CLAIRE WAS RIGHT; the mansion was cold. Still, I wanted to tell Claire to think for herself and find the Carmichaels or Liam, who were responsible for the mansion’s maintenance.
But Henry was supposed to be resting, Liam was moving contraband with Cormac, Seamus and Douglas were burying Rosita, and I didn’t want to talk with Eddie.
“I’ll look into it,” I said, as if I knew anything about how the mansion’s coal furnace and electrical system operated, other than that they were in a room in the basement.
Through chattering teeth, which I suspected she made clack together harder on purpose, Claire said, “Well, what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Put on your fur,” I snapped. “Or the blue coat. Or another. Or just put on all the clothes you brought! You’ll be sweating like you’re in a sauna in no time.”
Claire looked a mix of surprised and hurt at my uncustomary comeback, and I admit it, I took satisfaction in that.
I WENT INTO my room long enough to put on an extra sweater and tossed another scarf over Largo’s cage. Then I went down to the kitchen, where it was even chillier, and found that the electric light didn’t switch on. I found the kitchen flashlight in its proper spot and went to the storage room, where I found the coal oil lanterns usually used for our work on the southwest and north docks.
Next, I went to the furnace room, lit the lanterns, and then stared helplessly at the furnace—a monstrous affair with a central section that looked like a silo, and numerous ducts coming out of its top and disappearing into the walls and ceiling.
On I went to the Carmichaels’ room. Henry, eager to be useful, ignored Maxine’s grumblings that he should remain in bed and listened to my ramblings about the heat and electricity. I gave Maxine an apologetic look as we helped Henry into an extra sweater, and offered him my elbow as we exited, as if we were accompanying one another to a ball and not the furnace room.
The light from the coal oil lanterns flickered from their spots on the floor, and I held the flashlight and directed its beam wherever Henry told me.
Finally, Henry explained, “This is an octopus gravity furnace. The ducts go up through the walls, to vents in the rooms.” I knew about the vents, though I hadn’t thought about the system that sent heat through them. “Hot air rises from the boiler, which is heated by the coal furnace, and goes through the ducts. The system was upgraded two years ago, to an automated Ironman thermostat, so no one has to constantly check the coal and how hot it’s burning.”
“It sounds complex,” I said.
“Not really—but it can’t function without a damper door.” Henry pointed to an open rectangle at the bottom of the furnace. I turned my beam to the spot. The door was gone, gray ash heaped at the bottom. Then he pointed to a far wall. “We use a Delco generator for electricity for the mansion.”
I nodded at that. Even in southeast Ohio, I’d heard of a few farm families well off enough for a Delco generator—basically, a private grid, given that rural areas were too far away from the grids that increasingly served bigger towns and cities. My family hadn’t been one of the lucky few. We’d used coal oil lanterns and candlelight, a wood-burning stove, cellar, and fireplace.
“Look. The wiring in the generator has been cut. Even if I could fix it, the fuel cans are gone,” Henry said.
I stared at the empty shelves which had once held the fuel cans. I didn’t need to ask what had happened. Doors don’t unscrew themselves, wires don’t cut themselves, and fuel cans don’t vanish on their own.
Someone had purposefully sabotaged the mansion’s heating and electricity in the middle of the night, while the rest of us had been too caught up in Rosita’s burial that morning to immediately notice.
BY NINE THAT night, we were all in the library, the room in the mansion with the largest fireplace.
Seamus, Douglas, Liam, and Cormac had split the firewood, mostly chopped from fallen trees on the island, stacked on a side porch. We used firewood in late spring and early fall in the library and the dining room to provide ambience for guests. Bedrooms and other rooms did not have fireplaces. They were all heated by the modern furnace—now sabotaged.
Meanwhile, Maxine and I moved food—meats, vegetables, and breads—from the freezer out to the pool house, where in this weather it would remain frozen. My stomach turned as we placed the carefully wrapped food, meant to get the staff through the winter, on the benches where Rosita and Joey had been.
