Fox Island (14 page)

“They’re against the IRS and divided over
the war, and definitely don’t want radioactive material stored at
the Acoustic Range.”

“But, what about the petting zoo?”

“Kenny Mallard finally settled that.”

“Melody’s buddy?”

“Yeah, Kenny said they should allow the
petting zoo to participate, but they ought to appoint a committee
to oversee the animal care while they’re here on the Island.”

“Ahhh,
and
who were the lucky ones drafted for such a thankless
chore?”

“Four were chosen. Tulip, Harvey Peterson,
Kenny Mallard ...” Price set her cup on the on the coffee table and
kept rubbing the handle.

“And …? You said four. Who was the other
one?”

“They decided to get someone from off the
Island for an objective point of view.”

“Surely not...?”

“Me.”

“You? But we’re here to observe, not to get
involved.”

“Melody nominated me, and everyone seemed so
enthused. Frankly, I didn’t know how to get out of it.” Tony stood
up and stretched. “I guess that’s one way to get to know people
better.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

He tugged her to her feet. “I’ve got a
surprise for you.”

“This isn’t a dumb line to get me into your
bedroom, is it, Shadowbrook?”

“I can’t believe you’d think such a thing of
me.” He nuzzled her neck. “While I was waiting around, I did a
little exploration downstairs.”

“You mean, you sorted through Jessica
Reynolds’ things?”

“Kind of...”

“And you found something?”

He flipped on the light and led her
downstairs to a large family room, spare bedroom, and a storage
area. “I think I found some additional Grandma Jessica
paintings.”

“More original Davenports?”

“But they’re signed, ‘Reynolds.’ Look at
these.” Tony pulled out half a dozen unframed canvases from behind
a tall mahogany bureau.

“They don’t look like the others, but
they’re good. Very good.”

“It’s like she gave up on the ‘Two Girl’
motif. They sort of remind me of Norman Rockwell, that is, with the
realistic detail and the family life themes.”

“All the subjects are women,” Price
noted.

“But there’s a hint of tragedy or sorrow in
some of the faces, don’t you think?”

“Hmmm,
yes.
Each one tells a story within a story. When were they
painted?”

“They’re all dated between 1965 and 1970.
Isn’t that strange? It’s like she attempted a comeback twenty-five
years later. How come there wasn’t anything in the art book about
these?”

“Perhaps no one knows about them.” A chill
ran up her back. Price picked up a large stretched canvas of a
young girl in a heated argument with her mother over some lipstick.
“This is intriguing ... a simple, universal theme, yet an overlay
of haunting poignancy. Such a winsome quality. It expresses the
bond of family, but with all its potential for sudden change. And
sadness.”

Tony picked up another and hauled it out
toward the light, examining it more closely. “We’ve got to talk
with Melody’s grandmother. We’re not going to be happy with this
project until we do.”

After an hour of studying the pictures, Tony
and Price hiked up the stairs to the bright lights of the
kitchen.

“If we can get permission, how about
including some photos of these paintings in chapter six or seven?”
Tony asked.

“We haven’t finished discussing chapter
five.” Price scooped the pages off the dining table. “I can’t
believe you said this was too cluttered.”

“It’s too busy, too disjointed, too
distractive. We need to tighten it, that’s all.”

“I believe it reads quite nicely, just as it
is.”

“Everything ever written could be tightened
some. You know that.”

“Not this chapter. You know, Mr.
Shadowbrook, I’m not quite sure why I’m even here. The girls need
me in Scottsdale. You obviously don’t.”

“Of course I do. Don’t get so defensive.
We’re professionals..”

“Tony, you really don’t enjoy co-writing
projects, do you?”

“That’s not true. I love having you along. I
absolutely detest researching a project on my own, you know
that.”

“Oh sure, you like having me here. But I
wonder, is it for my wit or my dimples?”

Tony walked into the living room and plopped
on the sofa.

“Well?” she asserted.

“I’m thinking.”

“Then you can sit right there until you
decide. This doctor’s going to bed.” Price stole away in a
funk.

What’s wrong with me?

Tony didn’t totally deserve that outburst.
It was something to do with the paintings. They were troubling,
unsettling in how they depicted so perfectly the fragility of human
relationships.

