15 Minutes of Flame

by Christin Brecher

  “I never heard about a body,” said John Pierre. “But my great uncle kept to himself.”

  “When you were visiting the island, did you spend time at the house?” said Andy.

  I was happy to see that although he was following protocol, his natural curiosity was as high as mine.

  “I didn’t spend much time out back,” said John Pierre. “I meant to peek in The Shack, but it wasn’t high on my list.”

  “Southerland!” With that exclamation, the chief of police now made his appearance and crossed the yard.

  “Sir,” said Andy, his attention shifting to his boss.

  “What do we have?” said the chief.

  The chief directed his question to Andy, but the medical examiner must have heard him from inside the building because he emerged too. As he exited, he pushed a pair of goggles to his forehead and peeled off a pair of latex gloves.

  “I’ve given the skeletal remains and clothing a preliminary look. Judging from the bone structure, it’s a woman,” said the ME. “From her attire and the level of decay, I’d say she’s been deceased for over one hundred years. The body has suffered trauma. Cause of death could have been foul play, could have been an accident. This is more of an archaeological and historical site than a police matter. Maybe historians can ascertain more about her identity, or at least develop a composite description of who she might have been.”

  Behind me, I now heard cars pulling up to the Morton house. From the moment Andy had arrived, my discovery of the hidden world of Cooper’s Candles had begun to feel like a three-ring circus. As the scouts began to open and close the car doors for their rides home, I picked up the chatter of parents calling out to each other from one vehicle to another. Their conversations focused on their concerns about what was happening in The Shack and were underscored by excited but also frightened chatter of the girls.

  “Samantha is too afraid to come back,” said a mom’s voice.

  “I think we should cancel,” said a worried dad. “This isn’t worth Cindy having nightmares.”

  “And who knows what sort of toxins they’ve just let loose?” said another voice. “I googled it. Decomposing bodies emit chemicals that are harmful to the girls’ health. And there will be guests coming on Friday night too. We don’t need a lawsuit.”

  “We’ll see what we can do,” I heard Shelly say.

  “I think Jane will have to bow out moving forward,” said a dad.

  I waited for an argument from Jane, the most boisterous of the scouts. I’d be willing to bet she was one of the imps who’d thought to take a peek at The Shack. To my surprise, I heard no protest.

  Andy had his list of concerns; I now had my own. The first was the medical examiner’s suggestion that this was at most a project for historians. I had a vision of well-meaning professor types, taking their time to brush off dirt and catalog bones over months and months of tedious work, only to conclude what we already knew: that our skeleton had been a Quaker woman who had suffered trauma and had been mysteriously buried in an unmarked and unusual grave. The house would become a tourist attraction, and ridiculous stories would abound. I knew that even by the end of today, rumors and fantastically tall tales would begin to make the rounds. But I, for one, wanted the real scoop on what had happened in this small candle workshop.

  I was also entirely disappointed that the Girl Scouts had fallen for their own propaganda about ghosts and goblins. I didn’t mind a few scary stories floating around, but fear of a skeleton, an historic discovery no less, was unacceptable. We were not going to let a few old bones keep us from raising money for the island’s neediest, and having a great event in the process. We needed a dose of girl power to show everyone that there was nothing to fear.

  I was still holding up my phone, and John Pierre was still on the line.

  “John Pierre? It’s Stella,” I said. “What would you think about letting me stay in the main house? I’d like to show the girls that there’s nothing here to be afraid of.”

  Andy, ever on alert for my extracurricular interests, raised an eyebrow, but I was prepared for that.

  “As it turns out, my kitchen window broke this morning, and I’d love a place to stay while it’s being fixed.”

  It was Peter’s turn to look surprised. And a little concerned.

  “What happened to your window? Also, this place is really old and drafty,” he said. “You should stay with me.”

  “I love the house,” I said, truthfully. “When else will I be able to enjoy it? Tinker’s already made himself at home inside.”

