EIGHTEEN

(Day #8: Saturday Late Afternoon)

Millie Poppy’s street was deserted. It was a beautiful day to spend at the beach or on the golf course or drinking poolside with friends. Once in the driveway, I put the top down in order to wrestle the wedding dress from my backseat. It must’ve weighed twenty pounds. Heavy silk and tulle and beads. So many beautiful beads.

I slid the key in the lock, and the door handle twisted with ease. The house was quiet. A nearby grandfather clock ticked loudly. The living room and kitchen looked showcase ready, not quite lived in. Like its occupants tidied up and never returned. The rustling of the dress and my soft footsteps lightly echoed as I crossed through the house.

The guest room décor reminded me of a beachside inn. Whitewashed shiplap covered the walls, themselves adorned with sailboat prints and beachy sayings about sand and surf and seashells. The picture window overlooked the patio, fire pit, and rose garden. The ocean barely visible beyond a picket fence.

I hung the wedding dress on the rail along the farthest spot at the back of the closet, pushing the heavy zippered bag behind two storage boxes, and closed the bi-fold door with a soft snap. I glanced out the window. The afternoon breeze rustled the tall seagrass and rose bush leaves.

My mind’s inner wheels started to turn. Slowly at first. Something about the roses. And tv episodes. I continued to stare, hoping the thread of the loose thought would weave into something tangible. After a few minutes, I turned away, letting my subconscious meditate.

The patio slider from the sunroom was open. The distant ocean air drifted in. Almost calling me. I walked outside. Voices from families playing and talking and beaching sounded in the distance, mingling with softly splashing waves and soaring seagulls.

Fragrant flowers scented the air with honeyed notes of rose and jasmine. A short brick path wound around the pretty garden. I followed it.

It was when I reached the last of row bushes that the loose thread of a thought materialized. Sam tending the roses on the morning of the Sea Pine Island Home Showcase. The mulch still looked new. The mounds high and fresh. I knelt closer. Definitely much higher and fresher than the rose bushes toward the front. Why would he tend the roses in the back where no one would see them? Is this what he was trying to tell Millie Poppy in that voicemail?

I dusted my hands and returned to the patio slider, then sat in one of the Adirondack chairs facing the fire pit at the edge of the garden. I called Ransom. He didn’t answer, so I texted instead.

Me: I want to go to Barcelona. I want to go to Monterey. I want forever. Also, I’m having a Columbo moment at Millie Poppy’s, can you and Parker and the Sheriff meet me? I think I found Daphne.

I was contemplating sending a text to Parker to bring dogs when a figure came around the row of yellow roses bordering the side fence. It was Tucker. He had the remnant tears on his cheeks.

“How did you know I was here?” he asked.

“I didn’t,” I said. “I didn’t even see you back there.” And it never occurred to me to question the open sunroom slider.

He slid into the chair next to me with a thud. That’s when I noticed he held a letter in one hand and a gun in the other.

I jumped at the sight of the gun. I hated guns. They had a singular purpose. To kill. Either people or animals. They were dangerous and deadly and anything could happen.

“So why are you here?” he asked.

“Juliette’s dress. Millie Poppy asked me to put it in the closet. She’s at the hospital with your grandfather.”

“Yeah, I talked to her. She didn’t mention the dress. That damn dress. I hate it. I hate all of this.” He waved the gun, almost absentmindedly, around the yard and garden.

I sat quietly. Hands in my lap. Unsure of what to say, of what he intended, of why he held a gun.

“We were fine,” he continued. Almost casually, barely engaged. “Me and Daphne, me and Juliette. And then Juliette asked Daphne to put beads on her wedding dress. I think she wanted Daphne to feel involved.” He laughed. Short and bitter. “She got involved all right. So did I.”

“You weren’t dating this whole time?” I asked softly. “Since the end of Down the Isle?”

“I thought she hated me this whole time,” he said. “Turns out, she loved me.”

“And you loved her,” I said.

“And I loved her,” he said.

My phone buzzed with a soft vibration. I hoped it was Ransom saying he was on his way to meet me and not Ransom saying he wasn’t. I thought about casually flipping it over to read the screen, but decided against the movement.

“How did you know Daphne was here?” he asked.

“Like I said, I didn’t. I came because of the dress.”

“I saw you by the roses,” he said. “So you know she’s here.”

