MY MIND WHIRLED. I needed proof that Claire was really Rosita, that the woman we’d buried was really Claire, before confronting Rosita to find out why she would pretend to be Claire.
Even while tending to Maxine, I was distracted, worrying over how I could find such proof, and what I would do once I found it.
“He’s going to the strobing lights,” she muttered, as she stared at Henry’s Banjo lighter, flicking it now and again, as if the light might conjure him back to life. She didn’t seem to notice the food or water I’d just brought her.
For a moment, I pushed the Rosita-Claire conundrum to the back of my mind, sat down by Maxine, and put my arm around her.
She offered a wobbly smile. “I nearly died in childbirth with Ada. I saw lights, pulsing on and off. Strobing. Like they wanted me to follow. Like the light from a lighthouse, leading a ship to safety. I didn’t think that then, but after we came here, I thought that’s what the strobing light was like. But it must not have been my time to leave this life, go on to the next.”
Maxine tucked the lighter in her apron pocket, and closed her eyes. As I pulled the quilt over her, I recollected how I’d once thought I’d seen those lights. I put the sustenance I’d brought her on a side table. It would be there for her when she awoke, but I hoped for now she’d drift off. Dream of better times in the past with her dear Henry and Ada.
After that, I fetched simple foods and drinks for everyone else. Sights—Douglas and Seamus taking the doctor’s body to the Myra—and sounds—the wind gusting in the foyer as they came and went—were a humming background to my preoccupation: how to best handle my realization about Rosita.
After dark, Cormac and Liam returned, and they took in the news about Henry and Dr. Aldridge with the numbness of weary soldiers.
I understood their numbness.
Marco bellowed, “I thought we were leaving today,” and as Cormac gave an almost imperceptible head shake, Eddie casually dismissed Marco. “We’ll leave when the time is right.” Even my own thought—Oh, they still haven’t finished moving the lockboxes—seemed like it was happening outside of myself, in the chilly library.
That night, my mind whirled.
We were all again bedded down in the library, a few candles flickering. The wind howled outside, nearly overpowering the sounds of sleeping—snores and, in poor Maxine’s case, moans.
I lay wide awake, staring at shadows, thinking back on how gleefully “Claire” had accused each person of Rosita’s murder. It was obvious to me now that the real Claire would never have been that clever. How hurt expressions flitted quickly as the brush of a hummingbird wing across her face whenever Eddie had referred to Rosita’s death in a callow way. How her gaze could not pull free from Oliver’s gravestone at the burial.
They had to have made the switch late that first night. While the Carmichaels rested in their quarters. And the rest of the men played in the casino—except for Seamus. Who’d been with me, in my bedroom.
A chill ran over me with the prickling strides of a thousand ants as I thought about that next morning, Eddie going wild about Rosita being missing, and the woman coming out of Claire’s room actually being Rosita. Acting as if she were Claire.
But why? To protect herself? And if so, why not seek Seamus’s help? He’d already admitted to me that he was trying to work with Rosita.
What if Rosita and Claire switching roles had been preplanned between them? What if he’d been in on it? And what if I was naïve enough to believe that he really was on the up-and-up as a Fed?
I looked over at Seamus. I still wasn’t sure I could trust him. But I decided to take a risk—a careful risk.
Fortunately, there was no one between us on the floor and he was positioned near the library door. I sidled over to him. He was deeply asleep. I allowed myself a moment, just a moment, to mourn what could only be a fantasy, never come to being in real life. Then I quietly pulled the stocking gun from my boot and poked the weapon into Seamus’s ribs. I wanted to trust him, but doubt nibbled at that desire.
He stirred, then startled, turned to look at me, then realized I held the gun on him. His eyes grew wide.
“We’re going to slip out of this room, quietly. If anyone stirs, we’re just sneaking off for privacy,” I whispered.
“But why—”
I pushed the gun harder into his ribs.
Out in the vestibule, I gestured to the stairs. Quietly, he ascended, with me right behind him. At the top of the stairs, he whispered, “Now what?”
I pointed to Claire’s bedroom.
The door was locked. I knelt and used a hairpin to quickly release the flimsy lock. Seamus eyed me with a mix of amusement and admiration, and I shrugged.
We slipped in and I shut the door, locking it in case anyone had stirred and followed us. Even if someone else could pick a lock—I thought immediately of Cormac—this locked door rattling would buy us a little time to come up with an excuse for being in her room.
Inside the bedroom, Claire’s shoes and clothes and jewelry were scattered over the floor, the bed, bureau, chair. Seamus faced me. He didn’t say anything. His expression, in spite of the stocking gun I held on him, was patient.
