by Jill Winters
When Nicole turned the page, she saw a rash of purple letters in the margins. Down the left side of the page were the letters: O, N, H, B. Down the ride side: E, Y, D, I, U.
Her heart sped up. She sat up straighter in her chair, frantically searching the letters for some meaning that would become clear. Then she reached into her bag and grabbed a pen. On a piece of scrap paper, she jotted the letters down in a row. Reading and re-reading them, Nicole scrambled the letters around, trying to figure out some combination that would work.
END
LEND
DEFEND. No, she realized, that required two Es and two Ds. She needed to stay focused on what was in front of her.
BEND
BIND
HIND
Suddenly she stopped. Studied the letters. Something occurred to her. Eagerly arranging the letters in her mind, she verified a possible combination on paper. Her heart pounding hard now and her foot tapping on the leg of her chair, she created two complete words out of the letters.
BEHIND YOU
She gasped. With a shudder, she gripped the strange feeling that settled over her. It felt as though her aunt had just whispered the words right into her ear.
Slowly, almost timidly, Nicole turned around in her seat.
Directly behind her, was a framed black and white photo. It was rectangular, no larger than 8” x 6”, wedged on display between several bound atlases. Nicole had seen it many times, but never paid attention to it. Before now, it had been just a part of Tinsdale's overall ambiance, cozy and old-fashioned. It had been a detail of the decor, like the curved oak banister or the criss-crossed panes of the window.
Now, rising from her seat, Nicole approached the shelf, and looked closely at the photo. It was a photo of two little girls, a baby, and, presumably, their parents. Cautiously, Nicole glanced back to make sure no one was around, especially Hazel, and then pulled the frame out of its snug spot on the shelf. Once she detached the backing, the photo itself slipped free. Nicole turned it over and read the back inscription, written in thin calligraphy: Rosemary Martins Bloomingdale, First Prize Winner, with husband John and daughters, Hazel, Ginger, and Portia Bloomingdale—Joy of Cooking Regional Bake-off, 1958.
Confused, Nicole began chewing on her lip, pondering this. Was it a coincidence, the cryptogram “behind you” and this photo? Because what or why—
Wait a second.
What had she just read?
Hurrying back to the table, she re-read part of the old newspaper article: The North Tower was sent to Nauset and effectively took the place of the Three Sisters Lighthouse.
Three Sisters.
Could that be...? Impulsively, she slapped the paper with the flat of her hand. She could feel her pulse speeding, as her adrenaline ran high and her mind grappled with pieces of a puzzle, but not the whole. The conclusion was incomplete, yet the question was inescapable.
Was her aunt trying to tell her something about the Bloomingdales?
***
Back on Orchard Street, Nicole took Puddle for a walk. She’d invited Michael to come along so she could share with him her recent discovery at Tinsdale.
“Well, it’s really more of a theory than a discovery,” she amended now, as they climbed their way back toward the house.
“You really think there's some important link between your aunt and those two biddies next door? Well—three biddies, if you factor in the other sister in the photo.”
“I definitely think it's possible. The references to the Three Sisters Lighthouse. I mean, who else?”
“Could be something to do with you and your sisters,” Michael offered.
Doubtfully, Nicole shook her head. “It wouldn't make sense. Cape Cod references wouldn't make sense in that case, considering my sisters and I spent most of our childhood—and our lives—in or around Boston. Besides, I was closer to Nina than Linda and Alyssa were, and this is all completely remote to me.” She focused on the Bloomingdales again; it seemed she could not get the notion out of her mind. “I just wish I knew how well Aunt Nina knew them—Hazel, Ginger, and Portia, too.”
“Where’s Portia's now anyway?” Michael said, sounding curious.
“I don't know anything about her,” Nicole said simply.
“They never mentioned her?”
“Well, Ginger had said something initially about Portia, but not much. Something about Portia leaving Chatham to go to New York, but that was a long time ago. Like maybe thirty or forty years ago. It doesn't really tell us anything about today. And I can't imagine what the history of the Bloomingdale sisters would have to do with me anyway, or with Aunt Nina.”
