An island is a terrible place to commit a crime. You can’t get on or off without buying a ticket. Us locals notice every last little thing, every blade of grass out of place. What else is there to do? There’s nowhere to hide your secrets, except the water, and then, well, the tide always comes in. You can count on that.
I imagine the footage from all the fancy video cameras on Hulbert Avenue—and there were dozens—showed plenty. More than enough. Too much. People tromping across other people’s lawns. People cutting through, people going places. Neighbors and friends. Fathers and daughters. Shadows and light.
But what would that prove? Nothing, that’s what. Not a blessed thing. Except that here, everyone had sand between their toes, dune grass on the bottoms of their feet, hair tousled from the wind, memories hazy from the fog. And secrets, we all had them.
People carried matches in their pockets, flasks. People had cases of wine in their cars. People took extra trips to the dump, wore gloves because it was cold at night.
What could you do? What could you prove?
Like it sometimes does, it comes down to who you want to believe, who you want to protect, and who you want to hurt. When it all comes out even, and everyone gets what they wanted, who do you blame? They all lied, cheated, screwed up, covered up. Even the kid.
The way I figure it, Alice Warner mowed her own swastika, and no matter what Caroline said or where she was or where they knew Tripp Warner might have been heading, the widow’s walk was old and out of code and could have fallen down at any time. They’re just lucky it was the old man and not the kid, or all of them, crowded up there to watch the fireworks. The smartest thing that family did was watch that display from the beach, down below.
And it doesn’t have anything to do with anything, but Billy Clayton, I’ll admit it now. I did like him, you were right.
Sometimes I went into his closet just to look at his clothes.
He never left anything on the floor or on a chair; it was either in the laundry room or hung up, folded. He had nice things, and he appreciated them, and I admired that. I’d seen a few too many homes with cashmere sweaters crumpled into balls, with suede shoes kicked off, down jackets that cost more than a sleeping bag thrown like they were nothing. They weren’t nothing, and he knew that.
So yes, I stood among the wools, the fine cottons, the camel’s hair, the silk ties. Things hung by color, type, like a store. I spaced out the wooden hangers sometimes so they were even, placed my fingers between them like a comb, going up and down the line. I dusted the tops of his shoe trees, the knobs that held his belts and ties. But mostly I just breathed in, the male and clean and decent scent of him, leather and wool and shaving cream. No cologne, no extras, just enough. I breathed in that closet and wondered why there weren’t more like it, used as the designers intended, neat and tidy, like a photo. I wanted to take a photo sometimes, but I didn’t. That would be too creepy.
My work was creepy sometimes, it was. Sometimes I felt like a burglar or worse, looking under their beds, inside their drawers. You go through the motions, don’t think twice about it, until, suddenly, you do. You think about the knowledge you have, the intimacy, the power. I could put tacks on their desk chair, acid in their shampoo. I could poison their food.
And sometimes I wanted to.
There was a guest at the Grinstaffs’ Daffodil weekend who left yellow nail polish all over the sink. I mean, really, who polishes their nails over the sink? I didn’t even know how to remove it; I had to call my friend Molly who does nail art at the salon on Center Street and ask her what in the bejesus to do. It just had to be done, fixed. No extra time, no extra money. And no murdering of the person who did it.
One time I was at the Brownsteins’, I was in his closet when I heard the door, thank God. I grabbed my bucket of supplies and went downstairs.
“Are you okay?” Bear asked.
“Yes, why?”
“You look a little flushed.”
“Oh, the hot water and all,” I said.
“Do you need to sit down, take a break?”
“Nah.”
“Would I be in your way if I went upstairs while you finish down here?”
“Of course not,” I said breezily. “It’s your house.”
“But you’re in charge,” he said and smiled.
As he walked past me, I felt my cheeks redden further. No one ever asked if they would be in my way. No one else ever said I was in charge.
No one else ever asked how I was.