The Invisible Husband of Frick Island by Colleen Oakley (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📗

this confirmed it. That she was the tipster and she wanted to talk to him as much as he wanted to talk to her.

But before he could say anything, or even give her a meaningful glance to show he understood, Piper disappeared through the same door that had swallowed up the Oleckis.

—

Backpack slung over one shoulder, Anders stepped out the front door of the bed-and-breakfast, passed a couple of rosebushes, and walked onto the street, squinting at the bright sun reflecting off the bay water that pooled out from the bulkhead just steps in front of him and seemed to stretch out to the farthest edges of the earth, giving a new meaning to “waterfront property.”

It was already brutally hot and it wasn’t even 10:00 a.m., but he had loitered at the dining room table as long as he could, thinking Piper would reappear, eager to talk to him. He didn’t believe she’d really make him wait until next Saturday. He was nursing his third cup of coffee when Mrs. Olecki reminded him that checkout was at 9:45 sharp. “I won’t be late for church,” she said, with the stern voice of a schoolmarm. Though she was round and soft in appearance, there was an edge to her. An edge that made Anders sure he never wanted to cross her in any way.

The ferry didn’t leave on Sundays until noon, so Anders took a right onto the pockmarked road, figuring he would meander through town once more, hoping perhaps, if he stopped in all the storefronts again, he might just run into Piper somewhere, and if not, well—

Crrrreeeeeeak.

Anders turned his head toward the unmistakable sound of a screen door opening, which was coming from the end of a worn dirt-and-broken-oystershell path between the bed-and-breakfast and the house next to it. A set of stairs led up to the door of a small carriage house, and on the landing stood Piper, struggling under the weight of a large plastic basket overflowing with what appeared to be damp laundry.

She didn’t even glance in his direction as Anders watched her make her way down the stairs, stunned once again by his luck. Until it struck him that in a town this small (could it even be called a town?), he supposed you were probably more likely than not to run into the person you were looking for. He paused, watching as a breeze lifted the tight coils of her hair off her neck, and just as he opened his mouth to shout hello—

“Yoo-hoo! Piper!” Mrs. Olecki’s disembodied voice rang out from behind the bed-and-breakfast. “You and Tom coming to church this morning?”

Anders froze. Tom?

Tom was dead. Likely murdered, Anders hoped. At the very least, the man was missing.

“Shoot!” Piper said. “I lost track of time. We’re coming.” She hastily finished pinning a pair of frayed jean shorts onto the clothesline, then snatched the still-full laundry basket into her arms and ran up the steps as if it were suddenly light as a feather, without once glancing behind her. If she had, she would have spotted an openmouthed Anders, feet glued to the ground in the middle of the street, trying to make sense of what was happening.

As Piper disappeared into her house, the banging of the carriage house door snapped Anders out of his fugue state. And the words the waterman said rang in his ears: Pretending he’s alive. Suddenly other memories flooded Anders’s brain.

Piper sitting at the table in the One-Eyed Crab talking to herself . . . the men at the docks the next morning waving hello to Piper and Tom . . . Piper saying “we” when it was just her standing there . . .

Pretending he’s alive.

No. Anders shook his head. Surely he was misremembering. That would be crazy—crazier than the passionate poultry woman for sure. And yet. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, like a bloodhound picking up a scent.

He stared at the carriage house door, wondering who was going to emerge from it with Piper. He half thought he would lay eyes on a man who had been presumed dead, and the other half thought he wouldn’t lay eyes on anyone at all, and he couldn’t accurately say which prospect excited him more.

He quickly walked to the end of the neighboring house and then slipped into the pathway between it and the next one. He ducked behind a metal trash can, heart pounding at the thought of being spotted—how would he explain his strange loitering? But curiosity surged through him and he knew it was a risk he’d just have to take.

He waited, knees bent, back up against the splintered siding of the house, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. Minutes ticked by, and Anders started to get a cramp in his left calf. Just when he thought perhaps they had somehow taken a different route, he heard voices. He held his breath and peered at the road between the trash can and the edge of the house. Mrs. Olecki came into view first and then Mr. Olecki and then Piper, who had changed into a yellow sundress. He waited, but no one else was with them.

When they had passed out of view, Anders stood, the muscles of his legs slightly shaking. He walked around the trash can and back into the road, staring at the backs of the three people, now walking in a line even with each other. He searched his head for any other explanation, but none came.

Just then, a little boy shot off the porch of the house they were walking past like he was being ejected from a slingshot. He threw himself at Piper, wrapping his tiny arms around her legs.

“Bobby!” she giggled, bending at the waist to squeeze him back.

It occurred to Anders as he strained to listen to the voices that this was the first young child he’d seen on the island.

“You coming to church this morning, Bobby?” Mrs. Olecki’s voice said.

“Yep! I just have to take this down to Lady Judy