“Maybe Portia was the one your aunt was more friends with, not the other two,” Michael suggested. “Do we know if she's still alive?”
“No, now that you mention it. I have no idea if Portia ever returned to Chatham at all, if she married, had kids, anything.”
“Was Ginger ever married?” Michael asked curiously.
“I don't think so...” Wow, Nicole was amazed at how little she did manage to pick up about her neighbors so far. Was she that self-involved? Or were they just uniquely guarded about their lives, down to even the basic details? “Hazel was, I know that.”
“Listen sweetheart,” Michael said, his tone firmer all of a sudden, “if you think the key to this mystery puzzle is with your neighbors somehow, then we've got to learn more about them. How about pumping Ginger for some information? She's the nice one, right?”
“Um, she's timid and appeasing, I don't know if that really translates to 'nice.' There seems to be some kind of invisible wall around her.”
“What about asking someone else in town? Someone who has known them a long time? Like that guy working on your front steps?”
“Mac?”
“Or not working on them, I should say,” Michael added.
Nicole let out a laugh. “What does that mean?”
Michael said, “I haven't seen him do any actual work. When I was at the mailbox this morning, that guy was just kind of hanging around with his tools out.”
“Oh. Well, maybe people just move slower around here.”
“Sure,” Michael mumbled doubtfully.
“Maybe Mac's more thorough than your average handyman.”
“If you think so...”
Playfully, she giggled and reached over for a kiss.
Yet, despite her teasing, she couldn’t help thinking that there might be truth to what Michael was saying. Only very recently, Nicole had started to wonder about Mac’s repair work and why it was taking him so long. It was as if she were suspicious all of a sudden, but she didn’t even know what she was suspicious of. Once a distrusting kind of feeling found its way to someone, it tended to linger around. And now it moved through Nicole like a ghost, like a free-floating miasma of cynicism.
“Nicole?” Michael said. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that we should get more concrete information on the Bloomingdale sisters,” she said, going back to their initial conversation. “And I know who might be able to help us.” Yet it was hard not to grimace at the thought.
“What's that look?”
“Nothing…” Nicole replied vaguely. “Just bear in mind…nobody ever said that decoding was a pleasure cruise...”
With a short laugh, Michael said, “Oh boy. This ought to be good.”
Chapter Thirty-one
What better way to spend the following evening than with a flirtatious inn keeper, her speckled cleavage and her groveling husband? But first, Michael and Nicole sat at her kitchen table, waiting for their guests. A frozen lasagna was baking in the oven, Puddle was devouring her boiled chicken and rice, and Michael was monkeying with Nicole's “disc-man.”
“It will play and then it will suddenly stop and just spin,” Nicole explained again.
Nodding, Michael tilted the device, stuck two fingers into the battery socket and popped the gray face out. Just then Puddle trotted over, licking her mouth a
nd nose, and stretched up on two legs, resting her front paws on Nicole's shin.
“Hi, baby,” Nicole said sweetly, reaching down to stroke Puddle's back. “You want to come up?” Gently, Nicole lifted the dog by her sides and set her on her lap, securing her in a loose embrace.
“Ever thought of just getting an IPOD, or something from the past decade, to replace this thing?”
“I'm behind on the times,” Nicole said with a self-effacing smile.
“I see, I see.”
She added, “ 'Don't fix it if it ain't broke'—oh wait, it is. Forget it.” Shaking his head, Michael chuckled and reconnected the two pieces he had split apart. Hugging Puddle to her, Nicole asked, “Do you think you can fix it?”
“Look, I know I don't wear overalls and carry a hammer in my pocket for effect—but I think I'll muddle through. Here.” He handed her the disc player, reassembled and in tact.
“Oh my God, it's fixed already?” she said, impressed. He nodded. “You're unbelievable! Thank you!” She leaned over to kiss his cheek but he swiftly turned his head so her mouth landed on his. Once he captured her lips, they shared a long, lingering kiss.
Suddenly she realized Puddle was shifting. “Am I squishing her?” Nicole began, and then watched the dog matter-of-factly climb right from her lap into Michael's. “Oh, she wants to sit with you now. So picky,” Nicole added with a smile. She rose from the table to check the oven. “By the way, was that a crack about Mac?”
