Morehead City was only a short hop over the new bridge that crossed the Newport River. I’d left for my meeting with Ellen a little early, expecting to face bumper-to-bumper traffic. But fortunately, most of the tournament visitors’ cars were parked closer to the Morehead waterfront, and I realized that once they’d found a spot, they weren’t about to move. So even though things were a little more congested than normal, I was able to reach the bridge that spanned Bogue Sound in decent time.
I always felt a little thrill crossing the sound, which, like the Newport River, was part of the Intracoastal Waterway. Something about the clarity of the sky above the cluster of buildings that crowded the Atlantic Beach side of the bridge hinted at the greater vista to come. Beyond a narrow band of land lay the sea, which had lost none of its mystery and majesty despite human attempts to civilize its shores.
At the light, I took a left onto Fort Macon Boulevard, as Route 58 was called at this juncture. The road, which ran from the state park all the way down the island to the town of Emerald Isle, was called different names along its route, but I’d quickly learned that it was impossible to get lost. With the sound on one side and the Atlantic Ocean on the other, all side roads would eventually lead you either to the water or to 58.
The sign announcing Fort Macon State Park appeared after a short stretch of road featuring small hotels, pastel-colored homes on stilts, and a few clusters of condominium and time-share properties. I drove past the official access point to the public beach on the right and the entrance to a Coast Guard station on the left before reaching the main parking lot. As I’d expected, it was crowded, but I was able to pull into a spot when a large SUV topped by strapped-down boogie boards left.
Despite its importance as a surveillance point, the fort itself was not visible from the parking lot. From previous visits I knew that only when someone walked out the back of the brick visitors’ center and up a hill could the true size and structure of the fort be seen. Removing my sunglasses, I strolled into the center and made my way to the information desk, where Ellen was waiting.
“Right on time,” she said, tying the ribbons of her straw hat under her chin. “I’ve eaten what little I brought for lunch, so let’s head outside and take the walkway to the beach. I’ve already changed my shoes,” she added, pointing her foot. Her flexible plastic water shoes were black with fuchsia stripes, matching the flowers on her short-sleeved cotton sundress.
“Stylish as always,” I said, with a woeful glance at my own battered sandals. As I followed her out the front of the building, the sunlight blinded me for a moment, and I had to quickly slip on my sunglasses while we crossed the parking lot to one of the paths leading to the beach.
“Not too many people out today,” I said as I pulled off my sandals and dangled them from my fingers. Walking in the drifted sand near the dunes was hard enough without the added problem of shoes. I glanced over at Ellen, admiring her good sense in choosing footwear meant for the pool or beach.
“Not here, maybe. But this isn’t really the official beach access. That’s closer to the entrance of the park.”
“Oh right, I saw that coming in.”
“That’s where most people park, if they can. There’s boardwalk access to the beach there, and a lifeguard on duty during the day, at least in season. But when that lot is full, people park at the fort. Which isn’t great for our visitors, but what can you do?”
“There is a path here,” I observed, my gaze focused on the expansive view of sea and sky.
“Yes, there are a few unofficial paths, and really, it’s impossible to monitor, so we don’t even bother. Although visitors are warned not to swim over there.” Ellen motioned toward an area to our left, where the beach curved around at the end of the point. “The Beaufort inlet and ocean merge there, and there’s a jetty, so it can be quite dangerous. It isn’t even safe for wading. But a lot of shell hunters walk the beach in that area. Supposedly it’s the best place for that.”
“You’re not a shell collector?” I asked, gingerly picking my way through the hot, dry sand.
Ellen glanced at me as she adjusted her hat. “I’m not a collector of anything, except the art pieces I use to decorate my house. I did too much traveling when I was working, I guess. It’s hard to collect much random stuff when you don’t have a permanent home for many years.”
We’d reached the hard-packed sand near the water, which was blessedly cool against my bare feet. I paused for a moment, breathing in the heady scent of salt air, before following Ellen. “I can imagine. But I bet it was exciting, traveling all over the world when you were younger.”
“Sometimes. I enjoyed learning about new places and people. But it was exhausting too.” Ellen cast me a wry smile. “I wasn’t usually traveling to tourist destinations, you know. With location work, you can end up in all sorts of out-of-the-way areas.”
“Dangerous?” I asked, my gaze captured by a sand dollar half buried in the sand.
