Island Intrigue (11 page)

Click-click.

The sound was coming from around the side of the house.

Click-click-click.

“Ouch!”

Sabrina hurried down the steps, around the side of the house, and stopped in stunned amazement when she saw a man holding a pair of clippers and sucking the edge of his finger.

“Hello,” said Walk-the-Plank Wrightly, and smiled cheerfully.

Chapter Eleven

The man was dressed all in black, with a big black hat and a sword hanging at his side. A dark furry beard covered the slight smile on his face.

“Hello,” Sabrina managed. She was almost positive that this was the man she had seen in the woods the night of the Regatta.

“These poor ladies have been neglected shamefully over the years.” The man reached out and tenderly touched a velvety red bloom.

“I—guess so.” Sabrina forced herself to walk closer, her eyes picking out details. Though at first glance she assumed the man was wearing some type of eighteenth century garb, on closer look she saw he was wearing black jeans and a long-sleeved black turtleneck with a black cowboy hat. Of course, the sword hanging at his side still did not fit anyone's idea of a modern wardrobe, but maybe he was making a fashion statement?

“Humans started cultivating roses a couple thousand years ago in China, but they've been around a lot longer than we have, you know. They've found fossilized rose flowers from thirty-five million years ago. ”

“I have to admit,” Sabrina said, “I don't know that much about roses.” She could see the light gray cat watching the man warily from under one of the rose bushes. Sabrina appreciated the way the cat felt. Who was he? Why was he pruning her roses?

“Most people don't,” the man said. “But I happen to think roses are the best of the flowers. Back in 600 B.C.,the poetess Sappho said—” He cleared his throat and intoned:

Sabrina smiled, charmed despite herself.

“That's Mrs. Browning's translation of the poem, of course,” the man continued in his normal voice. “Roses have been domesticated, bred and tinkered with to produce a prettier rose, but this has hampered their ability to look after themselves. Just like with cats and dogs, now that we've domesticated the rose, we are responsible for taking care of them. To keep them healthy, you have to trim away the dead growth and the thin, tangled twigs to open up the center of the bush for circulation. I've had to do some radical pruning.”

“I'm Sabrina Dunsweeney.” She advanced and held out her hand. The man seemed harmless enough.

“I know,” the man said, shaking her hand. He did not offer his own name.

“Well, I'm glad you have taken an interest in the roses. I'm afraid they were in rather bad shape.”

“Very bad shape,” the man agreed. “My grandma loved these ladies. She taught me all about taking care of them. But I guess she hadn't been able to take care of them these last years.” His face was sad as he looked at the bushes.

“Your grandmother?”

He nodded. “She used to live here. I practically grew up in this house.” He turned and clipped away some branches on the nearest bush. “Grandma Lora used to use horse droppings and fish bones to fertilize the roses. I remember telling her one day that we needed to get some of that stuff they sold in the store, and she just laughed at me. She said, ‘Boy, I've been growing these roses without help of chemicals for longer than you've been alive. I don't need any of that stuff.' And of course, she was right.”

Sabrina watched as he took a step back from the plant and considered it before taking the next cut. He set the resulting dismembered branch, covered with creamy rose buds, onto a growing pile beside him.

“I think I've seen your footprints on the beach,” she said

“I've always enjoyed taking a walk at sunrise. It's invigorating to watch the world wake up around you. I don't get much chance to walk on the beach where I live now.”

Well, that explained why she had never been able to surprise him on his daily walks. At sunrise, she was still fast asleep in her warm bed.

He was pruning a large bush covered with silken white flowers streaked with vibrant crimson. He held the large pruning shears in both hands and was cutting with the precision of an artist creating a masterpiece. His face was rapt with childlike concentration.

He seemed unsurprised to see her, so she could only assume that she had not caught him unawares. He meant for her to find him.

Why?

“Do you live on the island?” She leaned her hip against the stair post.

“I used to.”

An idea was taking shape in her mind, something he had said and snippets of conversation with Lima and Nettie congealing into certainty.

“Rolo?” She was rewarded by his abrupt stare, the bushes momentarily forgotten.

