Cold Cases and Haunted Places

by Trixie Silvertale

  “Hey.” He glared at her. “What did I do?”

  “Nothing that you would notice. I took care of it.”

  “Was I rude again?”

  She crossed her arms. “Absolutely.”

  “The painting caught my attention. I know I’ve seen the artist’s style before, I just can’t place it. And the painting is unsigned.” He sighed and leaned over the case. “I’ll apologize before we leave.”

  “I’m sure Cassie would appreciate that.” She joined him. “Find anything?”

  “The missing front page from the captain’s log.” He tapped the glass over a ragged piece of paper. Maggie recognized the handwriting, immediately, though this was much neater than the scrawled entries.

  * * *

  Log for The Maritime Queen

  By

  Captain Nathan Hamilton, Esq.

  * * *

  “Esquire,” Spencer muttered. “He was the eldest son of a knight, or the son of a son of a peer.”

  Maggie shook her head. “The son of a son of a peer? You do take your hierarchy seriously.”

  “Quite,” he said, then grinned at her. His grin faded as he studied the paper. “If he was murdered, it would have been a scandal. And a serious reckoning for the family of the murderer.”

  “Because of his standing?”

  “That, and the fact that he was a sea captain. Maritime laws were harsh, and if the murder happened on the ship, it would have been considered mutiny, which was punishable by death.” He touched his backpack. “If we go by his last entry, and what the constable told us, I’m fairly certain he was killed just before the shipwreck.”

  “Which is probably why it happened.” Maggie let out her breath. “How many men died?”

  Spencer glanced at the information placard. “According to this, fifty men died, and at least twenty were never found.”

  “What a waste.”

  “We don’t know the whole story, Mags.” He leaned against the case, kept his voice low. “Captain Hamilton may have been a bad captain, and getting rid of him was their only course.”

  “They could have tied him up, locked him in his cabin.”

  “We’ll never know.” He frowned at her. “Why are you defending a man you just learned about?”

  “I’m not.” She shook her head. “I guess—I don’t think he needed to die for them to feel safe from whatever he might have been doing.”

  “Right.” Spencer sighed. “I wish his log entries had been more personal. Except for the last one, they all talk about the weather conditions, navigation, or the gossip from the latest port.”

  “Since the owner of the ship probably read the log after he returned home, he most likely didn’t want them knowing what was really happening.” She moved around to the side of the case, stopping when she saw a placard about the compass. “Look at this—the compass didn’t belong to the captain. According to this, it belonged to the first mate, Donnie Lassiter.”

  “Interesting. I wonder how it ended up in an estate sale lot.”

  She smiled at him. “You’d be surprised how far some items travel from their original home.”

  “Right—enough about that. Time for us to sit down and analyze, Mags.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door. “I know the perfect place.”

  Maggie wasn’t surprised when Spencer led her to a tea shop/bakery—especially after she saw the huge blueberry scones in the window case. When they stepped inside, she breathed in the scent of bergamot, sugar, tea leaves, and freshly baked bread. The scents that said home.

  The woman behind the counter waved at them. “Take any table you like, loves. I’ll be right with you for your order.”

  Spencer chose a bench seat in a niche at the back of the room, pulled Maggie down beside him. “I want to be able to see anyone coming in the door. I think,” he lowered his voice. “I think the old man following us is Cassie’s grandfather.”

  “So do I.”

  When he glanced at her, obviously surprised. She tapped his nose. “I listen, too, Spence. I know how to put two and two together.”

  “Right.” He dropped his backpack on the bench next to him, then dug through it, producing a pad of paper and a pen. “Time for one of your famous lists, Maggie.”

  She wanted to deny it, but she did love her lists. They helped focus her, helped lay out all the details in one spot.

  “Okay.” She took them, and started a suspect column. “History says that the first mate, Donnie Lassiter, was the murderer. Nothing I saw said he was convicted, or even arrested.”

