Embers (63 page)

Today was a crying day.

Allie was packed and in the sitting room, waiting out that awkward interval that precedes a trip to the airport. Meg had done all she could, from getting full descriptions (including everything but dental records) of Dmitri's family, to presenting her sister with a Care package that included a list of every English-speaking doctor in Europe, a collapsible cup, a box of Handi Wipes, and a pound of hard candies to suck on during takeoff and landing. ("You could burst an eardrum otherwise," she'd insisted.)

Comfort had thought it would be nice if Allie took a jar of her blueberry chutney to Dmitri's mother, and made the mistake of suggesting that Allie leave half the candy behind to make room for it. Meg had burst into tears. The chutney stayed behind.

"I'm sorry, everyone, oh, God, I'm being such a jerk," Meg had said, and retreated to the same rocking chair in which she used to hold Allie and tell her bedtime stories.

That was where Meg was now as Allie explained to their Aunt Nella
—
not an aunt, really, but an older third or fourth cousin
—
the story of Dorothea Camplin's diabolical scheme.

Meg had long since tired of telling it, preferring to let the family do the honors. With typical melodrama, Allie explained how Dorothea had planned more or less to stun Meg with the mixture from the ruby-red bottle, then go back for the kill with the contents of the galvanized bucket. How she must have used an ordinary insect repellant on herself, then overlaid it with lily-of-the-valley oil to throw Meg off the scent, so to speak. How she really did set out a tray for tea, which she no doubt would have dropped dramatically at the scene when she disco
vered the ... well, the body.  Because, given the extreme toxicity of nicotine, Meg would have been a body very quickly.

Aunt Nella tsked repeatedly at every pause and said, "I never; well, I
never.
What a brazen old hussy! But I don't understand why she didn't get rid of the red bottle?"

"Once it became clear that Meg was going to recover, she didn't dare take that risk," Allie explained. "But she cleaned the bottle thoroughly; there was no trace of nicotine in it. That was the bad news. The good news is, the
cork
had traces. We figure she put the bottle through the dishwasher, but not the cork; ordinarily you wouldn't, of course."

"She was flustered," A
unt Nella said, nodding sagely. 
"Now what's this about a haunted dollhouse? It's in all the papers."

Allie rolled her eyes. "That's Uncle Billy's doing. The house isn't
really
haunted," she said, glancing at Meg. "But Uncle Billy's still trying to get top dollar for it. He thinks a haunted dollhouse has a more 'alluring provenance.'"

Uncle Billy looked up from his phone conversation with Maury Povich and mouthed the words, "Damn right."

"So, he's telling everyone that the lights go on and off by themselves. Really, the press will print anything."

"But why did Dorothea do it?" asked Aunt Nella. "I still don't understand why she went after Meg. And what did it all have to do with the dollhouse, anyway?"

"We're not at liberty to say.
That
matter is under investigation; it goes to motive," said Allie in an official voice, hinting at dark developments to come.

Meg closed her eyes and concentrated on the gentle creak of the rocker, determined not to be drawn into the speculation. Tom had already warned her that the motive in this case was going to be considered iffy, if not downright unbelievable, to a jury. He felt reasonably sure they could prove
what
Dorothea did; but
why
she did it, that was something else again.

And yet the motive
—
trying to keep Meg from backing Gordon Camplin into a corner and having him implicate his ex-wife
—
seemed so obvious now. Late that October afternoon in 1947, Dorothea Camplin had rushed back to Eagle's Nest, possibly to retrieve the jewelry that she told Meg she used to keep in a covered jar in her bedroom. From her sitting room she was able to hear and see everything that was going on in her husband's bedroom. Shocked
—
or maybe not
—
she simply turned the key and locked both of them inside.

She couldn't be sure they wouldn't escape, of course; but it was worth a shot. As it turned out, Gordon Camplin, fit and athletic, did escape, probably by climbing out his window and dropping safely to the ground, leaving Meg's grandmother behind to die in the fire. Tom had speculated to Meg that her grandmother might have been mercifully dead by then. But Meg knew better
. Meg had her vision.

Could they prove any of it? Everything depended on Gordon Camplin. The police had questioned him, but of course he'd stonewalled them. The only evidence they possessed was his letter to Meg's grandmother.
  The handwriting had easily been verified; it was his.  But all it proved was that a master had become infatuated with a servant, hardly a shocking development. 
The prosecutor's office had the matter under consideration, but whether the case would go to a grand jury, and whether an indictment for Margaret Atwells's murder would come out of
that
...

"Probably not," was Tom's opinion.

So all they had, after all this, was a pretty good shot at Dorothea for attempted murder. The rape and murder that actually succeeded, those would go unpunished. It was outrageously unfair.

And Aunt Nella, warning Allie just then about "pinchy Mediterranean men," had no idea
of any of it.

Meg opened her eyes when she heard her brother's voice. If Lloyd was here, then it was time. Feeling like a minister at an execution, she took Allie aside and said, "I'll get your carry
-
on bag and walk you to the truck."

"Meg,"
said Allie in a heart-wrenching undertone. "We
agreed.
Good-byes in the parlor. No farther than that. Do you want us both to fall apart completely?"

"Okay," Meg said, deflated. She sighed deeply and held her arms open wide to her sister. Allie let herself be engulfed, cast and all, in Meg's embrace.

