“Maybe she thought she had it,” Clara offered, shrugging and pulling her lemon wedge from the lip of her glass before setting it on the table.
“I’ll take that.” Amelia reached across and plucked the slice of citrus, squeezing it into her glass. “Good point, Clara.”
“No way,” Megan inserted. She stared across at the water, a darkness falling across her features. “Even if Mom was losing it, she knew exactly what she had possession of and exactly what she did not have possession of.”
Amelia frowned. “That’s quite an assumption.”
“No. It’s reality. Kate and I discussed the will last weekend when she was going through the garden shed. In the paperwork Michael read to us, Mom left Kate twenty-three flowerpots. Twenty-three. She wrote that thing years ago, so why be so specific?”
“Did Kate find twenty-three flowerpots?” Amelia asked, unused to being the skeptic of the group.
Megan simply grinned. “Exactly.”
“What about everything else in there?” Clara asked.
Amelia took a long swig of her tea. “What do you mean?”
“Have each of you claimed the things she left you?” Sadness peeked through Clara’s innocent question. The hurt of her exclusion from the will, no doubt. Amelia wanted to wrap the little blonde in a big blanket, carry her to the house on the harbor and give it all to her. None of those silly possessions mattered to Amelia. She wasn’t the sort to keep mementos, not like Kate or Clara, who could have everything if they wanted it. Amelia was happy to be in charge of running The Bungalows or having a job to do. She was a doer more than a keeper. That was Amelia.
“No,” Megan answered on both their behalf.
Clara was about to take a sip, but stopped, awkwardly extracting the straw from her mouth before protesting. “So, we are more concerned with the properties we got and less concerned with the... what, the trinkets from the estate?” If Amelia didn’t know better, she’d say a look of modest disgust crossed Clara’s face.
She glanced at Megan, who must have shared her offense, because Megan replied, “It’s not like we forgot.”
Lifting an eyebrow, Clara returned her straw to her mouth and took a long pull of water. She seemed to ignore Megan’s defensive response.
Amelia let out a long sigh. “It’s something we need to do, no doubt. And we will. But Mom didn’t only leave Dad’s wristwatch.” She picked up the hardware and turned it in her hand, amazed at its condition.
“That’s true. She left me his wedding band.” Megan’s eyes flashed at Amelia. “Wait a minute.”
A chill ran up Amelia’s spine, sending goosebumps along her arms. “Oh, my Lord.”
The food came, a brief but obnoxious interruption. Amelia feigned appreciation, but as soon as the waiter left, she pressed her hands on the top of the table dramatically.
Megan didn’t touch her food. Clara’s face crumpled into confusion. “What am I missing?” the latter asked.
“Mom wrote the will after you were born. We know that. And if it was after you were born, then obviously it was after Dad disappeared.”
“Left the picture you mean?” Clara added.
“Disappeared,” Megan corrected.
The conversation was heating up, and Clara was about to be left out if she didn’t get on board. Amelia spoke directly to her now. “Clara, if Mom wrote that will knowing that Dad was gone, then why in the world would she leave Megan his wedding band?”
Megan’s face fell. “He must have left it behind.”
Chapter 26—Clara
“He might have,” Clara answered weakly. She had no idea if the wedding band was still on their father’s finger, wherever he was, or what.
But she had a head start on looking. Clara had searched high and low for her mother’s hope chest. She was still searching. She’d scoured every box and nook and cranny in the house on the harbor. The Inn. And by now she was over halfway through the cottage. Each night, she committed no less than an hour to the hunt for that hope chest. If the wedding ring was still in Birch Harbor somewhere, that’s where it would be. “How come you didn’t think of this when we were in Michael’s office?” Clara asked.
“Distracted? Confused? Grief-ridden? Take your pick, Kid,” Amelia spat back.
Clara rolled her eyes. When Amelia’s attitude came out, she wanted to crawl under a rock and disappear. For such a magnetic personality, the woman could be as sassy and condescending as she was enthusiastic and charming.
