Wednesday evenings for as long as Finn could remember, Barnaby Purdon came to The Birches for dinner and checkers with Uncle Thomas.
Barnaby had been a teacher on the mainland, and before his retirement he made the trip back and forth from the island every weekday. Finn and Fitch had been homeschooled, but Barnaby had overseen their education as much as anyone could be said to have overseen it, and Finn had always liked the pale, twitchy but enthusiastic young man Barnaby had been. Barnaby had a way of pointing out the gossipy, interesting bits of academia, so Finn and Fitch hadn’t only studied geometry, they had learned about Harappan mathematics, and the I Ching, and Plato.
No longer young, and no longer twitchy, Barnaby was still enthusiastic, and he greeted Finn warmly that evening. “How’s that brother of yours?” he inquired as Uncle Thomas handed whiskey sours—another part of the Wednesday evening tradition—all around.
Barnaby was smiling quizzically. Gazing into his pale face, Finn abruptly remembered that here was another person Fitch had not cared for. He had called Barnaby the White Rabbit and mocked him in secret—and sometimes openly. Finn had always tried to ignore it, tune it out, but Con’s words of the afternoon resonated even though Finn had tried to deny them.
“I haven’t seen him in three years,” Finn answered and took a cocktail glass from the tray.
Barnaby raised his white eyebrows. His blond hair had turned silver now, and that reminded Finn of Miss Minton. That was something he really didn’t want to remember: the way Fitch had mocked Barnaby about Miss Minton being in love with him.
As little as Finn wanted to admit it, Con had been right. Fitch’s sense of humor could be cruel sometimes. He had been cruel about Miss Minton and Barnaby, and if there had been the tentative beginnings of something between them, it had shriveled by being exposed to merciless light too early on.
“Out of the country, is he?” Barnaby asked. “He always did have itchy feet.”
“They have powder for that,” Paul chimed in. “In Fitch’s case, I’d have recommended rat poison.”
Barnaby looked surprised, and Uncle Thomas coughed. Paul met Finn’s glare innocently.
Finn said, “To tell you the truth, I’ve been trying to find out what happened to him. No one seems to have seen him since he supposedly left the island three years ago.”
“Supposedly?” Barnaby repeated.
“Finn,” Uncle Thomas said uncomfortably and then stopped.
As though speaking to the at-home viewers, Paul said airily, “He’s very stubborn. Once he gets something into his head, it’s impossible to shake him loose. He’s convinced that Fitch is dead. That he was murdered.”
Into the shocked silence that followed Paul’s words came the sound of smashing glass from the dining room. They all turned as Martha appeared white-faced in the doorway.
“What are you saying?” she asked. Her eyes were enormous in her stricken face.
“Why did you have to put it like that?” Finn asked Paul, moving to Martha.
“What in God’s name is going on?” Uncle Thomas demanded, looking from face to face.
“It’s not true,” Martha said to Finn, but she sounded like she was begging for reassurance, not really denying it.
“I don’t know,” Finn said. “I mean, I’m not sure. There’s no proof that Fitch ever left the island. And no one ever saw him again after that day.”
“What day?” Barnaby asked, sounding bewildered.
“The day Finn found Conway Twitty and Fitch fucking in the lighthouse,” Paul said.
“That’s about enough of that,” Uncle Thomas said in a tone Finn had rarely heard. “I won’t have that kind of talk in this house.”
Paul laughed. “You do know your nephew is gay, right?”
“That’s Finn’s business. I’m not going to—”
“This is totally off the track,” Finn interrupted. “The point is that Fitch disappeared three years ago and hasn’t been seen since. I think something happened to him that day.”
“You think he’s dead,” Paul corrected.
Three horrified faces turned his way. Finn said, “I do. Yes.”
Martha faltered, “But if…if there had been some accident…”
“I don’t think it was an accident. Someone packed his things to make it look like he left on his own. That couldn’t happen accidentally.”
“But that’s…that’s crazy,” Uncle Thomas said. Barnaby glanced at him but said nothing.
