by Joyce Lavene
“Great!” He looked around the cluttered room as I had a few minutes earlier. “Now where did I put that?”
“Blast and hellfire!” Rafe threw his tricorn hat on the floor. “Get on with it, man! If I’d been alive, I’d have skewered your liver by this time.”
“Quiet!” I mumbled.
“What?” Joe looked up at me. “I know it’s here somewhere. Could you help me look for it? It’s in an old wood box with a crest on it. You can’t miss it.”
So we started looking—under beds, in closets, in the tiny attic and behind every door. Nothing.
“It’s been here all my life,” Joe said. “I know it has to be here. I just can’t remember where I put it.”
“I don’t know where else to look.” I was pretty sure the apricot silk dress wouldn’t be returnable after all the dust and the grimy smears I’d just added to it.
Joe started to say something, then shook his head. “What am I doing? You’re Eleanore’s granddaughter! You can tell me where it is, right?” He rolled up close to me and held out his hands. “Not sure how this works exactly. What do I do?”
“You think about what’s lost,” I told him, taking his hands. They were cold and leathery. “Close your eyes and let’s see if we can find it.”
Being in someone else’s mind searching for a lost possession was like looking through an attic full of memories and pictures. Most of them had nothing to do with what was lost. But if the person could hold the thought of the lost item in the front of their minds, the search was as easy as walking up the stairs and finding the item at the front of the crowded attic.
In Joe’s case, the attic was so overcrowded, I wasn’t sure I could find the old diary he’d hidden. Then suddenly, as he concentrated, there it was. I could see the old, scarred box resting in a pool of sunlight.
I opened my eyes to find him staring at me. “I think I see it.” I glanced around the room again. The box was hidden under a tobacco humidor. “You used to smoke before you had your stroke. I think you left it over here.”
The box and humidor were both near the window where the sunshine was flooding in from the beautiful day outside. I lifted the humidor with one hand and pulled out the box with the other.
On the outside of the box, still intact after so many generations, was the Forester crest. I recognized it from the makeup case William Astor had made for his adopted mother, Suzanne. My dreams seemed to have been right about this. I could hardly wait to see if the magistrate had chronicled his near death at Rafe’s hands—and the revenge he’d taken on the pirate.
I sat down again near Joe. He smiled at me as I opened the box. I pulled out the worn, leather-bound diary. In an instant, emotions from the diary flooded through me.
Wild Johnny Simpson had rummaged through Joe Endy’s parents’home looking for anything he could hold until Joe paid him back the money he owed him. He’d heard Joe talk about the old diary. Johnny laughed as he took it back to the Blue Whale.
He wasn’t laughing as Joe shot him and took what belonged to him before leaving Johnny there to die.
Chapter 46
I came back to myself, slumped in my chair, the diary still in my lap. Joe was staring at me with a horrified expression on his face. I could tell he wasn’t sure what to do.
“Are you okay?” he asked finally.
“I’m fine.” I smiled and opened the diary again—Rafe prodding me to hurry.
“Go to the middle or so,” Rafe demanded. “Find where that bastard murdered me.”
But there was so much more. I could’ve gotten lost in it for days. No wonder the historical society wanted it. The rich history of the area was well chronicled by the urchin saved from death by Lady Suzanne Forester on the beach centuries ago.
She’d educated him—treated him as her son. She had no children of her own and never married. William and his surrogate mother were very close.
She’d died in a fall from a horse. William had been away at the time and though she’d left him a fortune, he never forgave himself.
He never carried her name—her family had forbidden it. But he’d been raised with privileges he’d never dreamed existed when he was surviving on a pirate ship.
After Suzanne’s death in England, William had come back to North Carolina and the Outer Banks where he’d grown up. “Imagine my amazement,” he wrote in the diary, “to find that blackguard Rafe Masterson still alive and married to a fetching wench! He has children, no less. My mind is reeling with possibilities.”