Eddie succumbed to reason, after Henry and I explained the situation, and gave the pool house key to me so that we could lock the building, lest the bear or other animals tried to get in. Until the electricity was restored, I’d have to trudge out to the pool house to get food.
By the time we’d finished that task, Eddie had rounded up everyone who was still in the mansion—Cormac and Liam were still gone—and told them to bring clothing and bedding to settle down for the night in the library.
After Cormac and Liam returned at nightfall, Maxine and I served bread and cheese and cold cuts for dinner, then carried the dishes down to the kitchen to wash in the freezing water in the sink. We didn’t complain. At least the water line to the mansion hadn’t been sabotaged.
When we returned upstairs to the library, everyone was quiet, huddled in their chosen spots, even, at last, Marco and Claire, who had complained most bitterly about the inconvenience of the situation, yet had done nothing to make it more tolerable. Even Dr. Aldridge had helped Henry, Claire, and Marco move clothing and blankets to the library.
It could have been a jolly scene, all of us gathered in the library, warmed by the large fireplace, under blankets and bedding we’d gathered, chatting or reading by candle and kerosene light. Except we all knew that the furnace and Delco generator had been sabotaged, that one of us was the saboteur. In the eerie interplay of shadow and light, we cast glances at one another, askance, except Henry and the doctor, who dozed. Claire sat in a chair staring at the fire, drinking whisky. Maxine shared a settee with Henry, keeping an eye on him. I sat in a corner next to Largo’s cage, and tried to read more of The Circular Staircase, but I was uncomfortably far from light and my eyes strained in the dimness, the words blurring gray. I held the book open in my lap but put my remaining energy toward murmuring at Largo to keep her calm. Eddie cursed as if personally affronted every time the poor bird made a peep, and she was, understandably, upset by the confusion and the cold.
Meanwhile, the gangsters all played poker at the library table—silently, resolutely, as if forced at gunpoint. Eddie had insisted that they would play. And so they did, grimly, grunting if they had to say something—pass, deal, fold.
As I watched them playing, I thought about how Eddie meant to leave Seamus, Maxine, and Henry here, but if he did, it would ultimately be a death sentence for them. The house was already freezing cold.
I shivered. Had the temperature dipped low enough, long enough, that the water would freeze around the Myra overnight?
There would be no way to leave with the Myra and the one good speedboat frozen in. The only other vessel was the old iceboat, which needed repairs and required a fully frozen lake—months away—and a new sail. It would carry, at most, two people.
If that became the only option, I wondered: Would Eddie take Cormac, his loyal soldier, back to the mainland with him? Or Marco, with whom he’d made a deal, in order to avoid the gang war that would surely ensue if he returned without him?
Marco angrily tossed his cards to the table, grunting with disgust. I pressed my lips together to suppress a smile. Apparently, Eddie had had enough of catering to Marco’s ego and had finally decided to play poker to his full ability. Eddie smirked at Marco.
“Goddamn it, why can’t we just leave on your stupid yacht?” Marco groused.
I inhaled sharply as Eddie’s smirk pinched into ire. Marco should have known better than to malign a proud possession of Eddie’s—especially one named after his mother.
“Oh yeah?” Eddie twisted the word into a warning snarl. He took a sip of his whisky and then smacked his lips. “You wanna leave on the Myra? In the dark? In this weather?”
“Yes?” Marco stretched the word out like a hiss, as if torn between believing he was going to get his way and sensing that Eddie was about to rip into him. Fool. Marco should also have known that his fate would be the latter.
“Don’t think that’s wise,” Eddie said.
“Well, if you don’t wanna leave, just have one of your men take me back.” Marco gestured widely to take in everyone from Henry to Cormac. “Or else my men will be coming soon—”
“Sure, sure, ’cause it’s so easy to navigate Lake Erie in a storm. Huh. Maybe we should share a story with you before you get on my stupid yacht with one of my men,” Eddie said blithely. Marco frowned. Henry sat up, instinctively alert, it seemed, to his boss demanding his attention.
