She ran her fingers through her hair, and I could see the white roots. “All right, then. If you’re so smart, go figure it out for yourself.”
“I’m trying to.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “Only I don’t think I should be asking the same questions all those imbecile Cultists ask—about the murder weapon and clues and blah, blah, blah. I think I have to go deeper. All the way down to each of the characters’ innermost desires.”
She let out a delighted laugh. “Excellent imitation of me, darling.”
“I’ve heard you interviewed a million times, you forget. Haven’t you always said mysteries aren’t just about Mrs. Peacock doing it in the library with the candlestick? They’re about why Mrs. Peacock had to do what she did.”
She struggled up against the bank of pillows. “And who she needed to protect.”
Our eyes locked for a brief moment, and I felt a blip of excitement. Time seemed to have dropped away. We were working on something together.
“Okay, then,” I said softly. “What was your motivation, Mom? And who were you protecting?”
She shook her head. “I told you, Megan. I had my suspicions about Kim Baker’s murder. So I fit my story to them. I didn’t think about the implications, because I was just a silly girl. A child. I just wrote it down and it became . . . what it became.”
“But there has to be more.”
“Why? Some mysteries are never solved, that’s the sad truth. There is no more. No proof, no way of finding proof. It’s all over. I wish everybody would move on.”
That was the first time I’d ever heard her say that. Interesting. I pinched the bridge of my nose. I could still feel the last vestiges of the poison in my system—the rolling of my stomach, the pounding right behind my eyes. I wondered if it was cassina that Billy had given me. I wondered if that’s what had made my mother sick too.
“Billy Kitchens is alive,” I said. “He lives not too far from St. Marys.”
She blinked a couple of times, then let out a great sigh. “That was your research. You met with him,” she said. Her voice had a toneless quality to it.
I nodded. Spoke carefully. “We talked briefly. He told me some things. Not much. He’s a . . . bizarre guy. Definitely hiding something—information—and possibly the murder weapon.”
Or you’re hiding it.
“He told you that?” she asked. She looked the slightest bit afraid.
“Not in so many words.”
“Ah.” Her lips curved in a knowing smile. “You found Susan Doucette’s website. Baker’s house, mission ruins, or middens?”
“Or at one of your many houses,” I said. “Susan believed you did it. Did you? Did you kill Kim Baker?”
She met my eyes. Hers were unreadable now. Opaque, like I’d said to Doro.
“Come home with me, Megan,” she said.
“No.”
She lay back. Turned her head away.
“Then go.” Her voice was weary. “Do your research. Decide what the truth is and put it in your book. Write that your horrible mother killed Kim Baker, and Billy Kitchens covered for her so he could turn a profit.” She turned her face to the ceiling. “Go finish your book, Megan. Tell the world your heartbreaking story.”
Tears rose in my eyes, and a hollowed-out sensation in my chest I’d never felt before.
“Go,” she said again.
So I did.
I pulled the door shut behind me, then headed down the dark corridor and a flight of stairs in the direction of my room. When I rounded the shadowy corner before my door, Doro appeared like an apparition in the center of the hall.
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 18
Upon returning from her latest vigil at the dock, Fay noticed something sitting at the top of the porch steps. It was a lumpy object, shiny and silver. It looked like a gift left for her by an island elf. She stopped, glanced over both shoulders, then back at the silver ball.
There was no one around, no telltale sway of branches or whiff of a scent of the departed messenger.
On closer inspection, the silver turned out to be a ball of aluminum foil. She collapsed on a middle step and pried it apart with trembling fingers. Inside she found three sugar-white wedding cookies. She scanned the grounds again but saw no one. Her mouth watered furiously, even as she remembered the tarts.
What if Kitten was trying to poison her now? She really shouldn’t risk eating anything the child could have touched, but she was dizzy with pain and hunger. She lifted one of the cookies to her mouth and inhaled. An invisible cloud of sugar filled her mouth.
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I jumped back and clapped my hands over my chest. “Doro! You scared me.”
She stood unmoving in the darkness—and I flashed to an image of her as a little pigtailed girl, creeping around the deserted halls of Ambletern. Skulking. Plotting. Eavesdropping.
“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to. I was just making the rounds.” She touched my arm. “How is she?”
“Fine.” I managed a rueful grin. “She’s always fine. She’s a cockroach.”
“How were things in town? You were gone a long time.”
“Good. Good. I just needed a break, you know? From . . . everything.”
She nodded. “Are you hungry? I can fix you something.”
“No,” I said, then realized I hadn’t seen Esther or Laila since I’d gotten back. Or Koa. In their absence, the noises of the house seemed more pronounced than usual, like the place ached with emptiness. “Where is everybody?”
“Laila and Esther went to visit their uncle down in Florida. They’ll be back next week.”
“How did they get to shore? Captain Mike was in St. Marys.”
“Water taxi. One from town.”
“But Koa’s still here?” I was starting to feel strange. Sick and exhausted and disoriented from my argument with Frances.
“He’s downstairs.” She gave me a cursory look. Her nose wrinkled, I was sure from the reek of sick coming off me. “Have you been sick?” she said.
“Yeah. The lead. It makes me nauseated. I went to town to drop off my blood samples. Then I stopped for a drink or two. Didn’t sit well with me.”
“You were alone?”
Yes, alone, I thought. Always alone.
Doro caught my hand and squeezed it. “Megs.”
The tears were so close—threatening to overwhelm me—that I didn’t trust myself to speak.
“Did you have your chelation today?” she asked.
I shook my head. Pulled my hand out of hers. Her face changed in the shadows.
“I’ll get Koa to come up,” she said.
“No—”
“You tried with her, Meg,” she went on. “But it didn’t work. So now she’ll go home. You’ll be able to relax and write your book with—”
“No.” I stepped back. “No. Just . . . stop talking, okay?”
I could feel the heat from outside emanating from her. It was like she soaked up the sand and sea and sun of the island and then radiated it back, everywhere she went. It was easy to be drawn to her. I was. But I didn’t want to be.
“We can do the treatment later. I’m going to bed,” I said.
I brushed past her. Turned my face so she couldn’t see.
“Meg, I don’t understand. Did I do something?”