A team from the Beaufort police department arrived within minutes. After collecting the abandoned knife, they searched the area, but found no additional evidence. Not only was the ground too dry and thickly layered with dead leaves and twigs to really hold a clear impression of footprints, but my own scrambling about had also made obtaining such evidence difficult. I apologized, but the police brushed this off. They were more concerned about my health, calling in an EMT I swore I didn’t need. But I submitted meekly to an exam while I answered their questions about the intruder to the best of my ability. It was the least I could do.
Once I was pronounced clear of any serious injury, Scott escorted me inside and sat me down at the kitchen table.
“You have anything stronger than wine?” he called out from the pantry.
I suggested the brandy I’d stored in the upper cupboard I used as a liquor cabinet. Scott brought me a glass, along with one for himself, although the one he placed in front of me held decidedly more liquor.
I eyed it dubiously. “You might have to carry me into the bedroom after I down that.”
“I thought it might help you sleep,” he said, sitting down across from me. “Better than a hammer to the head, anyway.”
“Hmm … that’s a bit grisly, considering the circumstances, don’t you think?” I took a drink, hoping my lack of a reaction to such a large swig wouldn’t convince Scott I was a lush. I wasn’t, but Brent had loved his brandy and cognac, collecting the finer varieties. I’d sampled enough glasses with him in the past to inoculate me against the coughing or sputtering response of a novice.
“Sorry, sometimes I blurt out stupid things when I’m on edge,” Scott said, the humor fading from his expression as quickly as it had appeared.
“No need to be nervous,” I said, wondering if Scott’s reaction was heightened by guilt. If he’d killed Lincoln … Staring into his earnest face, I found this hard to believe, but I knew I should remain on guard. “The police didn’t find anything other than that knife, and with one of their cars patrolling the area all night, I doubt the intruder will return.”
“Too bad you couldn’t see who it was.” Scott leaned back in the chair until the front legs rose off the floor. “That could’ve closed the case right then and there.”
I circled the rim of my glass with one finger. “As I said, I didn’t see anything. I couldn’t even tell if my attacker was male or female.”
Scott sat forward with a lurch, banging the chair legs down onto the ceramic tile floor. “I guess it will remain a mystery, then.”
“Perhaps. But maybe the police will glean some information from that knife, even if it was wiped clean.”
“Doubtful.” Scott polished off his brandy in two gulps. “Well, I suppose I should head on upstairs. Unless you do need me to help you to your bedroom.”
“No, I can manage,” I said, after another swallow of brandy. “But thanks for your support outside. I might’ve hit the ground again otherwise.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Scott stood, holding up his empty glass. “I can wash this if you want.”
“No, that’s okay. Just set it in the sink. I’ll put both tumblers in the dishwasher later.” I gave him a wan smile. “Health regulations, you know. Need that hot-water cleansing on any dishware.”
“Oh, right. Not like my house, where a quick rinse will sometimes do.” Scott flashed a grin before crossing to the sink.
“No, I’m afraid we have to be a little more thorough.” I used the table to brace myself as I rose to my feet. “Good night, Scott.”
He paused in the kitchen doorway to look back at me. “’Night, Charlotte. Hope you sleep well.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, although I was actually afraid sleep, good or otherwise, would elude me once again.
Scott gave me a little one-finger-to-the-forehead salute before striding into the hall.
I shuffled over to the sink and deposited my empty glass. Alicia will probably wonder what I was up to, I thought, as I headed for my bedroom. Then it occurred to me how odd it was that she hadn’t heard the ruckus and appeared downstairs.
Of course, if she had killed Lincoln, and then tried to toss away the now-pristine knife, only to encounter me …
I tried to clear my mind of such fancies but couldn’t shake how easy it would’ve been for someone with keys to all the doors at Chapters to circle around the house and quietly enter through the front door. Someone like that—someone like Alicia—could’ve climbed the stairs and been safely tucked into their bed even before the police arrived, not to mention before I reentered the house.
Of course, if whoever it was had sneaked out the front door and left it unlocked, it could have been a guest like Jennifer Delamont. Or Damien Carr, who lived so close and knew the area, could’ve easily entered the backyard and fled without being seen.
And, I reminded myself, it was rather convenient for Scott to show up at just the right time to assist me. Sure, he’d claimed he’d just walked back from dinner, but I had no way of knowing how long he’d been back before he appeared behind me.
I kicked off my sandals and slumped down on my bed. Slipping off my blouse, I grimaced at the dark bruise that discolored my shoulder. It hurt now, but I suspected it would be even more painful in the morning. Sighing, I staggered back to my feet and changed into an old, worn-soft sleep shirt before crawling into bed.
Sleep, when it came, was fitful and full of dreams I couldn’t remember when I woke.
Which, judging by the lingering wisps of fear and sorrow flitting through my mind in the morning, was just as well.
Despite the pain and lingering malaise tormenting me on Thursday morning, I decided to leave Chapters after we served breakfast. I wanted to indulge my desire to investigate my great-aunt’s mysterious past.
Of course, I admitted, as I drove out of the historic area of town, taking Live Oak Street toward the Beaufort branch of the Carteret County Public Library, it’s also a good diversion. Heaven knows I need something to distract me from thoughts of murderous guests or staff.
Given the dearth of information online, I thought perhaps the reference department at the library would yield better results. I knew from previous visits that the library held microfilmed copies of a local newspaper, the Carteret County News-Times, and that they also maintained vertical files that contained newspaper clippings, pamphlets, and other materials related to the history of the region. That type of resource might yield some mention of Isabella’s activities in Beaufort in the 1960s and ’70s, especially if she’d hosted and attended high-profile social events.
