Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense) (11 page)

Now
she stared at
Chester
through the mirror.  That distinctive shock of white hair
on the top of her head was always like a beacon in darkness.  “I'm not the same
man I used to be.”  Wordlessly, she removed his coat from his slumped
shoulders.  She took her usual care with the shearling suede as she folded it
over her arm. 

“What
have you lost?” Miss Winchell asked him.

Chester
exhaled a
withered breath.  “My strength?”

With
a cross look, Edith Winchell shook her head no, then loosened his cashmere
scarf and slid it off his neck.  Once the scarf was folded over the coat, she
reached for his marble-handled cane.  Like many of
Chester
's possessions,
he had acquired this one at an auction in
London
.  Miss Winchell would put
everything away in their proper place, just like she always did.

“My
will?” he speculated now. 

At
that, she nodded.  She was infallibly wise.  Appreciatively,
Chester
turned to face
her.  Because of their height difference, his eyes came only to the hollow of
her throat.  As usual, he fixed his gaze on the gleaming emerald that she wore
around her neck. 

Edith
pulled one Burberry calf's leather glove off his hand, and then the other. 
Once they were tucked in the crook of her arm, she added, “And your sense,
Chester
.  I saw her in
town the other day.  At the
Main Street
coffee shop.”

Suddenly
Edith's gaze became scrutinizing.  Under the force of it,
Chester
broke their eye
contact, dropped his chin to his chest. 

“You’re
afraid of her?”  Her tone had become sharper—he knew that tone.  “She’s
practically a kid!” 

Chester
didn't reply. 

“You're
pathetic,” Edith Winchell told him.

“I'm
sorry,” he murmured weakly.  And truly he was.  Sorry for things that had
happened, sorry for how exhausting it was to try to contain the past.  Sorry
for himself.  “If only she would go away,” he begged.  “She's a constant
reminder...”  His voice broke off and he shut his eyes for a moment.  “If only
Nina Corday had—”

“Stop
it,” Miss Winchell snapped.  Her voice had become louder, too—striking like a
bell in the Gothic walls of the foyer.  “It’s a dim-remembered story.  A
discordant melody, best left unsung.  All you do now is: keep quiet.”

“But—”

“
Just
don’t say anything
,” Edith Winchell reiterated, her voice carving the words
like a steel blade.  “And the girl will never know.”

The
next day Michael reached inside his fridge for a can of Coke only to realize
that the can was warm.  Confused, he touched the rest of the six-pack, and then
the bread—

Damn
it.
 Everything
was warm.  He bent down to look at the base of the
refrigerator.  The fridge itself was only about three feet tall, and was
resting on top of a short wooden table. 

As he
ran a hand around the back of it, feeling the sticky smudges of gear and vent
grease, he had the sinking feeling that...
yup
.  The rear coil was cold,
the circuit was busted.  What timing, with him stuck out here.  He would have
to take care of it soon; a refrigerator full of food was not the kind of thing
you could ignore and fix later—
wait a second...

Now
he had an idea.  

***

At
Tinsdale that afternoon, sun spilled through the window in a bath of gold. 
Papers and books were spread across Nicole's table, but she was enmeshed in
only one item at the moment: the diary of Josiah Hardy II.  It was still
astonishing to her that Hardy had kept such a regular log of his days as light
keeper for almost thirty years.  He had obviously been a methodical man—a trait
that gave the records he left behind an inherent credibility.  There was
nothing sensational about the contents of Hardy's diary; the entries were
matter-of-fact, bare-boned in some cases.  Of course to an archivist even
mundane things were fascinating if they were old enough.

Now,
as Nicole turned the page, she noticed the letter 'W' written in the left
margin.  It was a loopy, sloppy 'W' in purple pencil.  She recognized the
handwriting and the pencil color; they matched the various notes Aunt Nina had
written in the previous folder. 

Dismissing
it, she continued reading until a few pages later.  There was another purple
letter written in the margin.  The letter 'O'.  Briefly, Nicole wondered about
the markings.  They must have corresponded to something, but she had no idea
what.  Since this was a photocopy of Hardy's diary, not the original, there was
no harm in writing on it—and that raised another question.  Where
was
the original?  Who possessed his diary now?  Did Josiah Hardy II have any
descendants in the area? 

She
spotted Ginger shelving books on the opposite side of the floor and motioned
her over.

“How
is the project going?” Ginger asked softly as she approached the table.  “It's
not too much for you, I hope.” 

“Oh,
no, I like this stuff,” Nicole assured her.

“Hazel
and I are just grateful that you were eager to finish Nina's portion.  I know
how busy you must be.”

Funny,
Hazel hadn't indicated in any way that she was “grateful.”  If anything, she'd
been aloof ever since Nicole met her.  Including not waving this morning when
they had both clearly seen each other on
Main Street
.  But that was
neither here nor there at the moment.  “Ginger, this light keeper, Josiah Hardy
II—does he have any descendants still in the area?”

“Hmm...I'm
not sure.  Why, is it important?”

“I
was just curious.”

“Sorry,
I'm not sure.  But I wouldn't be surprised. 
Chatham
does have a way
of keeping families together…” 

When
Ginger let the remark linger, Nicole tentatively supplied, “Like you and
Hazel?”

A
fleeting smile flickered over Ginger's face.  “Yes, I suppose so.  I left for a
while, as I think I told you...but I came back.  It's my home.”  She sounded
resigned and almost ambivalent.  Then she got a kind of faraway look in her
eyes, as though she were more reflecting than making conversation.  “It's
strange when you've been somewhere so long though—how you see people change. 
You see their lives happen to them, without really seeing your own.  If that
makes sense.”

“I
know what you mean,” Nicole said, oddly intrigued by Ginger's comment, which
seemed both objective and poignant at the same time. 

