by Darci Hannah
“Really?” Rory looked impressed. “I was unaware of that.”
“It was demolished in the forties, after the Coast Guard took over. Anyhow, my point is that if the Captain did see an imperiled ship, or thought lives were in danger, he would have signaled the station, or at the very least roused some of the locals for help. That was standard procedure. But legend says that he went out alone. If this is true, I think he left the lighthouse to assist someone he knew.”
“Wow, you really need another hobby. Googling a dead guy at night isn’t healthy.” Kennedy pulled her arms a little tighter around her body and fake-smiled at me. Rory, however, understood what I was saying.
“You think he was murdered by a friend? Are you just speculating, or do you have proof ?”
I shrugged and pulled out my phone. “I found his lightkeeper’s logbook in the National Archives database,” I explained as I opened the PDF I was looking for. “I took a screenshot of the pages in question. Here are the pages for May, eighteen ninety-two. Do you see anything odd?”
They both looked at the screen of my phone, scrolling through the digitized yellow pages of the old logbook.
Kennedy looked up, her face underlit by the glow of the screen. “Is it odd that his handwriting is so small and that he’s so focused on the weather? Total type A in my opinion.”
“All the entries are pretty standard,” Rory noted, ignoring Kennedy.
“They are,” I agreed. “Nothing’s out of the ordinary there. However, what is odd is the fact that there are several pages missing. See?” I scrolled through the document, pointing out the page numbers. “I didn’t notice it at first until I checked it against the exact date the Captain’s body was found. He was found on May eighteenth. The logbook stops on May fourteenth. The longest the Captain’s body could have been in the lantern room is two days, possibly only one. If that’s the case, at least two pages had been removed. No one ever reported that.”
Rory’s face, illuminated by phone and by porchlight, held something akin to wonder. “My God, you’ve been investigating two murders. You checked the logbook? I can’t believe you found that.”
“I couldn’t believe it was available in the National Archives, but it was. Also, I’m used to looking for anomalies in numbers, so nonsequential page numbering jumped out at me like a rose sprouting from a patch of weeds.”
“What does it mean?” Kennedy asked, interest piquing for the first time.
“I’m not sure, but this is where I’m speculating. I think Captain Riggs was blindsided by a friend. I think he saw something he wasn’t supposed to. I think he was shot on the beach and carried back to the lighthouse by the man who shot him. The man would obviously know that all his maritime activity had been documented by the lightkeeper. He put the deceased captain back in the lightroom, filled up the lantern to buy more time, and tore out the most recent pages in the logbook. Then he slipped back into the night and got away with whatever it was he was doing.”
“That’s utterly diabolical,” Kennedy remarked. “However, and I hate to be the Debbie Downer of lighthouse lore, but I have to remind you that it doesn’t matter. The old dead captain’s really dead, darlings, and nothing’s going to change that. So, again, why bang on about this now?”
“Because the last time somebody died in the lighthouse was in May of eighteen ninety-two. Then, Friday morning, Mia dies. And now Fiona. Both women were in the lighthouse. I think these murders have pulled the Captain from his eternal rest. I think he’s still protecting the lighthouse. Remember the story Dylan told us about how she and Mike snuck into the tower and went up the stairs? Dylan said she saw his ghost in the lantern room. I think he’s still there. I think he’s trying to tell us something.”
“Like the fact that you’re going crazy?” Kennedy held me in an admonishing look.
“I hope I’m not,” I told them honestly. “But what if these murders are somehow connected? All three of these murders seem to revolve around the lighthouse. Mia was trying to ruin my bakery; Fiona was trying to shut me down for buying the lighthouse; and the Captain . . . ? Maybe someone was trying to shut him down too?”
“Or he made an enemy in the town,” Rory added. “But you’re right. Although it’s highly unlikely there’s a direct connection to Captain Riggs, there’s definitely something going on in this town that’s getting innocent women killed.”
“Those two women were hardly innocent,” Kennedy added. “They both wanted to destroy your bakeshop.”
“And Betty might be the one protecting it, only I don’t know why.”
Rory, thinking on this, added, “You might be right. Betty Vanhoosen is a very popular woman in this town. Everyone knows her; everyone loves her. She puts on her friendly, bubbly blonde act, but what if she’s really playing us all?”
