Three hours later I had a crick in my neck and my stomach was growling. But at least I’d finally learned something. The day Barnabas had arrived for a respite from his family and to take care of the light for a friend, there’d been a terrible storm with howling winds and large waves. A ship named Grampus had wrecked near the lighthouse that night. According to the stories no survivors and little of the ship had been found. Barnabas was first on the scene. The report said it was assumed the wreckage was washed back out to sea. Why didn’t he mention the storm or its aftermath in his diary?
As soon as I stood and headed toward Robin, she picked up the phone and started fake talking into it. I found a piece of paper and scrawled Thank you. Please call me if you find more. I attached my business card, adding my cell phone number to the back.
I hurried down the block to the local diner. Its name was Local Diner. Maybe a nod of the head to Yankees and their practicality. A chill wind blew my long hair around like a mini tornado as I yanked open the door. I took a seat at the counter like I had every day since I’d arrived. This time the people on either side of me stayed instead of leaving, turning their backs, or moving to another location. The same waitress who’d ignored me on prior visits now filled my empty cup with the rich, dark coffee the diner served.
Maybe the overly large tips had won her over. Maybe a wind of change was blowing through the town. Or they had held a secret town meeting last night where they took a vote and decided I could be spoken to. I’d thought I’d come to town and win them over with my Midwest charm or fame. Neither worked. The characters I wrote about in my books were a lot more helpful. Hmmmm, maybe that was why my writing had stalled, the characters were too helpful and I made things too easy for my protagonist.
“What can I getcha?” the waitress asked.
“A bowl of chowder and a cheeseburger.”
“Fries with that?”
I nodded, then added, “Yes, please.” Yeesh, I was forgetting how to talk after all the silent treatment.
The woman on my left turned to me. “You’re a writer? Have I heard of you?”
I smiled even though I wanted to roll my eyes. “I hope so.” It was my standard answer to this question. “I’m Madeline Wilson and I write the Tell-Tale Heart romantic mystery series.” I didn’t add that it had sold millions, been optioned as a TV series, and translated many times over. The woman on my right perked up.
“OMG! I love your books. I’ve read every one. Is Jake real?”
“I wish,” I said, standard answer number two. I’d created the almost perfect man, smart, rich, handsome. The kind who swooped in to save the day but disappeared just often enough to keep the readers guessing.
“Are Eliza and Jake ever going to get married?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Standard answer number three. Even though I did know, I wasn’t sharing.
“Do you know Stephen King?” the woman on the left asked.
“We follow each other on Twitter. He retweeted me once.”
The woman looked at me like I’d spoken a foreign language. After signing bookmarks and passing them out, I decided it was time to test the waters. The waitress plopped my food down in front of me. “I read there was a big storm the night Barnabas arrived from Baltimore. Know anything about that?” The story was well known and had recently been in the papers again as another team of treasure hunters failed to find any trace of the Grampus. I scooped a big spoonful of chowder into my mouth so I wouldn’t shoot out questions with the machine-gun-like rhythm I usually did. There was a lot of head shaking and “gotta get going” and “nice meeting you.” But no answers.
By the time I finished eating the place had emptied except for me, the staff, and an old, wizened guy in a corner booth gazing at me.
“Might know something about that storm,” he called out as I whapped the tip down on the counter. I looked around to make sure he was talking to me before walking over to him.
“Sit,” he said.
I started to introduce myself but was interrupted.
“Know who you are, Madeline. Everyone in town does.”
I wrote about small towns, had made up Valentine, Massachusetts, for my series, but this is why I avoided them. Give me a city any day. I could have written this guy: cable knit sweater, hard, weathered face, gray bristles of an overgrown beard sticking out of a rugged chin. In fact I think I did write him. Book Twelve, when Eliza has to get away from Jake and goes to Maine to find herself. Ayup.
“So what do you know about the storm?” I asked. Being direct would probably work better with a guy like this. “I heard there was a shipwreck the night my grandfather arrived.”
“Ayup.”
