“How do you feel about all this?” Wy said that evening. They were curled up on the couch, watching the mountains turn an even darker blue and the Bay itself fade to black.
“Kind of pissed off, you want to know the truth,” Liam said. “Two murders, one attempt, and the perp dies on me before I get to charge him.”
“Anticlimactic,” she said.
“Kinda.”
“But nobody shot at you,” she said.
“And I didn’t have to jump out of any airplanes.”
“Or jump out of any boats.”
“Or fall down any glaciers. I never even took my sidearm out of the glove compartment. Am I still in Alaska or what?”
“And you didn’t mess up another uniform.”
“There is that.”
She raised her head to look at him. “Are you ever going to put one on again?”
Twenty-One
Sunday, September 15
THEY WERE SUMMONED TO TEA WITH Sybilla the following Sunday in her room at Sunset Heights. Having been given a heads up by Liz, Wy was wearing the only dress she owned, a sunny yellow sleeveless cotton sheath with a scoop neck. She’d bought it to wear at her college graduation, mostly to make her parents happy, and worn it a second time at her wedding. It was a little wrinkled because upon seeing her in it Liam had immediately tried to get her out of it again.
Liam, because what the hell and anyway he no longer owned a suit, came in full regalia, light blue shirt over dark blue pants with the gold stripe down the legs, dark blue tie, and the original babe magnet, his Smokey hat to top off the ensemble. He left the utility belt at home and the sidearm in the glove compartment.
“You’re strutting,” Wy said when he came out of the bedroom.
“Nonsense,” he said, and squared away his tie.
Sybilla’s was a surprisingly pleasant room, spacious with a large window that actually opened. It was stuffed with old-fashioned furniture and knickknacks. The walls were covered with photographs, including several studio portraits of Sybilla in her various primes.
“You look like a movie star, Sybilla,” Wy said, staring at one of them. The movie-star version was wearing one of those old timey velvet, V-neck dresses barely held up by the shoulders. Sybilla had turned to look directly into the lens of the camera. She was red-lipped and smiling, her brows two straight black slashes, her hair a dusky cloud.
She looked like sex on a stick, Liam thought, but wisely did not say so out loud.
Sybilla chuckled, busying herself with pouring the tea from a pretty flowered teapot into translucent cups that matched. “Yes, I cleaned up pretty well back in the day. You look nice yourselves. Thank you for indulging an old woman by dressing for the occasion. That’s a lovely color on you, my dear.”
She was in very good form, sparking on all four cylinders. She was fully clothed, today in a black and white dress that made her look like Grace Kelly in Rear Window. Again, it was about two sizes too big. She remembered who Wy and Liam were, their names, and that she had invited them for tea. They sat and she served them warm scones with butter and raspberry jam. Wy took the first bite and said with her mouth full, “You can cook, too?”
Sybilla waved an airy hand. “I am a woman of many talents, my dear. And they do allow us kitchen privileges here, thank goodness.”
It was a pleasant afternoon, and Sybilla wiled away the time by spinning tales of Alaskans in days gone by, when men were men and women did all the work.
“So like now,” Wy said.
Sybilla’s eyes sparkled. “Exactly like now, my dear.”
Liam, outnumbered, reached for another scone.
Among Sybilla’s collection of days gone by was a turntable and a collection of vinyl records. She selected an album by Ella Fitzgerald and put it on. Sybilla’s voice was still strong enough to sound good and she kept up with every word and every note of “It Don’t Mean a Thing.” She laughed at their expressions when the song ended. “By way of establishing my bona fides,” she said.
A little later Liam said, “Did you know that Erik Berglund was Sally Petroff’s biological father?”
Sybilla looked surprised. “Of course, dear. Erik and Kimberley were both students of mine.” She grimaced. “It was pretty obvious, but then it always is. Girls disappear for a semester or a year and there is always some plausible excuse, an exchange student program opportunity out of state, something like that. And then the following year they come back and life goes on.” Her face clouded over. “This was different, of course. Erik went Outside to college, and Kimberley married Alexei and seven months later Sally was born. A few snide remarks were made but—” She shrugged. “There was another scandal, as there always is, and that one was forgotten.”
“They were from Kapilat,” Wy said. “Why didn’t they go to school there?”
“Unfortunately at that time the Kapilat school had fallen beneath the ten-student limit and the state had closed it. Some families went the home schooling route but a few who had relatives in Blewestown they could board their children with sent them here to complete high school. The two were in the band together. Kimberley played the clarinet and Erik the saxophone.” She looked down at her hands and said softly, “I feel responsible. I paired them up on that duet. Benny Goodman, you know. And of course Kimberley’s parents would never have let them marry.” She saw their mystified looks. “He wasn’t Native, you see, and her parents were very traditional. Much like Alexei’s family.” She sighed. “Which was probably why she chose him.”
Wy could feel Liam looking at her. She knew he was remembering her insistence on a small wedding, Bill to officiate, Moses to give her away, two random witnesses they’d pulled off their stools at the bar. None of Wy’s blood relatives from Ik’iki’ka. “Did Alexei know?” she said.
“I don’t know. I wondered at the time. But Kimberley was smart