“Like someone might have been playing Captain Willy.”
Rory nodded. “She and her friends were at the center of the ruckus on Friday morning. Then, today we find out that she was holding the poisoned coffee that killed Mia. She was also the owner of the lunch that killed her fiercest rival, Fiona. No matter how you look at it, every road leads back to Betty Vanhoosen.”
“Well, darlings, we need to keep a vigilant eye on her, then.”
“And we need to find out what secret she’s protecting.”
Rory, taking Welly’s leash out of my hand, agreed. “I’m walking you two back home. And from now on I think it’s best we keep Officer Tuck in the loop. If Betty is behind all this, she’s one dangerous woman. Who knows the lengths she’d go to in order to protect her secret?”
CHAPTER 36
I was dead tired by the time I climbed into bed. I hadn’t even cracked my laptop or opened the cover on my iPad. The flame of my curiosity had been temporarily extinguished by the gruesome reality of murder and thoughts of Betty Vanhoosen possibly having deceived us all. We didn’t know it for sure, but statistically speaking, it was always the ones you least expected who did the unthinkable. Welly, tuckered out as well from chasing the careful sounds of nocturnal animals rooting amongst the seagrass, curled up on his extra-large bed and fell asleep, his head resting on his teddy bear. I gave him a hug and jumped straight into my own bed, with every intention of sleeping.
And I did, until plagued by nightmares of a time long ago, on a headland shrouded in fog and a friendly face that hid a desperate secret. The friendly face, unrecognizable yet familiar, smiled at me, then turned sinister. There was a gun in his hand, a gun aimed straight toward me. I was going to die. The terror of that thought made me scream, but my throat was paralyzed. I couldn’t produce a sound. Knowing the trigger was going to be pulled, I tried screaming again, and again, producing only a high-pitched squawk. I had never been so frightened in my life. I couldn’t scream; I couldn’t run; I was going to die. Me! But why? I stared at the shadowy face and felt a paralyzing hopelessness. It was too late, I thought. But I had questions. I knew they’d never be answered, and that realization was nearly as tormenting as the gun. It was about to go off, and that’s when I felt something wet and warmly gooey on my cheek. I opened my eyes. Wellington was standing over me, softly whining while licking my face. I’d never been so happy to see him. I threw my arms around his fluffy neck and softly cried into his fur. Although a hundred and fifty pounds of shedding, drooling fluff, there was no better nightmare-chaser than Welly.
The nightmare, still fresh in my mind, haunted me. Although I’d never consciously admit it, I did have an odd feeling that it was somehow connected to the other entity that shared the lighthouse with me, namely Captain Willy Riggs. Could it have been a message from him? Could it have been his last memory? I didn’t know what to think, and I certainly didn’t want to dwell on it any longer. After an hour of trying to get back to sleep, I finally gave up and headed downstairs to the kitchen with Wellington trotting happily behind me.
I turned on the coffeemaker, then stepped outside into the cool predawn air. I stood on the dew-covered lawn in my bare fee
t, watching as Wellington vanished in the darkness on his morning task, his black fur indiscernible against land, sea, and sky. Knowing he wasn’t far, I turned my ears to the therapeutic sound of waves rolling onto the beach. I felt at peace once again—the nightmare lifting off me like fog dissipating in the morning sun. Like an old friend whispering in my ear. The moment Welly appeared from the darkness, we left the solitude of the lake and headed for the kitchen.
“How does quiche sound?” I asked. Although I had my dog’s undivided attention, the word floated over his fluffy head. I grinned and ruffled his ears. “How about a spinach and BACON quiche?” That did the trick. It’s said that highly intelligent dogs recognize up to 260 words. Welly, although intelligent, was not at the top of the list. His adorable factor, however, was off the charts, and his favorite words seemed to revolve around his belly and the people who appeased that belly. The mere mention of bacon sent his tail wagging while his nose covertly scanned the countertop for the scent of his favorite snack. There wasn’t any. He then accompanied me to the bakery refrigerator, where I pulled out a pound of thick-cut bacon. “Here it is. Has to be cooked first,” I told him. He must have understood that word too, because he pranced out of the forbidden bakery kitchen and through the connecting door to our living quarters.
