by A. L. Jambor
"Was your grandmother close to Isabelle?"
"Close enough, I guess. She knew her mama."
"What was she like?"
Greta snipped off a few curls. "Grandma didn't like her."
"Really? Why?"
Mari watched Greta in the mirror. The hairdresser paused and pursed her lips.
"She said she was weird. That's all I remember."
Mari sighed as she watched Greta snip off another curl.
"Did anyone ever find out what happened to the baby?" Mari asked.
"Baby? Was there a baby?"
"Charlotte was pregnant and someone took the baby."
Greta made a face and shook her head. "That's awful."
"Your grandma never mentioned that?"
"No."
"Did she know Jack Womack?"
Greta stopped cutting and looked in the mirror. "That name doesn't ring a bell."
"He went out with Isabelle, but he was older."
"Never heard of him, but Grandma said Isabelle had lots of boyfriends. She was real popular."
Mari caught Greta's eye in the mirror. "Do you believe Celia Morton killed Charlotte?"
Greta held the scissors above Mari's head. "Grandma told me once that Celia didn't look like she could take Charlotte."
"What, like in a fight?"
Greta nodded. "She was a little thing." Greta pursed her lips again. "Grandma didn't like Isabelle's dad, though. He was still around when I was a kid and she always told me not to go into Morton's. She said that old man had a mean streak and he didn't like kids."
She stopped cutting and looked at Mari in the mirror. "Did you know that Isabelle went to live near that nuthouse in Oceanville to be near her mama?"
"I'd heard that."
Greta stopped to answer the phone, leaving Mari to think about Carl Morton. Greta put the phone down and combed Mari's hair.
"Did anyone ever think that it might have been Isabelle's dad who killed Charlotte?" Mari said.
Greta shrugged. "I don't remember Grandma saying that, but she did say Celia used to sit in the window staring at people. Maybe he wanted to get rid of her."
Greta was working on the back of Mari's head when she remembered something.
"She died in the nuthouse. Grandma said she hanged herself in a linen closet."
"I read that."
Greta stepped back, grabbed a hand mirror from her counter, and held it up so Mari could see the back.
"You look good," Greta said. "It suits you."
Mari smiled and nodded. "You did a good job."
She paid Greta and left the salon thinking about their conversation as she walked down Main Street. She stopped across the street from Morton's Inn and looked at the center window on the second floor. What had happened to Charlotte's baby? It was cut out and taken somewhere. How would Celia have concealed a baby as she walked home from the cottage? She might have left it somewhere, but it would have been found, unless she hurled it into the ocean.
Or buried it in the sand near the cottage.
The amount of blood found at the scene meant that someone had slashed Charlotte repeatedly, and the person would have been covered in blood. Celia was small, and she sat most of the time. She sounded depressed, but if she suffered from bouts of mania, then she could have worked up the energy to slash Charlotte over and over again. Still, Mari hadn't heard anyone ever say that Celia was bipolar, and if she was just depressed, well, it seemed unlikely she would walk all the way to Charlotte's, kill her, remove the baby, go home, and change out of her bloody clothes before being found by her teenage daughter sitting in front of the window.
Mari looked toward the ocean. It would have been a long walk back to the inn, and no one came forward to say they had seen Celia walking home that night. Mari had suffered from depression and all she wanted to do was watch TV. All this only confirmed for her that Celia was innocent. Someone else had killed Charlotte, and now it was up to Mari to find the murderer.
Mari
Mari thought about going home, but something drew her toward the lighthouse. Everything in town was on a summer schedule now, with paid tours through the lighthouse and the attached living quarters, but you could go to the top of the lighthouse on your own for free.
Mari passed the park on her way there and saw a woman wringing her hands. She looked around as if she was searching for something. When the woman saw Mari, her eyes lit up and she came toward her with her arms open wide, only to vanish a second before she reached Mari. It was another ghost, and this one was thrilled to see Mari.
The sightings still shook her a bit, and her leg began to hurt as she walked up the sidewalk. Why was Cape Alden full of ghosts? Everywhere she looked, another would pop up. Not all of them stayed. They would make one appearance and vanish, but some, like the old man in Cassie's house, lingered, and grew more familiar as the days passed by. Mari was waiting for some revelation that would explain their presence, but so far, they remained an enigma.
She looked toward the beach and saw the lighthouse looming up ahead. Its red and white bands had been repainted a few years ago and it was well-maintained. The white picket fence separating it from the road had been painted, too, and as she stood in front of it, Mari could see the living quarters, an extension built on the left side. That was where the lighthouse keeper's family lived.
Mari approached the round kiosk selling tickets. Admission was ten dollars, so she decided to go to the top of the lighthouse on her own, and then corner one of the guides when he or she returned from a tour and ask questions. As she entered the foyer, she saw a door on the left side leading to the house and on the right, steps leading up to the beacon. As she climbed the stairs, she would stop to catch her breath, or to wait for the pain in her hip to lessen. When she reached the top, the payoff was a magnificent 365 degree view of the shoreline.
