The Legend of Sleepy Harlow

by Kylie Logan

  “Peace offering.” He handed the flowers to me.

  I was too surprised not to accept them and too unsure how I felt about the whole thing not to be awkward. I tucked the bouquet into the crook of my arm like a Miss America pageant winner. “What do you want?” I asked Levi.

  He laughed. “What, you think I have an ulterior motive? You’ve got trust issues.”

  “Only if that means I don’t trust you to make a peace offering I didn’t know I had coming.”

  “You’re right. Technically, you didn’t have it coming,” he said, and then, because my shoulders automatically shot back just as my chin just naturally shot forward, he laughed again. That is, right before the gleam of amusement in his eyes settled into a warm blue glow.

  “Truce?” he suggested.

  The word hung in the air between us long enough for me to be tempted to ask him to elaborate. But then, I’m smarter than that, right? I didn’t need an explanation. I knew exactly what he was talking about.

  It was all about that mistake we both made the summer before.

  All about how we’d nearly made it again out at Middle Island.

  It was based on the fact that we both believed that this was the wrong time and the wrong place for either one of us to start into a relationship, and about how if we really meant that, it was time to simply admit it and get on with our lives.

  I stuck out a hand to shake his. “Truce.”

  There. Done.

  Finally.

  Hoping I didn’t look too eager to break off the contact, I pulled my hand back to my side and adjusted my hold on the carnations. Their spicy scent tickled my nose.

  Maybe Levi was as relieved as I was that we’d finally come to some sort of agreement. He turned and strolled across the grass. It was still wet from the recent rain, and it was slick. I was grateful for my boots.

  “Meg’s the one who told me, by the way. I called your place a little while ago and she said you were headed over here.”

  I hadn’t asked, but I appreciated the explanation. “Did she tell you why?”

  “She didn’t have to.” He stopped and looked down at the gray granite marker nearest his feet. “This is where Charlie Harlow is buried.”

  It was, and Sleepy’s grave was exactly what I wanted to see.

  “I couldn’t read the information clearly,” I said, bending down so I could brush away fallen leaves and get a better look at the stone. “I know he died on October third, nineteen thirty, but I couldn’t read Marianne’s pages clearly.” I pulled a notebook out of my pocket and jotted down what I needed. “Eighteen ninety-eight. He was born in eighteen ninety-eight. I figured it was pretty important to get that right.” I would confirm the information through local county records, but for now, I was satisfied.

  “Not a bad spot to spend eternity.” Levi tipped back his head and pulled in a deep breath of autumn-crisp air. The small cemetery backed into a grove of trees that were dappled with the same sunlight that danced and glistened against the grass in patterns that changed with the wind. “It’s quiet. It’s restful. It seems out of character that a man who lived as a gangster could rest so peacefully.”

  “Unless he’s not. If,” I added, because I was afraid the look Levi gave me said he was worried about my sanity, “if you believe what some people say.”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s right here.” There was a heavy fringe of overgrown grass that hemmed in the headstone from all sides, and Levi tapped the toe of his sneaker on it. “He’s always been right here, and this is exactly where he’s going to stay.”

  I was sure of it, too. Pretty sure. What I wasn’t so sure about . . .

  I looked to where Levi’s shoe rested against the thick grass that threatened to smother the stone. The gray granite of Sleepy’s marker had survived the years better than many of the marble gravestones nearby. Island weather had worn away many of their inscriptions so that the words were soft and nearly indecipherable, like writing on a foggy mirror.

  The information on Sleepy’s stone had fared better. Except . . .

  Before I jumped to any conclusions, I dropped down on my knees, and, ignoring the way my jeans immediately acted like a wick and started soaking up water, I grabbed at the closest tuft of grass. Thanks to the wet ground, it pulled out with little effort, so when I was done with that patch, I worked on another and another and another. In no time at all, my fingers were slick with mud, and all the grass that had encroached on the marker was torn away and piled nearby.

