Island Intrigue (8 page)

Sabrina could hear the water lapping against the side of the old dock, the susurration of the silky water tickling at her ears. Up ahead, the lights of the New Wrightly House shone, and Sabrina hoped that Nettie Wrightly remembered the invitation she had issued.

Sabrina climbed the wood stairs and knocked on the door. She wasn't really surprised when the door was flung open by the old withered man. He stared at her, working his toothless gums, his face twisting into a scream.

“No, no, I'm harmless,” Sabrina said, stepping forward and putting her hand out to the old man. “Please don't scream.”

But it was too late. He shook her hand off as if they were big, hairy spiders and, still screaming, slammed the door in her face.

Sabrina stood in the cool night air, staring at the door. She had an incredible feeling of déjà vu.

Chapter Eight

She was debating knocking again when the door swung open. Nettie still wore her embroidered white robes, and tonight she wore a flashing…thing on her head, silver like a tiara, blinking with multi-colored lights.

“Come in, come in.” Nettie opened the door wider so she could enter. “Good to see you. I just got this today.” She touched her twinkling headgear. “It's supposed to enhance my ability to receive messages from the other world.”

Sabrina glanced past the woman at the old man huddled in a chair, glaring at the TV, his shoulders hunched. “Hello, Nettie. I don't want to offend anybody…”

“Who? Dock? He's harmless. Crazy as a Mitchell's Day sailboarder, but he's harmless.” With that ambiguous statement, Nettie pulled Sabrina inside.

“This must be Calvin!” Nettie reached up and scooped the tiny bird off Sabrina's shoulder as Calvin twittered in surprise. “Good bird,” Nettie crooned, stroking him. He gazed up at her, mesmerized by the sound of her voice.

“Please tell me you're not getting another flying rat,” Thierry Wrightly drawled as he strolled into the room. He was still wearing the same dingy blue jeans and T-shirt and showed no sign that he recognized her from the Tittletott House. He held a Budweiser in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“This is Calvin, Thierry.” Nettie held up the bird so her son could see him.

“He's a budgerigar, more commonly known as a parakeet,” Sabrina said. “He's very rare because he's buttercup yellow, just like a little chick, except for the bit of white on his forehead and underside. He was a gift from a friend of mine who is a bird breeder.”

Thierry snorted. “And who's the tourist?”

“Thierry!” Nettie scolded. She was so tiny that she had to crane her head all the way back to see his face, and he grinned down at her from his six foot two height, not in the least repentant. “You're not too old for me to put over my knee, you know,” she said, and he smirked. Nettie turned back to Sabrina. “Sabrina, this is Thierry Roland Wrightly, my no-good son. Thierry, Sabrina Victoria Dunsweeney.”

Thierry sketched a wave at Sabrina which she returned with a small smile. She was trying to remember when she had told Nettie her middle name. She was sure she had not put it on her rental application.

“It's all right, Dock,” Nettie was saying to the old man still crouched on the couch. “It's the girl staying down the road, not one of those nasty people. Calm down.” She patted his shoulder, and Calvin mimicked her murmur.

The old man cast a wary eye on Sabrina and quickly turned his head away. He was wearing baggy pants and a stained white undershirt, and his thin, sunken face was covered with stubble and a large pair of glasses.

“Hello Dock,” Sabrina said, but the old man refused to look at her. Nettie continued to soothe him, and Sabrina turned questioning eyes on Thierry.

“Thinks you're one of those insurance salesmen,” he explained. “One came along last year and scared him half to death. He talked about strokes and heart attacks for weeks, until he stopped talking. Now he's scared to answer the door.”

“Goodness.”

“Dock, honey, you can go out in your boat tomorrow. I think it's supposed to be nice. Would you like that?”

Dock ignored her, his eyes riveted on the TV.

“Is that his boat docked down the street?” Sabrina asked.

“Yes. Sometimes I think I shouldn't let him out on the boat, but he always finds his way back, and it's the only thing nowadays that makes him happy. Let's go into the other room and let Dock watch his show.”

As they left the room, Sabrina noticed that Dock was watching MTV.

At the back of the house was a long, high-ceilinged room, kitchen and family room combined, with large fireplace at one end of the room. A boy was seated at a table, poring over a book.

“Why, hello, Terry!” Sabrina exclaimed as she came through the door. He looked up, utter surprise and then apprehension crossing his face.

“Miss Sabrina,” he stammered.