Lord, protect me and Tony.

Chapter 6

The construction of the bridge in 1954
brought an end to Fox Islanders’ one hundred years of dependence on
boats for their existence. In the early days most families had
their own small craft, but everyone relied on the freight and ferry
services of commercial companies to bring supplies ... and to
deliver Island-grown produce to the Tacoma markets. The powerful
currents of the Narrows ensured that larger boats carrying people
and goods to the mainland would always be needed. From English
imported beaver in 1835 to the City of Steilacoom in 1954, supply
boats and ferries formed an important part of the daily cycle of
life on the Island.

Many of those life cycles ended at a grassy,
tree-lined knoll near the corner of Island Boulevard and 6th
Avenue.

Price, Tony and Melody meandered among the
tombstones of the Fox Island Cemetery. Looking more like a park for
picnickers than a resting place for the dead, the plot of ground
piled with pines, firs, and bushes and rimmed with a low, loose
railing of long, skinny tree trunks. A gentle semblance of a
boundary.

The July sun straight above them, morning
dew still clung to the grass. The toes of Price’s purple-trimmed
white tennies soaked in the moisture.

“When I was a little girl,” Melody was
saying, “I would cut through here on my way to Shelli’s house. I
thought it was a really brave thing to do, sort of a sign of
maturity: ‘I can walk clear through the cemetery by myself! ’ I
wonder why kids are so afraid of cemeteries?”

Tony led the way, notebook in hand, careful
to avoid stepping on markers or bumping monuments. “I suppose
there’s always a fear of the unknown ... and death is the ultimate
unknown. That is, if you choose to ignore the Bible’s teaching on
the matter. Melody, are these some of Harvey Peterson’s
relatives?”

“I think so.”

“He really did lose several in the war.”

Price shot some pictures of a tall
centennial time capsule and the inscriptions on several
gravestones, then rejoined Tony and Melody.

“You know, Dr. S., every time one of
Grandma’s friends dies, she refuses to go to the funeral. It’s like
she won’t admit they’re gone.”

“I think it’s probably to Satan’s advantage
to keep everyone scared of death. If he can convince us death is
the worst thing that can happen to us, then he’s got the leverage,
the control in our lives.”

Melody brushed loose wet grass off her
sandaled feet. “Dr. S., what’s worse than death?”

“Hell.”

“Oh ... yeah.” Melody tossed her long dark
hair, her expressive eyes hidden behind smoke-gray glasses. “You’re
the only professor I’ve ever known who thinks of that as a literal
place.” She stopped at a large raised marker. “Now here’s a sad
story. The Zimmers lived in that white house down from Grandma’s.
Mr. Zimmer was real sick for several years. He picked out this
stone with his name on one side and Emaline, his wife, on the
other, so they could be buried side by side. Well, right after he
died, Emaline moved to Bremerton and married a high school
sweetheart. He died last year, and everyone says there’s a big
stone in Bremerton with his and Emaline’s names on it. What we’re
all wondering is, which place will she be buried?”

Price took a photo of the marker. “Perhaps
Emaline will get married again.”

“Wow, I never thought of that. That would
really make it complicated.”

“Maybe they could cremate her and put a
little of the ashes at each site.”

“Tony!” Price squealed.

“Yeah, wouldn’t that be something?” Melody
said. “‘Where’s your mother buried?’ they’ll ask her kids. ‘At
Seattle, Bremerton and Fox Island.’”

They hiked up the crest of the knoll and
passed most of the flat markers. “I’d sure like to know all their
stories,” Price said, “but a name and date don’t tell us much.”

“Did you see the Japanese marker over
there?” Tony pointed back across the lawn. “I’ll bet Harvey
Peterson has a great explanation of that one.”

“Auntie Jill’s buried over there ... at the
wrought-iron fenced place. It’s our family plot, you might
say.”

The fence stood five feet tall with paint
peeling around the only section like it in the cemetery, ten by
twenty feet. Melody squeaked open the iron gate. “My great-grandpa
and great-grandma are buried here. They both died of the flu in the
late ’30s, four months apart.”