“Some
of these people I have known forever, it seems.  I remember when Herman
MacDonald was just a young man.  I used to
baby-sit
Vickie Finn, for
heaven's sake, and now she owns her own inn.”

“Vickie
grew up here, too?” 

“Yes,
over by Pleasant Bay.  Do you know Vickie?”

“We
met the other day.  She seems nice,” Nicole threw in with almost painful
banality.  Ginger didn't seem to notice. 

“Well
of course she was very different back then,” Ginger continued, and Nicole just
assumed she would say something typical—about how much Vickie had grown and
matured into a lovely woman, etceteras—but instead, her voice dipped a bit
lower and she said, “She was a very fat child, you know.”

Caught
off guard, Nicole said nothing at first.

“You'd
never know it to look at her now,” Ginger added.  “I really give her a lot of
credit.  She must have lost a hundred pounds—at least.”

“
Really?
”
Nicole said, shocked.  She knew she had this shamelessly over-the-top
incredulous expression all over her face, but she couldn't seem to help it. 
A
hundred pounds?
 
At
least
?

“
Ahem!
” 

Both
Nicole and Ginger jumped.  The gruff sound had come from the inordinate depths
of Hazel, who was planted by the bookshelf behind Nicole. 

How
long had she been standing there?  She appeared rooted to the spot, yet neither
had heard her approach.  For such a hefty woman, Hazel was surprisingly light
on her feet. 

“Finished
already?” she asked, looking pointedly at Nicole.  Her pinched expression
caused the myriad granules of her heavy face powder to cake up, and glitter in
the creases.

A bit
confused, Nicole glanced down at the research materials.  “Uh, no...not even
close.”

“Well
then perhaps we shouldn't distract you.”  Nicole suddenly felt like a scolded
child.  Delineation between the Bloomingdale sisters was getting even clearer. 
Ginger: still waters.  Hazel: stagnant swamp.

“Ginger's
not distracting me,” Nicole said pleasantly.  “She's helping me.”

“That
reminds me,” Ginger spoke up, “Hazel, the idea we had...?”

“Yes. 
Well.”  Hazel inhaled a steep breath.  “We are inviting you to our monthly
meeting tonight.  Since you are assisting the Preservation League, I thought it
prudent to introduce you to the other women.” 

Not
the most effusive invitation Nicole had ever received.  But then, anything that
began with “I thought it prudent” wasn't exactly a warm and fuzzy fest. 
Still—it was nice to be asked. 

“Of
course we'll understand if you can't make it,” Hazel added.

“I'd
love to come,” Nicole announced.  Mostly as an homage to her aunt—her friends,
her causes—and in small part, to throw Hazel for a loop.  “Where and what
time?”

“Our
house,” Ginger replied warmly.  “
Seven o'clock
.  And there will
be some light refreshments.”

“But
no
alcohol,” Hazel added sternly.  Nicole managed to hold back an eye-roll.  As if
she would really go to Hazel and Ginger's house to get plastered and have wild
times. 

Was
it an age thing?  This perception Hazel seemed to have of her as some
trouble-making interloper?  Or was it the Michael factor?

“I'll
be there,” Nicole said.

“Fine. 
See you then.  Ginger, could you help me with something in the office?”

“Of
course,” Ginger said obediently.

She
followed her big—and Nicole did mean
big
—sister to the staircase. 
I'm
so immature
, Nicole thought, chastising herself for the catty thoughts
about Hazel's...girth.  

But
talk about abrupt.  Even if Hazel didn't want to make chitchat, wasn't Ginger
allowed to talk to Nicole?  What did Hazel care? 

Of
course it did not occur to Nicole until much later that what Hazel wanted was
simply for Nicole to focus on the lighthouse—and leave other local history
alone.

“Ladies,
let's get started soon!”  Ginger's delicate voice tingled across the chattering
din of the Preservation League of Ladies—whom, from Nicole's vantage point on
the couch, consisted of about twenty women in their fifties or older.  

The
mood was festive and friendly, with the others welcoming Nicole and urging her
to partake in the appetizers and apple cider.  It seemed like a cheerful group,
which was surprising given that it was led by Hazel a.k.a. Attila the no-fun.

When
Nicole had arrived, Ginger had introduced her first to Betna Doyle, a petite
Indian woman who was Ginger's dearest friend.  Kindly, Betna had been full of
lauding words about Aunt Nina.  Surgeon Ann Winston had mentioned over the
cider spigot that she and her husband had occasionally double-dated with Nina
and her boyfriend, Abel. 

“Let's
get started!” Ginger said again, raising her voice pretty minimally.

“Everyone's
not here yet,” Elizabeth Parker pointed out. 

“Well,
you know Hazel likes to start the meeting at
7:25
promptly,” Ginger replied with a
slightly apologetic tone.  “We have been socializing since seven, so...”

When
Elizabeth Parker had introduced herself to Nicole that evening, she had
mistaken her, blurting out, “Nina Corday's daughter, of course.  I see the
resemblance right away.” 

“Goddaughter,
actually,” Nicole corrected her with a polite smile.  “She was my aunt.” 
Elizabeth
seemed confused
by that, almost disbelieving.

“Who's
left?” Stacy Gristol asked now.  An attractive woman in her fifties with pale
blond, cotton candy hair, Stacy had supplied the stuffed shrimp, which sat on
the coffee table beside the homemade quiche Lorraine.  The quiche was
compliments of Mimi Frances, a delicate sliver of a woman with white hair in a
bun.

“
Lydia
isn't here yet,”
Elizabeth
said.

“Or
Edith Winchell,” Betna Doyle inserted.

At
the name “Edith Winchell,” both Mimi Frances and Stacy Gristol grimaced.

“As
usual, Edith is too
good
to be on time,” Ann Winston muttered.