She laughed. “Oh my, such effusive praise. It threatens to overwhelm me.”
“The book is spectacular,” I said. “There. Is that better?”
“I’m only interested in the truth, Megan.”
“Ha.”
She rolled her eyes.
“That’s the truth. I like the book. I really do.”
She shook her head, like she was physically shaking me off. “Well, at any rate, I made up the mico’s bowl—the ashtray, actually—about it being the murder weapon. There was no bowl like that.”
“Really? Because all the Kitty Cultists think the murder weapon was a rock.”
“I know.”
“Some of them have done a lot of research.”
“Look, Megan. The police had no idea what the murder weapon was and neither did I. So I did what writers do. I used my imagination.”
“What do you think happened to it? The murder weapon?”
“No one knows.”
“But you have a theory. And don’t give me that bull about being a novelist, not a true-crime writer. Don’t feed me the same crap you feed everybody else.”
She didn’t answer. She wouldn’t even look at me.
“Frances. I brought you out here because you said you wanted to talk. So talk.”
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 13
“Wait,” Fay cried, throwing out a protective hand to block Kitten.
Herb and Delia had been holed up in the library for days, ever since the last of the guests left. She couldn’t imagine why or what they were doing in there, but she felt sure it was something terrible. Something Kitten did not need to see.
Fay gently moved Kitten away from the library door and tried the knob. To her surprise, it turned easily. When the door swung open, the stench of piss, sweat, and cigarette smoke hit her, and her hand flew to her nose. She crept forward into the room, Kitten behind her, clutching at the back of her nightgown. The library was empty, except for a swath of blankets nested on the floor and a mound of books heaped up like sticks in a bonfire. When Fay moved closer, she saw they were guest registries, ledgers, and reams of files.
“Where have they gone?” Fay asked.
“I don’t know,” Kitten said. “You’re the grown-up.”
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Frances still wouldn’t look at me. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“What?”
“Frances.”
“Okay. Mom. What do you think happened to the murder weapon?”
She wandered into the middle of the room, her eyes focused on some faraway point. “The real situation was unbearable to witness. Vera Baker was distraught when they took her into custody. Screaming for her daughter. Sobbing, tearing her hair out by the roots. It was horrific. A travesty.”
She hadn’t answered the question, but I didn’t want to interrupt. Who knew where this would lead?
“Billy Kitchens had hired a few Native Americans to work on the island. He told the guests they were the last remaining Guale, the original inhabitants of Bonny. But there haven’t been any Guale anywhere since the seventeenth century. The Bakers were Cherokee, I think? But, you know, calling them Guale upped the sizzle factor. Made Ambletern sexier.”
“A Native American Epcot.”
“It’s vulgar, I know.” She sighed. “But it was the seventies and cultural appropriation wasn’t a word. People were less politically correct.”
“Or more racist,” I said. “Tomato, tomahto.”
“Yes. It was completely unacceptable, what the Kitchenses did, setting those people up as these exotic creatures—parading them like animals in a zoo. When they arrested Vera Baker and took her down to the ferry, it was a circus. All the guests at the hotel gathering to watch the psychotic Native American woman being marched away by the white man.”
“It is unfortunate,” I admitted. “And kind of sickening. But, honestly, she did kill her daughter. Right?”
She didn’t answer.
“You don’t think Vera killed Kim?”
Frances snapped out of her reverie. “It just seemed like an unnecessary display of shaming, that’s all.” She moved to the door. “But, like I said, perfect veracity isn’t one of my concerns. I write fiction.” She leveled a look at me. “Unlike you.”
I pointed at her. “Ah. Good one.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “What exactly are you writing about, anyway?”
“What do you think I’m writing about?”
“I don’t know—your miserable childhood? Our tragic, fractured relationship? Or are you writing about who really murdered Kim Baker?”
I shrugged. “All of it.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“How about you be more specific? The lawsuit that William Kitchens supposedly filed against you in the nineties. I never heard anything about it. And there’s nothing online. What was that all about?”
For a fraction of a second, I thought I saw worry in her eyes. Then she rallied.
“I don’t know. My lawyers took care of it.” And then she shook her head, did her new signature hair flip, and walked out of the room. I followed her.
“Why did Kitchens wait so long to sue you? The book had been out for fourteen years at least. Cultists had been coming to Bonny Island in droves for years.”
“Making the Kitchens family very rich,” she added.
“Rumor was Doro was attacked. They say one of the Kitty Cultists who was visiting the island did it. And her father couldn’t take it anymore.”
“If that’s true, it’s terrible. But I don’t know. I don’t know anything about it.”
“Do you know why he dropped the suit just a couple of months later? Did you settle with him?”
“I don’t know. My lawyers must have dealt with it and made it go away.”
“Convenient, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do.” She picked around her manicure. “That’s why I have lawyers, Megan, in order to make my life more convenient. I probably shouldn’t have sheltered you from this reality, but as a public figure with a substantial net worth, I’m a target. I’ve been sued hundreds of times, but I’ve always considered it part of the job. I simply don’t have the time to look into each one, not when I’m writing. So . . . lawyers.”
“But this was William Kitchens and Doro. This was Kitten. You didn’t find that the least bit compelling?”
“No, Megan. I didn’t, because I was busy. Do you have any other questions?”
“I do, as a matter of fact. What happened to Beno?t’s wife?”
She turned to face me. The fear I’d thought I’d seen was gone, and her face had settled back into its usual cool mask.
“The actress, remember?” I repeated. “That he was married to when you met him? What happened to her?”
She swept her hand, like her husband’s ex-wife was nothing but a sprinkling of crumbs that needed to be wiped off a table. “They’re no longer together, okay? But we don’t need to talk about it, because I know you don’t really want to. You just want to make me feel bad. But you can’t. Beno?t and I love each other.”
I showed my hands. “Fair enough.”