Death by beach read, p.13
Death by Beach Read, page 13
Phil and Mrs. Eastland laughed heartily. “Nothing Bankers like more than to brag about how their forefathers outwitted the man,” Phil said. “Smuggling, from Blackbeard’s treasure to Ezekiel Froomer’s whiskey, has a long and proud tradition round these parts.”
“I’ve had a brilliant idea.” Mrs. Eastland clapped her hands. “As an adjacent event, to provide publicity for the fair and raise some money for the society, we could sell tickets for tours of the historic houses. Lucy, would you be—”
“No,” I said. “We would not. I’ve taken far too much of your time, and I need to get back to work. Fridays are always busy in here. I’ll tell Bertie what we decided. I’m looking forward to the day very much.”
At last they got the point and got to their feet. I headed for the door but didn’t get it open fast enough, as Mrs. Eastland said, “Do you think Jimmy Harper was after the treasure, Lucy?”
“No, I—” I turned around. “What treasure?”
“The Froomer treasure. I’m somewhat of an expert on the old Nags Head families. It was long rumored that Ezekiel Froomer had something of great value hidden in the house. He died very suddenly, you know.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Oh yes. His heart.” She snapped her fingers, and I jumped. “Gone like that. Before he could tell his only child where the treasure was hidden. They say she tore up the house looking for it. To no avail.”
“That’s just a story,” I said. “Don’t all old families and old houses have whispers of hidden treasure? If not that, then ties to European aristocracy?”
Phil chuckled. “True enough. But sometimes family stories contain a kernel of fact. My job, as a nonfiction writer, is to sort through the—”
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Eastland interrupted. “We know all that, Phil. You’re doing extensive renovations on the house, aren’t you, Lucy?”
“Some,” I admitted reluctantly.
“You should keep your eyes out. It might still be there. Whatever it is.”
I twisted the ring on my finger. Sometimes—and no one knows this better than I—there is such a thing as long-lost treasure waiting to be found. “Do you think that’s what Jimmy was after? This treasure?”
“It might have been, dear. It might have been. Thank you so much for your time. Such a productive meeting. Do give our regards to Bertie.”
I showed our guests to the door and watched them walk down the path. When I turned around, Louise Jane was watching me. She smiled. I said nothing about any treasure. If Louise Jane caught a whiff of a rumor about hidden treasure, she’d be over at our house with a shovel.
“You do understand, don’t you,” I said, “that Connor and I are making our home in that house? It is not a historical artifact, nor is it the business of everyone in town.”
“I do understand that, Lucy. Can’t stop people from talking about it.”
I sighed. “I guess not.”
You can’t stop people, even yourself, from thinking about it either. I spent the rest of the day, as I went through my regular work routine, wondering about the supposed Froomer/Harper family treasure. Not that there was any treasure to find, of course.
Connor and his dad had done a thorough inspection of the house before we bought it to ensure it was sound, and later to determine what tasks needed to be done first. They’d replaced rotting wall partitions and floorboards, ripped up carpet and linoleum, stripped wallpaper. Then again, a tiny voice reminded me, Connor hadn’t found a hidden entrance into the house itself.
Ralph had taken what little he wanted in the way of household furniture and memorabilia, and then we’d given anything usable to a charity shop. What wasn’t usable we’d taken to the dump.
If Ezekiel Froomer had hidden treasure in his house, it was long gone by now.
We’d disposed of everything except the things in the trunks and boxes in the room above the pantry—old clothes crumbling to dust, broken toys, mold-infested books, a photograph of Ezekiel himself. Maybe Ezekiel considered his portrait to be treasure enough for his family.
I thought about the old books. To my eye, they had no monetary value, but I’m not a rare-books expert and I might have overlooked something. Fortunately, I knew someone who was a rare-books expert. I picked up the desk phone.
“TK Rare Books and Collectables,” said a deep English accent.
“Theodore, hi. It’s Lucy.”
“Lucy.” The accent slipped slightly. “Nice to hear from you. What can I do for you today?”
* * *
When I got home from work, I followed the sound of hammering through the house and found Fred setting wooden planks into the struts of the new deck. Traces of fresh sawdust fluttered in the air, and the scent was pleasant. “It’s going to look fabulous,” I said.
