Inside, she paused briefly to give her eyes time to adjust to the softer light. She had been in there a couple of times before, to peruse the exhibits, models, and memorabilia. Most impressive were the scaled-down models of the lighthouse station, including one depicting all the buildings and the surrounding landscape that occupied a large table at the center of the main room.
Candy always felt as if she were stepping back in time when she entered the Keeper’s Quarters. The place had the smell of an old home, and the bare, worn wooden floor looked much as it must have in the mid eighteen hundreds. The building’s windows were small, yet from here they provided breathtaking views of the sea just outside. Candy could hear the rush and tumble of the ocean just beyond the walls, mingling with the hushed voices of visitors as they toured the exhibits, which were located on both floors of the building.
To her left was a table with pamphlets and brochures on it, and just beyond that a long wooden counter, behind which sat a grizzled old gentleman with a scruffy white beard, wearing a patched cardigan sweater and a battered captain’s cap. He gave her a suspicious eye as she walked up to the counter.
“Hello,” she said pleasantly.
“Hello yerself, young lady,” said the gentleman, not completely unfriendly.
“I’m, um, Candy Holliday. With the Cape Crier?” She said it almost as a question. “And, um, I wonder, is the museum director around? I have just a few quick questions for her.”
“Candy Holliday, are you?” said the old gentleman, obviously a volunteer who manned the desk. “Well, I’ve heard about you. You write that column, don’t you? That community column?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, I’ve read it,” he said gruffly. “Yup, I’ve read it. You’ll have to sign in.”
He pushed an open register book toward her. “Everyone signs the log book. It’s the rule around here. Don’t matter where you come from — you have to sign it.” He slapped a pen down on the counter.
Candy gave him an amused look as she picked up the pen, signed her name, and, beside that, wrote C. W. under the Hometown column heading. As she added the date at the end of the line, she noticed that other visitors who had signed in today had come from a diverse range of places, including towns in New York, Pennsylvania, Colorado, and even California.
“My name’s Mike, by the way,” the old gentleman continued. “Captain Mike, they call me around here. I know your dad. We’ve played poker a few times. I’ve lost some money to him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Hopefully you’ll win it back someday.”
Mike snorted. “Not likely. Doc’s a tough player. Merciless, just like that sea out there. He would have made a good lobsterman. I’ll tell Charlotte you’re here. She’s a busy woman, you know. Always in a hurry.”
“I’m sure she is. I promise I won’t keep her long.”
That seemed to appease Mike, and with a grunt he tottered off toward an office at the opposite side of the building.
As Candy waited, she wandered around for a quick look at the museum’s facilities and exhibits. Behind and to the left of the reception desk was a long, dark hallway that led to the base of the tower. Nearby, attached to the wall, a TV screen showed a video of the interior of the tower, including the spiral iron staircase and the view from the outside iron watch deck at the top. Hanging on the wall beside the TV was a sign that read VISITORS ARE NOT ALLOWED ENTRY TO THE LIGHTHOUSE TOWER. At the end of the hallway was a white wooden door, apparently the entrance to the tower, and apparently locked.
Candy moved to her right, toward an open doorway, which led to another room at the rear of the cottage, facing the sea. A sign beside the door told her the room re-created the living quarters of the lightkeeper and his family as they might have appeared in the late eighteen hundreds. Candy looked in.
The room was not richly decorated but looked comfortable, with hardwood floors, dark green wainscoting with painted beige walls above, and simple furniture. To one side was a kitchen table next to an old black stove. Dishes, glasses, pots, and pans sat on open shelves. On the right side of the room, a large fireplace was surrounded by several padded chairs, including a rocking chair. A rolltop desk brimming with books, maps, and papers sat in one corner. Victorian lights and decorating accents gave the room a charming appearance.
