ON THE WAY back to Robin Island, my head still pounding with the litany of reproaches from my mother about what she had considered far too short a visit resounding in my ears, I made a stop at Night Eyes, the spy shop. I left Olivia in the car with the iPad Santa Claus had brought her, relieving me of the promise I’d made.
“Hey, favorite blonde! What bring you here?” Antonio’s effusiveness and quirky English were comforting despite the place’s ambience of secrecy and espionage.
Almost a month had passed since I had hid the snitches. The good news: not even a single slip-up that could expose me. The bad news: I hadn’t made it far in my investigations. I always had the slight feeling that the snitches were really just little soldiers sent out to be sacrificed for the sake of their older brothers. The ones who disembark first, rush to the front lines, and do the dirty work. Of course, one of them could find glory and carry out his mission with honors, sure, but the majority were only good for cannon fodder and making a sweep of the terrain. The snitches were my way of gaining confidence, of showing myself that I could get into people’s houses with something small, easy to place, and impossible to find. Because I knew very clearly what my real objective was. It wasn’t just listening. It was listening and seeing. Spy cameras.
“Hi, Antonio. I need to see.”
“I know. You completely blind because you no see my beauty.”
“Cameras, Antonio. I want cameras.”
“Ah, power of images. Impossible make comparison.”
Ruby started complaining, not too much, just enough to remind me it was time to breastfeed her.
“Grumpy baby,” Antonio said. “Like mother, like daughter.”
“She’s hungry. Just a minute now, babe.” I calmed Ruby down, cradling her in my arms, while I went on with my business. “I’m looking for a miniature camera, pinhole lens, wireless, with an internal battery, motion sensor and streaming signal retransmission, with a range of more than a mile.”
“Well, well, well . . . I see you done homework, Blondie . . .”
“Have good teacher,” I said, imitating his delivery.
“Hope I learn English as fast as you learn spy.”
When Ruby realized that her mother wasn’t going to satisfy her desires, she raised the volume of her complaints. I had on a T-shirt for lactating mothers, with a horizontal slit that opened up to nurse discreetly, so in a matter of seconds Ruby was feeding. Although it was impossible for Antonio to see anything, his fantasy took over.
“Third date and you already show tit. Maybe a little fast, Blondie . . .” he said, his eyes fixed on a breast he couldn’t see.
I laughed.
“The camera, Antonio . . .”
“Ah, of course, Blondie. How long you want batteries last?”
“Uh, well . . . forever?”
“Same as me with this moment . . .”
Antonio no longer asked what I wanted things for or cracked jokes about it. He had learned not to pull too hard on the thread of our trust. He asked me basic questions I had answers for. I had spent a long time on the internet looking at different types of cameras, but I also wanted someone to consult with, to perfect my plan. Interior or exterior? Interior. Distance between the camera and signal receiver? Three miles, minimum. Open space or with walls in between? Walls. With sound? Yes. Lighting conditions? All types, something adaptable. Price? Not a worry.
Of all the models he took out, the most appealing one—which had already been on my list of favorites—was an IP mini-camera with a pinhole lens. Ninety-degree vision angle, CMOS sensor and a resolution of 626 × 582 pixels. It was motion activated and could be on standby up to a year with a 3.7-volt lithium battery. It also had a night vision mode. It was so small, it could be hidden inside anything, which was fundamental to my purposes. It had an integrated microcomputer that connected to the internet through a fixed IP address, and it could offer real-time displays or record what was happening even if you were thousands of miles away. Price: $599. For the moment, I only wanted one. One camera never enough. Cameras like eyes. Need two to look better at things. So I bought two. My Christmas gift to myself.
As soon as we got off the ferry and had passed the totem pole, Olivia got her color back and smiled. I took that as a good sign, that she had missed her home, her things and Oliver, always Oliver. Maybe she had gotten sick in Providence because everything there reminded her of her father. Now I just had to get her to quit counting every damn thing in the universe.
Before we went home, we had lunch with Miriam at Le Café. I missed you, neighbor, she said to me. Missed you too, I said to her, and it made me feel good to actually mean it. Once I’d made sure she wasn’t going to leave me hanging at the dinner party for Karen’s forty-fifth birthday, just for a few friends and her brother, Keith—another setup, in other words—I stopped in at Dan DeRoller’s hardware store to pick up an order I’d made over the phone: slats for picture frames, twenty-three by fifteen inches, and a ten-by-thirty-foot roll of raw canvas—a little thicker than the type I like to use—and two cans of acrylic paint to prime it. I like to build the frames and stretch my own canvasses. It’s a ritual that precedes the act of painting, maybe to help dispel the fear of the void that comes from staring at a blank canvas. In fact, I primed them with three or four layers of light gray. White put me off, blinding me and blocking my ideas.
