“Who are you talking about?” Ashlee asked. But she was kidding. She knew who Daphne meant.
“Why doesn’t Mr. Witherspoon like him? I mean, he grew up at Witherswood. And his parents—”
She couldn’t bring herself to say what had happened to Gregory’s parents. Murdered, in cold blood, by Pete Witherspoon Senior.
“Well,” Ashlee said, “it seems that Pete and his brother discovered their father’s crimes, and didn’t report him right away to the police. They were trying to get him to give himself up on his own.” She took a sip of her margarita. “It was in that small delay that Pete Senior killed Gregory’s parents. So Gregory has always believed that if my husband only acted more quickly, his mother and father would be alive today.”
“I imagine Mr. Witherspoon feels terrible about it,” Daphne said.
Ashlee sighed. “He did. Until Gregory started buying up half the town. He became a self-made millionaire buying and selling real estate. He made himself Pete’s biggest competitor. Swore to drive Pete out of business. He bought a rival cannery in the next town over to compete with the Witherspoon interests. He bought all of the commercial fishing fleets that the Witherspoons didn’t already own. He bought restaurants to compete with ours.” She smiled. “In fact, we’re eating in one of Gregory’s restaurants now.”
“He owns this place?”
Ashlee polished off the last of her margarita and signaled to the waiter that she wanted another. “He sure does. He bought Rico’s about a year ago. Pete was eager to get his hands on it when Rico finally retired. It’s a Woebegone institution. But Gregory beat him to it.” She smiled. “So you can see, his sympathy for Gregory has dried up. That happens when someone’s trying to ruin your businesses.”
“You knew he owned this place,” Daphne said, “so you came in here figuring there was a good chance we’d run into him.”
Ashlee smirked. “They have the best mussels in town, sweetie. Oh, look.” She nodded her head toward Gregory’s table. “His lady love is leaving.”
Daphne turned to see. Indeed, the leggy blonde had stood and Gregory had stood as well, kissing her on the cheek before she sauntered out of the place. His eyes flickered over to Daphne’s table at that point.
“Gregory! Yoo-hoo!” Ashlee was waving.
“Why are you doing that?” Daphne whispered.
“Gregory! How are you, Gregory?”
He smiled, and Daphne remembered his dimples. He walked over to their table, all six feet of him, broad shoulders, cleft chin. His green eyes sparkled. The afternoon sun caught highlights in his red hair.
“Good day, Ashlee,” he said, shaking her hand. “What a nice surprise to see Mrs. Pete Witherspoon in my restaurant.”
“You know I adore the food here. Especially the mussels.” She smiled. “Gregory, I’d like you to meet Daphne May. She’s Christopher’s new governess. Daphne, Gregory Winston.”
He shook Daphne’s hand. “Charmed to meet you,” he said smoothly, as if he’d never seen her before. “Welcome to Rico’s, and to Point Woebegone.”
“Thank you,” Daphne replied, and was aware her words were just a trifle slurred.
“Are you enjoying your new student?” Gregory asked.
“Oh!” Ashlee suddenly interjected. “My phone!” She started digging through her purse. Daphne didn’t hear a ring. She assumed it must be vibrating. “So sorry, but I just must answer this.” She withdrew an iPhone and tapped on it, pressing it to her ear. “Mama? Mama, is that you?”
Daphne realized Gregory was looking at her. She felt herself blush.
“Mama, hold on a second, I’m in a restaurant,” Ashlee said into the phone. Then she looked over at Daphne and Gregory. “I’m so sorry, I’ve got take this call. My mother’s been sick, you know. Gregory, be a doll and keep Daphne company for me while I go outside and talk, okay?”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said.
Ashlee winked at Daphne and hustled out of the restaurant, the phone at her ear. Daphne started to say something, to get up and follow her, then just sat still, her eyes cast down at the table.
“Enjoying your margarita?” Gregory asked.
“I’ve never had one before,” Daphne said.
He grinned. “That doesn’t answer the question.”
