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NATALIE GRAYSON: May 11, 1967 - June 16, 1993
Alarm bells rang in Rose’s ears.She died in the fire.
The photograph beside the obituary featured a beautiful woman with soft and ethereal hair and big and dreamy eyes. She wore a black dress with a high collar.
The obituary was simple. It read:
Natalie Grayson (née Quinne) passed away last week on the island of Nantucket. She is survived by her husband, Oren; her brother-in-law, Zachary; her parents, Hannah and Peter Quinne; and her brother, Dean. A private memorial service will be held June 24 at the Nantucket Angelic Gardens. In lieu of flowers, please donate funds to Natalie’sfavorite charity, The Children’s Cancer Research Association.
Rose read and reread the obituary and leaned back against the cushion with her arms crossed over her chest. Oren had lost his wife; Zachary had lost his sister-in-law.
But why had Mrs. Walden, Mr. Walden, and Zachary spoken as though Oren had set the fire himself?
And why had Oren agreed to stay with the Waldens during this time of grief?
Rose was stumped.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?” The fifty-something server with the ketchup-stained apron returned to refill her coffee. “Can I get you anything else?”
Rose coveted the pie in the rotating glass case but wasn’t sure she wanted to give up her precious money quite yet. The day was still young.
Rose pointed at Natalie's photograph. “Do you know what happened?”
The server’s face transformed and turned the color of paper. Her eyes flashed back and forth.
“You don’t know?” the server asked.
“I’m just visiting the island,” Rose said, searching for a lie that would get her more information. “But I used to know Natalie back in high school.”
The server’s eyes welled with tears. “You poor darling!”
A few other regulars tilted their heads and bodies, eager to get in on the conversation.
“She says she knew Natalie?” a fisherman asked, adjusting his black salt-encrusted hat.
The server nodded furiously.
“We were close when we were teenagers,” Roseoffered, her face flushed. “We lost touch. I had no idea she was in Nantucket in the first place.”
“You want my opinion?” the server muttered. “I think her husband had something to do with it.”
A few others in the restaurant bowed their head in agreement.
The fisherman said, “I met her when she first got to the island. Beautiful girl. So smiley and happy. But the next time I saw her, she looked through me like I wasn’t there at all. It was like he’d done something to her. Poisoned her.”
Rose remembered Oren's dark face; those penetrating eyes seemed to see through her.
“Why would somebody burn his own house down?” Rose asked.
The server laughed nervously and wiped her palms on her apron. She looked at Rose as though she were the most innocent of all God’s creatures.
“Oh, honey,” the server said. “You have a great deal to learn about the wealthy, don’t you?”
“Don’t let her learn,” the fisherman barked. “Nothing good comes from that kind of learning.”
A family of four entered the diner after that, and conversation about the chance of murder in Nantucket filtered out. Rose was left to ponder alone. But a few minutes later, the server brought her a pie with ice cream “on the house,” smiling sadly, reminding Rose that she’d justlost her friend, Natalie.
“Take care of yourself, honey,” the server told her after she left that afternoon. “There’s no telling what big, bad wolves are out there waiting for you.”
