Island Intrigue (5 page)

Sabrina was having trouble keeping a straight face. She was a rational person, and she certainly didn't believe in ghosts, even though the islanders seem to take his presence for granted. But she had seen a man standing in the woods last night, and someone was walking on her beach.

Would a ghost leave footprints?

Stop it! she told herself. There were no such things as ghosts.

“This Lord Tittletott is an ancestor of your nephew running for president, Brad?”

“Lord, yes. Didn't you see the deed on the wall at the Tittletott House? The Tittletotts don't never let anybody forget that they are the related to the savior of the island.”

“And Walk-the-Plank Wrightly is an ancestor of the Wrightlys who live on the island?” Sabrina was curious about the familiar names in the story.

“All the Wrightlys got that bushy black hair and are crazy as coots, but all of ‘em with hearts big as all the sea, even if they are Wavers.”

“A what?”

“A Waver. The Wrightlys live on the other side of the crick, so they're Wavers. I'm a Towner, ‘cause I live on this side of the crick.”

“You've got different names for yourselves, depending on which side of the creek you live on? What does it matter? It's a very small town as it is.”

“You'd be surprised,” Lima said darkly. “Those Wavers can be real sneaky characters. They'll smile at you when just that morning they were ripping off your line. They talk funny, dress shabby, drink a lot and have loose women.”

“Perhaps a leash would be helpful?”

Lima just stared at her.

“But all of you live less than a mile from one another.” She understood how a city could be divided up into cliquish sections depending on cultural and financial differences—even Cincinnati had its East and West sides—but she found it hard to believe that the people living just on the other side of the twenty-foot wide “crick” could be so different.

“It used to be further. That bridge ain't that old.”

Sabrina said nothing, because the bridge had looked ancient to her.

“Not too long ago, back in the fifties, there was no bridge. Before that, you had to go by boat to get over to the other side. I remember when I was a kid, we used to go visit relatives on the Waver side for the weekend. That was when the feuds stopped for a spell, Tubbs against McCalls, Tittletotts against Wrightlys. Those feuds could get real bad. Burnin' down houses, murderin'. It was ugly. Never come to much good for a Towner to be friends with a Waver. Look what happened to Rolo Wrightly and Bradford Tittletott.”

He nodded as if the feud between an unknown Wrightly and a Tittletott was proof positive that Wavers and Towners just couldn't get along.

Sabrina tried to understand. “You're a Towner, and it sounds like I need to be careful since I'm staying over on Waver side of town. What does that make me?”

Lima snorted. “You're worse than any Waver. You're a tourist.”

Chapter Five

“That's pretty harsh, don't you think?” Sabrina kept her voice pleasant, though really she was more inclined to laugh then be angry.

“Nope.” Lima kicked at the porch planks. “All you tourists are ruining the island. Have been for years, ‘cept it's just been getting worse. I've lived here for eighty-some years. I remember what it was like when the only boat coming to the island was the mail boat, and it only came once every couple of days. The only outsiders we saw were the hard-core hunters and fishermen, and the only place for them to stay was at the Tittletott House, which was also the only place they could eat. And if they didn't get their butts to dinner on time, then they just wouldn't eat.”

“I imagine the tourists must bring quite a bit of money into the island's economy,” Sabrina said carefully. “Before that, the island's only economy was what you gleaned from the sea, I'd imagine.”

“Yeah, and all those tourists buying up the little real estate we got left raised property values so high that us that's been living here for years can barely afford our taxes! Us fishermen ain't making a dollar more, I tell you that! They spend all this money to come here, a beautiful, unspoiled island away from the beaten track, and then they complain that we don't have a movie theater or a Wal-Mart! I always wondered why they call it ‘tourist season' when I can't shoot the—”

“Lima, stop getting all riled up,” a woman's voice said through the screen door of the store. “Don't forget your blood pressure.”

“You have high blood pressure?” Sabrina asked with interest, always curious about other people's health. “I hope you don't smoke, you have a much greater risk of developing complications. You don't look overweight, but you want to make sure you don't eat salt, and definitely avoid alcohol!” She beamed at the old man.

“What are you, a doctor?”

“No, I'm a teacher.” Sabrina was puzzled at his cantankerous reaction.

“Anyway, Lima,” the slender young woman pushed the screen door open, and leaned a blue jean clad hip against the door sill, “you don't need to be getting all excited.”

Lima waved a hand at her. “I'm fine, I'm fine, Stacey.”

“And don't you listen to him, ma'am.” Stacey turned to Sabrina. “Some of us are happy the tourists are here. There's good and bad in it, but most of us realize that change was going to come, and we've accepted it.”

Sabrina smiled at Stacey, who couldn't have been more than eighteen. “I'm surprised you're not in school.”

“I'm going to go,” Stacey said, “but my dad needed some help with the store, so I decided to start college next year instead.”

“What are you going to study?”