Adding an even more realistic ambience were the lifesize mannequins standing in for the lightkeeper and his family. Dressed in period costumes, the mannequins were arranged around the room as they might have appeared on a cozy afternoon in the Keeper’s Quarters. The lightkeeper, complete with beard and moustache, sat in the rocking chair, an open nautical book upside down over his knee and a pipe on a nearby table, while his wife sat across from him mending a garment and two children played a game on the rug in front of the fireplace.
“Hello, Candy,” said a voice behind her. She turned. A petite, dark-haired, somewhat disheveled woman wearing a frown and a purple print dress approached from across the room, her thick-heeled shoes rapping solidly on the wooden floor. She extended her hand as she came forward. “I’m Charlotte Depew, the museum’s director and advisor to the historical society.”
“Hello, Charlotte. Nice to finally meet you.”
“And you, Candy.” They shook hands in a businesslike manner. Charlotte’s hands were small, but her handshake was surprisingly firm, Candy noticed.
“Yes, we’ve talked on the phone a few times,” the director said, “but it’s nice to finally put a face to a voice. Your column is very informative. We read it whenever we get a chance. Don’t we, Captain Mike?”
“That we do. I’ve read it,” Mike said adamantly as he took his place behind the counter. “Yup, I’ve read it.”
“Mike’s a longtime volunteer here,” Charlotte said. “He always goes above and beyond the call of duty. Don’t you, Captain Mike?”
He gave her a halfhearted wave.
“I just don’t know what we’d do without our volunteers,” Charlotte continued. “There always seems to be too much to do around here. Without their help, we’d never get anything done. I see you were checking out our new display.” She motioned toward the lightkeeper and his family.
“Oh... yes. It’s very well done.”
“You know, I created those costumes and made the wigs myself. Everything is authentic, either originals or replicas based on photographs we have in our archives. It took us nearly six months to assemble all the components for this display.”
“You must be very proud of it,” Candy said.
“Yes... well, of course we are. A lot of people put in a lot of hard work on this. I’m glad you finally have a chance to see it. We’ve been hoping you would stop by soon so we could show it off. Perhaps you can write up something about it in the paper.” She seemed a bit jittery and touched at her somewhat askew hair, trying to tuck a few loose strands back into place.
“Oh, sure, that would be great. In fact, that’s why I came around. I wanted to talk to you about your new exhibits and displays, special programs you might have coming up, that sort of thing. Of course,” Candy added, seeing Charlotte glance surreptitiously at her watch, “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time. I probably should have called ahead.”
Charlotte was silent for a moment. “Yes, well, we are very busy around here today, with the upcoming holiday weekend and all. We have a few special projects going on Saturday and Sunday for our guests.”
“She’s very busy,” Captain Mike called from across the room.
Candy gave him an indulgent smile.
“But as long as you’re here,” Charlotte continued, “I suppose I could spare a few minutes. And I do have some materials I can give you. A recently printed brochure might be helpful. Why don’t we go into my office?”
She motioned the way, and Candy started off, walking past a number of exhibits, including a large diorama showing the various stages in the construction of the lighthouse station, from earliest days to the present. On the wall
s hung period photographs and drawings of the lighthouse and surrounding buildings. In one corner stood a Fresnel light, its beehive shape rising more than six feet above its platform. Candy stopped to admire it, and Charlotte paused to explain.
“The light’s surface is comprised of hundreds of glass prisms arranged in a metal framework,” she told Candy, sounding as if she had repeated the words a thousand times. “The prisms are arranged to magnify and bend the light from a source such as a flame into a single concentrated beam. This particular light can be seen more than twenty miles out at sea, all the way to the horizon. And as you can see, it’s not only highly effective at what it does, but it’s also a work of art.”
“It’s certainly impressive,” Candy said before she turned and followed Charlotte into her small office tucked into a corner of the building.
“Please, have a seat.” Charlotte motioned Candy toward a chair and took her own seat behind her tidy desk. “Have you been to our museum before?”
“Oh, sure, a couple of times.” As she spoke, Candy reached into her purse for her reporter’s notebook and pen. Crossing her legs at the knee, she leaned forward attentively in her chair, brushing back her hair. “But it’s been a while, I must confess. Probably a year or two, if I remember correctly. That’s why I stopped by today. I’m always looking for stories for my column.”
