by Joy Avon
“Well, once you’re done with the house, I’ll have to treat you to dinner. The Golden Chef is a really nice place along the highway. They have excellent fish.”
They entered the library, and Callie was immediately gripped again by the hushed silence that reigned in the building. Behind the reception desk, the librarian was typing away at a keyboard, but even that sound seemed to be subdued, consciously quiet to maintain that solemn atmosphere.
Quinn made no attempt to approach the librarian, apparently leaving it to Callie, as the local, to phrase her request. She asked for the newspaper archives, and the librarian rose at once, clinking the keys on her key ring. Rounding the reception desk, she came over to them and gave Quinn a once-over. “Back again?”
“I’ve never been here before. You must be confusing me with someone else.”
“That could be,” the librarian said briskly. “Your clothes don’t look like the clothes of the other gentleman I saw. Well, we do see a lot of people during the summer season. Follow me.”
She led them to a door in the far wall, which she unlocked with a click that gave Callie a jolt of excitement. What spectacular old event might the newspapers be able to unveil?
A spiral staircase led down into the library’s basement. Instead of it being a low-ceilinged, claustrophobic room where things stood packed up in crates, it was a high affair with arches and bright lighting, and two long tables where people could sit to do research, while all the old newspapers were carefully conserved along the walls, in filing cabinets marked with dates.
Callie looked around with an appreciative sigh. “What a beautiful research room.”
“Yes, we’re quite proud of it. But not a lot of people use it. So I’m delighted you want to have a look. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Some event from town history that made waves.” Callie grimaced as she realized how general this sounded. “I guess we’ll just have to see if we can hit on gold.”
“Yes, I can’t really help with such a broad query. But feel free to search right from the beginning.” She gestured. “I’ll bring down some coffee later on. But please keep the cups on the separate table over there, as we don’t want anything to get stained or otherwise damaged.”
“We’ll be very careful,” Callie assured her.
The librarian left, and they heard her steps click back up the staircase; then the door through which she had brought them in closed. On the other side of the door, the click wasn’t exciting, but rather sort of menacing. Callie shivered involuntarily. This place did feel a bit like a dungeon.
To shake her uneasy feeling, she marched to a file cabinet and looked at the dates. “I’m in the sixties here. No idea if there’s anything worthwhile. Maybe we should focus on the early twentieth century to see if any big inventions were made here? Something that helped the car industry? Or the first fridge, maybe?”
“I think people love something having to do with a famous person. As this is a seaside resort, maybe celebrities came here?” Quinn opened a file cabinet and started to look through the contents.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a seaside resort. I do know the Cliff Hotel is quite old. Maybe it had celebrity guests in the twenties? It could be fun to do an item on them, after the exhibition dancers have done their fox-trot and two-step. Those dancers could even be the ensemble cast as they come dressed for the era. Then we can ask some people from the local theatrical company to play the celebrities. And the dancers come with their own quartet, so if we could discover that some jazz singer came here, I could ask Heart’s Harbor Harmony, our local choir, if they can deliver a soloist to perform as that singer.”
Callie’s mind was buzzing with ideas, and she rushed to the cabinet containing newspapers from 1928 and browsed the headlines. Lots of shipping incidents, cost of fish, a mayoral election gone wrong … Nothing really attention grabbing.
She closed the cabinet and moved back to 1926. She felt a certain pressure to deliver something big, for Iphy’s sake, but also to prove to the town that her arrival here could be an asset for the community.
Quinn said, “Hey, listen. What do you think of this? ‘TV Personality Monica Walker Vanishes from Heart’s Harbor.’”
“Vanishes?” Callie echoed.
“Yeah. It seems that she came here for a few days off, and then she was never seen again.”
“Sounds kind of grim.” Callie looked at him. “She could be murdered for all we know. I don’t think people will really enjoy that.” She didn’t want to tell him they had had a murder right before Christmas, and it had been hard to solve it, especially because of all the emotions attached.
“No, I read here that they assumed she had a secret lover around these parts and they took off together. The public was really passionate about the case and called in tips. Places where she was supposedly seen, etcetera. But it didn’t turn up anything. They assumed she had sailed off, because a local fisherman reported his boat missing. Maybe stolen.”
“They think that Monica Walker and her alleged lover stole a boat and vanished with it?” Callie was intrigued in spite of her misgivings about the potential of this story for their Fourth of July tea party. She had always been interested in how people could start a new life somewhere under a different identity.
“Yes. It was a fisherman from Heart’s Harbor. His boat never turned up again, although people looked for it in harbors all along the coast.”
“Hmm.” Callie leaned against a file cabinet. “It must have made waves at the time, but I don’t see how we can really turn it into something for the Fourth of July party. I mean, we don’t know any facts. Where did she go, with whom did she leave? It would just be speculation about this supposed lover and all. Rehashing of what the newspapers said at the time.”
“Not necessarily.” Quinn looked at her. “You could do a call for information. You could ask people if they remember something. Maybe you can hit on new information and crack the case.”
“After so much time? When did this happen?”
“In 1989.”
