Island Intrigue (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

It took her the rest of the night to decipher the story from the diary. The curlicue letters and the awkward language made the diary hard reading, but even when her eyes started drooping she wasn't able to put the book down. Roland Thierry Wrightly the First started writing in the diary when he was sixteen, and while he wasn't a consistent diarist, he was conscientious about writing whenever anything important happened in his life.

Sabrina read about the death of Roland's father, and how the young man threw himself into learning his father's commerce business. Roland increased his father's small concern into a booming business with over ten ships. As he grew older, Roland began questioning the wisdom of importing everything from England, and switched his focus, at great cost, to selling within the colonies themselves, carrying tobacco and rice to New England and trading for meat and wheat. He met his wife, Sarah Campbell, a Scottish immigrant who came to America with her parents when she was a child.

Sabrina shook her head in bemusement, putting the diary down and fixing herself a cup of hot tea. For a notorious pirate with a reputation for viciousness, Roland Wrightly's words were imbued with thoughtfulness. Though he didn't dwell on his own kindness, he obliquely mentioned several occasions when he helped his less wealthy neighbors through a particularly hard winter, or after a summer storm. He loved his wife to distraction. He did not sound like a vicious, bloodthirsty pirate.

It wasn't until near the end of the diary that the treacherous story began to unfold. Roland was awarded the deed to Comico Island as a token of the governor's esteem. Roland was proud, and he took his new responsibilities very seriously.

A few years after that, reports of vicious pirate attacks began to appear more often in Roland's diary. Roland was very concerned, as twice his ships were hit by Walk-the-Plank Jack, and he was heartbroken when all the men on the ships were killed. Finally, the governor appointed Lord Russell Tittletott, a retired admiral in the English navy, to hunt down the pirates.

Roland was impressed with Lord Tittletott's progress as the retired admiral hunted down and brought to justice several less notorious pirates. They were friends, though Roland knew Tittletott resented the fact the governor had not deeded Comico Island to him instead of to Roland. As the months passed, and Walk-the-Plank Jack was still at large, Roland began having doubts about the man he had considered a friend. Small things: a fleeting glimpse Roland caught of the pirate ship which looked suspiciously like Lord Tittletott's ship. And then, there was the cuckoo clock. It had hung on the wall of the captain's cabin inside one of Roland's ships. The ship was attacked, the cargo and several miscellaneous items including the cuckoo clock stolen, and all the crew killed. Roland Wrightly saw the cuckoo clock on the wall in Lord Tittletott's house.

After confronting Tittletott about the clock and being genially rebuffed, Roland began to suspect he was being framed. Booty from a ransacked ship was found on his property on Comico Island. Authorities in different ports were tipped that some of his cargo may be illegal, which caused him inconvenience and time.

That was when Roland Wrightly gathered together a small fortune in gold and silver and buried it, drawing a small map in his diary to show where it was buried. He saw the end coming and wanted his wife and unborn child to be provided for.

A week later, Wrightly sailed out of Hurricane Harbor on his way to the West Indies on a routine trip.

There was no other entry from Roland Wrightly.

There was a short letter on the very last page, written by Sarah Campbell Wrightly to her son. By that time, Lord Tittletott had sailed triumphantly into Comico Harbor with Roland Wrightly's ship, complete with stolen cargo and pirate flag as proof that Wrightly had been the infamous Walk-the-Plank Jack. The governor rewarded Lord Tittletott the title to Comico Island.

But a crew member, Cedric, who was on Roland Wrightly's ship when it was attacked, managed to escape the drowning fate of his shipmates. And he recognized Lord Tittletott as the vile pirate who cut down Roland Wrightly and then forced the rest of the crew to walk the plank, one by one. Cedric clung to a piece of wood for three days before washing up on shore, after which he made his way back to Comico Island to tell Sarah what really happened to her husband.

In the letter, Sarah wrote that she was saving the diary and her husband's sword—apparently it was an heirloom and not Roland's everyday sword—as a legacy for his son, so he would know the truth about his father. She urged him to continue searching for his father's treasure, as she wasn't able to locate it. The map that Roland Thierry Wrightly the First had drawn was torn. The directions to the treasure tree were clearly discernible, but the other side of the map was indecipherable. Sarah wrote that the Tittletotts had grown too powerful for the Wrightlys to hope to challenge. She hoped succeeding generations would know the truth about their famous, maligned relative, and that sometime, when the time was right, a Wrightly could right the wrong.

Sabrina put down the diary and yawned. Calvin had fallen asleep a long time ago, and his little body twitched as he dreamed.