I wasn’t going to do a painting. Well, I was, but then the painting was going to become a decorative clock. Earlier, on the internet—this was one thing I could get that way—I had bought all the parts necessary to make a wall clock: a noiseless quartz pendulum mechanism; an hour, minute and second hand; and roman numerals.
I had taken a number of photos of the façade of Karen’s Petite Maison, which was a Second Empire Victorian. It looked a lot like House by the Railroad, the Edward Hopper painting that was said to be the inspiration for Norman Bates’s house in Psycho. So, given the resemblance to the Hopper, I decided to paint the house, in imitation of the great master.
My objective was to create a painting-clock to give to Karen as a substitute for her grandfather’s antique cuckoo clock, the one I had accidentally destroyed. A birthday present with a surprise inside. The camera I had just bought would be hidden inside, capturing her office from a small hole near the number twelve.
The painting ended up much better than I’d imagined. I suppose that since it was made-to-order, in an imitation of someone else’s style, and it had to be done quickly, the pressure had inspired me. In just a few days, I did what was probably one of the best paintings I had ever done in my life. Now I had to poke holes in it to arrange the clock mechanism and stick the numbers into the canvas with the help of Olivia, who made no bones about criticizing the chaos of the Roman numeral system.
I left the most delicate part, the most important part, for the end: inserting the camera. But that was fairly easy too. Once it was stuck with Loctite and duct tape to the back of the canvas—to protect it from potential clawing by Dingleberry—I looked at the picture very closely, at the little hole the camera peeked out of, to be sure it was barely perceptible. There was nothing left but to seal the picture from behind to safeguard my trap. I took extreme measures. I made a reinforced wooden frame—no plywood here—with a hole in the middle to be able to manipulate the clock mechanism, set the hour, change the battery, but without a chink where you could make out or reach the camera. I screwed the top onto the frame and placed a metal slat over it so the screws would be out of reach of any screwdriver. I shook it energetically like a drunk who’s lost her judgment—like Karen, in other words. Perfect. Everything was in place. Now I just needed to find mine. That was going to be more complicated.
“Well, my goodness, how amazing, Alice!” Karen said enthusiastically when I handed her the present. “What an artist you are! It looks like that painter who paints those depressed people.”
“Hopper,” I said.
“That one!”
“Well, I wanted . . .”
“I love it. I’m going to have to sign up for one of your classes.”
“Well, it’s not as special or valuable as your grandfather’s clock, but I wanted to do something for you . . .”
“What are you saying, I like this one much better. This is exclusive; it’s mine. Come on, help me hang it up.”
At first the image looked pixelated and jumpy. I cursed all the money and especially the effort I’d put in, which added to the perennial feeling since I’d moved to the island that I was being an idiot and that everything was going to turn out badly, regardless of what path I took. But the distortion lasted only for a moment, as if the camera was reawakening after a long period of inaction; then the image resolution was clear and fluid. The fact that the islanders had agreed not to erect any cell phone towers—despite the bad coverage that guaranteed—meant that the signal was clear and potent, without interference. Kudos to the local government and their commitment to preserving public health and the environment.
Karen looks directly at the camera, at the clock, while she makes sure it’s securely attached to the wall behind the desk. A few steps back and a broad smile. Me behind her.
KAREN: Beautiful, just fantastic. (Her face changes, she turns to me.) But wait a second . . . This isn’t some kind of trick?
ME: Trick, why? I don’t know what you’re talking about.
KAREN: Why’d you bring it to me now?
ME: Well, it is your birthday. It’s your present.
KAREN: So why didn’t you wait to bring it to me the night of the dinner?
ME: I don’t know, just . . .
KAREN: Don’t tell me you’re not coming to dinner. Is that why you’re here now? Is this some kind of trick to weasel out of it?
ME: No, I just didn’t feel like giving it to you in front of everybody, what if you didn’t like it . . . So I thought that . . .
KAREN: Don’t give me the run around. Are you coming or not?
ME: Obviously I’m coming. (That’s part of my plan. I have to be there.) I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.
The office was empty and the camera was on standby. It came on a few hours later, when Karen was vacuuming. Then when Dingleberry got on the table to nose around and finally fell asleep next to a document tray. Minutes later, Karen came in with a glass of wine in her hand to answer the phone.
KAREN (Picks up.): Karen’s Petite Maison, how can I help you . . . ? Of course, tell me what date you had in mind . . . Valentine’s Day? Good choice, let me look . . .
Karen moves the mouse and the screen turns on. She types three numbers on the keyboard.
Pause. Rewind. Zoom in 200 percent. Play. Three numbers: 128. Pause. Rewind. Play. No, it was 108. Pause. Rewind. Play. Yes, it was 108. That was obvious, because Karen’s inn was at 108 West Neck Road. Blessed eyes, how I’ve missed you.
