After driving back from Atlantic Beach, I parked my car at Chapters and called the Sandberg sisters to make sure they were home before I walked the few blocks to their house.
A charming bungalow situated on one of the side streets between the Beaufort waterfront and Broad Street, their one-story, wood-framed house didn’t have a historic designation plaque. But it was still an older home, with white clapboard siding and a covered porch. Aqua shutters framed the tall windows that flanked the cobalt-blue front door, and white wicker furniture provided an inviting seating area on the wide front porch. As I climbed the wooden steps, I admired the pink geraniums planted in ivory ceramic jars placed at either end of each tread. Ophelia Sandberg’s gardening expertise was renowned in Beaufort. Her backyard was filled with blooming shrubs and flowers, and she often provided fresh flowers for local businesses, including Julie’s bookstore and Pete and Sandy’s café.
Bernadette greeted me at the front door. “Have you had lunch yet?” she asked as she ushered me inside.
I lied and said I’d already eaten, knowing that saying no would drive the sisters into a flurry of food preparation. “But I’d love a glass of water,” I said, as I took a seat on a sofa covered in seashell-patterned chintz.
Ophelia popped her head around the corner of the kitchen door. “We also have lemonade and tea.”
“Lemonade, then,” I said, and was rewarded with a broad smile.
I expected the drink would be accompanied by some type of dessert, so I wasn’t surprised when Ophelia bustled out of the kitchen, holding a glass of lemonade in one hand and a small china plate in the other. “Sugar cookies,” she said, placing the items on the white side table next to the sofa. “Just out of the oven ten minutes ago.”
“They look delicious,” I said, and they were. I nibbled on one of the cookies while Ophelia and Bernadette settled into two armchairs that faced the sofa.
Allowing my gaze to wander, I experienced the emotion I always felt when I visited this house—envy. Despite Chapters’ historic beauty and charm, it sometimes seemed too large for comfort. This bungalow, with its pale-jade walls and white cotton curtains edged with lace, felt more like a home than my rambling house. The airy rooms were filled with wicker plant stands and simple, whitewashed wooden furniture. Watercolor seascapes and vases overflowing with Ophelia’s flowers offered pops of color.
“You said you had some questions for us,” Bernadette said. “About the other night, I suppose?”
I took a swallow of lemonade before answering. “Yes. I was away from the house for a bit, getting ice. Which means I’m not sure where everyone was at the time of the murder. I thought maybe you could clear that up for me.”
Ophelia shared a look with her sister. “The thing is, we probably aren’t going to be too much help with that question. We were inside Chapters most of the time you were gone, I’m afraid.” She tugged the hem of her pink-and-lilac floral-print skirt over her knees. “I’d misplaced my reading glasses, you see.”
“Again,” Bernadette added, stretching out her stocky legs. Unlike Ophelia, who was dressed for a garden party, Bernadette wore khaki shorts and a plain white polo shirt.
Ophelia fiddled with the lace trimming the collar of her ivory silk blouse. “Now, Bernie, you’ve been known to lose track of a few things too.”
“But not every day.” Bernadette met my interested gaze with a shrug. “It’s true, though. We were in the garden for a bit, but then Fee realized she’d misplaced her glasses when she tried to read one of your flower markers. So it wasn’t too long after you drove off that we headed into the house to search for them. We’d just arrived back outside on the patio when you called everyone into the parlor. So I’m afraid we can’t help you with where everyone was while you were gone. But”—she kicked off her sandals and put her feet up on the tufted hassock in front of her chair—“we may have some other information that could prove helpful.”
I set down my glass and slid to the edge of the sofa. “Oh? Like what?”
“Well, earlier in the evening, right before dinner actually, I overheard Lincoln Delamont having a rather heated conversation with your chef. I think you were in the dining room talking about Tey and the inspiration for the dinner menu at that point.”
Ophelia smoothed down a flyaway strand of her fire-engine-red hair. “It was more like an argument, from what you told me, Bernie.”
“They were fighting?” I asked. “What about?”
Bernadette narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure. I was coming back from the powder room when I heard raised voices in the library. I thought that was odd—”
“You stopped to listen, right?” Ophelia asked.
“Just peeked in to see who it was.” Bernadette cleared her throat. “I was worried it might be some strangers, wandering in while we were all preoccupied with the party.”
I tightened my lips to prevent a smile. Bernadette had been curious, as I would’ve been, but since she was always accusing her sister of being too nosy, I assumed she didn’t want to admit that. “You saw Damian Carr and Lincoln in the library? That is odd. I’d have thought Damian wouldn’t have left the kitchen at that point, and anyway, he told me they didn’t know each other.”
“Seems like they did. At least well enough to have a disagreement,” Bernadette said. “But, unfortunately, I didn’t really hear what it was about. I didn’t linger long. I thought it best to beat a retreat before they noticed me.”
Ophelia demurely crossed her ankles as she leaned forward in her chair. “Bernie mentioned all this to me later, after we both overheard Lincoln embroiled in another argument, this time with his wife.”
“Another confrontation on the same night? He was a contentious guy, wasn’t he?” I sat back and grabbed another cookie. A replacement for lunch, I told myself.
