by Kathi Daley
I put my hand over Monica’s. “I’m glad I’m here too.” I looked toward the stacks. “Did Booker ever show you his secret hiding place?”
Monica shook her head.
I got up and walked to the shelf I remembered being the one that held the book that led to the secret drawer. The trick was to pull the book forward and then shove it back right away. A drawer at the bottom of the bookshelf would pop out. It had been ten years since I’d seen the process, but my memory was clear. It was as if I’d watched Booker do it yesterday.
“You remember,” Booker’s ghost said as I found the correct book and opened the drawer.
I nodded.
“She can’t talk to you when Monica’s in the room,” Alyson said. “Maybe we should just tell her about you.”
I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. Monica might not take it well, and we needed her to stay calm. I glanced at Alyson, who seemed to understand what I was thinking. She said something to Booker while I retrieved the large envelope that had been left in the secret drawer. Inside was a stack of papers and a thumb drive. I turned to Monica. “Is it all right if we take this with us? I’ll have Mac look at the drive and then let you know what we find.”
Monica nodded. “Yes. That’s fine. I hope whatever Uncle Rory left will help you find the person who killed him.”
“Someone killed me?” Booker said. “On purpose?”
Chapter 6
After we left Booker’s house Mac and I decided to pay a visit on Caleb. I’d called earlier to let him know I was in town and he’d suggested we meet at the museum so he could show me the changes made since I’d left Cutter’s Cove. Caleb and I had met shortly after I’d moved to town, when I was sixteen. Unbeknownst to him at the time, he was the grandson and heir of Barkley Cutter, the ghost I’d encountered shortly after my mother and I moved into his house.
“Alyson, so good to see you.” Caleb wrapped me in his arms the moment I walked through the museum door.
“I’m going by Amanda now.” I hugged him back.
“Is your mother with you?”
My mom was an artist, the same as Caleb, and the two had become good friends despite the age difference. “No, she’s in New York.” I looked around the large space filled with relics from the past. “She’d be so excited to see what you’ve done with this place. The museum was always close to her heart.”
Caleb took my hand. “Maybe I’ll look her up the next time I’m in New York. I’d love to catch up with her.” Caleb pulled on my hand. “Come on. Both of you,” he said, as he turned to Mac. “I’ll show you what we’ve done.”
The next twenty minutes were filled with a tour of the facility, including the new wing, which hadn’t yet officially opened. Caleb had done a wonderful job with the place. Mom was going to be so happy and impressed when I described things to her. As we moved through the building, I kept my eye on Alyson, afraid she’d knock something over in her enthusiasm. Although she didn’t have form, so I supposed it wouldn’t be possible for her to hit anything even if she did run into it.
Once we finished we went into Caleb’s office to talk about Booker.
“I can’t believe it’s been six months,” Caleb said. “I feel his presence here whenever I walk the halls. The museum was such a huge part of him, the items he donated, the work he put into making it perfect.”
“Do you have any idea who might have killed him?” I asked.
Caleb shook his head. “I’ve thought about that quite a lot. But Booker was a kind man who made friends with everyone he met. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him. His death isn’t just a loss to those of us who were his friends but to the whole community.”
“I understand some items donated for the new wing piqued his interest.”
Caleb nodded. “It was Illia Powell who donated the boxes of dishes and porcelain pipes. They were obviously very old and I could tell right away that they’d been handcrafted. When Booker saw them, he asked me to wait to display them until he’d had time to do some research into their origin. He suspected they were part of the cargo of the Santa Isabella, a ship that disappeared hundreds of years ago. I, of course, agreed, after everything he’d done for us. I still have the boxes locked in a storeroom. I suppose at some point I’ll need to set up a display, but I hoped to wait to unveil them after Booker’s killer was found. Just in case.”
“Just in case the artifacts were related to Booker’s death?” I asked.
“Exactly.”
“Do you know if Booker made any progress in his research before he was killed?” I asked.
Caleb looked thoughtful. “He told me that he’d found what he believed to be the captain’s log of the ship. He felt certain he could use that information to determine where the Santa Isabella went down. I pointed out that the boxes were intact and undamaged by the sea, so it was most likely the cargo had been offloaded from the ship before whatever happened to her occurred. He agreed the boxes of dishes and pipes probably hadn’t gone down with the ship, but then he told me about the gold buckles he’d found on the beach more than forty years ago. He believed they were part of the Santa Isabella’s cargo also. The fact that he’d found them on the beach indicated to him that at least some of the cargo was still on the ship when it sank. I’m not sure he ever reconciled the discrepancy between the idea that the cargo was still on the ship and that it had been offloaded prior to sinking, but I know it intrigued him. I’m sure he’d still be working on it if he hadn’t been killed.”
“Other than you and Booker, who else knew he was interested in the items?”
“No one except the members of the museum board. I felt it was best to keep them informed about our plans for the donated items every step of the way.”
“Did anyone other than Booker seem particularly interested in those items?” I wondered.
