Plundered Christmas (11 page)

Why did it take James so long?

And was it my imagination, or was a new storm brewing? The wind swirled around my legs, twisting my pants close to my skin. The air felt chill and damp. It ate through everything like it was personal. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying for warmth both physical and emotional.

“What's the problem, Neenie?”

How I loved the sound of that voice. I turned to see James walking out of the house. With him was my very bleary-eyed father. I knew Dad had tried to stay awake for Margo during the night. But I imagined James didn't want to be the sole witness to whatever I had discovered.

I pointed to the legs in the bushes behind me. I just had no words left after all the odd things that had been happening. My dream merged with the conversation I had with Margo and the letter became one with the storm. None of it made sense either individually or collectively.

James moved the bushes to the side. He bent down to look at the face connected with the rest of my discovery. “I think we now know why we couldn't find William.”

As much as I didn't want to see, I couldn't stop myself from moving forward to look. The face that sneered at Aimee could do it no longer. It was frozen in surprise, or fear. The wide-open eyes stared into nothing.

And though James bent over to check William's neck for a pulse, I had confirmed for myself that the young man was no longer with us before my husband looked up at Dad and me, slowly shaking his head.

“He's cold, Robert,” James said. “And his clothes are wet, but the ground underneath him is nearly dry. He was out here most of the night.”

That, I didn't want to hear. We were inside, staying dry and out of the storm, comforting the wounded Margo and injured Charlie when William lay dying out here in the wet and wild. Also, if he had been out here that long, who or what tore through the house during the storm?

“Do you have any idea how he died?” I heard myself asking. It felt unreal.

“Not yet. We'd probably have to move him to figure that out. Unless the cause of his death was something like poison that doesn't show up on the outside. Then we'd need the experts. And if we can't get in contact with the authorities on the mainland, we'll have to take as many pictures as we can before we touch the body at all.”

Dad began to sway. It had all been too much, and I doubted he'd had enough sleep either since he got here.

“Dad!” I held onto him as best I could, but as he surpassed me significantly in both height and weight, I worried that he'd crush me in the process. It was obvious he was about to keel over.

James jumped up from the unmoving patient and got the other side of my father before my dad knocked me over.

“Robert, hang on,” James said. “Jeanine and I will get you inside.”

He shook his head wildly. “I'm OK. I'm OK.”

“I don't think so, Dad.” I tried to urge him to stop looking at William's body and walk toward the house. “Come on. We can't solve this right now.” I put my arm around him. “Let's get you some breakfast. We'll all think clearer with a bit of protein running through our system.”

Step by step, we led Dad back into the house.

It was only when we got back and started to get some food, that I realized two things: one, my coffee cup remained in the mud outside; and two, somehow the cook made coffee and food without the power being turned back on. No one had had time to look at the generator. The tree and all the electricity remained out.

I couldn't find her right away. But I stuck close to the kitchen and eventually Mrs. Smith returned. “You're an angel for keeping us fed and all,” I began.

“But you're wondering how I did it, eh? No power and the generator out and I give you a hot breakfast?” She crossed her arms in front of her stomach and smiled the self-satisfied look of someone who knew they did their job and did it well.

“Well, yes,” I said.

Mrs. Smith walked over to the stove, or rather a set of stoves on an island in the middle of the great kitchen. She opened a cupboard door underneath it and pointed. “Tanks of gas. The stoves do have electric ignition but I can override it and start them with a match if I need to. And I did need to today. Right, ma'am?” She beamed at me. “Can't let people starve on Christmas Day can I?”

Her expression was so open and pleasant I couldn't help but return it. “Absolutely not. Call me, Jeanine, by the way. I only let my students call me ma'am.”

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she reached into a cabinet door and pulled something out. “You're a nice lady, Miss Jeanine.”

I supposed it was an improvement over the ma'am. But I'd probably have to stay in the kitchen a week to get on a true first name basis.

