Without geography, you’re nowhere!
—Jimmy Buffett
BRAINERT AND I left Seymour to work. At the front of the store, we found Sadie fretting about Tracy’s arrest.
“The girl with blue hair?” Brainert nodded. “Some of my students are in her reading group. Quiet type. But you never know what they’re thinking. Still waters run deep.”
“Oh, poo on that!” Sadie spat. “I made that mistake myself, misjudging the girl. But she’s a creative soul. She’s overly emotional because she’s sensitive. She’s different because she’s an artist.”
Sounds like another artist dame we know, the ghost observed, the one who cast a spell on your mailman.
A few minutes later, our enchanted postman charged down the aisle and proudly slapped the paper on the counter. “Voilà! Morse Code translated from Harriet-ese.”
We all stared at Seymour’s dots and dashes.
-- .- .-. . . . . . . .
. . . . --- ..- . . . .
. . . - --- -. .
- ..- .-. -. .--. . . -.- .
“What does all this mean?” I asked.
“Yes, in the King’s English, please,” Brainert insisted.
Seymour pointed out each set of dots and dashes.
“This means ‘marsh.’ And these marks here spell ‘house,’ and here’s ‘stone,’ and finally ‘turnpike.’”
Brainert blinked. “Marsh House Stone Turnpike. That’s all? Only four words.”
“They are repeated over and over, just like that Latin word laedo.”
“Riddles within riddles,” Brainert muttered. “What does it mean? Is it a location?”
“Yes!” Seymour said.
“Well, I’ve never heard of it,” Brainert said.
It perplexed me as well. But not my mailman.
“We postal workers know a thing or two about roads, streets, and addresses,” he said tucking his thumbs into his belt.
Brainert smirked. “Well, please do enlighten us with your good-enough-for-government wisdom.”
“When the state took over the turnpike system, they assigned the roads the numbers we use today. But a few dozen byways were no longer traveled, so the government left them out of the official Rhode Island road system, essentially abandoning those lanes to time and the elements. One of those forgotten roads is Stone Turnpike.”
“And where is this turnpike?” Brainert was already consulting Google. He held up his computer tablet. “Stone Turnpike isn’t listed.”
“That’s because it’s an abandoned road. Modern maps aren’t going to list it. What we need is a really, really old map. And there’s a hundred-and-eighty-year-old road map of this area just a ten-minute drive from here. We can check it right now.”
“Really?” Brainert scoffed. “And where is this ancient map, Indiana Jones? The library isn’t open on Sunday night and neither is the local historical society.”
“It’s not at the library or the historical society. It’s on display at the Finch Inn.”
Sadie was closing up the bookstore when I told her where I was heading. “Would you like to come with us?” I asked. “I can bring Spencer and Amy along.”
But after her supernatural encounter the night before, Sadie automatically shivered. “You go on over with your friends. I’ll be happy to keep an eye on Spencer and Amy until you get back.”
FOR THE SECOND time in a week, Brainert and I piled into Seymour’s VW. The drive was easy until we reached the gates of the Finch Inn, where we joined a parade of cars moving slowly along the weeping willow–lined drive.
“Barney and Fiona are raking in the dough tonight,” Seymour declared. “Is there a Sunday special at Chez Finch I should know about?”
“I think this crowd is here because of Harriet’s ghost,” I said. “Fiona had a spike in business the last time there was a sighting.”
Seymour chuckled. “Ha! Harriet’s a tourist attraction.”
Brainert eyed his frenemy. “You’re surprisingly sanguine about these apparitions.”
“It’s a mistake. Or a drunken hallucination.”
He sounds almost normal, Jack.
Wait for it.
“Harriet is talking to me and nobody else,” Seymour emphatically insisted. “If these ghost stories were true, I’d be the one she’d visit.”
Sound familiar, doll?
Settle down, Jack.
After Seymour parked the VW, we approached the Finch Inn.
From the freshly painted Victorian clapboards to the wraparound porch, stained-glass windows, gabled roof, and dramatic turret, the Queen Anne had been restored to authentic perfection by Fiona and Barney.
Through the antique glass doors, we were greeted by a polished staircase worthy of a royal ball. One turn led to the library and common room; another took the visitor to the carved mahogany front desk.
The Queen Anne was incredibly quiet. It appeared all the activity tonight was going on at the inn’s restaurant. We even found the common room deserted, its Tiffany lamps set on dim. Seymour led us to a faded brown map mounted behind a glass frame. After a minute studying the antique document, he jabbed a finger at a tiny faded line.
“Look, the Stone Turnpike ran past Finch Inn. It veered inland and ended in Millstone.” Seymour whooped. “And look at that, Marsh House! It’s right there on the map.”
Brainert nodded. “It looks like the only homestead along the whole turnpike. The family cemetery is there, too. It’s indicated by the tiny cross.”
“That’s where Harriet wants me to go,” Seymour declared, taking a photo of the map with his mobile phone.
“Don’t get your hopes up.” Brainert shook his head. “Marsh House is probably long gone.”
But Seymour remained undaunted. “We can get close to the place on back roads, but we might have to hoof it a mile or so.”
“Not in the dead of night,” I said.
Seymour agreed. “Let’s start early tomorrow. What do you say?”
Brainert was practically jumping up and down. “I’m going to dig out my L.L.Bean waders. I plan on getting some rubbings off those old gravestones, too!”
This was becoming a grand adventure.
As we headed back to Seymour’s van, the men continued making plans. They were certainly in high spirits. Unfortunately, in his excitement, Professor Parker tripped on a paving stone. I caught him before he broke his neck.
Some grand adventure. Jack laughed. Egghead can’t negotiate a sidewalk, and the mailman’s half-delusional. Tomorrow you’re off to the woods with no help for miles.
Don’t worry, Jack, I’ll watch their backs.
Replace “watch their backs” with “babysit” for honesty’s sake.
“So, what time are you picking me up?” I asked Seymour.
“We start our journey at seven sharp!” he said, his whoop echoing through the night air.
“It will be like old times,” Brainert said. “Perhaps we’ll find a hobbit.”
“I just hope we find our way back home . . .”