He turned back to the roses without answering, but she was sure she was right. This was Rolo, the long-lost Wrightly son who had gone away fifteen years ago. He had been running from a crime…theft? Rape? She couldn't remember, but she didn't feel very comfortable standing here alone talking to him.

She heard a tapping noise behind her, and looked up to see Calvin in the living room window, tapping at the window pane with his beak.

“I didn't figure you'd know who I was,” Rolo said, and she turned back to find his brilliant blue eyes fixed on her. She should have recognized the thick black hair and bright blue eyes as distinctive Wrightly characteristics.

“I wasn't sure.” She ignored Calvin, who was still tapping.

“I just wanted to talk to someone who—who didn't know who I was,” he said, and Sabrina was touched by the sincerity in his words. “It's a small island.”

“Yes, I understand,” she said, and she did.

Rolo Wrightly had come back to Comico after leaving ignominiously fifteen years before. The population at large must not know of his return, otherwise tongues would be wagging. Those who had caught glimpses of him had assumed he was the pirate Walk-the-Plank Wrightly because of the strange way he was dressed—though close up, she saw that except for the sword buckled at his waist, his clothes were perfectly ordinary. Rolo must have been hiding since his return, and he simply yearned for human company, someone who would ask no awkward questions.

“I'm on a mission, myself,” she said, surprising herself. Rolo looked at her in query.

“When I decided to come here, I decided to leave the old Sabrina in Cincinnati. She was shy, and dressed like a grandmotherly schoolteacher and would have been too scared to come all this way by herself. She'd never even thought of driving a red convertible. In fact, she let someone else do the thinking for her for so long she never even thought about what she really wanted to do.”

Rolo studied her for a moment, then his face broke into a wide, approving smile. “So, what's the mission?”

“Why, to figure out who the real Sabrina is, of course. I'm not sure if I want to wear these new clothes, or drive a convertible, but I won't know until I try.”

They grinned at each other, and Sabrina reflected that sometimes it was much easier to talk to a complete stranger than a loved one. She also wondered if talking about oneself in the third person was a sign of mental illness. She'd have to look it up.

“I hope you don't mind my pruning the roses. My daughter and I always prune ours together at home, and I miss her.”

“No, not at all.” Daughter? It seemed incongruous that this man, who was such an outcast on the island of his birth, could have a normal family life elsewhere. But obviously he did. “Your love of roses is a wonderful gift to pass on to your daughter.”

She wasn't sure what to think. Why had he come back? What had he been doing all these years? What exactly did he do fifteen years ago?

“I saw you talking to Bradford Tittletott.” Rolo turned away from the roses and pinned her with his sharp blue gaze.

Sabrina thought quickly. Bradford was at her door yesterday evening returning her coat and assuring her that anything she may have overheard at the Tittletott House was untrue. Had Rolo been spying on her?

“He's no good,” Rolo said, and all of a sudden there was nothing childlike about him. His face hardened, and the bushy black hair seemed to bristle around his face.

“Really?”

“You seem like a nice lady. I've seen you walking every morning and my ma likes you. I think you should know about Brad. He's like all the Tittletott clan, weak and bad.”

“I thought you were friends with him.”

“Yes, I was.” Rolo's eyes gleamed with emotion. “We used to be really good friends. I loved him like a brother. Told him everything.” His face softened a bit. “Brad wasn't that bad, then. He was just weak. He let people talk him into things. I thought he was my best friend, but believe me, I know better now. I don't know what games he's trying to play with you, but you'd be better off just staying away from him.”

“I'll be careful,” Sabrina said.

Rolo nodded. “It'll all be over tomorrow anyway. Then everyone will know about the Tittletotts and what they're really like. I just wanted to warn you. I didn't want you to get hurt in something that has nothing to do with you.”

Sabrina studied him intently. She had caught a note of something—was it indecision?—in the man's voice. He sounded hard, but his eyes were filled with sadness.

“You don't have to do anything you don't want to,” Sabrina said quietly. She was speaking on instinct, moved by the anguish and indecision she sensed in the man.