“And I keep some special treats hidden that I share with only a few on special occasions like this.” She handed me a powdery ball. “Pfefferneuse. Shipped to me by my brother. I was originally Mrs. Schmidt, but madam had unpleasant memories from the last world war, so for her, I am Mrs. Smith. My Gustaf is in heaven so I don't think he minds too much.”

I bit into the sweet. It wasn't my favorite in the combination of fruit, nuts and anise, but I could act like it was and appreciate the thought. “Thank you, Mrs. Schmidt. Now all we need is some strong German coffee to go with it.”

I got my wish. That coffee was definitely worth the pfefferneuse.

While I was in the kitchen finding out about Mrs. Schmidt's unnatural cooking abilities, James had Dad sit with Margo and quietly let her know what we had found. Then he told Mary. With her relationship with Anne, he figured she could break the news to her better. Also, since Mary had managed to get the Internet last night, she might be able to get a hold of the Coast Guard or some other authorities.

The room I returned to was a somber place.

Mary had her arm around Anne's shoulders. I couldn't see the woman's face, since they faced the southwest corner near the fireplace. She shook with emotion. I couldn't see James or the captain. When I asked Josie, they had gone out to take pictures. Not exactly typical Christmas pictures.

“Who would kill Mr. William?” Justin asked. “He seemed like a nice guy.”

That was Justin-speak for: since he bought me something I liked, he wasn't too bad.

“I don't know,” I said. “And I don't know that I want to know.” I put an arm around Justin's shoulders as we looked up at the dark tree.

Sometimes an ornament sparkled when daylight reached it, but overall, the huge evergreen loomed over us like a ghastly shadow of what Christmas might-have-been. And the presents under the tree seemed like the empty wrapped boxes you'd see under a display tree at the department store—a lot of promise, but no substance.

All in all, I felt sad and a little bit robbed. This was not how Christmas was supposed to go. And then all the grieving, hurting people around us, too? “Your dad and I will make it all up to you and Josie when we get home.”

Justin looked up at me as if I had lost my marbles. “What? The bad stuff isn't your fault. How could you change it or plan for it? And the fun stuff was really cool. I can't wait to tell my friends about how Miss Margo got her Christmas tree delivered.”

Josie had joined us without my noticing. “And, Mom, I get to use my sleuthing skills again. Not that I wanted Mr. William to die. He seemed nice enough. At least to me. But you have to figure that something he did or something he knew made someone want to kill him.”

“What did I do to deserve such wise children?”

The comment netted me a hug from Josie and a smirk from Justin. “I don't know, Mom. I guess God just decided to send His best your way for situations like this.”

I'd have punched his shoulder if I didn't think it was the truth.

 

****

 

James and Captain Blake opened the door and blocked it with a rock before they came in lugging the still form of William. James had asked Margo earlier where in the house would be the best location to lay him until the authorities could reach the island. She had directed them to an unused bedroom at the far end of the east wing.

As they carried him in, everyone quieted. A combination of fear, respect for the dead, and the stillness of shock took the words away from everyone.

Aimee looked as if she might fall apart, scream, or run away. Frank could see it in her so he took her and one of the larger chairs over by the fireplace.

I had to admire my brother's wisdom. If I were Aimee, I'd appreciate his insight into how I felt. I knew my brother was an amazing catch. Maybe someone else had finally recognized that as well.

After they came back from William's temporary resting spot, Anne asked Mary to take her back there to see her boy.

“Not without me,” Margo announced. The glare that went between Anne and Margo could have cut a diamond.

“Very well,” murmured Anne. I think the loss made her more demure than her norm.

So Dad escorted the still-weak Margo back to see her deceased nephew.

And Mary escorted her grieving aunt.