Was this diary a motive for murder? Would someone kill Rolo to keep him from revealing the truth behind the ancient story? If this diary could be used to prove that Lord Tittletott won the title to the island illegally, then it was just possible that all of the Tittletott island holdings could be questioned. That was a powerful motive for murder. What response had the real estate lawyer given to Rolo? And why were the diary and sword buried under the treasure tree?

Carrying the book with her, Sabrina climbed the steps to her room and lay down without even taking off her clothes. Tomorrow would be a long day. It was Halloween.

And Rolo's funeral.

***

He had to come out sometime. He couldn't stay in there forever.

Thierry shifted position and patted his pocket, feeling the reassuring lump of the pistol. The morning sun licked at the dew around his pants cuffs.

“Hiya Thierry, whatcha doing?” Wayland McCall hefted the crab trap he carried and nodded at Thierry.

“Hanging out,” Thierry said, and turned his head back toward the Tittletott House. He was conscious of Wayland's gaze on him but Thierry ignored it. He never much liked Wayland anyway, ever since they were kids and Wayland turned them all in to his daddy for holding midnight races on the island ponies. As a matter of fact, he'd love to give Wayland a fist in the gut right now, that's just the way he was feeling.

“Pshaw,” Thierry said, which was one of his dad's favorite expressions before he went crazier than a Mitchell's Day surfer. He shifted position against one of the posts holding up the pier.

The front door of the Tittletott House opened and Virginia came out onto the front porch with a water pitcher. She took so long watering the potted palms and picking off dead fronds that Thierry almost went up there and took the pitcher out of her hands and did it himself. The whole time he was worried she would see him over here and wonder what he was doing.

He never liked Virginia the way the rest of them did. She was good-looking if you liked a trim body and pretty face. No, Thierry wasn't immune to a pretty face. But she was cold inside. Pure ice. Thierry liked a girl with a little more fire, like curvy Molly Lowry. Now she was something, though she wasn't talking to him since she found out he wasn't going to be the big shot president's assistant like he told her he was going to be. She didn't seem interested in just a plain old carpenter.

Virginia went back inside and Thierry shifted so he faced the house full on again.

“Thierry, you better get on home and get dressed for your brother's funeral, you hear? You can't go dressed like that, and it's in two hours.”

Thierry scowled at Aunt Mary Garrison Tubbs. She was always looking down on him, like he smelled or something. She had always raved about his brother Rolo, and look at what he had gone and done. After Rolo left the island, Aunt Mary never said another word about Rolo, but it didn't make her like Thierry any more.

“I'll go when I'm good and ready,” he grumbled.

“What did you say? Speak up boy, you're always mumbling.” She stopped in the middle of the street, oblivious of the car behind her. She tapped her foot, and glared at Thierry.

“I got something to do first,” Thierry said, a little louder.

“Well, see you get home soon. Your mama needs your help.” Aunt Mary stared at him a moment longer, trying to catch his eye, but Thierry acted like he was looking at an old work boat coming across the harbor. Was it Nick Teasley? Why, yes it was.

Aunt Mary snorted and marched on down the street. The car behind her roared past her, the driver making obscene gestures. Tourist.

Thierry resumed his watch of the Tittletott House, massaging the butt of the pistol in his coat. He had to come out sometime.

Thierry remembered not too long ago when he would have walked right inside like he belonged there. His mama always sniffed at him, like he was getting uppity because he was hanging out with Towners. But his mama had plenty of Towner friends, it was just the Tittletotts she hated. Well, hated was kinda strong. He couldn't imagine his mother hating anybody. But Nettie and Elizabeth Garrison Tittletott had a long history. Nettie was the pretty one, from what Thierry heard, and Elizabeth the snobby one, with all the money behind her. Elizabeth was sweet on Dock when they were in school.

Thierry could almost recite the story by heart, Nettie had recounted it so many times. Dock had those dark Wrightly looks, and he was a smooth-talking, handsome young man. And he only had eyes for Nettie. They married the day after they both graduated from high school. Elizabeth Garrison eventually married CQ Tittletott, who was fifteen years older.

And that should have been that. But over the years, the two women kept up a rivalry that started in kindergarten. Thierry wondered if when he was old and wrinkled he would still hate Wayland McCall because Wayland finked on him when they were twelve years old.

Brad came out the front door of the Tittletott House. Thierry started and then turned away and pretended he was inspecting one of the boats tied up on the pier. Brad didn't even look in his direction as he hurried down the street.

Thierry abandoned his pretense and ran after him. Brad was walking so fast Thierry almost lost him when he turned down Post Office Road.