  We looked at the back window, where Tinker, in fact, could be seen happily curled in a ball and taking a nap on the sill. Peter shoved his hands into his pockets, knowing not to fight me.

  “You know we’ll lock up the door at night and keep everyone—that means you—away from the skeleton until an archaeologist takes a look,” said Andy.

  I nodded, seriously. As if a lock would stop me.

  “Sure, you can stay,” said John Pierre. “It would give me some peace of mind, actually.”

  With that much decided, John Pierre and I worked out the details of my stay while the officers considered the next step of calling in an anthropologist.

  “If you don’t need us,” Peter said to the group when I hung up, “we’re heading out to Crab City for low tide.”

  Andy smiled with something of a victorious look.

  “I’m working on a seaside scent,” I said.

  Did I sound defensive? Perhaps. Nonetheless, Peter and I left the action and walked to the sidewalk in front of the Morton house.

  “You want to work on the skeleton, don’t you?” Peter said when we reached my car door.

  “Do you blame me?”

  “Nope,” he said with a kiss on my forehead for good measure.

  “Say hi to the crabs for me?”

  He pulled out his pad and untucked his pencil.

  “Say-hi-to-crabs,” he said, writing in his pad. Then he gave me a smile and headed to his car.

  I followed behind Peter’s car for a couple of streets, knowing exactly where to start. Nantucket is a small town with a big history. Fortunately, it’s been well documented. The Research Library on Fair Street holds thousands of pictures, periodicals, and documents related to the island’s history, many from the time that the Coopers had run their chandlery. If there was any information to be found about my skeleton, the library would have it.

  I liked the plan, but it came with one immediate problem. Extended periods of time amid the quiet, peaceful air of a library have resulted time and again with me falling into a cozy nap, my head on a table or against a chair, until my arm drops or my foot falls asleep. It’s a curse. In high school, Andy and my best friend, Emily Gardner, even drew a mustache on me once while I soundly slept. And I’d been working on college applications at the time. Skeleton or not, I knew myself, so when I reached the road to Main Street, I decided to make a pit stop at my favorite coffee place in town, The Bean.

  Chapter 3

  Parking in town, I walked down Centre Street and passed my store, the Wick & Flame. I waved through the window at my assistant, Cherry Waddle, who was covering for me this weekend. She waved back, busy with a customer, and I paused momentarily to study my window display, which was filled with orange and black candles I’d made every night over the last week. For fun, I’d come up with some unique scents for the holiday, like Eyeball of Newt and Spider Soup for those who were really into the spirit of the season. As you might imagine, Halloween is one of the highlights of the year at the Wick & Flame. I light many candles to turn up the spooky vibe, albeit one that includes jack-o’-lantern candles scented with pumpkin spice and glow-in-the-dark ghost candles. This year, I’d added the Tinker Special to my product line. It was a black cat, inspired by my feline friend, Tinker, wearing a jaunty orange witch’s hat from which the wick extends.

  It’s hard to pass my store without stopping in, but I had no idea how things would unfold back at the
Morton House, so I forged ahead to my caffeine fix and trip to the library. When I rounded the corner and reached the entrance to The Bean, I stood aside as a woman exited the cafe.

  “Hello!” I said, realizing I’d come face-to-face with Brenda Worthington.

  Over the last decade, Brenda has become a sort of fixture on the island. She runs Nantucket Legends and Lore, one of the best ghost tours in town, and we have a lot of ghost tours. Brenda’s tours are unique for two reasons. The first is that she is a walking encyclopedia about the island’s history. Not textbook stories, but legends handed down from generation to generation. My family, the Wrights, can be found in every nook and cranny on the island, and it was a proud day for us when Brenda added the tale of how my great-grandma once chained herself to a flagpole on Centre Street, in front of where my store is now, to advocate for women’s right to vote.

  The second of Brenda’s specialties is her claim that she can speak with the dead. As a result, Brenda was not the kind of person that the police or historians would solicit for help. I, however, wondered if she might have an angle on my discovery that others would not. It was worth a shot.