“How do you know he didn’t leave it behind?” Megan pressed in reply, her mouth full of salad.
“I lived with Mom, remember? We went through her jewelry boxes right after her diagnosis. It wasn’t there.”
Amelia scoffed. “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t keeping it somewhere, right?”
Shrugging, Clara bit into a chicken tender.
The feeling of being wrong about it nagged in her brain as Amelia droned on with wild theories about some father who didn’t walk out on them, hiding for good, but was forced out.
“What?” Clara asked after Amelia’s last suggestion. “You think Mom... you think Nora Hannigan kicked him out?”
The brunette nodded somberly. “Like I said... theirs was a passionate marriage.”
“You’ve been watching too many soap operas.” Megan stretched back in her chair.
Amelia protested. “There’s no telling how angry she was when he disagreed with her about Clara.”
Though Clara had never met Wendell Acton and generally agreed with her sisters that he must have been something of a flake to disappear without a trace. But that’s just it. Such a kind-natured sort of man wouldn’t up and leave.
Maybe Nora Hannigan was awful enough to push him away.
Dread washed over Clara.
Or maybe... worse.
The rest of lunch was a quiet, tense affair. None of them spoke what was on her mind, but Clara had the distinct sense that they shared the same suspicion, at least to a degree.
They split the check three ways and began the short walk home.
As the three sisters moved through the wooden slats of the Village walkways, Clara scanned the harbor for signs of Jake. She was curious about his new job there. It was a far cry from what Mercy said he did when he worked at the university. From college professor to marina manager? Well, maybe not so far a cry. He had studied Lake Huron, after all. Now he was living there. It could work. Her stomach churned with discontent about how the first day of summer was unfolding.
Too many questions.
Not enough answers.
And Clara didn’t even want any—of either. She was officially on vacation. She could use a break from the whole process of inquiry and study and work. She wanted to get down to moving out of the apartment and into the cottage. That was her priority now. Not searching for Wendell Acton. Not renovating the house she’d cleaned all her life. Clara needed distance from sisters.
She needed a friend.
Chapter 27—Megan
A detour to The Bungalows was in order. Amelia announced to Megan and Clara that she wanted to check on her assets, as she’d taken to calling the small complex of individual, ground-level units. After the recent reading of the will, Megan had expected Amelia to jump on the project with fervor, maybe choosing a new color to paint the shabby wood siding.
Instead, she’d set her sights elsewhere, clearly.
Since she’d seen to her duty of learning that their mom’s personal diary was little more than a hodgepodge collection of teenage ramblings (though the torn out entries certainly intrigued Megan), the third Hannigan sister now only had to wait for Brian and Sarah to show up for their reunion at the cemetery.
She wondered if he’d want to grab dinner after or if his whole visit really was just to offer respects to Nora. Megan didn’t care if he left after. That would suit her fine. She could get Sarah set up with Clara then tuck herself in for an early bedtime. Lots of sleep. That would do her good.
Kate had been downstai
rs, rummaging through boxes with Matt when they barged into the house and so Megan and the others decided to leave them be.
Megan left it up to her and Clara to coordinate an arrangement for the older party who’d been wandering around town.
She couldn’t fathom being in Kate’s shoes, single and flirting with the idea of getting back out there, as well-meaning couples often pushed. Having married Brian so young, Megan’s dating life was non-existent. She didn’t know what it meant to travel alone. Maybe people enjoyed the option to see what they wanted to see and do what they wanted to do. Megan could appreciate that. The freedom. But then what about at night? In a foreign hotel room or a cozy bed-and-breakfast? Did they lie awake thinking how nice it would be to snuggle against someone’s chest and recount the day’s events?
That’s what Megan loved about their family vacations. Sarah would be tucked into her own bed just feet away, and Brian and Megan would whisper about how wonderful a trip it was. How lucky they were. What a charmed life they led.