  “Take a look,” I told Levi, pointing. “His name, Charles Harlow, is nice and clear and easy to read. So are the dates of his birth and his death. But look at this.” I ran a finger over the bottom eight inches of granite. With the sun shining on it, the granite glimmered, throwing Sleepy’s name and vitals into relief and making it possible for me to see my own hazy reflection in the stone. But there at the bottom, the granite was rough and pitted. I ran my finger over the grooves that slashed the stone horizontally.

  Levi crouched down next to me. “It looks like it was vandalized.”

  “But if that’s the case, why not destroy the whole stone?” I set aside the red carnations, scraped my muddy hands against my jeans, and brushed my fingers against the smooth surface, tracing the name. “Why just part of the stone and not all of it?”

  “The cops showed up? The person got interrupted? Or maybe there was some kind of storm damage.” There was a gigantic oak tree twenty feet away, and its branches overhung the area. “A branch could have come down and smashed the stone.”

  “But this isn’t smashed.” I slid my finger from smooth surface to rough. “These lines were put here deliberately. Like someone . . .” I doubted it would help, but I crouched down even farther, one ear on the tombstone, eager to see it from a different angle and hoping for a better sense of what had happened. “It’s like someone was trying to blot something out. Look.” I sat up again and traced what I could see of a faint pattern with one finger. Just above the gouges, there was a rounded shape carved into the stone. And just below the rough grooves, a clean, straight line.

  “This carving is delicate,” I said, following what was left of what had been etched into the stone, first with one finger, then two. “These lines weren’t made with force; not like the ones cut into the granite over them.”

  Levi tilted his head for a better look. “So you think there was something else on the stone? Something someone tried to blot out?”

  “I don’t suppose it would do any good to contact the monument company that made the headstone,” I said, thinking out loud. “Nineteen thirty was a really long time ago. Even if they still had the records, I bet they’re stashed away in some moldy warehouse and impossible to access.”

  “And you think it matters because . . . ?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, and sat back on my heels. “But it’s weird, and that makes it interesting.” I pulled my phone from my pocket. “I wonder if a picture will help.” I took a couple. “Or a rubbing.”

  Levi slid me a look. “You know how to do gravestone rubbings?”

  Rather than admit I’d never even tried I said, “How hard can it be? All we need is a sheet of paper big enough to cover the part of the stone that’s all chewed up and something to make the impression.” Even though I knew there was nothing in my jacket pockets that would help, I patted them down. “Like a pencil lead.”

  “A pencil won’t work. The lead wouldn’t be fat enough.” Levi jumped to his feet and headed to his car. He was back in a flash, a few sheets of paper in one hand and a box of crayons in the other. He popped open the lid on the crayon box, took out a black crayon and peeled back the paper.

  “Halloween,” he said, as if it were enough of an explanation. Then, because he knew it wasn’t, he grinned. “I figure there will be a lot of families coming to the island for the big costume party on Friday. So I ordered a few dozen boxes of crayons. You know, so I can put them out on the tables in the restaurant along with paper to keep t
he kids busy while families are waiting for their orders. The morning ferry brought the stuff and I was just over at the dock picking it all up.” He finished with the black crayon, stuffed the tiny shreds of its former paper wrapping in his pocket and held up the gleaming, naked crayon for me to see. “What do you think? Will it work?”

  I laid the piece of blank paper over the vandalized portion of the headstone and held out my hand for the crayon. “Let’s find out.”

  Holding the crayon on either end, I swiped it lengthwise over the paper. The paper moved. I cursed. Levi leaned over so he could hold either side of the paper and keep it in place.

  Good idea.

  At least it would have been if it didn’t mean we were suddenly in very close proximity. I reached around him to try and rub the crayon across the paper again, and when that didn’t work, I laid aside my pride and ducked under his arm. He was kneeling behind me now, one arm on either side of me. Rather than consider how if I moved just a fraction of an inch, our truce would turn out to be the shortest one in history, I got to work on the rubbing.