Bingo. And all I’d had to do for research was watch some reruns of “Murder, She Wrote.” That made me think of the troll. Maybe I was a fraud. I leaned forward. “Do you think that’s why he disappeared? Guilt over the shipwreck?” My family had owned the Raven Harbor lighthouse since day one. After Barnabas disappeared no one from the family had returned until me. People were hired to run the light. Currently a family with five kids ran it, or were supposed to.
I’d been surprised the day I arrived to be greeted by a great-looking guy, Norm Reeve. It’s not a name I’d ever use for a hot guy in my book, but this was real life. Norm looked a bit like my imaginary Jake—deep blue eyes, dimpled chin, dark curling hair, and that sexy almost-time-to-shave beard. Norm was the brother of the man who took care of the light. He’d stepped in while they vacationed at Disney World. Having him as a neighbor was certainly better than five kids. I shook myself. Forget Norm. That’s not why I was here. Still, though my real romantic life was nothing like Eliza’s, I could use a bit of fun.
“The light was on but nothing could have cut through that storm.” He shifted in his seat but maintained eye contact. “It was the storm of the century.”
I studied the guy. Even if he’d been seventy he hadn’t been around when it happened. “How do you know?” I tried not to make it sound like a challenge but his laugh told me otherwise.
“My dad was a wee lad then. He’s the one that told me. Barnabas was swept out to sea or blown off the light. Simple as that.” He spread his hands wide.
“Any proof?”
He barked out another laugh. “My dad said so. That’s proof enough.”
Not for me. I stood, suspicious of the townspeople’s sudden willingness to help. I’d head back to the library, dig around and see if there was something more about the shipwreck. Something the people in this town wanted to keep hidden.
As I walked I let my thoughts swirl around my head like the wind tugging my clothes. I stopped in front of the post office. Weren’t small town post offices supposed to be hubs of gossip? I could buy some stamps as a cover.
I pushed open the door. Two men sat playing checkers on a board set up on a barrel. Just like a scene out of Book Four, when Eliza went to visit her aunt’s country store. A couple of people talked with the postmistress but stepped aside when I arrived at the counter. A one-eyed black cat leaped up on the counter next to me and butted my hand with its head. “I need a book of stamps,” I said, scratching the top of the cat’s head.
“Forever stamps?”
That seemed like too much of a commitment. “Ah, no. Just some postcard stamps.” I’d use them to send out postcards about the next book. We exchanged cash for stamps. “I’m guessing you know why I’m here and who I am.” I announced it to the group. “I’m trying to find out what happened to Barnabas. Anyone have an idea?” The two men shrugged and turned back to their game. The couple left.
The postmistress waggled a finger at me. “I gave you the wrong change.” I started to tell her she didn’t but she flicked her head toward the checker players. She handed me a nickel and a piece of paper that said: Meet me out back in fifteen minutes.
Ten minutes later I stood at the back of the post office, waiting. At exactly fifteen minutes the back door opened and the postmistress gestured for me to come i
n. She put her finger to her lips and then leaned close to my ear. “Barnabas stole the mail off the ship that night. A diplomatic package. Bonds. Letters.”
“Letters?”
“Yes. He purloined letters and more.”
I paused for a moment, then shrugged. “Like what?”
“Booze, opium.”
“How’d he get away with it?”
The postmistress held up hands. “No idea.”
“How do you know?”
“Granny.”
“Is your grandmother still alive?” I thought back to the guy in the diner.
“No. I’m talking about Eve Morner. Everyone in town calls her Granny.”
My heart started to thump so loudly in my chest I wondered if she could hear it, if the whole town could hear it. “Where can I find her?”
“She owns the bar. The Horse You Came In On.”
I stared at her for a second before giving my head a shake.
The postmistress glanced at the clock on the wall. “She should be there. Likes to have a cup of tea and hear the latest gossip.”
“Is it the place by the dock?”
She nodded, opened the door, and hustled me out.
I’d seen the bar but hadn’t been in because it looked decrepit. Something right out of one of Stephen King’s horror stories. But if an old woman was drinking her afternoon tea there it must be safe enough. Dusk was setting in and a fog was beginning to rise as I walked to the bar. The light from the lighthouse flashed around, steady and true. The foghorn sounded its mournful cry.
