15 Minutes of Flame

by Christin Brecher

  I walked to the living room windows that looked out over the street. It was dead quiet. Many leaves had blown across the path to the front door during the night.

  It would be tough to miss the excavation today, but I thought of another way I could keep focused on the case. A lunch break with Bellows.

  I’d left Bellows’s card in my car, so I headed out to grab it. It was on the floor of the passenger seat, where I’d left it yesterday. I made a couple of drafts of a text, deciding on tone and content. After a few minutes, I came up with something I felt would entice him.

  Stella Wright here! Are you free to meet today? I have a few questions about candle making in the time of Patience Cooper that I’d love to ask you. I’m thinking of a new line of candles inspired by Nantucket’s days of yore.

  I hit SEND. I felt clever having come up with a topic of conversation that had little to do with the murders. As my number-one suspect, I didn’t want him to have any idea that I was on his trail. Candles seemed an innocuous topic. And a line of candles inspired by Patience might actually be really interesting, come to think of it.

  I was staring at the screen, waiting for a reply, but no pings, bings, or rings followed. Since I was waiting for Fontbutter, Brenda, and now Bellows, I grabbed a decorative witch’s broom by the front door to sweep the pathway for my visitors. While I did, I noticed two kids walking toward me. The school bus stops only a couple of blocks away, and I figured they were headed there. As they approached me, one nudged the other, and the two began to giggle. I waved but was surprised when they avoided my greeting and walked past me. The wind picked up at that moment. My thick, wild hair was lifted by a gust of wind. Tinker mewed from the living room window and tapped his black paw against the glass pane. A skull made of papier-mâché sat beside him, covered in fake blood. I realized I must look perfectly cast in the doorway of one the island’s haunted houses.

  I checked my phone again. Still no message from Bellows. Plus I noticed that Fontbutter had said he’d be over by eight, and it was now ten after. I wondered what was keeping him from the meeting he had seemed so excited about last night. Then I heard a noise out back. I put the broom back beside my front door and headed toward the sound.

  “Helloooo?” I sang as I neared The Shack.

  Unravelling the chain, I peered through the door. Solder and Leigh had removed their table and equipment, but the sheet still hung in front of Patience’s coffin. I walked across the room and lifted the covering. The skeleton, minus her femur, was still nestled inside the stones.

  Behind me, the air picked up. I turned around to find Fontbutter in the doorway.

  “Great. You’re here,” he said. “I knocked on the kitchen door, but we must have missed each other somehow.”

  Unlike yesterday’s pinstriped suit, the TV director was now dressed for action, more or less. He wore black jeans, a black button-down shirt, black sneakers, and a black bomber jacket. His hair and mustache were as slick as ever, but today he looked like the kind of guy who could climb down a well and emerge in one piece. Over his shoulder, he carried his familiar camera bag. In his hand he held a black-cotton duffel bag.

  “How’s old Patience today?” he said, looking at the skeleton. “Ready for your close-up, old gal? We’ll find your good angle.”

  I could not help but feel protective of my skeleton. I didn’t like the idea of Fontbutter taking advantage of Patience Cooper. The woman had clearly been through a lot in her day. I wondered how she’d feel about being broadcast on TV over a hundred years later.

  “Are you sure you’re allowed to be filming here?” I said. “While there is a murder investigation going on?”

  Fontbutter dropped his duffel bag to the ground and crouched beside it.

  “I’m not sure what one has to do with the other,” he said, pulling a small black box from it. I was starting to see a theme here. My black candles were just his color.

  “Nancy Holland and Patience Cooper were friends,” I said. “We wouldn’t have been exploring the well for Nancy’s body had we not found Patience first.”

  Fontbutter paused and looked up at me. He stroked his mustache.

  “It’s like this. Baskin-Robbins and Dunkin’ Donuts share retail space,” he said, “but if someone chokes on a donut, do we boycott ice cream? I think not.”

  “So Patience and Nancy are like Dunkin’ Donuts and Baskin-Robbins?” I said, resisting the temptation to point out the many flaws in his analogy.

