The Writer (13 page)

Tilda gave what appeared to be her first genuine smile since sitting down with Adele.

“Men are good for little, and little good for anyone but themselves, but Phillip is better than most.”

Adele took a sip from her glass and tried not to grimace. She had never enjoyed the taste of hard alcohol.

“I’m curious. Why would Delroy think I, of
all
people, would care about what benefits Decklan?”

Adele found herself once again silently panicked over a question she did not with certainty understand the meaning of. It was clear Tilda blamed Decklan for Calista’s death, but Adele was not yet sure if Tilda thought that murder, or merely negligence, was responsible.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know. I’m trying to learn more about all of this. I think there is a story here beyond the story that’s already been told.”

Tilda arched her eyebrows and delivered her second genuine smile of the night.

“Indeed there is, little girl. No one will listen to me. I’m crazy, you see, unworthy of being heard. The old woman in the tower. I am the still-living ghost of Roche Harbor’s hidden past, haunting those few who remain alive but choose to forget what happened all those years ago.”

Tilda drank from her glass and stared into the flames that licked the air in front of her.

“And now you hope to hear my version as well?”

Adele nodded.

“Yes, I would.”

Adele saw Phillip making his way outside. He stopped some ten feet from the hotel entrance and inhaled deeply from a cigarette. Then he blew the smoke out in an angry cloud that swirled around him before dissipating into the darkness. Adele was certain he was looking through one of the large hotel windows to where both women sat talking in front of the fire.

Tilda watched Adele watching Phillip and smiled again; though, this time her eyes were cold and hinted at the madness that lurked just beneath her surface.

“Very well, Adele Plank. I will tell my version. I will tell you what Decklan Stone cannot.”

Adele paused with her glass halfway to her lips.

“What is that?”

The fire’s flames danced like wicked children in the depths of Tilda’s midnight eyes.

“The truth.”

Adele slept far more soundly in one of the sparse but tastefully furnished Roche Harbor Hotel guest rooms than she would have thought possible given the disturbing, decades-long tale that confirmed Tilda Ashland’s obsessive certainty that Decklan Stone was guilty of having murdered his wife.

Adele reached across the double bed for her recorder, sat up with her back against the soft, quilted headboard, and pushed play. Tilda’s low, slightly slurred voice immediately transported Adele back to the previous night’s conversation.

“I saw them arguing. I heard them yelling at one another, but it was the look on his face. It was the look of a man who wanted his wife dead. As soon as I heard she was missing, I knew what Decklan Stone had done. It was no accident. He killed Calista.”

“And is that what you told the police?”

Tilda’s mouth curled downward into a disgusted frown. She spat out her words as if they were poison being expelled from her mouth.

“Bah! Of course I did! I met with the sheriff personally. He had no use for what I knew. He hardly paid me any attention at all. He
wanted
that case to be over. He’s a lazy, worthless little man. That gun on his hip was always just for show. And then who is it hired by Decklan to bring him supplies to his island but the man’s own simple-minded son. Coincidence? I think not.”

Adele reached down and turned the volume of her recorder up and then closed her eyes as she tried to relive every nuance of the conversation.

“And this was Sheriff Speaks, correct?”

Tilda sniffed.

“Yes, the arrogant bastard. I went back again to ask why the case had been closed so quickly. He ignored me. Then he warned me to stop harassing him, said he would get a restraining order if need be.”

The recording indicated a long, silent break in the conversation before Tilda continued. At that moment she sounded tired, spent well beyond her nearly sixty years.

“It was as if he wanted Calista buried and gone from everyone’s memory, as if she had never been at all. I didn’t forget though. I will
never
forget!”

Adele pushed pause on the recorder, withdrew a pen and notepad, and wrote down Tilda’s comment. She didn’t know yet why those words were so significant, but she was certain they hinted at something important, something right in front of her.

Something she was missing.

I’ve got to get moving. I’ll finish reviewing the interview when I get back to Bellingham.

Adele washed, brushed her teeth, and changed into fresh clothes. She put her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail, and in less than fifteen minutes from getting out of bed, was walking down the hotel staircase and on her way outside.