“Occasionally.” Ellen stopped walking as I bent down and lifted the fragile white disk from the ground. “Ah, a whole one. That’s rare. I usually only find bits and pieces.”
I gently shook the sand off the shell before carefully slipping it between the tissues I’d stuffed in the outside pouch of my purse. “It’s good luck, I hope. I could use some of that right now.” As I pulled my fingers away, they slid across the bulge of the suede journal I’d stored in the main section of the purse.
“I’m not much for superstitions, but I suppose it is considered lucky.” Ellen turned her head to look out over the ocean.
I followed her gaze, staring at the darker blue ribbon of water that separated the clear sky from the rest of the greenish-gray sea. The waves were low, rolling in gently instead of crashing, but still stirring up a froth of white foam along the shore.
“It’s so amazing to think how it just goes on and on,” I said, staring at the horizon. “You have to wonder at the sheer bravado of the earliest sailors, just heading for that edge, never knowing where it would lead.”
“Especially since some of them thought they might fall off,” Ellen said dryly. She turned to me. “Now—I believe you wanted to talk through some ideas you had about who might have killed the unfortunate Mr. Delamont?”
“Yes.” I considered sharing the journal and photo first but decided that could wait. “I suppose there’s really nothing I can add to the investigation that the police haven’t, or won’t, uncover, but it just helps to talk it out. Especially since some of the people involved …”
“Are your friends?” Ellen sent me a sidelong glance. “You and Julie Rivera are close, I believe.”
“We are. And I confess that part of my urge to investigate this murder is so I can clear her from any suspicion.” I detailed Julie’s hidden connection to Lincoln Delamont as we strolled along, the lacy edge of water lapping at our feet. “The truth is, she mentioned having some secret boyfriend, but she never told me his name, even though apparently they’d been engaged in a relationship for a while. Mostly online, but still.”
Ellen grabbed the brim of her hat as the breeze blew it back. “She was probably afraid you’d judge her, since Delamont was legally still married.”
“She should’ve known I wouldn’t have, although I might have warned her that she was being foolish—”
“Hmmm, that sounds a bit judgy to me.” Ellen flashed me a bright smile before continuing. “But aside from that, do you really think she has the temperament to stab someone?”
“Not really. Except maybe in self-defense. I have wondered if Lincoln might have asked her to meet him at the carriage house and she was, oh, I don’t know, worried for her own safety.” I shrugged. “It seems he’d been physically aggressive with her once or twice before, and I can picture him becoming quite abusive if he didn’t get his way.”
Ellen thrust her hands into the pockets of her sundress. “But can you picture Julie staying with such a man after he did anything drastic? Even if it was a newish relationship and she was still giving him the benefit of the doubt?”
“Not really. Not for long. Although she did put up with some stuff that I … well, never mind,” I said, not wanting to completely betray Julie’s confidences. Ellen and I had hit a patch of saturated sand that made my feet sink in with each step. I had a momentary, irrational flash of fear, as if I’d just stumbled into quicksand, and moved a few paces away from the water, where the ground felt firmer. “And then there’s the other side of the triangle.”
“Yes, Jennifer Delamont. The wronged wife.” Ellen joined me on the firmer sand. “Given what you’ve said, I expect it wasn’t the first time she’d uncovered her husband’s infidelity.”
I couldn’t let that pass. “Julie swears they weren’t actually having an affair.”
“Yet.” Ellen stood still and turned to me. “But I’m sure that was only because Julie is sensible, not that Delamont was honorable.”
“Probably,” I admitted. “Anyway, Jennifer does seem to have been beaten down by that marriage. If she had to endure a lot of betrayal over the years, I suppose she could’ve snapped. Alicia actually heard them fighting the evening before Lincoln was killed. As did Kelly Rowley, come to think of it.”
“Then there’s the daughter, who was angry over her father’s refusal to support her dreams of stardom.” Ellen glanced over at me. “You of all people should understand how dramatic everything can feel at her age. I’m sure you saw plenty of students acting out over similar things.”
“Yes, but the idea that she murdered her own father …” I straightened and thrust back my shoulders before relaying the story of the discovery of the fake purple gem in the azaleas. “I have a hard time imagining Tara stabbing anyone, but there is proof she was near that area at some point in the evening.”
“And could have lost that trinket in a struggle,” Ellen said.
“Possibly.”
Ellen’s expression grew thoughtful. “When you saw her later, was she still in her costume?”
“Yes.”
“Any visible bloodstains?”
