by Bobbi Holmes
“I still think this has something to do with Wilbur. Beauregard Porter murdered him for the land. You said yourself Porter didn’t have that much money. And according to Wilbur, someone named Beau may have murdered him.” Danielle paused a moment and rubbed her forehead with one thumb.
“Do you have a headache?” Walt closed his book and set it on one knee.
“Too much thinking.” She winced from the dull pain.
“And you believe Stewart somehow knew Grandpappy Beau murdered Jenkins, and he recently dug up the remains and tossed them in the ocean?” Walt asked.
“Yes. It’s the only thing that makes sense. If he stole that land from Jenkins, murdered him and buried his body on the property, it could mean they never purchased the land, and Stewart risks losing everything.”
“I’m sorry, but I have to agree with Chris. That’s far-fetched,” Walt said. “Not that it happened, or even that Stewart knew it happened. But Stewart knowing about the remains and removing them, that seems implausible to me.”
Danielle let out a sigh. “But why else would Jenkins’s bones wash up on shore in Frederickport now? Why now? Because someone found them, dug them up, and threw them in the ocean. And like Heather said, Stewart is the only one remotely connected to any of the stories in Moon Runners who showed yesterday. And Wilbur overheard them say they would be here. It has to be them.”
“That is not entirely true,” Walt said.
Danielle sat up on the sofa and looked over at Walt. “What? You think it might have been the Kings after all? I thought we agreed they wouldn’t want to destroy the diary; they would want to read it.”
“I’m not talking about the Kings. When writing Moon Runners, many actual events from my first life inspired the story, and some people involved back then have family still living in Frederickport, some who were here yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Danielle asked.
“We discussed it when it first came out. But I never imagined any of those retellings would trigger someone. I couldn’t imagine anyone alive now would know about any of them. For example, in the scene where the boys are cutting up the hemp whips to smoke, I’d shared that story with you before,” Walt reminded her.
“And I don’t imagine someone is plotting to kill us to keep the world from finding out Grandpa smoked buggy whips,” Danielle said with a snort.
“Exactly. I can’t see any grandchild or great-grandchild compelled to destroy a diary because they don’t want someone to learn it’s true.”
“It’s not just destroying a diary; they want to kill us,” Danielle said.
“It could be something like Charlene’s death. That came from my imagination. Did someone recognize a true event in the story, something passed down in their family, and then something I made up got too close to a truth they don’t want to come out?”
Danielle groaned. “If that’s the case, then we really are screwed.”
“If we’re lucky, perhaps you already figured it out—even though it seems far-fetched. Maybe it is about Wilbur’s murder and a stolen fortune.”
“But we have to wait for that DNA to come back on Wilbur’s bones. Unfortunately, the chief can’t identify the remains based on testimony from their ghost.” Danielle rubbed her forehead again and grimaced.
Walt stood up. “How about I get you a couple of aspirin?”
The doorbell rang.
“How about you get the door instead?” she said.
Walt tossed his book on the end table, walked over to Danielle, and gave her forehead a quick kiss before going to answer the door.
Several minutes later, Police Chief MacDonald walked into the parlor with Walt.
“Hey, Chief,” Danielle greeted him. “What brings you over here? Please tell me you figured out who Wilbur overheard at the pier.”
“Sorry, Danielle, nothing new on that front. But I wanted to stop by and tell you something I do know. The bones the dogs found, they weren’t Wilbur’s.”
Danielle sat up straight on the sofa, putting her feet on the floor. “You got the DNA test back?”
“No. That hasn’t come back yet.”
Danielle pointed to the chair across from her. “Why don’t you sit down?”
The chief nodded and sat down on the chair while Walt took a seat on the sofa next to Danielle.
“If you don’t have the DNA test back, then how do you know it isn’t Wilbur Jenkins?”
“After you told me about him and seemed fairly certain the DNA test would prove those were his remains, I did a little digging on our ghost. I came across several photographs of him online, in old newspapers. One was of him and his sister and a couple of employees in front of her bookstore.”
“We saw that picture. At least, I assume it’s the same one. Betty has a framed picture like that on her wall in the bookstore.”
“How would you describe Wilbur?” he asked. “You saw his spirit, not just his picture.”
“What do you mean?” She frowned.
“For example, was he a very tall man?”
Danielle considered the question for a moment. “No.”
“He didn’t look very tall in the photographs I found. One was taken next to a well-known boxer from that era. Apparently, Wilbur was a boxing fan.”
“What does a photo of the boxer have to do with the bones?” Danielle asked.
“While I couldn’t find Wilbur’s height online, I found stats for the boxer he posed with. Wilbur was a good head shorter. As for the remains found, according to the coroner, the deceased was about six foot three. Wilbur was much shorter.”
“So those remains aren’t Wilbur’s?” Danielle asked.
The chief shook his head. “No. Definitely not.”
“Why was he with them? He wanted me to help him find the gunnysack,” Danielle asked.
“You would know more about things like that than I would,” the chief reminded her.
“This could also mean no one murdered Wilbur,” Walt said.