I spoke quietly, sharing my theory—that Rosita and Claire had switched roles sometime that first night, and that either Rosita had had a hand in Claire’s murder and continued pretending to be Claire for some reason, or that someone had murdered Claire thinking she was Rosita and again Rosita—perhaps to protect herself—had continued to pretend to be Claire.
He looked shocked. “But why switch?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe to be able to freely move around the mansion, hear what people say about her. Or to be able to move around whatever she has on Eddie.”
“Then why wouldn’t she have just come to me?”
I glanced at the gun I held. Seamus’s wry expression told me he probably regretted giving it to me.
“Maybe, like me, she wasn’t sure if she could trust you.”
Seamus looked crestfallen. “Oh, Aurelia—”
“I don’t know who to trust anymore. I can’t sort out who is working with who, all the undercurrents and secrets—” I stopped, hearing the weariness in my voice and hating that I sounded that way. “Anyway, if Rosita has been playing Claire, maybe she moved whatever she had on Eddie from the floorboard under the dresser in Oliver’s nursery to somewhere in here.”
“Are you going to just hold my own gun on me while we—what?”
“Search for anything proving Claire is really Rosita. And if Rosita is staying in here, she’s probably hidden away the proof she has against Eddie.” I thought of her reference to it that first night, of the scrap of paper caught in the corner of the lockbox under the floorboard. “And I’m guessing that you know what that proof would be.”
“Not specifically. But documents, double books maybe, that might show one set of income for taxes, another for actual accounting. And I do know that Eddie has been taking nearly half his payments from his customers and in the shakedowns his men do for him in the form of gold bullion and jewelry. This sidesteps having to deposit cash at the bank, and therefore pay taxes.”
I forced my expression to remain still. I wasn’t willing to share with Seamus what I knew about the lockboxes. Not until I was sure I could trust him. But when would that be? And after all I’d been through, would I ever be able to trust anyone again?
“So if he has these assets as payment instead of money, it would make sense to store them here, planning to sell later,” I said as casually as possible. “And he is in desperate need of money, so he wants Rosita to sell the island to Marco, but he definitely doesn’t want Marco to get his mitts on any of the gold or jewels. If, for now, it’s legal for him to have them—”
“Wouldn’t it be helpful to have a record of all the bullion and jewels—quantity, type, precise description—to match up to past sales, and when they start flooding the pawnshops again? Especially if the record matches the receipts of purchases made time and again at one specific pawnshop by known members of Eddie’s organization.”
I understood, and I nodded. All the Feds needed was the shop owner and a few members of Eddie’s organization to flip; Liam’s testimony would make the case almost ironclad.
I recollected that Pony had complained about all the buying and transporting he had to do, how menial it was; I thought he meant bootleg whisky and was confused why he would feel this was beneath him, since that’s what he often said he loved—the challenge of pulling off a transfer or sale.
“Rosita has those records? How could she have kept track at the same time that she was—supposedly—staying in her suite? Oh!” It hit me. Liam would have kept those records for Eddie. He’d been on the island for years now, as long as the Carmichaels. I bet he’d been making the transfers, keeping Eddie’s records since he arrived. How long ago had Rosita charmed Liam into making a duplicate set for her—or reporting the information to her so she could record it? Maybe shortly after meeting Liam. Before losing Oliver.
I thought back on Liam’s face that first night she came down, the surprise, but almost immediately, a look of wonder, adoration. Rosita and Liam …
But she never left her suite … I shook my head. I didn’t know what was true anymore of Rosita. At one time I’d have been certain that, as she vowed, she never left. But at one time I’d have also been certain that even after the trouble with Pony, after Oliver’s death, we’d remained friends. That she was just distant because of grief. But I’d have been wrong.
The image of her red diary, out on her dining table the morning of Eddie’s arrival, came to mind. Would she have really used the precious book in which she’d recorded Oliver’s life as a ledger to track Eddie’s financial shenanigans? Had she really become that hard-hearted?
But then I thought of the scrap of cream paper in the corner of the lockbox under the floorboard in Oliver’s nursery.
Of how eager both Eddie and Seamus had been to find Rosita’s red diary, after I mentioned I’d seen it out.
Slowly, I said, “You mentioned a mole.”
Seamus nodded, an eyebrow cocked. He was interested, I could tell, in what I’d be able to piece together on my own.
I frowned, thinking of the women who came here during the warmer months. Wives, more often lovers, of men that Eddie wanted to coerce or repay. I’d assumed one of those women was the mole, desperate to break free. But maybe I only assumed that about those women because that was how I felt.
Which of the women came regularly? A few came more than once, but not regularly.
What about shy, awkward Liam, with his focus on his fossils and archaeological finds? I tried to imagine him talking smoothly to one of those women, in a way that wouldn’t stand out.