She looked to her left and saw the top of the cottage nestled in a patch of overgrown bushes. The walkway was mostly covered in sand, but you could still see that it ended in front of the cottage. It looked longer that its half-mile length and Mari's desire to see the interior of the cottage grew, but she didn't want to do it alone. She wanted Phil to go with her, and the thought made her giggle. What would Phil do if a murderous spirit came at them as they opened the door? He'd probably run, with her close on his heels.
After resting a bit, she began her descent, which was much easier on her hip. She went back to the kiosk to ask if she could speak to a guide, but the girl there told her the guide had just taken a group out and wouldn't be back for at least half an hour. Knowing the guide would be occupied, Mari decided to check out the rest of the place on her own.
She went back to the lighthouse foyer and stood in front of the door to the attached house. She heard the guide talking above her as he took the group to the beacon. She turned the knob and was surprised to find it wasn't locked, and then she stepped inside and closed it behind her.
The living quarters were smaller than they appeared from the outside. She looked at the furniture -- a drab old sofa up against the wall facing her with an end table at each end. One held a lamp, and there was an old wing chair set in the corner near a window. A wall with an entrance at its center separated the living room from the kitchen. Mari found an old stove, sink, and icebox along the right wall, and a rectangular table and benches in the center of the room. There was no TV or radio. It was Spartan in its simplicity, and Mari tried to put herself in Joan Jackson's place. She'd had five children running around this tiny space. No wonder Joe liked to go to the inn and drink.
Mari also imagined what it must have been like for Joe knowing that Charlotte was only half a mile away. She was alone and isolated from town, a widow with nothing but free time on her hands. All he had to do was walk a few yards and he'd be at Charlotte's door.
Mari thought about Joe watching Charlotte every time she passed the lighthouse on her way to town. Had they been having an affair? It would have been easy, and he might have promised he
r things like going away together, or maybe he gave her money now and then. Was Charlotte clever enough to use Joe?
Mari wished she could learn more about Charlotte's personality, and for that, she needed to talk to someone who knew her, but people over ninety were at a premium in this town. Even those who might remember her might never have talked to Charlotte, and only knew her by her reputation -- that of a wanton woman who stole other women's husbands.
Joan Jackson must have felt that way, too. Charlotte was alone, and that must have grated on a woman living in what amounted to an overcrowded cubby hole next to the lighthouse. Her husband was no help at all. If she imagined him with Charlotte, even for a second, it could have fueled her jealousy to the point of madness. That would explain the frenzied cuts on Charlotte's body.
Mari walked through the kitchen to a hallway, and found three small bedrooms and a bath. Even if their marriage was good, there was no privacy for the couple. The kids would have heard every sound their parents made while making love.
Mari went to the kitchen sink and looked out the window. What had Joe's wife done with her days? She would have stood at this window while washing her dishes, seeing nothing but the ocean for miles, and not another soul in sight. How lonely she must have felt living out here with a selfish man who probably never lifted a finger to help with the children.
"What are you doing in here?"
A startled Mari turned to see a young man standing at the door.
"I was just leaving," Mari said.
The guide glared at her as Mari passed by and hobbled out the front door.
Phil
Phil counted the packs of screws on the rack. Selling hardware wasn't something he saw himself doing when he was young, and now he knew why. You had to interact with people, you had to be nice to bullies, and someone was always looking over your shoulder micromanaging your every move.
"Phil," Jerry, his boss said. "That lady over there needs some help."
Phil glanced at the woman at the end of the aisle. He tried to ignore Jerry's patronizing tone, but he hated his job. He needed a real job, and he knew he'd have to leave Cape Alden to find one, but whenever he thought of leaving Cape Alden, Marigold Burnside would come to mind.
Phil had a crush on her, and at his age, it felt embarrassing. He kept it to himself, and tried not to look her in the eye because when he did, his cheeks would burn red. As he headed toward the customer, he noticed her red hair, and thought of Mari's red curls shining gold in the sunlight.
"Hi, can I help you?"
The middle-aged woman had tanned skin, wore strong perfume, and had gold bangles on each wrist. As she explained what she was looking for, she waved her arms, and the bangles jingled.
"The house is ancient," she said. "It's part of the registry, so we have to put authentic hardware on the cabinets, but what a pain it's been to find them."
"We have catalogs at the counter and can order anything you need and have it sent...
Jerry came up behind him with a smirk on his face.
"Phil," Jerry said. "I'll help this lady. Why don't you go and check in that order that just came in?"
"Sure," Phil said. But I'd rather stick it up your ass.
What had he done wrong this time? Phil watched Jerry schmooze the woman and his stomach clenched. He didn't have the charm or the personality to talk to anyone that way, and it was obvious that Jerry felt that way, too. He always sent Phil to a customer only to come up behind him and dismiss him as if he were a fool. He hated Jerry, but he felt guilty about it, and knew if he mentioned it to Mari, she'd come to Phil's defense and tell Jerry where to stick this job. She was always telling Phil to stand up for himself, but Phil preferred letting things go to confronting them head on.
