by Kathi Daley
“Did you ever find out why he was so excited about the dishes?” I asked.
“After his death, I interviewed his friends, as well as the people who worked and volunteered at the museum. I specifically asked if they knew why the dishes and pipes had him so excited. One of the volunteers, a woman named Gilda Joffrey, told me that she’d spoken to Booker about them. She’s a retired history professor, so they had some interests in common and had become friends. She said Mr. Oswald believed the things in the boxes were part of the cargo of the Santa Isabella.”
“Sounds like a treasure hunt.” Trevor rubbed his hands together.
“Perhaps,” Woody acknowledged. “According to Ms. Joffrey, the Santa Isabella was a cargo ship that traveled between South America and San Francisco in the mid-eighteen hundreds. She was heading north with a full load when she disappeared. No one knows for sure what happened to her, but Ms. Joffrey told me that Booker had long held the theory that the ship had ended up at the bottom of the sea just off our coast.”
“Why would it have been so far off route?” I asked Woody.
“Apparently, Booker had several theories, but he didn’t know for certain. He suspected she may have been blown off course after encountering a storm, or she could have been captured by pirates who brought the ship north, offloaded the cargo, and then sank her, or it was even possible, to his mind, that the crew brought the ship north, stole the cargo, and then sank it. Booker is the only one who really knows why he was so certain the ship sank in this area; I’m afraid that’s something he’ll never be able to tell us now.”
“Okay, so Booker had theories about why the ship would have been this far north, but my question is, why did he think the ship sank here and not somewhere between South America and San Francisco?” Mac asked.
“From what I understand, Booker found a couple dozen gold buckles on the beach after a huge storm several decades ago. The buckles were custom made, and Booker thought they were part of the cargo of the Santa Isabella. Again, only Booker really knows why he found these buckles so important.”
I sat back and let this sink in. The room was quiet until I spoke. “Okay, Booker finds these gold buckles and decides to research them. He finds out they resemble buckles that were described as part of the cargo of a ship that should never have been this far north in the first place. That piques his interest, so he continues to research the matter, finally settling on the theory that for whatever reason, the ship sank off this coast. If I know Booker, he was probably researching it ever since.”
“Sounds about right,” Woody confirmed.
“And when other items he suspected were part of the cargo of the Santa Isabella are donated to the museum, he realizes this could serve as proof his theory was correct,” Mac added.
Woody nodded. “Without having spoken to Mr. Oswald about it, it’s impossible to know what he was thinking for sure, but if Ms. Joffrey is correct in her assumption that he was on to something, then yes, I believe he could have seen the donated items as some sort of proof of his theory.”
“Other than buckles, dishes, and pipes, what else was the ship carrying?” Trevor asked.
“The Santa Isabella was a merchant ship, so when I asked Ms. Joffrey that same question, she said it was likely that much of the cargo was perishable. The ship would likely have been transporting coffee, tobacco, silks, and slaves, among other things. All those items would have disappeared long ago. The things that would survive under the right circumstances—pottery, crystal, gold buckles, and porcelain pipes—would be the proof Mr. Oswald needed.”
“Maybe, but pottery, buckles, and pipes from a century ago would have some value in this day and age, though they don’t sound like the kinds of things one would kill over,” I replied.
“Maybe the ship also carried gold and jewels,” Trevor said.
“Ms. Joffrey seemed to think that was unlikely,” Woody replied.
“Are we thinking Booker’s interest in the cargo is what led to his death?” I asked.
“I have no idea.” Woody’s voice clearly demonstrated his frustration. “All I know for sure is that on the night he died, Mr. Oswald was at a party. Other guests reported that he got a text about halfway through the evening and left. No one I spoke to saw him alive again. According to the medical examiner, he would have died between one and three hours after he left the party.”
“Whoever texted him probably killed him,” I said. It seemed this mystery might be easier to solve than I thought.
“Probably. The problem is, Mr. Oswald didn’t receive the text on his own phone. Or at least not on the phone he used every day. We found that one in his pocket, but there was no evidence of his receiving any texts on it that night. My theory is that Mr. Oswald had a second phone with him at the party. I haven’t found any evidence that a second phone was registered to him, so I imagine it must have been a burner phone, perhaps carried that night for the express purpose of receiving the text. So far, we haven’t been able to find a second phone if one did exist.”
“Bummer,” Alyson said.
I sent her a meaningful glance. I didn’t think anyone else could hear or see her, but you could never be too careful. The last thing I needed was everyone thinking I had completely lost my mind.
“Did any of the staff at Booker’s house see anything?” I asked.
“No one was on the property when the murder occurred. I interviewed the woman who found the body, Marina Parish, and the groundskeeper, José Montoya. Neither had anything to offer.”
We were all quiet after that, as we took a moment to let everything sink in. Eventually, Mac asked if we could take a look in Booker’s house.
“I think that can be arranged. Booker left his home and the grounds on which it stands to the historical society. His niece was named as the caregiver, and she’s living there now. Her name is Monica.”
“We know Monica,” Trevor said. “We all went to high school together. I didn’t even know she was still in town.”