“You've met my grandson?” Nettie asked, crossing to the boy and putting her hand on his shoulder. “Spell ‘onomatopoeia,'” she instructed.

“That's not one of my words!” Terry protested.

“Doesn't matter. Ask Miss Sabrina, a spelling bee isn't complete without ‘onomatopoeia.' She should know, she's a teacher.”

“She's right,” Sabrina agreed. When had she told Nettie she was a teacher? “When's your spelling bee?”

“Wednesday night,” Terry said. “It was supposed to be just a spelling bee, but then Mr. Tittletott wanted to use the school gym for his rally, so they decided to combine the spelling bee with the rally. Mr. Tittletott is going to give away the prize, a fishing pole.”

He glanced at his grandmother as he spoke, his face full of furtive excitement. Sabrina looked up to see the old woman purse her mouth in dislike.

“I wish you'd shoot the freak, oooh, oooh,” said a squawking, querulous voice, and Sabrina turned to see a large white bird in a cage behind her. He was halfway hidden by the door, which is why she had missed him when she came in.

“Horatio.” Nettie crossed to the cage as the bird dipped up and down in excitement, unfurling the yellow and white plumage on his head.

“I wish you'd shoot the freak, oooh, oooh,” he said again, dipping up and down.

“Cheep,” Calvin said in dismay as Nettie brought him closer to the other bird. “Cheep!” He twisted his little head and looked desperately at Sabrina.

“Horatio, this is Calvin. Calvin this is Horatio,” Nettie said. The two birds stared at each other in mutual dislike. Horatio reached out a clawed foot, mutely begging to be taken onto Nettie's arm. When she kept out of his reach, he threw a temper tantrum, shaking his head and squawking at the top of his lungs.

“Mom!” Thierry bellowed as he came into the room and went straight to the refrigerator for another beer. “Do something about him!”

Horatio continued to squawk, and Calvin fluttered his wings at the other bird, puffing up his feathers so he looked imposing and said emphatically, “CHEEP!”

“I WISH YOU'D SHOOT THE FREAK, OOH, OOH,” Horatio screeched.

Terry put his hands over his ears, and Sabrina felt like doing the same. She crossed to Nettie and rescued Calvin, who gratefully crawled up to her neck and hid under her hair. Nettie was able to pick up Horatio, and he subsided into contented clucking, happy at getting his own way.

“Horatio, you've been watching MTV again,” Nettie scolded. “He picks up the strangest things off the television. I really wish Dock wouldn't let him watch it.”

“I'll shoot the freak.” Thierry crossed over to his son and shot a dark look at the bird. “What can you spell today, kid?” He looked down at the boy, and Sabrina realized that this was father and son. Somehow, Thierry had struck her as too young to have a son, but he must be at least thirty, plenty old enough to have a son Terry's age.

“Uh, I can spell ‘anarchist,'” Terry said, and proceeded to do so.

“Christ, what kind of words are they teaching kids nowadays?” Thierry said, when Terry was done. “Did they teach you how to spell ‘commie' and ‘lily-livered,' too? You know what they say, knowledge is power and power corrupts. Right?”

Terry's face fell and he nodded in incomprehension.

“So study hard, little man, be evil!”

Laughing at his cleverness, Thierry went back into the living room, where the insistent beat of rap music was pounding through the walls.

“Please sit down,” Nettie said, pointing at a stool and whispering to Horatio. She looked up at her grandson. “Terry, get the lady one of my special drinks.”

Sabrina started to protest, but then decided it might be construed as rude. She held her tongue as the boy ambled over to the freezer and poured thick, red liquid out of a pitcher into a glass.

“Here,” Terry said, banging the glass down onto the counter in front of Sabrina and slopping quite a bit of the sluggish liquid onto the wooden surface.

“Thank you.” Surely Nettie wouldn't serve blood as her “special drink”? She stole a look at the other woman, who was murmuring nonsense words to her big white cockatoo, the tiara blinking cheerily on her head.

Maybe she would.

Nettie looked up, her little eyes twinkling as she caught Sabrina's gaze. It was a challenge, plain and simple, so Sabrina steeled herself and took a small sip.

“It's good!” she exclaimed, and turned to find Nettie gurgling with laughter.

“You sound surprised.” Nettie put Horatio back on top of his cage and came over to the counter.

“I just—it looked like—” Sabrina broke off, realizing she had just opened her mouth to switch feet. “It's very good,” she said lamely.

“I'm glad you like it.” The old woman climbed up onto the stool beside Sabrina. “It's fresh fruit punch. I keep it very cool, so it's almost slushy, which is why it looks so thick.”

