Chapter 12

“Hi, Olive,” I said as Liz and Emily went off in different directions.

“It’s a lovely day,” said Olive when she reached the sidewalk.

I noticed she had changed back to her standard skirt and jacket. Today’s tweed was a deep mustard. Call me crazy, but whoever she was, she pulled it off.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said. “I always say that lollygagging is a folly we should all resist. That’s why I like your mother. Her talk about the Amazon was inspiring. I hope she’s feeling better.”

“She’s resting,” I said, pointedly. “Not to be disturbed.”

“As well she should,” said Olive.

“I know my mom will be so sad not to have had more time to spend with you,” I said.

“Don’t worry about me. Laura Morton and I had a lovely breakfast this morning at a little café. We met another lady at the counter and got to talking about the Cranberry Festival. She even gave me her Gram Scully’s cranberry pie recipe. You know me. I always love to hear people’s stories.”

“Did Laura tell you anything interesting about herself?” I said. Suddenly, my suspect was becoming an informant.

“She’s an artist and a farmer,” said Olive. “Fascinating combination, don’t you think?”

“I do. I wonder what kind of farmer she is,” I said. “She doesn’t strike me as a milk maid.”

“My dear, I see you know little about farming. Take your cranberry harvests, for example. That’s farming.”

“Point taken,” I said. “I’d love to see Laura’s artwork.”

“I’ll bet she’s good. I also visited your Whaling Museum and the library,” said Olive. “There’s an entire section of books at the library dedicated to Nantucket. Authors seem to love to write about the island, don’t they?”

“It’s the sort of place that gets your imagination going,” I said, trying very hard not to let my own imagination get the better of me.

“I also hear the hiking paths are beautiful. On a foggy day, some say they remind them of England,” Olive said. “I’m going to walk to Brant Point right now. I hear it has a lovely spot of beach with a very pretty view, a perfect distance from the hotel. Not too far, but a long enough trot to get the blood pumping.”

Of course, I immediately wondered if Olive’s intention was to observe the Hatchfield from Brant Point. I’d be sure to tell Agent Hill that Olive had visited the shoreline.

“Do you have a nice view of town from your room?” I said, still angling to figure out where Olive’s room was.

“In fact, I do,” she said. She looked up and pointed. “I’m in the one up there with the green curtains. It’s small, but it looks right over the street, which I like. Gives me a good view of all the comings and goings. Mr. Dinks and his pals are right next door to me, however. The men, not Mr. Dinks, mind you, made quite a ruckus last night when they got home. I’m next to that fellow, Lennie Bartow. I don’t mind telling you that he’s a handful. Not only did he come home late, but he was up and out bright and early, too. There’s been no end to the noise coming through our walls. But don’t listen to me rattle on. I’m going to get some air while the day’s still strong. Ta ta.”

I watched Olive walk down the street. I could join her, or I could take advantage of her departure. I decided to visit her room.

With no intention of running into the ever-diligent Jan at the front desk, I headed around to a side entrance of Jared Coffin House and up a staircase that leads to some of the older rooms. There’s a large roof space off of this area that guests probably never notice, and I headed there now. I’d worked at the hotel when things were tight with my business in early days, so I am somewhat familiar with the odd nooks and crannies of the old place. The roof space was once a spot for the staff’s smokers to sneak a cigarette, until management found out and banned its use. Nevertheless, I knew it connected to rooms in the main building of the hotel via another set of stairs on the opposite side of the deck.

I took these stairs and opened a door into a hallway at the back of the hotel. As I did, an older couple rounded the corner. I turned back to the door I’d entered, as if I was admiring the view through its window. The moment I heard their room door open and close, I scooted down the hallway, around a housekeeper who was searching through her cart, and passed the grand stairs from the lobby. When I reached the room Olive had pointed to from the sidewalk, I noticed a “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging from her doorknob.

Casually retrieving a bobby pin from my hair, I slipped it into an old lock. I’d only recently stumbled upon this new skill, and so I was delighted when I heard the click and knew I’d succeeded in opening the door.

“Excuse me?” said the housekeeper from her cart.

I kept my hand steady on the doorknob, and turned to smile at a woman with the name Marcia on her tag. I started to think of ways to explain my use of a bobby pin to enter my room so that I would not have to face Jan downstairs.

“Do you need clean towels?” she said.

Relieved that I had not been caught, I expressed a level of satisfaction with my bath items that she probably had not expected. Then, I stepped inside Olive’s room, shutting it quickly behind me.

The first thing I noticed was that Olive’s bed was made, in spite of her “Do Not Disturb” sign. Either she was fastidious about her housekeeping, which admittedly fit what I knew about her, or she’d been too busy in Nantucket for a good night’s sleep.

In Olive’s closet, I found three tweed suits, hung in a row, next to three silk blouses, each almost identical. The mysterious shovel lay against the wall. I wondered why it was covered in fresh dirt. I really wished I could take photos of this item, but I resisted turning my phone on.

Instead, I opened her dresser drawers to find an impressive collection of shape enhancing undergarments. Moving to the small, tidy bathroom, I found bottles of Sir Bumble’s Spirit Gum, both adhesives and removers, which I assumed she used for her wig. There were other beauty products, mostly cover-ups and foundations and lip pencils, which could certainly do a lot to alter a person’s looks. Given Olive’s simple, arguably uncreative style, I was surprised at how much work she put into herself each day. Unless, of course, Olive was not really Olive. No one would ever give a second look to a charming old teacher on sabbatical, whether she was the coat lady at a perfume conference or a visitor to my hometown.

