15 Minutes of Flame

by Christin Brecher

  “Wonderful,” I said.

  Agnes hung up and looked at me. The laugh lines around her eyes had disappeared and a hollow darkness was left behind. I squeezed her hand reassuringly, and hoped tomorrow would give her peace.

  “Up you go, Agnes,” I said. “Let’s leave the experts to their work. I’m going home to pack up a few items for my stay at the Morton house.”

  “Honestly, I’m nervous about what we might find tomorrow,” said Agnes when we reached our cars. “I’m heading back to the library to get you that diary you asked for earlier.”

  Agnes started her car, and I could see that there was nothing I could do to stop her. I decided that a little routine might steady her nerves, so I made her promise to attend our regularly scheduled candle class tomorrow morning before she drove away.

  Andy and Leigh walked up the lawn to me.

  “We called your cousin Ted. He said thanks for the job,” Andy said. “The chief also assigned me to be at Old Holly’s tomorrow. You should have some official presence around.”

  “What are you going to do with Patience’s body now that we’re looking into Nancy too?” I said, impressed by how my town was coming together so quickly to learn more about these women.

  Andy pushed his cap up his forehead an inch or two.

  “Bellows was on the phone with the Historical Association,” he said. “He was angling to move the body over to the museum by the end of tonight, but Solder put his foot down.”

  “From a scientific perspective, we’d like to keep the body on site, in case we find another tomorrow and there are points of comparison to make,” Leigh said in Solder’s defense.

  I was thinking about my impending slumber party with Patience as I headed home to pack a few clothes for me and provisions for Tinker. I really hoped my stay at the Morton house would inspire the Girl Scouts to turn their fear of the skeleton into fascination. We couldn’t let all of the work they’d put into Halloween Haunts go to waste. And I didn’t want to let down the towns’ neediest.

  Chris had put up a garbage bag over my broken kitchen window, but it wasn’t as creative a solution as I’d thought it might be. The bag kept the leaves and birds from flying into my apartment, but it was awfully cold inside. I was glad I had the Morton house to call home, especially if Peter was planning to spend the foreseeable future camping out at the beach.

  On the way back to my new house, I stopped by the Wick & Flame. My day so far had had many unexpected twists and turns, so I used the afternoon to do what I know best. I made candles, and another Tinker Special, and closed up for Cherry. When I finally shut the door and turned the key for the night, I marveled over the fact that I’d unlocked a door to another world this morning.

  I also realized that there was nothing in my fridge at the Morton house, so I had a bite to eat at the Nantucket Pharmacy on Main Street. When I finally arrived at the house, it was well after dark. The Shack’s door was chained and locked. Everything was quiet but for the wind, which was picking up.

  The moment I stepped into the house, I realized it was almost as cold as the apartment I’d left. I flicked on the lights, then turned the knob of the radiator by the front door, hoping for the best. To be on the safe side, I found the linen closet on the second floor and pulled out every blanket I could find.

  When I entered the bedroom carrying bedcovers piled up to my chin, Tinker was curled up under a pillow, with his nose and whiskers sticking out. He licked his paws and rubbed them over his head as I changed into my pajamas.

  “Since when are you a fraidy cat?” I said, snuggling up next to him, and hoping the scent of mothballs from the blankets would dissipate sooner than later.

  Tinker gave me a purr filled with indignation at my accusation.

  “Holding down the fort then?” I said.

  He whisked his tail and closed his eyes.

  “That’s a good idea,” I said, turning out my light.

  As the radiator’s first bang! echoed throughout the house, I shut my eyes. Under the waxing gibbous moon, the chain across the old chandlery outside banged against the door in the wind. As I turned this way and that throughout the night, I felt that Patience herself was calling to me.

  Chapter 6

  I woke up the next morning to a soft sensation hovering above me. Slowly, I opened one eye.

  “Holy—” I said, falling backward out of bed, throwing pounds of blankets off of me and into the room in the process.

  “Whoa—” said Peter, fending off the blankets as they flew toward him. His hair was everywhere, and his face flushed. “It’s like a sauna in here.”