Maxine looked annoyed at Eddie disturbing Henry’s rest, but Henry grinned, pulled out his Banjo lighter and a cigarette. After he’d allowed himself several satisfying draws, he said, “We both served on the S.S. Martin. So small, it barely qualified as a freighter. But it was a good boat. I was the second cook.”
“And I was a deckhand,” Eddie said. “Signed up as soon as I broke free from the Sisters of the Poor orphanage.” He took another swallow of whisky, crossed himself. “Nothing against those nuns. Donate to them every year—under the table, of course. Somehow they don’t want it publicized that their most notorious student gives ’em a big chunk of change.” He chuckled, as if their shame and hypocrisy were funny.
Cormac leaned forward. He spoke as if they’d all told this story before, and he knew his lines. “Right. And who was your deck boss?”
“Why, your dear old dad, my boy,” Eddie said.
I lifted my eyebrows at this. The room was tight with tension, but I was intrigued. I’d never heard this connection before. Had Rosita been aware of it?
“Good man,” Eddie went on. “And Henry was the best cook. Shoulda been the first cook but, you know.” He gave Marco a sharp look. “Being one of those people…”
Henry shrugged. “Learned a lot. No one gave me a hard time, ’cause I was making their meals.” He, too, cut a look at Marco. “Loved my job.”
“Good at it, too,” Eddie said. “That was part of the deal of being on a freighter. Sure, the work was hard, dangerous, you got a bunk bed and a locker and shared a room with a bunch of other men, but the grub? Top notch.”
Henry nodded. “Freighter captain used to bring on his well-heeled buddies—”
“Some of ’em are mine now!” Eddie joshed.
“—just to marvel at the food we served up.”
“Better ’n what you might get in a fine Chicago restaurant. Even New York, heard more than a few of ’em say.”
Where were they going with this patter? The more light-hearted they acted, the more tense the room felt. I glanced around. Everyone else was feeling that, too. Even thick-headed Marco.
“Then came October 20, 1916,” Cormac said. I turned to him in surprise. How oddly specific. “The day of the Black Friday storm.”
Henry shook his head. “Came up all of a sudden. Like some monster at the bottom of the lake reached up its tentacles, grabbed the Martin, tossed it like a plaything amongst its slimy limbs.”
“No warning,” Eddie said. He wasn’t mugging or grinning or chuckling now. His face went granite hard. “Oh, we felt the cold and wet, but the slam of wind, rising up out of nowhere, seemed to knock our freighter around like a twig boat.” He turned his dark gaze on Marco. “You ever make a twig boat, Marco?” The gangster shrank back, turning pale. He didn’t respond.
“Well, all the vessels on Lake Erie turned into twig boats that day. Biggest lake storm in history, and it came out of nowhere.” Eddie leaned forward, keeping his eyes pinned on Marco. “So bad that the biggest freighter on the lake, the Merida—more than double our boat’s size—”
“Three hundred sixty foot, more ’n thirty-two hundred tons,” said Henry.
“—broke apart just like a twig boat. Lost all thirty-two crew to the bottom of the lake. Boat and men, what’s left of them, still down there.”
I shuddered, thinking of Rosita’s state after a few days in the water. Marco remained still, eyes wide, as if terrified to react or move.
“Guess we were lucky,” Eddie said. “We just lost ten good men that day.”
“Including my father,” Cormac stated flatly. “I don’t remember him. The company didn’t have the decency to send along a man to tell us.” He paused, and then said, as if merely musing, “But I do remember this. My first memory. Eddie here brought the news. And some money to help us out. My mother, oh how she wailed. Though she was always grateful when Eddie came around.”
“How is she doing?” Eddie asked.
“Well, thanks,” said Cormac. “She sends her best.”
“It still haunts me, how I grabbed for him, but he slipped away,” Eddie said, still staring at Marco. “But I was too late. Nearly went overboard myself. Would’ve, if not for Henry.”
“I was pushing a cart of meals to the officers’ quarters when that storm came up,” Henry said. “Lost the cart but got ahold of Eddie.”
