15 Minutes of Flame

by Christin Brecher

  I flashed my membership card at the front desk, then passed the installation of a huge glass lens, from the island’s Sankaty Head Lighthouse, that sits at the base of the museum’s stairs. I headed up to the second-floor galleries, where I knew the special exhibits were. Taking a left, I headed down the corridor, beneath the old town clock, which had been restored and was now displayed higher up in the staircase connecting the three stories of the building. At the end of the hall, I nodded to a dapper fellow made of wood. He’s an old figurehead from a whaling ship’s bow, who, wearing a topcoat and always looking ready for tea, had led his ship through the oceans. You’ve got to love him.

  Next to him were double doors, closed. Across the doorway was a rope from which a sign hung. It read:

  PARDON OUR APPEARANCE AS WE PREPARE FOR

  CAPTAIN’S LOGS AND MARITIME JOURNALS

  OPENING THIS JUNE.

  Here I knocked.

  “One moment,” Bellows said from the other side of the door.

  I jiggled the doorknob, but it was locked. I could hear sea shanties playing on the other side of the door. Not my favorite music, but it fit the venue.

  When Bellows opened the door for me, I noticed that his face was flushed and his sleeves were rolled up. I thought of Peter’s text. I wondered if he was someone with anger-management issues or simply a historian with a misplaced passion for the Seamen’s pulpit.

  “Good morning,” he said, with a wild cheerfulness. “Come in. I’m mapping out some of the upcoming exhibit this morning. I received a shipment I’ve been waiting for of logs and diaries.”

  I matched his jolly greeting and joined the work in progress. On the far side of the wall, there were about four wooden crates with the words FRAGILE written across each of them. Two were open. Styrofoam pellets spilled over and onto the table upon which the crates sat. Next to them were two plastic bags that each contained oversized books with worn leather covers. I assumed they were the logbooks Bellows had requested from the places I’d heard him refer to yesterday in the library.

  In addition to the books, I also noticed several sepia-toned photos laid carefully across the table. I was here to interview a potential murder suspect, but I couldn’t help but be drawn to these images. One, in particular, caught my eye. It was of a woman in what looked to be a swing, dressed to the nines, with a couple of guys on either side of her. She looked rather serious, however, for someone on a swing.

  “That’s a gamming chair,” said Bellows, following my eye. “Wonderful example from New Bedford. Nantucket has a treasure trove of logs and photos, but I’ve been rounding out its collection with items from other whaling centers as well.”

  “What’s a gamming chair?” I said.

  “Gamming was a diversion for a wife who went to sea with her husband, as well as the captain and crew,” he said, joining me in admiring the photo. “When whalers met at sea, the crews exchanged visits. The captain’s wife was lowered from ship to whaleboat in a gamming chair and was rowed to another ship for a festive social occasion, like visiting with another captain’s wife.”

  “Not an easy life,” I said. I couldn’t help but admire the women of Patience and Nancy’s era. In a community that supported women’s advancement, they ran businesses, invested, traveled the world, and made decisions for their communities alongside the men. Nantucket women rocked.

  “Tell me about your candle idea,” said Bellows.

  Now that we were on his turf and talking about his specialty, Bellows seemed less stuffy and, well, downright nerdy. I thought it suited him better.

  “Candles, right,” I said. “I’m making clock candles with my class right now.”

  “Agnes and the ladies?” he said, with an air of suspicion that reminded both of us about murder and our morning spent together only yesterday.

  “I was wondering if I could learn a bit more about other accessories that went along with candles,” I said. “It could be interesting to have my own historical display in the store. Maybe sell a few items.”

  I was making this up on the fly but loving the idea, I must admit. Often the best ideas come when I walk through an unexpected door and keep an open mind. I’d never have thought that helping the Girl Scouts might lead to a new product line in my store. Bellows seemed to like the idea. His eyes brightened.

  “I’d be happy to help,” he said. “In fact, if you’d like to use my name—for credibility, of course—I could design a little something for you.”

  “That would be great,” I said, as long as you aren’t arrested for murder.

  As Bellows launched into a monologue about candle snuffers, candlesticks made from the island’s lesser-known craft in silversmithing, and wick trimmers, his passion and ambition were palpable. This was a man who’d found a niche, one that gave him immeasurable pleasure, but one that did not match his obvious ambition and need for accolades.

  “You can see why it is important to understand and celebrate these objects. It’s also why I think that piecing together the tale of Patience and Nancy might be one of the most exciting stories we have left to document,” said Bellows. “And I don’t think that Fontbutter is the man to tell that story.”

  “You are. Of course,” I said, nodding with certainty for effect, and deciding to get to the heart of my visit. “Is that why you went to the well last night?”

  Bellows gave me an indignant look, but I raised my hand before he could argue.

  “The police don’t know,” I said. “But a little birdie did tell me. It was a bold move. Especially with a murderer on the loose. They might think you look suspicious. That maybe you killed Solder in order to take over his work.”

  “You think that I killed Solder?” said Bellows. “That’s insane.”

  “You had the opportunity to kill him,” I said. “You could have strangled him before the rest of us arrived on the scene. With Solder out of the way, you could take possession of the two skeletons and solve the historical mystery. It would add a little shine to your reputation, wouldn’t it?”

