AFTER ROSITA FINISHED singing “Always,” the room shimmered with silence. My eyes stung as I glanced at Eddie. His face was twisted, as if she’d physically struck him.
Surely, I thought, she’d see the grief that distorted his expression. She’d pull him from the room, or he would reach out to her and she’d go with him, willingly, somewhere else in this vast mansion to work out, if not their differences, then a plan for going forward, even if that meant separately. Wasn’t she the least bit curious about why he needed the money from selling the island to Marco? Wasn’t he the least bit interested in how she’d dealt with long, lonely hours, tormented by their son’s death?
But just as Eddie opened his mouth, Rosita turned to me.
For the first time in more than a year, Rosita’s eyes locked on mine. I could not glance away. Her gaze held me, forced me to see the emotion that passed over her face as she regarded me.
Hatred.
I gasped as she re-donned her veil. She glided from the room.
We all froze in her wake, staring through the empty archway for a long moment after she was gone.
I was the first to move, and my gaze turned as if of its own volition toward Seamus. He was already looking at me, his eyes touching me gently, as if searching with care for wounds and bruises. And though in that moment my hurts were invisible, my eyes welled at his concern, at his soft gaze, so unlike Rosita’s moments before. So unlike, I suddenly grasped, how anyone had looked at me in years.
I gave him a slight nod, trying to communicate that I was fine, just fine. But the gesture was enough to make my tears start to overflow.
I, too, hurried from the music room.
BY THE TIME I returned to the kitchen, I’d tamped down my emotions, and my eyes were dry. I focused on washing up the cooking dishes. I was drying the last saucepan when Maxine entered with a tray stacked high and rattling with plates, glasses, and silverware.
Weariness draped like a mantle over her shoulders. As soon as I took the tray from her, she staggered to a chair and sat down.
Breathlessly she started, “Give me a minute and I’ll—”
“I can take care of the dishes,” I said. “Make up for not helping you this morning.”
“Where were you? We were worried about you. It’s not like you to miss your duties.”
I blushed as I refilled the sink with hot water. Oh, the joys of a water tower out back, modern plumbing, and the water heater and furnace in the mechanicals room. Such luxury in Rosita’s mansion.
I added dish soap, grabbed a greasy dish, and began scrubbing, the cuts and nicks in the palms of my hands stinging in the hot water. I should have let it cool, but I considered the minor pain part of my punishment for neglecting the Carmichaels.
I’d gotten the scrapes after falling as I ran from the dock to the mansion that morning. I’d startled Seamus as he came around the bend, gaping at me in my swimsuit, soaked and shivering and moaning in pain and fear, on all fours on the gravel path. He had helped me up, quickly taken off his hunting jacket and draped it over my shoulders.
And for a moment, I had been tempted to lean into his strong shoulders, to sob out that I’d seen the Myra with the flag indicating that Eddie was on board, to confess my fear for what that might mean for Rosita. For me. For if she was taken from the island, if she withdrew her protection of me …
But then he asked why I was in my swimsuit, why I had been in the frigid lake, why I was so upset. Without answering, I broke away from him, kept running.
I’ve often wondered what might have happened if instead of dashing to the mansion, to Rosita, I’d stayed with him. Answered his questions. Asked one of my own: What was he doing heading to the southwest dock so early in the morning, when he was needed at the mansion to help Henry?
Had I made those choices, instead of running to Rosita, would everything have turned out differently?
I was briefly tempted to confess all the details of the morning to Maxine. Instead, I said, “I was out for a walk.” That was true. Just not the whole of it. If Pony had taught me one thing, it was how to segment the truth.
“Well, those chores still need doing,” Maxine said. “The chandeliers need a polish, the furniture covered.”
“We can’t do any of that until Mr. McGee and his guests leave,” I said.
We exchanged anxious looks. When would that be? The weather was already colder and icier than expected. A rogue storm could force Eddie, Marco, Claire—all of them—to stay here for weeks. Maybe, if a storm was really bad and the lake froze over, until next spring.
Fear gripped my heart at the notion of being stuck all winter on this island with Eddie and his coterie.
Impulsively, I grabbed a dish towel, dried my hands, grasped Maxine’s arm. “We could leave,” I said. “In the morning. I—I know how to run boats, at least good enough to get us from here to Toledo. I can tell Henry is not doing well. He’s been so weak and tired lately. He needs to get to a hospital—”
Maxine’s eyes widened as she stared at me as if I had suddenly turned into a wild animal. I was scaring her, I realized, and I let go of her arm. “Henry and I—we can never leave. We made a deal—” She stopped, as if catching herself in the middle of a terrible confession.