Although she had been the community columnist for the better part of a year now, she still loved saying those words. It always made her feel a little special, and it was a great way to start a conversation.
But Charlotte didn’t seem particularly impressed or chatty. Instead, she gave Candy a look that showed annoyance more than anything else, but it quickly slipped away as she turned professional, launching into what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. “Well, we do have several programs going on throughout the summer. We have a variety of museum workshops coming up for children, teens, and adults. For the third year, we’re offering an internship program here at the Keeper’s Quarters for our local high school seniors and college students. We’re very excited about that. We’ll host three weekend sessions in June and July for prospective volunteers. We’re currently sending out announcements for that. And the historical society is sponsoring an art and architecture camp this summer for middle schoolers, which is being spearheaded by Wanda Boyle.”
“Ahh.” Candy’s eyes brightened as she tapped her bottom lip with the end of her pen. “Now that sounds very exciting. Can you tell me more about that particular program?”
Charlotte checked her watch again and forced a smile intended to demonstrate her patience. “Of course. As you may know, we’ve had a number of famous architects design homes here in Cape Willington. John Calvin Stevens is probably the most well-known. He designed two homes in town and did some work out at Pruitt Manor. Charles Bulfinch, who designed the state capitol, also designed our original Town Hall, though that’s burned down, of course, but we still have many images of it in our historical archives. William Hatch Wharff, who was born up in Guilford but spent most of his time on the West Coast — he designed more than a hundred buildings in Berkeley and around San Francisco in the early part of the twentieth century — was involved in designing a couple of buildings along Ocean Avenue during the early part of his career. And, of course, several homes in town were designed by John Patrick Mulroy. So we have quite an architectural history here.”
“Fascinating. Just fascinating.” Candy propped her elbow on her knee and planted her chin in the palm of her hand. “I’d love to hear more about that — perhaps something about Wanda’s involvement in putting the program together?”
“Well, I can show you an outline of the program, and I’ll see if I can get Wanda’s input. I think I have that file right here.”
As Charlotte reached toward a short stack of papers in a mahogany wood tray on a corner of her desk, she looked up and past Candy’s shoulder. “Oh, well, better yet, you can talk to her yourself. Here she is.”
Charlotte rose and motioned to a woman standing in the office doorway.
“Candy, you know Wanda Boyle, don’t you?”
Eight
Candy felt a sudden knot in her stomach as she turned to face the woman behind her. This was the moment she’d been hoping to avoid for at least a while longer — well, forever, if truth be told. But this was a small town. It was next to impossible to avoid someone you wanted to avoid. Now she’d just have to make the best of it.
Tentatively she rose. “Oh, hi.”
She stood uneasily, not sure what to say or do next. She still held the notebook in one hand and the pen in the other, so she wiggled the pen rapidly between her fingers and forced a smile.
Wanda studied her with a disapproving expression pasted on her hard-edged face, as if she’d just discovered Candy doing something she shouldn’t. She was a tall woman, with broad shoulders and a big frame she carried fairly well. Her body flared around the bust, waist, and hips, but then narrowed to rather petite legs, which were ensconced in form-fitting dark gray slacks. She wore bright yellow pumps, open at the toes to show off her neatly clipped nails, painted bright red. They matched her flaming red shoulder-length hair, which was savagely tossed back, as if she had been swatting at it for hours. Her waist-length beige jacket, worn over a white blouse, looked somewhat rumpled, Candy noticed, with heavy creases at the elbows. The slacks were heavily creased around the upper thighs and knees as well. She must have been sitting all morning and afternoon, doing... something or other, Candy thought.
Wanda held a sheaf of papers in one hand and had tucked a folder under an arm. On her chest, she wore a large, bright blue button that read CAPE WILLINGTON WELCOMING COMMITTEE and WANDA BOYLE, CHAIRWOMAN around the edges, circling a big, bold-lettered WELCOME TO CAPE! in the center.
