Who Page 6

  “Mr. Lee is here too,” Ms. Rosebud said. “I was hoping he’d come over and tell us a fortune.”

  “Tell you the truth, Miss,” whispered Mr. Jay. “He’s as much a fortune teller as I am.”

  She smiled warmly, “But he adds so much color to the place; without him, this would be just another watering hole.” She stroked the outside of her glass as if it were a kitten and then took a sip.

  “I suppose,” shrugged the keeper. “Well, I better be getting on back to the mistress. She turns sour when I’m gone too long.”

  “You’re married then?” Mr. Dover asked.

  “No, didn’t say she was my wife, she’s my Mother. Now there’s a tough bird you don’t want to cross. The real lighthouse keeper, she is. I only help.” The stout man nodded as if he were interested, but he wasn’t and was ready for Mr. Jay to take his leave. But Jay folded his arms to his chest and leaned into the wall, towering over the table. “So, since you and Miss Rosebud have some business to talk over, I guess I’ll be leaving.” He sighed longingly, needling the couple with his offhanded suggestion.

  “Business, what business?” bristled Mr. Dover suspiciously, turning his face upward and hissing like an alligator.

  “I don’t know exactly; just some business between you and Miss Rosebud. I happened to overhear you two talking, nothing special. I hear all kinds of things. Don’t mind what I say; some believe I’m just an old fool,” he remarked, and placing his hat on the back of his head, began to step away from the table. “If you want, I’ll ask Mr. Lee to come on over.”

  “Oh, don’t bother, Mr. Jay, and please, don’t pay any attention to my friend. He’s overly sensitive,” she said with a cheerful disposition. “Please send my regards along to your Mother.”

  The seaman nodded agreeably, and while maneuvering between the tables began muttering to himself. A few indiscernible words floated back to the table. “Did that old codger just call me a horse’s ass?” stammered Mr. Dover. His eyes pierced the back of the keeper’s head as he watched the man exit.

  “I do believe he said something like that,” remarked his companion. “It was rather stupid of you to even engage in conversation. He does provide a useful function around here being as he runs the ferry.”

  “But he said that he heard us talking!” whispered the agitated man. “He heard things, Tamaya, things between people are private.”

  “And as he said, some people think he’s a fool.”

  Harold Dover tossed a few bills on the table and pulled out her chair. “Want me to call you a cab,” he asked.

  “No, don’t bother. I think I’ll have a bit of fun with Mr. Lee and stick around. Go on back home, and I’ll speak with you in a day or so.” She gave him a light peck on the cheek and gently nudged him towards the door like a mother hen. A feeling of relief ignited as she watched Dover exit, and then she turned around. “Mr. Lee, do tell my fortune.” Ms. Rosebud leaned her cane by the mystic’s corner of the bar and handed him a ten-dollar bill. He looked at her outstretched hand and then pushed it away. “No, I insist,” replied the woman and placed it on the counter. “Will you?” she asked again.

  The face-reader nodded and slipped off the barstool. “We will sit over there,” he instructed and pointed to a table next to the window. “Better light.” He rolled the bill and placed it behind his ear like a cigarette and walked gracefully over to the table. Mr. Lee was a slight fellow with bronzed arms and hands. One might say he was flamboyant; he preferred the term colorful. The woman followed him without the aid of her cane with remarkable ease.

  He raised his eyes and gestured for her to sit down. She almost expected to see a crystal ball in the center of the table and dared not show her amusement. Mystical silence settled around the table as she sat down. Catching the attention of the barkeep, Mr. Lee raised two fingers. In just a matter of moments, a red-haired waitress slinked over with a tray. “Tea, just the way you like it, Mr. Lee,” giggled the girl. “Spiked.” He didn’t answer; he was too busy examining Ms. Rosebud’s face. He pulled his chair closer to hers and closed his eyes. He raised his hands, settling them on the crown of her head, followed nimbly along her brow line, pressing gently down the sides of her face, and then stopping, he cupped just her chin. His lids were sealed shut, and only his head cocked to the side. Then he took his fingers and ran them across her chin and back up the side of her head. He opened his eyes and pulled his hands away. The waitress was hiding behind the post when the sage gave her a hard stare sending her running back to the bar.