“I knew it,” Martha moaned. “I always felt something was wrong, him leaving like that and Finn the next day. I knew when Finn said he hadn’t seen him…”
“No.” Uncle Thomas spoke firmly. “No. It’s impossible. Ridiculous. No one would do such a thing. And if it were true…where are his things? Where is the…the body?”
Martha moaned again. Rain shushed softly against the windows.
“No one’s looked for them,” Paul said. “No one’s looked for him. If someone started looking…”
“Have you called the police yet?” Barnaby asked calmly into the stunned silence.
Finn shook his head, gazing at his uncle. “I wanted to talk to you first.”
“C-call the police?” Uncle Thomas was practically stuttering. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve heard yet. Call the police based on…on what? This is Fitch we’re talking about, is it not? He’s just as likely to be deliberately playing some hoax on us.”
“For three years?” Martha cried. “He wouldn’t. Not for three years.”
“Martha’s right,” Finn said. “I think three years negates the possibility of this being a hoax.”
“Although I don’t put anything beyond him,” Paul said casually, moving to take a layered cream cheese biscuit off the tray on the credenza.
Uncle Thomas put his glass down. “Finn, I don’t believe you’ve thought this all the way through. Do you have any idea how truly unpleasant a police investigation would be? It would be in the papers, you understand? They would ask questions of all of us, and they wouldn’t stop until they had all the details of that day—the whole story of what happened between you and Con and Fitch.”
Not for the first time, it occurred to Finn to wonder how, if Fitch had never returned to The Birches, everyone at the house seemed to know what had taken place that morning at the lighthouse? He blurted, “How do you know about that?”
Uncle Thomas looked at Martha, and Martha, oddly enough, was the one who answered. “Mr. Carlyle came to the house to find you the next afternoon. It wasn’t hard to put together what must have happened. Fitch was… Well, he had his funny ways. No mistake.”
“Fitch was jealous of you,” Paul said. “He was jealous of you, and he was jealous of you, if you get what I mean.”
“Huh?”
“He competed with you, competed with you for attention from people like Con. From everyone, I imagine. But he also wanted you all to himself. He was jealous of time and attention you gave others, right?”
Finn stared at them bewilderedly. This was very much what Con had said, but Finn had never seen any of this in his relationship with his twin. He wanted to tell them that they were all wrong, but he was too much of a realist to believe that everyone else could see it the same way and still be mistaken.
Martha said uncomfortably, “Mr. Carlyle was… Well…”
“Con was distraught,” Uncle Tom said crisply. “I don’t see what’s to be gained by digging all this up now.”
“I think Tom’s right,” Barnaby said quietly. “Best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“I don’t understand.”
Paul said, “They want you to shut up about it. They want you to forget about Fitch.”
Finn stared at the ring of faces watching him with varying degrees of wariness. He said to Martha, “You don’t believe that, do you? You don’t believe we can—we should—just forget this? Forget that Fitch has been murdered?”
“We don’t know that for sure,” she faltered. “He might have left the island. Just because we can’t prove it, doesn’t mean he didn’t leave of his own free will. And if the police start digging…and the papers…it’s going to be…bad. Bad for all of us.”
“Murder is bad for all of us,” Finn said.
“It’s not merely you and your reputation at stake,” Uncle Thomas said flatly. “There’s my own name and reputation—this family’s name and reputation. There’s Con’s name and reputation. A thing like this could ruin us all.”
Finn opened his mouth to make an impatient reply, but Barnaby said, “Have you thought about the fact that you’ll be under suspicion as well?”
“Me?”
“If I understand correctly, there was some falling out between you, Fitch, and Conlan Carlyle. That means that you and Carlyle will be the prime suspects.”
“Do you have an alibi for that day?” Paul inquired sweetly.
Finn stared at him.
“You’re talking about disrupting a lot of lives…and we don’t even know for sure that Fitch isn’t perfectly well and merrily raising hell in some other corner of the world.” Uncle Thomas picked up his drink and sipped it. With an air of having said the final word, he said, “Martha, is dinner about ready?”
Martha made a visible effort to pull herself together. With a guilty look at Finn, she nodded to her employer and left the room.
“I don’t believe this,” Finn said at last.