“What do you mean?”
“C'mon, admit it, you're jealous of The Hermster. It's so obvious! Because he's got a fun nickname and you don't.” Smirking, Michael just shook his head. “That's it, isn't it? Do you want people around town to start calling you 'The Mikester'? Will that make you feel better?”
As Michael stood, he set Puddle gently to the floor. “First of all, I realize you're trying to tease me,” he began, coming closer. “But don't ever call me 'the Mikester' again.” Mischievously, he squinted down at her, came even closer. He ran his hand around her waist, then slid it lower. His voice was soft and low when he said, “You've been warned.” The doorbell rang and Puddle jumped to attention.
“Shoot, they're here!”
“What do you mean 'shoot'? This was your idea.”
“I know,” Nicole mumbled. “I'm just dreading the uncomfortable portion of the night when Vickie comes on to you like you're a gigolo and she's got a coupon.”
At that, Michael laughed. “Wow...that bad, huh?”
Nicole shot him a sideways glance. “It was impossible to have a normal conversation last time. Didn't you notice?”
“It was kind of embarrassing,” he admitted. To whom? Nicole wondered. Was Michael himself shy about that kind of fawning? Or was he embarrassed for Vickie, who'd been beyond obvious? “I felt sorry for the guy,” he added. Ohhh. Of course. Embarrassing for Todd, the eunuch husband who sat through it all and watched. “She'll probably behave this time. Probably already moved on to the next guy who caught her attention. Let's just stay focused on our mission,” Michael said.
“Okay,” Nicole agreed. “Obviously.”
“We get the information and we say goodnight.”
“I'll fight the urge to pull out Monopoly.”
Grinning, he said, “Glad we understand.”
Puddle trotted a few steps behind when Nicole went to answer the door. “Oh, how sweet!” Vickie cooed. “You have a dog now! Awww...” She ran her long acrylic nails through Puddle's fur. (The undiscerning canine had the gall to arch her back and enjoy it.) “Male or female?”
“Female,” Nicole told her.
“Too bad. Males like me better,” Vickie said, then winked at Michael.
Automatically, Nicole's mind made its assessments. Vickie: cheap and obvious. Todd: spineless giraffe. Puddle: undiscriminating. Myself (at the moment): bitchy but harmless.
A half-hour later, the four of them were in the living room, sipping wine and making small talk. Michael sat beside Nicole on the sofa; Vickie and Todd sat in armchairs opposite each other. “I was so thrilled when you called today and invited us over!” Vickie reiterated enthusiastically when the conversation hit a stumbling block. “It was so fun the last time!”
“It was,” Nicole agreed disingenuously. “And thanks for the cake. You really didn't have to, but it looks terrific.” Vickie had brought a chocolate coconut cake for dessert.
Vickie waved, flashing a shock of pink nails through the air. “My pleasure. I just had Todd pick it up at the bakery. Michael—do you like chocolate?”
“Sure, who doesn't?”
“Todd doesn't. He breaks out from it.”
“Not always,” Todd injected. “But I do try to stay away from it unless it's a special occasion.”
“I've always found chocolate to be incredibly sexy,” Vickie threw in, smiling widely.
Call her overly astute, but Nicole took this as her cue to switch gears, because who knew how long a tangent into the sensuality of chocolate would take? “By the way, Vickie—it's such a small world. Ginger mentioned to me the other day that she used to baby-sit you.”
Vickie appeared startled by the subject. “Ah, yeah, that's true. Boy, I haven't thought of that in so long. Ginger and Portia both used to baby-sit me, actually.”
“Honey, you never told me that,” Todd said.
Briefly, she rolled her eyes. “Why would I tell you that?” She reached for a celery stick.
“You two didn't know each other back then, I take it,” Michael said conversationally.
“No,” Todd said, “I didn’t move to Chatham until sophomore year of high school.” He sat up straighter and got an almost righteous kind of look on his face. For a moment, Nicole thought he was about to tell the “story” again about sitting next to each other in geometry class.