  “Well?” asked Ms. Rosebud.

  “I am thinking,” said the soothsayer. “One cannot just spout the first thing that comes out of his mouth.”

  “I suppose not,” agreed the client. She lifted the glass of tea and then set it down quickly. She bowed her head over the rim and blew across the liquid. “Hot,” she replied. He nodded, but as if in direct contrast to what she said, he lifted his glass to his lips and slurped greedily.

  “I can feel something right here,” he said and ran his index finger over her brow. “You are waiting for something,” he asserted.

  “Yes, I am,” she said and wrinkled her forehead.

  “This wait, it’s been a long time.”

  “Why, yes, how did you know!”

  He looked at her with displeasure, “But there is something or someone who will try to impede what you are waiting for.” He reached forward and closed his eyes as he ran his fingers over her cheekbone. “The apples do not lie.” He hesitated again, and then with his hands holding her face, he opened his eyes and sighed. “You will have to be patient. It may not be the right time to get what you want.”

  “You said apples.”

  “Yes, those are the apples, and yours are not pink but instead sallow.” He pointed to her cheeks.

  “Well, what can I do?”

  He shrugged and then with gusto, drank the rest of his tea. “It is not for me to give advice, only for me tell you to wait.”

  ***

  When Ms. Rosebud returned home, she felt positively energized. It had taken years to amass her personal library’s collection, and after a considerable amount of money, she had finally located the survivors of her classic favorites. Most all the characters had passed on, but the few remaining would be honored guests. She was happy. Nearly all of her career was committed to this project; she cared little for being a librarian, but it was a means to an end. “Where would you like your tea, Madame.” It was Salisbury, her favorite houseman. There had been others, but Salisbury was the only one that seemed to understand her needs. Such as now. He was standing before her with the silver tea service.

  “Set it in the library, Salisbury. And why don’t you join me in a nightcap.” Salisbury might be her butler, but he was also a good confidant.

  “If you wish, Madame.” The man hoped his displeasure was not evident as he followed her and placed the teapot on the table beside the davenport.

  “I’ll take a sherry and pour yourself what you like. I believe there is still a bit of raspberry brandy in the cabinet.”

  The observant eyes of Ms. Rosebud noted the animated expression of the houseman as he quoted aloud, “Raspberry brandy, my favorite.”

  She fingered several books on the shelf and then turned back and sat down empty-handed. “Salisbury, do you find me peculiar?”

  “Peculiar, Madame?” Such a question could lead him into trouble. He knew he had to be quite careful with his answer.

  “Yes, peculiar, odd, you know.”

  “I never noticed anything odd or peculiar, Madame.”

  “You’re not just saying that because you’re under my employment, are you, Salisbury? Because if you thought so, I do hope you would be honest. I would never hold your opinions against you.”

  “Naturally, Madame,” he lied and took a sip of his brandy.

  “Well, I just have the f
eeling most people find me odd. Well, maybe odd isn’t exactly what I mean. No, not odd; maybe eccentric.”

  “Eccentric?” the houseman said, adding a touch of doubt at the end of the word. “I never thought of you as eccentric.”

  She was getting irritated now and wondered why she had even brought up the suggestion. “Such uncertainty about one’s self can be so unsettling,” she thought. Suddenly she wished she was alone. “If anyone was odd, it was Salisbury. The way he slinks around like an oversized cat,” she scoffed to herself. “No, he was peculiar, not she!”

  The old clock on the mantle chimed nine times. A most reliable clock with its ornate gold hands and white Roman numerals. “I must take my leave, Madame,” said the houseman. “Early to bed, early to rise, as the saying goes.” He stood up and leaned forward, waiting for her to hand him her glass. “Shall I pour your tea now?”

  “No, I’ll have it in a few minutes,” she contended.