“Lost more than the cart,” Eddie said.
Henry held up his maimed arm. “Yeah, damned winch broke free, whipped around so hard, it sliced through my forearm and hand.” He shook his head. “Not sure what hurt worse—that ripping, or the doctor trying to patch me together. ’Course that had to wait until we came safely to shore. Lost part of my hand.” He held up his left arm. A thick scar ran from the stumps of his lost pinkie and ring finger, and corded up his arm to his elbow. I shuddered. Henry gave Marco a stiff, grim wave. I glanced at Marco, who grimaced, pale and uncomfortable. Served him right.
Henry went on. “Yep. Captain spotted a lighthouse beacon and came ashore—”
“Here,” Eddie said, his voice the softest I’d ever heard it.
“Only reason our freighter didn’t go down like—”
The room fell silent, though even through the thick library walls we could hear the wind howling like an anguished animal circling the mansion.
The implications of the story they’d just shared settled over me like a shroud. Trouble Island’s lighthouse—manned by Claire and Rosita’s grandfather—had saved the lives of the men on the S.S. Martin during the worst storm in Lake Erie’s history. Including Eddie and Henry.
Had he, I wondered, ever shared that story with Rosita? If so, had she shared it with Claire?
I looked at Claire. Her eyes were wide, her expression stricken. No, this was new to her, too.
Then I looked from Eddie to Henry to Cormac. I’d had no idea how closely bonded these men were.
Finally, Eddie broke the silence, his voice back to its usual gravely harshness. “Still wanna leave on my stupid yacht, Marco? In this storm?”
Marco whimpered. A mewl of a sound, but it was enough for Eddie. He grinned. “I didn’t think so. All right, another round of—”
Suddenly Claire stood, shrugged off her fur. She took a long drink, emptying her glass, then slammed the glass down so hard on a side table that we all jumped. She staggered away from the fire. “God, it’s hot in here. And I’m sick of watching you play poker like it’s some genius game. The story was better—”
Cormac frowned. “It wasn’t just a story, it was the truth—”
“Ah, the truth,” Claire said, her voice edging toward a hysterical pitch. “Let’s get at the truth, why don’t we? One of us sabotaged the house, as if trying to force us all together so we’d have to confront one another, but here we are, trying to ignore what’s been going on—”
“Claire, enough,” Douglas said. He stood. “You need to settle down—”
“Anyone else want to try to shut me up?” Claire said.
“Yeah,” Eddie snarled. “Maybe smack you into silence.”
“I can think of another way to stifle her mouth,” Marco said. He gave a foul chuckle and Cormac joined in.
“Oh, you don’t want to hear from me? Then how about Miss Prim and Proper.” Claire pointed to me. “Our very own Aurelia Escalante. Weren’t you tasked with figuring out who killed Rosita? And Joey? We’re all gathered here, against our will. Why don’t you tell us what you’ve uncovered.”
I focused on Largo’s pretty feathers, teal and yellow and blue. This was a bird who was not meant to be here on this island in the cold north. In that moment, I felt more akin to Largo than I did to any human in the room.
“I haven’t,” I said softly.
“Speak up! We can’t hear you! You must project more.” She made her voice more sonorous, but then giggled. “That’s what Rosita always told me.”
“I said, I haven’t uncovered the truth. Just more and more confusion. You’re right, someone in this room—probably at least two people working together given how Rosita’s body was left—killed Rosita and Joey. Most likely, the same people who sabotaged the mansion.”
“Well, if Aurelia isn’t going to lay out all the possibilities and motives, then I will!” She traipsed around the room, and then stopped behind Liam. She put a hand on his shoulder. “How about you, Liam? Tell us about the history of Trouble Island.”
Even as Liam brightened, Eddie snarled, “No one cares. We’re playing a game—”
Claire reached into the middle of the game, picked up cards and chips, and threw them up in the air. “Game’s over!”