She looked very busy.
For several long moments she stood silently in the doorway. Obviously she’d been unaware that Charlotte had a visitor, and she didn’t seem at all pleased when that visitor turned out to be Candy Holliday.
Candy waited cautiously, letting out a breath, her gaze fixed on the other woman. She noticed that Wanda had a thin, barely visible scar on her upper lip. And puffy skin around her jowls. And big hands — like sides of beef, Candy thought.
For an instant an image raced through her mind of another pair of thick hands wrapped around her neck, attempting to crush the life from her as the storm raged around them. But she pushed that disturbing thought aside, knowing that was in the past, and this was the present, and Wanda would never attack her like that.
Would she?
Finally Wanda spoke, her voice low and husky. “We’ve met. Haven’t we, Candy?” She sounded completely unemotional, as if she were ordering a hamburger and fries at a takeout window.
“Yes, well, that’s true, we have.” Several times, Candy recollected, and most of them were not pleasant encounters.
Their first meeting, at a school-related bake sale shortly after Candy had become the community correspondent, was cordial enough, though she’d overheard Wanda taking some verbal potshots at her even then. Candy was “from away,” Wanda had none-too-discreetly told one of the members of her close-knit group of friends, a woman named Carol McKaskie. Wanda had drawn a few other women into their conversation and chattered in low tones, often glancing Candy’s way and often stifling laughter, making her feel uncomfortable. Candy had heard other words drifting her way that day from Wanda’s group — words like unqualified and undeserving. She had even heard one of them call her a nobody.
Candy had just been trying to do her job, to meet people in town and cover the event, and she had been hurt and confused until she told Maggie about it.
“Oh, they’re just jealous old biddies,” Maggie said that evening when Candy had cried on her shoulder. “Don’t listen to them, honey. They’re just frustrated with their small, boring lives. They think they run this town, but most people just ignore them.”
That had made Candy feel a little better, but the n
egative vibes from Wanda had not ceased. In the months since, they had run into each other a few more times, at public events around town, and the meetings had always been uncomfortable for Candy, as Wanda continued to throw evil looks and snarky comments her way.
Candy had had no real explanation for Wanda’s hostile behavior, until Ben finally explained it to her.
“She wanted your job,” he had told her just a few months ago, on a wintry day in late February when she was up in the office following her most recent disastrous encounter with Wanda at a town meeting. “She called me right after I offered the job to you last summer. She told me, quite seriously, that she thought she was the best-qualified person in town to take over for Sapphire, but I said I’d already made a decision.” He’d shaken his head and chuckled. “To be honest, she was pretty peeved. She thought I should have held an open call for the job, posted the opening, that sort of thing. She told me she thought I’d mishandled the whole situation. Well, of course, I disagreed with her and told her I’d hired the right person, which didn’t help the situation much. She was even more upset when she found out who got the job.”
“So that’s why she’s been so mad at me,” Candy had said dejectedly to Ben at the time.
“She’s mad at both of us. But I wouldn’t worry about her. She’s harmless.”
“Harmless?” Candy had felt a little peeved herself. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“To be honest, it never came up — and you never asked.”
That was true. And at least she finally knew the reason behind Wanda’s rude and resentful behavior. “Just give it a little time,” Ben had told her that day. “She’ll eventually cool off.”
But his prediction had not come true, and the situation actually worsened, due to an oversight on Candy’s part. In one of her articles about a local fishing tournament for kids, written hastily to meet a tight deadline, Candy had inadvertently left out the name of Wanda’s son, Bryan. On the day the paper came out, all hell had broken loose around the office, and Candy found herself at the middle of a firestorm, accused of purposely leaving out Bryan’s name and publicly embarrassing the Boyle family. Wanda had called her personally to complain and then had called Ben, asking him to fire Candy, destroy all remaining copies of the paper, and reprint the issue with the corrected text.
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