“I don’t know. I feel a little ... woozy.”
His smile widened. “Drink a little water. It will keep the woozy from getting woozier.”
She did as he suggested.
“How are things going at Witherswood?”
“Okay,” she said.
“Christopher cooperating?”
“He’s coming around, I think,” she told him. “Everyone is very nice.”
“Everyone?”
Daphne smiled. “Well, Abigail Witherspoon seems hostile to me. And Gabriel Witherspoon is a bit ... reclusive.”
“And Donovan Kent?”
“Why do ask about him?”
Gregory sat back in the chair. “He just has a certain reputation as a lady-killer.”
The word made Daphne shudder.
“Well,” Gregory said, “not literally.”
“No,” Daphne said, taking another sip of her margarita. She felt as if she needed it. “The literal killing was done by his grandfather.”
“So I see you’ve discovered the backstory of the Witherspoons.”
“It must be horrible,” she said, her eyes making contact with Gregory’s for the first time since he sat down with her.
“You mean about my parents?”
“Yes,” she said, and she felt as if she might cry. The alcohol was making her very emotional all of a sudden. “To have to live with that all your life ...”
“It was horrible. You’re right about that.”
“And now ... I understand why you and the sheriff were so concerned when I said I saw a clown that night at the inn. He said there might be a copycat killer... .”
Gregory moved in closer to her. “Look, Daphne, there has thankfully not been a repeat of what happened that night. It could just have been a coincidence. Please don’t let that worry you too much.”
She smiled weakly. “I can’t help it. I think about it a lot.”
“You poor kid,” Gregory said. “Coming into this completely unaware. Going to live in that strange old house, cut off from the world.” He sighed. “And having to put up with the freaks in that house ... Abigail ... Donovan ... Pete himself.”
“Mr. Witherspoon has been very kind to me.”
“Has he?” He snorted. “Actually, I’m sure he has been kind. How else to get you on his side?”
“He doesn’t know I know you,” Daphne revealed.
“He will now. His little jailbait bride will tell him we met here today.”
“No, I told Ashlee I had met you soon after I arrived. She’s kept it a secret. She doesn’t want anything to upset her husband. She loves him very much. And she’s been a very good friend to me.”
Gregory eyed her. “You trust her?”
“I do. She and Ben. The only ones in the house I trust completely.”
Gregory was nodding. “I was never sure what to make of Ashlee. She shows up here in Point Woebegone a couple of years ago, the new child bride of old Pete Witherspoon. Everyone assumed she was just a gold digger.”
“That’s so unfair. You should see her with him. She’s so kind and gentle to him.”
“Well, she’ll find out the same way that poor old Peggy did that no one can trust Pete Witherspoon.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just saying... .” He sighed, as if considering whether he should say anything further. “Well, since Ashlee has been good to you, then maybe at some point you can be good to her. You don’t have to say this came from me, but you can tell her that the whole town knew that Pete was never faithful to Peggy. He continued to see his old flame, the girl he was going to marry until her family took her away after the scandal with Pete Senior emerged. They wouldn’t let their daughter see the son of a murderer, and forbade her to marry him. But Pete found her, and they continued seeing each other for years, until Peggy found about it.”
“That’s terrible,” Daphne said,
“And so one more tragedy at Witherswood, one more instance where Pete Witherspoon was left with blood on his hands.”
“I understand that he may have broken Peggy’s heart, if he was cheating on her,” Daphne said, “but surely you can’t blame him for Peggy’s cancer.”
“Cancer?”
“Yes. Peggy died of cancer.”
Gregory sat back in his chair. “They told you Peggy died of cancer?”
Daphne nodded. “Yes. Ashlee told me.”
He looked off through the restaurant toward the front door. Ashlee was still outside on the sidewalk, the phone to her ear.
“I wonder if that’s what they told her,” Gregory mused. “If that’s how she really believes Peggy died.”
“How did Peggy die if it wasn’t cancer?”