“Environmental Engineering,” the girl said proudly. “Then I'm going to come back to the island and join the National Park Service.”

“The Nazi Park Service,” Lima muttered.

An old man reeking of the sea and less pleasant things wandered up and sat in the rocking chair on the other side of Lima. The two of them engaged in an intricate conversation about crabbing, and “jimmies” and “peelers” which left Sabrina feeling as if she was hearing a different language. The islanders had a dialect all their own, Sabrina had already noticed, but she wondered if perhaps they didn't also have a language all their own.

The wind was rising, gently rocking the empty chairs on the porch and taking little sweeps at the sand and grit on the road. Sabrina chewed on her lip, unable to enjoy the uncomplicated talk and picturesque view. She couldn't help thinking about the child who drew those pictures twenty-five years ago.

Rationally, she knew the child who had drawn the pictures was all grown up. There was nothing she could do to help the child now. But still she worried…why had the pictures been under the trap door? What was the trap door for in the first place? And was it really old Lora Wrightly's blood on the pictures? Somehow that bothered her more than anything.

After exhausting the talk about Leroy's bad luck crabbing that day, and the tourist who had backed his brand new boat into the water without putting in the drain plugs, Leroy took his leave. Sabrina was left alone with Lima, except for Bicycle Bob who was snoring softly on the steps.

“Ahem. Lima, I was wondering…” Sabrina coughed. “That is, I've been thinking about Lora Wrightly. She was a teacher you said?”

“Oh yes.” Lima settled back into his rocking chair, but not before shooting Sabrina a sharp look. “Best teacher we ever had before her stroke. It was a shame that happened.”

“I'm sure that must have been hard for her.”

“It just shouldn't have happened, that's all I'll say about it. It was just sheer heart break, and the person responsible better know good and well that it's his fault that his grandmama had that stroke.”

“How long ago did she stop teaching? When did she have her stroke?”

“Fifteen years ago, she heard the news and keeled over. They had to take her to the mainland, but as soon as she could she was back in her little house. Poor thing. Couldn't teach after that, though.”

“What grade did she teach?”

“Grade?” Lima snorted. “Miss Sabrina, we didn't have grades back then. At least not like you're used to them. Everybody in one class was the way it worked up to ten years ago.”

Sabrina shook her head, frustrated. She wasn't getting anywhere like this. She took a deep breath, strangely reluctant to talk about the pictures, as if acknowledging them would release their evil. “Lima, I found some awful pictures under the floor in the living room. They were dated twenty-five years ago, and they were drawn by a disturbed child, I just know it.”

Lima looked at her sharply. “A tiddly-winked kid drew some sick pictures twenty-five years ago? Here on the island? That could have been anyone! We got us some hell-raisers on this island, let me tell you. I wouldn't worry too much about some pictures drawn twenty-five years ago, if I were you, Miss Sabrina.”

“But I think Lora might have been looking at them recently,” Sabrina persisted. “I was just wondering why. Do you remember anything…strange going on twenty-five years ago? Were there incidents of animal mutilation, of arson, or—”

“Arson?” Lima sat up straight in his rocking chair. “Fires…hmm.” He stared past Sabrina down toward the sound. “Yes, I do remember when someone was setting fires to the trash cans. That was when he was a boy. If only we had known it was him, maybe we could have slapped some sense into him before he did what he did. Hi Loretta! Any luck fishing this morning?”

Lima seemed inordinately pleased to see the man—was his name really Loretta?—and it was clear he didn't want to talk about disturbed children and arson any longer. Sabrina's stomach grumbled, and she got to her feet.

“Well, it was nice talking to you, Lima,” she said. “I promise if I see Walk-the-Plank Wrightly I'll ask him what he's doing back after all this time.”

“Don't mean no good, I know that much.” Lima waved cheerfully and turned back to Loretta.

Sabrina waved and went down the steps, trying to avoid stepping on a snoring Bicycle Bob.

The clouds had taken over most of the sky, and Sabrina shivered as a cool breeze slithered past her arm and hissed across the nape of her neck. She was glad she had her raincoat with her. Fall weather on the island was fickle.

She hurried down the street and turned left onto the road that circled the harbor. All of the sailboats from the Regatta were gone, and people were cleaning up from the celebrations. Several people waved at her, and she waved back, feeling pleased to be accepted.

Virginia was on the front lawn of the Tittletott House, picking up beer cans and trash. She looked up as Sabrina came up the walk.

“I thought I'd have some lunch,” Sabrina said.

“How nice. Go on in. I'm just finishing up.”

The front door was open, and Sabrina went inside. The lobby was deserted, the traces of yesterday's disastrous tea party already gone.

Sabrina went through the double doors into the small dining room. Three tables were occupied, and a plump woman in jeans smiled at her from where she was pouring coffee at one of the tables.

“Seat yourself,” she called.

