Town in a Cinnamon Toast

by B. B. Haywood

  As she came down the walkway toward the rugged shore, she noticed that a light was on upstairs at the Keeper’s Quarters, visible through one of the windows.

  She felt a sense of relief. So he is here, she thought, and hurried down the slope toward the small compound at water’s edge. It consisted of several buildings, including a separate wood-framed garage, a maintenance shed, and a low brick structure that housed the foghorn, in addition to the tower itself and the Keeper’s Quarters.

  She wasn’t expecting to find the door to the Keeper’s Quarters unlocked. Usually it was kept locked after hours, even when people were still working inside. But she hoped she could attract Julius’s attention if he was upstairs, or perhaps she could get a key from Bob, the maintenance man, if he was still around.

  So she was surprised when she climbed the wood steps to the side door of the Keeper’s Quarters and found it not only unlocked, but ajar.

  “Well, that’s unusual,” she said softly to herself as she pushed the door farther open and stepped inside.

  The last light of the day still leaked in through the windows, so it wasn’t completely dark inside. Still, shadows gathered in the corners and along the back walls, so she turned and looked for a light switch. She found it on the wall near the door and flicked it on. A row of fluorescent lights stuttered on overhead, illuminating the main exhibit hall.

  Still standing by the door, which she left open behind her, she looked around and listened, but saw or heard no one. There were several rooms on this level, so she thought she’d take a quick look in all of them before heading upstairs—just so there weren’t any surprises. Finding the door unlocked and open made her feel a little uneasy. Best to proceed with caution.

  To her left was the Long Desk, a front counter stacked with informational brochures and handouts. She took a few steps toward it, leaning over to get a look behind it, but saw no one.

  Farther back, on the other side of the counter, a shadowy hallway led to the lighthouse itself. The door at the far end of the hall, which opened into the tower, was locked at all times. Still, she rounded the counter and checked the door just to make sure. As she suspected, it was indeed locked.

  The door to the office of the museum’s director was locked as well—again, as it should be.

  She checked the other rooms, flicking lights on and off as she moved from one area to another. They were all empty. No one in sight. And no sounds from the floor above her. If Julius was up there, she was sure she’d hear him rustling around.

  She was beginning to think the place was empty. She’d been mistaken in her suspicion that somebody was there. Someone must have just forgotten to turn off a light upstairs and lock the door. Still, she had to check, just to make sure. Maybe Julius had fallen asleep while doing his research, or maybe he’d been injured somehow, though she tried not to let her mind jump to conclusions.

  She passed through a doorway on her right, which led to a small exhibit room off the main hall, and took the wooden stairs to the second floor. As below, there were several rooms up here, including a narrow one under the eaves that served as a lab for identifying, cleaning, cataloging, and maintaining items in the museum’s collections. A single overhead light was turned on at the top of the stairs, which she’d seen from outside. Two of the larger rooms, to her left and straight ahead, were dark, but she knew they were equipped with shelving and tables to accommodate some of the archives and the needs of researchers like Julius.

  She checked the larger room first, on the cottage’s ocean side. She flicked on a light switch just inside the door and took a few steps into the room, but a quick look around revealed nothing.

  She turned off the light and moved to the smaller room next, which contained many of the town’s older records.

  And that’s where she found him.

  He was sprawled on the floor, lying in an awkward position, belly down, one hand thrown above his head, as if he’d been hailing a cab—or trying to defend himself. He was wearing dark brown pants and a threadbare gray cardigan sweater, which was bunched up around him. His gray hair was disheveled and sticking up in places. His head was turned sideways, so his left cheek rested on the hardwood floor. The one eye she could see was closed. His feet were at odd angles.

  Candy gasped and hesitated for a few moments just inside the door as her mind registered the scene before her. Then, with a mixture of shock, concern, and surprise, she rushed to his side, falling to one knee.

  “Julius,” she called out, and touched him gently on the back shoulder. There was no response. She jostled him, pushing him with increasing force on the back, and called his name again, several times. Finally, reluctantly, she checked the pulse at his neck.

  There was none. He was already growing cold and clammy.

  She was closer to him now, and her gaze shifted. He kept his white hair cut short, and there was a bald patch on top, which made it easy to see an indented area at the back of his skull, concave and a few inches long.

  Suddenly spooked, she backed away, moving swiftly in a low crouch. Her left foot hit something heavy and knocked it off to one side. It rolled across the floor with a harsh clatter.

  Candy dropped into a sitting position and twisted around, her heart thumping as she searched for the object. Finally she spotted it as it bumped against the far wall.

  It was an unopened bottle of champagne.

  She stared at it in confusion. What was that doing here?

  Something about its shape jumped out at her. Her eyes were drawn to the curve around the label, the roundness of the bottle. It seemed, oddly, to match the indentation in the back of Julius’s skull.

  Then she realized what the bottle of champagne was. . . .

  The murder weapon.