  “Greetings, friend,” she said.

  There’s something about Brenda that feels otherworldly. For example, although she was wearing sweats and a windbreaker, today her prematurely graying hair was in an old-fashioned bun, and she was carrying a basket of produce from a local farm’s truck stand in town. The basket looked like something my Quaker skeleton would have owned.

  “I have news for you,” I said. “I think you’ll soon have a new addition to your ghost tour.”

  “Not a ghost tour,” said Brenda with an ethereal wave of her hand. “A history tour that includes visits to the ghosts of Nantucket’s past.”

  “My mistake,” I said, fearing she’d try to explain the theoretical difference between the two. Emily, who is an event planner, had made the error once when planning a party, and had been an hour late for a movie night we’d planned, so I kept talking. “You know the house that the Girl Scouts are using for Halloween Haunts?”

  “A wonderful house, although a little worse for wear,” she said. “You know, the building out back used to be an old smokehouse.”

  I smiled and realized who Shelly’s source was. I also made a note that all of Brenda’s facts weren’t necessarily true. I understood why the experts didn’t pay her much attention.

  “I found a skeleton buried above the mantel,” I said.

  For a moment, I thought that Brenda might drop her basket. She looked like a Girl Scout who had sold her five-hundredth box of cookies and won the big prize.

  “The police are there now, but I’m staying at the main house,” I said. “Feel free to stop by tomorrow.”

  “I will,” said Brenda, her hazel eyes dancing with excitement.

  “By the way,” I said, “have you ever heard of a candle maker named Cooper from the eighteen hundreds?”

  “No,” she said, “but there were many candle makers back then. They were as common on Nantucket then as tourists are now.”

  “Have you ever heard of Quakers burying the dead at home?” I asked, trying another angle.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “This is very mysterious. I’d like to see if the woman’s aura is still in the room.”

  “It’s worth a shot,” I said, hoping I hadn’t made a mistake by reaching out to her.

  “Did you say Cooper?” Brenda asked, furrowing her brow.

  I nodded.

  “Does the name ring a bell?” I said.

  She shook her head, but I had a feeling she was searching through her encyclopedic mind.

  “I spoke to the ghost of Mary Coffin the other day,” she said instead.

  “Get out,” I said.

  Brenda’s eyes widened.

  “OK,” she said, and headed down the street.

  “I didn’t mean ‘leave,’ ” I said, calling after her. “It’s an expression.”

  But Brenda continued along her way. I let another patron pass me out of The Bean and entered to the rich aroma of their brews.

  My coffee stop was uneventful after that. My favorite barista, Clemmie, gave me a sympathetic smile after seeing Brenda bolt from me down the street. I downed a shot of espresso and continued on to the library. When I pulled up to the building, it looked empty, but I got out to make sure. The library is fittingly an extension behind the old Quaker Meeting House. The front door was closed, but I knocked and tried to listen for noise inside. When none was forthcoming, I knocked again. I was about to leave when the door opened.

  “I heard the wind is going to pick up this afternoon, so I closed the door,” said a friendly, familiar face.

  “I didn’t know you worked here,” I said to Agnes Hussey, whose laugh lines framed her fading hazel eyes and whose gray hair looked something like a halo. Agnes is a sometimes member of my candle-making classes. She is a gem. She had joined my current workshop, and had arrived for the first class with delicious, freshly baked scones.

  “I volunteer here,” she said, welcoming me inside. “Since my family and I have been on Nantucket for as long as I can remember, I decided to do my part. I’m helping an historian today. Jameson Bellows. He’s been working at the Historical Association for the last six months, preparing for an exhibit at the Whaling Museum. I hear they’re planning to hire him full-time if all goes well. He’s certainly hungry for the job. I can’t remember the last time we opened up on a Saturday for someone.”

  “Well, I’m in luck because of it,” I said. “I’m here to research a few old stories, but I don’t know where to start.”

  “Then you need to come upstairs,” said Agnes, leading the way inside.