Rolo stared at Sabrina in surprise. “I have every right to—he deserves—” He broke off. “It's just not right.” There was no anger in his tone, just resignation.

Sabrina didn't know what to make of him. She didn't know what he planned to do tomorrow but she sensed that he was ambivalent about it.

Rolo hefted the shears and turned to one of the rose bushes, clipping another branch, and adding it to the pile.

“When I die,” he said in a faraway voice, “and my body's lying under that cold, wet dirt, I hope someone plants roses on my grave. That way, part of me can grow into that rose and bask in the sunlight.”

“What a nice thought,” Sabrina said, disturbed by his tone.

“There we go, all done. I'll start on the Peace roses on the other side of the house tomorrow.” He picked up the bunch of satiny roses lying on the ground and offered them to Sabrina. Surprised, she took them, barely feeling the prick of the tiny thorns.

“Did you know that they've figured out how to breed a blue rose? It's been the holy grail for rose breeders since 1840 and they finally figured it out.”

“I'm sure the rose breeders must be thrilled that the mystery has been solved.”

“I don't know. The quest is over, you see. Don't you find that sometimes anticipation is sweeter than the reality? The reality may not be what you really wanted.”

Before she could speak, he turned and walked toward the tool shed, saying over his shoulder. “It was nice to finally meet you, Miss Sabrina. You won't tell anybody you saw me, will you?”

“No, of course not,” she said automatically. And then, unable to resist, she blurted, “Rolo?”

“Yes?” He turned.

“Why do you wear a sword?”

Rolo looked down at the sword as if he had forgotten it was there.

“It seemed fitting,” he said at last, “considering what I've come to do. It's his sword, Walk-the-Plank Wrightly's, passed down through the generations. My father gave it to me when I turned eighteen.”

Sabrina nodded, and watched as he went into the tool shed and came back out without the shears. He raised a hand toward her and walked down to the beach and out of her sight.

“My goodness,” Sabrina said to herself, shifting the roses to the other arm. Calvin was watching her from the window, having given up trying to get her attention.

Sabrina let herself into the house and carried the roses into the kitchen.

“Rrrriiing.” Calvin followed her into the kitchen. “Rrrriiing.”

“Someone called? It's a pity you can't answer the phone for me. Oh well, I expect they'll call back. Calvin, you won't believe the bizarre conversation I've just had. I met a ghost, and I didn't ask him any of the questions that I meant to. I was supposed to ask him why he came back, and I forgot.”

Calvin cocked his head.

“I didn't ask him where he's staying, or what he did fifteen years ago to make him go away. About the only thing I asked him was why he was wearing a sword.”

Calvin chattered a rebuke.

“I know, I know.” Sabrina put the roses in the sink and began rummaging in the cabinets for a vase. “I wasn't thinking too clearly. And then I went and told him I wouldn't tell anybody I saw him. Now I can't tell all those people who think they've seen a ghost that they actually just caught a glimpse of Rolo Wrightly. Boy, would they be surprised! But I told him I wouldn't tell anybody, and in a strange way, I kind of liked him, Calvin. He was rough looking, with that big black beard and unkempt hair, but I think he's a nice person under the tough exterior. And I think he was genuinely worried about me, can you believe that? It's kind of sweet. Though I still don't have any idea why he would warn me off about Bradford. Is he afraid the man is going to seduce me?” Sabrina laughed and Calvin imitated the sound, bobbing his head up and down.

Calvin pulled on her pants leg and she lifted him onto her shoulder. No vase anywhere. She pulled out several large glasses and filled them with water, but she still couldn't fit all the roses. Sighing, she plugged the kitchen sink, ran some water, and placed the remaining roses in the sink.

“And what did he mean that it would all be over tomorrow?”

Calvin chattered at her.

“I wish I could remember what Lima said Rolo did fifteen years ago. It wasn't pleasant, whatever it was, I remember that.”

Sabrina continued to talk to Calvin as she cooked a late lunch. She made homemade clam chowder and garlic bread and, after she had cleaned up (she made a mental note to buy the Wrightlys another sauce pan to replace the one she'd had to throw away), she went into the living room and settled down on the old pink recliner to read her book.