Bernadette nodded. “I wasn’t surprised to find out he’d been killed. Seemed like the type to make a lot of enemies.”
“What was the argument with his wife about?” I asked, reaching for my glass of lemonade. The cookies, while delicious, were a little dry.
“Poor Mrs. Delamont was berating him for flirting with Julie Rivera over dinner. And he was, you know.” Ophelia cast me an apologetic look. “Julie didn’t seem to be encouraging him, but still …”
I wasn’t about to share what I knew on that subject. “Jennifer Delamont was having words with Lincoln about it? When exactly was this?”
“Just after you’d driven off,” Bernadette replied. “They were standing right outside the garden, near the holly hedge, so they weren’t in the middle of things. As I mentioned earlier, Fee and I had just wandered that way to check out your flowers. Anyway, the argument didn’t last very long. Lincoln stormed off— practically knocked Fee down as he passed us.”
Ophelia pressed her hand to her cheek. “It’s true. He bumped right into me and kept walking without saying a word.”
“He headed off in the direction of the carriage house and disappeared behind the hollies,” Bernadette said, flicking a short lock of her steel-gray hair behind her ear. “That was the last we saw of him.”
Finishing off my lemonade, I waved off Ophelia’s question about needing more before I replied. “Which means Lincoln was involved in at least two arguments before he was killed.” Three, I thought, remembering that overheard conversation between him and Julie. But I wasn’t about to mention that to the Sandberg sisters. I was there to gather information, not spread rumors.
“We told the police all of this, of course,” Ophelia said. “I hated to add your chef and Mrs. Delamont to their list of suspects, but one can’t lie to the authorities. I just don’t think that’s the proper thing to do.”
“No, you were right to tell them,” I said. “It’s better that they have all the facts. And if someone is innocent, they have nothing to fear.”
“Not so sure that’s always true.” Bernadette’s tone betrayed a distrust I’d never have expected from her.
“You don’t think justice is always served?” I asked, keeping my own tone light.
Bernadette snorted. “Hardly. Depends on who you are sometimes, doesn’t it?” She cast me a baleful glance. “Sorry, but I’ve seen some things that make me a bit cynical.”
“When you were at the university?” I asked, remembering that Bernadette had worked as a nurse at one of the University of North Carolina campuses.
“Yes. Students got treated differently sometimes, depending on their backgrounds and … other things.”
I leaned my elbow on the arm of the sofa and rested my jaw against my balled-up fist. “But I don’t get the sense that the Beaufort police will be unfair. They seemed very professional.”
“Hopefully you’re right.” Bernadette lifted her feet off the hassock and kicked it away from her chair. “Sure we can’t get you more lemonade?” she asked, pointing at my empty glass as she stood up. “I need to check on something in the kitchen anyway.”
“Bernie’s making dinner in the Crock-Pot,” Ophelia said. “Chicken and vegetables.”
“No, no, I’m fine. And I don’t want to keep you much longer, but”—I grabbed my purse off the floor—“there is one more thing I wanted to ask you about.”
“What’s that?” Bernadette paused in the kitchen doorway.
“Nothing to do with the Delamont case,” I said, fishing the suede-covered journal out of my purse. “This concerns Isabella.”
Bernadette leaned against the doorjamb as she looked me over. “Something from the past?”
“Yes, a mystery I stumbled over when I was searching through my great-aunt’s things.” I rose to my feet and held up the journal. “I found this, and a photo I’ve slipped inside it, in the attic. Both are puzzling, and I thought maybe you could shed some light. You were both acquainted with Isabella for years.” I waved the journal. “Honestly, you’re the only people I know in Beaufort who knew her before she converted Chapters into a bed-and-breakfast.”
Ophelia squinted as she stared at the object in my hand. “Is that some sort of book?”
“It’s a journal or diary, I think. But it’s written in code.” I crossed the room to show the journal to both sisters. “Any idea why Isabella would’ve done that?”
Bernadette stepped forward and took the book from my hands. “Just to be inscrutable, I suspect,” she said, as she flipped through a few pages. “She liked to promote an air of mystery, didn’t she, Fee?”
“Oh my, yes. It was like she was always playing some sort of game. One where only she knew the rules.” Ophelia fanned herself with one hand, as if this thought had heated her face. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—I liked her very much. Bernie did too, didn’t you, Bernie?”
“Um, yes, I suppose.” Bernadette met my inquiring gaze with a lift of her square chin. “But she did like her little secrets. It was like she never grew out of playing games of pretend.”
“You think this code was something she used for … what, exactly?”
“Probably just to amuse herself,” Bernadette said, handing the journal back to me.
Ophelia, her eyes sparkling, glanced from her sister to me. “Or to hide the details of all her romantic relationships. She always had a man or two on the string, you know.”
“No, I don’t. She never brought any of her male friends along when she visited my family. In fact, she never even mentioned them.” I slid the photograph out from between the journal’s pages. “Like this guy? Was he one of her boyfriends?” I passed the picture to Ophelia.
“Oh yes, I remember this one,” she said, handing the photo to her sister. “He was the British fellow, wasn’t he?”