“No, Tara’s costume was perfectly clean and dry.” I widened my eyes. Why hadn’t I thought of that? The killer would likely have been splattered with blood, even if they’d been careful. “And Tara’s costume was a light amber color, which would’ve really shown bloodstains, even minimal ones. Come to think of it, I didn’t see Jennifer Delamont until later, when she was already in her street clothes. And Pete Nelson whipped his costume off as soon as I asked everyone to come inside.”
“Something to look into. I can’t imagine Pete murdering a stranger, but perhaps he had some previous, unknown connection to Delamont.”
“That’s entirely possible. It wasn’t Lincoln’s first trip to Beaufort. And Pete is an argumentative sort.” I took a deep breath and added, “I also noticed that Alicia wasn’t wearing her customary apron after I got back from the store. And, of course, no one really knows how long Scott Kepler was gone or when he returned to the carriage house.”
“But does Scott have a motive?”
I twitched my lips. “Unfortunately, yes,” I said, and I recounted my discussion with the author.
“You think he might have wanted revenge for Delamont cheating his father?”
“It’s a possibility, don’t you think? Especially since Scott seems to think the scam contributed to his father’s fatal heart attack.”
Ellen held up one hand. “Which means we have motives and opportunity for Julie, Jennifer, Alicia, and Scott,” she said, ticking off the names on her fingers. “There’s also a suspicious clothing change for Pete, although we don’t have any sense of a motive there. At least not yet. Meanwhile, Tara seems to be in the clear, based on her appearance after the murder. Anyone else?”
“Damian Carr,” I said reluctantly. “Again, I don’t know what his motive would have been, but he did have the opportunity, and he has a temper.”
Ellen nodded. “I’ve heard he’s a bit of a firebrand.”
“Yes, and he lives so close to Chapters he could’ve walked from his apartment. Everyone saw him leave in a huff, but he could’ve returned a little later, climbed the back fence, killed Lincoln, and returned home without ever being seen.”
“Which also means he could’ve easily changed his clothes before the police called on him.”
“I suppose so.” I shoved my drooping sunglasses up onto the bridge of my nose. “Alicia, Damian, and Julie would’ve known where the key to the carriage house was kept too, although I guess any one of the guests could have figured that out ahead of time. They do have access to the kitchen, even when Alicia and I are out.”
“And, of course, Scott had a key,” Ellen said.
“Right. As for the knife—the block sits on the counter, so again, it wouldn’t have been hard for anyone to scope out a knife to use as a weapon ahead of time.”
Ellen dug the toe of her water shoes into the sand. “Back to square one? It seems we can’t really narrow down the list of suspects yet. Although I believe I’d eliminate the Sandberg sisters.”
“And maybe Sandy Nelson. Her husband has a temper, but I’ve never heard her even raise her voice.” I tapped two fingers against my lips. “Then there’s the Rowleys. I can’t imagine why either one of them would want to stab Lincoln Delamont, but I admit I don’t really know much about them.”
“Did they stay in costume?” Ellen asked.
“Yes, but …” I frowned. “Kelly left her cloak outside. She said she collected it later, but there’s still that little wrinkle of suspicion. And Todd’s costume was a dark, voluminous type of material that might not have shown stains unless you were really looking for them.”
Ellen held up three fingers on her other hand. “So they stay on the list. On the second page, perhaps, but worth further investigation. That brings us to eight possibilities. Quite a challenge.”
“Yes, I don’t envy the police having to handle so many suspects.”
Ellen pursed her lips. “I’m sure they’ve dealt with that before, although perhaps not involving a murder. I don’t think there’s been a murder in Beaufort in over thirty years.” She pointed at her watch. “But, interesting as this is, we probably should head back. I don’t want to make my volunteer partner wait too long for her lunch break.”
“That’s fine,” I said, but held my hand to stop Ellen from striding off. “One thing before we start back. There’s something else I wanted to ask you, if you don’t mind.”
“As long as you aren’t asking for an excessive amount of money from the trust,” Ellen said, with a lift of her well-groomed eyebrows. “I take my management of the trust seriously, you know.”
“No, it isn’t anything like that. This is something I found when I was poking around in the attic this morning. Two things, actually.” I reached into my purse and fished out the journal.
“Awfully hot day to be digging around in an attic.” Ellen’s gaze snapped to my hand. “Were you hoping to find evidence of Isabella’s innocence?”