Family vacations were a point of pride for the couple. Or at least, they had been. Brian, who loathed traveling, would take every measure to ensure a perfect trip, including saving as much as possible in the intervening years. To both ends, the Stevensons only went away together a rash of times in the past two decades. But each vacation was a blow out. First-class tickets gave way to private cars with concierge service at the hotel. Lately, Megan wondered if Brian put out money to see to his own comfort. If he could alleviate stress for himself, he’d be more enjoyable for Megan and Sarah. That was her cynical impression on the situation.
Though, it didn’t jibe with the man she’d married. The frugal penny-pincher who’d just as soon never go anywhere if he could get away with it.
Perhaps the extravagant vacations were more about his wife and daughter after all. They were the one thing in her marriage—in her life—that she cherished. She bragged about. Looked forward to. He knew that and clung to it, sharing in the storytelling for months and years after each trip. Showing off photos to his coworkers. Reflecting with Megan on the sofa or in bed late at night about how perfect their life was. How lucky they were.
They hadn’t been on vacation in a couple of years now. No projects, either. They didn’t really have anything in their marriage to look forward to. Save, perhaps, for Sarah’s impending flight out of the house and to college.
That might have been something to rejoice over, for more reasons than one. It could be an opportunity for Megan to get back in the workforce.
Brian’s financial fears would have to have taken a backseat at one point. There was no room for happiness in a life built on fear. And that was Brian. A fearful, worrisome man who was more concerned with basic survival than he was with day-to-day joys. Of course, until he worked up the energy (and built a savings) to let loose every few years. Those were the golden moments. Megan often wondered if she could just freeze Brian in those times—when he had the money and emotional freedom to splurge on a vacation—maybe things would not have crumbled into boredom.
Maybe it wouldn’t have come to divorce.
Maybe it still didn’t have to.
Megan’s mind flicked to the idea of dating. Gross. If their divorce did go through, she would probably be forced to return to Birch Harbor. A tourist community. She could picture it now. Friday night JEOPARDY! and popcorn gave way to squeezing into too-tight jeans and a blouse that hid her budding love handles. Fifteen minutes of makeup application and another fifteen minutes of blowing out her hair and for what? To make small talk with a weekender who didn’t know a rowboat from a kayak?
Megan gagged at the idea.
Sure, other people might enjoy fraternizing their weekends away. In fact, Megan would love to watch that. But she’d like to do so comfortably, from a secure marriage that promised evening snuggles and an early bedtime.
Her dreams of a matchmaking business, her memories of luxe vacations and room service, and her ritual of cuddling on the couch with the love of her life had left a hollow cavern in her chest. The things she once had but could never get back.
Currently, as she and Amelia and Clara began their walk up the street to The Bungalows, Megan tried to push away her own drama.
They left the house fully clothed (eating lunch in a tankini top and sarong was the norm for Village eateries but still felt awkward now that Megan was older and a little less local), Megan cleared her throat and directed a pointed question to Amelia.
“Have you heard from Michael yet?”
Amelia shook her head. “No. Well, yes. I mean we checked in briefly on the phone. He is having lunch with a client then hitting the research. His plan is to get in touch with the Liesel Hart woman, but I had some other ideas.”
“What? You think she’s irrelevant?” Clara asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I figure we could approach a couple different angles in the meantime.”
Megan could read Amelia’s mind. “Uncle Hugh.”
“Yep.” Amelia grinned. “Do you have his email address? Phone number?”
The question was for Megan, but Clara chimed in. “I doubt he has email. He’s pretty old. But a phone number probably. In Mom’s address book. It’s in the cottage. I’m sure of it.”
“Perfect. We’ll find his information and maybe some other Actons. If anyone knows Liesel Hart, it’ll be one of them. I’m sure Mom’s side wouldn’t.”
Amelia made a good point. Not only had most of the Hannigans moved far away from Birch Harbor, but clearly whoever was bequeathed the lighthouse wouldn’t be connected to them. It had to be someone on their dad’s side of the family.
“Is that it then?” Megan asked. They’d made their way to the four-plex where Clara could get changed. From there, they’d go to the cottage. Initially, Megan and Amelia figured they could look around for anything pertaining to the lighthouse.
