15 Minutes of Flame

by Christin Brecher

  Wondering if there could be a connection between the Cooper Thieves and Cooper’s Candles, I decided to look at Mary Backus’s diary. I printed out the screen result and took the page down to Agnes. She was busy studying a crossword puzzle when I arrived at her post.

  “Can you think of a seven-letter word for ‘tiramisu part?’ ” she said.

  “Espresso?” I said.

  “That’s eight. I’ll think of it,” she said, absently taking the sheet from me and heading to the back room.

  While I waited for her to return, I stretched a bit. I was reaching down to my toes, enjoying the fact that this was my first library visit that had not ended with me falling asleep, when a phone began to ring from the center of the building, which rose to a loft-like opening to the second floor. I looked above me to the source of the sound.

  “Bellows speaking,” the guest curator said in a voice that suited his name.

  I’d always thought that talking on the phone in a library was a no-no, but apparently not.

  “Uh-huh,” Bellows said.

  “Uh-huh,” he said again.

  Sounded like business.

  There was a nice spindle-back chair reproduction across from Agnes’s reception desk, so I took a seat.

  “I absolutely want the diary,” Bellow continued. “The exhibit will be nothing without the supporting elements of various whaling towns involved in these voyages. And reach out to Smith in Hudson for the example of a captain’s wife’s diary.”

  Agnes returned to her station, and immediately I noticed her wrinkled brow and pursed lips.

  “You’re interested in the Cooper Thieves?” she said, placing a piece of paper onto her desk. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Walking back to her desk, I looked at the single page she had produced. I suspected it wasn’t Mary Backus’s diary, but I was surprised and a little confused, by what I saw. The page contained a list of names, with Agnes’s among them. I seemed to be looking at her family tree.

  “I can tell you all you want to know,” said Agnes. “Patience Cooper was a member of my family.”

  “Patience?”

  My eye fell to the name Patience Hussey Cooper on the paper between us. I let the name settle in. I could almost feel my pupils dilate with interest.

  “You know her story?” I said.

  “Stella,” she said, laying her hand protectively over her family tree, “I’ll be honest. Not many of us left are familiar with the story. It’s one of those skeletons in the closet we try not to remember. Before I say anything more, why are you asking?”

  “I think she might have lived at the Morton house,” I said.

  “Really?” said Agnes, looking shocked that anything to do with the story was coming up.

  Agnes sighed. I knew that she loved a good story. As much as she wanted to let it lie, it would be impossible for her not to tell me more.

  “In the 1830s, Patience Hussey Cooper, a motherless only child, worked on Petticoat Row. When she was in her late teens, she fell in love with a sailor, Jedediah Cooper. He was a wash-ashore, arriving on Nantucket from a whaling voyage he’d joined in the South Pacific.”

  “You know your stuff,” I said, genuinely impressed and wondering how Jedediah fit in to Agnes’s family story. I still wasn’t sure if I’d found the right Coopers, but I was eager to hear more.

  “Jedediah wasn’t a Quaker, but he was handsome and charming,” she said, as if she’d met the man herself. “As you can imagine, Patience wasn’t the only girl who had her eye on him. She and her best friend, Nancy Holland, competed for Jedediah’s affections. By all accounts, Patience was not the more beautiful of the two, but he chose Patience. Probably because her father had just died, and Jedediah could pick up her family’s business and settle down from a life at sea without much difficulty. The Coopers made candles, you know.”

  “I didn’t, but that’s a very helpful detail,” I said, my confidence rising that I’d found the right Coopers to investigate further. It was a thrilling, yet surreal possibility, since all the characters had been dead and gone for so long.

  “Nancy and Patience worked on Petticoat Row together. They were seamstresses. They were also savvy women. Shortly after Patience and Jedediah married, there was a whaling ship about to set sail around the horn of South Africa. The ladies decided to invest in the voyage, in hopes of making a tidy sum if the enterprise went well.”