  Done, I sat back.

  Or at least I would have if Levi—solid and oh-so-tempting—weren’t there.

  He jumped to his feet.

  I followed.

  I don’t think I imagined it; he was as breathless as I was. He covered better than I would have been able to, looking over my shoulder at the rubbing, a smear of black against the white paper. “I can still see the gashes in the stone.” He pointed to those lines. “And the other parts you pointed out . . .” His finger traced the pattern. “It’s just like you said. It looks like there was something else carved into the stone. Something somebody didn’t want anyone else to see.”

  I stared at the fat, black pattern, at the delicate tracery at the bottom and that smooth, round curve at the top that reminded me of—

  “It’s an oil lamp.”

  “All right.” The way he dragged out the words added to the skepticism that rang through his voice. “I can see the bottom of it and I guess it could be an—”

  “An oil lamp.” I clutched the rubbing in suddenly trembling fingers. “Just like at the winery.”

  This, of course, he didn’t know, and with my words vibrating with an excitement I didn’t quite understand, I gave Levi the Reader’s Digest condensed version of the story.

  When I was finished, he took the paper out of my hands and examined the picture again. “So every day when Kate goes to the winery, she sets an oil lamp on the windowsill.”

  “Just like her parents did, and their parents did, and their parents did,” I explained.

  “And you think—”

  “I don’t know what to think. Except that it’s a mighty strange coincidence. Sleepy’s ghost has been seen at the winery and—”

  “And I thought we don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “We don’t. Only if we did, Sleepy’s ghost has been seen at the winery. And the oil lamp is always put out at the winery. Do the math, Levi.” I did, very quickly, and I came to the conclusion I knew he’d arrive at once he thought about it. “It was Kate’s great-grandma Carrie who started the tradition with the oil lamp. The timing is right. I’d bet anything that she was working at Wilder’s in the twenties and thirties. It’s exactly Sleepy’s time period.”

  “And it means?”

  “I have no idea what it means! Maybe there was some sort of tradition in town about oil lamps back then. I’ll check with the historical society. Or maybe . . .”

  A thought floated through my head, and as foolish as it felt to put it into words, I figured I owed it to Levi. If he was game enough to go through these theories with me, I might as well speak my mind.

  “Sleepy worked at Wilder’s. He and Carrie Wilder must have known each other.” Again, I studied the rubbing. “What if they more than knew each other? What if she put out that oil lamp to signal to Sleepy?”

  Levi chuckled. “Maybe what you really should be writing is romance novels,” he suggested.

  My head shot up and I stared at him. If there weren’t a lump that blocked my throat, I might have asked why he was suddenly so pale.

  I swallowed the sand in my mouth. “Romance novels instead of—”

  “Instead of the book you’re doing about Sleepy on Marianne’s behalf, of course.” Levi’s smile came and went. Or maybe I just thought it did because of the way the tree branches above our heads swayed with the next breeze that blew through, spilling sunlight over us, then disappeared, leaving behind a shower of leaves. “Sleepy was a gangster. You know, one of the bad guys. And Kate’s great-grandmother . . . well, I’m new to the island, just like you. But even I know the Wilders would never pass the time of day with the likes of Sleepy.”

  He was right, and I admitted it.

  But it didn’t explain the carving. Or the fact that someone had tried to eradicate it.

  I’d just given up on trying to figure it out and had turned to head back to my car when something in the grove of trees at the far end of the cemetery caught my eye.

  I stopped and squinted for a better look. “Did you see that?” I asked Levi.

  He looked where my finger was pointing. Looked again. Leaned forward.

  “Something’s moving over there,” he agreed, and since we both knew it was probably something no more threatening than a squirrel, he really didn’t need to take my arm and tug me to the side so he could step in front of me. “There!” It was his turn to point.