Barnaby smiled uncomfortably at him—offering that same sort of silent half apology Martha had—before handing his glass to Thomas for a refill.
Finn opened his mouth. He closed it. Clearly, if he was going to proceed, it was going to be against the will of everyone at The Birches—with the exception of Paul, who moved to his side and said under his breath, “Don’t worry. We’ll find proof.”
Dinner was a strange affair. The food, as always, was excellent. Roast beef and Martha’s shrimp-stuffed triple-baked potatoes. Barnaby and Uncle Thomas chatted pleasantly about politics and general island business, directing comments to Finn and Paul, but not pausing long enough for either of the younger men to really join in the conversation—let alone redirect it. On the surface, everything seemed normal. The conversation in the parlor might never have occurred, but as casual as Uncle Thomas and Barnaby seemed, Finn was conscious of being carefully and deliberately corralled.
The discussion regarding Fitch was clearly over.
It was unbelievable, and yet…it was a perfect example of how life on Seal Island had always been…isolated and self-contained. It was as though they none of them realized how unrealistic—otherworldly—their attitude was. In fact, scooping the creamy, steaming-hot filling out of the potato shell, Finn couldn’t help wondering if maybe he was the one missing the point. Maybe he should leave well enough alone.
Not only did he dread the idea of being the focus of a police investigation—what the hell kind of an alibi did he have for that day? He’d spent it sitting on top of a mountain staring at the ocean and trying not to think. He was horrified at the idea of dragging Con into the limelight. Nothing could have convinced him of Con’s innocence as effectively as his hurt fury at the lighthouse that afternoon.
He remembered only too clearly how fiercely protective of his privacy Con had always been.
In fact, every time he thought of Con, his stomach knotted with anxiety. It had been much easier when he was confident in his unyielding anger and rancor. But Con’s remorse, his continued displays of affection and caring, were wearing Finn down. Equally wearing were the times when Con seemed to indicate that he was moving on or losing interest in pursuing anything with Finn. When it came to Con, Finn was a mess of contradictory feelings—the bottom line being that whether he could sort them out yet or not, he did still have feelings for Con. Con was making it hard to ignore those feelings. And now Finn had weakened his own position of utter inviolate righteousness by doing something fairly unforgivable…like accusing Con of murder.
’Cause nothing put a damper on romance like suspicions of homicide.
But Fitch…as angry and hurt and unforgiving as Finn had believed himself…he couldn’t bear not knowing what had happened to Fitch. Nor could he bear the idea that someone had killed Fitch and was going to be allowed to get away with it. Perhaps that was ironic, given how certain he had been that he could never forgive his twin—but knowing that now there truly would be no chance for reconciliation had changed everything.
At the same time, he couldn’t help being afraid of waking this particular old hound dog. It was a small island, and he was painfully aware that he could rule out the possibility that Fitch had been killed by a passing madman. The odds were, whoever had killed Fitch was someone Finn knew quite well. Maybe loved.
Granted, Fitch had had his secrets—certainly Finn hadn’t known about Con and Fitch until the day that he’d discovered them in the lighthouse. Maybe there was someone else on the island who had known another side of Fitch.
Or maybe someone had followed Fitch to the island. Finn glanced across the table, and Paul met his eyes.
No.
No, right? Because if Paul had been going to kill Fitch, it probably would have been when they were still together. Who waited years? And Paul had moved on. Well, he didn’t have a steady lover—but neither did Finn. No. But it wouldn’t hurt to ask whether Paul had an alibi for that weekend.
When at last the meal was finished, Uncle Tom and Barnaby took their brandies and went off to the study to play checkers.
“Where can we go to talk?” Paul asked in a stage whisper.
Finn shook his head, rising. He led the way upstairs to Fitch’s bedroom. A little frisson rippled down his spine as he pushed the door open and turned on the light.
Looking around himself, Paul said, “This was his room?”
Finn nodded. There was an obstruction in his throat that made it difficult to speak.