“Good morning, Ms Plank. I trust you slept well?”

Adele stopped at the lobby desk behind which Phillip stood looking exactly as he had the day before.

“Yeah, thank you. Is Ms. Ashland up yet? I’d like to tell her thanks for giving me a free stay here.”

Phillip’s lips pursed together and he rapidly shook his head from side to side.

“No, Ms. Ashland isn’t normally available until later in the day. I will be happy to forward your gratitude to her though.”

Adele slapped the top of the desk with the bottom of her right hand and headed out the door.

“Thanks, Phillip. You take care.”

She was happy to be out of the hotel. Despite the building’s considerable size, Adele found its ambiance reflected its owner, unstable, moody, and suffocating.

The walk to Delroy’s sailboat was enough to clear away the experience of having met Tilda Ashland. It was a remarkably bright, warm spring morning with just a hint of a breeze. There wasn’t a single cloud to hinder the blue perfection of the sky.

Adele’s footsteps made a heavy,
thunk thunk
as she travelled over the wood dock. More than one stranger looked and gave her a warm smile. Once she reached the side of Delroy’s boat, Adele rang the bell and waited. When no response came, she rang the bell again.

“Hello? Delroy, are you in there? It’s Adele from yesterday.”

The sailboat remained still and silent.

What’s that smell?

It was the hint of something burning carried on the saltwater breeze. Adele scanned the horizon and saw a pillar of black smoke working across the water near Orcas Island. She continued to stand and watch the smoke as its dark mass expanded like the fingers of a massive, floating hand slowly opening.

And then a familiar voice sounded from directly behind her, causing Adele to flinch.

“Hello there, Ms. Plank.”

It was Decklan Stone.

“I’m sorry, did I scare you?”

Adele shook her head while her eyes drank in the sight of the impossibly attractive older man. A thick strand of Decklan’s hair hung over his left brow and his face was covered in a thin layer of dark stubble. Decklan wore a pair of faded jeans and a form-fitting, V-neck T-shirt with a pair of ragged, canvas high top sneakers.

Decklan smelled of gasoline and Adele noted a dark smudge covering the top of his right hand.

“You give up writing to be an auto mechanic?”

Decklan appeared confused at first, but then looked down at his hands and chuckled.

“Had a fuel line that needed to be re-clamped on my way over here. Made a bit of a mess.”

Adele glanced around.

“You bring your little boat?”

Decklan nodded and pointed toward the end of the dock.

“Yeah, tied up down there. I left early, spent an hour or so walking Sucia, and then made my way here. Figured I’d check in with Delroy, but it looks like he’s not around, huh?”

Adele remembered that Sucia was a small island some fifteen miles northeast of Roche Harbor. It was a favorite among beachcombers, noted for its fossilized rocks and multiple coves.

“Uh, I guess not.”

Decklan took a step forward and cocked his head slightly to the left.

“How do you know Delroy?”

Adele cleared her throat and tried to appear as casual as possible, but knew she was failing miserably.

“I just met him yesterday.”

Decklan’s eyes widened slightly.

“Uh-huh…”

Adele knew the proverbial jig was up. She had been caught red-handed.

“OK, yes, I was doing a bit of background on you for the article. I hope that’s all right.”

Decklan straightened his posture and buried his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

“So who else have you talked to besides Delroy?”

Adele’s eyes glanced up toward the hotel. Decklan, possessing the keen observational powers of a gifted author, noticed immediately.

He looked at the hotel and grunted.

“You spoke with Tilda, huh? That must have been a unique experience. Did she convince you I wanted to see Calista dead? That my failure to go to prison is the result of some grand conspiracy?”

Adele stood silent, unable to form a response. Rage flashed briefly across Decklan’s face.

“Answer me!”

The volume of his demand angered Adele and she found the courage to push back in almost equal proportion.

“Don’t you dare yell at me! I’m a journalist! I’m allowed to speak to whomever I want!”

