With a lighter heart, I headed for the studio building.
Chapter 16
With Bubba curled up on the rug beside the piano, I began to work through the music I hadn’t played since college. It came back to me, nuance by nuance, and I even remembered some of the tricky fingering I’d mastered all those years ago.
After I worked through the Danse Macabre for about an hour, I switched to one of my favorite Chopin mazurkas, playing from memory. The music poured over me, soothing my heartache and chasing away the blues threatening to drag me down again.
I moved on to a Chopin nocturne, then into one of his tougher etudes, Opus 10, No. 1. This one always cleared my mind and sharpened my skills, especially through the range of endless arpeggios. One wrong note in this piece could stand out like a sore thumb.
When I stopped, I noticed Scout standing in the doorway. Bubba got up with a lazy wag of his tail and went to her side, licking her hands and looking up at her with adoring eyes.
“That was beautiful,” she said. “What is it?”
“Thanks.” I shuffled Jack’s sheet music back into a neat pile and set it on the side of the piano. “It’s Chopin. Even though it’s only been a few days since I left my piano at home, it sure feels good to play again.”
“I’ll bet. Jack tells me you’re a music professor?”
I swiveled around on the piano bench. “Yes. At our local university.”
“Nice,” she said. “I never went to college.”
“Did you want to?”
She came into the room and perched on the arm of a loveseat. “I honestly didn’t know what I wanted to do, until I came out here.”
“Now you’ve got your own shop?”
“I do.” Her eyes sparkled. “And I love every minute of it.”
I smiled at her. “Very cool.”
She absent-mindedly patted Bubba. “So, I hear you rescued that Waterford boy the other day.”
I chuckled. “Wow. Word does get around, doesn’t it?”
She let out a musical laugh. “I’m a hair dresser, Gus. I hear all the gossip before anyone else does.”
“I guess so.”
“Did you meet the father, too?”
I nodded. “Yes. Mr. Waterford came to get Beckett and bring him home.”
“Weird stuff goes on in that family.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know. You hear bits and pieces. The boy seems to be kind of, um, off his rocker, so I hear.”
“He’s definitely troubled. His parents have their hands full.” I shifted on the bench to get my sore knee into a more comfortable position. “They invited me over yesterday, just before my swim that ended up with me smashing into that rock and meeting your husband.”
“Really?”
“They wanted to thank me, I guess.”
“I heard they keep him locked up. Ever since he assaulted that teacher in school a few years back.”
I knew how rumors could wash through a village, and wondered how many permutations on this one had gone through the town. “I don’t think he’s exactly a prisoner; he’s a very sick young man. He’s been in an institution for most of the time, I guess. Just came home and needs some serious watching. He’s definitely not stable.”
“Oh.” She gave a wry smile. “I never know what to believe in the rumor mill.”
“I’ll bet.” I looked out the open doorway toward the shore. “You can see a bit of their house from here, can’t you?”
She nodded. “Right. It’s over there. The old McNabb place is how the locals call it.”
“McNabb?”
“Mrs. Waterford—Marla—was a McNabb. It came down to her in the family, so I’ve heard.”
“Wait. Wasn’t that the name of the pirate who supposedly stole the church treasure from Albert Cook’s ancestor? The one who killed poor Rachel?”
She looked at me as if I’d grown a third eye. “What?”
I shrugged. “Sorry. My wife’s been researching the history of Brewster, looking into the long lost treasure.”
Her eyes lit up. “Yeah? Sounds like fun. I haven’t heard about all the historical stuff. I’ve only been here for a bit over a year.”
“Where’d you come from originally?”
