Missing Witness (11 page)

It was a huge mansion, “Old Nag's Head” in style, with gray wooden siding, white trim, and a massive sloping roof that covered the top two of the three floors of the house. There was a winding wraparound porch with endless windows. The house was perched a mere one-hundred-and-fifty feet from the end of land, with a spectacular two-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

Fiona parked and extracted herself from the front seat. She took her small steno pad, a pen, and her purse, and ambled up the slate stone walk.

Once on the porch, she rang the doorbell and then turned to take in the view of the ocean and blue sky. Off to her left, a quarter of a mile away, there was a lighthouse perched on the coast.

Shortly, the door opened, and a woman in a tidy black maid's uniform appeared and welcomed Fiona in.

“Mrs. Willowby will be with you shortly. She's asked that I take you into the conservatory. Follow me, please.”

Fiona gazed around the great hall, where two tandem sets of spiral staircases led to the second floor. The foyer was black-and-white marble squares. Off to her right, at the far end of the house, she could see French doors leading to what appeared to be a library.

The maid was leading her to the other end of the house, and en route she took in the ocean view along its entire length.

Finally, Fiona was led to a large garden room with lots of glass and skylights, furnished with soft flowered sofas and overstuffed chairs. The room was filled with plants, flowers, and a handful of large potted trees that reached almost to the ceiling.

“We're serving high tea. Are you hungry? Would you like some tea and a light meal?”

“Oh, yes,” Fiona said cheerfully, seating herself on a couch. “I'm famished. Of course I have an excuse—I'm eating for two!”

The maid smiled and went over to a large walnut rolling cart with a silver tea service on the top, and pastries, scones, and fruit on the bottom. She rolled it over to Fiona and handed her a china plate and a linen napkin. “May I serve you tea?”

Fiona nodded enthusiastically, and added, “With cream, sugar, and lemon, thanks.”

“Mrs. Willowby will be with you momentarily,” the maid said. “If there's anything else you need, just give a pull on the service rope over there.” A heavy gold brocade rope draped from a hole in the ceiling down to eye level, situated just to the side of the entrance to the conservatory.

As Fiona was sipping her tea and indulging in the freshly baked scones, she was taking in all of the plant life in the conservatory.

“Oh my. So lovely. Just magnificent!” she was exclaiming out loud as she was studying the perfectly green, well-trimmed horticulture in the room.

“I'm glad you like it.”

Fiona turned toward the voice, rising from her seat. She saw a thin, statuesque woman in her sixties, with a lovely face and soft eyes. Frances Willowby's hair, which was ivory white, was pulled back in a chignon style. She was wearing flared starched linen pants and a striped silk sailor's top, with a red silk scarf around her neck.

She extended her slender hand gracefully, and Fiona noticed she was wearing three diamond bracelets—each of a different yet exquisite design.

“Please sit down,” she invited Fiona.

Mrs. Willowby sat on a large, fan-backed rattan chair across from the couch where Fiona was.

“The climate is so wonderful for growing things,” she continued. “We have so much moisture. The sea air. Even the salt in the air, I think, as long as you're careful, gives some increased nourishment to the plant life.
Sometime, when you have a few extra minutes, you should come back and I will give you a walking tour of our gardens.” She waved her hand dramatically toward the side yard that extended beyond the glass windows of the conservatory.

“We have four different garden settings. We have an English garden. That's one of my favorites. We also have a South African garden, with plants indigenous to that area. Very tropical. I call it my little slice of paradise. And we have the American garden, with plant life indigenous to the United States, mostly the southeastern coastal areas. And lastly, we have the Australian garden, with some of the more harsh, but interesting, landscape features from the Australian Outback.”

Fiona's eyes lit up, her mouth opening in delight. Frances Willowby smiled. She was enjoying Fiona's naiveté and her appreciation for green things and flowering things that need tending and watering.

“Perhaps sometime I can also show you around this house. Give you the complete tour. But you're here on legal business. Concerning my late husband's last will and testament, correct?”

Fiona nodded, and picked up the pad sitting next to her.

“Yes. And I do thank you so much for letting me talk to you. I'm here on a case my husband is handling. He represents Jonathan Joppa. Regarding the condition in your late husband's will—the transfer of Stony Island from your husband's estate to Reverend Joppa, as you probably know, is conditioned on our being able to prove Isaac Joppa's innocence regarding criminal charges against him in the 1700s. I'm sure you're aware of all of that…”

“I most certainly am,” Frances noted. “Almost all of the estate went to me, of course, as Randolph's wife. But I do know that he made a number of small, specific bequests. I really had no interest in Stony Island, of course. But do tell me one thing…”

Before she could continue, the maid entered the room and waited quietly for Frances to acknowledge her.

“Phyllis, do be a dear,” Frances said, addressing the maid. “Please get me a gin and tonic.”

Frances turned back to Fiona and then added, “I'm sure you won't be taking any alcohol—particularly in light of your present condition.” She nodded and smiled in the direction of Fiona's pregnant belly. “How about some sweet tea?”

“That would be delightful.”

The maid quickly disappeared from the room and Frances continued.

“What I was going to say…I was just wondering whether you are also a lawyer in your husband's office…”

“No. Not at all. I'm just helping him out this summer as his paralegal. Specifically on this case.”

“So—you don't usually work as one of his staff?”

“No. Actually, I'm a singer. I have a very busy music ministry and recording career. But I offered to help Will—that's my husband—on this case.”

Frances Willowby paused and eyed Fiona carefully. The corners of her mouth tightened ever so slightly.

“My, my. Not only do you bear your husband's children—you also help him with his legal cases. What a faithful, dutiful little wife.”

