington, an old man who
knows he’s dying and tries to find a former girlfriend.”

Melody jingled long gold earrings and her
black hair shone with gold highlights in the evening sunset.
“Sounds romantic, doesn’t it?”

Price eyed Tony. “I wonder ... when you’re
old, will you go and look up all your old girlfriends?”

“All I have to do is look across the kitchen
table every morning and I see all my old girlfriends.”

Melody choked on a bite of salad and began
to cough.

“Are you all right?” Tony asked.

“Dr. S. was the only girlfriend you ever
had?”

“Yeah.”

“How can that be? Were you raised in a
monastery or something?”

“I guess I’m one of those rarities ... a
one-woman man.”

“Anyway, that’s what he tells me.” The
dimples deepened in Price’s grin.

“That is so cool. And how about you, Dr. S.?
Would you ever go look up your old boyfriends?”

“Eh... no.” Price retrieved a navy cardigan
sweater and pulled it over her shoulders. “I wouldn’t know where to
begin.”

“Me either,” Melody added. “Besides, most of
my old boyfriends are a bunch of jerks.”

Price turned back and looked at a stack of
papers in a box next to Tony. “Well, what did you discover at the
museum?”

“I’ve got quite a bit of stuff on organized
crime in Tacoma, but I haven’t found a Fox Island connection yet.
I’ll keep searching. And Harvey Peterson keeps making news from
time to time. You know, those local eccentric kind of stories they
use for filler on the evening news? Looks like I’ll need to do that
interview pretty soon.”

Tony sorted through the papers in the box,
then looked up at Melody. “Hey, kiddo, I did find an old article
about a ferryboat wreck... which involved your aunt Jill.”

Melody leaned forward. Her dark eyebrows
tensed close together and almost overlapped. “You did? Are you
sure? I never heard about that.”

Tony spread the yellowed copy in front of
her. “It’s all right here... ‘The Fox Island to Tacoma ferryboat,
called the Arcadia, rammed the Sixth Street dock during a storm,
and several people were injured, including high school freshman,
Jill Davenport, who suffered fractures in both legs.’”

Melody grabbed the sheet. “Auntie Jill broke
both legs? Why didn’t Grandma ever tell me that story? I wonder if
Mother knows?”

“Price, how about opening the book with a
ferryboat scene?”

“You don’t mean, ‘It was a dark and stormy
night....’ Do you?”

“Some sort of variation. Think of it. The
drama of a child on a rough ferryboat ride to school. It might add
the drama... and sense of distance and separation... that the
Island portrayed back then.”

“Perhaps,” Price mused. “But they didn’t
have to take the ferry until high school.”

“Okay, maybe it was a shopping trip... they
could be traveling back home....”

“Wishing they had never left the Island?”
Price suggested.

Tony ripped off another hunk of bread.
“Yeah, that would work. Sort of the way we opened Promontory with
the railroad scene.”

“Let’s scout around and talk to folks who
used to ride the ferries. I’ll review my notes.”

Melody looked up from the papers she was
reading. “My mom. Talk to her. She rode the ferry until she was
about ten.”

Price gathered the leftovers on a wide
wooden tray. “Great, why don’t you call her? Maybe we could run
over tonight. We need to go to a supermarket anyway. This is the
last of the deli salads.”

“Well, one of you ought to call her,” Melody
stammered. “She... we... well, see... she sometimes has friends
over... and, you know, she doesn’t like to be disturbed. I mean,
that’s why I didn’t stay with her. And, well... it would just be
best if you called.”

Price patted Melody’s shoulder. “Maybe we
should wait ’til morning.”

Melody’s face relaxed. “Yeah, that’s great.
Only don’t call too early.”

Tony glanced at Melody. “We really need to
talk to that grandmother of yours sometime.”

“Yeah, I know. Maybe this article will
help.”

“About the ferry accident?”

“Yeah, I’ll ask her about it, and maybe
she’ll start to open up about the old days. Then I’ll say, ‘Grandma
Jessie, we ought to have the Shadowbrooks write some of this down,’
or something like that.”

“Maybe that will work. We really don’t want
to upset her,” Tony said.

“I wonder what she’d say if I told her about
that guy Bennington?”

“He said she might get angry.”

Melody scratched her cheek. “I wonder
why?”

Price spread notes across the blue
variegated carpet in the living room while Tony studied topo maps
on the oak dining table.

Melody scampered up the stairs with a
manuscript box under her arm. “Hi, guys. I’m waiting for the
clothes dryer. So I thought, you know... if you weren’t too busy...
you could give me some pointers on my book.”

“We’re kind of tied up at the moment,” Tony
said. “But sure, we could take a break.”