“Girls, what do you think of Alice’s gift?! Isn’t it the best?! Watch out, now, with this present, Alice is now at the head of the race for Keith . . .”
Karen was completely looped. Forty-five, girls! What a bitch! Forty-five sounds too serious, doesn’t it? That, and the absence of John, who had gone to the Groton naval base in Connecticut a few days before, gave her free rein to cut loose with her own particular spectacle: something between a nightclub standup comic and someone hawking self-inflating mattresses on a shopping network.
Luckily, apart from Keith, she had also invited Miriam, Jennifer and Barbara, whom I’d barely had contact with. Now I had the chance to get to know her better, and I didn’t have to deal with Karen’s harassment on my own.
“Hey, so this dinner is secret, it stays between us; otherwise, everyone else will find out and get their panties in a wad. But I said to myself, I want this dinner to be intimate with my brother, Keith. Fun with single girls. And you all are the cream of the single-women crop on this island. Well, sorry, Jennifer, you’re not there yet, but you know, no reason not to start playing the field, know what I mean?”
I saw the remorse on Jennifer’s face at having accepted the invitation. We all had a similar expression on our faces, even Keith—although he always did a little bit. I had insisted that Jennifer come, because she seemed to really have her hands full with the Summer situation. Their constant arguments and reconciliations were exhausting; they razed everything in their path. I figured it would be good for her to get out of that oppressive atmosphere. Plus, with alcohol flowing freely, who knew if she might let her hair down and spill her guts. Her or any of the rest of them.
“I’m not single either, Karen,” said Barbara, who looked the least uncomfortable of anyone there. “Jeffrey and I are still together.”
“Well, that’s not what I’ve heard. A little bird told me that they’ve been seeing your pilot in and around the island with a girl from Martha’s Vineyard. A sugar mama. He’s no fool, your boy.”
Barbara turned red as a tomato. She’d been busted.
“OK, so we’re taking a little bit of time for ourselves, that’s all.” She wanted to dodge the issue.
Why are they taking some time for themselves? I wondered. How long has that been going on? A burst of pettiness rattled my body. How little I knew. Everything was still completely out of my reach . . .
“Yeah, sure, ‘taking a little time for ourselves.’ That’s what they always say. That’s one of those euphemisms or whatever they’re called.” Karen’s mind was getting cloudy, and she was starting to slur. “You need another man that can make you fly higher than Jeffrey with his air taxi. Keith doesn’t just have a yacht; he’s got a helicopter. Did you know that?”
This was like an episode of The Bachelor, with the four of us as contestants. Number one: Miriam McCarthy, from the real estate agency, recently separated, with a precious daughter, Chloe. Contestant number two: Jennifer Fay, with a husband in a vegetative state and an unruly niece pregnant by God knows whom. Contestant number three: Barbara Rush, from Horse Rush Farms, a beautiful veterinarian with sky blue cat eyes, almost single, looking for another pilot who can make her fly high. And, last but not least, Alice Dupont, artist, widow, with two daughters, Olivia and Ruby. There they are: a blonde, a brunette, one with black hair and a redhead. Which one will our golden bachelor Keith Zarpentine choose?
Keith, without John there, was more relaxed and a more active participant. Plus, Karen hogging the conversation meant that there was less time for her to play cupid with her poisoned darts, and we were all thankful for that.
“Three siblings. Karen, Katherine and Keith. KKK. What kind of parents do that? What kind of subliminal message are they trying to send to the rest of the world? KKK.”
Keith laughed. “Well, the truth is, our father, may he rest in peace, was always a little racist.” And he added, as if it were an unconfessable secret, “He was in the Tea Party.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, being in the Tea Party doesn’t mean you’re racist,” Karen interrupted.
“No, you’re right, it means being a goddamned intolerant conservative.”
It was the first time I’d heard Keith curse. He clearly had unresolved issues with his father.
“So, what, you’re a Democrat now? You can’t be that filthy rich and be a Democrat; it’s incompatible. I’m sorry, little brother. So choose. Filthy rich or Democrat? Miriam, Jennifer, Alice or Barbara? But then, with all the bedrooms you have in that castle of yours, you could put them all up. Maybe you should convert to Mormonism . . .”
Karen’s laughter. Silence.
“I think we need more wine . . .” I said, getting up and taking the empty bottle. “The rest of us, anyway . . .”
“Right, let the wine flow, the elixir of truth. A bunch of wet blankets, that’s what you all are . . .”
I had decided not to do it during dinner. That was pushing my luck too far. Too unpredictable. Too many people and too many variables, and with Karen bubbling over like a volcano, something unpredictable was likely to happen. So when I went to the kitchen. I passed by the office without stopping. Better to do it another time, another day. A visit to Karen’s—maybe while she was out shopping or at the liquor store, since she spent a good bit of time there choosing the finest vintages—and then I’d take advantage of her absence to bring the operation to fruition. But I was possessed, intrepid, on a roll and half-drunk. So on my way back, with the bottle already open, I went into the office. The voices were still audible but muffled.