She snorted a laugh. “Oh, Gus. It’s such a long story. But to put it in a nutshell, I was actually conceived here, at The Seacrest. My mother ran away when she was pregnant with me—problems with my father and his cheating ways—and I was born in Buffalo. I grew up there. When my mother died, I came back to find my father, Rudy Vanderhorn, the owner of The Seacrest. But I was too late.” Her voice cracked. “He’d already passed the year before. But I met my sister, Libby, who I didn’t even know about until last year.” She pointed up to the big house. “She lives up there and took me in, and then I met Jack. Now, that’s an even longer story,” she laughed. “Suffice it to say, we fell in love and got married and here we are.”
“Wow. You could write a book about that,” I said. (The Seadog: a love story, book 3 in the Paines Creek series)
“Yeah, I guess so. But I don’t think anyone would believe it.”
I laughed. “I know what you mean. My life’s been like that, too.”
“Real life, stranger than fiction,” she said.
“You said your sister lives in the big house? Boy, that’s one beautiful mansion.”
“She does, and it is. She lives with her husband Finn, mother Fritzi, triplet daughters, and one little baby girl.”
“Sounds a lot like my house.”
“You’ll have to tell us all about it,” she said. “Why don’t you and your wife come over for dinner this week?”
I started to agree, but was startled by a little black mutt who burst into the room and began to play with Bubba, racing around the room and play-biting him.
“Hey, settle down there,” Jack said to the dogs. He stood in the doorway, cradling a baby. He held her up to Scout. “I think she wants her mother. I swear she asked for you.”
She laughed and stood, snuggling the baby in her arms. “Of course she did. She’s going to be brilliant, and you know, no one can replace her Mama.” With a proud smile, she turned to me. “Gus, meet Iris. She’s named after my mom.”
I stared at the beautiful child with the flaming red hair. “She looks just like you, Scout.”
Jack laughed. “Good thing, huh?”
I patted the baby’s soft red fuzz. “She’s a beauty.” The little dog suddenly noticed me, and started to sniff my feet. “And who’s this little fella?”
Jack leaned down to pat the dog. “This little fella is a she. Her name’s Lucy. I found her wandering in the woods last year.”
The dog jumped up on me and started to frantically lick my hands.
“She’s a sweetheart. She won’t leave Iris’s side. If the baby’s sleeping in the crib—like she was earlier when you came—Lucy is curled up on the rug beside her.”
I spent a few minutes making a fuss over her, and then straightened. “Guess I’d better head out. Camille’s going to wonder what happened to me.”
Scout started back toward the cottage with the baby, calling over her shoulder. “Figure out a time for Gus and his wife to come for dinner this week, honey.”
Jack agreed, and we settled on Wednesday.
Chapter 17
Later that evening, Camille and I sat at a picnic table at Kate’s, savoring our ice cream. My cone was pistachio; she’d chosen black raspberry. From the dreamy expression on her face, I knew she’d chosen well.
We’d discussed Albert’s invitation for her to pore through the collection of books and papers he and Robbie had collected over the years, and she’d accepted with eyes shining. I also mentioned the invitation from Jack and Scout, and that had been met with equal enthusiasm.
Licking her cone, she looked off into the distance, her dark eyes turning pensive. “I’m really starting to wonder about those two families,” she said. “You know, the McNabbs and t
he Cooks.”
“Me, too. I couldn’t believe it when Scout told me the Waterfords’ house went all the way back to Tooly McNabb, the pirate who killed Cook’s wife. It’s just too bizarre.”
“Do you think that’s why Albert called Beckett a monster?”
I caught a drip on the far side of my cone just before it plopped onto my fingers. “You mean besides the fact that he impregnated Jane?”
She grimaced. “Well, yeah. Besides that.”
“Might be. It could also be why Beckett didn’t want to tell his family about Jane. Maybe a family feud that has gone on for centuries.”
“Is that even possible in real life?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“And do you think all those rumors about what his parents are doing to Beckett might have any basis in truth? I mean, could they have been putting on a show for you, to convince you that they’re victims rather than villains, and that their son is out of his mind?”
I sat back and thought about it, taking a bite out of the waffle cone. “I did wonder about that. I’ve heard so many people implying they’re evil, and that he’s an innocent victim.”