He went to the counter where the customer order sat next to the cash register. He opened the small box. It contained hinges a customer had ordered and nothing else. Jerry must have known that, which is why Phil's hands began to shake. For the first time since high school, Phil was angry more often than not, and he wasn't dealing with it well. He focused on his breathing and tried to calm down, but then he glanced out the window and saw Celia on the sidewalk across the road.
To be fair, her visits were less frequent now that he and Mari were investigating Charlotte's death, but she always chose the most inopportune times to appear, such as when he was trying to impress Mari, or when he was just about to close a big sale, one that would give him the extra money he so desperately needed if he were to ever get out of this town. Celia's presence would throw him off, and the customers would back down saying they would "think about it."
He'd been looking online for IT positions, but lots of places were hiring private contractors who provided their own insurance. He missed his old job, but he'd been told by the head of the human resources department that they had already contracted his job to an outside firm. He found out that the firm was one guy who had started his own business when he'd lost his job, and that guy wasn't in need of an assistant.
It was all her fault, that Celia Morton. If she hadn't caused the accident, he'd still be working at the hospital.
He popped an antacid tablet in his mouth just before the bangle lady came to the counter and paid for her items. Jerry stood beside her and beamed.
"That's the way you close a sale, Phil. Don't look so glum. You'll get it."
Phil didn't want to "get it." He wanted to choke the living shit out of Jerry and wipe that stupid smile off his face.
Bangle lady had left her scent on the counter when she signed the slip, and Phil could smell it every time he checked someone out the rest of the afternoon. At five, Mari came into the store looking for Phil and found him restocking bins of screws and nails, picking through them to make sure they were in the right bins, and cursing softly because his knees hurt. She smiled as she came up beside him.
"Does he really make you do that?" she asked.
Phil jumped and looked up. "I didn't hear you coming."
"Oh, boy, you sound awful."
As he stood, his knees cracked, and Mari cringed.
"That sounds painful," she said.
"I'm just tired," he said.
"Then I guess you don't feel like getting something to eat before we go to that lady's house."
He thought of his finances and hesitated.
She recognized his reluctance and added, "My treat."
"I appreciate the offer, but I can't let you pay for me."
"Why not? I can write it off on my taxes as a business meeting."
"You are not a business," he said as he walked toward the stockroom. She followed and watched him toss the boxes into the trash.
"I will be if the station buys my story. Come on, Phil. We can get a sandwich somewhere. That won't cost much, will it?"
He could smell the scent of her hair as she stood in the doorway of the stockroom. It was light and fresh compared to the heavy perfume the bangle lady wore. He looked at her and saw that she'd had her hair cut and she looked younger. He looked over her shoulder for Jerry, but he was busy with a last-minute customer.
"All right, but just a sandwich."
"Yay! When do you get off?"
"When I always get off, at six."
"What time is it?"
"Five o'clock."
"Well, then, I'll come back in an hour and meet you out front."
He'd forgotten to mention her hair and rolled his eyes, cursing his stupidity, and then watched her walk away, her short curls bouncing because she was limping, and he found it all so enchanting. If she knew that, she'd laugh and tease him about using the word "enchanting."
The limp, though, always reminded him that he was the one who'd hurt her, and remorse would cloud his mind. He sighed. What had she been like before he slammed into her car? Would she ever be that person again?
Mari
When Mari came out of the hardware store, she thought about going home and changing her clothes before meeting Phil, so she headed toward Cassie's h
ouse. As she was walking past the Historical Society, Constance Penny came to the door and waved for her to come inside.
"There's someone I want you to meet," she said as she took Mari by the arm and led her to the desk. Another woman around Constance's age sat in the chair, so Mari grabbed a folding chair that sat under the window and pulled it to the desk.
"Marigold Burnside, this is a friend of mine, Cheryl Kaufman. We went to high school together."
"Hi," Mari said.
Cheryl smiled and nodded.
"She is the granddaughter of Seth Brennan," Constance said.
Mari blinked. Seth Brennan. Who was he? It sounded familiar. Oh, yes! Seth Brennan had been the sheriff who investigated Charlotte's murder. Mari smiled broadly as she looked at Cheryl.
"Cheryl's mother recently passed away, and she's selling her mother's house. She came to ask me if there was anything I might like for my," Constance waved her hand, "little museum since he was the sheriff for so long. I thought you might be interested in looking at them, too."
"What do you have?" Mari asked Cheryl.
"My mom had a room full of stuff that had come from my grandparents' house after my grandma died." Mari noticed a metal box on Constance's desk. Cheryl put the box on her lap. "There were tons of file folders from my grandfather's old cases mom had been afraid to get rid of because they contained personal information. This was in one of the boxes." She held it out to Mari.
Mari noticed that Cheryl said "grandfather" without affection. She took the box and opened it. It contained a notebook with several pages of handwritten notes. The handwriting was neat and legible, as if someone had taken care when writing them.
Mari flipped through the pages and saw Charlotte's name, the date of her murder, and the time.
"It looks like a call log," Mari said. "What else do you have?"
Cheryl looked at Constance.
"It's okay, Cheryl. She won't bring you or your mother into this."
"I'd never talk about what you tell me unless I have your permission," Mari said.
Cheryl took a tissue out of the box on Constance's desk and held it between her hands as she spoke.