Mrs. Willowby reached for her solid platinum cigarette case. She snapped it open, retrieving a long, imported cigarette. She reached for her crystal cigarette lighter on the table next to her—but paused, deciding not to light the cigarette.

“You'll have to forgive me,” Frances said. “I've smoked all my life. I used to justify it—in my earlier days as a model—as the quickest way to keep my weight down. But now it's simply an ugly old addiction. But I shall refrain. I don't want you inhaling secondary smoke. For the sake of your baby.”

As Frances was placing the cigarette back in the case, Fiona was struggling with her comment about Fiona as a “dutiful little wife.” The slight sneer. The air of condescension.

She'd arrived at Frances Willowby's mansion with every desire of earnestly helping her husband discover the truth about Isaac Joppa and fulfill his representation of his client. She believed she could play an integral part in that case. But now, as she sat in the conservatory talking with Frances Willowby, she felt a little silly.

The maid entered the room, carrying the drinks, and she delivered the gin and tonic to the mistress of the house.

Despite her graceful air, Frances took a large, rather stiff gulp from the glass. Then she discreetly wiped the corner of her mouth with her manicured finger.

Fiona gazed at her. Elegantly dressed, wealthy beyond measure, a woman whose beauty, despite her advanced age, was still exquisitely preserved. And yet, in Mrs. Willowby's eyes, Fiona could see the frightened emptiness within.

“I'm sorry, my dear,” Frances said. “You'll have to forgive my comment about you and your husband. I find myself saying the cruelest things lately. Unmeaningly. Unwittingly. Not having Randolph around anymore…I think when he was with me, he softened my edges. He did bring the best out in me. I hope I did the same for him…”

Frances Willowby's voice quivered a bit, and she lifted the glass to her lips, taking a second large gulp.

“I'm sure you loved him very much,” Fiona said softly. “This must be so very hard for you. And I apologize if our conversation is bringing any of those difficult memories back.”

“What a kind thing to say,” Frances said, clearing her throat.

“And I love your hair,” Fiona said enthusiastically. “I just love that look.”

Frances smiled and reached back, delicately touching the contours of her hair.

“I try to change it every so often. I keep it long enough where I can do something with it. Did I tell you I had been a model?”

“Yes, I think you did. I'd love to hear about that…” Fiona said warmly.

“Oh, I don't want to get off on that. But I was one of the top models in the Arthur Williamson Agency in New York. I had been previously married. It was short-lived. Frankly, it was a disaster. So I threw myself into my modeling career after the divorce from my first husband. I was in New York. And that's how I met Randolph Willowby. He also had been previously married. Randolph was a college friend of Mr. Williamson, the founder and owner of the agency. Mr. Williamson and his wife, Gertrude, ran things. And they did a lot of wonderful things for me. At one point I was actually on the covers of nine different magazines in three years.”

Then Frances balanced her liquor glass between the fingers of her two hands. “But I didn't miss modeling. When I met Randolph, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. He encouraged me to stay in modeling. But I didn't want to. We moved down here. He opened up a whole new world to me. He had a shipping line. And a fishing company. I fell in love with Willowby Manor—that's what we call it…

“But you didn't come here to talk about me. You wanted to find out about my husband. And what he put in his will,” Frances went on.

“Actually, I was fascinated with what you were telling me about your life. But I did want to find out one thing,” Fiona said. “I'm wondering why your husband put such an unusual requirement in his will—as something that Reverend Joppa would have to prove in order to receive the transfer of Stony Island.”

“I don't know that much about it,” Frances explained. “Throughout our marriage he had a little bit of an interest in his own ancestry. Genealogy. That kind of thing. He was very busy with his business, of course, and highly successful. Then he was told he had cancer. About a year and a half before he died. And shortly after the diagnosis…something happened in his life. I'm not quite sure how to describe it…”

“Something happened?”

“Before then, Randolph was never very religious. And I wasn't either. It's just not something we talked about very much. But after they told him he had stage-three cancer, things changed. He started reading the Bible all the time. He said he had had some kind of spiritual rebirth. That's the phrase he used. Besides reading the Bible all the time, Randolph started pursuing an intense…how do I say this?…almost an obsession…tracing back to his ancestral roots. Back to Elisha Willowby. Who married into the Joppa family. Elisha Willowby was the thirteenth ancestor backward from Randolph. Elisha married Myrtle, Reverend Malachi Joppa's daughter. Randolph wanted to learn everything he could about Reverend Malachi Joppa. What his religious beliefs were. What he did in the city of Bath. How he tried to convert the local people. That kind of thing.”

“Did your husband ever talk about his interest in Isaac Joppa?”

“The only thing I know is what he told me once. He said he wondered…and I remember when he asked me this. We were out in the garden. He was very weak at that point. Nearing the end. I had him in a wheelchair. It was a beautiful day. Bright sky. He asked me this question—he wondered what it was that had motivated Isaac Joppa to run away from his father. To run from everything that Reverend Malachi believed and preached. And he wondered if Isaac Joppa had ever found peace in his soul before he died. That's exactly the way he put it—‘peace in his soul.'”

“That's very intriguing. Did Mr. Willowby ever talk to anyone else about this? Did he ever write any notes—or letters—or keep a journal or diary where he would have written down what he knew about Isaac Joppa? Or why he thought Isaac Joppa might have been innocent of the criminal charges of piracy?”

Frances Willowby looked closely at Fiona, then gazed off to the windows into the garden. Several long, quiet moments passed. She pursed her lips, and then glanced at the diamond-studded watch on her wrist.

“Oh, my—the time has flown. I am so sorry. I have to go. I have a nail appointment, and then I have a dinner scheduled with the charity league.”