And then it hit me. Of course. Only one person had regular access to Rosita besides me after she came here—a person who Eddie not only trusted, but who he’d sent on purpose to check on Rosita. “Dr. Aldridge,” I whispered. “He was your mole!”
Seamus nodded. “He approached someone in the bureau. He wanted out of working for Eddie, wanted immunity and money and safety so he could reconnect with his family. A son who’d long ago left Ohio and wanted nothing to do with the doctor or his criminal connections. And … Dr. Aldridge was sick. Dying. Liver cancer. He just wanted protection for the final months of his life and for his family, so he could make amends.”
Oh, how tragic, I thought. The doctor was dead before he could make that reconciliation. Was his death truly an accidental overdose, or had someone killed him because they figured out he was a mole for the Feds? Or, after Rosita’s apparent death, had he panicked and foolishly tipped his hand to Eddie?
Nervously, I cleared my throat, but still spoke in a hushed tone. “Did either Liam or Dr. Aldridge know you’re undercover?” If they had, and revealed that Seamus was a Fed, surely Eddie or Cormac would have taken out Seamus.
Unless, again, Seamus had flipped his loyalty to Eddie—in which case, I was a fool for trusting Seamus this much, even with a gun on him.
Seamus shook his head. “I was chosen to come here because I was new to Toledo. No one knew me.”
“But you said before that the mole … Dr. Aldridge”—the realization that the loyal doctor had betrayed Eddie was still head-spinning to me—“told you that Rosita was possibly open to working with you.”
“That’s what Dr. Aldridge told one of my colleagues. The doctor and I never met before he came here a few days ago. Anyway, yes. According to the doctor, Rosita had financial information that proved Eddie was guilty of tax evasion.” Seamus grinned. “The assistant attorney general—a woman you’d like, Mabel Willebrandt—came up with the tactic of nabbing these criminals on tax evasion, since they often slip out of other charges.”
“How did Dr. Aldridge know this? Surely Rosita didn’t trust him with this?”
“He spotted that red diary of hers out on the table during one of his visits. She must have been lightheaded from the Veronal, gotten careless and left it out, and fell asleep. He reported that the first pages in the diary were ripped out—”
Oh! My heart panged at that—Rosita tearing out what she’d written about Oliver. Had she kept the pages? Burned or otherwise destroyed them?
“—but she’d carefully copied out Eddie’s financial holdings. She must have done so just before coming to Trouble Island to bury their son.”
How would she have gotten ahold of that information? But then I remembered that Rosita had caught me using a hairpin to try to pick the lock to Eddie’s office back in Toledo. Pony had wanted me to get in, find anything he could use to go to another gang to get in their good graces. He was frustrated, felt he wasn’t rising fast enough.
Rosita had caught me in the act. I didn’t realize, until that conversation with Seamus, that she’d been observing how I did it. She’d just acted all horrified, and I told her that Pony was eager to pay off some gambling debts and he wanted me to bring home any cash I could find.
I feared that if I told her the truth, Eddie would have him killed. Little did I know that six months later, he’d push me so far, hurt me so much, that I’d kill him myself. If I’d have told the truth so that Eddie’s thugs would kill Pony, I wouldn’t have gotten into the mess that has me caught on this island.
Anyway, in that moment with Seamus, I was focused on the important information—Rosita had accessed and copied out Eddie’s records before coming here. And that meant she had planned all along to betray Eddie.
Combining the knowledge of what Eddie had reported of his income, with records of how much he’d spent to convert unreported cash to goods—the bullion and jewels hidden away on the island—would make a compelling argument that he was guilty of tax evasion.
Seamus had trusted me with what he knew. Sure, I held a gun on him—but I knew that I wouldn’t bring myself to shoot him. And I was sure he knew that too. He could have powered it away from me at any time if he’d wanted to.
My head was pounding, but I forced myself to think. Seamus had gone wide-eyed when I referenced Rosita’s red diary the morning Rosita was discovered missing and Seamus, Eddie, and I searched her suite for clues. Seamus must have been anxious to find the diary before Eddie did; no wonder Seamus had gone up to the suite a second time.
And Eddie must have been just as desperate to find what Rosita had on him. Did he know that she had copied out his original records? Had the doctor flipped his loyalty back to Eddie and told him, or was the doctor working both sides? Was that why the doctor was killed—if his death wasn’t accidental or suicide?
Then I considered—if Seamus had flipped to Eddie, he probably already knew about the lockboxes. But if he hadn’t, if he was on the up-and-up as a Fed, then this would be important information to him.
Finally, I said, “Remember the empty lockbox we found under the floorboard in Oliver’s nursery?”
A frown flicked across Seamus’s brow as he nodded.