“Yes, I know,” I said, considering what to say next. “I once saw an episode of Dateline. It made me think about the parking ticket. The one you took when you parked Daphne’s car at the Sea Pine airport. The night she disappeared.”

“But you don’t have the ticket. I burned it.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t have the ticket, but I was telling the Sheriff about it on this episode of Dateline. The guy had buried his girlfriend in their backyard. Earlier today at the hospital, Millie Poppy mentioned Sam and the rose garden. I remembered him tending it, almost obsessively, the morning Daphne disappeared. Or more accurately, the morning after.”

He wiped a tear with the back of his hand, the letter hand. An envelope fluttered to the ground. “Millie Poppy” was written in block letter.

I was so focused on the gun, I’d forgotten he was holding a letter. “Sam left her a note?”

Tucker nodded. His gaze transfixed on the rose bushes.

“You weren’t trying to run Juliette off the road. You were trying to hurt Sam.”

“He was going to tell her,” Tucker said and dropped the note. It landed next to the envelope near our feet. “He did tell her. I came to leave him a note. To say goodbye. I just wanted to get away from this place. But I found this note instead. Now I can’t seem to leave it behind. I loved Daphne, but that show, it just messed with my head. It messed with everyone. I was confused. Daphne didn’t want to live on the island. Juliette wanted the family. My grandfather wanted me to run the business. Jona wanted ratings.”

“And you wanted Daphne.”

My phone vibrated again in the silence. Tucker glanced at me as seagulls called in the distance, along with the muted laughter and voices over the fence. And then the faint sound of sirens.

“We argued,” Tucker said, seeming to ignore them. Or perhaps didn’t even hear them. “Last week. Daph wasn’t going to crash the wedding. I mean, at first, that was Jona’s idea. She said it was okay because Juliette first cheated on Daphne with me, why not the other way? But Daphne was torn, you know, with the friendship. Juliette just wanted more and more from Daphne, and the wedding was looming.”

“What about Down the Isle? Did Daphne agree to do another season?”

“Daphne told me she was going to do it with Jona. Take the money and the new show, be the Eligible. Leave us all behind. But then she backed out. She said she’d rather leave the island. Get far away and start over by herself. And I wanted her to leave with me. You know, settle down somewhere, just us. We argued. She couldn’t live with the guilt. Wanted a clean slate without me. I thought she loved me.”

“She was going to tell Juliette?”

“I don’t know. But she didn’t care if she found out. It was all too much. Our fight got ugly. I got mad. I pushed her. Just once. She fell in the parking lot. Her head bounced on the asphalt. And that was it. She was gone. One push. One angry shove and my entire life ended. Right there in a random office parking lot.”

“You called Sam,” I said. “And he helped.”

“He helped.”

The low whoop of sirens grew steadily louder.

Tucker raised his gun. He pointed it at me and I raised my hands.

The sirens stopped. The gun never wavered. Tucker didn’t blink.

The front door slammed, almost like a crash. Footsteps pounded against the floors. The floorboards creaking under the weight.

I sat statue still, not wanting to startle Tucker. I knew he’d heard them, too.

“Tucker,” I said gently. “They’re here to help with Daphne.”

He kept the gun raised. Didn’t say a word.

A half-dozen snaps and scuffs. The sounds of guns unholstering.

Voices shouted for him to put the gun down.

I leaned to my right, ready to bolt.

Tucker moved the gun. He didn’t aim it at my head. He aimed it at his own. And pulled the trigger.

“No!” I screamed and closed my eyes.

The shot was beyond loud. Like saying a hurricane was breezy or a ghost pepper had a little kick. I covered my ears, but it was milliseconds after the insane explosion.

Someone put their hands on my arms. Held me tight. A strong grip on each side.

“You’re okay,” Ransom whispered, barely audible. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” His volume rose ever so slightly. I realized he wasn’t whispering. He lifted me out of the chair and I finally opened my eyes. He blocked nearly everything around me, holding me close to his chest, gently walking me into the house.

We passed Parker and Sheriff Hill and at least a dozen uniformed officers. I felt tears on my cheeks. My legs wobbled, but Ransom kept us moving, bearing most of my weight.

He eased me onto the front porch swing. He slowly rocked. His arm firmly around me, my head still buried in his chest. “You’re okay,” he repeated. “You’re just fine. I’m right here. You’re okay.”