Gregory returned his eyes to her. How green they were. How beautiful. How easily Daphne could just fall into them. Her mind seemed to whirl.
“When Peggy learned of her husband’s affair with his ex-flame—a girl named Maria, I believe, a beautiful girl—she was devastated.” Gregory looked extremely sad as he told this tale. “She had hoped that giving him a son might break the spell Maria held over Pete, but no such luck. Peggy had thought the affair was over, but then she discovered Pete had gone to see Maria, wherever she lived then. He confessed he still loved Maria, and always would. It drove Peggy over the edge.”
“What did she do?” Daphne asked.
Gregory paused. “Have you ever been to the tower room at Witherswood?”
“Yes,” Daphne told him.
“Well, one terrible stormy night, Peggy climbed up the stairs to the tower room. Flinging open one of the windows, she wedged herself out onto the ledge, and then she jumped. It was a long fall to the ocean below. A few days later, her body washed up on the rocks.”
NINE
“That’s terrible!” Daphne gasped.
“It might officially have been a suicide,” Gregory told her. “But in my mind, and in the minds of many others, it was one more death that could be laid directly at Pete Witherspoon’s door. Not Pete Senior, mind you. Pete Junior. He may not have been the monster his father was, but his own weak nature and his appalling lack of conscience had resulted in the deaths of at least three people—my mother, my father and his wife Peggy—just the same.”
Daphne was unsure how to respond. She supposed Gregory had a point. But was it fair to hold Mr. Witherspoon responsible?
“I feel quite certain that Mr. Witherspoon has lived with tremendous guilt about these things,” she said. “He may have made decisions and choices that were not the right ones. But he never wanted these terrible things to happen.”
“I wonder if you’d be so understanding and compassionate if it was your own parents you found bleeding to death on the marble floor of Witherswood.”
Even in the floaty haze caused by her drink, Daphne regretted her words. “You may be right, Gregory,” she said. “I guess I was just trying to see things from Mr. Witherspoon’s perspective. I’m sorry if I seemed insensitive.”
He smiled at her. “Not at all. In fact, you sounded very sensitive. Like someone who still sees the good in the world, and in other people, even after terrible things. And that’s rather refreshing, to tell the truth.”
“Well, I suppose I can’t fully empathize with what you went through because I never knew my own parents.”
He asked what she meant, so she explained her background and the mystery of her origins. She even added the comment that Mother Angela had made that Point Woebegone was Daphne’s destiny. Did he, she wondered, have any knowledge about a girl born here twenty-two years earlier? Maybe a child given up by her mother and sent to Our Lady’s School for Girls in Boston?
Gregory smiled. “I wish I did. It’s a small village and I know just about everyone. But I was a boy of about ten twenty-two years ago, so things like that wouldn’t have been part of my experience. Still, in a town this small, stories get repeated, and I haven’t heard anything about a baby girl being given away.”
“It was just a shot in the dark,” Daphne admitted.
Gregory suddenly reached across the table and took her hands in his. In Daphne’s slightly buzzy perspective, the action was enormous and significant, and she felt tingles from her scalp down to her toes.
“Would you have dinner with me this week?” he asked. “I’m not sure how you’d square it with your boss, but maybe Ashlee would help you out. She seems to be pretty cool.”
Daphne couldn’t speak for a moment. “Why would you want to have dinner with me?” she asked in a very small voice.
“Because I think you need to get out of that house more often. Because I think you could use some more friends. And, to be honest, because I’m intrigued by you. The whole mysterious background thing. And because it’s rare to meet someone these days so essentially decent and genuine as you seem to be.”
Daphne could feel her cheeks blush. “But what will ... your girlfriend think?”
“My girlfriend?” Gregory sat back in his chair, letting go of Daphne’s hands. He looked puzzled. “Oh, you mean Candace? The woman I was having lunch with?”
“The woman you kissed good-bye.”
He grinned. “On the cheek.” He laughed. “Candace is my night manager. She runs this place for me at night. She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Well, she’s very pretty.”