  I followed her up a flight of stairs and to a light-filled reading room on the second floor, which was empty aside from one gentleman who had his head buried in a large tome with yellowed pages. The aroma of old books wafted through my delighted nose; it’s a scent that is hard to describe but is familiar to everyone who loves books.

  “Here you go,” Agnes said, motioning to a computer terminal. “This will connect you to our research database. If you find a manuscript or a photo or a map you like, I can pull it out for you to peruse further.”

  “Perfect,” I said, taking a seat.

  When Agnes left me, the man across the room looked up as if noticing me for the first time. He wore a corduroy jacket whose elbow patches seemed to have been added for necessity rather than style. His forehead was a little shiny, and his hair was a bit matted. I surmised that the fashion statement of his jacket was important to him since he wore it in spite of his growing perspiration.

  I smiled. He nodded and went back to his tome, so I typed in the first word that came to mind in the search box on my screen.

  MURDER

  I was surprised to find twenty-five hits, most of which were dated from the nineteenth century. I clicked on each return, and realized that much of the information came from private journals. These dozens of journals—all owned by different individuals—included pasted-in newspaper clippings, handwritten notes about local news and family issues, accounting lists, and some drawings, doodles, and creative writings.

  I felt I’d come to the right place when the name Cooper jumped out halfway down my search results with a listing from a diary from the 1860s. I clicked on the header, but when the summary of information found in the diary popped onto my screen, I knew I’d have more work ahead of me. The entry mentioned the confession of one Phoebe Cooper about the murder of one Phoebe Fuller. Unfortunately, there was no missing body in Phoebe’s confession. Also, Miss Cooper was described as a servant. It was therefore unlikely that she was a member of the Cooper family that had lived in my friend Jean Pierre’s good-sized house and had owned Cooper’s Candles. I was disappointed, but honestly not surprised I hadn’t found a good lead right away.

  I continued to scroll down the page.

  In his letter book, William Coffin, a well-known Nantucketer, noted the murder o
f Barnard Grayham by Jaiz Cushman. Two men. Not my story.

  Eduard Stackpole mentioned “the trial of two Indians held for murder” in the 1730s, which was too early to be connected to my skeleton if I was to believe the medical examiner, which I did.

  There were also notes about murders on board ships from the right time period that were interesting, but not helpful.

  Putting aside the hope that I’d find a story about the Cooper murder I was seeking, I typed my next query:

  COOPER’S CANDLES

  The return was disappointing: NO RECORDS FOUND BY LATEST QUERY.

  I typed in HOME BURIAL.

  NO RECORDS FOUND BY LATEST QUERY.

  I typed in MISSING WOMAN.

  This time, I was happy when NO RECORDS FOUND BY LATEST QUERY popped onto my screen again. If I wasn’t going to learn more about my skeleton with this search, I didn’t want to find anything.

  After a few other dead ends, I typed in COOPER, on its own, to see it anything other than the Phoebe Fuller murder might come up.

  Sometimes the simplest route is the best. I was in luck. Two pages of listings hit my screen. The Cooper murder I’d already read about was featured, but to my surprise, another story was listed that had nothing to do with murder. Instead, the listing referenced COOPER THIEVES.

  Thieves and murder felt like a potential marriage, so I scanned these listings. The database information was limited, but one entry jumped out at me from the diary of one Mary Backus: COOPER THIEVES ROBBERY OF PETTICOAT ROW FUNDS.

  At the mention of Petticoat Row, I froze. I already felt a personal connection to the woman and the chandlery I’d found, but here was another tie. About the time my skeleton was alive, Centre Street, where my store is located, was familiarly called Petticoat Row because the establishments that lined the road were all run by women. They were power babes who used their business endeavors to support their families while their husbands were away. They were also able to build nest eggs in case of an unsuccessful voyage or, sadly, in case a husband was lost at sea. Most of the women who worked on Petticoat Row were dressmakers, dry goods retailers, and the like. I was as much a kindred spirit to the Petticoat Row ladies as I was to my candle maker.