  “Exactly,” he said, looking relieved I had caught on. “Can you hold this mirror for me?”

  He stood before me, handed me a mirror, and began to comb his perfectly straight hair. Had he gotten tanner overnight?

  “I’m going to have you shoot me in front of Patience,” he said, now taking a small light from his bag. “But first I want to take a few still photos of the room so I have them for reference before other shoots. Can you unpack my camera?”

  I put the mirror down and followed instructions. Fontbutter was engrossed in taking his photos. He began by shooting the hearth, the stones, the empty room. Then he focused in on the skeleton, taking similar photos to those that Solder and the ME had taken yesterday. I watched, impressed in spite of myself. I could see the man’s genuine enjoyment of his trade, and his excitement about the project. If I hadn’t been so suspicious about how his show would turn out, I’d have been pretty excited to be involved. For now, however, my objective was to get to know the man better, to see if there was a clue that pointed to Fontbutter as the murderer.

  I looked at the video camera I was holding and wondered if I’d found my opportunity.

  “The light is good for outdoor shots right now,” I said.

  “You’re right,” he said.

  To my delight, he headed out the door.

  “Feel free to peek into the Morton house too,” I said. “It’s an antique itself. You might want to shoot there.”

  “I knew I’d like you,” said Fontbutter from outside. “You’re a problem solver. That’s what you are. Be right back.”

  “Yes, I am,” I said quietly.

  The moment Fontbutter left The Shack, I turned on his camera. I was not familiar with this sophisticated model, but I realized that the buttons were self-explanatory. In less than thirty seconds, I was flipping through videos. One was taken prior to his puddle-jumper flight from Boston to Nantucket, in which he spoke into the camera’s microphone like an adventurer heading off to the wild, seeking the truth of the past. I rolled my eyes and moved on to the videos from yesterday.

  I hit PLAY on the first video at Old Holly’s house. It was a short clip of Old Holly, fumbling with his clicker to find the ball game. I could imagine the opening shot, where an unsuspecting old local spends his afternoons on mundane things while the find of a lifetime is entombed in his backyard. It wasn’t far from the truth, but I didn’t appreciate anyone from my town being portrayed in such a way.

  Next Fontbutter had filmed the walk down to the well. I remembered this video. The Candleers and I had led the way, with Flo carrying her stadium chairs. When the path to the well came in view, Fontbutter raised his camera higher and zoomed on the path. I noticed a SLO-MO button and hit it. As the frames moved one by one, I studied the perimeter of the shots, hoping to see someone who should not be there. Bellows was the only person who had been on the scene whom I could not find in the video, but I remembered he had arrived after us.

  There was only one more video. I pressed PLAY. The scene started at the well, where we had gathered before Solder and Leigh had begun their descent. Leigh was attaching her ropes to the belay device, tugging on them to make sure they were safely connected. She looked up and smiled, sweetly, to the camera. At that moment, Solder walked into the frame from behind Fontbutter.

  The door to The Shack opened, and I calmly looked up, hitting STOP as I did. Without a word, Fontbutter sneezed, walked directly to the table, and lifted the mirror again. His hair was still straight, but its general configuration was s
lightly askew.

  “You didn’t tell me you had a cat,” he said, repositioning his locks. “I’m allergic. Unfriendly creature too, isn’t he?”

  Tinker has a good radar about people. His evident disapproval of Fontbutter only fueled my mistrust of the man.

  He put the mirror down and set up his lights.

  “Where’s a good place for coffee around here?” he said.

  “The Bean.”

  “Call them and tell them I’ll be there in twenty,” he said. “I’ll need one regular coffee. Also, add one hazelnut with almond milk. Does your friend Southerland like anything special?”

  “Regular with two sugars,” I said.

  “Then two regulars. No, make that three. Old Holly might want something. And don’t forget the one hazelnut with almond milk.”

  I called The Bean and got Clemmie on the phone.

  “A man named Fontbutter will be picking up the order,” I said.