Decklan’s rage dissipated just as quickly as it had appeared, and was replaced by his familiar, polite detachment.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Plank. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. Seeing you here caught me by surprise is all. I fear I remain overly protective of my privacy. You’re correct that I have no right to assume I enjoy any control over those you choose to speak with.”

Both Adele and Decklan looked up at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Well, well, well, it is the prodigal friend who has returned! Hello there, Decklan! And a good morning to you as well, Ms. Plank!”

Delroy Hicks tilted the brim of his fedora at Adele and then gave Decklan a warm hug. He pointed out toward the same smoke cloud that gathered over Orcas Island that had recently caught Adele’s attention.

“Decklan, did you hear about the accident?”

Decklan appeared to not have any idea what Delroy was referring to. He glanced at Adele and then looked down at Delroy and shook his head.

“No, what accident?”

Delroy’s narrow shoulders slumped within the thick blue fabric of his sweatshirt.

“Oh, it’s a terrible thing. That little store over in Deer Harbor by your place, it blew up this morning, apparently the result of a propane leak.”

All eyes returned to the smoke-filled sky. Adele, shocked by the news, covered her mouth with both her hands. Soon her shock transformed into quickly-creeping dread.

“What about Bella Morris?”

Delroy’s head moved slowly from side to side.

“She’s dead. I was just told they pulled her body from the water not more than thirty minutes ago.”

Adele felt her legs grow weak and her face go numb. Again, she noted the spot of grime on Decklan’s hand, inhaled another breath of fuel-drenched air, and wondered if it was possible a man as effortlessly charming as Decklan Stone could actually be capable of murder.

No, it doesn’t make any sense. Why would he hurt Bella?

Adele recalled how angry Decklan was when he found out she had been speaking with others about him.

He very well could have seen me speaking with Bella, too.

“Now what in the hell is that all about?”

Both Decklan and Adele followed Delroy’s gaze toward the marina’s entrance. Three police cruisers with lights flashing had parked in the middle of the entrance and four members of the San Juan County Sheriff’s Office were making their way down the dock. The tallest of the four stopped and then pointed directly to where Adele, Decklan and Delroy stood. Delroy readjusted the hat and stared back at the four law enforcement officers with significantly increased interest.

“It would appear one or all of us are the focus of their attention. Normally I love to see a man in uniform, but something tells me this isn’t going to be one of those times.”

As the four armed men drew closer, Adele could see that three were deputies while the oldest, according to his badge, was the county sheriff. It was the sheriff who stopped himself and his men some twenty feet from Delroy’s boat and then pointed at Decklan.

“Are you Mr. Decklan Stone?”

The right hands of the three deputies hovered over their hip-holstered revolvers as they awaited Decklan’s answer.

Decklan took a half step forward with his hands at his side. Adele looked up at the author’s face and noted how his expression was a mix of confusion and uncertain curiosity. There was no sign of fear in him.

“Yes, now would you mind telling me what this is about?”

“Mr. Stone, I am Sheriff Leroy Benson of the San Juan County Sheriffs Department.”

Decklan gave a short half-nod to the fifty-two-year-old sheriff. Benson was a lifelong resident of the islands, a man of average height and build with thinning grey hair and a large bushy mustache that sat watch over a thin-lipped mouth.

“I’ve heard of you. Now why are you here asking who
I
am, Sheriff Benson?”

The deputies’ hands rested directly over their weapons. Adele could tell the men were on edge and the tallest of them appeared to want Decklan to cause them trouble and thus give them reason to retaliate.

“I’d prefer we discuss this back at the station, Mr. Stone.”

Decklan rose to his full height, straightened his shoulders, and casually folded his arms across his chest. He still appeared more curious than fearful over having four armed men standing directly in front of him.

“Are you
asking
me to come with you, or
ordering
me to do so?”

The sheriff’s eye’s flashed his annoyance.

“I would rather this be done with as little fuss as possible, Mr. Stone.”

Adele looked beyond the four law-enforcement officers and saw a small crowd had gathered at the marina entrance. A haughty-faced Tilda Ashland was among them.

Decklan’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like being told what to do.