It became William’s obsession to kill the man who’d once tried to kill him. With his money, power and background, it was simple to become a sworn magistrate of the law.
But as such, he had to find a way to get his revenge without stepping beyond the bounds of what he thought of as justice.
He finally gave up on that idea when he realized no one else knew that Rafe was the same pirate who’d pillaged ships along the coast twenty years before. To everyone else, the big, gruff man was a simple trader. William hired two men to set Rafe up as a smuggler, then revealed that he’d also been a pirate.
He’d wanted to torture Rafe but had fallen in love with Mary Masterson. That emotion hadn’t stopped the cruel magistrate from exacting punishment from her in exchange for Rafe’s quick death on the noose.
William detailed every event in his life—his children, failures and successes. He died a very wealthy man with lands and holdings in both Carolinas. Though there had been a seed of evil in him regarding Rafe, he’d lived a good, long life.
“And there it is!” Rafe breathed a sigh near my ear that made me shiver. “There it is in his own bloody hand. I was not guilty of any crime when he hanged me. As my blood relation, I expect you to chronicle this event, girl. Tell that little man who is writing my glorious life story that he was right. I am vindicated.”
I looked up in time to see the pirate begin fading away for what might be the last time. In a moment, there were only rays of sunshine where he’d been.
His trauma was over. I hoped he was reunited with Mary and their children.
But in the meantime, I was sitting across from the man who’d murdered Johnny Simpson more than thirty years ago. There was no way for me to prove it—at least as far as I could tell. It would’ve been better if I’d found the .22 pistol with the diary. What was I supposed to do?
The front door opened and Marissa came inside, a confused expression on her face. “Dae? What are you doing here?”
I wished I could hide the diary. Maybe if I could take it with me, I could think of some way to use it to prove what had happened that fateful night at the Blue Whale. “Hi, Marissa. I just stopped in to bring your grandfather some cookies. Would you like some?”
She closed the door and looked at the diary I was holding. “I’m sorry. I hope my grandfather hasn’t been boring you with his stories. He can run a little long sometimes.”
“I wasn’t boring anybody,” Joe snapped. “Dae likes history. I’m thinking about giving her that old diary. Nobody in my family wants it anymore. You’re not interested.”
Marissa smiled and smoothed Joe’s silver hair. “Of course I’m interested. But we can’t live in the past.”
“Maybe not.” I tried to tread carefully. I was either seconds from keeping the diary—or possibly never seeing it again. “I’m a member of the historical society. There’s so much information in this that could be helpful in piecing together our past. I’d love to have it. On loan, if nothing else.”
Joe made a spitting sound. “I hate those old biddies at the museum! If I’d known you were involved with them, I wouldn’t have let you in the front door!”
“Simmer down, Grandpa. I’m sure the museum could make better use of the diary than using it to hold up that old cigar box.” Marissa smiled at me. “Take it, Dae. The box too. We need to do some cleaning around here anyway. I hope you all get good use of it.”
“You can’t do that,” Joe charged. “That’s mine.”
; “I think Dae should leave now,” Marissa said. “I think you need your nap.”
I didn’t wait to be invited again to take the book. I grabbed the box and stuffed the diary into it, then headed out the door. I felt bad for Joe. It had to be hard to have someone come in and tell you what to do with your possessions.
On the other hand, a man was dead because of Joe. Maybe there was some way to prove it.
I took the box to the Blue Whale. Kevin and I examined both items, then sat and stared at them. “If only the book could talk and its testimony be admissible in court,” I said.
“Tell me again what you saw in the vision,” Kevin instructed. “Even little details.”
I started from the beginning and went through both visions I’d had—the one from the gun that had killed Johnny and the other from the book, which seemed to confirm that my earlier vision had been accurate.
“So Johnny was seated at the desk—just like we found him,” Kevin summed up while he looked at the diary. “He had this box and the old music box on the desk beside him when Joe came to the door and shot him in the back of the head.”