Danielle frowned. “But he said Beau might have murdered him.”
“Might, Danielle,” Walt reminded her.
Walt walked the chief to the front door fifteen minutes later, to see him out. When he returned to the parlor, he found Danielle sitting up on the sofa, resting her forehead in her open palms.
“I’m getting you some aspirin,” he announced.
“We’re out,” Danielle said. “I gave Susan Mitchell the last two yesterday.”
“Then I’ll run down to the store and get some,” he told her.
Danielle looked up from her hands. “I hate to make you do that.”
“You’re not making me do anything. I want you to lie down, close your eyes, and rest. I won’t be long,” Walt told her.
Danielle considered going upstairs and climbing into bed, but she didn’t have the energy to walk up two flights of stairs. Stretched out on the parlor sofa, staring up at the ceiling, she wondered if Walt could levitate her up to their bedroom when he got home. She imagined herself floating up the two flights of steps. But then the memory of Walt dropping the boxes when he had lost focus popped into her head, and she cringed. “That would hurt,” she muttered.
Closing her eyes, she let out a deep breath and tried to fall asleep, anything to keep her from dwelling on her now throbbing head. But then she heard footsteps.
Sitting up, she looked to the open parlor door and called out, “Walt? That was fast.”
It wasn’t Walt who appeared in the doorway a moment later, but two masked people dressed all in black. One pointed a revolver in her direction.
“Stand up,” he said gruffly, attempting to conceal his or her voice. “If you don’t want me to shoot you, come here.”
Slowly, Danielle stood and reluctantly obeyed the gunman. Both people wore ski masks, covering their heads, gloves concealing the color of their skin, along with sunglasses, concealing their eyes. She didn’t imagine it made it easy for them to see.
“You’
re going upstairs with us and opening your safe. Do you understand?”
Danielle nodded.
“Get going. Move!”
Some guests had discovered the safe behind the painting in her old bedroom when they had lingered behind the tour and snooped around. Chris had mentioned it after reviewing some of the footage. Danielle told herself that if she survived this encounter, they would need to review the video again for a list of suspects. She also regretted turning the cameras off, which meant this encounter would not be captured on video.
Once they reached the second floor, Danielle obediently walked toward the safe. She had initially installed it to protect the Missing Thorndike, for those rare occasions she brought it home from the bank to wear.
She wondered what they would do when they discovered an empty safe. They kept nothing of value in the safe except for the necklace and…the letters. Danielle had forgotten about the letters.
They were the letters from Walt to Marie’s father. Marie had given them to Danielle long ago. After the chief told her of Brian’s obsession with the similarity of the handwriting of the original Walt Marlow and her husband, she decided it best to lock the old letters away. She didn’t want to destroy them, but she didn’t want anyone to happen across the letters—such as Adam or Joe or Mel or Kelly or anyone who wasn’t aware the original Walt Marlow was in fact her husband. Walt had distinctive handwriting, and it hadn’t changed in the last hundred years. Holding her breath, she opened the safe and stood back, allowing them to see inside.
The one holding the gun reached in and snatched the stack of letters. Holding them in one hand and the gun in the other, the masked intruder asked, “What is this?”
“They’re letters from Walt Marlow to his neighbor,” Danielle explained. “The neighbor’s daughter gave them to me before she died. But they aren’t of any value. Only to my husband. That’s where he’s gotten ideas for his book. Sort of like a diary, but Walt Marlow never left a diary. I’m sorry, we keep nothing of value here.”
Twenty-Six
The motorcycle woke Max. Racing down Beach Drive, it was already out of sight by the time Max opened his eyes. Yawning, the cat leapt down from the porch swing and started for the side yard and the pet door. He didn’t know how long he had been sleeping, but he was hungry. By the position of the sun hovering over the houses across the street, Max surmised it would soon be nightfall.
A few minutes later he stood in the kitchen, sniffing his food bowl. It was empty. Max started out the open doorway into the hall, looking for someone to fill it. He strolled through all the rooms on the first floor, meowing as he went. When he found no one, he headed for the stairs. Once on the second-floor landing a few minutes later, he made his way to the staircase leading to the attic. He was passing one open doorway when he heard something. Stopping, he paused for a moment. It was the room where Danielle used to sleep until she moved to the attic with Walt. Someone was in the room. He meowed again and went to inspect, wanting food.
Max entered the bedroom, but no one was there. He was about to turn around and continue on his way to the attic when he heard the sound again. It came from the closet. Suspecting a mouse might have found its way into the room and now hid in the closet, Max went to investigate and found its door slightly ajar. Stealthily, he moved into the unlit space and heard it again, rattling. Someone was inside the stairwell. He meowed. The rattling stopped. He meowed again.
“Max? Max, are you there?” Max heard Danielle’s voice. He recognized his name, but the rest of the words were meaningless.
“Max! Go get Walt! Hurry, get Walt!”
Max sat at the door and listened. Again, he recognized his name. He also recognized Walt’s name. But what Danielle was trying to tell him, he did not understand. He just knew he was hungry. Max meowed again.
