by Kathi Daley
“What about it?” Alyson moved to the edge of her seat.
“It occurred to me that the object of contention might have been the child after the last time we spoke. If Mrs. Lincoln was pregnant with a child who wasn’t her husband’s, she might try to dispense with the evidence, particularly if the child’s parentage was such that she couldn’t pass them off as her husband’s offspring.”
“If he was Native American,” Mac guessed.
“Yes. I doubt she would have killed the child, even if it did pose a danger to her way of life. It occurred to me that in those days the best way to dispose of a child would be to give it to someone who was only passing through the area.”
“You mean give it to someone from one of the trading ships,” Alyson guessed.
“Precisely. I’ve been weeding through documents almost since the moment you left yesterday, trying to find out which ships, if any, were in port at the time of the murder.”
“And…?” Mac broke off the corner of her croissant and popped it into her mouth.
“There were two ships during the time in question. If Whitney Lincoln went missing a week before her death, we’re looking at the week of May 20, 1867.”
“And the two ships?” Alyson asked.
“The Albatross and The Lark. The Albatross was in port from May 1 until May 26, The Lark from May 12 until May 25.”
“So Mrs. Lincoln could have given her baby away to someone from either ship,” Mac concluded.
“I didn’t find a lot of information on The Lark, but I did find the personal diary of the first mate of The Albatross. There are references to a merchant who was traveling south on the ship with his infant child.”
“Whitney Lincoln’s baby,” Alyson guessed.
“Possibly. Although there’s no way to know for certain if the baby was hers unless we can find more information. The journal indicates the merchant was traveling south, so I’ve been trying to locate a manifest that would identify the merchant and the port at which he disembarked. I don’t know if that will help us, even if I can manage to find the information. So far I haven’t come across anything that describes the child or how it came to be with the merchant.”
“So we don’t really know anything more than we did.” Alyson sighed.
“I wonder why Mrs. Lincoln didn’t just tell the man on the cliff what she’d done with the baby if it was safe and sound on a ship headed south,” Mac mused.
“Maybe she was afraid he would try to get it back. She seemed pretty adamant about keeping her secret.” Alyson tried to remember the argument she’d overheard. “She said ‘I’ll never tell you’ right before she fell.”
“Fell?” Booker asked.
“Yeah. Last night I was able to see more of the event,” Alyson explained. “Marcus, or whoever the second participant in the drama was, had Mrs. Lincoln by the arm. She jerked away and fell backward. He tried to save her, but he couldn’t. He didn’t kill her; it was an accident.”
“So Marcus was hanged for a crime he didn’t commit,” Booker concluded.
“Something just occurred to me.” Alyson stood up and began to pace. “Whitney Lincoln and Marcus were alone on the bluff. They argued and she fell. The newspaper account stated that Marcus was hanged that same day. How would the townsfolk even know Marcus was involved? Did he run into town and confess to the murder?”
“That’s doubtful,” Mac said. “Maybe she tore a piece of his clothing when she fell and they found it near the body. They may have identified it as Marcus’s and put two and two together.”
Alyson closed her eyes and tried to remember. “No, he had her by the forearm, but she never had a hold of him. She pulled back to free herself and fell.”
“Maybe there was a third party,” Mac speculated. “An observer.”
“Maybe. We need to see if we can get a better accounting of the events surrounding Marcus’s hanging. Where would we find copies of old newspapers?”
“Perhaps the museum,” Booker suggested.
“Of course. Mac and I will head over there. I’d appreciate it if you kept looking through the stuff you have here,” Alyson said. “I’ll call you when we’ve had a chance to look through their archives.”
“You realize we’re running out of time,” Mac reminded Alyson as they drove to the newly opened Cutter’s Cove Museum.
“I know. I feel like the answer is right in front of us. We’ve done the research; we just need to figure out how to use it.”
******
The Cutter’s Cove Museum had opened the previous November. After locating the last Cutter heir, Caleb Wellington, and returning the family fortune to him, he had graciously agreed to purchase an old brick building, which had been renovated, to house local displays. The initial artifacts came from the attic of the old Cutter mansion, the house Alyson and her mother had purchased several months earlier. Enlisting the aid of the Cutter’s Cove Historical Society, a call had gone out to everyone in town, requesting additional donations. The museum truly had become a labor of love for the entire community.
“I’m afraid we haven’t had a chance to organize everything that’s been donated,” the volunteer hostess told them. “The response to our request for old letters, diaries, and newspapers has been more overwhelming than we could ever have hoped.” She unlocked a door at the back of the building. “I’m afraid this room is a real mess, but you’re welcome to look around.”
“Thanks.” Alyson walked into the room, which was piled high with boxes overflowing with Cutter Cove’s history.
“This is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack.” Mac knocked the dust off the closest partially torn box.
“Tell me about it.” Alyson took the lid off the box closest to her. “We should at least try. You start at that end and I’ll start here. We’re looking for boxes that contain documents from the 1860s. Boxes we’ve looked through can be stacked off to the side so we don’t keep looking through the same things over and over.”