While the bacon was cooking in my private kitchen, I appeased Welly with a cookie and his daily dental chew. Not as good as bacon, but it did the trick. Then, with clean hands, I set to work on my favorite, flaky, tender, all-butter piecrust.
Opening day, we had offered mini quiches, although donuts had definitely been the star of the show. However, if the murders were ever solved and the bakery was ever up and running again (I was being self-indulgently pessimistic), I would highlight the savory, protein-packed egg dish. The fact that it came baked inside a piecrust was even better.
With the crust rolled out and waiting in the pie plate, and the thick-cut bacon strips (minus two for the furry taste tester!) crisped to perfection and chopped, I whisked five eggs into a cup of milk and added a quarter teaspoon of both salt and pepper. I set the egg mixture aside and layered all my savory elements on the bottom of the crust, starting with the cooked bacon. A cup of freshly shredded Swiss cheese went next, followed by a quarter cup of freshly shredded Parmesan cheese, a cup of chopped fresh baby spinach leaves, and a sprinkling of thinly chopped scallions. This was topped off with the egg mixture and a ring of foil around the exposed crust to protect it from overbaking in the hot oven. I always liked to remove the foil the last fifteen minutes of baking to achieve that nice golden-brown color.
After I put the quiche in the oven, I poured another cup of coffee and set to work on washing and slicing fresh fruit. Fruit, in my opinion, was always a nice complement to the richness of a quiche. And since it was summer, a berry-melon medley would be perfect. While I sliced strawberries and cut up cantaloupe, I turned my mind once again to the problem of Betty Vanhoosen.
Maybe we were overreacting, thinking Betty was somehow involved in the murders. I recalled her voice the night before, when she had awakened me from a dead sleep. There was a note of terror coming from her end that had given me chills. I knew she was a busybody, but was she a gifted actress as well? I’d have to investigate the possibility. Her confession of holding the cup of coffee that had poisoned Mia Long could be genuine, or she could have used her acting skills to throw us off the trail of her intended victim, Fiona Dickel. Either way, Rory had been correct when he had said that all roads seemed to lead back to Betty Vanhoosen, only we had no clue as to why, or what she might be involved in. Our suspicions, however, deserved to be noted. There was only one thing to do. As soon as the police station opened, I was going to call Tuck McAllister and voice our concerns.
While the quiche baked, and after all the fresh berries had been added to the berry-melon medley, I did a little poking around on the internet to see what I could learn about Betty.
Not surprisingly, she had a personal Facebook account. What was surprising was that her last post had been on Friday morning, featuring a picture of the Beacon Bakeshop and encouraging everyone to stop by and check it out. The thoughtful post touched me. It was a nice thing to do, and yet suspicion lurked in the back of my mind, wondering if she’d had an ulterior motive.
After perusing her Facebook page, I next went to the website for her real estate agency. It was a good site. The homepage featured a scrolling banner with all the new listings in the area with links for virtual tours. Since I wasn’t in the market for a home, I went straight to the bios, clicking on Betty’s. The first thing that struck me was that the Harbor Real Estate Agency had been started by her late husband, Peter Vanhoosen, who died of a sudden heart attack in his late forties. I felt a pang of remorse reading that. I didn’t know that Betty had been married, and I had never thought to ask. After her husband’s death, Betty had taken over the agency.
The couple, childhood sweethearts, never had children. In Betty’s own words, The real estate agency was our baby; the town of Beacon Harbor our family; and Peter and I have been honored to be able to serve this wonderful community in so many ways. Peter had served as the town’s mayor from 2000 until his death in 2008. Betty was the current president of the Chamber of Commerce. In the early days of their marriage, they had saved several of the historic buildings of the town from demolition, including their own, by purchasing them to preserve the history of Beacon Harbor. Once renovated, space would be leased to small businesses and the apartments above rented out—or, in the case of the old Lundy Mansion, sold to a couple who had converted the house into a charming bed-and-breakfast. Peter Vanhoosen had even bought up huge tracts of the surrounding forests and marshland in the late eighties with the intent to never sell. It was his effort to stave off unwanted expansion and commercialization of the town.