“Right. But did you believe them? Did they seem genuine?”
I thought about it for a minute. “They did. I empathized with them. If they were faking it, they were first class actors.”
“They’d have to be. And Beckett seemed a bit, um, unbalanced?”
“More than that. He climbed out of his window on a string of bed sheets to ‘escape.’ He’s more than unbalanced, hon. He seems to be paranoid, agitated, and um, frankly, delusional.”
“Do you think he could be reacting to drugs they gave him? I mean could he have been set up for some nefarious reason?”
“I don’t know. I honestly think they gave him pills to try to address those symptoms. But, Camille, he seemed deeply disturbed. Like he was when his dad appeared on the beach that morning.”
She frowned. “So weird.”
“I think the only way we’ll get to the bottom of it is for me to go back over to the Waterfords’ place.”
“Seriously? I don’t like that idea, honey.”
“Why not?”
“I think it might be dangerous.”
***
The next morning, I spent an hour with Camille poring over dusty old documents and books in the Cooks’ library, and then wandered out to the living room where I found Jane sobbing on the rocker by the cold woodstove.
She clutched a folded piece of paper to her heart and rocked slowly back and forth. “He does love me. I knew it!”
I approached cautiously. “Jane? Are you okay?”
She sniffled and thrust the letter toward me. “It just arrived in the mail. Go ahead, it’s okay. You can read it.”
I took the letter from her trembling fingers.
My dear Jane.
When I saw you the other day at the beach with that baby in your arms I panicked. I didn’t know you had a child. And I’m sorry, I wasn’t myself. I knew my father was coming after me, so I wanted to protect you from his anger.
But one look at the boy, and I knew.
He’s mine, isn’t he?
Why didn’t you tell me?
Or maybe you tried to, but my ogre parents kept the mail from me…
I just got out of the nut house—where I didn’t belong—and now they’re keeping me prisoner here. They drug me every day, watch my every step. I’m locked in my room when they leave the house.
But know I love you. I’ve always loved you.
I want to break free and be a father to that little boy.
If you write back, I’m not sure I’ll get it. Maybe you could give it to that guy my parents have befriended, the one who saved my life. Maybe he’d stop by again and pass it to me?
I love you. And I’ll find a way to get out of here soon.
Yours forever,
Beckett
I handed the note back to Jane. “Here you go.”
She glanced up at me with pleading eyes. “Don’t tell my grandfather. Please?”
I nodded. “Your secret’s safe with me. Unless I think you’re in danger, then all bets are off. Okay?”
She agreed, leaned over to turn up the baby monitor, and listened to the soft sound of Mason breathing. “He’s still asleep. Good.”
“Where’s Albert?”
“He went to the Brewster Store to get a paper. I’ve got about fifteen minutes.” She stood, went to the desk, and pulled out a box of stationary. “I’m going to write him back. And would you, could you, please give this to him?”
I hesitated. What kind of mess had I gotten myself into? If I gave the note to the boy, I’d be deceiving his parents. Were they decent, loving parents who’d been through hell trying to help their seriously ill son get better? Or were they the monsters Jane and he described, keeping him locked up for some reprehensible reason?
What harm could come of it, though? A little love letter to a boy who’d lost it all…could that be so bad?
Jane tossed her long strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder, bit her bottom lip, and scribbled furiously. She cried softly as she wrote, and my heart broke for her.
I made up my mind. “Okay. I’ll give it to him.”
She folded it up, sealed it in a pink envelope, and hurried to my side. “Quick. Hide it. Just in case.”
I slipped it into my back pocket, wondering if I’d made the right decision. “Jane, can you tell me something?”
She plopped onto the couch, rereading the note from Beckett. Without looking up, she nodded. “Okay.”
“Why does your grandfather hate Beckett so much? Is it more than, you know, the baby?”