Mac took several boxes and sat cross-legged on the floor. “There’s some really neat stuff in here.” She held up a stack of letters tied together with a ribbon. “These are from World War Two. They look like love letters. See, there’s a little heart drawn across the seal.” Mac held up an envelope. “I wonder what they say. Are they filled with verse after verse of flowery romance or an accounting of the horrors that must have been endured every day?”
“World War Two was quite a bit after 1867. We need to stay focused if we’re going to have any chance at all of finding anything,” Alyson reminded her.
“I know. I’ll focus.” Mac set aside the box of World War Two memorabilia. “It’d be neat to come back to look through all this stuff when imminent death isn’t driving the search. I’m surprised people donated such personal, intimate things to the museum.”
“Who knows? Maybe the letters are secret correspondence describing military strategy, masked as love letters,” Alyson theorized.
“You think so?”
“No, not really. Sometimes it’s fun to play what if, though.” Alyson set the box she had been looking through aside and reached for another. “This is going to take forever.”
They continued to search for several hours, finding many priceless documents but nothing pertaining to Whitney Lincoln.
“My back is killing me,” Mac groaned.
“I know.” Alyson looked down at her once-manicured hands, now blackened with decades’ worth of dust. “This is pointless. Let me finish sorting through this box and we’ll go. Maybe we can get Trevor to help us sort more tomorrow.”
“I found something earlier: an address for Eric Thompson, the jogger who found Samantha Roberts’s body. He lives up the coast. I thought we could pay him a visit tomorrow, while Trevor is at practice,” Mac said. “Maybe he saw something more.”
“That’s a good idea.” Alyson opened the lid of the final box she had pulled near her. “I could use a change of scenery.”
“I think I’m going
to need a turn in your Jacuzzi when we get back to your house.” Mac arched her back, trying to work out the kinks.
“No problem. I guess we can go.” Alyson picked up a yellowed newspaper. “Wait; look at this. It’s dated April 25, 1867, about a month before Mrs. Lincoln’s death. Let me see what else is in this box.”
“Where did you find it?” Mac struggled to stand up. “I’ll see if there are others.”
“It was in the stack in front of the shelves. The one to the left of where you’re standing.”
Mac took a couple of boxes and resumed her position on the floor.
“I think I found it,” Alyson exclaimed. “A newspaper article on Marcus’s hanging.”
Alyson carefully spread it open so she wouldn’t tear the delicate paper. “This is the same one Booker had.” Alyson went back to sorting through the box. “Well, lookee here. I think we may have found a box of things that belonged to the Lincolns. Baby shoes, old photographs, miscellaneous paperwork, and,” Alyson held up a small book, “a diary.” She opened it. “Looks like Whitney Lincoln’s.”
“Wow, really? What does it say?”
“I haven’t had a chance to read it yet,” Alyson said. “There’s a lot of stuff in this box. We need to ask if we can take it back to my place.”
“The volunteer out front is new. I doubt she’ll let us just walk out with it.”
“I’ll call Caleb to get his permission. He’s the founder of this place and a member of the historical society, I’m sure he has enough clout to get us permission.”
After calling Caleb and obtaining permission to borrow whatever they needed, the girls loaded the box in which Alyson had found the journal, as well as several others that appeared at first inspection to be related, into the back of her Jeep and then headed back to her house to meet Trevor.
******
“Have we got news for you,” Alyson blurted out a half hour later.
“On which case?” Trevor asked. “Jessica’s rapist or the murders?”
“Both.”
“Do tell.” Trevor took a bite of the sandwich Alyson had picked up at the deli on the way home.
“About Jessica—I talked to one of the girls who were hanging out with Derek this afternoon. Turns out she was at Tommy’s party, in the bedroom. She gave me the names of the other guys who were there. To make a long story short, she seemed to think Steve Hanson might be the father of Jessica’s baby.”
“But I thought he left,” Trevor said.
“That’s what Jessica said, but maybe we should look into it.”
“I know he was frustrated, but to rape your own girlfriend? That’s cold. Why’d she think Steve was the bad guy?” Trevor asked. “Can you pass that tub of potato salad over this way?”
“She figured Derek would try to profit off loosening Jessica up.” Alyson picked up the takeout container and passed it to Trevor.
“But she didn’t actually see Steve with Jessica or have any proof that he was the guy?”
“No, what she said was pure speculation. We should check it out, though. See if he was even at the party after his fight with Jessica,” Alyson suggested.
“Yeah, we’ll ask around.” Trevor took a large scoop of mayonnaise-covered potatoes and eggs.
“In other news,” Mac took a small bite of her pickle spear, “we think we found Whitney Lincoln’s diary.”
“Really? That’s great. What does it say?” Trevor asked.
“We haven’t read it yet. We only found it after hours and hours of backbreaking searching. We brought it back with us. We’ll look at it after dinner.”
“I still need to head over to the bluff in a while. Before it gets too late,” Alyson reminded them.
“Are you sure?’ Trevor asked. “Maybe with the diary you won’t need to put yourself in danger to get answers.”
“I’m sure. You know I need to do this.”
“I guess, but I’m going on record as saying I don’t like it.”
“Opinion duly noted.”