  “That’s what makes it a murder mystery, my darling Mags.”

  “Hilarious, Spence.” She wrote Donnie’s name, with an asterisk—her way of marking a questionable fact. “Here comes our waitress.”

  The woman bustled up to them, a wide smile on her round, pretty face. “I’m Susie, and welcome to The Stine Sea View Tea Shop and Bakery.” She pointed to the front window, which did have a lovely view of the long stretch of beach. “What can I get you, now?”

  Spencer jumped in before Maggie could open her mouth. “A pot of Earl Grey, and two blueberry scones. No, make that three scones.” He smiled at Susie, and she laughed.

  “A charmer, this one. Three scones it is, love. One of them is for your pretty companion, I hope?”

  “At least half of one. Ouch,” he said, when Maggie punched his arm. “Fine. She gets a whole scone.”

  “Jam and clotted cream with those?”

  “If it’s strawberry, yes.”

  “I always bring a variety, love, and strawberry happens to be one of them.” She wrote on her pad, then smiled at them. “Won’t be more than a few minutes.”

  She bustled back to the counter, waving at the person walking in the door. Maggie stiffened when she saw who it was—the old man.

  “Spence.”

  “I see him. He wouldn’t dare—” Spencer cut himself off when the man headed toward them—then veered off at the last second, sitting at a table near the window. “How does he keep finding us?”

  “My guess—Cassie called him after we left the museum.”

  “Good call, Mags.” He tapped the pad. “Add him to the current suspicious people list, along with his granddaughter.”

  Maggie nodded, and created another column. “What about Constable Tomlinson?”

  “Good guy. Even if he is descended from Lassiter, he distances himself from the legend, unlike Cassie and her family, who created a business around it.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. Scandal sells.” She studied her short list. “Not much here.”

  Spencer sighed. “Probably why the mystery hasn’t been solved.”

  “If Captain Hamilton was killed aboard the ship, the survivors could have told any story they wanted. Who would have contradicted them?” Maggie leaned back. “I think this is one you’re just going to have to let go of, Spence. Or put aside for a rainy day. We’re not solving it today.”

  “I know.” He let out another sigh and braced his elbows on the table. “I just thought—never mind.”

  “I know what you thought. You’re good at finding the angle no one else saw, and you figured you’d be able to do it again.”

  “You’re better at it, Maggie.”

  “Thanks.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Stop frowning. We got a nice day out, and we can still go and see the shipwreck. Bonus—you get blueberry scones. And here they come.”

  Susie carried a tray over, setting the porcelain teapot, plate of scones, cups, plates, and pots of jam on the table with a speed that spoke of long experience.

  “Enjoy, loves. Let me know if you need more tea, or more scones.” She winked at Spencer before she bustled off, a bundle of nonstop energy.

  “Whoa.” Spencer shook his head as she left. “Just watching her makes me feel old.”

  “Old, at twenty-two. You need to get more exercise.”

  “Hey.” He flexed his biceps. “Surfing gives me more than I need.”
/>   “You only surf in the summer, Spence.”

  “I—” He lowered his arms. “I have no smart retort for that.”

  “Don’t worry.” Maggie patted his arm. “We can work on something before I leave.”

  He looked horrified before he managed to cover his reaction. “Um, right. We can talk about it later.”

  Maggie smiled as she poured her tea. Spencer would do everything in his power to avoid that conversation. She planned to spend the rest of the summer taunting him with it.

  They devoured the scones, splitting the third, and finished off the pot of tea. Susie came over just as Spencer started to stand.

  “All done, then?”

  “Yeah. Thanks—it was all delicious.”

  “My scones were up to snuff, then?” She smiled when Spencer nodded. “The tide is almost out, if you’re heading to the shipwreck.”

  Spencer stared at her. “How—we’re—how did you know?”

  “Small town.” She glanced over at the old man. “There isn’t much to see, but it’s steady, so you will be able to climb aboard if you like. From what I understand, the captain’s cabin is still intact.”

