Prologue to Murder

by Lauren Elliott

  She crossed the uncluttered room, heading directly for the bundle of handwritten and typed notepapers on the desktop, and glanced through them. From what she could tell through her overtired mind, they were some of June’s notes for the first draft. Disheartened at not finding the completed manuscript, she scooped them up in her arms and then noticed the shelf-lined walls filled with aged leather-bound books. She made a mental note to investigate further on another day and headed for her bedroom.

  Addie sat cross-legged on her bed, the notes in her lap. She searched through them, jotting down her own notes and separating pages she felt held vital clues as to what may have been in her original book. She squinted at the blurring text in front of her and rubbed her stinging eyes, but her determination increased with each page read. Marc had completely rejected her theory about a tunnel system underneath the town. He also had continued to remind her that he was the cop, not her, and to stay out of any future investigations unless invited. She would rise to his challenge. He’d left her with no alternative but to continue the search. No, she wasn’t a cop, but she was the researcher, and she’d prove him wrong. If she happened to solve a mystery, or even a murder, at the same time, so be it.

  Addie swept her hand at the buzzing sound in her ear, but it continued to torment her. She cracked one eye open, and shot upright, sending the notepapers scattered over her fluttering to the floor. The incessant buzzing persisted. She scanned the room, looking for its source. Her cell phone on the bedside table rang, and she jumped, fumbling it like a wet football before she managed to save it from clattering onto the hardwood floor.

  “Hello . . . Simon? . . . Why, where are you? . . . At my front door . . . really? . . . Okay, I’ll be right down.”

  She clicked off the call and stumbled half-awake down the stairs, aware the relentless buzzing noise had stopped. She shook her dull head. Of course—it had been the old-fashioned doorbell. She couldn’t remember having heard it before, as most of her unexpected guests usually just broke in. She opened the door and stifled a yawn as a beaming-faced man swept past her into the foyer, carrying two cups of steaming brew. She snatched one of the cups from Simon’s hand as he passed, took a sip, sighed, and smiled with satisfaction.

  “Glad I caught you before you headed to your store. Paige told me you might still be here.”

  She squinted at him. “What on earth are you doing here at this time of day, and why is she at the store so early?”

  “Early? It’s past ten.”

  “What!” Addie scrubbed her hands over her face. “Not again,” she moaned. “But I knew there was a reason why I hired Paige.”

  “Why? Because she’s reliable, conscientious, a pure delight, a darn good salesperson, and loyal?”

  “Yeah, everything I’m not apparently.”

  He ruffled her hair. “Don’t beat yourself up, by the look of that rat’s nest you’re sporting on your head today. It looks like the bear you wrested last night already tried that,” he said, laughing, and made himself comfortable on the sofa, in her spot. He scanned her from head to toe. “Please tell me why you’re still wearing yesterday’s clothes and looking like . . . well . . . how you do this morning? I’m thinking this might be a great story.” His eyes flashed with amusement.

  She ran her hand through her hair tangles and winced, but said nothing.

  “Did you have company after we left?” He sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim of the cup.

  Her face flushed. “No, I did not, and if I did, it would be none of your business, would it? Is that why you’re here? Are you spying on me?”

  He laughed and set his cup on the coffee table. “No, I have a few things to show you.” He pulled some booklets and brochures from his jacket pocket and set them on the table beside his cup.

  She crossed her arms and peered at them from the living room door. “What are those?”

  “You’ll have to come over here and see, won’t you?” He sat back, a smug look on his face.

  She huffed and walked to the table and picked up the top booklet. She turned it over in her hand and looked blankly at him. “What is this?”

  “I have to admit that when you first told me your ideas, I was skeptical. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good conspiracy theory as much as the next person, but hidden tunnels and pirate treasure all leading to the murder of a sweet librarian?” He grimaced. “Well, it seemed way too out there. Then, let’s just say that after hearing the whole story last night over dinner, my curiosity was piqued, and I decided to make a stop at the Greyborne Harbor Lighthouse Museum first thing this morning, and”—he waved his hand over the booklets—“now, I’m intrigued.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that I finally got your attention.” She chuckled and picked up the rest of the booklets from the table.