The room was the twin of his own—same window seat flanked by dormer windows, same funny-sloping ceiling and long bookshelves. The heavy, mismatched furniture was similar—both rooms had been furnished from other rooms within the house. As with his own room, nothing had been moved or changed, although the room was neatly dusted, the bed made.
How weird to stand here in this room again. Finn closed his eyes, trying to remember, trying to…perhaps reach out to Fitch. But all he sensed was a room that hadn’t been used for a long time. He opened his eyes. There were photos stuck on the mirror over the dresser: a snapshot of himself crossing his eyes for Fitch’s camera, a much older picture of them together swimming, and several shots of people unknown to him. There was a small bowl on the dresser with loose change, a couple of fishing lures, and a pair of dice.
Paul opened the closet door. “His clothes are still here.”
Finn joined him, looking inside. There were some odds and ends pushed to the side. A fishing vest, a couple of flannel shirts, a heavy parka. “Those are mostly his older things. Stuff he’d outgrown or only wore here on the island. He took—well, someone took—most of what he’d brought with him that summer. His suitcases are gone.”
Paul backed out of the closet and looked around the room. “There’s not a lot here.”
“He didn’t like collecting junk.”
Fitch had never been one for acquiring possessions. He had a few books, not nearly the number Finn had—nothing from his childhood. There were no games, no equivalent of Finn’s collection of old sailboat models. There was a fishing pole behind the door and a tennis racket in the closet.
“Did he keep a journal?” Paul asked.
Finn shook his head.
Paul went over to the dresser and took the photos down from the mirror, one by one. “I know some of these people.”
Finn joined him, glancing at the familiar and unfamiliar faces. “Anyone with a grudge against him?”
Paul snorted. “I have no idea why, but most people thought Fitch was perfectly charming—even when he was screwing them over.”
Finn moved to the desk and examined the desktop calendar. It was open to August 18. There was nothing noted for the day. No “betray my brother before breakfast” reminder. He flipped through the back pages, but they were all blank. He said slowly, his thoughts on Uncle Thomas and Barnaby, “I can’t decide if they honestly don’t believe Fitch is dead, or if they’re afraid he really is.”
“I think they know he’s dead. I think your uncle has suspected it long enough that it’s not even a shock.”
Finn sighed. “They’re right, though. I can’t go to the police without something more than this.”
“You could file a missing persons report and let it follow its natural course. Let the police decide if there are grounds for a murder investigation.”
“Yes, but what they said is true. If I open this can of worms, there’s no way of controlling it.”
“So?”
“So? So if the police determine that a murder investigation is warranted, Con and I will both be prime suspects.”
Paul studied Finn, head tilted to one side. “Did you kill him?”
“Ha-ha.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you had.”
“I didn’t kill my brother,” Finn said shortly. “If I had, I wouldn’t be pointing out to everyone that I thought he’d been murdered.”
“You might,” Paul said seriously. “If you thought it had been long enough that people were going to start wondering and asking questions.”
Finn said wearily, “If I had been going to kill anyone that day, it would have been myself. And I wasn’t about to kill myself.”
“You still had too many wonderful paintings left to give the world,” Paul trilled, waving his arm in a broad gesture toward the room’s only painting—one of Finn’s early studies of the lighthouse.
“Yeah, actually. You can laugh about it, but as miserable as I was, I still had a strong sense of the work I wanted to do. I knew it wasn’t always going to be as bad as it was right then.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” Paul eyed him speculatively. “And so you fled to me.”
“You were the only person I knew in Manhattan.”
“Now don’t spoil it, because I’ve always been immensely flattered that you came to me.”
Finn spluttered, “I told you that day when I apologized for barging in on you.”
“Shhhhh, don’t speak…no no no…don’t speak,” Paul said, seemingly channeling Dianne Wiest in Bullets Over Broadway. “Now that I think of it, I wonder why we never got together. We had an obvious natural bond.”
Was rage at Fitch an obvious natural bond? Finn answered, “Because I was still in love with Con and you were still in love with Fitch.”
For a long moment, Paul stared at him. He smiled—he had a surprisingly sweet smile. “I guess that’s true.” He put a hand on his hip, surveying the room thoughtfully. “All right. So if you were a body, where would you hide?”