“Or guilt. I really just want to know. But I didn’t actually find any proof either way.” I held up the journal and waved it under Ellen’s nose. “But I did find this.”
As Ellen ducked her head, the wide brim of her straw hat cast a shadow over her face. “And this is?”
There was a wariness in her tone that made me examine her face more closely. “A book full of gibberish. Or so I thought at first. But now I wonder …” I held out the journal. “Take a look.”
Ellen gingerly pulled it from my fingers. After flipping through the first few pages, she expelled one sharp breath before snapping it shut and thrusting it back at me. “Yes, it appears to be a journal. Written by Isabella. I recognize her hand. But, as you say, it makes no sense.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t know about that. I think it’s in code. And there’s one more thing. Check out the photo I placed between the pages.”
Ellen shot me a questioning look before opening the journal again. This time she located the photograph. “That’s Isabella in the garden at Chapters. Well, before it was Chapters, of course.”
“But who’s the guy? I’ve never noticed him in any other family photos.”
“I have no idea.” Ellen shoved the photo back between the pages and handed the journal to me. “You must remember, I didn’t move here until long after that picture would’ve been taken. It was probably just a friend, or even someone Isabella dated for a time. Although I don’t think she had many serious relationships, she did keep a gentleman or two on call for plus ones at parties. She was quite the social butterfly, you know. Always attending or giving parties. She liked to have an appropriate male escort always available, even later, when I knew her. I can easily imagine her dating a variety of men when she was younger.”
“I thought it might have been her benefactor, or sugar daddy, as you called him.”
“I really don’t know. Sorry.” Ellen yanked her hat farther down her forehead. “We’d better get moving or I’ll be late.” She took off, almost loping across the hard-packed sand.
I increased my stride to stay beside her. “Okay, but what about that strange writing in the journal? It looks like it’s a code. It made me think …”
Ellen slowed her pace and shot me a sharp glance. “What? That Isabella was some sort of spy or something? Really, Charlotte, I know you love books and stories, but sometimes your imagination gets away from you. This isn’t some suspense novel.”
“You have to admit it’s odd, especially with the date inside the front cover. It was one of the years when Isabella was out of contact with my family, in case you didn’t know. Which made me wonder if she was engaged in some sort of covert operation or something.” I lifted my hands. “I know, I know. I’ve read too many spy thrillers.”
“Oh, I grant you it probably is a code. But I’m guessing it was some personal code that Isabella created so she could write frankly about her life without worrying about anyone ever reading it.” Ellen strode along the water’s edge, her eyes focused straight ahead. “She could be fanciful like that.”
I straightened my sunglasses and marched in step with her. She was probably right—I was imagining things. Looking for conspiracies and crimes where there were none. “That makes sense. More sense than someone who lived most of their life in Beaufort being a spy. It’s not like she worked somewhere where they dealt in secrets. Not even at a company where she could’ve engaged in industrial espionage.”
“Exactly,” Ellen said, as we turned away from the water and plowed through the deeper sand to the path. “Honestly, I doubt that investigating Isabella’s colorful but decidedly ordinary past is worth much of your time. Now this murder, on the other hand …”
“We have plenty of suspects, that’s for sure. I just wish Julie wasn’t one of them. It would help if I knew more about where everyone was and what they were doing closer to the time that Lincoln was killed.” I paused to slip on my sandals before stepping onto the hot asphalt of the parking lot. “I thought I’d visit the Sandberg sisters this afternoon. They probably know something about that.”
“Good idea. They tend to keep an eye on everything. I’m sure they’ll have at least a little information on the movements of the people at the party.”
“That’s what I thought.” I paused as we reached the parking row that held my car. “I should let you get back to work. Thanks for agreeing to speak with me today. It does help to talk over all the options.”
“Happy to help.” Ellen patted my arm. “Just don’t worry yourself to death over this. Yes, it’s a tragedy, and I’m sorry it happened at Chapters, but I’m sure it will be sorted, sooner rather than later. The Beaufort police are quite capable, you know. They’ll find the culprit.”
“I’m sure. I just want to know who to avoid.” I offered her a brief smile. “I don’t want to end up like those foolish female characters in horror films—locked in a cellar with a murderer.”
Ellen tapped her forehead with her finger. “Good thinking, Sherlock.”
“I keep telling you, I’m Watson,” I called after her as she turned away.
She just waved her hand over her head and kept walking.