“British, my backside,” Bernadette said, with an audible sniff. “He had a British accent all right, but I always thought that was put on.” She cast me a sharp glance. “You’ll probably think I’m being fanciful, but I suspected he came from somewhere other than the British Isles. I’ve worked with a lot of nurses and doctors from England over the years, and he just didn’t fit the profile somehow.”
“You thought he was an impostor?” I asked, staring at the photo again after Bernadette passed it back to me.
“I was never sure about that. I mean, maybe he was who he said he was. He had some sort of very ordinary name. Paul something, I think.” Bernadette shook her head. “So maybe his name wasn’t fake, or anything like that. I just never thought he was actually British.”
“Yes, Paul Peters,” Ophelia said, her expression more serious than usual. “Come to think of it, there was something a bit off about him. Remember, Bernie? We used to say he was always a little too formal or guarded or something. Like he could never really relax.”
“Wound too tightly, is what I used to say,” Bernadette replied. “I’m surprised Isabella didn’t ever mention him to your family. He was one of the few who was around for more than a month or two.”
“Now, Bernie, be fair. She had some she dated off and on for a few years.” Ophelia sent me an apologetic smile. “But I’m afraid it’s true that Isabella tended to be a bit flighty as far as men were concerned.”
“Which is probably why she didn’t ever talk about her relationships with the family,” I said. “At least not openly. She may have shared some things with my grandma, who would’ve kept any confidences. They were sisters, after all.”
Ophelia and Bernadette shared a knowing look. “Yes, there is a code of silence in that case. Usually,” Bernadette said.
I slipped the photo back inside the journal. “But you say the guy in this picture was a more lasting relationship?”
“Oh yes. He would pop up from time to time for as long as we knew Isabella. Until she started up the bed-and-breakfast, that is. Never saw him again after that,” Ophelia said.
I tightened my grip on the journal. This information supported my supposition that the man in the photo was my great-aunt’s mysterious benefactor. Or blackmailer, I reminded myself. “Did they seem close, Isabella and this Paul Peters guy? Did it seem like she cared for him, and he her?”
Bernadette pursed her lips. “Hard to say. Isabella was so flirtatious and charming with everyone. It was almost impossible to tell if she liked one person better than any other.”
“I always thought he cared more deeply for her than she did for him. I don’t really have anything to back that up. Just a feeling I had,” Ophelia said.
“Interesting.” I pressed the journal to my chest. “Well, thanks for helping me unravel a bit of the mystery. Too bad we don’t have a key to the code, but I suppose that’s gone forever.”
“Maybe. But you might want to search the library. I walked in on Isabella once and caught her studying some sort of document with strange writing in one column and regular words in another.” Ophelia plucked at the lace on her collar and cast me an embarrassed smile. “She had it opened up on the desk, but folded it as soon as she caught me staring. She wasn’t expecting me, you see. I was returning a vase I’d borrowed and showed up earlier than we’d planned. Anyway, I saw her shove the document inside a book. Can’t remember what book it was, sadly, and she probably changed it out once I left anyway. But maybe she left the key to that code buried somewhere in the library? I do recall the strange writing resembling what you just showed me in that journal.”
“Worth a look, I suppose,” I said, groaning inwardly at the thought of searching through every book in my great-aunt’s extensive library.
“You never told me about that,” Bernadette said, with a sharp glance at her sister.
Ophelia fluttered her hands. “Oh, I just thought it was one of Isabella’s little games. Nothing to talk about, really.” She offered me an abashed smile. “Truthfully, I thought she was just planning some sort of treasure hunt or something for one of her parties. She liked to do that sort of thing, you know.”
I didn’t, which made me realize, once again, how little I actually knew about the great-aunt who’d left me a valuable legacy. Why me? I thought, resolving to solve that mystery someday too.
“Well, thank you for the refreshments and the information,” I said, crossing back to the sofa to retrieve my purse. “But I should let you get back to your own business. I’ll just say good-bye and show myself out.” I shoved the journal into my purse and slung the purse strap over my shoulder. “And just so you know—despite all this real-life mess, I do intend to hold a couple of the planned special events this week. There’s a cocktail party Thursday night, and the final book discussion on Tey’s works scheduled for Saturday night.”
“I thought you had planned a murder-mystery party for Saturday,” Ophelia said. “One of those things where we would play detective.”
“Yes, I had, but …” I cleared my throat. “I decided that might be in poor taste, given the circumstances.”
Bernadette nodded and offered me a smile. “Good thinking, and don’t worry, we’ll be there. For both events.”
“Okay, see you Thursday, then, if not before.” I waved good-bye as I headed out the door.
Pausing on the front porch, I considered the sisters’ comments about Lincoln Delamont. He’d gotten into arguments with both his wife and Damian, as well as had a confrontation with Julie, on the night he was killed. Which meant that my friend was not the only one who should be listed high on the suspect list.
It shows a pattern of combativeness, I thought as I descended the porch steps and made my way to the sidewalk. And speaks to Lincoln’s tendency to bring out the worst in people. So perhaps there was someone unrelated to Chapters’ staff or guests who wanted him dead.
It was a hope I intended to cling to as long as possible, anyway.