ROSITA’S DOOR WAS locked once more.
I knocked, though I knew Rosita wouldn’t come to the door. It was only 11:00 A.M., an hour and a half before her usual time for lunch. Next to me, Eddie exhaled down my neck, reeking of cigar smoke and whisky. Cormac was close behind.
“She’s incapacitated.” I’d already tried Rosita’s lame excuse on Eddie after he’d blustered into the guest bedroom. Then he and Cormac forced me up the stairs. But I tried the excuse again.
“Bullshit,” Eddie said. “Get her to open the door! She always used to listen to you.”
His gaze was dark, resentful. Yes, Rosita had listened to me, followed my advice even when it went against Eddie’s desires—but that was before I killed my husband. Before she intervened on my behalf, convincing Eddie to hide my crime and shuttle me off to this island—a far better alternative than either spending the rest of my days in prison or dying by electric chair. Or being disposed of by Cormac.
Only Rosita, Eddie, and Cormac knew what I’d done. At least, that’s what I believed at the time.
I knocked again. “Rosita,” I said, “I need to take care of Largo.”
“Who the hell is Largo?” Eddie hissed.
I stared at him, incredulous. “The macaw that was your son’s pet.” Rosita had brought Largo with them when they came to bury Oliver.
Eddie flinched, then looked outraged. I’d reminded Eddie of his son’s beloved pet in a way that made him seem stupid for forgetting. I’d seen him order his thugs to hurt men for lesser infractions than that.
I knocked again. Eddie grabbed my wrist, squeezed hard. “Don’t you have a key?”
“I’m to use it only in an emergency,” I said.
Cormac poked me in my back with his gun. “Eddie wants in. That’s enough of a goddamned emergency.”
My heart beat wildly in my chest like a trapped bird. I hoped Eddie might remember better times, might tell Cormac to ease off. But Eddie’s perpetual frown only deepened.
“Rosita,” I said, hating how my voice shook her name into a tumble of syllables. “Eddie’s here. If you don’t let us in, I’ll have to get my key, and they’ll just be angrier—”
I stumbled as the door suddenly opened.
Before us stood Rosita, her face veiled, her body swathed in a heavy black dress, her alabaster hands clasped.
As if she’d been waiting for us—for this moment—all along.
LARGO SAT QUIETLY on my shoulder while I cleaned her cage, nudging my cheek, a sign that she wanted affection. I gently stroked her head.
“You’re a pretty girl, a good girl, Largo,” I whispered.
Over the past year, Largo and I had bonded. I loved her lush yellow feathers, a hue that made me think of another bird, a canary Rosita had once given me, that I’d named Dahlia. When the yellow brought up memories that were too sad, I’d focus on the flash of blue and turquoise in Largo’s wings. I’d trained her to respond to several commands—“pretty wings” meant she’d fluff out her wings; “say hello, say hello” elicited two excited squawks; “kisses” resulted in her giving me a gentle peck on my hand or shoulder or cheek.
That morning, I wished I’d taught Largo the trick of “hush.” Her squawks were anxious. She didn’t like the tension that had swept into the room with Eddie, who sat on the love seat and stared at Rosita, still standing. Cormac waited just outside the door.
As I put a fresh dish of water in Largo’s cage, I ventured a glance at Eddie. He stared at his wife with longing and tenderness, as if this were years ago. I’d caught glimpses of that expression when she sang in the club where Pony and I first met Eddie and Rosita and Claire.
“Rosita,” he said softly, “enough. It’s time for you to come home.”
“With you?” Rosita’s question was tinged with bitter amusement.
“Yes! We can start over. You can have a career on the screen like you always wanted—”
“You mean what you always wanted—”
“For you! So wouldn’t it be enough? To make up for…” His voice trailed off. Surely he couldn’t mean “make up for” the loss of sweet Oliver?
But he did. And Rosita knew it. She turned to me. “I asked you to bring me a report of who has come to the island. I assume you were on your way with it before you were waylaid?” She unclasped her hands long enough to dismissively wave toward Eddie and Cormac.