In spite of Olive’s theatrical beauty products and the dirty spade, there was no concrete evidence to suggest that she was Rex Laruam. Although the Jared Coffin House likely offered business services to type and print a note like the one I’d received this morning, I felt the absence of accessories that a spy like Rex Laruam might need. I looked out of Olive’s window, fairly certain that I’d broken into a sweet old lady’s room.

I was ready to turn on my heels and resume my search for Laura Morton when I heard some noise in the next room. I remembered that Lennie Bartow was next door and had kept Olive awake at all hours of the night. I wondered if he had tacked the threatening note to my door this morning.

I pressed my ear against the wall to see if I could hear anything. There was noise, but I could not determine its nature. I grabbed a glass from Olive’s bathroom and pressed it against the flowered wallpaper, hoping for better audio. The trick actually worked. Listening carefully, I heard the sound of fingers pounding against a keyboard. The clamor from inside the room stopped when Lennie’s phone rang.

“What have you come up with?” he said.

There was a pause.

“It could mean something,” he said. “It’s probably worth pursuing. I’m running out of time.”

Then, there was silence. I no longer heard speaking or typing. Whatever Lennie was up to, I wasn’t going to learn more now.

After putting the glass back where I’d found it, I returned to the room where I noticed a small, white cardboard box poking out from under Olive’s bed. I knelt down, and opened the lid. Inside, I saw smaller boxes, each about the size of a soda can, packed tightly together. They were taped shut, so I could not open one without Olive noticing that someone had snooped around her room. I wished I could see their contents, however, because more than half of the boxes had the name of a different country scribbled across them.

Suddenly I heard Olive’s voice.

“Young man,” she was saying from what sounded like the elegant front stairs leading up to her floor, “you should treasure those shells. If you lift one to your ear you can hear the ocean.”

“You can?” said a little voice. The gentle laugh of another woman, presumably the boy’s mother, followed.

I pushed the box back under the bed. Without time for grand plans, I boldly opened Olive’s door. If she were right in front of me, I’d have to wing it with something like “your door was open, so I thought I’d stop by,” or “fancy meeting you here.” Fortunately, she was still engaged with the young boy on the stairs, who was now riddling her with questions about how the sea could fit into a shell.

I decided my best bet was to bump into Olive before she bumped into me. I’d only taken one step toward the stairs, however, when I saw a note on the opposite door. Across it was one word, Nathaniel.

I lifted it, carefully. The name and note were typed. In the same font and line spacing as the note I’d found on my door this morning.

When you get your butt back from the hospital give us a call. We’d like to help you numb the pain in much more creative ways at the bar.

—Lennie

“Hello?” I heard Lennie say from inside his room. Apparently, he’d made another phone call.

I wished I could stay to hear more, but I was out of time. I headed to the stairs.

“Hello,” I said to Olive who was only three steps from the top of the staircase.

“Oh,” said Olive, straightening up from her new young friend, and looking up at me with a surprised expression.

“I thought I’d see if Nathaniel was home, but he isn’t,” I said. “He’s still at the hospital as it turns out. Oh well. Not much of a party weekend for him, is it?”

I said the entire monologue in one breath. I suspected I was red in the face, but at that moment the boy cried out that he could hear people swimming in the ocean from his shell.

“I forgot my camera,” Olive said to me, “so I came back to get it, but now it’s getting chilly.”

“Let’s have some tea,” I said.

“I’d love to,” she said, “but I have a couple of things to do before supper.”

And with that, she touched the brim of her fedora and passed me to head to her room. Fortunately, Marcia and her cart had moved on. I smiled to the little boy and his mother who followed.

Passing Jan and the bellhop I’d met yesterday without attracting undue attention, I exited the hotel and saw Emily peering into her car’s trunk, which is always filled with extra decorations and supplies for any event she was working on. I gathered she must be looking for an extra bit of magic as she was starting to coordinate her supplies for this evening’s event.

“What’re you still doing around here?” she said to me.

“What do you know about Lennie Bartow?” I asked changing the subject.

“Not much,” she said. “Why? Because he’s a little flirty with your mom?”

“You noticed?” I said.

“On the van to golf, I noticed,” she said. “Every time Nathaniel talked to Millie, Lennie butted right in. Millie seemed to get a kick out of it. I wouldn’t worry. She can handle herself.”

“But what’s his deal?” I said.

Emily shrugged.

“He lives in Florida,” she said, “but he travels a lot. I had to track him down because he was away when the invites were sent. I think Frank said he works in venture capital. Something like that. He’s very polite. The other guys are mostly drinking up a storm this weekend, but Lennie’s a little more serious.”

“Everyone’s commented that he’s aged a lot, and no longer looked like his old self.”

I hoped Rex Laruam was not impersonating Lennie Bartow this weekend, but it was a possibility I had to consider. I hated to imagine where the real Lennie Bartow was if my investigation led me further down this road.

“We need to have lunch next week,” said Emily, slamming her trunk shut. “Let’s have some fun after Frank’s party is over. I still haven’t heard about Paris except that you saw a dead guy, which I still can’t believe. Actually, I guess I can believe it, knowing you. Anyway, I want to know about the food and the people and all of the good stuff.”

“I know,” I said. “And I’ll be thirty by next week. We’ll have a ‘Ladies Who Lunch’ kind of outing—a real mature woman sort of affair.”

We laughed and Emily headed upstairs. I, on the other hand, noticed a couple of kids on the sidewalks and realized that school had probably let out. Seeing the kids, it occurred to me that the Nantucket High School might have an old yearbook, or old trophies that could enlighten me on the two other newcomers to Millie’s inner circle: Lennie Bartow and Nathaniel Dinks.

I jumped into my Beetle and headed to school.