Carlene Thompson - Don

Uppity as all get out. Anyway, her brother Bill got killed in a car wreck a few years ago. A damned shame."

Nick waited. Finally he asked, "What does any of this have to do with Charlotte and Hunt?"

"Yeah, well, when I was a kid, I spent some time at the Bishop house. Charlotte wouldn't wipe her feet on me then. Acted like I was invisible or something. But that night at The Hearth we were just long-lost pals. And she kept going on about how she'd just run into Dr. Hunt. On and on. What do they call that? Protesting too much? That's when I got suspicious. Today the ship model clenched it."

"The ship model?" Nick asked, bewildered.

"The one on Hunt's mantel. That's why I called attention to it. I know you got pissed, me interrupting that way and all, but when I realized what it was, I got all excited and I wanted to hear what Hunt had to say about it when he got taken by surprise. You told me to spring something on him and I did."

"He said the model was something Tamara picked up a long time ago."

"Yeah, sure it was. Listen, that was a model of the Mercy. That's the ship that wrecked off the coast here. Ariel Saunders was this.beautiful young gal who saw the shipwreck and saved the captain, Zebediah Winthrop-"

"I've heard the story about a hundred times since I'we been here."

"Okay. Well, Bill Bishop built a model of the Mercy. That model."

"The one on the mantel?"

"Yeah."

"Hysell, there must be dozens of models of the Mercy around here."

"Sheriff, I helped Bill build that model. We spent weeks on it. Besides, our initials were on it-M. W. B. and `I. Z. H. Charlotte must have given the model to Hunt."

"Are you sure she didn't give it to Mrs. Hunt?"

" Charlotte wouldn't give anything to any woman, much less her dead brother's model ship. I bet if old Max knew it was gone, he'd have one final stroke. He worshipped Bill, and Charlotte was jealous as hell. That's probably why she gave the model away. She could strike back at Daddy and at the same time give Hunt something she thought would mean something to him, something he thought meant something to her."

Nick's opinion of Hysell's powers of observation, deduction, and psychoanalysis were escalating by the minute. Maybe he had a more valuable deputy here than he'd thought. "Wouldn't Mrs. Hunt notice the initials?"

"They were tiny and sort- of hidden. A little faded after all this time. You'd have to really be looking for them. Besides, I can't believe she'd put it all together. Bill has been dead for years, and I'm sure Tamara didn't know my middle name. She wouldn't know who `I. Z. H. was."

"Hysell?"

"Yes, Sheriff?"

"What does the Z stand for?"

Hysell hesitated. He hated answering this one. "Zebediah." He grinned and added sheepishly, "I think everyone in this town is crazy for that Ariel and Zebediah story."

"I got that impression when I heard it twice the first day I was in town." He frowned. "Do you believe Hunt would have asked Tamara for a divorce?"

"He could have, but it probably wouldn't have done him much good. Tamara was a devout Catholic. And she was pregnant. She wouldn't have given in without a fight. Hunt could have gotten a divorce eventually, but not without a lot of time and struggle. And scandal. Charlotte 's already been through all that and it's my guess she wouldn't consider Warren Hunt enough of a prize to go through it again."

"So you think Warren Hunt murdered his wife so he could have Charlotte Bishop?"

Hysell looked surprised. "Maybe, but this situation called for immediate, decisive action."

"And you're saying Warren Hunt isn't capable of that?"

"Let's just say I think Charlotte Bishop is." Hysell paused. "You know, I think Charlotte Bishop is capable of just about anything."

Alison sat at the piano. She began Debussy's "The Girl with the Flaxen Hair." Viveca walked through the room and paused at the piano, smiling. Alison immediately stopped playing. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, dear," Viveca said carefully. "That's your song, isn't it?"

"What's wrong?"

Viveca's smile locked into place. "Well, you've played it five times in a row. How about something else?"

"All right," Alison said pleasantly and immediately launched into "The Merry Widow Waltz." Viveca's face slackened. Alison paused. "Don't you like that song?"

"Not particularly."

The ghost of a malicious smile capered around Alison's rosebud mouth. "Oh. I forgot. That's what people called you after Papa died. 'The Merry Widow.' "

"They did not, but please play something else."

Alison dropped her hands in her lap. "I'm not in the mood to play anymore. I would like to see Warren."

"I'm sure he's very busy today making arrangements for Tamara."

"I need to see him. He's my doctor."

"You don't have an appointment with him today. Besides, you just saw him yesterday." Viveca nervously touched the topaz pendant hanging from a gold chain at her neck. It had been a gift from Oliver Peyton. "Dear, please play something nice."

Alison raised her long, strong fingers to the piano keys.

They hovered for a moment. Then they crashed down, sending loud, discordant notes jangling around the serenely beautiful room until at last Alison settled into the piano section of Eric Clapton's "Layla." She'd only played for a minute before Viveca shouted, "Stop!"

Alison stopped immediately and Viveca looked contrite. "Darling, I'm sorry, but you know I hate rock music. With your talent it's almost sacrilegious to hear you playing it."

"I like it. Why can't I play what I like?" Alison looked up at her mother with her wide Dresden blue eyes and shouted, "Why can't I ever-play what I like?"

Viveca recoiled. Her face paled. She drew a deep breath. "Forgive me. Of course you may play what you like." She took a step closer and hesitantly, almost fearfully, touched her daughter's cheek. "I only want you to be happy, Alison. It's all I've ever wanted."

But Alison had retreated to her own world. It was seventeen years ago. Alison was five. Mama was going away again. Just for a couple of days. She was what they called an "executive" at a big company called Bishop and she had to go on business trips. "I'm sorry I have to leave, darling," she'd said, clutching Alison to her for a final embrace.

Alison thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. She had long golden hair. She had huge blue eyes. She always wore pretty clothes. She always smelled good. Alison admired Mama. She tried to please Mama. But it was Papa she loved, Papa who didn't care that she was scared of so many things, that she liked to spend lots of time alone talking to herself but couldn't find her tongue in front of strangers, or that she had persistent nightmares, or that doctors said she was something called neurotic. Papa didn't give lectures about how she should act like Mama did. Papa liked her just the way she was.

She'd stood on the porch, her little hand in Papa's, and waved as Mama drove away. Papa had turned to her. "Your mother left us some very healthy food to heat up for dinner. She says you are to eat, practice the piano for an hour, watch one hour of educational television, and be tucked into bed and sound asleep by eight."

"Yes, Papa."

"I, however, am the man of the house in your mother's absence," he had said with a dryness Alison didn't quite catch. "It is Friday night. Therefore, we will order a great big greasy pizza for dinner, play Candy Land, and watch a Disney movie on video." Alison's solemn little face broke into a picture of pure bliss. "We'll have a regular debauch, kiddo. Port Ariel has never seen the like. They'll be talking about this night a hundred years from now!"

Papa let her choose the pizza toppings and it had been the best she ever had. They'd eaten with their fingers! They'd played two games of Candy Land, watched One Hundred and One Dalmatians and part of Lady and the Tramp before she fell asleep. When her father had placed her gently in her bed, her eyes had snapped open. "What time is it?" Her father had grinned. "Magic Midnight, bunny ears." She still called it Magic Midnight.