  I looked around the room, lit by the rising sun. Peter was right. It was very hot. The heater had been stronger than I’d expected. I pushed my hair back and noticed I was a little sweaty.

  “You startled me,” I said.

  “I noticed,” said Peter.

  He put the blankets back on my bed in a way that indicated he thought he had made it.

  “Sorry I snuck up on you like that,” he said, “but you didn’t answer when I knocked. I found the key under the rock out front. It’s almost eight thirty.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Be right back.”

  I immediately ran to the bathroom and turned on the shower. The water was ice-cold from the morning’s chill, but I held my breath and jumped in. I had my candle class at the Wick & Flame in thirty minutes. It would only take five minutes to walk to town, but I like to arrive early to set up for the day.

  Peter was lying on my bed when I jumped out, his arms crooked behind his head, staring at the dust particles that floated in the air. Tinker was beside him, doing the same. What a pair.

  “How was the beach?” I said.

  “I was hazed by the scientist who lives in the cottage out there,” he said with a good-natured laugh. “The crabs slept, safe and sound. The gibbous moon had no effect on them. At about four in the morning, I knocked on his door, feeling hypothermic, and had a strong shot of whiskey. I was so tired I fell right back asleep on his beat-up sofa.”

  I sat on the bed in my Sunday attire—jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt; not my usual work look, but this was a special day.

  “You should have stayed with me,” I said. “We have quite an exciting morning ahead of us.”

  “I heard,” said Peter. “I bumped into Andy at The Downyflake on the way home. He told me to tell you to let the pros do their thing when we get to the well.”

  We both laughed at the thought.

  “Meet me at Old Holly’s in a couple of hours?” I said.

  “You mean we aren’t heading out there now?” said Peter, looking as if I might actually be following Andy’s orders.

  “First, I’m teaching a class,” I said. “I thought it would be good for Agnes if we kept everything as normal as possible. She’s nervous about the family stuff.”

  “I’ll feed Tinker,” said Peter.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You look very cute in a Victorian bed.”

  “Hold that thought?” he said.

  I reluctantly left him and bounced along the rickety cobblestone road to town in the Beetle. When I unlocked the door to my store, I decided the Wick & Flame had the perfect air of both wicked and cheerful. As many days as I’ve walked into the store, I never take the Wick & Flame for granted. I am filled with appreciation that I have been able to turn my passion into my livelihood. I spend every day surrounded by an array of candles in every size, scent, and color. My simple white walls are filled with shelves that display my wares for my loyal customers and appreciative tourists. And if someone can’t find what they want, I’ll make a personalized creation for them. If you ever have a chance to stop by, I promise I’ll make sure you leave with something you like.

  The teapot was starting to sing when I heard a knock on my door. Agnes, Cherry, and their friend Flo, a group we’ve aptly named the Candleers for all of the classes they’ve taken with me, peered in through the window with expectant smiles. I returned theirs and open
ed the door to let them in.

  “Here,” said Agnes, handing me a yellow envelope. “I found Mary Backus’s diary for you. Who says librarians aren’t relevant?”

  “No one says that,” said Flo.

  “I couldn’t sign it out; it’s too old. So I made a copy of it,” Agnes said.

  I took the envelope, impressed by her legwork. It was about a half inch thick. I’d have a lot to read.

  “Agnes told us everything,” said Cherry. “Before you say a word, we’ve called Lucy. She’ll cover for me today. We can’t let Agnes go to Old Holly’s alone.”

  “I need my girls,” said Agnes, nodding.

  Lucy is a recent graduate of the high school who is heading to college in a couple of months. She was my helper for two summers, during the busy season. If Cherry was willing to give up her shift to Lucy, I knew she was worried about Agnes. Cherry loves to help at the store and is somewhat possessive of her job. She feels that work is the key for an aging woman to stay healthy and feel in the game.

  “How was it to stay in that haunted house last night?” said Flo as we headed to my back workroom. “It sounds so creepy.”

  “It was old,” I said, remembering the creaks and bangs of my night’s sleep.