“Where did you live before that?” she asked.
“Uh, the Buffalo area,” Todd replied. Unexpectedly, his face pinched, as if Nicole had just summoned a demon. “I was an orphan,” he muttered. “I don't like to talk about it.”
“Oh, sorry...” Nicole said, feeling awkward.
“Yeah, the Bloomingdales babysat me when I was just a little bitty thing,” Vickie said and let out a peel of laughter. It sounded artificial and forced. Nicole was starting to think that Vickie Finn was just one of those people who laughed out of habit, whose throat trilled out a rippling noise of glee for lack of anything else to contribute at a given moment.
Then the words struck a chord—Vickie calling herself a “little bitty thing” when Ginger had described her as “a very fat child.” The two didn't quite go together. “So I hear you’ve got The Hermster doing repairs around here,” Vickie remarked. “Rumor had it that he and your aunt were always very close.”
“Close friends?” Nicole said hopefully.
Vickie shrugged. “People always wondered if there was more to it—you know, if there was a history there.”
A romantic history? Between Nina and Mac? Nicole supposed it was possible, but even so, it was surely a moot point by now.
Besides, Nicole had her heart set on dredging up a different bit of ancient history at the moment. Now she tried to steer the conversation back on track as suavely as possible. “But back to Portia…” she said with basically no transition. “Um…what's she doing now anyway?”
Shrugging, Vickie reached for a baby carrot. “Now? Beats me. She used to work for a travel agency in Connecticut, I think, but that was like twenty years ago.”
“Oh,” Nicole said, nodding casually, “I just thought maybe Ginger or Hazel mentioned it—you know, in conversation. Since she is their sister...”
With a snort, Vickie said, “They're not likely to bring up Portia. A lot of bad blood there.” After a sip of her wine, Vickie licked her lips after and said, “So you two seem pretty cozy.” She all but cooed the words—totally changing the tone and direction of the conversation. It was understandable to a point. The Bloomingdale sisters were probably a dull, stale topic to h
er by now. But that was just too bad.
“About Portia...” Nicole began, then sensed the lack of subtlety in her own voice. She cleared her throat and tried to take it down a notch. Otherwise, she'd just sound desperate to gossip about a topic that had already been abandoned. “Um...more wine?” Nicole encouraged with an angelic smile.
“Wait, 'bad blood'?” Michael interjected (throwing Nicole a lifeline). He gave a brief, wicked smile to Vickie that coaxed her to elaborate. “Sounds like there's a good story there.”
Predictably, Vickie tilted her head and attempted to smolder at him. Then she said, “Well, if you like a good dirty sexy story...then this one will probably leave you cold.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Apparently it went like this:
Rosemarie Martins married John Bloomingdale in 1947. John had been a cod fisherman when the two had met, but shortly after the wedding, he'd begun working at the local bank with Rosemarie's father, Theo. Daughters Hazel and Ginger came along shortly after, only a year apart, while their sister, Portia, was likely a surprise, born a good eight or nine years later.
The house on Orchard Street originally belonged to Rosemarie's parents. She and John moved in with them, and lived there until the Martins both eventually died. While the girls were growing up, Rosemarie had developed a talent for baking—particularly cookies, which always earned her heavy praise at the Church potluck. With encouragement and word of mouth, Rosemarie's baking eventually turned into a local cookie business, which she ran out of her home. Soon she was providing baskets of homemade cookies for town functions and social gatherings. When John Bloomingdale died suddenly, Rosemarie threw herself into the business even more.
Still, it was all pretty quaint—until one of Rosemarie's creations—the Ginger-Hazelnut-Butterscotch-Biscuit, named for her two daughters at the time—became her most coveted recipe, and eventually, her “secret recipe.” Rumor was, several food companies had approached Rosemarie about buying the recipe, and even considered a product line in her name, but no deal was ever reached. Whether Rosemarie had been considering the offers, or flat-out refused in order to protect the recipe as a family secret, it was impossible to say now. The only thing Vickie Finn did know for sure was that the Ginger-Hazelnut-Butterscotch-Biscuit had been at the heart of the Bloomingdale sister feud.