“That’s about it.”
“We should talk to the chief. There could be fingerprints and if we’re lucky, blood spatter from the bullet when it entered Johnny.”
“I don’t think he’d want to do tests on it simply because of what I saw in my vision,” I told him. “Believe me, he and Tuck Riley were not impressed that I knew the gun killed Johnny. They’re only interested in who killed Sandi and Matthew.”
“Nothing on that front, huh?”
“Nope. I know it was a woman. I can feel that much. But—”
“What?” he asked when I paused. “You know it was a woman, go from there.”
“This may sound terrible. I hate to even say it. But Marissa is Joe’s granddaughter. She had access to the gun.”
He shrugged. “That’s saying the gun was at his house and not at some pawnshop for the last twenty years. Why would she be involved with Matthew’s and Mayor Foxx’s deaths?”
“I don’t know.” I looked at the diary again. “It just seems coincidental. Maybe I’m all wrong.”
Kevin put the diary back in the box and put both of them into a plastic bag. “One thing at a time. Before I have to look for another manager, let’s see if we can pin Johnny’s murder on someone.”
“I’m game if you are. I just thought I’d mention that Sheriff Riley and Chief Michaels weren’t very interested in that aspect.”
But Kevin was adamant. We drove to the chief’s house, where he’d just sat down to chicken and dumplings for supper.
“I can’t believe you tracked me down to show me an old book,” he said, not bothering to get up from the table. “Bring it to the police station tomorrow morning. Maybe we can waste some time finding Wild Johnny’s killer before we go out and look for the important killer who’s still walking the streets of Duck.”
“I know you want to collar whoever killed Mayor Foxx and Matthew Wright,” Kevin said. “But Dae risked her life for whatever information she could get from that pistol. She says there’s something that ties this diary to that murder. I think you owe her an investigation.”
Chief Michaels looked painfully at his dinner. “All right. I suppose this chicken can be warmed up. I’ll take your book down to the county and let them have a look at it.”
I reminded Kevin on our way out that I’d never said there was any evidence on the diary or the box. “That was your idea.”
He grinned. “But the chief doesn’t feel guilty about what happened to me. He was willing to listen, since he still feels bad about asking you to hold the gun. Which, by the way, was a really bad idea.”
“I know. But somebody had to do it. And I don’t know anyone else around here who does that kind of thing—except me.”
He put his arm around my shoulder as we walked away from the chief’s house. “Next time, there might not be anyone who does that kind of thing.”
“Maybe. But holding the diary was almost as bad. I wouldn’t have expected it—and neither would you.”
“That’s true enough. I don’t have anyone staying at the inn tonight. Let’s go grab some dinner at Wild Stallions. You get to buy since you ignored my important warnings about the gun.”
“Is that how it works?” I laughed at him. “I think our relationship might be a little one sided in that case.”
Chapter 47
Three days later, the ME in Manteo had compared Wild Johnny’s blood sample to the bloodstains left on the diary and the box. Not only was it a match, but when the sheriff picked up Joe Endy, his fingerprints were actually sealed in the blood on the box. Joe’s fingerprints were also on the music box that had become police evidence after we’d found Johnny’s body last year.
It was an old murder, but once it was solved, Chief Michaels and Sheriff Riley were glad to take credit for putting the pieces together. I heard they’d held a press conference and a few TV reporters had shown up for it. They had to end the press conference abruptly, however, when one of the reporters started asking rude questions about the recent murders and why the law enforcement team had been unable to solve them.
Gramps told me Chief Michaels had questioned Marissa about Sandi’s murder, since she was at the Blue Whale the night of the storm and presumably had access to the pistol. But Joe signed a sworn statement that he’d sold the gun to a friend who’d died a few years back. He said he hadn’t seen it since then. He also vouched for Marissa—saying she was with him when Matthew was killed. Marissa also passed a polygraph test. She was cleared of any wrongdoing.