At the library, I was ably assisted by one of the librarians on duty, who unlocked the vertical files and pulled several folders for me once I explained the type of information I needed. I decided to start with the files, saving scrolling through the microfilm for another day.
Flipping through the material was like stepping into a time tunnel. Newspaper articles of social events were interspersed with programs from school and community theatre productions and flyers advertising regional events. Peering at the grainy photos, I was transported to another time, when the Internet did not exist and newspapers, pamphlets, and other hard-copy materials were the only way, outside local TV or radio coverage, to share community information.
The surprising thing was how often I spotted Isabella Harrington’s distinctive face and figure in the group photos of important social events. Occasionally the coverage included parties held at the house that later became Chapters. Reading the captions and accompanying articles, I realized that Isabella had spent a good deal of time mingling with the wealthiest families in the county, as well as with senators, foreign ambassadors, and other high-ranking dignitaries.
It seemed clear that my great-aunt had been one of those “hostess with the mostess” types—to borrow a phrase from the late, not-so-lamented Lincoln Delamont—at least during her younger years. Not something I would’ve gleaned from any family discussions or from any conversations I’d had with her when she’d visited my parents and grandparents. Even though these files showed she’d moved in exalted social circles, she’d never once mentioned knowing the rich and famous. Yet here she was, her vivacious beauty captured by the camera as she rubbed elbows with some of the most powerful people of the day.
Which made me wonder, once again, where the money she’d lived on had come from. I knew from my own modest efforts at entertaining that the costs of hosting the types of parties documented in some of these clippings would’ve been astronomical. Even in the 1960s and ’70s, entertaining national and world leaders would’ve required a significant output of cash.
“And there you were, with no visible means of support,” I mused, touching a picture with the tip of my finger. Isabella looked back up at me, her smile as enigmatic as ever.
After a few hours, my aching shoulder demanded relief. I thanked the librarian and left, pondering the information I’d discovered.
Perhaps Lincoln Delamont had been right, at least in part. Maybe Isabella had stolen enough valuable items from her employers to stake a claim on a lucrative enterprise. Something she was involved in during the years she was out of contact with my family. Something that had allowed her to then buy a home in Beaufort and live there for many years before converting the house into a bed-and-breakfast.
Probably not a legal enterprise, though, I thought, as I drove back to Chapters, given her lack of a career or any inheritance, and yet her evident wealth. Not to mention her refusal to talk about her past, even with us, her family.
As I walked from my car toward the kitchen door, I was met by a vehicle leaving the parking lot. Peering into the car, I was surprised to spy Tara Delamont in the back seat.
The passenger’s side window rolled down, and an older woman poked her head out.
“Hello, Ms. Reed. Glad we caught you, especially since Jennifer took off for a walk right after saying good-bye to Tara. We’re Jennifer’s parents, and we’ve been given permission to take Tara to stay with us until our daughter is free to leave Beaufort.”
I peered in at Tara, who was slumped down in her seat. “Is that right, Tara?” I asked, although the older woman looked enough like Jennifer to ease my fears.
The girl nodded before looking away.
“Jennifer can explain more later if you want,” said Tara’s grandmother. “We just thought it best to get Tara away from this situation. The police had no objections,” she added, her brow creasing with worry lines.
I offered her a sympathetic smile. It was a difficult spot to be placed in—worried about their daughter as well as their granddaughter. And maybe, I thought, knowing only too well why Jennifer might have wanted to kill their son-in-law.
“I’m sorry to see Tara go, but I certainly understand,” I said, waving good-bye as the woman rolled up her window.
When I stepped out of the driveway to allow the car to leave, a series of sharp yips caught my attention. Ellen, walking at a fast pace behind the bounding Yorkie, waved the hand not gripping the leash at me.
“Hello, Charlotte. How are you today? I heard about your little dustup last night.”
I stopped short at the back-door stoop. Of course she’d heard. Ellen always seemed to know everything that went on at Chapters. Narrowing my eyes, I waved her over.
“I’m fine. But I do have a few questions I’d like to ask, if you have a minute.”
“Happy to oblige. Just let me take Shandy inside and I’ll meet you in the garden.”
“I was thinking inside.” I gestured toward Chapters. “Everyone’s out, except for Alicia, and she told me she was going to spend the day cleaning upstairs, so we should have the library to ourselves.”
Ellen shaded her eyes with one hand and stared at me for a moment. “All right,” she said slowly. “But I still need to take the dog back to the house.”
“No rush. I’m just going to head inside and wait in the library. I’ll leave the back door open for you.” I turned away and marched up the two steps of the back stoop. Holding the screen door open with one foot, I focused on unlocking the deadbolt on the wooden door. When I glanced over at Ellen, she’d already disappeared into her own house with the dog.
I dropped my purse off in my bedroom before heading for the library. Taking a seat in one of the room’s armchairs, I sank back against the leather upholstery and contemplated my next move.
Because I knew Ellen had information that would explain my great-aunt’s past. All I had to do was to figure out how to get her to share it with me.
Resting my elbows on the chair’s padded arms, I templed my fingers and tapped one thumb against the other. I’d called Ellen a “Sherlock” to my “Watson” in jest, but now I suspected I’d been more prescient than I’d ever suspected.
My seventy-five-year-old neighbor was, to all appearances, simply a retired film-location scout with a love of small dogs and a taste for exotic fashions. But I now suspected she was much more than that. Someone cleverer than her carefully cultivated old-lady-who-gardens persona. Someone more devious.
Someone, perhaps, far more dangerous.