  “You got my attention a long time ago.” He winked.

  Her cheeks grew hot, any witty comeback that should have come to mind caught in her tight throat. Instead, she studied the booklet in her hand.

  “But seriously,” he said, rising to his feet, “the reason I came by was because I have a one o’clock meeting at the DA’s office in Salem this afternoon.”

  “Thanks for telling me, I guess.” She cursed the blush she couldn’t suppress. It wouldn’t be so bad, but it left her blotchy. If only she were a pretty blusher, she thought ruefully as his lips spread into a tantalizing grin.

  “I guess what I’m trying to say is, do you want to come with me?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders, “a couple of the best museums of pirate history in New England are apparently located there.”

  “Oh, I see. So, you stop in at the museum here in town and now you’re suddenly an expert?”

  “No, but it was the manager at the one here who told me that.”

  “I wonder if that’s the one Dorothy was taking about. You know . . . I might just go with you. Just let me text Paige and tell her I won’t be in today.” She pulled her phone from her pocket, her fingers clicking across the keyboard. She kept her eyes on the screen, waiting for a reply, aware that he was watching her every move. “Okay, done.” She slipped the phone back into her pocket. “Come up to my bedroom with me for a minute.” She turned and headed for the staircase, looking back at him from the bottom step. “Well, are you coming?”

  He made his way to the stairs. “All right, if you insist, then, but just so you know,” he said, his twinkling eyes capturing hers, “it usually takes a bit longer than a minute.”

  “No, not that.” She swatted at him. “I have something to show you that I found in the attic last night after you guys left.”

  His face dropped, and she shook her head.

  She led him to her bedroom. He hovered at the door.

  “Come in—nothing in here will bite you.”

  “Well, that’s disappointing.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a faint smile.

  “Men.” She rolled her eyes, then pointed to the notepapers and bent down to retrieve those that had drifted to the floor. “These are June’s earlier notes, preceding even the ones that Jeanie gave me that were stolen from my shop.”

  Simon took a pile of them from her hands. “What did you find out?” He glanced through them. “Any clues to a treasure or a possible murder suspect?”

  “Not so far, but I have learned a lot of the early history of Greyborne Harbor that I wasn’t aware of. Quite fascinating, actually.” She sat down on the edge of the bed.

  He sat beside her, scanning one of the pages in his hand. “This one talks about somebody named Gerald Greyborne?”

  “Yes, he was my great-great-great-something grandfather, a merchant sea captain credited for starting the actual town of Greyborne Harbor.”

  “So he was the first person to settle here?” He looked back at the page.

  “No, not the first, from what I could gather. When he brought his ship into our cove as a refuge from a hurricane, there
were already a number of other ships here. You know, pirate ships and merchant ships. Apparently, this harbor had been used for over two hundred years before that as a safe haven from the Atlantic hurricanes and storms and the British navy patrol ships.”

  “Then how did it become known as Greyborne Harbor? Why not Smuggler’s Cove or something?”

  “Good point. I guess because he was the first to take it from a pirate and privateer haven and make it an actual town.”

  “Sounds intriguing and dangerous.”

  “Yes, it would have been in those early days. I find it interesting, as it seems Gerald saw potential here to start a legitimate business, gave up his days as a seafaring merchant, set up shop as a trader, and opened a mercantile store. It said on this page, I think”—she pointed to one on Simon’s lap—“that there was always an abundance of sailors seeking refuge in the cove. Either they were here because it was off the British navy’s radar, which was why the pirates frequented it, or because of a storm haven. They all needed supplies, and because of his shipping business, he had contacts in Boston, Salem, and along most of the East Coast, so he saw it as an untapped gold mine.”