I answered over Largo’s squawks, “Claire is here. Douglas Johnson—the actor and screenwriter,” I said, as if Eddie would bring a random man with the same name. I immediately felt like a rube. Of course she knew who Douglas was; she’d told me once that they were childhood friends. “Dr. Aldridge. And Marco Guiffre and a bodyguard, whose name I don’t yet know—”
Rosita pivoted back to Eddie, growled her next words: “You brought Marco Guiffre?”
Cormac turned so he could now see into the suite as well as down the stairs.
“I can explain,” Eddie said. “If you’ll agree to come back, we can get rid of Marco.”
My blood ran cold. I knew what he meant by “get rid of.”
“Oh, and start another war with their organization?”
Eddie shrugged. “Marco’s told his men that our crews are gonna work together. His bodyguard is stupid and young—reminds me of a bagman who use-ta work for me.” He sneered at me, and I knew he meant Pony. He turned back to Rosita. “We can give ’em each a nice pair of cement shoes and just tell everyone a storm suddenly blew up on the lake. Tried to save them. Who could argue that?”
Other than the obvious convenience of only Marco and his bodyguard going overboard, no one could. Lake Erie was known for its sudden, violent storms, especially at this time of year.
Eddie’s cavalier attitude toward life and death did not shock me. What pinged in my mind were the words “another war with them.” There had been rivalry, but not bloodshed, between Eddie’s and Marco’s gangs when I was in Toledo.
“You bring the man who murdered our son,” Rosita said, her words cold as nails driving into a coffin, “offer to kill him when you’ve had more than a year to do so, and want to make some kind of deal with me?”
My chest constricted, my breath expelling as forcefully as if Cormac had crushed me. Rosita had never told me how Oliver died. I’d heard murmurings of an accident among guests, but no details. Oliver’s death was deeply mourned by the Carmichaels, Liam, and me, but none of us ever talked about it.
Once, when it felt as though at least in the privacy of her suite we were returning to being friends as we’d been before, I’d asked Rosita how Oliver died. She didn’t say a word. But she slapped me, hard enough to jam my glasses’ earpiece into the side of my temple.
I never again asked the details of Oliver’s death.
“Why are you really here, Eddie? Why did you bring Marco? Bringing him makes you just as much Oliver’s killer—”
Eddie lunged toward Rosita. “How dare you say that when it’s your fault—”
Suddenly, Largo flew from my shoulder toward Eddie’s face.
Eddie threw his hands up. “Goddamned bird! I’ll kill that thing!”
“No!” I cried. “Largo! Here, here pretty girl!”
Largo swooped around Eddie’s head but quickly returned to me, landing on my outstretched hand. Her wings were clipped and she could only fly in brief bursts. I eased Largo back into her cage and threw the scarf over the top.
Rosita stood up and strode toward her bedroom.
“You can’t avoid me forever!” Eddie shouted after her. “Wanna know what I’m up to? I want everyone to gather in the music room, after dinner. You will come downstairs tonight if you know what’s good for you.”
As Rosita stepped into her bedroom and shut the door behind her, it occurred to me that she’d known that Eddie wouldn’t heed my message that she was indisposed. That she’d known he’d come up and would become emotional. And that that was just what she wanted.
Eddie stormed away. I followed, closing the suite’s door behind me, eager to get out of that suffocating space, frustrated that I was again caught in the McGees’ drama, bouncing between them like a ball on the tennis court.
Rashly, I thought again that I should go back to the southwest dock, retrieve the lockbox of treasure I’d stashed away, get in the speedboat …
As I turned, Cormac was suddenly towering over me. “You’d better make sure Rosita gets downstairs tonight.”
“I can’t force her to do anything.”
“Find a way—or I’ll tell Marco who you really are.”
I frowned. While I didn’t want people to know my past, this seemed a lame threat. After all, he was a criminal, too. How many people had Marco killed—or ordered killed? Why would he care about what had happened between me and my husband almost two years ago?
“So?” I said.
Cormac chuckled grimly. “Trust me. If you value your life, you won’t want Marco to know who you really are. So get her down to the music room tonight.”