Sabrina chose a small table next to a window. The dining room was pleasant, with light green walls and flower stenciling near the ceiling, and fresh flowers in baskets all around the room.

The plump woman, wearing a T-shirt proclaiming “The gene pool could use a little chlorine,” hustled over with ice water and a menu.

“Our special today is a grilled tuna sandwich and fries,” she said. “I'm Missy, I'll be right back.”

Sabrina glanced over the menu's selection of sandwiches and seafood. She longed suddenly for a cheese coney, a hot dog topped with good old Cincinnati Chili, mustard, onions and cheese. Her stomach grumbled again. She thought about her monthly visit to the Maisonette, where she treated herself to lunch at one of the best restaurants in the country.

Sabrina sighed, and glumly ordered the special and some ice tea when the cheerful woman came back to the table. She then settled back in her chair and thought about what Lima revealed. She had the distinct feeling that he knew who drew those pictures.

Bradford Tittletott and another man came through the dining room and headed for the small bar at the back of the room.

“Miss Dunsweeney.” Brad paused by her table as the other man continued to the bar without even glancing at Sabrina. “How nice to see you. Did you enjoy the Regatta?”

“It was wonderful.” She noticed that he did not mention the disastrous end to his tea party.

The man was undeniably handsome, with his light hair brushed away from his forehead, and his clean, unblemished features. His lively eyes and the mischievous twist to his lip saved him from an unfortunate resemblance to a Greek statue.

Missy reached a long arm around Brad and set Sabrina's plate in front of her. “Tartar or ketchup?”

“Tartar, please.”

“Missy, just the person I wanted to see.” Brad put an arm around the other woman. “Missy, have you met Sabrina Dunsweeney? She's staying at the Old Wrightly place. Sabrina, this is Missy Garrison. She's the island's Jane of all trades. She does everything: waitress, cab driver, teacher, registrar of taxes…”

“Oh you.” Missy laughed and hurried away to seat a couple waiting at the door.

“I'll let you get to your food,” Brad said. “It was good seeing you.”

“Same here,” Sabrina said as he joined his friend at the bar.

She took a bite of her sandwich piled high with a slab of blackened tuna, tomato and lettuce and closed her eyes as the flavors tingled her taste buds. She was surprised to discover that it was quite good.

The dining room was filling up, and Virginia came in to help Missy with the tables. Sabrina ate her sandwich and watched the people around her while pretending not to. There were two distinct types of people in the room: the tourists, well-dressed pale people who talked loudly and spread maps over the tables as they ate; and the islanders, taciturn people in flannels and old dresses who made a point of sitting with their backs to the tourists.

Bradford Tittletott stood out from the crowd. He looked casual and relaxed in his pressed blue pants and sparkling white shirt that matched his flashing teeth. He smiled a lot as he talked, and greeted tourists and islanders alike as they came into the dining room. His companion, who had already downed three shots, was as unlike him as the cool winter night is to the brilliant summer day. He looked younger than Brad by perhaps a couple of years, and was very tan, with dark bushy hair pulled back into a pony tail and blue eyes that were always sliding away from direct eye contact. He was dressed in island wear, ragged blue jeans, sandals, and T-shirt, and he reminded Sabrina of someone.

She decided that the man could very well be handsome, but as it was he looked sullen and discontented. If he had been a student in one of her classes, Sabrina would have sat down with him and found out whether maybe he was having trouble at home. She wondered about the relationship between the two such obviously different men.

Brad was talking on a tiny cell phone when Sabrina paid for her tuna sandwich and left a generous tip for the smiling Missy. In the lobby, Gary was sitting behind the registration desk, looking over his shoulder as she came through the door from the dining room.

“I don't think so,” he said to someone through the doorway leading to the back room.

He turned and stared at Sabrina, as if trying to remember who she was, and then evidently shucked her into the mental file labeled: “Tourist—potential money” and smiled.

“Hi Gary, I'm Sabrina Dunsweeney. I met you yesterday?”

“Oh, yes.” Gary smiled again, if anything more mechanically than before. Sabrina wondered what in the world was wrong with the man. His shoulders were hunched, his blond hair lank and even a bit greasy. He looked like he did everything possible to make himself look different from his brother.

“Like I was saying, Gary,” said an imperious female voice from the doorway of a room directly behind the registration desk. “It's unbelievable that Bradford brought that horrible Thierry Wrightly in here again. I never understood what Bradford saw in those Wrightly boys anyway. I told him, fine, if he wanted the man's help for the Waver vote, that's one thing, but not to bring him into this house. You'll never know what he'll walk out with. You know those Wavers.” She finished the sentence as she swept into the doorway, and stopped as she saw Sabrina.

“Hello,” Sabrina said.

Apparently Elizabeth Tittletott's extravagant attire from yesterday had not just been a fluke for the tea party. Today her wardrobe consisted of a bright red silk kimono, and matching pumps, her ashy blond hair piled high on top of her head. Sabrina was quite jealous.