“She wasn’t prior to her uncle’s death.” Woody’s phone beeped, and he frowned. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the message. “I’m sorry, but I need to go. There’s been an accident on the highway.”
Chapter 4
For the first time in a long time it was just us, the Scooby gang. “What do you think?” I asked the others.
“I think Booker was a smart man with a lot of resources,” Trevor said. “And we all know he enjoyed a treasure hunt as much as anyone. I bet he figured out what happened to the Santa Isabella and either found more of the cargo or figured out where to start looking for it.”
“We need to find out what Booker knew,” Mac suggested. “If we can get into his home maybe we can find something on his computer or in his safe.”
“I’m sure the police have already looked in both those places,” I pointed out.
“Maybe. But they might not know about Booker’s secret hiding place in the stacks.”
Mac was right. They probably wouldn’t know about that. Maybe we’d be able to find whatever it was that had gotten Booker killed.
I sat back on the sofa and crossed my legs beneath me. “Let’s take a look at Woody’s report. The first thing we need to do is figure out what ground he’s already covered. And then we should get up to speed with the Santa Isabella and the things that were donated to the museum. I’d like to speak to whoever donated them as well. Do we know who that is?”
Trevor picked up the folder and began to thumb through it. He picked up a sheet of paper and began to scan it. “This says the items were donated to the museum by Illia Powell, who found the boxes in her mother’s attic after she passed away. She didn’t know how long the boxes had been there, but the house had been in the family for four generations. It was built by her great-grandfather in 1910 and was passed down to her grandfather, who left it to her mother. Now it’s hers.”
“Does Ms. Powell live in town?” I asked.
Trevor shrugged. “It doesn’t say, but ther
e’s a phone number. I guess we can call her tomorrow.”
“What else does Woody have in the file?” I asked.
He thumbed through it. “It looks like he has interview notes on four, no wait, five people. I’ll read out what Woody has, and Mac can take notes. She’ll want to dig around into the background of anyone we suspect.”
It was sort of odd to find Trevor taking the lead. Years ago, he’d mostly hung back. Of course, he was twenty-seven now and not seventeen, and he owned his own business.
“First up are the notes from his interview with Gilda Joffrey; next we have notes relating to an interview with Walter Brown.” Trevor looked up from the file. “I know Walter. He’s a retired doctor who keeps busy by volunteering. He joined the board of the historical society about four years ago. He’s friendly and well liked, and I know he and Booker were friends.”
Mac made a few notes on her laptop while I just watched, soaking in the excitement of having a new mystery to solve. I’d really missed it. “Why did Woody interview him?”
Trevor looked down at the report. “It looks like he asked Walter about the items that were donated. Booker hadn’t mentioned why he was so interested in the boxes of dishes and pipes, so it appears he didn’t take Walter into his confidence the way he had Ms. Joffrey. Woody asked the standard questions relating to possible motive and Walter said he couldn’t think of a single person who would want to hurt him.”
“Anything else?”
Trevor shook his head. “Not really. I don’t think Walter was considered a suspect, just a source of information, given his friendship with Booker.”
I took a sip of water from the bottle I always kept nearby. “Who else did Woody talk to?” I glanced at Mac, who continued to keyboard.
“The third set of interview notes are from a man named James Hornsby. He’s retired and, like Walter, fills his days doing volunteer work. Before moving to Cutter’s Cove, he was a pharmacist in Portland. He works two days a week at the museum, and while I don’t think he was as close to Booker as Gilda and Walter, they knew each other.”
I tried not to stare at Alyson, who had suddenly materialized and was sitting so close to Trevor that she appeared to be almost sitting on his lap. I jerked my head to the right, hoping she’d pick up on my cue to move over, but she ignored me, proving that it really was possible not to pay any attention to yourself. “Go on,” I encouraged.
“Hornsby said he didn’t know anything about the things that had been donated or why Booker might have been interested in them. He did say he and Booker played in the same poker game from time to time, and he’d seen a man named Logan Poland threaten Booker when he cleaned him out with a straight flush. Poland swore no one was as lucky as Booker was that evening, so he was convinced he had to be cheating. Booker insisted he had no need to cheat and refused to be pulled into the argument or to defend himself. That seemed to make Poland even madder. Eventually, he left, but on his way out, Hornsby heard him muttering under his breath that he was going to get even with Booker.” Trevor frowned and looked up. “The poker game took place two days before Booker was shot.”
“Did Woody interview Poland?” I asked.
“Hang on.” Trevor shuffled through the report, which was several pages long. “There’s just a note that one of the other officers verified Poland’s alibi for the night of the murder.” Trevor looked up. “I guess we should ask Woody about that.”
“Yes, I will,” I said.
“The next set of interview notes come from Woody’s interview with Sam Sutton,” Trevor went on.
“Why does that name sound familiar?” I asked.
Trevor looked up from the file. “He used to work for Mayor Gregor back when you lived here.”
“That’s right. He was some sort of an assistant. I can’t believe he stayed here after everything that happened.” Gregor had been caught up in some dirty dealing and had been killed because of it.
“Sam is an okay guy,” Trevor responded. “He moved away for a while after the mayor died, but then he came back and opened a hardware store. He still works the counter five days a week.”