  “So he wasn’t the first settler, so to speak.”

  “No, not really, but he was the first to build a permanent home here.”

  “This house?”

  “No, he built a small house on this site away from the squalor below, something more suitable for his wife and children back in England to move into. This house eventually replaced the original one as the family trading business flourished.”

  “Yeah, I can understand why he chose to build up here.” Simon read the pages in front of him. “Pirates had a reputation for living a rough life, and if the harbor was teeming with sailors and pirates, it was probably not the place for a British merchant’s wife and children.”

  “Definitely not, if all the stories are even half-true,” she chuckled. “It sounds like it wasn’t long after he made the move up here and brought his family over that other merchants from the docks followed, like Henry Davenport. Who worked with the pirates but had tried to pass himself off as a regular merchant by opening an ale house in the dock area.”

  “So that made your ancestor the first permanent resident of the Harbor, giving it the name. Amazing. I love digging into the past. I sometimes wonder if I should have been an archaeologist instead of a doctor.”

  Addie stretched her legs and looked at the bedside clock. “What time is your meeting again?”

  Simon stood up and stacked the papers on the bedside table. “It’s at one, so you’d better jump in the shower and get dressed . . . or at least maybe change clothes . . . so we have time to stop for lunch first.”

  “Okay.” She grabbed her robe and headed to the bathroom. “Go ahead and make a coffee if you want one. I won’t be long.”

  * * *

  She bounced into the living room, freshly showered and wearing what she hoped was appropriate for spending an afternoon searching the archives of a small pirate museum. Simon took one look at her pink body-hugging V-neck tunic sweater and slim-fitting cropped jeans. The look in his eyes told her he approved of her fashion choice. It dawned on her that this was the first time he’d seen her out of her work attire, which usually consisted of a tunic blouse, boyfriend jacket, and slim-fit slacks that didn’t hug her curves to this extent.

  “Just let me text Paige and make sure all’s well on the store front, and then we can be off.” She pulled her cell out of her hobo-style handbag.

  Simon settled back onto the sofa and flipped through the Lighthouse Museum booklets and brochures. Addie watched him out of the corner of her eye as she messaged Paige and waited for her reply. When it came back, the color drained from her face, and she sat down on the arm of the sofa. Her heart pounded in her throat, and her eyes burned with the tears she fought back.

  He looked up at her, his brow cocked. “You look worried. Is everything okay?”

  She took a deep breath. “Well, as okay as it can be when no customers have been in yet.”

  He placed his hand on her knee and gave it a pat. “I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s going to get better, don’t worry.”

  “I doubt it.” She snapped off her phone and shoved it into her jeans pocket. “At least not until the real killer is caught, because apparently there were more accusations made against me in Miss Newsy’s column this morning.”

  “Oh, no.” His face crumbled. “What was it this time?”

  “The search warrant and me being taken into the police station, of course.” She jumped up and walked toward the window. The early-morning fog had burned off, leaving the land to the sun’s ownership. If only the fog in her life would vanish. For good. “She asked readers why the police would bother to issue one if they didn’t suspect a fire to be burning where they’d found the smoke, or something just as ridiculous.” Addie all but spat out her words.

  “I guess you’re not up for an adventure today, then?”

  She straightened her shoulders, tilted her chin up, and turned on her heel. “Nope, it’s just what I need—a reprieve from all that. And it gives me even more motivation to figure this whole mess out.” She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “Well, come on. We don’t have all day.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Addie stretched out her long legs and marveled at the interior features of Simon’s Telsa Roadster. The leather seat cradled her body like a custom-made glove. She snuggled in and looked forward to the thirty-minute drive to Salem as he guided the car effortlessly along the twists and turns of the coastal highway. She understood now why he had been tempted into such a luxury purchase.

