overboard when the thirty-eight-foot Matthews was only a mile or two off Sanibel—long before it sank—or she’d entered the water from land.
That presented a very different, and darker, scenario.
If Marlissa had fallen overboard, would her lover have continued his westward course?
No. Not if he wanted her to live.
Do rational people walk the beach, or swim, during a hurricane and risk being swept away?
No. Not if they value their lives.
Conclusion: Marlissa Dorn had either been murdered, or she’d died of misadventure that may have been storm-borne and accidental, or may have been invited by her own recklessness—a form of suicide.
I pictured Chestra energized by storm wind, indifferent to lightning strikes.
The music was still playing.
I turned toward the house and followed the path of silver sand.
C hestra was singing lyrics unfamiliar to me; lyrics that she’d written.
I stood near the piano, listening, the photograph of Marlissa Dorn on the table nearby. Chestra had yet to reply to the first of my pointed questions, but I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt. She had a remarkable alto voice. Her interpretation was soulful, smoky, but understated; her lyrics, articulate. Tomlinson had described her music accurately: The effect was more than auditory, it was chemical.
Once again, I wondered: How could someone with her talent have slipped through life unknown?
She tried to keep the last chord alive, her foot on the sustain pedal.
“Do you mind, Doc, if I play just one more? Music—I get carried away. It’s my favorite mode of travel.”
I said, “For now, let’s stay where we are, okay? I’d like to talk.” As she sighed, registering disappointment, I added, “Later, I’d enjoy hearing you play. It’s still early”—I checked my watch—“not even nine-thirty. I thought you’d
“I’m thrilled. It seems too good to be true. I guess I’m still in shock.”
She didn’t act thrilled when I told her. She looked troubled. Something had changed in the last twenty-four hours, that was my impression. Something else: She became flustered when I said I’d heard a rumor about the Dorn family and a German POW.
“All families have their skeletons.” She’d laughed, making light of it. But she escaped immediately to the piano after adding, “Guilt. It’s the gift that never stops giving. Some legacy, huh, kiddo?”
When I said, “Then it’s true?”, she began to play, her furtive shrug saying:
Obviously, she hadn’t told me everything.
She’d played a medley of her own work—impressive. But I was determined to get answers. “Chessie, tell me what you know about the night the boat went down. Everything.” I held Marlissa’s photograph up as if it might freshen her memory. “It was so long ago, no one cares anymore. What do you
Her fingers were long, and as elegant as her legs. They moved with a surgical certainty on the piano keys, independent of her body. As if reading my mind, she said, “I don’t tell stories, my hands do. Fairy tales. Tragedies. I’m always a little surprised by their confidence.” She lifted her eyes to mine without moving her head. “Does that seem strange?”
“I don’t know. My hands aren’t skilled.”
“I’m astonished. Maybe you haven’t found the right instrument yet. The truth”—chords she played transitioned to the melody I thought I knew but couldn’t name—“you say that word like it’s something final.
I replied, “The truth often is.”
“I’m not so certain. I don’t have anything against people who say they’re searching for the truth. It’s the ones who claim they’ve found it, I don’t trust. There are people who go around trying to neaten up a disorderly world. Are you one of those men?”
“No. I’m one of those men who bumbles less when I know the facts.”
She dipped her head toward the piano’s music stand, where there was no sheet music. “Just the facts, ma’am. Okay. Musical notes are facts—professional piano tuners adjust each note mathematically, did you know that? You don’t believe facts lie?” She smiled. “Then we haven’t been riding in the same elevators. And you’ve never heard karaoke.”
It was impossible not to like the woman. It was also impossible to pressure her.
I said, “The title of the song you’re playing. I’ve asked before, what’s the name—” But she interrupted my question with a lyrical flurry, an introduction. As she sang, I listened attentively, expecting the lyrics to jog my memory.
They didn’t.
When she’d finished, I didn’t speak for many seconds. “That’s lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“You wrote it?” I was contemplating the lines: “You are mercy/And holy to me.” Pained but adoring. At one time in her life, Chestra had been in love with an extraordinary man.
She surprised me, replying, “Yes. I wrote that many, many years ago. It’s about my first love—Manhattan.” Her fingers found the keys again, softly. “I enjoy the anonymity of crowds, the sanctuary of strangers. Like a lot of people, I cling to the silly notion I’m having a love affair with that great big wonderful city because I wake up with it most mornings.