“Okay; I look forward to seeing him,” I responded. “So why did Woody talk to him?”
“Booker had hired Sam to oversee some maintenance on his house; he’d just started to offer the service as an add-on to the hardware store. Sam had Carter Carson do the actual repairs, which were fairly minor but too much for a man of Booker’s age.”
“What sort of repairs?” I asked.
Trevor looked up. “Woody’s notes don’t say, but one of my waitresses hired Sam to do some light maintenance at her place. Things like changing the heater filter as well as the batteries in the smoke detectors. I guess Woody was interested in speaking to Sam because his employee would have been working inside Booker’s house the week before he died.”
“Did Sam know anything?”
Trevor looked at the notes once again. “It doesn’t look like it.” He frowned. “It seems he should have spoken to Carter rather than Sam, though.”
“I’ll ask him about that as well,” I said. “Anyone else in the file?”
“Chelsea Green.”
My mouth fell open. “Chelsea Green, the homecoming queen who made my life difficult for two years?”
Trevor nodded. “Chelsea went away to college but quit after her junior year. She moved back in with her parents but wanted her own place. Her father said he’d pay for an apartment if she got a job. It just so happened they had an opening at the museum.”
I frowned. “An opening? What does Chelsea do?”
“She greets people, answers questions, conducts tours. She’s actually very good at it. In fact, since she’s become the face of the museum, the annual donations have tripled. She’s even planning a gala to kick off the new wing Booker donated. Chelsea was pretty clueless when she was in high school, but she’s liked and respected by most of the people in Cutter’s Cove. There’s even talk of her running for town council in the next election.”
Okay, it was official. I thought I’d returned to Cutter’s Cove, but what I’d really done was arrive in some wacky alternate dimension where things were inside out and upside down. “I’m trying to imagine Chelsea as a town council member, but my mind refuses to go there.”
“Chelsea isn’t the self-centered airhead she was in high school,” Trevor insisted. “She’s a lot more mature and focused. She seems to care about others and has become a pleasant person since she’s been dating Caleb.”
“She’s dating Caleb?” I asked.
Trevor nodded. “For a while now.”
“I guess they did always have a thing for each other,” I said. “Or at least Chelsea had a thing for Caleb’s money.”
“I think their relationship has grown beyond the superficial phase,” Trevor offered. “After Caleb came home from New York and Chelsea quit college and took the job at the museum, they started hanging out together. As friends initially. But eventually, they began to date, and while no formal announcements have been made, I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t end up getting hitched.”
Wow, Chelsea and Caleb; who would have thought? In high school, he’d been smart, confident, and artistic. She’d been beautiful, polished, and popular, but shallow and self-absorbed as well. Chelsea never paid a bit of attention to Caleb until he found out he was the heir to millions, and then all of a sudden, the boy who’d been an uninteresting geek in her eyes had turned into some sort of a prince on a white stallion.
“So, do we know where Chelsea was on the night Booker was killed?” I asked. I didn’t think she’d done it, but I felt compelled to ask.
“According to the notes in the file, Chelsea attended the same party Booker had. When interviewed, she stated she’d been there until the end and had even stayed to help clean up afterward. We know Booker left the party about halfway through and was killed one to three hours after that. It wouldn’t be impossible for Chelsea to be the killer if the three-hour estimate is
more accurate, but it seems unlikely. I think we’re safe in keeping her off any suspect list we might develop, although I think we should speak to her. It didn’t appear she knew anything helpful when Woody spoke to her, but we know her better than he does, so we might be able to get something out of her that she wasn’t willing to tell him.”
“Then let’s put her on a list of people to interview who we don’t necessarily believe to be suspects,” I suggested. “Anyone else?”
“No, that’s it.”
“When was Chelsea interviewed?” I wondered.
Trev looked at the file. “The day after Booker was killed.”
I had to wonder if Chelsea—or anyone else, for that matter—had come up with additional information once they’d had a chance to think things over. I’d have to ask Woody if follow-up interviews had been conducted, although they weren’t mentioned in the file, so I assumed they weren’t.
Mac, Trevor, and I talked late into the night, so by the time I climbed into bed I was exhausted.
“Wasn’t that fun?” Alyson said as she plopped down next to me. She stretched out on her side petting Shadow, who was purring, so I assumed the cat could see her and possibly even feel her touch.
I smiled but didn’t answer, hoping if I didn’t encourage her, she’d go to sleep. Having ghost me around was like having a puppy: it needed constant attention to be happy.
“Mac and Trevor seemed just the same. Didn’t you think so?” Alyson persisted. “They’re both so smart and funny. I like the way Mac is styling her hair now. It used to be so wild. And did you notice the muscles Trevor has? I bet he belongs to a gym. Everything feels so right now. Better than it has for a very long time.”
I continued to try to ignore her.
“We really do have the best friends.” Alyson sighed as she rolled over onto her back.
I had to agree with that. Mac and Trevor were the best friends I’d ever had. They were genuine souls who’d had my back from the moment I’d met them in science class. Now that I was home, I was having a hard time remembering what had kept me away from Cutter’s Cove all those years.