“That would be great. For six months now
I’ve been dreaming about this day.”

“Oh?” Tony glanced at Price.

“I kept thinking, ‘If only the Shadowbrooks
could read this... if only the Shadowbrooks could read this.’ So,
what do you think? Be honest. I can take it, really. Does it have a
chance? Do you know of a publishing house taking this kind of
thing? It’s important to me to get the right house, you know? I
don’t want just anyone publishing this.”

Price gathered her notes into several piles.
“Tony, why don’t you go first?”

Tony paced the room. “Melody, I can sense
how important this work is to you.”

“I’ve been working on it over four
years.”

“Four years?”

“Yes, I started it as a senior with Dr. S.
Remember our senior project was to submit a book proposal to a
publisher? Putnam rejected it, but I got an A in the class. Boy, am
I glad they didn’t want it. I write so much better now than I did
then.”

Tony’s boot clunked against an end
table.

“I would hate to be stuck with a first novel
that I wasn’t happy with later on,” she continued. “It’s better to
wait until your writing’s matured, don’t you think? Anyway, what
about the novel?”

“Melody...” Tony began. “People write for
many different reasons. Sometimes it’s to explore a new talent.
Sometimes they have a need to express their thoughts and ideas.
Sometimes it’s just practice, so that they can get better.
Sometimes, like a person who enjoys sitting alone and playing the
piano, they get into the creative exercise. It’s an outlet. Then
there are those who write in order to be published.”

“That’s me. I definitely write to be
published. I was born to be a writer. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to
be. It’s my calling, my God-given talent, you know?”

“I can tell you surely have the desire. Did
Price ever explain how we got into the writing business?”

“You mean, with articles in small
circulation magazines, stories in Christian youth papers, things
like that?”

“That’s where it all began.”

“See, here’s the neat thing. I have learned
so much from Dr. S.’s classes, and reading all of your books, I
feel like I’ve already passed that preliminary stage. Anyway, what
about my novel? Don’t you just love the way it starts? The detailed
description of that alpine flower on top of the huge granite rock?
Have you ever read anything more, you know, in depth than
that?”

“It might have been a tad extended. How long
did that scene last?”

“Oh, just the first six pages or so, that’s
all. Then it transitions right into the blind girl at the hot dog
stand. Everything I ever learned about transitions I learned from
Dr. S.”

Tony pulled off his boots and rubbed his
toes. “I think Price is better qualified to talk about structure
and form. I’m more an idea man myself, better for looking at the
overall project. Price, maybe you two would like to talk about the
details. I think I’ll go print up that chapter I reworked
today.”

“Oh, sure... but really, Mr. S. What’s your
overall opinion? Tell me the truth; I can take it. Do you feel that
the book is publishable the way it now stands?”

Tony scratched his forehead, then rubbed his
cheek and chin. He peered into Melody’s expectant eyes. Her head
tilted just like a cocker spaniel puppy’s, the kind you bring home
from the pound and then discover it has distemper.

“No,” he said.

Melody bit on her lip and pulled her arms
tight over her head, like Kathy did when Kit chased the calf at the
airport, a universal gesture by the young for warding off evil.
“But... but I’m sure I have some more work to do. Don’t we all? But
the idea... the plot... it’s workable, wouldn’t you say?”

“Nope. Frankly, Melody, I want to be real
honest. I just don’t think it’s publishable.”

Tony felt Price’s hand jab at the small of
his back as Melody’s dark brown eyes filled with tears.

Chapter 4

As the consequences of the Medicine Creek
Treaty of 1854 became obvious to the various Native American tribes
in the southern Puget Sound region, many protested the injustices.
The discovery of gold In the territory brought hordes of argonauts.
Tension, hostilities, and violence increased between the two
cultures. Trying to keep the peace, governor Isaac T. Stevens
converted Fox Island into a temporary Indian reservation. Within a
few years, however, the tribes were allowed to return to their
homelands in the Nisqually and Puyallup Valleys. Indian artifacts
are still occasionally discovered on the Island.

As, periodically, are native Fox
Islanders.

Tony sat in the big white Oldsmobile and
scanned his notes scribbled on a yellow legal pad. Both windows
rolled down, a cool breeze rolled through the car off the Narrows.
He glanced up and stared at the crystal clear sky.

Immense Mount Rainier hovered behind the
skyline of Tacoma across the water, like God himself looking down
from the heavens. So huge, so close, everything seemed so small in
comparison. And yet, many days pollution clouded it to remote,
removed. Perhaps a symbol of the Lord. Always near and mighty, but
hidden from a world of blinded people who can’t see.