I held my breath, expecting Eddie to smack her after all. But he leaned back in his chair, staring at her. Maybe he was just curious, I thought, about what Claire was playing at.
“Fine. Go on, Liam,” Eddie said.
Liam moved to stand in front of the fireplace, clasped his hands behind him as if he were delivering a lecture to a great hall. “Archaeological evidence shows Trouble Island was home to indigenous peoples between 500 BC and 1500 AD and became a stopover for escaped slaves and military runaways during the Civil War. I’ve found pottery ware, arrowheads, weaponry,” Liam said, “at various spots around the island. Even human remains.” He was alight, already caught up in sharing his enthusiasm, not realizing that somehow, Claire was about to play him for a fool. “I’ve cataloged it all.” He looked at Marco, suddenly anxious. “It should be preserved, cared for, even after you take over the island. The McGees were good about that.” He suddenly teared and choked up. “Especially Rosita. She said her grandfather would be pleased, that I was honoring the island—”
“When? When did she say this?” Eddie demanded.
Liam reddened. “Oh—oh—just one of the times you visited. Before, before, before—”
My heart clenched at his shamed face, at his stuttering. When he’d fall into this mode every now and then with me, the Carmichaels, and even Seamus for the short time he’d been here, we’d tell him to pause, take a deep breath, and help ease him out of it. There was no such kindness in the library that night.
“Before Oliver’s death?” Claire said coldly. “How kind of her. But why don’t you tell us how you really ended up here, Liam? That’s so much more interesting than all your facts and details about a bunch of dead people from long ago. What about the three people you killed on your last dig, over in Egypt, before you came here?”
Liam staggered back so fast and hard that I feared he’d tumble into the fireplace. “Rosita told you?”
Eddie frowned. “How would she—”
“Oh, she listened much more than you ever thought, Eddie,” Claire said. “Rosita overheard you talking to Liam’s father—a senator.” She looked around the room, satisfied by the surprised looks from everyone, including mine. All were shocked except Eddie, Cormac, and Marco. This was not news to them. “That’s right. Senator Robert Watts of Ohio. I think he’s been here several times, and not just to visit his son. Trading favors with Eddie—”
“I didn’t know!” Liam cried out in anguish. “How the sand could shift so easily in the wind. I thought the supports over the dig site were strong enough, but…”
“And now here you are, hiding out, at Eddie’s benevolence—and because your father demanded it,” Claire said. “Doing his bidding. You must have wondered what would happen if Rosita ever decided to take down Eddie, work with the Feds. Then that benevolence, that partnership with your father, would no longer protect you. After all, two of the people who died were the sons of highly placed businessmen, who’d gone to visit you, trusting you—”
Liam dropped his head to his hands. “College friends.”
“Yes. Eddie’s paid dearly to cover up your negligence, to make sure their fathers think it was truly an unfortunate accident. Your life would have been over if they found out the truth.”
“Claire, stop this!” Eddie roared. He looked at Liam, a rare look of sympathy flickering just for a moment over his face. “What is the point of—”
“I for one would like to hear,” Marco said, smirking. “I find this entertaining. Better than being allowed to win at poker, or dry facts about Indians and cowards.”
“And then there’s Seamus,” Claire said. My stomach knotted at the realization that she was going to say something about each of us. I glanced at Seamus. Could she know he was a Fed? But his face betrayed no expression, even as she ruffled the top of his head. “I was here with the last set of visitors, just after you came on. Caught you several times, staring up at Rosita’s balcony. What did you do, breach the door past her little guardian—” At that, Claire gave me a snide look. “Get spurned? Or did she take you in her open arms? Awful lonely up there.”
Seamus turned to Eddie, returned his furious glare with a calm, even gaze. “Nothing like that happened, I assure you.”
For a moment, I thought Eddie might suddenly pull out his gun, or command Cormac, with a single glance, to shoot Seamus. My hand slowly eased toward my right boot, where I’d tucked the stocking gun. Could I shoot fast enough to take out Eddie and Cormac? And possibly Marco?
To protect Seamus?