  “Is there anything else, Madame?”

  A moment slipped away before she spoke. “Then if I am not odd, nor peculiar or eccentric, what then would you say?” she asked.

  Salisbury, who hadn’t time to come up with an answer, commenced to waver. “Well, Madame, I have never contemplated such a question.”

  “Nonsense man, everyone has an opinion. I, for one, have my own opinion of you. I think you’re a bit of a bore.”

  “A bore, Madame?” His eyes widened as he kept his composure.

  “Yes, a regular stuffed-shirt.”

  “Thank you, Madame.”

  “Now, what about me?” she petitioned.

  “Well, if I must,” he said.

  “You must,” she demanded.

  “You, Madame, are a prig.”

  “Prig!” she exclaimed, covering her hand over her mouth.

  “Yes, Madame, a prig.”

  “Oh,” she said, conceding to his remark. “But not odd or peculiar.”

  “Absolutely not,” he reiterated.

  “Well then, that’s refreshing. I come from a long line of prigs, you know,” she added with contentment.

  “Indeed, Madame,” agreed the relieved man. “I have met many prigs in my line of work; however, I find you most enjoyable to work for.”

  “Thank you, Salisbury. I will remember that.”

  If either party was thinking about the other’s opinions, it did not show outwardly. As Ms. Rosebud picked up her book to read, and Salisbury coasted away with unruffled certainty, there was no trace of animosity. Evidently, they had a very satisfying relationship.

  Chapter 7

  Mr. Jay sank into the wingback chair, and although he appeared tired and logy, his appearance was no longer of anyone’s primary concern. The dead man upstairs was robbing him of any leftover sympathy. “I never had any trouble eating strawberries before,” he attested. “Like I said, never been sick a day in my life from strawberries.”

  “Well, something didn’t agree with you,” Norman said with indifference.

  “I suppose, but it sure wasn’t those strawberries,” the sea crab muttered.

  “Well, this entire situation certainly is a problem, a huge problem,” cried Tisbe aloud. “I would like to abandon this entire adventure and go home.

  “I’ll second that,” grumbled Wolfe.

  “I’m afraid you can’t until we fix the engine. No one gets on or off this island until then,” remarked Jay.

  “Well, I am sure there are other vessels we can hire,” said Mr. Dover.

  “Not really, sonny. This isn’t tourist season. Most of the visitors moored their boats, and any skiff out there would be too small to handle the swells.”

  “What about the police?” announced the agent with callous assumption, “don’t we have to get them here to remove Mr. Stiltskin?” A horrified Tisbe shaken by the idea of a corpse recoiled from Dover’s insensitive remark.

  “Right now, you better just sit tight.” Mr. Jay had become emboldened with the prospect that, by proxy, he was the only person who could help this group. And until the weather subsided, no one would be going anywhere without him.

  Tisbe sulked with gloomy disappointment. “Cheer up, missy,” said Goldie. “If you’re lucky, I’ll play a little poker with you and whoever else wants to lose their pocket change.”

  “Aren’t you a bit giddy for someone who was in the presence of a dead man just a few hours ago?” charged the sister.

  “Well, if I know Ray, and I did, he wouldn’t want us all sitting around moping. I believe this calls for drinks!”

  “What you are implying is that we hold a wake,” said Tisbe.

  “Yeah, a wake, or something like that.” But the mood in the room was more than grim. Only Mr. Wolfe found the suggestion a good one, after which he took it upon himself to uncork the whiskey bottle. Judging by the half-empty bottle, he wondered if Goldie had already swiped a nip.

  “Any takers?” he asked as he poured a shot for himself.

  “If it’s for Ray, we should all be in,” said Norman, and looking around the room, he counted a solemn full house. Everyone was present except Javotte.

  “Has anyone seen my sister?” Tisbe asked, looking at her watch. She sipped her drink and glanced up in the direction of the staircase. “Javotte,” she shouted, lifting her voice. “Come on down; we’re having a wake.”

  “Wake hell, you’ll wake the dead with that voice!” exclaimed Mr. Dover.