“I found one the morning that Eddie arrived. Thought it was unique, and I spun up a story in my head about how I’d found a bit of lost treasure. It had bullion and some jewels in it.” Tears pricked my eyes. I put my gun back in my boot and sank down on the edge of the messy bed. “And I thought maybe it was also a sign. Here was a treasure I could hide away, use later, to start over. So I tied it up in an old fishing net I found in the cottage, and secured it under the dock. The southwest dock.”
Understanding dawned on Seamus’s face. “And later when you found her—”
“The lockbox was gone.” I spoke slowly, carefully sorting out my logic. “I thought maybe you’d seen me tie up the lockbox. After all, you were on the path that morning. Or I thought Liam could have seen me. Either of you could have then told the Carmichaels, or Eddie, or someone in his entourage—depending on who you were truly loyal to.” I’d also told Rosita about the lockbox the morning Eddie and his entourage came to Trouble Island. But I didn’t think she wouldn’t have had time to retrieve it. The lockbox under the nursery floor, with the scrap of paper in the corner, had to be a different one. My head spun at all the permutations and possibilities.
Seamus nodded thoughtfully. “All right. You found a lockbox like the one under the floorboard. I’m not sure how that fits in with what I already know—”
“Because those were only two of probably hundreds of lockboxes,” I said in a rush. “I saw Liam moving them into the hold in the Myra. Knowing Liam, he had to keep a careful record of all the lockboxes.”
I thought of the archaeological finds and fossils I’d seen in Liam’s room, how carefully he’d labeled each item. And I thought of how upset Liam had been after Rosita went missing, and then when her body was allegedly found. Well, we all were, but Liam usually kept his emotions under wraps, and he’d rocked back and forth at the news of her missing, and had been so emotional at her burial.
I went on. “I think Liam was working with Rosita. Before she locked herself away in the suite. And then, later, what if they were still working together, but through the doctor?”
“Dr. Aldridge never told anyone at the bureau that anything like that was going on,” Seamus said.
“But he wouldn’t, would he? If he’d decided to throw his allegiance to Rosita and Liam, if the three of them had decided they’d use the information they had to blackmail Eddie instead of helping your organization? All the bureau could give them would be promises of freedom from Eddie. Blackmail, though, could give them freedom and money to start over. But once Eddie arrived, especially with the doctor in tow, I could see Liam panicking, and killing Rosita—or the woman he thought was her. To keep her from telling Eddie that she’d been getting the records from him.”
Seamus nodded. “Or maybe he confessed all to Eddie and Eddie ordered him to kill Rosita as part of his punishment—and to get her out of the way?”
“I don’t believe Henry killed either her or Joey,” I said.
“Neither do I,” Seamus said. “And it’s awfully convenient that Dr. Aldridge is dead now, too.”
Could Liam have been behind all three deaths?
I gazed around the messy room.
“We can figure out confronting Liam later. First, we need to see if the papers are in here—but also if anything indicates Rosita has been posing as Claire. Then we can confront Rosita, try to sort out why she’s posed as Claire, where she stands.”
I could only think of one reason Rosita would have pretended to be Claire. Taking on Claire’s role gave her protection. And Rosita, as Claire, could study people, listen in, ask questions, and try to figure out who her would-be killer, or killers, were.
Maybe, too, she’d hoped to just continue her life as Claire, either in Hollywood, or slipping away to live quietly, using grief as her reason to opt for a private life after all.
But how had Rosita so artfully pulled off appearing to be Claire?
I pondered as we searched, moving as quietly as we could through the items in the room, the drawers, corners, wardrobe, luggage.
Well, Rosita could easily have modulated her voice to mimic Claire. She was that talented as a vocalist. Their heights were similar, though Claire was a little shorter, more round-shouldered, and Rosita could have slumped to mimic Claire’s posture. The difference in height wasn’t enough to matter. Claire was thicker, chestier, but there were enough clothes here to create padding under other clothes.
But the lack of beauty mark? I didn’t understand how that could be.
After going through all the items, we started looking for floorboards that appeared to have been modified. Finally, underneath the nightstand, we found the hiding spot.
There were no lockboxes or copies of financial records that would take down Eddie, and I could see the disappointment in Seamus’s expression.
But stuffed in the hiding spot was Dr. Aldridge’s medicine bag. In his bag: an empty morphine vial, a syringe, a ring filled with the mansion’s keys, and a bronze dove.
From Oliver’s grave.
That was all the proof I needed—this memento. Claire would not care about taking such a token. But Rosita—planning to leave the island as Claire, for reasons I didn’t yet understand—would.
I studied the dove. There was no blood on its beak or the pointed tip of its wing. It was not the weapon that had murdered Claire or Joey. Just a sad keepsake.
I put the dove on top of the dresser.