  Maggie saw the gleam in Spencer’s eyes when she said that. No way were they stepping foot on that wreck now.

  “Thanks—we’ll—” He glanced over at Maggie, and his enthusiasm faded. “Thanks.”

  She followed him out of the bakery, refusing to look over at the old man, though she knew he tracked them all the way to the door.

  Spencer started talking as soon as they reached the sidewalk.

  “Maggie—I—”

  “We’re not going aboard, Spencer Knight, and that is final.”

  4

  Spencer glared at her, and for the first time, Maggie felt his temper directed at her.

  They ignored the door opening behind them as they faced off. She hated being the focus of his anger, but she refused to let him run straight into danger—not when she could stop him before he got hurt.

  Finally, he stepped back, his jaw set.

  “Fine,” he said. He stomped down the sidewalk, not waiting for her as he crossed the street.

  Maggie ran after him, catching up halfway across the beach—and almost ran into him when he stopped.

  “Spencer—”

  “Look, Maggie.”

  She gasped when she got her first look at the shipwreck.

  The remains of the ship sat high on the sandbar that destroyed it, the bow aiming toward the sky. Even if Spencer wanted to, there was no way they’d be able to—

  He darted forward, and stumbled to a halt when the old man stepped out from the side of the wreck.

  “How—”

  Maggie knew now who’d left the bakery during their silent face-off.

  “You’ll find nothing here, boy. Every fancy pants from London has tried. You think we have a secret?” He moved to Spencer, his grey hair whipping around his face as the wind picked up. “Here it is: the murder is history, and should be left there.”

  “Who are you?”

  The man lifted his chin, and Maggie saw pride in his faded blue eyes. “Leland Lassiter.”

  Spencer’s eyes widened. “The seascape artist?” He grabbed Maggie’s arm and dragged her forward. “You painted the ship in the seaside museum, didn’t you?” Mr. Lassiter nodded. “I knew I recognized the style. I’ve seen your seascapes in London. I’m Spencer Knight, and this is Maggie Mulgrew.” He held out his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  Mr. Lassiter took his hand, squinting at him. “Why is it such an honor? You look too young to appreciate my art.”

  “Spencer loves the sea,” Maggie said. “Your paintings are something he’d be drawn to.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Lassiter crossed his arms, studying them. “Most fancy pants come wanting to make a name. But I sense you are interested in the history, rather than the glory.”

  “Yes, sir,” Spencer said. He spoke in the same subdued tone he used with Aunt Irene. “I would like very much to see the ship myself.”

  After endless seconds, Mr. Lassiter stepped to one side. “Mind what you touch, boy. Despite the murder, this ship is part of our legacy.”

  “Yes, sir.” He took Maggie’s hand and walked past the old man. “Is he still watching us?” he whispered, keeping his gaze on the ship.

  Maggie glanced over her shoulder, and blushed when she met Mr. Lassiter’s stern gaze. “Yeah.”

  “Right.” Spencer freed her hand and moved to the ship. “There’s a rope ladder here. Come on.” He hiked the backpack higher on his shoulder and grabbed the rope.

  Maggie hated rope ladders. Spencer had one that he used for a treehouse—or what he called a treehouse—in the wedge of trees near the village park. The first time she got tangled up in the ladder was the last time she used one.

  “Maggie.”

  “I’m coming.” She stared up at Spencer, surprised that he stood on the deck. “How—”

  “Nothing to it. I’ll hold the rope for you. Just take your time, and let the ladder swing instead of trying to keep it steady. That was your mistake last time.”

  “Okay.” She wiped her hands on her jeans and grabbed the rope.

  The thick, rough fibers dug into her palms as she climbed on to the first rung. The ladder was wet from being under water, which made it slick. Maggie paused after stepping on the next rung, to make sure she had a firm grip.

  Spencer told her to take her time; she planned to take as much as she needed, no matter how impatient he got.