  “People could do that?” I said.

  “Oh, yes. It was like buying stocks, but you might have to wait years for a return,” said Agnes. “Anyhow, Nancy was in charge of taking the women’s funds to the vessel’s captain on behalf of the investors. Legend has it, she was sick that morning, so Patience offered to conduct their business instead. Nancy gave her the money, and Patience headed off. That night, however, Jedediah told the neighbors that Patience had been beaten and the money stolen as she made her way to the ship. He told everyone he was going to take Patience to the mainland for medical attention on a boat that was about to leave for the Cape. That was the last anyone saw of the Coopers and the Petticoat Row ladies’ money.”

  “The Cooper Thieves,” I said, remembering the headlines. “They stole the money and hightailed it. The end?”

  “The end. And a terrible end at that,” said Agnes, shaking her head in disapproval, even all these years later.

  As excited as I had initially been about the candle connection, I now felt I was back to square one. I was looking for a murdered woman, not two con artists who had skipped town. Although both stories included candle makers, there didn’t seem to be anything in Agnes’s tale that ended with a dead body.

  “You can see why we like to let this one lie,” Agnes said. “But you think she lived at the Morton house? I have to admit it’s interesting to know that.”

  “Actually, in spite of the name Cooper and the candle connection, I don’t think it’s the same family. You see, I found a skeleton in their old chandlery with the sign for Cooper’s Candles above it, but I’m in search of a murderer, not thieves. There must have been more Coopers on Nantucket than I ever realized.”

  “A dead body?” she said. “Oh, lordy. I hope they didn’t kill people while they were at it. I’ll keep searching for you. Maybe I can come up with something that could help.”

  “Knock, knock,” said Bellows.

  We turned to find the island’s popular historian in his patched jacket standing at a cautious distance. I could now see that he was quite tall, which was not what I had expected, having only seen him hunched over his books. I wondered when he’d come downstairs, and how long he’d been there.

  “I have a list of periodicals and diaries for you to find for me, Ms. Agnes,” he said, and gave us both a smile. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he said to me, handing me his card. “Jameson Bellows.”

  “Welcome to Nantucket,” I said.

  “Keep in touch,” said Agnes to me.

  “I will,” I said. “And try the word, layered, for tiramisu part.”

  The tightness in her face faded and was replaced with a smile as she glanced at her crossword puzzle.

  “Thanks, Stella,” she said.

  She filled in the word, then took Bellows’s list and disappeared as my phone pinged an update from Peter. His note informed me that I had twenty minutes until maximum low tide, when the “city” of crabs was revealed. It was an invitation I now decided to accept. I nodded politely to Bellows, who seemed to be searching for something else to say to me, and headed out the door.

  Chapter 4

  The drive to the Nantucket Field Station gave me time to reflect on Agnes’s story. Although most of the connections between my skeleton and her family’s history were circumstantial, there was something about the similarity between the characters that held my interest. Lost in thought, I pulled into the station’s dune road, my Beetle fighting mightily across the sand, and parked when I didn’t think the car could make it any farther. I took off my sneakers and threw them in the back se
at. I rolled up my jeans for the trek down to the beach, and when I reached the sand beyond the dunes, I took a left, toward an inlet where I would find Crab City and Peter. I was glad the sun was warm; otherwise, my bare toes would have frozen in the autumn sand.

  When I rounded the beach to the inlet, I gave out a howl of laughter. At the end of wet, slimy sand, through which small rivulets of water ran, I saw Peter. He was wearing knee-high rubber boots, carrying a net, and scribbling notes with the short stub of his number-two pencil. He appeared, from my angle, as if he were trying to interview the little crustaceans. He looked up and gave me a wave with a huge smile.

  “Watch your step,” he said.