Gregory’s smile grew kinder. “She is, indeed. But I’m a little weary of women who are all about being pretty. Or who try too hard at it. I’m more intrigued by those who don’t have to try at all, who are just pretty by nature.”
Daphne saw Ashlee coming through the door from outside. “Ashlee’s coming back,” she said.
“Then answer me quickly,” Gregory said. “Will you have dinner with me this week? Or will it be too difficult for you?”
“I—I don’t know ...”
“She’s almost to the table.”
Every nerve seemed to be jangling in Daphne’s body. “Yes!” she blurted.
“What night?”
“Wednesday,” she said, for no real reason. It was just the first day that popped into her head.
“Okay. I’ll meet you here at seven. Does that work? You’ll be finished with the kid by then?”
She nodded. “But if something comes up, there’s no way I can get a hold of you.”
He shrugged. “Then I’ll just have to understand.”
“Look at you two!” Ashlee said, striding up to the table. “Gabbing together like you’ve known each other for years!”
Gregory stood. “I look forward to more such opportunities to get to know you, Daphne.” He gave Ashlee a smile. “As always, a pleasure, Mrs. Witherspoon.”
With a little salute, he headed off through the busy restaurant.
Ashlee sat back down. “He’s dreamy.”
Daphne just smiled.
“Don’t you think?” Ashlee asked.
“He asked me to have dinner with him.”
“Excellent!”
“I’m not sure I should go. Knowing how Mr. Witherspoon feels about him.”
Ashlee scowled. “Pete doesn’t have to know.”
“But if he finds out, then I’m risking my job.”
“I’ll handle Pete.” She leaned in across the table. “You cannot turn down a date with Gregory Winston III. He’s a catch, Daphne.”
Their meals arrived. Ashlee ordered them both another margarita, despite Daphne’s protests. This second drink put her over the edge. She was laughing and talking loudly like she had never done in public before. She barely tasted her meal. The mussels slid down without her even being aware of them. She wolfed down the lobster roll. When a little burp involuntarily escaped her lips, both she and Ashlee burst into silly giggles.
Finally they staggered out of the restaurant. Or, more accurately, Daphne staggered. Ashlee steadied her with a hand on her elbow.
“Good thing I’m driving,” Ashlee said. “Geez, girl, you can’t hold your liquor very well.”
“I tol’ you,” Daphne said. “I never had a drink”—except she pronounced it “shrink”—“before in my life.”
“Well, I think a cup of joe is in order then,” Ashlee said. “Tell you what, sweetie. Just wait for me over there on that bench, and I’ll run into Woebegone Java and get us both some coffee.”
“Okey dokey,” Daphne said, feeling as light as a feather. She figured she could float over to the bench instead of walking.
Ashlee stood watching her as Daphne made her way to the bench. When she got there, she turned around and waved to her friend. Only then did Ashlee head back down the street toward the coffee shop.
Daphne sat. She tried to steady her vision. She burped again, and chuckled to herself.
The town was rather quiet. Daphne guessed it was because the season was coming to an end. Most of the tourists had already left. A few shops already had signs in their windows:
THANKS FOR A GREAT SEASON. SEE YOU IN APRIL.
But there was enough still open to keep a few people wandering through downtown. A couple of ladies pushing babies in strollers passed Daphne by. Kids on their bikes shouted out to each other. A man with a couple of toddlers, a boy and a girl, turned the corner, the three of them stopping frequently to peer into shop windows. A few yards away from Daphne stood a young woman playing a violin, an upside-down top hat at her feet. Ashlee had mentioned that Point Woebegone drew a lot of street musicians and performers, at least in season. As the man with the two kids walked past the violinist, he dropped a dollar into the hat. The young woman smiled and thanked him.