  Instead of impatience, he gave her encouragement.

  “You can do this, Mags. One step at a time, you’ve got it. Give me your hand.”

  She lifted her head, surprised to see Spencer just above her. She’d been so focused on not falling off, or getting tangled, she didn’t realize she had climbed so far.

  He reached down, and she gripped his hand, holding on while she stepped up to the final rung.

  “Arm around my neck, Maggie. I’ll pull you up.”

  “Spencer—”

  “Trust me, Maggie.”

  She did; she had since the day she met him, ten years ago, sneaking into her aunt’s house.

  “Okay.”

  Gripping the rope with her right hand, she inched her left arm up. Spencer leaned over, and draped her arm around his neck.

  “Let go of the rope, Maggie.”

  “What?” She stared up at her, her voice jumping at least an octave.

  “Trust me, and let go of the rope.”

  “I—Spence—”

  “I’ll not let you fall. I promise.”

  Maggie took a shaky breath, then pried her fingers off the rope.

  Just as her last finger freed itself, Spencer wrapped his arm around her waist and hauled her up.

  She clung to him, even after she felt solid wood under her feet.

  “Mags—you’re choking me.”

  “Sorry.” She loosened her death grip, watched him straighten. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Anytime.” He freed her waist, then took her hand. “Ready to explore, or do you need a moment?”

  “I’m ready.” She wasn’t, but she could recover while they walked around the deck. The surprisingly intact deck. “Spencer—does the wreck look—”

  “Too perfect? I was thinking the same.” He crouched, touching one of the darker boards. “This has been repaired. Look,” he pointed, and Maggie crouched next to him. “Nails. Modern nails. This deck should have deteriorated decades ago.”

  “It’s also been treated.” She ran her finger along the board, not surprised to feel the familiar waxed coating. “Aunt Irene uses the same protective wax on some of her outdoor items.”

  “Come on.” Spencer stood, helped her up. “I want to find the captain’s cabin.”

  “That would be below decks, right?”

  “According to the information in the seaside museum, Captain Hamilton had his cabin built on deck, so he could keep an eye on the crew. It sho
uld be back here.”

  He crossed the deck, heading toward the double set of stairs that led to the upper deck. Between them sat a square structure, with a door and two portholes, one on either side. Maggie caught up with him as he tried the latch.

  “It’s unlocked.”

  “Spence—”

  “We’ll keep the door open, all right?”

  She let out a breath. “All right.”

  Spencer pulled the door open, then used a heavy brass object just inside the door to brace it open. She glanced down at it; the object looked like a bookend.

  A modern bookend.

  “Spencer—”

  “I know.” He waved at the bookend. “That being here means someone from town comes aboard, probably on a regular basis. We’ll only stay a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  She followed him inside, glancing around the cabin. It was surprisingly spacious, and empty, except for the built-in bed frame on the back wall.

  “Hmm…” Spencer went over to examine the bed, pulling out a torch. He flashed the light over every inch. “Disappointing. Nothing here.”

  “Did you really expect there to be?”

  He flashed her a smile. “I hoped.” He ran the light over the wall with the headboard—and Maggie blinked when it revealed a beautifully carved compass rose in the middle of the headboard. With a sigh, he straightened, and switched the torch off. “One more look, and then we’ll—Mags, what is it?”

  She was too busy staring at the compass rose to respond. She moved to the headboard, then ran her hand over the medallion. Aunt Irene had shown her more than one secret hidey hole in the old houses they walked through during estate sales.

  Most of them used a similar medallion to access the secret niche.

  “Maggie—what are you—” He cut himself off when she pressed the wood in the center of the compass.

  A small door popped open.

  “Whoa,” she whispered. “Spencer—”

  He had already joined her, pointing his torch at the niche. The beam of light flashed off something in the back corner. Slowly, Maggie reached in, her fingers brushing cold metal. After hesitating, she carefully closed her fingers around the object and pulled it out.