True Colors

While she waited, Winona pictured Myrtle at the window, looking out as she spread frosting on her frozen cake. The shop was elevated; Myrtle would have had a clear view of the start of the alley.

Winona turned toward it. A black ironwork streetlamp was right there, standing sentinel, throwing a net of warm golden light down onto the sidewalk.

The girl came back to the window, said, “Here you go, Mrs. Grey. That’ll be three dollars and ninety-two cents.”

“Ms. Grey,” she muttered, paying for her cake. When she’d gotten her change, she turned back toward the streetlamp. It was in the perfect spot; Dallas would have been easily identifiable by Myrtle, who knew him. True, he was never facing the ice-cream shop, but a profile was plenty in good light, when you knew the person.

“I’ll explain it to Noah,” she said to herself. “Maybe I’ll even bring him down here to show him. He’ll know I took him seriously.”

She crossed the street, taking a bite of cake, remembering Myrtle’s testimony in detail.

I’d seen him there before.

I recognized his tattoo.

Winona stopped. Turning slowly, she walked back down Shore Drive, past the souvenir shop and the fish bar, to the ice-cream shop.

From this vantage point, Myrtle saw Dallas’s right side.

Winona had always had a photographic memory, and she’d noticed Dallas’s tattoo when she hired him. She would have sworn it was on his left arm.

She must be mistaken. A flurry of people had gone through this evidence, the prosecution team, the police, even reporters. No way a fact like this got overlooked.

Of course, the cops and the prosecution wouldn’t have been trying to discredit Myrtle. Only the defense team would have looked that closely. The defense attorney, she corrected. There had been no team, but surely Roy had done it.

She started walking toward home, but when she got to Viewcrest, instead of turning into her yard, she kept going, past the historical society museum toward Water’s Edge.

At the door to the cottage, she finally stopped long enough to think about what she was doing.

She didn’t want to tell Vivi Ann about Noah’s quest for DNA testing if she didn’t have to.

But that seed of doubt was back, and she had to eradicate it.

She knocked; Noah almost immediately answered.

“Hey, Aunt Winona,” he said. “Did you read the article?”

Vivi Ann’s voice came from the kitchen. “Who is it, Noah?”

“Aunt Winona,” he yelled back.

Winona leaned toward him, whispered, “I need to know which arm Dallas had his tattoo on.”

“I don’t have a clue.”

Vivi Ann came into the living room. “Hey, Win. This is a nice surprise. You want some tea?”

“Sure.” She followed her sister into the small, cozy living room of the cottage. Gone were the dingy pine wooden walls; in their place, everything was white—the walls, the peaked ceiling, the trim. Twin sets of small-paned French doors looked out over the back deck and the horse pastures below. The overstuffed furniture was upholstered in country French fabrics of marigold and Wedgwood blue.

What now? Noah mouthed.

Winona shrugged. Ask her.

Me?

Vivi Ann brought her a cup of tea. Winona sipped it while her sister built a fire in the river-rock hearth.

Noah cleared his throat. “Hey, Mom. I’ve been thinking about something.”