  “I love old houses,” said Cherry. “They make me feel young.”

  “True enough,” said Flo. “It’s not often you find something more wrinkled than you are.”

  The three of them cackled with laughter at their joke.

  “How about we get to work?” I said, starting our day.

  For my latest class, on the theme of candle clocks, I had been inspired by an ad I found on eBay for two hundred candle clock holders at an insanely good clearance price from a junk shop in Illinois. The concept of a candle clock was new to me, and the deal was so good that I couldn’t resist tinkering around with the idea.

  I quickly learned that these clever devices have been around since medieval times, before mechanical clocks had been invented, and were useful for marking time indoors or during cloudy days when following the sun was hard to do. At its simplest form, evenly spaced markings were made on a candle so that as the wax burned past each marking, the owner could follow the passage of time. When a nail was inserted into one of the markings, the candle could also be used as an alarm clock, since the nail would fall and make a clattering sound when the wax around it melted.

  The holders I found could turn these candles into timers as well. This invention struck me as more romantic than a smartphone, but just as technologically practical. In this form, the candle is made of long, beeswax coils which wind their way up a base and are threaded through a metal clip at the top. The user decides how long the candle should burn by adjusting the length of wax above the clip. Then, when the wax melts down, the candle self-extinguishes. Brilliant.

  We’d spent the first couple of classes doing the hard work of creating what seemed now like miles of wax coil, and then we did the math, testing how long the wax burned at different time intervals and marking the coils accordingly. Now we were getting creative. The fun part about the coils was that we could wind them into fun designs. Cherry, for example, had died her wax orange and was planning to sculpt her coil into a round shape with added decorative pumpkin eyes. She thought it would be a perfect Halloween candle for her windowsill, and one she could time to “die” at midnight.

  While the women busied themselves, I opened the envelope Agnes had given me. From inside, I extracted a thick document on letter-sized paper that contained colored copies of Mary’s small book, an item of no more than about five by seven inches. From the images, I determined that the diary had been covered in tan leather and was embossed with the initials MB. Overall, the book seemed in good shape, although the edges of the interior pages looked worn from Mary’s days recording her thoughts of the world around her. Although the pages were yellowed, they were otherwise legible.

  Carefully, I began to turn the pages of Mary’s diary. I was keenly aware that I was looking at someone’s private papers. Even though the book had been written well over one hundred years ago, I treaded lightly.

  At first.

  Before I knew it, I was absorbed in the beautiful handwriting and lovely details of a much-forgotten past. I learned that a family named the Piles had purchased a new workhorse and that the rose of Sharon had blossomed early the following year. There was sad news of a ship lost at sea. In honor of the lost men, Mary had written a poem. Many pages were filled with sketches of friends, flowers, and cats. One drawing even looked like Tinker.

  Near the end of the book, I found the only mention of the Cooper Thieves. It was a short entry, but I pored over the words.

  The Coopers have lost their children to greed. I fear for Patience’s soul and that of her offspring and husband. I grieve, mightily, for the women she betrayed as well. Nancy Holland looks like the walking dead. She shivers and passes with the graveyard in her eyes. Her heart is broken.

  There were only two more pages after the entry. They mostly included details about a trip Mary Backus planned to take to see a cousin off island, but two items in the mention about the Coopers resonated with me.

  First, Mary’s version of the events included an interesting detail: Nancy was seen on the island after Patience and Jedediah had left. It didn’t support our theory that she’d taken off with Jedediah. Adding to this point was Mary’s description of Nancy. She sounded like someone in deep despair, perhaps someone who might kill herself. I was more curious than ever to see what we would find in Old Holly’s well. Perhaps we would discover a body after all.

  I was also surprised by the suggestion of offspring. Was Mary alluding to an existing child, or was she fearful that the Coopers, having left Nantucket, would be cursed forevermore?

  “Did Patience have children?” I said to Agnes as we were cleaning up.

  “I’ve never heard of it,” she said. “Why?”

  My store was still closed, but I heard a rap at the door. Shelly was peering through the glass.