  Indeed, I would have to be careful. Although the sand looked muddy and bleak at first glance, on closer inspection, the ground was in constant motion. This phenomenon was the result of thousands of little crabs, exposed from their snug homes for the period of low tide. They were climbing over each other, ducking in and out of safe spaces, and seemed to exponentially multiply moment by moment. Their activities were warranted too. Above, seagulls flew in droves, looking for a good meal. Fortunately for them, the clams at the shoreline on the other side of the beach were the tastier delicacy.

  While the birds made bomb dives into the shallow sea behind me, I skipped from here to there until I reached Peter. By way of greeting, he placed four tiny hermit crabs in my hand.

  “They tickle,” I said, feeling them crawl over my palm. “I love it. If I didn’t know they were crabs, I’d feel really spooked by their claws moving so manically over me. Can we bring a few dozen of them over to Halloween Haunts on Friday and return them before they’re in danger? I bet we could use them to make a wonderfully scary spider booth in the Spooks Room. With a blindfold on, they’d feel just like creeping spiders.”

  “That would be amazing,” he said. “Speaking of spooky things, what’d you find out about the skeleton?”

  “A lot, or maybe nothing at all,” I said.

  I told him about my search and Agnes’s family story. Peter turned a page in his notebook as I spoke. I wondered how that book would read from page to page. Crabs on one side, skeletons on another.

  The tide had already started to return, and the water was cold on my feet, so Peter and I found a patch of sand closer to the ocean where we took a break. He handed me half of a turkey sandwich, which made me realize how hungry I was. We ate as I finished my story.

  “I think there are too many parallels between Agnes’s family history and the skeleton you found to drop the lead,” said Peter when I’d finished. “Agnes was told that the two con artists made up the story of the attack and used it as an excuse to leave town, but maybe Jedediah really left alone.”

  “I see you’re coming around to my murder theory, but I’m not following you. Why would Jedediah kill Patience before leaving the island? They had the money.”

  “Actually, it’s not a murder theory,” said Peter. “Patience was probably attacked, somehow held on to the money, but then died from her wounds. Jedediah buried her quickly and hit the road, using the excuse of her needing help to avoid suspicion. People are susceptible to stories.”

  Peter lay back on the sand, and I joined him, tucking my head into the crook of his arm. For the second time today, I watched the clouds roll by.

  “I still think it was murder. Maybe someone else left Nantucket with Jedediah,” I said. “What if they killed Patience and hid her in the fireplace?”

  Before we could explore the idea, my phone rang. I looked at the screen to find the words WICK & FLAME.

  “It’s Cherry,” said my assistant’s bright voice when I hit ACCEPT. “Everything’s going well today. I sold a Tinker Special. A tourist came in and snapped him up. Said she has a black tabby at home.”

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “Also, I have a phone message,” said Cherry. “The ghost tour lady, Brenda, called. She said to tell you that she went by the Morton house, hoping you’d be there, but that the police were there and a few people she’d never seen before, so she left. She’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Cherry went on to tell me a few more details about our days’ sales, but I was focused on one thing only.

  “Come on,” I said to Peter when I ended the call. I stood and pulled Peter up behind me. “The forensics people are there already.”

  “I can’t,” said Peter. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you, but my contact at U Mass suggested that I stay here tonight. There will be a waxing gibbous moon, and he said lunar phases affect sea life, especially right before a full moon. He says it’s not to be missed. I thought it was worth investigating.”

  I looked at Peter’s gear and noticed that he had brought his sleeping bag.

  “You’re crazy about this story,” I said, in the most loving way.

  “A little bit. Are you going to be alright in that old house tonight?” he said, pulling me close to him. “We could always have a campout.”

  “Not on your life,” I said. “But text me a picture of the moon. Also, you have dried seaweed in your hair.”

  “It’s a fashion statement,” he said. “Meant to woo you.”

  I gave him a kiss to let him know it had worked and headed back down the beach. By the time I reached the car, I was wondering if the body would be gone from The Shack by the time I got home. I knew Andy was a professional, and that duty called, but I also couldn’t believe he had moved ahead so quickly. I’d hoped to have information for him before he started to take next steps. I really did feel responsible for the mysterious corpse’s well-being.