"Be
careful,
honey," Meg whispered in her sister's ear. "That kind of crowd is even more bored than the kids you ran around with in high school. And the stakes nowadays are so much higher."

"I know, I know," Allie said, holding Meg tight.

"And call me when you get there."

"I will, I will," she said, tears beginning to roll.

"No, better yet, call me from Heathrow—"

"Meg."

"If you need money, ask. And don't feel obliged to go topless just because everyone else does. Don't give in to group pressure,
ever.
Go with your ins
tincts, Allie. I love you. Bye-
bye." Meg squeezed her tight, one last time.

"I love you, too, Meggie," Allie said in a desolate voice.

She broke away from Meg and was instantly set upon by well-wishing, farewelling relations who all but carried her out to the truck on their shoulders. The last ones out of the room were the twins, bickering and slapping because Terry grabbed the big suitcase first.

Meg went back to the
Windsor
rocking chair and sat in it, rocking gently. She heard the truck pull away, taking with it her sister, daughter, and best friend. Eventually it would ease, this pain, but right now it was sharp and throbbing, almost unbearable.

The family filed back in more quietly than they left. There was a sense, felt by all, that life for the foreseeable future would be just a little more ho-hum. Timmy went up to the window and stared out at the impenetrable, melancholy fog.

"
Crete
doesn't need Anty Allie," he said to no one in particular. "It has plenty of sunshine already." No one argued with him.

Terry said sullenly, "It sure stinks." But whether he meant the lingering smell of heating oil, or life in general, was hard to say.

The house seemed oppressive to Meg. She stood up and said, "I'm going for a walk," then grabbed a yellow nylon windbreaker to ward off the damp and chilly air.

Outside, she turned her steps automatically toward the shore. The fog was thick and chill. It was one in the afternoon, but it looked like eight at night. She should've worn an oilskin, but it seemed easier to keep on going than to return to the house, change, and start all over.
Maine
was in a mood today, and so was Meg; she didn't mind the wet at all.

****

Wyler stumbled onto her by accident as he drove down
Mount Desert Street
, headed for the Inn Between. Her hands were jammed in the pockets of her windbreaker and her head was bowed in concentration. No matter. His heart leapt up at the sight of her.

His first thought was,
I am hopelessly in love with this woman.

His second thought was,
If she walks around a big city with her head down like that, she'll be mugged in two minutes.

He slowed the Cutlass to a stop alongside her and called out her name. She looked up and broke into a surprised but heartbroken smile that made him want to give her candy, money, flowers, anything to lift her spirits.

A diamond ring. He wished like hell he had a diamond ring in his shirt pocket. But he didn't, because the last few days had been so intensely chaotic. If anyone had told him that Bar Harbor
—
sleepy, touristy
Bar Harbor
—
would be a hotbed of murder, intrigue, ghosts, and passion, he would've laughed and said yeah, right.

In any case, things were on the way to getting straightened out
—
except that he couldn't wait any longer to see them through, not at the rate the wheels of justice generally turned. Tomorrow he was going back, whether he liked it or not, to
Chicago
. He had only this one, last chance to persuade Meg to get on that plane with him.

If he had a diamond ring, he told himself, it'd be so much simpler.

"Stay right there," he commanded.

He pulled the Cutlass into a parking spot that was freeing up
—
a sign from God, surely
—
and jogged the hundred yards that separated him from her. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to say, how he was going to start. She looked so tentative, as if she
were
teetering on some edge. And so profoundly beautiful: the fog had settled in tiny crystal droplets on her hair, on her eyebrows, even on her eyelashes. He was struck anew by how much a part of her surroundings she was.

It reminded him of the morning with the chickadees, and the afternoon in
Acadia
, and the night in the woodland cabin.

But he wanted her with him in his city condo, not left behind in
Maine
.

"Hello."

"Hello."

Although he'd scarcely touched her since their incredible night in the cabin, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her tenderly, hoping she would understand that it meant, "Please marry me or I will wither and die."

"You missed her," Meg said.

He was programmed for one of two answers: yes, or no. "Missed who?" he asked, confused by her illogical response.

"My
sister
.
She's gone."

The sister again; always the sister. "I didn't miss Allie," he said, disheartened that Meg hadn't understood the proposal behind the kiss. "We crossed paths as I was rushing back to town."

"Oh, good," Meg said, relieved. "I didn't want her to think — I don't know
—
that you were boycotting her departure."

He wanted to say,
Are you kidding? I gave a rousing cheer when I heard the brat was leaving the country.
It was the best thing for both of them
—
for all three of them
—
but how could he say so just then?

To comfort Meg, he said, "She seemed excited; I think she's really looking forward to
Greece
."

"Really?"
Meg said in a stricken voice.

Mistake; try again. "Bobby Beaufort told me he's going over there in a month or so. 'To make sure no one's doin' nothin' he shouldn't,' is how he put it."

Meg smiled at that. "Bobby, on the isl
e
of
Crete
?"

"The possibilities are endless," Wyler agreed.

They walked through the fog past the odd mix of exquisite and ticky-tacky shops in the cozy downtown area. The crowds were thick with disappointed beachgoers who seemed not to get it about the
Maine
coast: he marveled at the number of shoppers wearing bathing sui
ts under their trendy, off-the-
shoulder tops.