He put down his hammer and straightened with a groan.
“Where’s Connor?”
“Held up at work. Pass me that bottle of water, will you, honey?”
I did so, and he drank deeply. His face glowed red, and he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped sweat off his brow and the back of his neck.
“It’s not my place to tell you what to do,” I said, “but should you be working out here by yourself?”
He chuckled. “Probably not. Don’t tell Marie. Connor called to say he’d be late, and I told him I’d come around and lay out what we’d need to get a good start tomorrow. Can’t help myself sometimes. Those boards are begging to be put into place.”
“Why don’t you come inside? I’ve some tea in the fridge, or even a beer.”
“Tea’ll do fine.” He put down his hammer, slipped off his heavy utility belt, dropped it to the floor, and followed me inside.
I poured the drinks, and we pulled stools up to the island. “Fred,” I said, “I want to ask you something. I hope you don’t mind, but …”
“But?” He lifted one shaggy eyebrow.
“Your name has come up in conjunction with what happened in this house a long time ago.”
He lifted his glass and drank deeply. “Good stuff, this. Marie tells me there’s been talk. Jimmy Harper back in town, and then up and dying. You and Connor buying this place and fixing it up.”
“Did you know Jimmy? Back in the day, I mean.”
“Yeah, I knew him. Like man, like boy. Nasty piece of work.”
“And Jo?”
He looked at me through his soft blue eyes, exactly like the ones I loved so much. “Jo. She was a nice girl. Quiet, shy, pretty. As unlike Jimmy as it’s possible to be. Smart too. She was pretty enough to be one of the popular girls but too smart for that lot. I didn’t know what it was at the time, of course, but even then she was different. She didn’t join clubs or play sports. Didn’t have friends, even.”
“You were her friend?”
He ran his finger, scarred, callused, across the pattern in the granite of the island. “For a while. Obviously you know, Lucy, as you’re asking. I went with Jo for a while. I won’t even say we were dating; we mostly just ate our lunch together at school or walked home together, for all that we were seventeen. Her parents were strict, and even though her brothers had finished school and moved out of the house by then, they kept an eye on her, Jimmy in particular. When he was around, which increasingly wasn’t much of the time. One day Jo’s mother had to go to Raleigh for some sort of doctor’s visit, and her dad drove her. They’d be away overnight, and Jo would be alone in the house. She invited me to come over. She wanted to hear my music and hang out together. That really was all she meant, and it was all I intended to do. It was the 1970s and we were seventeen years old, but we—she in particular—were a couple of innocents. A storm was building that night; I remember that. At one point I went to have a look out the window, see what was happening on the beach. Jo screamed, and when I turned around, I saw someone standing in the doorway. Dirty torn clothes, wild beard and hair, pointing at her, saying nothing.”
It was warm in the kitchen, but I felt a chill. “The ghost of Ezekiel Froomer.”
Fred chuckled. “Jimmy Harper, more like, pretending to be his grandfather’s restless spirit. I knew right away it was Jimmy. His costume wasn’t all that good. The beard was half off, and he’d ripped some of his old shirts and rubbed dirt into them. To be honest, Lucy, I was surprised when I found out later Jo’d thought it was a ghost. As for me, I hightailed it out of there fast as I could. I’m not proud of running out and leaving Jo alone, but he was her brother and I wasn’t supposed to be in the house. I never thought to wonder how he’d gotten in.”
“Jimmy, if it was him, was alone?”
“I didn’t see anyone else. That doesn’t mean much, I ran outa there so darn fast. The next day Jo’s father came round and told me to stay away from his daughter. I might have, I might not have—fathers make all sorts of threats—except that I later got a phone call. A different man, didn’t say who he was, but I figured it was Jimmy. He warned me not to go near Jo again. Or else. I was a high school kid, living with my parents. Jimmy Harper was a grown man, and a man with rumored criminal contacts and a police record. So I stayed away. It wasn’t hard.
“To this day, I’ve never set eyes on Jo Harper again. I heard about her over the years. Right after the incident, she went away, stayed with relatives for a while, and then she moved in with her brother Ralph. Maybe if she’d come back to school, I would have told her that had been no ghost. Maybe. I started going with Marie not long after that night. We married, had the kids … life took over. And I put Jo Harper out of my mind.”
