I was about to check it out, just to be safe, when Schanno got up and shifted himself so that he could look through the porch window, which was directly behind the sofa. He stared awhile as the swing kept up its quiet rhythm. He glanced my way, and I pretended sleep. He slipped from the sofa and padded to the front door. After a minute of hesitation, he pushed the screen door open and stepped outside.
The regular beat of the porch swing ceased. I heard their voices, hushed. I heard rain dripping from the eaves. I heard a car drive past, its tires sighing on wet pavement.
Then the swing began again.
Wally Schanno did not return to the sofa that night.
In the morning, I found Schanno and Pollard in the kitchen. Crisp bacon lay on a plate on the table, eggs were frying in a pan on the stove, coffee was fresh and hot in the brew pot, and bread was ready to be dropped into the toaster. The rain had long ago ended, and the sun was rising in the sky like a bubble in a champagne glass. Pollard wore a white terry-cloth robe. Her feet were bare, her hair brushed, her eyes happy. Schanno had on a T-shirt, plaid sleep bottoms, and a big grin.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Pollard said. “Coffee?”
“Thanks.”
“Sit down.” Schanno wielded a spatula, which he aimed at the small kitchen table.
I sat. Pollard poured coffee while Schanno tended the eggs.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Give me a minute. But probably.”
“Hope you like your eggs over easy,” Schanno said. “Only way I know how to cook ’em.”
“Over easy’s fine, Wally.”
“How’s that toast coming, Trinky?”
“Going down,” she said.
Then she laughed, as if it was the funniest thing she’d heard in forever. Schanno laughed, too.
“You guys sleep okay?” I asked.
“Marvelously well,” Pollard said.
Marvelously was drawn out and affected, the way Tallulah Bankhead might have said it. They both laughed some more.
“Henry up yet?” I asked.
“Gone for a walk,” Schanno replied. “He said he’d be back for breakfast.”
I heard the front door open, and at the same time, the toast popped up.
“On cue,” Pollard sang. “What timing.”
Meloux came in looking refreshed. He was beaming just as brightly as the other two. Everyone seemed to have had a better night than me.
“It is a good day,” Henry pronounced. “On this day, I will see my son.”
Schanno lifted the coffee cup that sat near him on the counter. “To this day,” he toasted.
Trinky Pollard did the same.
Despite the sunny morning and dispositions, I’d awakened with a sense that we were all swimming upstream against a current of doom. Why, I didn’t know. But I didn’t want my concern to infect the others. Who was I, anyway, to blunt their optimism?
I raised my cup. “To this day, Henry,” I said and hoped it was true.
Over breakfast, we talked specifics. I proposed that Meloux and I go together to see Rupert Wellington.
“I’ve spoken with him before, so he knows me. Henry will tell his story, and we’ll see what Wellington does.”
“What if he refuses to see you?” Schanno’s elbows were on the table, and his coffee cup was lost in the grip of his big hands.
“When I trot out Preston Ellsworth’s name, I’m betting he’ll want to talk,” I said.
Pollard said, “In the meantime, I’ll see what I can run down on that contact number Ellsworth gave us. And also the company that’s been paying for his performances.”
“Don’t say anything about this to the police yet, Trinky,” I suggested. “I’d rather we get what we can from Rupert Wellington first.”
“Understood.”
“What about me?” Wally asked.
Over her cup, Pollard smiled at him, impish and beautiful. “You, Mr. Schanno, can do the dishes.”
FORTY-THREE
Rupert Wellington saw us immediately. I didn’t know what that meant beyond the probability that when his secretary passed Preston Ellsworth’s name to him along with my own, I hit pay dirt.
He was standing in front of his glass-topped desk, which seemed like a postcard compared to the size of the window behind it that overlooked the bay, which dwarfed them both. He’d crossed his arms, not the most cordial body language for greeting visitors. Nor was the scowl on his face. He didn’t ask us to sit in either of the plush visitors’ chairs.
He got down to business the moment his secretary closed the door behind us. “What do you want?”
“First to introduce my friend here, Henry Meloux. Henry, Rupert Wellington.”
Wellington refused to offer his hand-a tradition Henry had never been particularly fond of anyway-and we skipped the formality.
“Preston Ellsworth’s name opened the door to us pretty fast. It’s clear you know about Ellsworth.”
“What are you here for? Money?”
“No.”
“Then what exactly are you going to do with what you know?”
“At the moment, nothing.”
“At the moment?”
“Eventually the police will have it, but I’d like to talk to your brother first.”
“The whole point of hiring Preston Ellsworth was to keep people from bothering my brother. Look, Hank’s a man who can have anything in this world, and all he wants is privacy, Mr. O’Connor. I’m not going to disappoint him in that.”
“Would it matter why I want to see him?”
“It has to do with that watch, I presume.”
“It’s gone far beyond the watch, Mr. Wellington. Or didn’t Morrissey tell you that before he died?”
“The police interviewed me yesterday afternoon. I’ll tell you what I told them about Morrissey. I didn’t know the man. I have no knowledge of the relationship that might exist between him and my brother. End of story.”
“Who arranged for Morrissey to escort me to the island?”
“I don’t know. My part in that was simply to pass along your request to Hank. What goes on with Manitou Island is completely in his hands. That’s the way it’s always been.”
“Hank?” Meloux said, as if testing the word on his tongue.
Wellington glanced at him and seemed both puzzled and annoyed by his presence.
“You have nothing to do with the island?” I went on.
“My brother bought out my interest in the island when he decided to step back from the world. Whatever goes on there is in Hank’s hands.”
“And you have no idea why your brother might want Henry Meloux dead?”
Wellington paused a moment and understanding entered his blue eyes. “Henry Meloux. You’re the one who shot this Morrissey fellow.”
“He was going to shoot me,” Henry said simply.
I tried again. “Do you know why your brother might want Henry dead?”
Wellington looked at me. The steel returned to his eyes. “That question presupposes that he does.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
Wellington finally uncrossed his arms. He turned away and wandered to the window where he stood looking at the bay that lay shining in the morning sun. From there, he could see Sleeping Giant and, in its shadow, Manitou Island.
“Since my brother stepped down as head of Northern Mining, I’ve tried very hard not to be curious about his activities. It’s pointless, for one thing. Hank behaves as he behaves. That’s all there is to it.”
“For one thing?”
He faced us and looked resigned. “He’s brilliant, Mr. O’Connor. But when Roslyn died-that was his wife-when she died, he had a bit of a crack-up. It was a rough time for him. He wanted to step back from everything. The company, the public, even from his own family. I tried to talk him out of it. We all did. His children, me, his friends. But with Hank, once he’s made up his mind, that’s pretty much all she wrote.
“He concocted this scheme, having an actor step in for him, to divert the eye of the media, and he slipped away to the solitude he desired. I believe that at first he thought it would be a short-term situation, just until he felt able to deal with life again. But he found the isolation to his liking. So far as I know, he’s not planning to come back into the world anytime soon.”