I cried. For Daphne, for Juliette, for Millie Poppy, for Sam. Even for me. I’d battled killers this past year. Terrible people who did terrible things. But Tucker battled himself, and somehow this loss ran the deepest.

Once spent, my sobs smoothed into heavy breaths, then deep meditative breathing. I lifted my face to Ransom’s. He kissed my forehead. I turned and watched the line of police and rescue vehicles in the drive and down the street. An officer directed residential traffic, another cleared a space. One, I knew, that would be used for Dr. Harry Fleet, the medical examiner.

“Is Millie Poppy at the hospital?” Ransom asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I should go tell her. And Juliette and the search teams. Oh my God, Zanna and her family.”

“We’ll take care of them,” Ransom said.

Parker stepped onto the porch, leaned against the railing in front of us. “Can you tell us what happened?”

I nodded, wiped my face, took another deep breath. Eight counts in, eight counts out. I told them what I’d surmised after leaving Millie Poppy at the hospital. Staring out the guest room window. Sam and the flower bed. Tucker appearing in the garden. His confession. The sirens. The gunshot.

“That’s enough for now,” Ransom said. “We’ll talk again later, Parker.”

“I should let you two go,” I said.

“We need your clothes,” she said. She held what looked like a large Ziploc stuffed with pale blue fabric.

My body shook as if she stuck me with a charged electrode. “Is it on my face? In my hair?” My voice trembled with each syllable. Panic bubbled as I stared at Ransom.

“No, honey, no,” he said. “He shot away from you. You’re clean. You’re fine. It’s just your clothes. Soil. Residue. It’s procedure. You know that.”

“You swear?” I asked.

“On all things hand-sanitized.”

Parker helped me in the half-bath just inside the foyer. I checked my face and patted my hair. Ran cool water over my wrists and hands and lightly blotted my face with a paper guest towel. My shaking hands made it difficult to remove my pants, even with the elastic waistband. I donned the scrubs and tied the drawstring tight.

Parker hugged me quick. “He’s right. You’ll be okay. Call if you need me.”

I rejoined Ransom on the porch. “If you don’t need me here, I’m going home,” I said. “It’ll be quiet there. Especially with everyone still at the BBQ. I could really use the peace.”

Ransom wrapped me in a bear hug. “Text me as soon as you get home. I’ll come by tonight with dinner and a bottle of wine.”

“I may need two,” I said.

  

Driving down Cabana, I tried to keep my mind focused on the positive things. All the people I love. The Ballantynes. Colonel Mustard and Mrs. White. Ransom. Sid. But my mind wouldn’t stay still. It didn’t seem right to let someone else, a stranger in a uniform, tell Millie Poppy that her husband buried Daphne Fischer in their garden. That her granddaughter’s fiancé killed himself in her backyard. My peace would have to wait another hour.

I parked in Island Memorial Hospital’s parking lot and used the automatic swishing doors to the main entrance. The volunteer at the visitor’s desk handed me a guest access sticker and directed me to the third floor. I gripped my compact bottle of hand-sani as I waited for the elevator. It wasn’t much comfort, but it kept my trembly hands busy.

Sam Turnbull lay partially reclined in a standard hospital bed in the intensive care unit. Tubes ran out of his both arms, his nose, and his mouth. Surgical tape held a ventilator apparatus across his face.

Millie Poppy sat near him. Her chair was against the wall, beneath a window. Not at his bedside. She looked distraught, distant. Mad as hell.

“You know about Sam,” I said. “And Tucker.”

“He called me,” she said. “He explained what happened. He’d already called Juliette. Told her over the phone. Sonofabitch. Tess was with her, thank the good Lord. I called the police.”

“That explains how they arrived so quickly,” I said. “The island is small, but the entire emergency crew arrived pretty quickly. For which I’ll be forever grateful.”

“He explained the partial message about the rose garden,” she said. “I guess Sam had also written me a letter.”

I eased into a chair at the foot of the bed kittycorner to Millie Poppy.

“He’d put it in my desk drawer,” she continued. “But Tucker found it this morning. Guess he decided the jig was up. Well, it’s definitely up for him. For them both.”

The ventilator hissed and thumped. Another machine beeped periodically. The only sounds in the quiet room.

“Tucker killed himself,” I said.