  THREE

  For a few moments everything became a blur as the surrounding silence and stillness quickened into a loud rush that seemed to storm through her ears. Instinctively she scooted backward even farther, shuffling across the wooden floor on all fours toward the far wall of bookshelves, putting some distance between herself, the bottle of champagne, and the body sprawled before her.

  There she stopped and took several deep breaths to calm herself. Her mind whirred and her gaze jumped from place to place, bouncing around the room as she struggled to understand what she saw.

  Giving herself some time to think, she studied the low, yellowed ceiling, the rows of thick wooden shelves lined with dusty volumes, the dark window opposite her that peered out over the shadowed landscape, the table and chairs, the antique lighting fixture above her, and the pockmarked, well-varnished floor, before she could finally turn her eyes once more back toward the body, forcing herself to focus in on it.

  Julius Seabury, wearing his favorite sweater. He’d been more than an acquaintance over the past few years—he’d been a friend, a scholar, a man of good humor and sharp intelligence, someone who loved history and the written word . . . and this building in which he’d been found, as well as the village itself.

  It was a loss she could barely comprehend.

  She hoped, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she was mistaken, that she’d jumped too quickly to the wrong conclusion. She watched him for a long minute or two. But as much as she hated to admit it, she saw no signs of life from him. No movement, no fluttering of the eyes or flexing of the fingers. No rise and fall of his torso that might indicate he was breathing. No sighs or sounds coming from him. Nothing to indicate he still clung to life.

  She looked toward the champagne bottle. Maybe she’d been mistaken about that part of it. Maybe it had just been an accident of some sort—he’d fallen and hit his head on the table, or died of natural causes.

  But the concave wound in his head and the shape of the bottle were too similar, too perfect a fit. It wasn’t hard to draw a conclusion.

  It appeared someone had murdered Julius Seabury, as shocking as it soun
ded. But who could have done such a thing? And why?

  The champagne bottle, she thought, was the first clue. Its presence here was no accident. Someone—perhaps Julius, perhaps the murderer, perhaps another person—had brought it here and used it for a terrible purpose.

  She’d had a quick look at the bottle’s blue and gold label, in that second or two it had scuttled away from her, rolling across the floor. And she had a pretty good idea where it came from, because she’d seen it before.

  It was the same brand of champagne being served—probably right this moment—at the pre-wedding dinner party she’d just left at the Lightkeeper’s Inn. Herr Georg, she knew, had selected the champagne personally when they were planning the event a month or so ago. It was a lesser-known brand from a smaller, independent producer located near the town of Épernay in the Champagne region in northern France. It was a favorite of the baker’s, he’d told them at the time, and thought it would make an interesting addition to tonight’s party.

  She suspected there weren’t too many other bottles of that exact champagne floating around town—if any. So, most likely, it was one of the bottles from the dinner party. But how did it get from the inn’s dining room to this second-floor archive at the Keeper’s Quarters?

  As she mulled over that thought, she shifted slightly so she could pull her mobile phone out of her back pocket. She was about to dial 911, but before she did, her gaze wandered once more over the crime scene before her, and her attention was drawn away from the call as she noticed several things at once.

  There were definite signs of a scuffle. One of the chairs was tipped over, and the table was pushed off-center. Also, an old book had tumbled or been pushed from the table; it was lying in a splayed fashion, facedown on the floor. Several more ancient-looking tomes were scattered across the top of the table, as were various notebooks and papers.

  The disarray around her raised all sorts of questions in Candy’s mind. Had Julius tried to defend himself? Had he been surprised by an unknown attacker? Or had he known the person who had wielded the bottle? Could the two of them have arranged to meet here for some reason? Did they have an argument about something that resulted in the attack?

  With the phone still in her hand, forgotten for the moment, she began to notice other things. For instance, there seemed to be a bit of sand attached to the bottoms of Julius’s shoes. And, she realized, the shoes themselves were scuffed—unusual for someone like Julius, who prided himself on the neatness of his appearance. His slacks were wrinkled as well, and the sweater looked unbuttoned. He wasn’t wearing a bow tie, as he often did, and which he certainly would have donned today if he’d been planning on attending the dinner party at the inn.

  Sand on the bottoms of his shoes, twinkling with sparkles that might be bits of sea glass . . .

  Where had he picked that up? she wondered. Obviously somewhere outside, probably down by the water.

  Finally, spurred by that thought, Candy forced herself to move. She lurched upward, clutching her phone tightly, and got her footing underneath her. Giving the body a wide berth, she stepped around the far side of the table and crossed to the window in the opposite wall, pausing there to look out.

  The view faced north, so she could see the mouth of the English River directly in front of her and part of the village to her left. Lights were coming on, illuminating the docks and buildings that squatted along the river. The lighthouse tower was to her right, though the light atop it was hidden by the window overhang. Farther right was the edge of land and the dark sea.

  Could the murderer still be out there somewhere?

  Her next thought gave her a jolt: Could the murderer still be inside the building?

  Possibly, though she’d already checked much of the place. Still, someone could be hiding in a closet, or in an alcove she hadn’t searched yet, or even behind one of the larger exhibits.