  Bellows’s whole body seemed to perspire. He sat on a bench along the wall and rubbed his head until his hair was as messy as Old Holly’s backyard. He looked like a man who wanted a drink.

  “This is preposterous,” he said.

  “Then what did you do at the well last night?” I said.

  Bellows crossed the room with purpose, but when he reached the wall, all he did was straighten an empty frame that hung there. I waited, assuming he was thinking about how to answer me. Finally, he turned around.

  “I do have an agenda,” he said. “I will admit that. But I didn’t kill Solder. And I would never, ever, jeopardize the authenticity of an excavation. As you said, I want to take over the excavation now that Solder is dead. That’s all. Fontbutter is not the man to peel back the layers of the story.”

  “But you are,” I said. “And if you are in charge, Fontbutter will also have to put you in his production. You might land a leading role in his movie. I imagine that might help your career quite a bit too?”

  “Yes, but I did not kill the man.”

  I kept a cool eye on my suspect and said nothing.

  Bellows stood and crossed over to one of the logbooks.

  “Did you throw something down the well last night?”

  “No,” he said, looking like he might faint.

  “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth,” I said.

  He picked something up from behind one of the crates. He held it up for me to see. It was a long piece of linen.

  “The map?” I said, shocked to have found the missing piece of evidence.

  Bellows, however, shook his head.

  “Not the real map,” he said. “I heard that there were no photos of the map, and that Ms. Paik hadn’t studied it carefully. Then I overheard Officer Southerland say that it was missing. I told you I’d never compromise the integrity of my work, but I’ll confess I was tempted to do so. I found this linen embroidery of Nantucket Island tha
t was made around the same time. It was in the storage facility of artifacts out by Bartlett’s Farm.”

  “You stole it from the warehouse?” I said.

  Bellows looked at me frantically. He didn’t look like a guy who might strike me, but I could see a man who was willing to do crazy things, like break into a church to see its pulpit or steal a map to embellish a story.

  “And you figured if they found a map, they’d need you to solve the mystery of Patience Cooper and Nancy Holland,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “I didn’t do it, though,” he said. “I couldn’t. As much as I wanted to. And I’m so glad I didn’t because look what I received today.”

  I walked over to a logbook he’d opened. The pages were filled with beautiful drawings of whaleboats and whale fins. I knew about these books. The images looked like colorful doodles, but the imagery had practical purposes. In days before Excel spreadsheets and laptops, the captain could quickly count his whales’ tails to determine how many of the creatures had been caught, and where.

  “See here,” said Bellows. “This book is from the Aurelia. The ship made its voyage through the Pacific in eighteen thirty-seven. Look at this.”

  He pointed to an entry in beautiful, flowing script. Honestly, it was so artfully written that I had a hard time making out the words for a few moments. When the letters came together, however, my mouth dropped.

  “Jedediah Cooper?” I said, looking at the name the Aurelia’s captain had added to his entry.

  Bellows nodded.

  “Agnes’s family legend is missing some details,” he said.

  He walked across the room and unwrapped another journal. This book was leather-bound, with the name Poponscott embossed across its cover.

  “I was able to do some digging of my own to find which ship Jedediah Cooper arrived on. Says here that he came to the island on the Poponscott after having been picked up in Hawaii. It lists the Aurelia as his last ship.

  “I called a colleague who has access to the Aurelia log. Jedediah is listed as part of the crew. He was kicked off of the ship, however, something he likely didn’t tell the captain of the Poponscott. The Aurelia log says he was dismissed for ungentlemanly conduct with the captain’s daughter. This captain had brought his family with him. Looks like Jedediah smelled money and tried to woo the daughter. And look at this.”

  Bellows took out his phone and opened it to a picture. It was of an old newspaper clipping. I had to hand it to the man—he was good at what he did. I wasn’t sure where he’d located the article, but I was shocked by its contents.

  “Jedediah Cooper had a wife before Patience?”

  I read on. The story told of Mrs. Alysia Smythson Cooper, who had been attacked and robbed while coming home with the town’s collection for a new church steeple.

  “Sound familiar?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Jedediah Cooper sounds like a serial killer,” I said. “The captain was wise to have kicked him off of his ship. And Nantucket was, unluckily, the place where he landed. He married Patience for her money, but he must have imagined a much more lavish life when he heard about the Petticoat Row ladies’ plans to invest in a whaling ship. It was easy money. By knocking off Patience, he could take the money and run—until he found his next victim.”

  “But it still leaves unanswered questions about Nancy’s map,” he said.

  Bellows and I nodded. I considered his story. He’d filled in a lot of the holes about Nancy and Patience. I was starting to get a real picture of the man who had conned them both.

  “Who left Nantucket with Jedediah?” I said.

  “A very good question,” he said.

  I’d arrived feeling that I’d found Solder’s killer, but now I was not so sure. Bellows had been able to build a fascinating story without ownership of the skeletons. He was quite remarkable.

  I looked at the time. Leigh would be descending the well in an hour. Soon, Old Holly would be handing the axe over to Andy.