“Don't think you can lose me,” Thierry muttered, though he was pretty sure Brad hadn't even noticed him. Wasn't that just like a Tittletott? A couple of days ago, Brad acted like Thierry was his best friend. I'll make you a director of refuse, Brad said. Just help me with the campaign, and I won't forget about you when I'm in office.

And Thierry helped him. He'd admit it now, he was flattered when Brad started talking to him that night down at the Pub. Brad had just announced that he was running, and everybody was buying him drinks. They started talking, and the rest was history.

Brad never noticed him much when they were kids. Brad and Rolo were best friends, and they didn't have much time for the “junior rats,” as Brad called Thierry and Gary.

Then Rolo went away and things changed. Lately, people looked at Thierry with respect because he was always with Brad, and wasn't that a hoot!

But all that was over now. Thierry grasped the butt of the pistol and increased his speed. He wasn't going to let him out of his sight.

Brad turned and ducked into the back of Tubb's store. Thierry stopped, confused. What in the heck was he doing going in the back of Tubb's?

Thierry found a nearby tree and leaned up against it. He could wait.

Brad had to come out sometime. He couldn't stay in there forever.

And then Thierry would have him.

Chapter Twenty-six

If it wasn't for the cast iron skillet, Sabrina wouldn't have been late for Rolo Wrightly's funeral.

Sabrina overslept that morning, and then she couldn't decide what to wear. And then she felt a stabbing pain in her eye, and it had taken her almost fifteen minutes to look up her symptoms in her medical book. She ruled out entropion and a stye, and it was only a matter of time to see if acute glaucoma developed.

And then, she couldn't find the cast iron skillet.

“STOP that!” Sabrina snapped at her tiny yellow companion.

“CHEEP cheep!” Calvin replied in perfect imitation of her tone. Calvin had taken to following Sabrina from room to room, wagging his head and imitating her agitated mumblings.

“Do you see the skillet?” Sabrina asked in exasperation, standing in her stockinged feet in her best dark blue dress as she stared around the kitchen.

Calvin glanced around the kitchen and then back up at her face.

“I don't either.” Sabrina sighed, and glanced at her watch again. Almost twelve.

If she knew why she was looking for the skillet she might have searched for the darned thing with a bit more patience. But Nettie didn't explain when she called this morning and asked Sabrina to bring the skillet, the one she knew was in the house somewhere.

Calvin grew tired of her antics and pulled himself up onto his favorite windowsill where he nodded off. Sabrina started pulling out drawers and opening cabinets which she knew she'd already looked through.

Finally, she found the skillet in the living room, being used to catch water for a rampant fern.

Sabrina grabbed her hat and dashed for the door.

It was already twelve noon, and the streets were deserted. Closed signs were posted in all the shop windows, and the old boat dock was full of battered work boats which usually would have been out on the water this time of day. The island of Comico had turned out to mourn the passing of one its sons, no matter how wayward that son had been.

She heard the music as she neared the High Tide Baptist Church. For all the world, it sounded like a jazzy blues band playing “Love Me Tender.”

It was a jazzy blues band playing Elvis's “Love Me Tender.” Led by Sondra Lane from Sweet Island Music on a keyboard, the four person band sat behind a wall at the front of the church and sweet-talked the strains of music from their various instruments. Judging from the misty smiles and nods of approval, the funeral-goers deemed this an entirely appropriate choice of music.

The church was packed with islanders wearing their best flannels and house dresses. Sabrina stood at the back of the church until Bicycle Bob, sitting on the edge of a pew, began subtly edging closer to the plump matron beside him, who edged against her husband to retreat from Bicycle. Soon the entire row of people was squishing, and Bicycle patted the seat beside him. Sabrina gratefully sat down, balancing the rusty skillet on her lap.

“Thank you, Bob,” she whispered and he nodded.

The interior of the church was paneled with wood and painted a light pink. Narrow windows emitted cheerful shafts of light which played over the varnished pine pews. There were no flowers in the church, but instead vases of gold, green and auburn marsh grass adorned the coffin.

At the front of the church, Sabrina saw Nettie, Dock, Thierry and an unfamiliar young woman with a little girl. Sabrina smiled.

“Pssss, Miss Sabrina,” someone hissed, and Sabrina saw Lima Lowry waving from three rows away to gain her attention.

Sabrina smiled and averted her eyes, hoping he would take the hint and stop waving his arms like a pinwheel.

“Miss Sabrina!” His tone was definitely increasing.

Sabrina tried a small wave and looked away.

Lima wasn't having any of it.

“Pssss, Miss Sabrina!”