  Since Levi’s so much taller than me, I had to step around him to get a better look at the shadow that glided behind the trees.

  Not a squirrel. It was too tall to be an animal. Too quiet to be a person. It stepped from sunlight to shadow and again into sunlight, too far into the brush to be clearly seen. It walked like a person, and if I watched it carefully . . .

  I’d already moved forward for a better look when a gust of wind whipped through the cemetery. It snaked across my shoulders and whizzed over my head, and when it got to the place just beyond the perimeter of the cemetery where the grass was taller and the brush was thicker, it shivered over a sumac bush, bending its branches with their red leaves toward the ground.

  That’s when I got a better glimpse of the shadow.

  It was man-high and for what couldn’t have been more than a second or two I saw clearly that it had two arms, two legs.

  And no head.

  “Levi!” My fingers were already pressed into his arm before I even realized I’d reached for him. I dared to look away long enough to see that Levi was looking exactly where I was looking.

  “I see it,” he said, his voice breathless, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “Come on!” He took off like a shot, taking me along with him.

  We zigzagged around headstones and kicked through tall grass, and in less than a minute, we were standing at the spot where we’d seen the shadow.

  There was nothing there.

  “And no place for anyone to go,” Levi said, glancing to his right, where there was a road that led to the state park. If there was someone out there, surely we would have seen him. To our left, another road led to the other side of the island, but there, too, there was no sign of life.

  I’m afraid that when I asked, “What the hell just happened?” my voice shook just a little bit.

  But then, when he answered, “I don’t have the slightest idea,” Levi’s did, too.

  “You don’t think—”

  He didn’t let me finish. Keeping a firm hold on my hand, Levi tugged me back into the cemetery and over to the spot where we’d first seen the shadow: Sleepy Harlow’s grave.

  He tried to make it look as casual as can be, but I couldn’t help noticing the way he looked back into the shady grove when he said, “I’ve got to get over to the restaurant and work on tonight’s dinner menu. Don’t forget your flowers.”

  I picked up the bouquet of carnations, then thought better of it. Don’t ask me what gave me the idea, because honestly, I don’t know. I only know that
when we left Crown Hill Cemetery, the flowers were right where I thought they belonged.

  On Charlie Harlow’s grave.

  16

  Hank called that afternoon. “Can you get over here to the station, Bea? There’s something I want you to see.”

  He didn’t need to ask me twice.

  Hank, see, is one cool, calm, collected dude. I mean, he has to be, in his line of work, right? Yet when he called, there was a tiny burr of excitement in his voice. Oh, he tried to hide it under that hard-as-rocks exterior that served him so well when he was keeping the peace on the island. But I was intrigued.

  Not to mention grateful.

  See, if there was something Hank needed to see me about, it probably had something to do with Noreen’s murder.

  And if I was thinking about Noreen’s murder, I wouldn’t have time to think about anything else.

  Like what Levi and I saw out at Crown Hill Cemetery that morning.

  I kept my mind on the case, and headed for the police station.

  “Come on back to my office.” The Put-in-Bay Police Department is housed in the basement of the town hall building, and Hank intercepted me as soon as I was down the steps and inside the door. He put a hand on my elbow to guide me, and once we were in his small, tidy office, he closed the door behind us.

  “What’s up?” I asked him.

  He pointed me to a chair opposite his gray metal desk.

  “I figured I owed you,” he said. “I asked you to poke around to see what you could find out.”

  “Unfortunately, that hasn’t been much.”

  Hank plunked his little spiral notebook on the desk, but he didn’t open it. Apparently, the details of the case were firm in his mind. Just as apparently, he didn’t like them. That would explain his frown. “I thought you should know that we checked into that coffin. You know, the one Noreen’s body was in. As far as that goes, nobody remembers anything. Nobody saw anything. The coffin had been in the park for a couple days along with everything else they needed for the wake. No one remembers seeing anyone near it.”