  Just to make sure she wasn’t surprised by someone who might be lurking around, she angled around the table again, crossed to the inside wall, and shut the room’s heavy wooden door, sealing in herself and Julius. The door, which was rarely closed, had a keyhole but there was no key in it. Turning around and leaning her back against it, she finally dialed 911, reporting what she’d found.

  Once she was certain the police and an ambulance were on the way, she keyed off the call and made another one, to her father.

  “Brace yourself, Dad,” she told him after he’d asked where she was. “I have some bad news. And I need you to do something for me.”

  FOUR

  Doc was so surprised he nearly blew bubbly out his nose. He could scarcely believe his ears. He wasn’t sure he was hearing properly.

  “Say that again,” he murmured into the phone, turning away from the other dinner guests and sticking a finger in one ear to block out the sounds of the conversations around him.

  But, at the other end of the line, his daughter warned him not to overreact, to stay low-key for the moment to avoid upsetting everyone at the dinner party, so he did his best to keep his cool as she explained what had happened.

  “You’re kidding me,” he said softly when she’d finished. His heart sank at the news. This was something he’d never expected to hear.

  “Afraid not, Dad. We’ve lost our best man.”

  Doc could barely comprehend what he was hearing. Julius had been a friend and an intellectual colleague. Doc had always treasured their time together, and he was devastated to think they’d never get to talk again. But he tried to keep his emotions in check for now. He didn’t want to interrupt the dinner party’s lighthearted atmosphere—at least, not until he had to.

  But everyone would know soon enough, and Doc hated to think how Julius’s death would affect them, especially Herr Georg. The two had been close friends, and certainly Julius’s loss would be a shock to the baker. But beyond that, Doc had no idea what it might do to the wedding plans. It could change everything.

  Doc’s first concern, however, was for his daughter’s safety. Lowering his voice even more and shielding his mouth with his hand in an effort to remain as inconspicuous as possible, he told her that.

  She did her best to reassure him. “I’ve called the police and I’ve closed the door to the room, so for the moment I’m sealed in with the body.”

  At first Doc wasn’t sure if that was a good idea or not, but decided it was her best move, given the circumstances. “Lock yourself in,” he said “just in case whoever did this is still around.”

  “I can’t. There’s no key.”

  “Then stick something up against the door. A chair, maybe, or a table or a bookshelf.”

  “I’ve got my back against it. That will have to do for now. I don’t want to disturb the crime scene too much.”

  “Don’t move until the police get there.” Even as the words left his mouth, Doc could hear the first siren in the distance. “Sounds like they’re on their way. I’m on my way too.”

  “Not yet, Dad. As I said, there’s something I want you to do first.”

  “And what’s that?”

  As she told him, Doc listened carefully, his face a tight mask. “Are you sure we should be thinking about that right now?” he asked when she’d finished.

  “It’s too suspicious a clue to pass up. You have to check it out and put a hold on everything before someone messes with the evidence.”

  Her father paused, thinking it over. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Just be careful who you talk to, and try not to disturb the bottles too much. The police will be following up, I’m sure, but since Herr Georg is involved, I thought we should at least try to get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible.”

  “Got it,” Doc said. “I’ll let you know what we find out. And take care of yourself. Don’t get into any more trouble than you already have.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Candy said, and th
ere was a pause, as if she’d held the phone away from her mouth for a few moments. “I think someone’s here. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  Then she was gone.

  As Doc flipped his old clamshell-design mobile phone closed, his brow crinkled in worry, he heard a voice behind him ask, “So who’s in trouble?”

  “Huh?” He swung around.

  Maggie stood behind him, a half smile on her face. “I said, ‘Who’s in trouble?’ Was that Candy?”

  “Um, yeah, yeah.” For the moment Doc couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Is everything all right? Did she find Julius?”

  Doc hesitated before he nodded and said as noncommittally as possible, “She did.”

  “When will she be back? They’re going to start serving dinner in a few minutes.”

  Glancing at the table, Doc saw that the appetizers had arrived, and the other dinner guests were munching, drinking, and talking among themselves.

  “She . . . she’s been delayed,” he said softly, and rose. “I’ll tell you about it shortly, but right now I have to talk to your fiancé.”

  “Why? Is something going on?” Maggie’s gaze sharpened on him. “You look stressed out.”

  Doc shook his head. “Must have been something I ate.”

  “But you haven’t eaten anything yet,” Maggie pointed out as Doc excused himself and walked around to the far side of the table. There he bent over and whispered something into the ear of Herr Georg, who listened attentively before looking up at Doc with widened eyes. The baker nodded stoically, rose stiffly, and followed Doc from the room.

  They found a relatively quiet place to talk in the hallway outside the dining room, back near the kitchen. Looking around to make sure they were alone, Doc filled Herr Georg in on their mission. “We need to keep this between ourselves for the moment,” he began in a voice barely above a whisper, “but something’s happened to Julius. Apparently someone knocked him in the noggin with a bottle of champagne. Unfortunately, it was a fatal blow.”