By this time the entire church was watching Lima.

“What?” Sabrina mouthed silently.

“Did you hear that someone shot at Brad Tittletott this morning?” Lima said in a whisper as subtle as a shotgun blast, especially when Sondra Lane brought her band's rendition of “Heartbreak Hotel” to a snazzy finale, and Lima's words echoed in the sudden silence.

“Thank you, Lima,” Sabrina said firmly. Lima nodded in satisfaction and turned back toward the front, oblivious of the stir he had caused.

Sabrina saw Brad sitting by himself two rows in front of her. He stared stonily ahead and ignored the curious looks directed his way.

Sabrina gave him a thoughtful look and looked back toward the front where a man dressed in a flannel shirt and suspender pants had wandered to the front of the church. A black robe hung down his back like Batman's cape. He seemed to be looking for something behind the pulpit.

Someone shot at Brad this morning? Who? And why, with all the suspicion flying around him, was Brad at Rolo's funeral?

Because Brad and Rolo were best friends when they were children, she realized, despite all that had happened since then. That kind of pure friendship is unsullied by complicated adult emotions.

The man in the cape was down on his hands and knees behind the pulpit. He said “aha!” and pounced on a polished stick and held it up triumphantly. He turned to stare at the congregation, swaying slightly, the stick raised like a director's baton.

The congregation stared back.

“Marriage,” he said, waving the stick experimentally. “We are all gathered here to celebrate—” His confused glance fell on the coffin.

“It's a funeral, Pastor Josh!” someone yelled.

“I see. Yes, that would explain the—” Pastor Josh put down the stick, fumbled for his glasses and began sorting through the paper on the pulpit. “Oh yes,” he said with some relief, “here we go. We are all gathered here in memory of our beloved brother, um…” He paused, flipping through some papers. “Our beloved brother, um…” The flipping became frantic.

“Roland Thierry Wrightly the Eleventh,” Nettie said from the front row. “Get it together, Pastor Josh, or I'll preach the sermon myself.”

“Oh yes. Certainly. We are all gathered here in memory of our beloved brother, Rolo, my dear cousin Rolo.” A big fat tear rolled down Pastor Josh's cheek.

“My dear cousin Rolo has gone on to heaven now,” he said in a stronger voice, falling into the familiar sermon-giving rhythm, “and while we all will certainly miss him, we must remember that heaven is like a used car lot, can I hear an amen. Just think about how you feel as you walk around that lot with a wad of money in your pocket and you know that you can buy any car there, and that emotion is pure happiness. That is how Rolo will feel for all eternity, and we can rejoice for him.

“This reminds me of something that happened to me the other day. A young man came onto my lot—I won't use any names—and this young man was looking at a low-mileage, clean Ford F-150, and he liked that truck, yes he did, can I hear an amen, and he wanted to buy that truck, but he said to me, he said, ‘Pastor, I surely like that truck, but I don't think I should have to pay that price you have stuck to the windshield,' and I said, ‘Wayland McCall—'”

A couple rows in front of Sabrina, a young man jerked upright and looked around as his neighbors turned to snicker at him. Pastor Josh had picked up the stick again and he was using it to point at the blushing young man.

“I said, ‘Wayland McCall, let me ask you a question. Do you go into a restaurant and order a hamburger and fries and then when the bill comes, say, ‘I don't think I should have to pay that?' Do you go to the general store and pick out twenty dollars worth of groceries and then tell Greg Tubbs, ‘I don't think I should have to pay for these?' There is something wrong with people today, can I hear an amen, there is something wrong when they think that the world owes them a big-screen TV, a nice car and a Foreman grill. Nobody ever got something for nothing, that's what I say, and that's what the good book says, I think in John or Luke. Responsibility!” Pastor Josh roared, slamming the stick down on the pulpit and half the congregation jumped. “That's what we need, a sense of responsibility! If you want to buy a house, save for it. If you want good roads, pay your taxes! And do it with a smile, and a ‘thank you, Lord, for giving me my health and the road signs that warn me that some poor, unsuspecting critter may be crossing the road!'”

Sabrina looked around and saw people nodding, with thoughtful expressions on their faces.

“So here we are to say good-bye to our brother Rolo, a good man, and lest you feel sad, lest you have tears in your eyes, just remember, that in our own time, we will see him again, and we too will be spending eternity in our own personal car lot with plenty of money—money we earned, mind you—in our pocket.”

Pastor Josh seemed drained, and he swayed for a moment, toying with the stick on the pulpit. “So then, ashes to ashes, dust to um…” He stopped and fumbled through his papers. “Dust to, um…”

“Dust,” people were saying under their breath, so many of them that a sibilant hiss rose through the air.