“No, not specifically. The entire board was interested to an extent. If Booker could have found proof that the donated items were from the Santa Isabella, it would have been a huge find that would have meant a lot of good publicity for the museum. And if he could have found other items from the ship’s cargo, that would have garnered national attention.”
“Do you think that was what Booker was after? National attention?” I asked.
Caleb shrugged. “I don’t know for certain. Booker was pretty tight-lipped about it, and I chose to respect his privacy. He seemed to have a plan, although I wasn’t privy to what it might have been.”
“Do you think he confided in any of the other board members?”
“Maybe Gilda Joffrey. She was a historian and, like Booker, was interested in how shipping helped carve out the development of this area. They spoke often. My guess is that if Booker did confide in anyone, it would have been her.” Caleb glanced at the clock on the wall. “As much as I’m enjoying catching up with you and want to continue this conversation, I have a lunch date with a donor, so I need to run. But let’s get together again. Maybe dinner one day this week?”
“I’d like that.” I smiled.
“I’ll check with Chelsea to see when she’s free. She’s off today, but I know she’ll want to join us.” Caleb turned to Mac. “We’d love for you to come as well. And Trevor, of course.”
“I’ll call you and we can compare calendars,” I said.
We left the museum and headed back to the house.
“Despite what Trevor said about Chelsea, I’m having a hard time imagining her with her claws sheathed,” Mac said.
I laughed. “Me too. She certainly knew how to rip you a new one without even trying when we were in high school.”
“So, what now?” Mac asked.
“I think I’ll call Illia Powell. If she’s in town, maybe she’d be willing to answer some questions. I don’t know that she has any information. Woody’s notes made it sound as if she had no idea that the things she donated might have been important. Still, I’d be interested in knowing who she might have told about them. If they were behind Booker’s murder
, the killer had to have known about them. It sounds as if there were only a handful of people who were privy to that information. I don’t necessarily think any of the museum volunteers killed Booker, but maybe it was someone they told about them. Or maybe the leak came from Illia Powell herself.”
“Let’s call her. If she’s in, we’ll head there next.”
As it turned out, Mrs. Powell was in town to sign papers on the house she’d inherited but had since sold to a family who planned to move in after school let out for the summer. She wasn’t due to sign the paperwork until the following day, so she was available to meet with us, answer any questions she could, and even let us have a look around.
The house Mrs. Powell had inherited was a nice two-story structure with a finished attic. Located in the older part of town, where many longtime residents lived, the large yards and shared fences were well maintained, giving the neighborhood a warm, homey feel. While not all that close to the water, it was quaint and charming.
“The house is lovely,” I said, noting the rosebushes that lined the front of the blue structure with white trim.
“I’ve always loved this house,” Mrs. Powell said with an expression of longing on her face. “I’d keep it if I could, but my husband has a good job in Seattle and doesn’t want to move.”
“I suppose you could keep it as a vacation house,” I said to the tall, thin brunette.
“I considered the idea, but my husband insists the money we’ll receive from the sale will go a long way to allowing us to remodel our primary home. It makes me sad to think the house will no longer be in the family after four generations, but my husband does have a point about the cash.” She ran a hand over the top of the white picket fence that lined the lawn. “The family who bought the place are just starting out as a blended family. The couple has two elementary-school-aged children from the husband’s first marriage and a two-year-old daughter from the wife’s. They’re expecting a new baby together in the fall. While I was unsure about selling, the family really seemed to love the house, and I found myself wanting them to have it.”
“I’m sure they’ll be very happy here,” I said.
“How can I help you?” Mrs. Powell asked. “I understand you have some questions about the things I donated to the museum.”
“Yes,” I verified. “You found the boxes while cleaning out the attic?”
She nodded. “One of the hardest parts about giving up the house, after making the decision to sell it, was the chore of cleaning out four generations’ worth of possessions. There were a lot of things purely necessary for everyday use, and just plain junk: old dishes, broken appliances, clothing, and various odds and ends, most of which I donated to a secondhand store. But there was also antique furniture to be priced and sold, as well as several pieces of fairly valuable artwork.” Mrs. Powell laughed. “I don’t know why I’m bothering you with all this. I know you’re here specifically to talk about the items that had been stored in the attic.”
“Was everything in it valuable?” Mac asked.
“No. As in the main living space, some of the items were valuable, while others ended up in the dumpster, where they probably should have gone a long time ago. I found a lot of old books, many of them first editions, which I sold to a used bookstore. There were boxes of clothes and children’s toys I donated to a church in town. When I saw the things that were stored in wooden boxes with a stamp labeling them from the South American Trading Company, I was intrigued. While I suppose dishes and pipes more than one hundred and fifty years old were an interesting find, I had no use for them, and I decided to see if the museum wanted them. The man I spoke to there seemed excited about getting the boxes, but I’ve heard since that the donation might be responsible for a man’s death. Is that true? Was a man killed over the boxes I found?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure,” I answered. “It does appear the things you donated could have led to a man’s death, but right now, all we have is speculation. The reason we’re here today is to ask you about those items. Do you have any idea where they came from?”