  She glanced down at her lap, where she still had the brochures that Simon had picked up from the Greyborne Harbor Lighthouse Museum, and began perusing them. Her heart raced. “Did you know that Dixie Bull was one of the first known New England pirates?” She jabbed a finger at the pamphlet. “It says here that in 1623, he started plundering trading vessels and attacking trading posts all along the New England coast, and then in 1633, he just disappeared, never to be heard from again.”

  Her eyes widened. Each brochure she held talked about the waters from off of Boston’s North Shore all the way to Canada as being a favorite area for numerous pirates to roam. Better yet, they all hinted that since many of them were originally New Englanders and New Yorkers, they had buried the treasures they’d acquired, up and down the North East Coast, and it was still waiting to be dug up.

  “Just think,” she sighed wistfully, resting her forehead on the cool side window and looking out at the rugged coastline below them, “pirates like Dixie Bull, Black Sam Bellamy, Ned Low, William Kidd, and Jack Quelch used to roam these very waters.”

  “You’re forgetting the most notorious of all.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Blackbeard.”

  She laughed and looked down at the museum folder. “Yes, he was about as bad as they came. Did you know that in 1691, he buried a bunch of silver bars off of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, that’ve never been found?”

  “I bet that you’re thinking he wasn’t the only one.” Simon glanced sideways at her and laughed.

  “Well, it is logical. They were wanted men, for the most part, unless they were registered as privateers for the British, and to be caught with a hold full of looted treasure would have meant death. Maybe Dixie Bull had stashes somewhere and that’s what he retired on—you know, withdrawals from his cave bank accounts.”

  “I guess anything is possible.”

  “Yes, it is. And don’t forget about Thomas Veal. It was mentioned in one of these that he stashed fortunes in more than one spot along this coast.”

  “I’m thinking you have a bit of treasure hunters’ fever.”

  “Lord knows there are enough coves and caves. It must have made the pirates downright giddy,” she said, her eyes following a small sailing craft dancing with the wind on the waters below.

  When they arrived in Salem,
Simon’s adept driving skills came in handy as he maneuvered through the narrow streets with ease and grace. Addie’s gape flitted from one attraction to the next as she tried to take in all the sites of the historical buildings and the Essex Street Pedestrian Mall. “Look, it’s the Witch History Museum,” she squealed, grinning.

  “It’s too bad I have to work this evening. Otherwise, we could do some sightseeing later. Maybe we’ll have to come back another day.” Simon smiled at her as he slipped neatly into a street-side parking spot.

  “Or two.” Addie wriggled in her seat and then stopped. “I didn’t mean to imply an overnighter.” She felt her cheeks burning.

  Simon chuckled as he turned off the ignition. “A guy can always hope, but don’t worry. I know what you meant. There’s a lot to do here, and one day . . . or two days”—a slight smile pulled at the corner of his lip—“we’ll explore it together. But first we just have enough time to eat before my appointment.”

  Lunch passed too quickly for Addie. She devoured her delicious meal while chatting aimlessly with Simon. Her attention focused on the decor and quaintness of the small, red, First Period–styled building of the restaurant. All too soon, it was over, and they were back in the car, making their way through the busy tourist traffic to one of the pirate museums.

  “There’s no parking spaces along here, so I’ll drop you off out in front.” Simon pulled over. “I’ll pick you up somewhere out here. Hopefully, I’ll be able to find a parking spot by then.”

  “No problem. I’ll watch for you.” Addie slipped open the door and stepped out.

  “I shouldn’t be much more than an hour. That should give you plenty of time; if not, I’ll wait in the car. It’ll give me a few minutes to catch up on some emails from the hospital, so don’t rush because of me.” Simon waved as he pulled back out into traffic.

  Addie dashed to the sidewalk and hopped up on the curb, noting that the hem of her jeans had crawled up her calf. She stumbled forward, dancing on one foot as she tried to straighten it, and smacked right into a pair of navy blue trousers. She looked up. “Marc?”