“Um, let's see…ashes to ashes, dust to…hmm…”

“Dust!” Lima roared. “Dust to dust!”

“Yes, of course. Dust to dust. God is good, God is great, thank the Lord it's time to eat.”

With that, Josh used his arms to spread his cape like great wings over his head and trotted down the middle of the aisle. Six men went to the front of the church and surrounded the coffin, bearing it carefully out of the church. Shaking her head, Nettie, dressed in a plain dark dress, and holding a candle topped with a flickering flame, came down the aisle, followed by Dock, Thierry and the strange woman and child, all holding white candles.

Sabrina looked around in consternation as the people around her began pulling candles out of their pockets and a pack of matches was passed down the aisle. Even Bicycle Bob had a candle, though his was a red candle, burned down to almost a nub.

Sabrina forgot about the candles when she saw Elizabeth Tittletott, Gary, and Virginia pass down the aisle and out of the church. She'd assumed Brad came alone. As the last of the islanders streamed out of the church, holding their lit candles, Sabrina fell in behind.

The crowd of people walked down Lighthouse Road and took a right down Long Road, the paved road that headed toward the deserted end of the island. Sabrina had driven down to the far end of the road when she first arrived on the island and was rewarded with views of marshland, rolling dunes and ponies.

Once on the Long Road, the crowd took another right and Sabrina saw a metal archway bearing the name “Dunetop Cemetery.” The hill of sandy dirt was dotted with tombstones.

Sabrina followed the crowd up the hill and down the backside, where a mound of fresh dirt and a hole in the ground marked Rolo's final resting place. The six burly men lowered Rolo's coffin to the ground beside the grave site and Nettie opened the lid. Sabrina joined the gathering around the edge of the grave behind Nettie and her family. Pastor Josh had disappeared, though Sabrina could hear something that sounded suspiciously like snoring drifting from a nearby bush.

“Thank you all for coming out today. Rolo would have been happy to know that we didn't forget him.” Nettie paused, and wiped at her eyes. “Despite what everybody may think, Rolo was a good boy. He didn't deserve what happened to him.” Nettie gestured toward the young woman and she stepped forward, holding the hand of the little girl. “This is Rolo's wife Sherry, and his daughter Little Nettie, who wouldn't be here if Miss Sabrina, our new neighbor, hadn't made a couple of phone calls and arranged the whole thing!” Nettie had to stop again. “They came all this way from Oregon to see where Rolo was born, and where he died. I'm trying to talk Sherry into staying here.”

Sherry, who had shoulder-length auburn hair, a thin face and eyes blotched from crying, smiled at her mother-in-law.

“Now, I'd like to call up Bruce Teasley who was one of Rolo's good friends when they were kids.”

Bruce Teasley, carrying a cast iron skillet, stepped to the front and talked about Rolo and some of the stunts they pulled when they were boys. As he finished, he placed the skillet in the coffin.

One by one, several people spoke about Rolo and placed a skillet in the coffin.

“It's amazing how people who hadn't thought about Rolo Wrightly for fifteen years have so many nice things to say about him,” Lima said.

“Don't be cynical,” Sabrina said out of the corner of her mouth. “All right, I give up. What's with the iron skillets?”

“Weeell now.” Lima shifted his weight from one bright white boot to the other. Sabrina thought he had probably spray-painted the boots for the occasion. “It's a tradition that goes back to my grandpappy's day. We don't have much high land on the island, and when it came to a-burying, most folks just put their loved ones in their back yards. Kept it all in the family, so to speak. The only problem was, when a hurricane or nor'easter came along, the winds pushed the water right up into everybody's back yards. It was common after a storm to have coffins bobbing around in the harbor like buoys. So people started thinking about weighting down the coffins a little, so they wouldn't float off. And about the heaviest things they could think of, and something almost everybody had, were cast iron skillets. Now, whenever anybody gets buried, we make sure there's at least five or six skillets in the coffin, just in case a storm comes and tries to float that coffin away. And then there's Shelby's Fishing Pole—”

“Sabrina, would you mind saying a few words?” Nettie asked.

Sabrina was speechless as Nettie looked at her inquiringly.

She stepped to the front of the crowd, carrying her skillet, and looked down at the peaceful, bearded face in the coffin. Rolo was dressed in a dark suit, and his hair had been trimmed. Any signs of his murder must be covered by the suit, because he looked serene and whole, as if he would open his bright blue eyes and ask Sabrina if she was taking care of his grandmama's roses.