It was only when the violinist had finished her piece, and put down her instrument momentarily, that Daphne heard another sound. A tinny bit of music, a tune she thought she recognized. What was it? She strained to listen. It seemed to be getting closer. Through the fog of the alcohol, she tried to place the tune. Then it hit her: it was “Pop Goes the Weasel.” She used to have a jack-in-the-box back at Our Lady that played that tune when you turned the crank. “All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel,” the tune went. “The monkey thought it was all in fun... . Pop! goes the weasel!” And at “pop” the silly face of a monkey puppet had popped out of the toy.
Daphne noticed the two kids walking with the man had stopped at the corner, and were looking down the side street. It seemed that was where the music was coming from. The children seemed excited, jumping up and down and pointing. “Pop Goes the Weasel,” in endless repetition, was indeed getting louder.
Daphne watched.
And suddenly her blood ran cold.
Coming around the corner, being greeted enthusiastically by the boy and girl, was a clown.
In one hand, he carried a small CD player, from which the music was emanating, and in the other hand he carried a fistful of colorful balloons.
Daphne shrunk back on the bench. The clown looked exactly like the one she had seen at the inn that night. The night Maggie was killed. He had a mass of orange hair and a big red nose and a terrible blue grin painted on his deathly white face. His outfit was yellow covered in green and red polka dots, and on his feet he wore enormous purple rubber shoes. It had to be the same clown she had seen at the inn. It had to be!
The children were squealing as the clown bent down and handed each one of them a balloon. Daphne watched in horror as the creature patted each child on the head with his enormous white-mittened hand. All the while “Pop Goes the Weasel” kept playing.
The man with the children exchanged a few words with the clown. Daphne was just far enough away not to be able to hear what was said, but the tone seemed friendly enough. She wanted to stand and shout, “Get away from him! He’s a murderer!” But her fear—and the alcohol—kept her frozen to the bench.
She watched as the man and the children moved off. The clown turned slowly. Then his eyes fell on Daphne.
He knows
, she thought.
He knows I saw him at the inn.
The clown began to approach, that inane tune still playing, over and over.
With incredible effort, Daphne forced herself to stand. She thought she might fall over, but she found her balance, and started to walk away in the opposite direction of the clown. She couldn’t bring herself to look back at the creature, but she could tell he continued to approach because the music was getting louder. Daphne walked faster.
She passed the violinist, who was setting her instrument on her shoulder to start a new piece. Daphne caught her gaze, but she couldn’t speak. The violinist just stared at her.
She knows, too
, Daphne thought.
She’s in on it! She wants the clown to get me!
She was in no state to separate paranoia from real danger. She just began walking even faster. The music followed her. Finally, she began to run.
The wind whistled in her ears. She ran to the end of the block, then turned a sharp right, onto the street from which the man and the two kids had emerged. The ladies with the baby strollers had turned down there, too. Maybe they were still there. Maybe there were people Daphne could run to for help. But the street was a dead end in a gravel parking lot. There were a few cars, but no sign of any people.
Daphne could hear the music behind her.
All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel....
The clown had followed her around the corner!
The monkey thought it was all in fun... .
Daphne sprinted into the parking lot, praying that someone was in one of the cars.
Pop! goes the weasel!
The cars were empty. At the far end of the parking lot was a tall wooden fence. Beside it sat a Dumpster, stinking of trash and spoiled food.
Daphne stood there, at a loss, not sure where to run next.
That’s when she realized the music had stopped.
She spun around. She was alone on the block. The clown was gone.
In relief, she leaned against the side of the Dumpster, breathing heavily. The thing stunk, but she needed the support, otherwise she feared she might fall to the ground.
Had she imagined it? Were her nerves working overtime again with her too-vivid imagination?
No, she had heard the music plain as day. The clown had followed her.
Or had he?
She was so confused. Was it the alcohol? Was that why she felt she couldn’t tell what was real, and what was just in her mind?
Daphne looked around. The day was quiet. The sun had dropped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the street. The only sound was a low rustling of leaves from the trees. Around her, an occasional red or yellow leaf floated to the ground. The block was utterly peaceful.
But in her head, she still heard the music.
All around the mulberry bush
... She tried to push the sound away, but it kept playing in that terrible loop in her head.