But why? Even insanity has its root reasons. Why had this woman perceived me as such a threat? And had she menaced anyone else?
Of course, there was the possibility, however remote, that my secret admirer wasn't Lolly at all. Someone could have planted the unpleasant handiwork among the dead woman's harmless love letters. If so, did that mean there was a connection between Lolly's death and the threats I'd received?
Those questions had no easy answers, so I concentrated on what Wendy told me. Bob Don was snooping in Lolly's room. I considered normal, everyday reasons first. Well, she was his aunt, and he had far more reason to be tiptoeing around her room than I did. Perhaps there was a keepsake of hers he'd wanted, or perhaps he was returning something he borrowed. After a moment's reflection, I favored the first explanation. Lolly left no children to squabble over her legacy, but I knew from personal experience family members sometimes helped themselves to particular belongings, without waiting for the will to be read. Perhaps Bob Don retrieved a gift he'd bestowed on Lolly long ago. That made sense.
That ripping noise of fabric I'd heard while he was allegedly in the room, however, didn't bolster that theory.
Or had he known-or suspected-that Lolly was a danger or a threat? I hadn't confided in him about the letters I'd received, but I had told Mutt and Candace. One of them might have mentioned my troubles to Bob Don.
And could Wendy have fibbed? What if she'd seen someone else in the hallway and was protecting that person from suspicion? But why?
I moaned to myself. Once again, as was my wont, I was spinning fantasies out of bare facts and suppositions. All I could say with certainty was that I'd seen Deborah enter and leave the room, that I'd found another piece of hate mail among Lolly's effects, and that I'd heard someone come in and out of that same room when I hid in the closet. Nothing more, nothing less.
Wendy had not said much after telling me she'd run into Bob Don in the hallway, and I had quickly left the room, my snooping career the victim of early retirement. I figured Wendy would fill Uncle Mutt's ear with my misadventure and I'd have to hem and haw my way through an explanation. I'd rely on my defense of having contributed previously to the successful resolution of murder cases.
Great tactic, I chided myself. Such an approach implied Lolly was murdered, and we couldn't know that with certainty. Considering her mental problems, swallowing a lethal dose of digitalis medication by her own hand was still the most likely explanation. Or Mutt was right, she simply had a heart condition she'd kept secret. Perhaps the note to call Jake's doctor was for her own health concerns, not his.
I stood and stared out my window, watching the heavy swells of water in the bay. The wind gusted hard for a summer day and I hoped no hot-weather storm was in the offing. The air felt restless, the breeze more an intrusive brush than a gentle caress. Clouds draped the sky, but they were kind and white, edged with a hint of gray, not threatening. The wind smelled of salt and the ocean's own timelessness.
I wondered when Uncle Mutt would be back and fretted about him. His insistence on going alone to deal with the administration of Lolly's cremation troubled me. One of us should have demanded to accompany him. It was a heavy burden to bear alone.
I stood at the window and leaned against the pane. I could tell Candace we didn't have to worry-my torturer was dead. It didn't lessen the odd grief I felt over Lolly's demise. Instead, I felt like the questions I needed answered had widened and deepened in import. Lolly wrote venom, and Lolly died.
I saw movement on the beach, and from the shade of a palm tree Candace and Deborah strolled idly onto the boat dock. Deborah pointed at the careening gulls that swooped and glided above the waves. I saw Candace shade her eyes with her palm, the wind tousling her hair like a lover's rough caress. Deborah put one hand on Candace's shoulder and I saw them both laugh at some private joke.
I liked Deborah-had liked her from the first moment I met her. I was glad that she and Candace became quick friends. But I still wanted to know why Deborah had snuck into Lolly's room. I couldn't dismiss her presence there as easily as I could Bob Don's. I admit to personal bias.
A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. I knew it wasn't Candace come to mend fences, so I didn't give a particularly hearty “Come in.”
Aubrey stuck his head in like he expected it to get chomped off. “Hi. Got a second?”
“As long as it's not for getting in touch with my inner Neanderthal, Aubrey.” I sat down and gestured toward a chair. “What's up?”
He ignored my rudeness, settling down with a folder and, to my dismay, a laptop computer.
“Heading off to do some work on your book?”
He smiled. “It's a nice day and I thought it would be good public relations to retire to the porch and woo the muse. Let everyone see that I've nothing to hide-and no one here has anything to worry about-in writing this book about families.” He paused for a moment. “Listen, Jordan, I'm sorry my mom went off on such a tear. She's just very blunt and plainspoken.”
“I like plainspoken, Aubrey. I just think that your mother's having a hard time accepting me into the family.” Hurt flared in his eyes and I tried to soften the blow. “Look, I know I was a big surprise to y'all. But that's not my fault. I'd like to make the best of a difficult situation.”
“Yes, so would I.” He drummed fingers along his computer and his folder of notes. “I know I can irritate people with my theories on human interaction, but I mean well. No one seems to understand that.”
I blinked. Here was Aubrey, who claimed to have anodynes for every emotional trauma, and he didn't have the first clue as to dealing with people. “Aubrey, you can't continually tell folks how to fix their problems. No one wants advice all the time. Sometimes they just want to vent and not be told what to do about their sadness or disappointment. Or anger.”
“Did you read my last book?”
“No,” I admitted. “I'm sorry, if I'd known you'd written it before I came here I would have. Bob Don didn't mention he had an author for a nephew.”
“Well, then, maybe you'll let me donate a copy to your library, and send a signed copy to you? I'd like to, since we haven't gotten off on the best foot.”
Kindness had been a rare treat since I arrived on the island, and I thought: You've judged him too quick, too harshly. But then I-being a terribly bad and suspicious person-remembered the heated whispers I'd heard between Sass and Aubrey on the staircase after my arrival. But if I kept jumping at every conclusion that presented itself, I'd break a leg. I offered my best smile to my cousin. “Of course, Aubrey. I'd be delighted to have a copy of your book.”
“The new one's going to be even better. I'm doing audio-tapes, videotapes, and a CD-ROM to go along with the text-taking therapy and self-awareness into the multimedia age.” He fixed me with a catlike stare that showed him to be his mother's son. “It must have been quite an experience to discover Bob Don was your father. The very idea of it just drips with potential personality destabilization. Such a basic challenge to your identity. Do you think you'd ever care to talk about it?”
So much for cousinhood without strings. Apparently my private life was destined to be a track on a self-help tape from hell. At that moment I forged my plan for dealing with Aubrey and his psychobabble. I would play stupid. After all, I was blond, so my slowness would be expected by those with less developed cerebellums. Aubrey qualified.
I sugared my voice, acting as though I'd suffered a sudden 1Q drop, and gave a slow, vacuous blink. “Well, sure, Aubrey, if you want me to. I'm not sure I'd ever really know how to describe how I felt.” If I'd had gum in my mouth, I'd have popped it. I gestured at the laptop. “You want to take notes with that?”