“Right. Think about it. People won’t remember much aside from what the news covered. And they certainly won’t be able to offer anything worthwhile.”
“Aren’t you in the least bit intrigued by the thought we might find out something?” Quinn looked down at the newspaper he had been studying. “I think it would be amazing to delve into such an old case and discover what happened.”
“I think it would be a very difficult exercise that would probably yield absolutely nothing in terms of results. How can I sell that to Great-Aunt Iphy?”
Quinn sighed. “Oh well, if you feel that way.” He pulled up another newspaper from the same cabinet. “‘Pumpkin Harvest Better Than Ever’? ‘Who Stole Farmer Graves’s Truck’?”
He glanced at her. “Not exactly fodder for an exciting reveal on the Fourth.”
Callie came over to him. “Let me read those bits about Monica Walker for myself.”
Standing at the cabinet, she looked at the photos of a lively, handsome woman in her late twenties and read about how the public had loved her for her role in the glam soap opera Magnates’ Wives, in which Monica had played the wife of an aviation mogul who had married her only so she would give him the son that his first and second wives had been unable to give him.
Callie grimaced. “This sounds rather like the history of some European royal families, where matches were made purely for the sake of an heir or to combine lands and power. People tend to call that old-fashioned and even despicable, but from what I read here, marriages for motives other than love remain popular when people have assets to protect.”
“I suppose the series was exaggerated,” Quinn said. “People love to watch others having a completely different life. Money, opportunity. Power, manipulation.”
He shrugged. “That’s probably also why Monica Walker was so popular. Because she represented that life everybody wanted to have.”
“It says here
that she was supposedly away for a few days to relax by the seaside. And she stayed at the Cliff Hotel. That’s still there. It’s a lovely vintage hotel. We could go there and ask if they know anything but I doubt there’s anyone still around who also worked there in 1989. It’s simply too long ago.”
As she said it, Callie stared into Monica Walker’s vivacious eyes. Somehow that picture resonated with her. As if the woman was silently asking her for help.
But that was nonsense, of course. They couldn’t find out what had happened to her—not after so much time.
“It can’t hurt to put out a call,” Quinn said. “Via the newspaper that ran the stories about the disappearance at the time. I bet you, the editor-in-chief will love it.”
“They love any story in summer, when there’s nothing to write about,” Callie agreed. “However, I’m worried we’ll be seen as sensationalist for picking up on such an old story. What can we really hope to uncover?”
Quinn shrugged. “Come up with something better, and I’ll drop this in a heartbeat.”
The librarian brought them coffee, and Callie was surprised to see how much time this had already taken. She didn’t feel like digging through stories about pumpkin harvests for much longer. Quinn might be right that a little call for information couldn’t hurt. It would, in any case, draw attention to the historical theme of their Fourth of July tea party and maybe induce more people to attend.
She took another swig of the strong mocha coffee and was about to say something, when the librarian popped up again with an apologetic expression. “The deputy is looking for you.”
Falk appeared behind her. Looking straight at Callie, he said, “You have to help me with that dog. I didn’t sleep a wink last night because Biscuit kept walking through the house, scratching at things. The couple who brought him here have decided they don’t want to keep him, and of course I can let them take him back to the shelter where they found him, but they’re really not in a happy mood, and I don’t want the dog to get even more excited than he already is. You told me I had to take him in for the night. Now he’s completely crazy about all the changes, and he’s probably wrecking the police car as we speak.” Falk raked back his hair. “Look, I have a job. I can’t take him along, and he obviously can’t stay at my cabin alone. What do we do?”
Callie’s mind raced to come up with a solution in which they could keep Biscuit for the moment. She looked at Quinn. “I have an idea.”
Quinn hitched a brow at her. “Yes?”
“We’ll look into Monica Walker on the condition that you look after Biscuit while you work on my house. We can decide later what to do with him as a more permanent solution.”
Quinn wanted to protest, but Callie said, “You’re a big, strong guy, so you should be able to get a little cooperation from a young dog.”
Falk didn’t seem pleased that Callie was calling Quinn big and strong, but before he could speak up, Callie said in a cheerful tone, “Done deal then. We’re through here, so we’ll go to the Herald now to ask the editor how he feels about doing a call for information. You can get Biscuit, Falk, and leave him with us.”
Falk sucked in air as if he wanted to start a discussion, but then he said, “Okay,” and walked off. The librarian who had hovered at the back of the room darted after him.
“Why do you feel obliged to help him?” Quinn asked Callie. “He’s a police officer; he can solve his own problems.”
“I did land him with the dog. I suggested he could take care of it overnight. You see, the owners got Biscuit in a rehoming situation, and they’re not happy with him. He isn’t the right fit for them, but the poor dog can’t help that. I’m worried that this whole thing is just making him traumatized. We have to keep him happy and open to a new family situation as soon as one turns up.”
Quinn sighed. “I see. I don’t have anything against dogs. I just don’t know if I can watch him when I’m doing chores.”