“One thing, Jenny,” Karen asked. “Was your niece’s pregnancy something she wanted or was it more of an, oops, surprise . . . ?”
“I think it would be best if you asked her.”
I woke the computer up. Karen kept pushing.
“Are you going to tell us who the father is? Here she is, all summer, going from house to house. So pretty, so ripe, so nice. It’s inevitable that people talk and all kind of rumors start spreading.”
“Started by you, in the majority of cases.” That was Miriam.
I went to the inn’s main menu and I clicked on Reservations. It asked me for the password. 108. In. Ha.
“Your niece is an adult . . .” Keith said.
“Yeah, exactly eighteen years old . . .”
“Right, so she’s old enough to do as she likes and make her own decisions.”
“Oh really, little brother? Should I have invited her to dinner too?”
I went to the reservation history and removed my phone from my jacket pocket. Instead of taking pictures, I decided to take a video of the screen while I scrolled down with the mouse, going through the reservations for the past three years. I didn’t look at the names; I could do that later at home. When I wouldn’t have to fake it if I found anything.
“If I had her living in my house,” Karen was saying just then, “at least I’d want to know who the father was.”
“It’s her life and that deserves respect,” Jennifer responded. “And anyway, who’s to say I don’t know who the father is?”
“Ah! That’s what I like to hear. Now you’re getting hot under the collar. You do know who it is, then.”
I put the computer to sleep and walked out. Dingleberry didn’t move an inch, sleeping there in the document tray. It was the first time I had been in Karen’s office alone without incident.
“So what’s your deal, you went to pick the grapes yourself?” Karen blurted as soon as I walked in.
“No, I was about to go. Karen, it’s your forty-fifth birthday, and as you said, it’s a complicated age. We know it’s going to be hard for you to cross that line, but you should let us cross it with you, don’t throw us overboard. We love you, and we really appreciate you. So please, let us sing ‘Happy Birthday’ now, and we’ll enjoy this marvelous chocolate cake you’ve made.”
I said it with a sober, superior air completely unusual for me. Undoubtedly, I was still high from my recent victory. Karen, who wasn’t accustomed to anyone stopping her in her tracks—we just put up with her, and that was that—started crying like a little girl, half-embarrassed and half-moved by my words. She asked us all to forgive her and then began flattering us, saying how lonely she felt almost all the time. She said she’d never say those kind of rude things again and would stop being a nasty little gossip. We sang “Happy Birthday,” she blew out the candles, we opened a bottle of champagne, and for the first time since I was on the island, I felt comfortable surrounded by a group of people.
I downloaded the cell phone video onto the laptop in the attic. While I looked through the reservations, I listened to a conversation between Summer and Jennifer.
SUMMER: Where’s my stash?
JENNIFER: You said you weren’t going to smoke anymore.
SUMMER: Yeah, but it’s mine, give it back!
JENNIFER: Don’t shout, please.
SUMMER: Why not? Maybe it’ll wake him up. Wake up, Uncle Stephen!
JENNIFER: Summer, we’re getting along now; don’t spoil it, please.
SUMMER: Then give me back the weed.
Sound of a chair scraping. Jennifer has gotten up.
JENNIFER: Have you been drinking?
SUMMER (laughs): It’s the holidays, you gotta celebrate . . . Plus, there’s a study in Denmark of more than sixty-three thousand pregnant women that shows that it doesn’t affect the fetus. I saw it on the internet.
Summer laughs more. Jennifer slaps her.
And then I saw it.
March 8, 2013. Chris Williams.
One night. Room 202. Comped.
I paused the video. I lost my sense of time. I might well have spent more than an hour without moving, looking at what I’d found. Just one day. He’d spent one day at the inn. Never before, never again.
Comped? They had invited him there. Was it John who invited him? Or did he run into him by chance when he was on the island? Why didn’t Chris tell me? Why had he never talked to me about John? What reason would he have for not doing so? Room 202? That was the suite, the room on the second floor. The biggest one. With a Jacuzzi, the works, Karen had said. Had he gone alone or with someone?
Just like Olivia, I had to take refuge in numbers to escape my state of shock.
March 8, 2013. Fifteen days after my thirty-first birthday, which we had celebrated with a romantic night at the Chandler at Cliff Walk, a hotel in Newport, built on a cliff with spectacular views. Did I notice anything strange? No.
March 8, 2013. Presumably his first time on the island. Chris died on May 13, 2015. Two years and sixty-six days, 797 days later. Had he been coming and going to the island since that day?