She stared at me for a moment. “My husband…” Her voice choked on the word and tears fell down her face. “He knew. Tucker knew. Juliette cried herself to sleep every night. We spent hours and hours, days, searching the marsh land, anguishing. Where could she be? This whole time, they knew. My God, he killed that girl. It’s sickening. And Sam. How could he sleep next to me? He buried that girl in our garden. I thought I knew this man.”

“I’m sorry, Millie Poppy,” I said. “I’m sorry this happened to you and your family. That you had to find out this way. Alone. That I couldn’t figure it out sooner. Or figure it out at all. It was always just right out of my reach.”

“Oh, sweetie, those two hid it good. That’s the scariest part. How well they pulled it together. They killed that poor girl and smiled at me the very next morning. It makes my stomach turn and my blood boil at the same time. It’s horrifying me.”

“You going to be okay here? Want me to drive you somewhere? I’m sorry, but your house, well, it’s inaccessible for a while.”

“It’s inaccessible forever,” she said. “I’ll never set foot in there again. The girls are picking me up in a bit. I have some paperwork to sign first, then I’m never looking back.” Tears fell down her cheeks in salty streams of anger, devastation, exhaustion.

“But…” I started, though I didn’t know what to say.

“My husband buried a girl in my yard. One doesn’t get over that.”

Two doctors in white coats entered the room and a man wearing a suit walked directly behind them. The older doctor, his hair fully grayed, half-moon glasses perched on his nose, spoke first. “Mrs. Turnbull? You requested DNR papers for your husband?”

“Yes,” Millie Poppy said. “I’ll sign whenever they’re ready. Today if possible.”

“Well, we’d like to speak to you about that,” he said.

The man in the suit stepped forward. “I’m an attorney with Island Memorial. Your husband’s been implicated in the death Daphne Fischer.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said. “But he’s in a coma. One, I’ve been told, he won’t recover from. It’s his right to request a DNR designation.”

“Do you have documentation of this request?” the lawyer asked.

“We hadn’t yet created our living wills,” she said. “But I’ll declare it under oath. That was his intention.”

“You can see how this looks, Mrs. Turnbull,” the lawyer said.

“It’s Pete,” she said. “Millie Poppy Pete. Always has been.”

The doctors looked uncomfortable, but remained silent.

“Okay, then, Ms. Pete,” the lawyer said. “Your husband’s an accessory in the murder of your granddaughter’s friend. His own grandson, now deceased, is also accused. The police notified us moments ago.”

“What are you saying, exactly?” I asked.

“And you are?” he said.

“Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne Foundation,” I said. “A close family friend.”

“Perhaps we should discuss this in private,” he said to Millie Poppy.

“Are you implying I want to pull the plug on my husband because he buried a girl in my roses or because I’m the only person left to inherit and I don’t want to wait for him to die on his own?”

“I’m not imply—” the lawyer said.

“How long can he live like this?” Millie Poppy said.

The older doctor cleared his throat. “We can’t be sure. He has minimal brain function.”

“Can he survive without the ventilator?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” the doctor said. “It’s unlikely.”

“My inheritance is no matter,” Millie Poppy said. “Most of the money is mine, anyway. He’s my husband and I have rights. You cannot simply let him languish because he might also be a criminal.”

“Excuse us a moment.” The three men stepped into the hall to confer.

“Are you doing this for the right reasons?” I whispered to Millie Poppy. “Let the system work. You can’t rush his death.”

“Oh, yes I can,” she said.

The men returned with the older doctor taking lead. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Turnbull, we’ll need to refer this to a judge. You should retain legal counsel.”

“Again, my inheritance is no matter, gentlemen,” she said. “I’m not removing him from life support for personal gain. He’s DNR. You’re the ones with financial motive. How much does it cost to leave him here hooked up?”

“That’s a discussion for another time,” the lawyer said.

“Minimum care, right? Doesn’t cost but a small amount of IV bag changing, take his vitals every so often. Yet, I bet you’ll charge about fifty thousand dollars a day to keep him alive. Against his wishes. Pretty good racket. You’ll make millions. Sounds like you have more motive to keep him alive than I do to sign the DNR.”

“Like I said, you’ll likely want to get yourself an attorney.” The older doctor led the other two out of the room. The door softly swished closed.

“Let him rot,” Millie Poppy said. She grabbed her handbag and walked to the door.

True to her word, she didn’t look back.