  I opened the door for her.

  “Not that it surprises me, but the girls are spreading news all over town about the skeleton in The Shack,” she said, entering my store. “I came to see if the horrible thing is still there. If it is, the girls said they might not come today.”

  She seemed as overwhelmed as she’d been yesterday.

  “I will say, they think you’re brave for staying there,” she said. “My daughter and her friends keep saying to everyone how they’ve been working in a house with a dead body, and that you now live with it. Drama, drama. Meanwhile, I’m left with these decorative spider webs and no girls to help me hang them.”

  Shelly’s bag was huge and bursting with decorations.

  “Let me see those cobwebs,” said Cherry, coming up to Shelly with a disapproving stare. She gathered the gauze hanging from Shelly’s bag as the other Candleers gathered around with a chorus of tuts and oh nos.

  “Shelly,” said Flo, “we can whip up some cobwebs for you that’ll have the town quaking in their shoes. You should see what we can do with a little silk thread and a crochet hook.”

  “And don’t worry about Halloween Haunts,” said Flo as she walked Shelly to the door. “We’re going out to Old Holly’s right now. Once we find the other skeleton over there, the discovery of Patience Cooper will look like nothing.”

  “Who’s Patience Cooper?” said Shelly.

  “Your dead body,” said Flo.

  “Patience?” said Shelly. “The skeleton has a name?”

  Flo nodded cheerfully and closed the door on Shelly. She waved at the woman, who was now lost in thought about having a skeleton with a name on her hands. Flo hadn’t finished waving when Shelly paused mid-step on her way back to the sidewalk and turned around abruptly.

  “There’s another skeleton?” Shelly said through the glass.

  Flo held her hand up to her ear as if she couldn’t hear. Then she rejoined us with a giggle.

  “Shelly should follow
the troop’s Instagram posts,” said Cherry. “The girls already know all about Old Holly’s well. The brave ones have probably already been down the old thing this morning to check it out.”

  “From what Shelley said about the girls, I doubt they’ll ever go near any of these houses again,” I said, putting the diary back into the envelope.

  “I can’t wait to get to the bottom of this,” said Agnes.

  It felt like it took an eternity for Lucy to arrive, but I think it was only about ten more minutes before we all jumped into our cars and hit the road to Old Holly’s. The morning sun had been swallowed up, and the day had turned foggy, which somehow suited the vibe for the impending excavation.

  When I pulled up, I saw Andy’s patrol car, along with four others, parked in the driveway. I supposed one was Bellows’s car. It was a safe bet that the second one, a well-worn pickup truck, was Old Holly’s. The other two were rentals. I assumed Solders and Leigh had picked up one of them. I wondered who had rented the other.

  The answer came quickly. I stepped out of the Beetle as the screen door of Old Holly’s front porch slammed open and shut. I turned, expecting to see the master of the house, but instead I was met by a dark-haired fellow, about ten years older than I, with slicked-back hair and a moustache. He was wearing a blue, pinstriped suit that looked really out of place on our quiet island.

  “Hugh Fontbutter,” he said, walking toward me with outstretched hand. “I hear you’re the one who found the body. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your discovery is huge. Huge.”

  I extended my hand and shook, feeling I had no choice but regretting that I was now trapped in the strong grip of this stranger. As we shook, Old Holly himself stepped onto the porch above us. He smiled at me and wiggled his eyebrows up and down, like he’d won the lottery.

  “You’ll be perfect,” Fontbutter said to me. He raised his hands into a triangle shape and looked at me through them.

  “Excuse me?” I said, my confusion increasing by the moment.

  “Mr. Fontbutter is a producer. He makes adventure stories about the supernatural for Netflix,” Old Holly said. He leaned against the railing on his porch and kicked the ground with a puffy slipper. I could see he wasn’t planning to join us down at the well. Nor had he made much effort to greet his company for the day. His face was unshaven, and he was still in pajamas under his warm jacket. The two men were a picture in contrast. I wondered what they were up to. Mostly, I just wanted my hand back.