Very few of us are what we seem to be.
—Agatha Christie, “The Man in the Mist”
“THAT’S IT! THAT’S what I was looking for!”
“What, Brainiac?”
The voices seemed to come from far away. As the crimson haze abruptly lifted, I knew I was back in Seymour’s Volkswagen.
“Are we home?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
“Almost.” Brainert waved his computer tablet. “I found some important information on the Rhode Island Homestead Bureau website.”
Seymour braked for a rabbit. “What? The Farm Report?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. I found a history of Marsh House and the man who owned it in Harriet’s time.”
“Then make like an audiobook and read,” Seymour commanded.
“I’ll just jump to the end,” Brainert said. “The last owner of Marsh House was Jacob Ezra Marsh. He left his family’s farm to attend Annapolis and served as first officer aboard the USS Rhode Island until the warship was decommissioned. Retiring from the navy when he was forty, Marsh purchased a tramp steamer christened Mariner and became an importer of luxury goods catering to Newport families. For three years he divided his time between the farm and the sea.”
“He and Harriet must have known each other,” Seymour said. “I’ll bet he was the one who taught her Morse code, and she obviously hid her deepest secret inside his house.”
“I’m betting they were more than friends,” I said. “What happened to Jacob Marsh?”
“Mariner sunk in a typhoon off Japan. Lost with all hands. Marsh House was not even a working farm by then, and the house was abandoned along with Stone Turnpike.” Brainert sighed. “That’s the end of the entry.”
I lifted the heavy box and shook it. There was something inside, but it didn’t rattle. “I’m pretty sure there are no jewels in here.”
Seymour shrugged. “The killer wants it anyway. If they hear about it, they’ll come for it.”
“Then why don’t we set a trap and use this box as bait?”
Brainert brightened. “You have a plan, Pen?”
“Yes. In fact, you might say I dreamed up quite an idea . . .”
I RETURNED TO Buy the Book dirty, sweaty, and hungry for more than the Tootsie Pops Seymour brought in his fanny pack. I tucked the mailman’s gym bag under the counter and covered it with my jacket.
“So,” Sadie said as she untangled ivy from my hair. “What did you find in the woods?”
I told my aunt about the box.
“Where is it?”
“Here.” I pointed to the gym bag under the counter. “Seymour left it with us.”
“Well, I won’t tell a soul. My lips are sealed.”
“No. I want you to spread the word. That’s what Seymour and Brainert are doing. Call everyone you know. Tell them we found Harriet’s lost jewel box, it’s here in our shop, and we’re going to open it in front of the whole town tomorrow morning.”
“All right,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll spread the word. Oh, before I do, is this something you need?” She handed me an envelope. “Eddie Franzetti dropped it off while you were out.”
Inside the envelope were the names of all the registered guests for the first floor of the Comfy-Time Motel on the night of Conway’s murder. This was the list I’d been waiting for. As I scanned the names, one stood out from all the others.
Jack, do you see what I see?
Yeah, I see it. Plain as day. But like I keep trying to tell you, things aren’t always what they seem. You’re going to need more proof than this.
Well, I’m setting the trap. Let’s hope our killer walks into it.