  “Let me know if you find out anything more,” I said to Bellows. “I think you’re on to something.”

  I left Bellows and headed back down the corridor, aware of the eyes from the portraits of old sea captains hanging on the walls. Old Holly’s story about seeing Bellows had been true, but for a reason we had not begun to imagine last night.

  On the other hand, although Bellows had not gone through with his idea to throw a piece of linen into the well, I couldn’t completely check him off my list of suspects for one key reason: There was no way he could have overheard Andy talking about the missing map. He’d been very clear about the fact that he didn’t want to create a craze for treasure hunting. So how did he know the map was missing?

  My suspect was still a suspect. I knew Andy would feel the same when Old Holly told him about last night. I knew the police would question Bellows. I felt, however, that I’d known the right questions to ask and had come away with a much better understanding of the mystery at the bottom of Solder’s murder.

  Chapter 20

  In order to get from the museum to the Wick & Flame, I took the path that led past The Bean. When I turned the corner, I was surprised to see Emily out of the house.

  “I had to get out,” she said, waving to me. “Neal’s covering for me for ten minutes so I can get a muffin.”

  “How are you doing?” I said, opening the door to The Bean for her.

  “Slowly but surely,” she said as we headed to the counter. “Morning, Clemmie. Can I have a cappuccino?”

  “You need tea with honey,” said Clemmie, taking one look at my friend.

  “She’s right,” I said to Emily. Her eyes were still deeply ringed.

  “Ugh,” said Emily. “Fine.”

  “I’ll take the cappuccino,” I said.

  We found a back table and took a seat. We waited for our names to be called, but instead Clemmie came from behind the counter and served us personally. Then she grabbed a chair and joined us. Immediately, I told Clemmie and Emily about the likelihood that Jedediah had been a serial killer.

  “It must have been so much easier to be a serial killer in the old days,” said Clemmie. “Jump on a ship and no one knows who, what, or when.”

  “I knew he was behind this,” said Emily.

  I nodded; my coffee cup raised.

  “Any new suspects for the murder of the scientist?” Emily said.

  “I thought I’d narrowed in on someone, but now I’m not so sure. The police have cast a wide net, but I’m still focused on the historian, the producer, and Old Holly.”

  “You know, you can learn a lot about a person from the kind of coffee they order,” said Clemmie.

  “What does Bellows order?” said Emily.

  “The guy who is visiting at the Historical Association?” said Clemmie. “He’s fussy. One day black coffee, the next a lot of milk.”

  She nodded with authority, but I wasn’t sure how to add that to my suspect profile.

  “What are you thinking?” Emily said to me.

  “I’m reshuffling all I know about my suspects,” I said. “I think I forgot to mention Leigh.”

  “Who’s that?” said Clemmie.

  “Solder’s girlfriend.”

  “Can’t help you there. I didn’t serve Solder or his girlfriend. And I don’t know about the producer. One the one hand, he’s thoughtful because he orders for others. On the other hand, he ordered a hazelnut for himself, which I find is usually a favorite of prima donnas.”

  Emily laughed. Neal, who is the opposite of a prima donna, was obsessed with hazelnut. I knew, however, that she’d tease him about it tonight.

  “I bet Leigh did it,” said Emily. “Isn’t it always the husband or wife?”

  “I hope she didn’t do it,” I said. “They had a fight as they were going down the well that we all heard. She told me it was because he had been acting really weird lately, and she was convinced he was hiding something from her. She thought he was cheating, or something worse.
She said he’d been acting strange. Turns out, however, he was acting fishy because he’d bought her an engagement ring.”

  “Oh, man, that’s going to hurt,” said Clemmie. “Really bad decision. She could be flashing a ring this morning, but instead she killed the guy.”

  “Is it possible that Solder was going to propose but was also acting fishy about something else?” said Emily. “Maybe something was going on with him, and someone killed him for it.”

  “The police think so,” I said. “Actually, Fontbutter thinks so, too. I know he’s a suspect, so I take it with a grain of salt, but he thought Solder had some shady dealings in Cairo.”

  “That opens up the suspect list,” said Clemmie.

  “Clemmie has a point,” said Emily.

  “But I went down the well at Old Holly’s last night, and there was no map. I maintain this is the key clue to solving the crime. I am more convinced than ever that the motive for murder has to do with the discovery of Patience and Nancy.”

  “Excuse me?” said Emily, choking on her muffin.

  “You went down a well?” said Clemmie, shaking her head. “At night? Alone? You go, girl.”

  “I did,” I said. “I won’t be able to comfortably lift my arms for a couple of days due to their soreness, but I saw for myself that the map was missing.”

  “So what does that have to do with cutting the tree?” said Clemmie. “No one knew Solder was going to find a valuable map.”

  “I still don’t know. Also, anyone could have made the cut,” I said. “Even Old Holly. The axe that was used was under his porch. The confusing and frustrating point is that two of my key suspects couldn’t have pushed over the tree. They were with us by the table. Only Leigh might have been able to push the tree and then claim she was trapped.”

  “Hey,” another barista called out to Clemmie.

  We looked to the counter to see that the line was growing.

  Clemmie stood.