I plopped on the couch. Why did these crime things happen when I was exhausted? Or maybe the better question was why did murder and sleepless nights seem to go hand in hand? At least I supposed it was murder. I imagined William could have had a heart attack or some other major medical thing go wrong that would have killed him, but he had seemed so young and healthy that I rather doubted it. And in light of the attack on Margo and the intruder last evening, it seemed a bit of a stretch to think William could have died of natural causes.

I slid back against the cushions, grateful for the gazillionth time that I'd thought to pack a jacket. I only wished my winter coat wasn't locked in our car back in Virginia Beach. I put my hands into my pockets just to stay warm. As I did it, I felt the crinkle of paper. I couldn't believe that I'd totally forgotten about the parchment I'd removed from the old palm tree. I pulled it out and looked at it.

It made no sense.

The piece of parchment was much smaller than the scroll we'd unearthed in the cellar yesterday. It was a nearly perfect square. At the top, neatly centered, was a large W. I could assume that stood for West, but it could mean anything. Just below that and off to the right was a round, yet bumpy squiggle. Maybe it was meant to represent a tree or a bush? It could even be a lake for that matter, depending on the scale. From just left of the right corner to midway down the page was a crescent-shaped line. The bottom right corner was cut off from the rest of the pictures and letters by a thick straight line. The area in that triangle was filled with parallel wavy lines. In the midst of the wavy lines was a square with a star in it.

Mostly centered, but slightly off to the right was a large square, with a star to its right. In the upper left corner were the initials HLEF and below them PS 136: 4-9. Below those initials was a skull and crossbones made of purple flowers. Near the bottom on the left were two tall upside down
U's
set in something that looked as if it represented grass. All told, there were five stars on the paper. Obviously, the square was a code of some sort. The only thing that made any sense to me was the PS 136 which had to refer to Psalm 136.

“What do you have there, Mom?”

With all the events going on, Josie's antennae were already vibrating. To see me sitting on the couch studying something meant it must be important.

“I'm not sure.”

She jumped up next to me and leaned in. For several moments, she studied it, angling her head this way and that. “Can I hold it?”

I agreed. “Be careful, though. Just hold it on the edges. We have no idea how old it is.” Carefully, I transferred the small parchment to my young detective's hands.

She held her breath for several moments while she had it close to her face, turning it this way and that. With the square in one hand, she touched it gently at the corner with an outstretched forefinger. Then, handing it back to me, she relaxed.

“It has to be a map,” she pronounced. “And somehow it is connected with the scroll we found yesterday.” She was so confident. So sure of herself.

“And why do you say that, sweetie?”

“Which part?”

Did it really matter? I guess to her it did. “Well, start with how you know it's related to the scroll.”

She kicked her feet against the couch. She couldn't reach the floor with her feet when she sat back on this couch. But even when she could, her feet and legs often had a mind of their own when her brain puzzled out something. It was one of the little things that made me glad that I homeschooled. In regular school, her fidgeting to solve a complex problem would be discouraged because it might distract some of the other students.

“That's the easiest part, Mom. They're both the same kind of paper, or whatever it is. It's thicker than what we use by a lot. It's also not as smooth, yet it feels soft when you touch it. That's enough traits in common to link the two of them. Or,” she admitted, “at least that's what it would say in one of my Nancy Drew stories.”

The last two times we'd been drawn into a mystery, Josie had quoted from and applied Nancy Drew logic. I had yet to find fault with any of it.

“OK, now tell me the other part. How do you know it's a map?”

The word “map” must have acted like a radar call for Justin because he bounced over and snatched the paper out of my hand. He wasn't anywhere as careful with it as his sister had been and she took issue with it.

“Justin! That's old! Give it back to Mom.”

“Oh, OK.” He handed the paper to me and then pulled a miniature soccer ball out of his pocket and began to throw it up and catch it with the same hand.

Both of my kids had been stuck inside too much today and without friends or any of their usual distractions.

Justin could only play his hand held game so long. “Josie can tell it's a map,” he said, “because it looks like something straight out of one my pirate adventures.”