“But why? If it means the difference between Henry getting help … I have some money hidden away…”
Maxine just shook her head. I sighed and went back to the dishes, but I was not ready to relinquish my concern. “Dr. Aldridge is here. Maybe he should examine Henry—”
“No,” Maxine said, her voice turned so cold that I barely recognized it as hers. “I will not let that—that quack near my Henry.” Maxine glanced pointedly at the wall clock. It was nearly ten, a half hour past my appointed time to take up Rosita’s cup of tea and shortbread. “Listen, I can take care of the rest of these while you tend to Rosita—”
“She can wait,” I snapped. Maxine looked hurt. I softened my tone. “Besides, the others will need you—”
Maxine gave a short laugh. “Claire has already gone up to bed. She wanted to go to the casino, which is where the men, except Henry, are, but Eddie dismissed her.” She put on a gruff expression and lowered her voice in mimicry of Eddie. “‘That’s no place for a woman.’”
I looked at her in surprise. She’d always been so deferential to the McGees. Then, suddenly, we burst out laughing. Our mirth, after such a long day, was a relief.
When our laughter quieted, I said, “Let me take care of the dishes. You go check on Henry and get some rest.”
Maxine gave me a grateful smile and then left. I plunged back into dishwashing, focusing on the clink of glasses and dishes to distract me from the whoops coming from the casino, and from thinking of the hatred that Rosita had directed at me. Surely I’d imagined it, spooked by this shocking surprise visit from Eddie and his entourage, by Cormac’s vague but terrifying threats.
Jazz music floated down the hall from the casino. Someone had started up the Victrola. I hummed along, transported back to freer, happier times. When I’d first met Pony and thought we were in love. When we’d entered the glamorous, dangerous sphere of Eddie and Rosita and thought the world would be ours …
When I finished, I checked the time on the wall clock; now, it was a little past eleven.
I assembled a tray for Rosita, turned to leave, and saw that the kitchen door was open. Had Maxine left it ajar? Or had we not closed it after toting in the dishes? If so, anyone on this level—which meant everyone in the mansion except Claire and Rosita—could have overheard our conversation about my having money and my desire to leave the island. Heat rose in my face, but I shook my head to clear it.
Paranoia.
Dr. Aldridge’s word flitted like a ghost through my thoughts.
I banished it from my mind and left with the tray of shortbread and tea.
AS I CLIMBED the three flights of stairs to Rosita’s suite, I considered that flash of hatred toward me that I thought I’d seen in Rosita’s eyes.
Maybe I had imagined it, this odd reaction toward me, right after singing Oliver’s lullaby. I thought back to all the times after I’d come to Trouble Island that I had tended to Oliver in his nursery in the evenings when the McGees were visiting and had guests to entertain. Rosita always seemed delighted to find us happily playing with his building blocks, or me reading him a story.
Another book? she’d tease. You’ll turn him into a bookworm like you!
I’d watch as she’d sing him a lullaby and get him settled in his bed. Then we’d quietly visit in the sitting area until Eddie came up. She’d tell me silly stories from her day, or gossip—it was like old times. Almost. Except more than ever, I only listened. I had nothing to tell her from my long days of serving guests, helping the Carmichaels.
She never asked how I was doing. But then, she never brought up Pony. It was almost like that horrific night had never happened. Like I’d always been here, on Trouble Island. Like we were still friends.
I cherished those moments of normalcy.
They stopped after Oliver’s death.
Memories flashed before me from the last time the Myra came with its blue flag hoisted, a year before.
Another surprise visit, especially since they’d just been here at the close of the regular season, weeks before. A frisson of worry chilled me as a deckhand lowered the plank, then disappeared. For long moments, no one came on deck. Then concern turned to shock as Rosita emerged, garbed in a black dress and veil, followed closely by Eddie in a dark suit and Claire in a black dress. Shock then became horror as four men carried a small casket.
A shriek flew from my mouth as I realized—Oliver.
I stumbled. Henry caught my arm to keep me from falling.
We cast our eyes down as Rosita and Eddie proceeded by us, then Claire, and finally Eddie’s men with the tiny coffin.
After that, Rosita barricaded herself in her suite. She barely spoke to me, and I figured she’d put up a wall to protect herself from dissolving into grief.