  Fortunately, when I parked in front of the house, Andy’s car was still out front. I marched to the back of the house and across the yard to The Shack.

  “Hello!” I said, entering the room as the lady of the house.

  I noticed that my candles had been replaced by a small generator and three spotlights that lit the room much better. The lights were clamped onto standing rods, so that they could be directed in different places if need be. Another big change to the room was the addition of some white sheets hanging from stands, which broke the space into different sections. A folding table had also been brought in. On top of it was scientific-looking stuff, like test tubes and a box of latex gloves and magnifying glasses and bottles of liquids. Someone had moved the Cooper’s Candles sign across the room, where it now lay beside the door.

  Andy was standing by the hearth with two people, a man and a woman.

  Dressed in forgettable attire, the man had a long, skinny neck upon which sat a head marked by thick, dark eyebrows and round spectacles that were too small for his pale face, in my opinion. If the girls had hired him to pose as a vampire for their event, I’d have thought he was the perfect find.

  In contrast, the woman was a knockout with straight black hair and perfectly trimmed bangs. Somehow her features were unmistakably of Korean descent, unlike my hodgepodge of features, from my Irish heritage to my dark mane and olive complexion. I don’t know anything about my dad, but I bet he had some kind of Mediterranean background.

  Andy took a step toward me.

  “Remember, Stella,” he said. “No one near the body until an anthropologist has looked at it.”

  “You might as well count me in,” I said. “I’ve been looking into the story at the library all day.”

  “We don’t mind an audience,” said the woman.

  I immediately liked her.

  After a beat, Andy stepped aside so I could greet our newcomers.

  “If you two don’t mind, I don’t mind,” Andy said to the couple. “As long as you have something to add, Stella.”

  “You know I’m good for it,” I said, hoping I would be.

  “This is Dr. Robert Solder and his assistant, Miss Leigh Paik, from Boston University,” Andy said. “They are part of a world-renowned forensic anthropology department. They took the first flight over to help us.”

  As Andy spoke, Solder gen
tly leaned his forearm against his partner’s. Leigh returned his nuanced affection by dipping her head toward his shoulder. They were a funny couple, but I got it. She loved his mind; he loved everything about her.

  “So glad you both could make it, Dr. Solder, Ms. Paik.” I extended my hand. “I’m Stella Wright. I live in the main house, so you can always reach out to me if you need anything. “

  “Don’t worry about us. We have a whole lot of bones to play with. And call me Leigh,” said the woman, shaking my hand while her partner got back to work. Although she was the assistant on their team, she seemed to be the public front for the two. “We’re setting up the lab. Then we’ll examine the body. Your timing is perfect.”

  I was impressed. It had only been a few hours since the ME had suggested a forensic anthropologist take over, and here were two professionals, world-renowned, on the case. I smiled at Andy, who rubbed his hands together in anticipation of what would come next. I wished Peter was with us too.

  “Knock, knock,” said a new voice, behind us.

  It was the second time I’d heard that phrase today. As I expected, I turned to find a corduroy jacket with elbow patches in the doorway.

  “Jameson Bellows,” said the historian I’d met at the library.

  His introduction was aimed at the scientists, but Solder was now busy instructing Leigh to organize some tools to help him measure the bones.

  “I’m the resident curator at the Nantucket Historical Association. Consider me at your service,” he said, trying again for their attention. When he received little more than an indulgent smile from Leigh, he turned to me. “Is that you, Ms. Wright?” I nodded, cognizant of the fact that Jameson Bellows’s sudden arrival was most likely connected to the fact that he’d overheard me talking to Agnes. I surmised that he had learned the Morton’s address from Agnes after I’d left and was eager to get in on the action. I had to admit I respected his ambition to make a name for himself on our island. He definitely wanted to be the Historical Association’s new superstar.