She frowned. “Is that important?”
“It could be,” I answered.
She narrowed her gaze. “When I spoke to you on the phone, you said you were working with the police. It occurred to me that if the items I donated were valuable, maybe I should verify that.”
I handed Mrs. Powell one of Woody’s cards from the small stack he’d left the previous evening. “Call Officer Baker if you like. He can verify that we’re who we say we are.”
She looked at the card. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I don’t know anything anyway. It’s just that suddenly this conversation struck me as odd.”
“That’s understandable,” I said.
“So, you don’t know where the boxes came from?” Mac asked.
Mrs. Powell shook her head. “No, not specifically. I’m sorry I can’t help you. There were a lot of things in the attic and I don’t know where most of them came from. The boxes I brought to the museum were toward the back, so it seems logical they may have been put up there by one of the first owners of the house.”
“Your great-grandfather originally built this place?” I asked.
“He did. Theodore Powell was a fisherman, so I’d imagine items from the sea would have been of the most interest to him. My grandfather didn’t inherit his father’s passion and went into logging, though that wouldn’t preclude him from having acquired the dishes and pipes. Still, it seems more likely it was Great-grandpa who put those boxes in the attic.”
“I know you’ve already cleared out the house, but would you mind if we took a look around?” I asked.
“Sure. Follow me.”
The house had been completely emptied. If there ever was anything to find, it was long gone, but we took the tour and thanked her. As we drove away from the old but durable structure, I couldn’t help but wonder about all the lives that had played themselves out within those sturdy walls. Four generations; that spoke to me of a permanence I found appealing. The members of my own family tended to move around. The house my grandmother on my mother’s side still lived in had been in the family the longest, but even that was only owned by her a bit over thirty years. I was sorry Mrs. Powell had decided to sell the house after all that time, but it sounded like the new family would settle in and make their own new traditions there. The home Mom and I had bought had been owned by four generations of Cutters before us, so it had a long history, even if it wasn’t mine.
“It’s kind of sad she decided to sell the house,” Mac said as we drove toward home.
“I was just thinking the same thing. I love the idea of a home that’s loved by each new generation it’s handed down to. I love the home Mom and I created together, but it’s sort of sad Caleb didn’t end up with it.”
“You can offer it to him if you ever decide to sell it,” Mac said.
“Yes, I guess. It does seem right for Caleb to have it, but I feel connected to it as well.”
“Duh,” Alyson said. “I think I’m proof the house is meant to be yours.”
“I guess you have a point.”
“Point?” Mac asked.
“Sorry. Alyson just said that the fact that there’s part of me that’s literally connected to the house seems to indicate the house and I are meant to be together.”
“Alyson is right.” Mac whipped her windblown hair out of her eyes. “Do you think you’ll ever live in the house again? I mean really live in it, not just visit?”
I was about to say that my life was in New York again before I noticed Alyson’s thoughtful expression in the rearview mirror. Was my destiny to end up in the very place I’d found refuge twelve years ago? On the surface it seemed unlikely, but then again…
Chapter 7
Later that afternoon, Mac was working busily on her computer. She’d dropped everything to come to Cutter’s Cove to join me, but she still had projects to complete and customers to see to. I decided to use the time to make
a list and run to the grocery store. If we were going to be hanging out here in the evenings, I was going to need enough food to feed us. I pulled on a clean pair of shorts and a soft yellow T-shirt, then stared at my reflection in the mirror. All I could see was Alyson. A few days in Cutter’s Cove and Amanda seemed to have faded away. I slipped my feet into a pair of sandals and went out to my Mercedes.
“Where are we going?” Alyson asked after I got behind the wheel.
I turned and looked at ghost me, who was sitting happily in the passenger seat. “I thought I’d pick up some food to make dinner.”
Alyson grinned. “Nothing Trevor likes better than eating.”
I remembered the huge meals my mom used to make for us and smiled. Even at sixteen, Trevor swore he was just a little bit in love with a woman more than twice his age who made a lasagna that could rival even the finest Italian restaurant’s.
“You should make Mom’s seafood chowder,” Alyson suggested. “We could stop by that little fish market on the wharf and pick up some fresh seafood.”
“Sounds good.” I turned the key in the ignition. “And maybe that little farmers market is open. A nice salad made with locally grown greens would pair with the chowder perfectly.” I pulled away from the house and onto the private drive that led to the highway. “And that little local winery used to have a retail outlet not far from the fish market.”
“We were too young for wine when we lived here before, but Mom did love their sauvignon blanc,” Alyson agreed. “I remember the way her eyes would soften when she sat out on the deck, sipping her wine and watching the sunset. It was hard for her to give up her life and make the move here, but when she looked out over the sea I could see contentment and acceptance on her face.”
I remembered. “She did seem happy, despite the situation. And her art; her art was truly inspired here, and so different from the work she’d done before the move.”