But now, I thought as I finished my ascent, it was time for that wall to come down.
I knocked on Rosita’s door. The knob turned from the inside, I waited a moment, and then I entered. I didn’t see Rosita; she must have scurried away after unlocking the door. I took the tray to the dining table.
I went over to Largo’s cage and gave her a piece of crumbled shortbread. A rare treat of human food, but her feathers were partly ruffled, so I knew she was feeling the stress in the mansion.
Then, heart thudding, I turned, determined to find Rosita.
But even as I turned, Rosita came out of her bedroom. “Susan.”
I’d stopped being Susan on the morning I came to Trouble Island. Susan, the girl who’d run away from Copperhead Holler, believing she could leave her troubles there and find excitement, glamour, a new life. Susan, who’d run into the arms of a snake named Pony.
For a moment, I convinced myself that Rosita was using my old, given name out of sentiment. That I could reason with her.
“You said you had something on Eddie, that he’d want more than money—”
“I’m not discussing that with you,” Rosita said coldly.
“But it’s dangerous to play games with Eddie. We could still leave! I’ve found something—a treasure—and I’ve hidden it away under the lighthouse dock. It’s enough that we could both start over. Take the Carmichaels and Largo, too. You said the island is ruined for you because of Eddie and Marco—”
Rosita cut off my wishful thinking with a barking laugh. “And because of you, Susan. Seeing you here, day after day, has tainted this place for me. I thought keeping you here would punish you, but it’s only punished me.”
I gasped. “I don’t understand. Why haven’t you talked to me about how you feel? We used to talk—I confided in you, about everything—” I hesitated, trying to gulp back my sobs, but also because guilt panged in me. I hadn’t confided everything to her, though she’d given me plenty of chances. I went on. “—about Pony anyway, and to learn tonight about how Oliver died was so awful—” I was weary, and confused, and my words kept gushing. “And Cormac has told me that I must get you to agree to Eddie’s terms or he will tell Marco who I really am and then my life will be in danger—”
“Stop!” Rosita snapped. “Did you think there would be no consequences for anyone else but you after you shot Pony? Beyond you, getting to hide here? Eddie had to arrange for Pony’s body to be disposed of.”
I shuddered, remembering how I’d glanced into our parlor where I’d shot Pony, thinking I’d see his body still on the rug, a fine floral wool tapestry that the McGees had bought us for Christmas, his blood staining the blue background, mingling with the red flowers. But I saw only the bare floor—Pony and the rug, gone. Our furniture looking somehow tawdry without the rug.
“A neighbor—some German lady—heard the shot. She was sitting on her porch and saw you run out of your house. Called the police. I convinced Eddie to buy her silence.”
That information was new to me. The night was such a blur. I hadn’t noticed dear old Mrs. Schmitt; I had just stumbled through the dark, desperate to get to the West End neighborhood. To Rosita. Nearly getting hit by an automobile. Someone screaming after me. Slipping on the rain-slicked streets. Panicked, breathless, horrified by what I’d done. Yet—relieved.
Rosita, comforting me, getting me to change into one of her robes, bringing me tea. Sipping the soothing beverage in her dressing room, hearing her and Eddie argue in the adjacent bedroom, but not making out distinct words.
“Eddie asked Cormac, who was still on the force, to have someone else blamed for Pony’s death—someone in Guiffre’s organization. Get back at Marco for past troubles.” Rosita laughed bitterly. “So Cormac did. He chose Nelson Davison—not realizing this was Marco’s wife’s nephew. Nelson went to prison several months after you came here. Marco probably would have let that go—after all, Marco had taken down several of Eddie’s men. The right bribes, and Nelson would be out in a year—two years tops. But a half year in, Nelson was stabbed to death in a prison fight. Marco decided to take revenge and set up a shooting of Eddie. No idea who the rat was who let it slip where Eddie would be that morning. But—”
Rosita paused, her voice finally catching. “But Oliver was with him that morning. So you see, don’t you, the chain of events you set off when you lost your temper and shot your husband? Nelson’s murder? Marco’s desire for revenge? The attempt on Eddie’s life? An attempt gone wrong, that took my precious son’s life?”
Her eyes narrowed on me. Her voice shook. “Why couldn’t you just take getting smacked, now and again, like a good little wife?”
I stumbled backward, realizing that I hadn’t imagined the glint in her eyes earlier that evening. She did hate me because of Oliver’s death.
A death that she blamed on me.