Amelia and Megan plopped onto Clara’s sofa once inside. “No. There’s something else we can do.”
Megan studied Amelia, who now wore a poker face. After several taunting beats, Megan finally gave her sister’s shoulder a soft push. “Well, what is it?”
The older woman’s smile slipped off her face, and her voice dropped an octave. “I want to get my hands on Dad’s case files.”
Her eyebrows crowded together as Megan narrowed a serious gaze on Amelia. “What are you talking about? Case files? This isn’t CSI Birch Harbor.” Amelia had lost it. Their dad was a deadbeat, at best. Their mom shunned him and manipulated him into running away and never looking back. Megan’s gut told her once they got in touch with their long-lost paternal relatives, that would all become crystal clear. In fact, maybe good old Wendell Acton was alive and well and living like a hippy on Mackinac Island for all they knew, totally happy to be entirely separated from the nut job daughters that his nut job estranged wife had raised. Without him. “You’re crazy,” Megan added for good measure.
“Maybe I am. But I’m also sick of being an orphan.” Amelia shook her hair off her shoulders and threw up a hand.
“And now you’re being dramatic. Sick of being an orphan? Mom died less than a month ago.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Amelia shook her head, her eyes squinting with sassy attitude.
“Then what do you mean? What are you suggesting, Amelia?”
Clara entered the room, and Megan glanced back at her. Suddenly, the energy had changed. The warm walk on the beach was a cold memory. The sweet iced tea and sounds from the harbor had washed away as they sat in Clara’s tiny one-bedroom. A lighthearted, hope-filled investigation into the fate of their well-meaning dad was suddenly devolving into the stuff of one of Megan’s favorite true-crime TV shows. If it wasn’t her life, Megan would be all in.
But it was her life. It was their life.
Megan’s phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced down at the screen. It had been a long time since his name was a welcome reprieve. And now, it felt like her only escape from Amelia’s over-the-top pl
an.
She looked up to Amelia and then again back to Clara.
“I have to take this.”
“Who is it?” Amelia’s eyes grew wide, and Megan wanted to slap some sense into her. She was turning family history into a crime drama.
Megan hissed her reply. “It’s my husband.”
Chapter 28—Amelia
After Megan stormed out the back door and onto the patio to take her call, Amelia turned to Clara. “You’re with me on this, right?”
Clara’s eyes grew wide. “What is going on?”
“I’m going to ask Michael how we can get our hands on the police reports that Mom and Grandma and Grandpa Acton made when Dad died.” She knew she sounded like Velma from Scooby Doo, but Amelia was okay with that. She had every right to use her time in Birch Harbor to get some long-awaited answers. If her sisters weren’t on board, that was their problem, but it did surprise Amelia that Megan, who often thrived within her own ghoulish canvas of black outfits and dark nail polish, was so against a renewed investigation.
Clara, however, seemed stunned as well. “There were police reports?” Her smooth face grew worry lines, and she crossed her arms protectively over her chest.
Amelia tried to explain as gently as possible. “Well, yes, Clara. When we were in Arizona—just days after Kate went into labor with you—that’s when Mom got the call from the Actons that Dad went missing.”
“What did they say? What happened exactly?”
“We don’t know. That’s the thing. Back then, Mom wanted to protect us from it. But we were old enough to know some things, and the police ended up questioning each of us, anyway.”
“Questioning you? Like... detectives questioned you, or...?” Clara’s cheeks grew rosy, and Amelia realized just how young and sheltered her littlest sister—her biological niece, technically—really was. It was odd to begin looking at Clara like she wasn’t the baby of the four girls. It was odd to start reframing her back into the position of Kate’s child. Yet, the recent revelations gave her no choice but to grapple with the truth. Perhaps that’s what spurred her on in her mission to dig around. Then again maybe it was the suggestive diary entry Nora had left behind. Or the watch they happened to uncover. Or Clara’s insistence that Wendell Acton’s wedding band was nowhere to be seen just like the gun left to Amelia in the will.
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