Sabrina took another sip of the delicious drink. Nettie was swinging her bare leathery feet back and forth.

“You're a talented cook, Nettie,” Sabrina said. “Your Millionaire Cookies are wonderful.”

“You think so? Thank you.” Nettie smiled, her face crinkling with amusement. “People from the mainland are always telling me I should market my cookies. Tell me I'd make a mint.”

“They're right,” Sabrina said, thinking about the rich, delicious cookies.

Nettie shook her head. “I don't think so. Those mainlanders are just about as sneaky as the Towners. I'm sure they'd find some way of ripping me off.”

She smiled at Sabrina without malice. “Of course, you know I'm not talking about you. I've never met anyone from Cincinnati before. Why are you here? You don't feel like someone on vacation. Have you been ill?”

“My mother died not too long ago. We were very close. I decided to get away for a while,” Sabrina said instead, which was all true. She didn't mention what had happened with Mr. Phil.

“I'm so sorry. How terrible for you.”

“It's been hard. She was a wonderful woman.”

“How brave of you to come all this way by yourself! I've only been off the island twice, myself.”

“You've only been off Comico Island twice?” The island was only twelve or thirteen miles long, and a couple of miles wide.

Nettie shook her head and gave one of her uncomplicated smiles. “The last time was when Terry's mother had to be flown to a mainland hospital to have Terry, because he was inside her upside down and backwards, poor thing.”

“What about when you had your own children? Didn't you go to a hospital on the mainland?”

“The girls these days. They run to the doctor at the drop of a hat. I never saw a doctor in my life. Angel Tubbs, she was the midwife for this island for fifty years. She delivered my two children, and most of the people on this island.”

“You cut out my heart with a pitchfork,” Horatio crooned, and Sabrina recognized the lines from a current song playing on the radio.

“The bird used to say things like ‘Horatio wants a cracker' and ‘pretty bird.' Now that Dock watches that music station all day long, Horatio talks about shooting and dissecting people. It's horrible.”

Sabrina nodded in agreement. She had listened to the CDs her students brought to class for recess and was appalled at some of the lyrics.

“It's only recently that we got cable here. Before that, all we had was what we could pick up with our rabbit ears. Not much, so most people used their TVs for an end table. Then they got cable out to us, and now people sit inside all day and watch TV. Instead of being social, and having Mullet Tosses and Quilting Circles, instead of going over to their friends' houses and gossiping over a cup of coffee, they sit at home in front of their TVs and dial their friends on the telephone.” Nettie shook her head in disgust and reached over to take a swig of Sabrina's drink.

“No one wants to come to my séances anymore,” she continued mournfully.

“You do séances?”

“Oh yes.” Nettie brightened. “I talk to Hichacokolo, he's one of the original Irrocottilo Indians who used to live on this island. He's always full of gossip about the afterworld, says it's pretty much like here, except no one can do evil, so it's pretty boring. Hichacokolo is a character, let me tell you.” Nettie lowered her voice. “I think he's probably a homosexualist, if you want to know the truth. Always talking about the clothes people are wearing, and he talks with a ‘bith of a lith', if you catch my meaning.” Nettie winked at Sabrina. “Then there's English Jane. She was one of the first English women to come to the island, but she's a whiner. Always talking about how bad it was back in those days, how cold it was, how sick she got of fish, how she hated the Indians. She and Hichacokolo definitely do not get along. Sarah Wrightly, the wife of Walk-the-Plank Wrightly, she's not like English Jane at all. She always wears a long white dress, with a red rose fastened to her bosom, and she carries her lantern as she searches for her lost husband's treasure. She's a nice woman, I've always liked her.”

“What about Walk-the-Plank Wrightly? Do you ever talk to him?” Sabrina smiled, humoring the woman.

Nettie cocked her head and peered at Sabrina out of one of her tiny eyes. “Funny you should ask,” she said. “I was talking to him just the other day.”

“Did he tell you why he was back after so long?”

Nettie pursed her mouth. Sabrina felt eyes on her back and turned to find Terry openly eavesdropping.

“He said he has some things to take care of,” Nettie said.

“Is he still mad at Lord Tittletott for exposing him as a pirate?”

“He's mad at the Tittletotts for being the sneaky, lying Towners that they are.”

“But, Grandma, Sid's a Tittletott, and he's not all bad,” Terry protested. Nettie's face softened as she turned to look at her grandson.