I had to admit I was glad she wasn’t the killer. She continued working as Kevin’s manager, though she wasn’t as friendly toward me. The coldness I saw when I looked in her eyes made an arctic blast seem warm in comparison.
I didn’t blame her. Her grandfather was going to prison—if he survived the county jail until then. He was an old, sick man. I regretted that I’d been the one to learn his most desperate secret. Justice was hard to understand sometimes. Gramps said that was the pirate in my nature talking.
The town of Duck held its monthly town council meeting. The room was packed since three weeks had passed since the murders and the police had yet to arrest a suspect. Shawn Foxx and his girlfriend, Judy Starnes, were still under investigation, but Chief Michaels wasn’t able to make anything stick.
The chief gave a full report, which was met with a few rude remarks from otherwise polite Duck citizens. I had to call for order in the room. It seemed ironic to me that the council’s biggest heckler, Joe Endy, was missing this particular meeting because he was behind bars. I could only wonder what he’d have to say about inept police work.
I introduced a motion to reimburse Kevin for the money he’d spent housing and feeding so many people after the storm. The rest of the council agreed with me and passed a motion to give him the money and the town’s thanks. The only dissenting voice belonged to Mad Dog. I was pretty sure that was more to disagree with me than anything else.
Mad Dog had argued that we should wait for the county to pay Kevin. We all knew this could take a lot longer. Even Mad Dog agreed with that. But we had a precedent for helping town businesses through similar circumstances and that’s what got us through.
We began getting more phone calls at town hall regarding the closed coffee shop and bookstore than we had about storm cleanup. Nancy said that was a good thing because it meant the town was getting back to normal.
I happened to be friends with Phil’s sister on Facebook. We chatted about him closing the coffee shop for good. She was surprised, since she’d been planning to move away from Atlanta anyway. Her suggestion—that she might like to help run the bookstore—was met with relief from Phil, who’d dreaded leaving but had seen no other way. They were already working together on remodeling and swore I’d saved the day. It couldn’t hurt my reelection campaign.
The publicity from the storm and the murders resulted in a nic
e buildup of tourists. It wasn’t exactly the kind of attention Duck needed—but I didn’t hear anyone complain. The boardwalk was full of shoppers every day, and they spent a lot of money, even in Missing Pieces. August Grandin gave me a thumbs-up every time I saw him, and Cody from Wild Stallions occasionally threw a free lunch my way. Not that I’d had a hand in bringing the tourists—but I wouldn’t argue that point either.
I was at Kevin’s early Thursday morning eating homemade blackberry jam and corn muffins for breakfast. Marissa was going to her grandfather’s arraignment hearing that morning. She didn’t speak, giving me a diamond-hard look as she passed me in the doorway on the way out.
“She’s trying to get him out on bail since he’s old and not in good health,” Kevin told me. “He’s her only living relative and not exactly a threat or flight risk. I think the DA will work with her. She’s got Joe’s house to use as collateral for a bond.”
“Mrs. Stanley told me that Marissa is suing the museum to get the diary back.” I shrugged. “I’m glad I signed it over to them so it’s their property when the evidence from the trial is released. I can always look at it over there. Joe said Marissa wasn’t interested in it. That must count for something.”
“I don’t know. She could argue that she didn’t mean that you could keep it—much less sign it over to the museum.” He poured both of us more coffee. “I guess we’ll see. In the meantime, I’m glad she stayed here. I know she needs the job, and I need her. I don’t know how I got along without her.”
“Oh? That makes me feel a little insecure.”
“You look insecure.” He reached across the table and wiped jam from my cheek. “But I’m glad you could come over for a few hours since she has to be away. Everything came together at one time—food delivery, ballroom repair and upstairs carpet cleaning. Being an innkeeper has its drawbacks.”
“I don’t mind helping. You’re always helping me.”