Tony hunched down and examined the stone.
“How old were the twins at the time?”

“In high school. They lived with an aunt for
a while, then left for Radcliffe. Here’s Auntie Jill’s marker.”

“So they shipped her body home for burial?”
Tony quizzed.

“Oh yeah. Grandma Jessie said the undertaker
in Iowa took care of Auntie Jill, then she accompanied the casket
on the train. The car they wrecked was totaled, so she rode in the
baggage car next to the coffin all the way home. She said they were
the longest two days of her life.”

Tony jotted a few lines in his notebook.
“Talk about feeling lonely and lost. I can’t imagine what it would
be like to lose an identical twin.”

“Why does it say just ‘J Davenport,’ instead
of her full name?” Price photographed the three-foot-high polished
black granite monument.

“Grandma Jessie said she was so
grief-stricken she couldn’t bear to see Jill’s name spelled out.
She always promised she’d get someone to finish it, but she’s never
done it.”

“So the girls lost their parents before they
graduated from high school, then Jill died in ’42. No wonder your
grandma still struggles with her death. There was no one in the
family left.” Price stooped to investigate the remnants of withered
flowers in a green glass vase. “That was some fancy bouquet. Looks
like gladiolus. Funny how they turned dark magenta when they died.
I’m used to white and light-colored ones. Did you put them out
here?”

“No, they must be left from June. Grandma
Jessie always has some sent out on June 2nd. But she never comes to
the grave.”

“They look fresher than that to me. Isn’t
that a card attached to one of the stems?”

Melody stooped to retrieve the faded card,
then jumped as if stung by a bee. “Oh, wow!”

Tony reached for her arm. “Are you all
right?”

“It’s him,” she shouted.

“Who?” Price glanced around. “Where?”

“No, look, the name on the card. It’s that
Bennington guy.”

Price took the card from Melody and read it,
“To Jill ... I’m sorry. Lloyd Bennington.”

“He didn’t happen to leave his address or
phone number, did he?” Tony put in.

“Hey!” Melody seized the card back. “This
florist is in Gig Harbor. They go to our church and I used to
baby-sit for them. Do you suppose they have this guy’s address or
something?”

Price leaned close to the wilted mass of
spikes, as though to draw some revealing scent from them. “It’s
certainly worth a try.”

“Oh, man, I’m going to add this to my novel.
Mystery guy flies in from Maryland, visits the grave, leaves
flowers ... then flies home to die. Am I talking bestseller or
what?”

Price led the trio back to the car.

An hour later, the Shadowbrooks scampered
around the house changing from damp denims to black Wranglers for
Tony and washed aquamarine silk for Price. She sorted through her
earring box searching for turquoise and silver. “Do you think
Melody will find a lead on Bennington?”

Tony pulled on a black-and-white sunburst
western shirt. “I don’t know, but she’s right about one thing. I
think there’s a story to be told.”

“Like, what’s the real reason he’s so sorry
that it would nag him to the grave? Should I wear the sedate round
ones or the Melody-sized ones?” She held both samples to her
ears.

“Definitely the long ones. I was thinking
the same thing about Bennington. He wasn’t just sorry she died. He
was sorry when he thought she might still be alive.”

“And it can’t merely be a conscience stirred
over a jilted girlfriend, could it? Why, if I had to go back and
apologize to every guy I ever dumped...”

“There you go bragging again.”

“But I probably did them all a great favor.”
She looked him all over. “Are you wearing your black boots?”

“No, the python belly.” Tony dug through the
closet. “I thought you told me they were all creeps.”

“The guys I dumped? Mostly creeps. Do you
think I ought to wear boots?”

“I don’t care, but your white boots with the
turquoise chain would be dynamite with that dress. So, only some
were creeps?”

She plopped on the bed and tugged on
one boot, then lay back on the comforter. “Well, there was
this
one
creep. Sort
of.”

Tony noticed the dimples shined. “What I
can’t figure, Professor, is how did such a selective and
discriminating beautiful young woman fall for a plain, older man
like me?”

Price stood, picked up a perfume bottle from
the dresser, and sprayed a playful squirt toward him. “Oh, Mr.
Shadowbrook, you remind me so much of my father.”