  Everyone laughed except Tisbe, who decided to pour herself another shot. “Perhaps I’ll go and get her,” muttered the sister as she threw the drink to the back of her throat. Reluctantly she set her empty glass on the table and followed the winding banister upward.

  The hostess was in deep despair. Her wonderful celebration ruined, as was her reputation. “Just think of it,” she whispered to Peri, “in just a few short hours, things have gone from bad to worse. Imagine, a dead man upstairs in one of my bedrooms, and the murderer is sitting in this room.”

  “Not unless it’s Javotte,” smiled Peri.

  “True, that is true. But I sincerely doubt that prudish woman is the killer.”

  “And why not,” exclaimed Goldie, eavesdropping.

  “Simply because she isn’t the type.”

  “Not the type, so what is the type?” Goldie asked.

  “Well, someone that is not her, that’s all,” rebuked Ms. Rosebud.

  “You sound pretty sure of yourself,” mocked the old woman. “If I were a betting woman, and I am, I’d say you already got your own opinion of who it is.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” argued Tamaya. “I haven’t the faintest notion of who the murderer might be. Why it could be an imposter, someone who snuck into the house when we weren’t looking!”

  “An intruder,” corrected Peri. “Maybe, maybe an intruder.”

  “Intruder?” Mr. Wolfe’s ears perked up. “I didn’t mention it before, but maybe I should have.”

  “Mention what, Wolfe?” Peri inquired. For a reason she couldn’t pinpoint, she felt uncomfortable around this fellow.

  “Well, during my walk earlier today, I was met by a young man who claimed he was Jay’s son, Reggie, I think he said his name was.”

  “Reggie!” exclaimed the hostess. “Reggie was here?”

  “No, well, yes and no. I sent the boy on his way to see if he could find a doctor for his father.”

  “Why didn’t you mention it before?” Peri asked, asserting a directness usually reserved for the trial box.

  “Because it didn’t seem very important.” He glared defiantly and then continued. “So, if you’re looking for an intruder, maybe you ought to start with him.” Wolfe sulked back to his chair next to the window and proceeded to look outside.

  “It might have been Reggie; I never liked him, not one bit!” scolded Tamaya.

  “But what would
be his reason. Certainly, the boy had no malice towards Ray. I am sure they had never even met,” assured Peri.

  The logic was there, but the hostess was not convinced. “The more I think about it, the more I bet that hoodlum had something to do with poor Ray’s demise.”

  “It does seem rather unlikely,” added Mr. Dover, who was sitting in his seat like an overstuffed hen on a nest. “There just isn’t a motive.”

  “That we know of,” she reminded the two optimists. “Oh, he’s a very sneaky boy, came right into this house one time when I was not at home. Had not been for Salisbury, heaven only knows what he might have stolen.”

  “Did he take anything?” Mr. Dover asked.

  Ms. Rosebud sat in judgment of the intruder before executing her response. “No, nothing that I can account for. But the mere fact that he had entered the house through an open window makes him a common criminal in my book.”

  “Sounds like a boy’s prank,” Dover said. “Right of passage and all that stuff.”

  “Dreadful, that’s what I say. Dreadful.”

  “But to accuse him of murder?” Peri asked. “Perhaps that is a bit farfetched. Right now, all our imaginations are working overtime.”

  “Well, if it isn’t that thug, who do you suppose it could be?” There was no mistaking her distrust of each guest as her eyes roamed the room with suspicion.

  Mr. Dover slid to the edge of his seat and leaned forward. “Wolfe. If there were anyone to suspect, it would be him.” The accuser sank back into his chair and winked at Peri. But apparently, she did not agree with his challenge and nodded a silent “no.” “Who then?” he asked.

  For the second time this day, she was cornered into offering her opinion but hesitant to provide one. Frankly, she hadn’t any. As far as she could tell, it could be anyone in the room. “I’m not sure,” she remarked. “We have to weigh all the suspects, and then perhaps one will bubble to the top.”