“Let’s take a quick look at the diary first,” Mac suggested. “Maybe something in it will help you figure out what’s going on.”
Chapter 12
They cleaned up the dinner mess and went out to the living room. Alyson curled up on the sofa and started reading, while the others sorted through the boxes they’d brought to the house with them. The journal began two years before Mrs. Lincoln’s death. Alyson turned to the back of the book.
“The last entry is dated May 20, 1867,” she said.
“Just a little over a week before her death. What does it say?” Mac asked.
The pains have begun. My baby will be born any day. I’ve arranged for a midwife to see to the delivery. She has been well paid for her silence. I have arranged for my baby to be cared for. Although it pains my heart more than I can bear, I know this is the only way. Some mistakes cannot be undone; their consequences must simply be endured. Barron is away on business for a few days. It is for the best. He must never know of my betrayal. Stella will look after the children. I love them so. These past weeks I’ve struggled to come to this impossible decision, to give up ever knowing this precious life that grows within me, to remain in the lives of the four others I hold so dear. Each day as I watch them navigate their young lives, I store away memories to fuel my resolve. I embrace their enthusiasm as they play with uninhibited joy, I take pride in their dedication as they study, and I cherish their innocence as they sleep. I memorize the feeling of their arms wrapped around me in loving embrace and the smiles on their faces as I tuck them in at night. Giving my baby away to total strangers will be the most difficult thing I have ever done, but in the end, it’s something I must do, a penance for succumbing to the weakness of mind and body.
“It sounds like she left her home willingly,” Mac pointed out. “Marcus didn’t kidnap her.”
“So it would seem.” Alyson let the journal drop to her lap.
“It must have been so difficult to have to choose between one child and the others,” Mac sympathized.
“Or between a husband and a child.” Alyson thought back to the impossible choice her own mother had had to make less than a year before.
Mac looked up at Alyson, their eyes meeting in understanding. Mac silently conveyed a heartfelt sympathy that couldn’t be communicated verbally due to Trevor’s presence. She was aware that if anyone knew the true cost of impossible choices, Alyson did.
“What else does the journal say?” Trevor asked, completely clueless as to the emotional exchange taking place across the table from him.
Alyson turned the page to an earlier date. “‘April 12, 1867,’” she read.
Barron and I attended the theater tonight. It was such a magical night, full of love and laughter. Yet even as I felt his arms embrace me, and his kiss on my brow, my heart filled with dread over what is to come. There are moments in life when you are faced with a choice, a choice that will define your entire existence. I was faced with such a choice, and now I may lose all that is dear to my heart. If only I had that choice to make over again. If only I had foreseen the consequences of my actions. One moment of reckless abandon and lives are forever changed.
“I guess the affair theory was right after all,” Trevor said.
“Sounds like it,” Mac agreed.
“But it sounds like she really loved her husband,” Alyson insisted. “I wonder why she… you know… strayed.”
“Maybe there’s an entry that will tell us,” Trevor suggested.
“I feel sort of like a voyeur, reading the most intimate details of this woman’s life.” Alyson tucked her legs up beneath herself and snuggled into the sofa.
“Yeah, but aren’t you curious?” Mac asked.
“Yeah, Of course I am.” Alyson turned back several pages. “‘November 2, 1866.’”
I’ve tried to fool myself, but I can no longer deny it. I am with child. I’ll have to tell Barron soon; he’s bound to notice. While I cling to the small flicker of hope that
the child is his, I know in my heart it is not. He won’t suspect, at least not until the child’s birth. What have I done? I am so frightened. I try to still my emotions so I can figure out what to do, but the fear I hold inside suffocates me and paralyzes any hope of rational thought. Barron will never understand, not that he should. How can I ask him to forgive me when I can never forgive myself?
“She must have been around three months pregnant then,” Mac calculated. “Go back three months to see if there are any entries.”
“‘August 13, 1866,’” Alyson read.
It is so hot I cannot bear it. Marcus came to tend the garden today. His red skin glistened under the heat of the sun. His muscles are greater than even those of my beloved Barron. I have seen his shy glances and know that he desires me as much as I do him. Barron has been away on business for over a month. I do not know if I can wait another month for his return. I know that my lustful thoughts are wrong, but still my mind wanders. I fear that my imagination is beginning to take on a life of its own.
“So Marcus is the father,” Trevor concluded. “I think there’s a lesson to be had here about leaving your young, beautiful wife home alone with the hired help.”
“This is better than a romance novel. What else does it say?” Mac asked.
Alyson turned the page. “‘August 15, 1866.’”
Marcus is here again today. I believe this day is the hottest one we’ve had this summer. The heat makes my skin twitch as streams of sweat run between my bosoms and down my back. I long for a swim in the river. I can imagine the soothing feel of the cold water against my skin; the peaceful relaxation of floating on my back and watching the sky from under the canopy of trees that line the bank. Barron wouldn’t like it. He thinks swimming in the river is unladylike. Besides, I’m a weak swimmer and the currents are strong this time of year. Perhaps I shall see if Marcus would like to join me. He is strong and his presence will ensure my safety.