I pushed open the heavy wooden door with the help of a gust of wind. “Close the door,” a woman called from the bar in a nasty tone. Yeesh, sorry to ruffle your feathers. I battled the wind and slammed the door closed. At the bar the woman asked me what I wanted. Her hair was so dark it almost looked blue and was feathered back. Long black feather earrings dangled from her ears. I assumed she was talking about drinks instead of my quest so I studied the large assortment of bottles lining the wall behind her. There were some interesting choices.
“A hard cider sounds great,” I said. She grabbed a bottle from a cooler, popped the top, and poured it into a frosty glass before placing it on a paper coaster in front of me. Her nails were so long and pointy they were almost like talons.
I took a long pull of the cider. This town was weird and I’d be happy to solve the mystery and head back to Chicago. The woman studied me with beady eyes. It struck me that she looked like the librarian. “Are you related to Robin over at the library?” I asked, taking another drink of the cider that was going down all too smoothly.
“I’m her sister, Raven.”
Raven Nevermore? I managed not to spit out my cider. She tilted her head to the left as if daring me to say something. I noticed her beaky nose. “I’m looking for Granny,” I said.
Raven pointed to a corner booth, her black sleeve hanging down wing-like. I hopped off the stool, glad to be away from her. I approached the booth expecting some shriveled old biddy in a shawl to be sitting there. But Granny had a regal air, from her silver French twist to her wool suit. “Sit,” she said like she was expecting me.
Granny took a sip of tea, watching me over the top of her cup. A whiff of alcohol wafted off it as she set it back in the saucer. Now the postmistress might think Granny was here drinking tea but if that was tea, my editor was a two-year-old. “Raven,” Granny called.
Raven flew over. “Yes, Granny?”
“Bring us some scones. The blueberry ones.”
Raven dipped her head and returned seconds later with warm scones and Irish butter. The smell of flour, sugar, and blueberries filled the air. I buttered one and bit in. They went surprisingly well with my cider.
“So I hear you want to know about Barnabas’s disappearance.” She crumbled her scone as I reached for a second one. Real sleuthing apparently made me hungry. She leaned forward, so I did too. “There was a rumor that someone blamed him for the shipwreck and walled him into a niche in the basement of the lighthouse. But nothing’s been found down there.”
“There’s a basement?” I’d searched the place often during my stay but hadn’t found a door inside or a bulkhead out that would lead to a basement.
“There’s a trap door. Cleverly hidden at the base of the steps to the light. But you won’t find anything down there.”
“What do you think happened to him?”
“He was swept off. Plain and simple.” She leaned back and waved a hand at me dismissively as if our conversation exhausted her.
I was almost to the door when Raven caught me. “Some say he threw himself off in a fit of remorse because the ship wrecked on his watch.”
As I drove back to the lighthouse I thought over Barnabas’s diary. Had I missed a clue? I should have known there was a basement. He had mentioned it and he’d shown signs of fear that day too. There was no entry after that. Fog swirled and thickened as I drove. I slowed. A raven and a robin perched on the Raven Harbor lighthouse sign. I blinked, hard, twice. When I looked again they were gone. What was in that cider?
Back at the light I rolled up the Oriental rug at the bottom of the steps. The concealed trap door was where Granny said it would be. I wound my way down a set of iron steps. The musty smell, cobwebs, and dust told me no one had been down here in many years. Dim light came from a single bulb on a frayed wire. That didn’t seem safe. The walls were plaster, not brick, another dead end.
I flicked on the flashlight I’d brought with me. I spotted a section of wall that was cracked and damp. I tapped the flashlight on it. A chunk of plaster came away, exposing brick behind it. This somehow seemed familiar but I thought back over my books. No, I’d never used a bricked-over wall but maybe I would in my next one. I’d been concerned I was running out of fresh ideas for the series anyway. The damp chilled me to the bone. I dug at the grout around the brick. It crumbled but I was going to need tools to knock this thing down. I didn’t mind a bit that I’d have to go ask Norm, the handsome Jake look–alike, for them.