Although the Vanhoosens looked good on paper, my own experience in finance told me that civic-minded entrepreneurs, operating under altruistic visions, often made enemies of those they were trying to serve. Betty Vanhoosen was a wealthy woman. She was the sole owner of her real estate company, a landlord to many of the businesses, and wielded a hefty amount of influence. She was a woman who was obviously used to getting her way. Fiona Dickel had crossed her and was now dead. I’d have to ask Tuck if there were any other suspicious deaths surrounding Betty. Maybe there was a history there.
After shutting down my computer, I tossed a couple of the Danish Dylan had made the day before into the oven to perk them up. The quiche was nearly done, and it smelled divine. Knowing that Kennedy would likely sleep in this morning, I shot off a text to Rory, asking if he’d like to join me for breakfast. I was eager to talk with someone about the Vanhoosens, yet after having sent the text, a pang of remorse shot through me. Why did I assume Rory would be awake so early? I didn’t want to wake him, and I certainly didn’t want him to think I was desperate for his company . . . which, truthfully, I was. I cringed at the thought. Visions of my mother, the beautiful Ellie Montague-Bakewell, shaking her finger at me popped into my head. “Never chase after a man, Lindsey,” she always advised me. “It makes you look desperate.”
I had a habit of ignoring Mom’s advice, and where did it get me? Alone in a lighthouse in the hinterlands of Michigan. I had also ignored her calls for the last few days and thought maybe it was time I gave her a ring and told her about the calamity of my opening day. Mom had warned me against coming here, and had warned me against opening a bakery. Although she’d be sympathetically horrified at the death of Mia Long in my bakeshop, as well as the death of Fiona (whom she didn’t know) two days later, my pride was still too raw to give her the satisfaction that she might have been right all along. The logical part of me knew that I’d have to call her sooner or later. I took a deep breath and stroked Welly’s soft fur for moral support. I was just about to press her number when my phone buzzed in my hand.
It was a text from Rory. Be over in a few.
I set down my phone and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Crisis momentarily averted!” I smiled at Welly and gave him a kiss on the head. “Rory’s coming for breakfast. We’ll call Ellie later.”
The moment I released my grip on my dog, he started barking and ran for the door. My heart leapt when I realized Rory was already here, knocking softly on the other side.
“What took you so long?” I teased, flinging open the door. Wellington continued barking. To my utter surprise, it wasn’t Rory on my doorstep, but Tuck McAllister. And he wasn’t smiling.
Startled, I pulled Wellington back inside and motioned for Tuck to do the same. “What are you doing here so early? Well, good timing at any rate. I wanted to talk to you, and I’m just about to pull a bacon and spinach quiche out of the oven.”
Tuck flinched. “Lindsey Bakewell, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Fiona Dickel, the murder of Mia Long, and the intent to do harm to Betty Vanhoosen. You have the right to remain—”
I held up a hand. “Hold on a minute.” I was not in the mood for games, especially when my oven timer was buzzing. I left Tuck standing in the hallway and dashed into the kitchen. “Look, I appreciate a good prank like everyone else, but shame on you for bad timing.”
“Lindsey, this isn’t a prank.” Tuck had followed me, the tone of his voice stopping me in my tracks. “I’m taking you in.”
I turned off the oven, removed the Danish and the quiche, and turned to face him. “You can’t be serious! What evidence do you have to accuse me of those terrible things?”
“I’m sorry, Lindsey, but that’s for Sergeant Murdock to explain.”
CHAPTER 37
The bear had been poked. My inner New Yorker was beyond piqued, and I was reeling with indignation. “This is bollocks!” I cried again, using one of Kennedy’s favorite expletives as I paced the small interrogation room waiting for Sergeant Murdock to arrive. The woman was taking her sweet time. Fearing that I might be difficult and resist arrest, Tuck had put me in handcuffs before stuffing me into the back of his squad car. It had all happened so fast. He’d accused me of murder; I’d left Wellington in the kitchen with a cooling quiche; and Rory was on his way. I was doubtful the quiche would even be there by the time he arrived. It would just be Wellington, an empty pie plate, a bowl of untouched fruit, and no me! I hadn’t even been given the chance to shoot off a quick text alerting Rory and Kennedy to the fact that I’d just been charged with the murders of Mia Long and Fiona Dickel. That was double bollocks!