  “What are you doing making coffee calls for someone with such a ridiculous name? You’re not an intern,” she said.

  “Just happy to bring you business, Clemmie,” I said.

  I’ve been on both sides of the proverbial pond—both the big fish in my small hometown and an invisible one to island visitors. I found pros and cons to both sides. With Fontbutter, however, it really was only the promise of bringing business to The Bean that kept me from telling him what he could do with his coffee.

  Five minutes later, I was focusing the lens of the director’s camera and tightening the screw to a small tripod upon which it was secured. Fontbutter touched his moustache one last time and then nodded that he was ready.

  “Action,” I said, hitting the RECORD button.

  “Murder in Nantucket!” he said. “My research into Nancy Holland’s death has ended in murder. Robert Solder, preeminent forensics anthropologist, was found strangled today in front of the well in which he had just found the body of Nancy Holland. The story, however, starts here, at the burial site of Nancy’s best friend, Patience Cooper.”

  For someone who didn’t believe that Solder’s death had anything to do with Patience and Nancy, he sure seemed to like the connection. I was about to say as much but held my tongue as Fontbutter began to tell the story of Patience Cooper. I was glad that at least he stuck to the facts of the story, although several times he added the words “evidently” and “as we understand it now.” Another favorite was “Legend has it.”

  “As I start this investigative adventure,” he said, finishing up the story, “I am most excited by one fact that was not well-known among this small community. At the northeast point of the island, there is a treasure, related to Patience Cooper and her friend, Nancy Holland. I am hopeful that as this story unfolds, we will learn more not only about these two old friends but also about their secret fortune, which is estimated at over one hundred thousand dollars.”

  I thought how interesting it was that Fontbutter knew so many details of a map we’d never seen. He was either a great salesman, or he knew more than he should. But how?

  He looked from the camera’s lens to me and made a slicing motion across his neck. I was startled by the gruesome gesture.

  “Cut,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said, collecting myself. “How do you know about where the treasure lies and how much it’s worth?”

  “Showmanship,” said Fontbutter with a wink.

  “I was wondering. That time you heard Solder speak at a conference, did he say or do anything that could have made him any enemies?”

  Fontbutter leaned toward me. Although there was no one else in the room, he looked both ways.

  “I heard him on the phone to a museum in Cairo,” he said. “And I have a theory.”

  “What is it?” I said.

  Before he said another word, there was a crash at the door.

  The room had been so quiet that both Fontbutter and I jumped. We looked to the door to see the silhouette of Brenda Worthington. She was sitting on the ground, her legs out and facing us, as if she had taken a few steps backward and had fallen.

  “Are you OK?” I said, rushing to her aid.

  “Sorry, but I must cancel,” said Brenda, standing quickly. “I don’t think Patience will be speaking to me any longer. So sorry.”

  Brenda turned and scurried across the field. I followed.

  “Brenda?” I said. “Stop!”

  Brenda stopped and turned.

  “I had a dream last night,” she said. “I was coming to tell you that Patience won’t speak to me anymore. She told me she was moving to the other side. Now that her body has been found, she can rest.”

  Without another word, Brenda turned and continued her retreat from the Morton house. I knew she was lying. She was carrying a bag over her shoulder from which I could see the sleeve of a Quaker-style dress. If she hadn’t planned to “introduce” me to Patience, why would she have brought the dress?

  I returned to The Shack, wondering if Fontbutter was behind Brenda’s change of heart.

  “Do you know Brenda Worthington, the woman who was just here?” I said.

  Fontbutter was reviewing my video job.

  “This looks good,” he said. “I think I’ll move on to the excavation.”

  At that moment, my phone pinged a response from Bellows. In a stroke of good luck for me, he was heading over to the Whaling Museum in town to work on his exhibit, and could meet now.

  Fontbutter had packed his bag when I looked back up.

  “You didn’t answer me,” I said. “Do you know Brenda Worthington?”

  “Was that Brenda Worthington?” said Fontbutter. “I wish I’d known. I’ve heard about her and her ghost tours. I tried calling her to do an interview but haven’t heard back. She’s local-flavor gold.”