She folded Beckett’s letter and slid it into her jeans pocket. “Well. Yeah. He’s hated that family forever. We’re like the Hatfields and McCoys. Plenty of bad blood that goes back for centuries.”
I nodded, not surprised. “I see.”
Camille opened the library door and beckoned to me. “I found something.”
Chapter 18
Camille hurried back to the table and hunkered over the leather-bound book she’d been studying in Albert’s library.
Earlier, during the hour I’d sat next to her studying the moldy old papers, maps, and diaries; I’d gone stir crazy. I wanted to be outside, walking—even limping—on the wet sand.
But when her diligence hit pay dirt, I woke up and paid attention. I sat down next to her and slid my chair close to hers. “What is it?”
She gave me a sly smile. “The treasure wasn’t lost. It was disguised.”
“What? How?”
“Look at this.” She pushed a photocopy toward me. “It’s a record of the town blacksmith’s log from 1783, a Mr. Rubin Knight. It says here that a man with the initials T.M. brought in a chest of gold nuggets, necklaces, rings, cups, and plates to be melted down.”
“T.M. as maybe in Tooley McNabb?”
“Right. And he had the liquid gold cast into three solid gold crosses.”
“Christian crosses?”
She nodded. “Yes. The first was fifteen inches long and weighed over ten pounds. The second and third were a matched set, about ten inches long. And look.” She passed me a photocopy. “Here’s a newspaper article about Mr. Knight, the blacksmith, disappearing a month later.”
“Whoa.” I sat back in my chair. “Wait. They had newspapers in 1783?”
She gave me an incredulous look. “Of course, silly. The first one printed was in 1690, in Boston. By 1783 there were forty-three papers published.”
“Wow. And you think…”
She turned shining eyes to me. “I do. I think this was Reverend Cook’s treasure chest. And I think McNabb had the blacksmith killed to silence him.”
I bent over the page. “Looks like the comments on the side were made recently. Could that be Robbie’s writing?”
“Let’s ask Jane,” she said, gathering the papers together.
We found the girl sitting on the a
rm of the couch, staring out the window. The baby monitor still hummed gently on the table.
We settled on the couch near her and she finally turned toward us, wiping tears from her face.
“Are you okay, honey?” Camille asked, reaching out to her.
Jane sniffled and nodded. “I guess.” She stared at me. “You didn’t tell her?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Should I have?”
“Depends.” She met Camille’s eyes. “Are you good at keeping secrets?” At that moment, she sounded like a child, and I imagined how she would have looked at the age of eight or nine.
Camille smiled. “Sure I am.”
Before Jane could share her love letter with my wife, the sound of Albert’s car turning into the driveway interrupted her. She placed a finger to her lips and shook her head. “Not a word.”
I whispered in Camille’s ear. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Okay.” In spite of her obvious curiosity about Jane’s secret, my wife sat back on the couch and waited for Albert to enter the house.
He walked in with the paper under his arm, greeting each of us anew. “You kids make any progress?” He motioned to the papers on Camille’s lap.
“I haven’t been called a ‘kid’ in a long time. For that, I thank you.” She smiled at him and sat up. “And actually, I did find something.”
“Really?” He took a chair and dragged it close to the couch. “Let’s see what you dredged up in there, little lady.”
Camille explained her findings, and when we got to the part about the gold being melted down and the subsequent disappearance of the blacksmith, Albert jumped up and whooped aloud.
“I knew it! I knew it wasn’t lost, by golly.” He circled the room, a gleam of righteousness in his eyes. “Now all we gotta do is find it.”
“Have you ever seen such crosses around here, Grandpa?” Jane asked. “Like maybe in the church or something?”
“No.” He shrugged. “And why would one of them cursed McNabbs give it up, anyway?”
Camille sat back. “You really dislike that family, don’t you?”
“Hate’s more the word, young lady. Hated ‘em my whole life.”
Murder on the Brewster Flats Page 7