“I’m hoping that some exercise will get him tired enough to be calmer when you’re working. You could take him to the beach and have him run, play fetch with him. I mean, you can’t wallpaper for hours without getting sore. A break here and there is a good idea.”
Quinn grinned at her. “Now you’re talking.”
Outside the library building, Falk was waiting for them at his police car with a very bouncy Biscuit on the leash. Callie took the leash from Falk’s hand and leaned down to pat the dog’s rough head. “Hey, boy. Good morning. Have you had a nice walk?” She looked up at Falk. “Did you walk him?”
“I took him out before I left the cabin for work, but no, I didn’t have time for much of a walk. Maybe you can do it together?” Falk glanced cynically at Quinn. “See you later.” And he practically dove into his car.
“He’s rather protective of women, isn’t he?” Quinn observed.
“What do you mean?” Callie asked, taken aback by the plural used.
Quinn shrugged. “I was at a job last week, and he came breezing in, asking me a ton of questions and acting like I was trespassing, when the lady of the house had hired me to do the jobs. Irritating habit of his.”
Callie felt her heart clench at the idea that Falk was involved with other women around town, or maybe just being nice to women in general, while she had thought at Christmas …
How stupid.
Quinn gestured in the direction of the newspaper building. “Shall we?”
Callie dragged along Biscuit, who was trying to dig underneath a towering oak tree, and together they crossed the street and made for the invitingly open door of the Heart’s Harbor Herald.
* * *
Inside the building, a group of teens was standing at a whiteboard while a woman was writing names underneath photos that had been taped to it. Victim, Callie caught in passing, and witness. What on earth was that?
Quinn was already at the office door of the editor-in-chief and knocked.
“Enter!” a baritone voice called.
Quinn opened the door, and Callie followed him in, pulling Biscuit along before he could grab at a crinkled piece of paper on the floor.
A tall man with a head full of white hair was standing at his desk, a half-eaten apple in one hand, a phone in the other. He gestured at them that he would be done in a minute, and Callie looked around the office. The walls were lined with shelves filled with file folders and books, and between the two tall windows several frames held certificates of awards that either the paper or its reporters had won. In a corner a golf bag leaned against a metal filing cabinet. Callie noticed that this cabinet was secured with a combination lock.
The man put down the phone and waved his half-eaten apple at them. “Good morning. How may I help you?” He cast his eye over Biscuit. “If you’re collecting money for a good cause, like a shelter or something with dogs, I’m sorry to say we can’t run a fundraiser in the paper. That decision was made a long time ago, to ensure I can live in peace with everyone in town. I can’t support one cause and not another, but if I gave all of them space in the paper, I wouldn’t have room left for any news. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” Quinn said. “We’re not here to ask for money. We’re here to discuss something that might even get you some money.”
Callie cringed at the way he presented their idea.
The man raised a brow. “And you are?”
Callie reached out her free hand, planting her feet firmly on the floor so Biscuit couldn’t pull her off balance. “Callie Aspen. I help my great-aunt at Book Tea.”
“Ah, yes, Iphy—how is she this fine morning?” The man shook her hand. “Joe Jamison, but you probably already saw that on my door.” He turned to Quinn. “Not a local, right? I think I did see you around town lately?”
“I’m helping Callie redo her new home. And we’re looking into an old story to see if it’s something to share at a Fourth of July party where town events will be highlighted. I think you might be able to help us. Monica Walker.”
Jamison’s expression
changed for the briefest of moments. The joviality vanished like a cloud passing across the sun, and something flickered in his eyes. Worry? Distrust?
“I’m sorry.” He seated himself in his desk chair. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. Does she live here?”
“No, we have no idea where she lives. She was a TV star in the eighties, and she was last seen here in town.”
Callie rushed to add, “The Herald wrote extensively about her disappearance. Weren’t you already with the paper then? I think my great-aunt mentioned to me once that you have an impressive forty-year career with the paper.”
“Yes, yes, started as a boy getting lunch for the journalists. The sounds in here fascinated me, the typewriters and the faxes. Like news was made here, not just recorded.”
Jamison gestured around him with his big hands. “I got a small job reporting sports, then I transferred to local news.”
“You must remember the Monica Walker case then,” Quinn said.
Jamison shook his head. “I was often out of town in summers.”
We never said the disappearance happened in the summer, Callie thought silently.
She studied Jamison’s face closely, the way he leaned back as he sat, how he held his hands. Was he lying? If so, why?
“Can we talk to someone who worked at the paper on that case?” Quinn asked. “I know it’s a long time ago, but—”
Jamison waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t remember the names of each and every person who worked at the Herald over time.”
“But surely you have lists? And”—Quinn dug out his notebook, the same one he had used to make an estimate for Callie’s cottage—“I know the name of the reporter who worked on the Monica Walker case. Let me see where I wrote it down.”
He scanned the notepad. “Ah, there it is. Jamison. Hey, what a coincidence. You had a family member also working at this paper? Your father perhaps? Or an older brother?”
Jamison’s face turned pale. “I don’t like your tone. And I don’t recall that you told me your name. I don’t know what you’re after, but I’m not going to cooperate. Please leave my office.”