To release us all from their terror?
And … would I?
I felt sickness rising in my stomach.
Claire moved from the table to stand before the Carmichaels. “And then there’s the ever-sweet Carmichaels. Always serving. Doesn’t it get tiring?”
“I’ve known Eddie since our freighter days,” Henry said. “And he was good enough to hire us both.”
“But you’re stuck here on the island because Henry took the fall for a robbery, in exchange for keeping your daughter safe,” Claire said. “If Rosita had agreed to give up the island, the island going to Marco, you might have a chance to convince Eddie to release you from your obligations here, to go to your daughter. But of course, she didn’t agree.”
Maxine shook her head. “We’d never hurt Rosita, and we couldn’t—”
“Oh, because you’re too old, too weak?” Claire said mockingly. “But with Joey’s help—”
Henry started coughing, a great rattling sound that shook him.
Dr. Aldridge leapt to his feet. “For God’s sake, Claire, enough, Henry needs to rest—”
“Ah, the ever-concerned doctor,” Claire said. “Here to decree Rosita insane if she doesn’t go along with selling the island—or maybe for something else? Because after the Carmichaels’ daughter became sicker after coming to your clinic, Rosita slipped word to Cormac—who was still on the force at the time—about the back-room, off-hour dealings you did to cover your own habits. And that led to the raid that shut down your clinic. No decent folks would go to you for treatment after that, and so you’ve been stuck, ever since, treating only Eddie’s men.”
Dr. Aldridge sank back down into his seat. “I ran a decent clinic. I’m sorry about the people who couldn’t handle my treatments, but it wasn’t fair I was shut down, and—”
“So you had a good reason for revenge.”
“No, I didn’t know Rosita was behind—” The doctor stopped, staring at Claire for a long moment. “I came here, after poor Oliver died, to check on her each month.”
“At my request,” Eddie interjected, then took a drag on his cigar.
Claire moved swiftly to stand behind Douglas. “And then there’s Douglas.”
Douglas blanched. “Claire, everyone knows that we needed Rosita to launch our film—”
“No, we need Eddie’s money, which he would only provide if Rosita would agree to be in your film. Whatever it is. I’ve only heard ideas. Not a page of script or a note of song, but that’s probably because you’re still mourning the loss of your lover,” Claire said.
“Oh, come on, man, good-looking chap like you, there are surely plenty of ladies to take her place,” Marco said.
Claire laughed. “Ladies?”
“Claire, don’t, I’m warning you—” Douglas started.
“Or what? You’ll kill me, like maybe you killed Rosita, because you know she’s the one who made sure Eddie had his connections out west let the word slip that it’s not ladies you’re interested in. Because she knew how heartbroken I was after I went to Hollywood and you didn’t want to work with me and so you had my name blackballed as a no-talent hack,” Claire said. “How perfect. She ended your career and your relationship with your, well, friend, because your friend—famous actor that he is—knew the two of you couldn’t be caught together.”
Oh, I thought. The latest Hollywood heartthrob, Curtis Langly.
“Eddie,” Douglas said, “I resented Rosita for that, yes, but I really did come out here, with Claire, hoping she’d agree to make it possible to start over. In Hollywood. As friends.”
“Goddamn, my wife and her friends are gonna be so disappointed,” Marco said.
“Shut up,” Eddie said.
“I’m not done,” Claire said, though Eddie’s comment had been directed at Marco. “Then there’s the obvious, of course. Marco killing Rosita—well, having Joey do it—because it would be less complicated for Eddie to just inherit the island and confer it to him, than killing Joey, because God knows he was young and dumb and might blab—”
At that, Marco blanched. “I didn’t!” He turned to Eddie. “I swear, I didn’t.”
“Or Eddie having Cormac kill Rosita for the same reason, Joey somehow finding out—or maybe helping Cormac. Then Cormac killing Joey—again, same reason,” Claire said.
“Claire, just stop—” Eddie snarled.
“Oh, but there’s just one person left. I’ve saved the best for last.”