“Max, I’m locked in here. Get help!”
Like a feline boxer, Max raised his paws and began batting away on the panel door. He couldn’t understand the meaning of her words, but surely, she would understand he wanted her to open the door. Sitting before the panel door, he pounded away with his front paws in a steady knocking.
“No, Max, I can’t open the door! Get help!”
Max boxed the door for another minute and then stopped.
“What am I doing?” Danielle grumbled from the stairwell. “He’s a cat, not Lassie.”
Confused and hungry, Max turned from the closet. He needed to find Walt. Danielle would not come out of the closet and feed him. He loved Danielle, but sometimes humans were not very bright.
As Walt entered the house through the side door into the kitchen, Max walked into the room from the hallway. He looked at Walt and meowed.
“You’re hungry?” Walt asked, tossing the paper sack with the aspirin on the table.
Max sat on the floor and watched as Walt walked to the pantry and grabbed a can of food. He meowed again.
Walt looked at the cat and said, “Danielle has a headache.” The cat meowed again. “I was hoping she might take a nap.”
Walt opened the can of food and began dumping it in the bowl as Max nosed his hand. He looked down to the cat and frowned.
“She’s upstairs? She can sleep more comfortably in our bedroom.”
Max positioned himself in front of the bowl and began to eat, yet not before conveying, If she’s trying to sleep, she’s doing it on the stairs, not the bed.
“What do you mean she’s sleeping on the stairs?”
Max looked up from his food and conveyed another thought.
Max wasn’t making any sense, Walt thought. But he was a cat, he reminded himself. Walt quickly filled a clean glass with water, grabbed the small paper sack from the table, and hurried first to the parlor where he had left her.
As Max had said, she was no longer there. He continued up the stairs, grateful he didn’t find her sitting on a step. That would indicate something worse than a headache if she couldn’t make it to the second floor. Obviously, he misunderstood whatever Max had been trying to tell him.
A minute later he discovered she was also not on the attic staircase leading to their bedroom. Hurrying up the stairs to his wife, medicine and water in hand, he expected to find her sleeping in their bed, but when he got there, she wasn’t. In fact, the bed looked undisturbed. That morning they had made the bed after getting up. It looked as it had the last time he was in the room.
Glancing toward the bathroom, he called out, “Danielle?” He set the glass of water and sack with the aspirin on the nightstand.
Instead of a response from the master bath, he heard a faint, “Walt,” coming from the panel leading into the hidden staircase. He found it locked, which was odd, as they had kept it open for yesterday’s tour.
Unlocking the door, he slid open the panel. Danielle flew into his arms, doing her best to stifle her sobs.
Notebook and pen in hand, Brian Henderson stood in the middle of the living room at Marlow House. Danielle sat quietly on the sofa, Walt by her side as he wrapped one arm protectively over her shoulder, and she absently rubbed the heel of her right hand over her forehead.
According to Lily, none of them had been there when the intruders had broken in, or when Walt found Danielle locked in the hidden staircase. But they all showed up before he arrived: Lily, Ian, Connor, Heather and Chris. Brian wondered if Walt had called them before or after he had called the police.
“Are you sure you didn’t recognize them?” Brian asked Danielle.
She glanced up to him. “I told you, they both wore ski masks and sunglasses.”
“How did they keep the glasses on with their ears covered?” Brian asked.
“I don’t know,” Danielle snapped. “I was too busy looking at the gun he had pointed at me.”
“So it was a man?” Brian asked.
“I’m fairly sure the one holding the gun was a man. He tried to disguise his voice, making it all raspy. Didn’t sound natural. It could have been a woman, yet it sounded more like a guy. But the other one
said nothing,” Danielle explained.
“And all they took were Walt Marlow’s letters?” Brian asked.
Danielle nodded. “That’s how I know it has to be the ones the chief got a tip on. Someone who wants Walt’s diary—a diary that does not exist.”
“Why exactly do you keep old letters in the safe?” Brian asked.
Danielle looked up to him and frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Brian shrugged. “Just curious. I find it odd you’d keep old letters in a safe. If that’s what they came for, and that’s what they ended up taking, then what was in those letters that they would risk arrest? We need to know that if we intend to catch whoever this is.”
“I explained. They believe Walt used a diary or letters of Walt Marlow to write his book. There is no diary. But I had some letters. Which they took.”
“But what was in the letters? Why would they want them? Danielle, if you want us to catch these people, you need to tell me everything.”
“You’re not listening,” Lily snapped from the sidelines.
Brian looked her way.
“Marie gave Danielle some letters ages ago that Walt had sent Marie’s dad. I read them. The only thing Walt wrote in those letters was about his travels. Nothing that Walt used in Moon Runners. Those jerks just think something is in those letters. Now do you get it?”
“Not really,” Brian mumbled, jotting something down on the paper.
Pearl Huckabee had just opened her refrigerator door when she heard the doorbell. Letting out a sigh of annoyance, she closed the refrigerator and made her way to the front door. When she opened it, she found Officer Brian Henderson standing on her front porch.