The Middens: The wall of shells protecting the northern shore of the island remains a site of historical value. Although the Guale probably only used it for a trash heap, since Vera Baker was found here the morning Kimmy’s body was discovered, trying to slash her wrists, I believe William might have viewed the spot as secure, as well as significant. Which leads me to . . .
Theory #4: FRANCES ASHLEY KILLED KIM BAKER. Then, somehow William Kitchens found the weapon (covered in blood possibly) and hid it. He did this because he either believed Kitten had committed the murder or thought Frances did it, and hoped to blackmail her in the future. Hang with me here, but Frances may have known Kitchens suspected his own daughter. Thus, there was a sort of standoff between Frances Ashley and William Kitchens. So then, for Ashley, writing a book was a masterful act of revenge (on GTO, who was a failed novelist) and of self-preservation. She KNEW that by writing a story that pinned a murder on Dorothy Kitchens, she would a) automatically muddy the waters of public opinion on Dorothy’s presumed innocence and simultaneously, b) intimidate William Kitchens, knowing his precious daughter could be inches away from being arrested for murder. Frances wrote the book to protect herself. Frances Ashley is the murderer—a violent, brilliant, homicidal psychopath. And here is what I believe is strong evidence . . .
I had the opportunity to correspond with a former student of GTO’s (ANONYMOUS SOURCE). A. SOURCE described a class lecture (Emory University, 1976) where he used excerpts of papers written by former students in lectures. One such paper, notated in the upper left-hand corner as written by an F. Ashley, explored the subject of Shakespeare’s use of real-life murders on which he based his plays. F. Ashley then went on to name contemporary authors who had taken this idea one step further to advance their careers—ACTUALLY WRITING NOVELS BASED ON CRIMES (murders specifically) THEY HAD COMMITTED!!!! When A. SOURCE commented to GTO that she guessed the paper might have been written by Frances Ashley, he denied it. But the passage was immediately pulled from the curriculum and not mentioned again in classroom discussion.
***UPDATE!!!!!! 2010: I’ve found William Kitchens!!!! He is alive and well, living inland, in Farrow, Georgia, a small farming town near St. Marys. Sometime in the early ’90s, he turned the hotel over to Dorothy and moved to Farrow. (Deeds for the property on file in the Camden County Courthouse. Property purchased in 1991 by William Kitchens.) He doesn’t work, but seems to live comfortably. (?) I met a lady who used to work at the courthouse in Camden County (name withheld) and found out that, in 1990—fourteen years after the publication of Kitten—William Kitchens filed a defamation lawsuit against Frances Ashley for libel and invasion of privacy. The lawsuit was dropped in 1991, or settled—there are no official records that I was able to dig up and none of the lawyers will return a call from a kid. Go figure.
My theory is that, after all these years, William and Frances worked out some kind of deal. Since each had something the other wanted—Frances had money and William Kitchens had the murder weapon—I believe an exchange took place.
Chapter Thirty-Two
If Susan Doucette’s website was to be trusted, Doro had lied to me. Not once or twice but multiple times. Which excited and confused and pissed me off, all at the same time.
I ran down Main Street, in the direction of the St. Marys marina, my hair kinking into corkscrew curls in the humidity. Macaroni and cheese and red wine sloshed in my stomach, but my body pulsated in triumph. I finally had something.
I mentally tabulated a list of Doro’s falsehoods:
Vera Baker had not died from a brain tumor that made her violent toward her daughter, but a diabetic stroke. That was the minor one, granted. But still a lie.
Next. The Kitchenses had not inherited Bonny Island and Ambletern as part of a blue-blood-type land-grant situation. They had seen an ad and bought the place in the 1970s.
And finally, Doro’s father, William Kitchens, wasn’t dead, but actually living just down the road. In fact, Bobbi at the Bloody Bowl had even tracked down his address for me.
This last one was the kicker—the lie that really got me wondering what else Doro might be hiding. Whatever it was, I was determined to figure it out. I made it to the marina with three minutes to spare, but when I relayed my plan, Captain Mike looked incredulous.
“Don’t know why you’d want to go to Farrow,” he said in his gruff voice. “It’s not a town, it’s a turd. A blot on the good state of Georgia.”
“How long would it take me to get there?” I asked.
“You don’t listen, do you?”
I smiled and shook my head.
“You don’t have a car,” he pointed out.
My eyes drifted to his giant, silver truck parked in the lot. “I can pay you. Like it’s a rental.”
His gray eyes felt like lasers on me. “What’s in Farrow?”
“Research,” I said. “For my book.”
His eyes clouded, and he hooked his thumb in one belt loop. “It’s a good forty-five, fifty minutes there. I got a full tank of gas. Look, I can walk home; it ain’t far. Just have it back here at ten o’clock tonight, you hear? I’ll run you back over to Bonny then.”
“Thank you.” I dug in my purse, but he held up his hand.
“I don’t need no money. Just be back by ten.” His face looked grim.
Fifteen minutes later, squinting into the sunset on westbound 40, I fumbled for my phone. Coverage was decent here, but the call still rolled over to voice mail. I almost screamed in frustration.
“Asa! Call me,” I yelled into the phone. “I’m working on some new sources. Is Pelham Sound liking the chapters? When are they going to send back the edits?”
The wide highway seemed to stretch ahead of me into the unobstructed horizon like the proverbial road to hell. What had happened to Asa? Had Frances finally managed to shut him down for good?
“Anyway,” I said to Asa’s voice mail. “Call me, okay?”
I caught a glimpse of a shack, the entire thing—door, trim, siding—painted a startling shade of lapis blue. I slowed, taking in the strange sight. As I neared the house, I saw a giant black dog chained to a tree in the front yard. He leapt forward, his chain snapping taut, and started barking ferociously.
I stomped the gas pedal. A call buzzed in, and I answered it.
It was Koa. “Hey. Are you on your way home?”
An unexpected frisson of pleasure shot through me. Home.
“No,” I said, checking out the weird blue house in my rearview mirror. “Not quite. Turns out I need to make one more stop.”
“Okay, well, I wanted to let you know, your mom is really sick,” he said.
“What?”
“She’s been vomiting all day. She’s lethargic, and her blood pressure’s low.”
“Okay.”
“I thought you’d want to know.”
“Oh, I do. What is it? Lupus? Lyme—”
“Um—”
“—fibromyalgia, cancer, precancer, shingles, Parkinson’s, Graves’, Turner’s, Huntington’s, Bright’s—”
“What are you talking about?”
“If it’s named after a man, my mother either has had or will have it. She’s a blue-ribbon hypochondriac, Koa. Ignore her.”