Thirty minutes later our shirts were soaked with sweat. It only made Norm look better with the white cotton fabric clinging to his muscular chest. I was ready to forget about taking the wall down but he seemed determined to help me solve this mystery. I’d told him about my day as we worked, all the different stories I’d heard. He swung the sledgehammer one more time and the wall caved in. After the dust cleared we moved enough of the bricks to enter a room about the size of a large walk-in closet, only with dank stone walls.
We shined our flashlights around. There were bits of old boards and some remnants of what looked like some kind of plant, lots of dust, a few bands of rusted metal, and more spider webs than I’d ever seen in one place. “There’s nothing here,” I said. I don’t know what I’d hoped for but this surely wasn’t it.
“I’m sorry. What will you do now?” Norm asked. “How will you face your critics?”
Norm knew about my troll. I’d told him the second night I was here over wine while he grilled lobster for me. “I’m not sure.”
“Stay here,” Norm said. “We haven’t known each other long.” Norm took my hand. “But I like you. I’d like a chance to get to know you better.”
I studied his deep blue eyes, tempted. “I can’t. I have a book tour to go on. Conferences to attend.”
“When will I see you again?”
“I don’t know.”
*****
The next morning dawned bright and sunny. There was a lilt in my step as I stuffed my suitcase into the trunk of my car. Norm ran out of the lightkeeper’s cottage and over to me.
“You’re leaving?” he asked. I nodded cheerfully. “You haven’t solved the mystery.”
“Oh, but I have. I figured it all out last night after you left.”
“What did you figure out?” He said it in his smoky, sultry voice. The one I’m sure had worked on many women.
“My grandfather was a shmuck and an opium addict. He shut off the light just
long enough so the ship crashed. He stole the opium and the barrels of dry sherry also known as casks of amontillado.”
Norm shook his head. “Why do you think that?”
“After you left last night I did some research. The plant remnants in the basement were opium pods. On the second day of Barnabas’s visit he wrote: ‘I have passed the day in a species of ecstasy that I find impossible to describe.’ In other words he was high on the opium. The bits of wood in the basement were parts of an old cask. Eve Morner was drinking a rare sherry, not tea, at the bar yesterday. She tried to cover the smell by having Raven serve us scones. And her name is an anagram of Nevermore.”
“Why would he do that?”
“From what I know my Great’s wife wasn’t a pleasant woman. It’s no surprise he’d wanted to escape but he did it in a way that left her some dignity by letting people think he disappeared.” I had to give the man some credit. He’d come up with a plan so ingenious no one in my family had figured it out. “Apparently, he stayed here, remarried, and had lots of children. My mom texted me an old picture of him. So many people here have his nose. The townspeople must have colluded with him and only said he disappeared. I’m guessing in return he shared the bounty from the ship.”
“I’m impressed you put that all together. But what about me?”
“You, dear Norm, are the troll who called me out. Last night you quoted lines from Book Seven. I studied your deep blue eyes and realized you were wearing contacts. And all the sweat caused a bit of hair dye to rub off on your collar. You wanted me to believe you were Jake.” I didn’t admit out loud that I had wanted to believe it too. “And Norm Reeve is another anagram of Nevermore. What’s with this town?”
Norm grabbed my wrist and jerked me to him. “I’m not letting you leave.”
“Oh, I think you are.” I stomped on his instep and ran for my car. Once inside the locks went down with a satisfying click.
I smiled as I drove off. I had one hell of a plot for my next novel.
Sherry Harris, a former director of marketing for a financial planning company, started bargain hunting in second grade at her best friend’s yard sale. She honed her bartering skills as she moved around the country while her husband served in the Air Force. Sherry uses her love of garage sales, her life as a military spouse, and her time living in Massachusetts as inspiration for the Sarah Winston Garage Sale series. Tagged for Death, the first in the series, was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Novel. She is the president of the Chesapeake Chapter of Sisters in Crime. www.sherryharrisauthor.com
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