  Fontbutter’s answer gave me a solid understanding of why Brenda made a quick escape. Being on Fontbutter’s show was probably a terrifying proposition for someone like her.

  “Get in touch with Brenda today,” he said as we both headed out of The Shack. “Set up an interview for tomorrow.”

  “Will do,” I said, knowing that would be a waste of time. “By the way, what’s your theory about Solder? You said you had one.”

  “Cairo,” said Fontbutter, picking up speed as we headed across the lawn. “I thought there was something sneaky-looking about the fellow when he hung up from the phone conversation I heard him have with someone in Cairo. You know, there’s some tricky business in the world of anthropology. Stolen goods, faking authenticity. You name it. Our Solder might not have been the saintly scientist everyone thought he was.”

  “Interesting,” I said, remembering Andy’s growing suspects list as Fontbutter tossed his bags into his rental car and took off.

  I wondered how much I could trust Fontbutter’s story as I headed into the main house. I gave Tinker a snuggle and grabbed my bag and car keys. I remembered that Leigh said she had worked in Cairo. She had said she had loved to belay down excavation sites there with a professor. Was there a connection?

  When my hand reached the doorknob, I stopped, thinking now about Brenda. She had been very late for our appointment. Perhaps she had decided to wait me out and visit The Shack on her own. Fool me once, right? I dialed Peter.

  “Morning,” he said in a cheerful voice.

  I know this man. He is cheerful, yes. But not when I’ve woken him. In that scenario, he would be cordial, perhaps understanding, even a bit happy someone had started thinking of him in the early hours of the day. But chipper? Never. As with Leigh and her suspicions about her own boyfriend, my radar went up.

  “How are you?” I said, in an equally chipper voice to let him know I was on to him.

  “I’m OK. How’re you?” he said.

  For the record, I’d given him a chance to come clean.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean why do you sound so happy?” I said, realizing I’d need to be direct.

&n
bsp; “I’m no happier than usual,” he said.

  “Oh, it is getting worse and worse. We can discuss this later. Right now, I’m heading into town to talk to Bellows. I have it on good authority that he’s been back to the well, and I want to know why. I’m concerned, however, that Brenda might break into The Shack again. I don’t want her in here without me. Sounds like an opportunity for a reporter, don’t you think? Why don’t you work in the Morton house today? It’s very cozy here, and you can stake out my place. Plus, it would be nice to come home to that cheese spaghetti you promised me.”

  “Sweet talk, eh?” said Peter.

  “Did it work?” I said, opening the door.

  “Yes,” said Peter. “Well, no. I’d be happy to be your man of the house, but, really, I can’t leave. I’ve got some stuff here I have to work on. I’ll tell you about it later. I promise. I’ve got to go, but talk later, OK?”

  The line went dead.

  “OK,” I said.

  But I was not OK. It was completely impossible for me to comprehend how Peter could be thinking about anything else. Something was off. If I’d had more time to dwell on it, I’d have headed over to his office, but Bellows was waiting. I opened the door and headed to town.

  Chapter 19

  I’ve always had a soft spot for Nantucket’s Whaling Museum, in part because its oldest section was originally the 1847 Hadwen & Barney Oil and Candle Factory. In case you ever visit, which I highly recommend, there are many galleries that feature artifacts pertaining to Nantucket’s whaling life and culture. The main attraction is a forty-six-foot-long sperm-whale skeleton suspended from a ceiling. I prefer its other highlight, a massive lever press that was used to refine oil to make candles.

  As I crossed the street, I glanced at a text from Peter on my phone.

  Sorry. Busy here. Peace offering... did a deep search on Bellows. Be careful. He was arrested once for trying to break into the Seamens Bethel chapel in New Bedford. The pulpit is in the shape of a ship’s bow. He was drunk and wanted to climb it. Headline was ‘Thar He Blows: Historian hits cop during Seamens pilgrimage.’ Probably seemed funny at the time, but is it, in retrospect?