I put my hand on his. He lifted his head and gave me a sad smile. We looked up at the sound of the door opening, and Charles hurried to greet Connor.
“Sorry I’m late. One crisis after another today. What are you two doing? Is everything okay?”
I stood up and gave him a kiss. “Just chatting.”
“I’ve been taking your lovely lady on a trip down memory lane.” Fred pushed himself to his feet. “Sometimes that’s not such a nice place to be. It’ll be dark soon; let’s get done what we can.”
Connor pulled at his tie. “I’ll change and be right out.”
“I didn’t know you were planning to work tonight,” I said. “I’ve invited someone over.”
“Who?”
“Teddy. I’d like him to have a look at those books we found upstairs.”
“What books?” Fred asked.
“Some old books in an old trunk, along with a bunch of other junk no one ever got around to throwing out,” Connor said. “You don’t think they have any value, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” I said, “but it won’t hurt to have that confirmed.”
“I guess not. Dad, I’ve been wondering if we need to buy some more …”
They left the kitchen. When Connor was working on the house in the evenings, mealtimes could be an arbitrary thing. Josie had given me a recipe for a quick and easy pasta dish I could throw together; I’d have it when it was ready and keep the rest warm for Connor. I changed into jeans and a T-shirt and then came back to the kitchen and began chopping onions, tomatoes, and fresh herbs.
I had the sauce bubbling in the pan and the kitchen smelling wonderful when the doorbell rang. I turned off the heat and wiped my hands on my apron. Charles ran on ahead of me to admit Theodore. “Thank you so much for coming,” I said.
“I’m anxious to have a look at these books.” He stepped into the house.
“I can’t see anything that might be valuable about them,” I said, “but I’m not an expert.”
“Happy to help.” He looked around. “I love these houses. You’re lucky to have found one.”
“We think so.” Connor stepped forward, his hand outstretched. Theodore accepted it, and the two men shook.
Fred said, “Evening, Theodore. It’s been a while. How’s your mother doing?”
“Very well, sir. She’s recently returned from Europe.”
“I hope she enjoyed her trip,” I said.
“She had a marvelous time. Absolutely tip-top. The trip of a lifetime, she calls it.” He chuckled. “She wants me to bring you two around to her house for dinner one night and see her photographs.”
“That would be nice,” I said.
“No,” he said, “It wouldn’t. Take my word for it. As soon as I got her home from the airport, before she even unpacked, she pulled them out to show me. Let us say, some culling might be needed.”
We laughed. Connor said, “It’s good of you to come and have a look at these books.”
“Absolutely my pleasure, old chap.” Tonight Theodore was dressed in a blue button-down shirt and a thin black tie worn under a sports jacket with patches on the elbows. Not an outfit you often see in North Carolina beach towns.
“Where did your mother go?” Fred asked.
“England, France, and Italy. The grand tour, no expense spared. She inherited a sum of money on the death of a mysterious benefactor, and I insisted she spend it all on herself.”
“A mysterious benefactor,” Connor said. “Sounds positively Dickensian.”
Charles meowed.
“It is,” Theodore said. “Some long-lost relative I’d never even heard of.”
I hid a smile. Only Sam Watson and I knew the identity of the “mysterious benefactor” who’d mentioned Mrs. Kowalski in his will. Even Teddy didn’t know.
“It’ll be dark soon, so we’ve called it a night,” Fred said. “We’ll be back at it tomorrow. Hope that rain holds off.”
“It’s not supposed to start until close to midnight,” Connor said.
“So they say,” Fred replied. “You never can believe a word of what they say. Night, all.”
We said good-night, and he stepped outside. I closed the door behind him.
“The books?” Theodore said eagerly.
Connor led the way into the pantry and lowered the ladder. Charles leapt onto it and nimbly ran up ahead of us.
“One must always approach long-lost books,” Theodore said, rubbing his hands together in glee, “through a secret entrance.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said.
I went next, followed by our guest and then Connor. I switched on the light, waved old dust out of my face, opened the trunk, and then stepped back to let Theodore have a look. “You think these might be what your … intruder was after?” he asked.
“I know a bit about rare books,” I said. “At first glance, I don’t think these are of any value, but it never hurts to have a separate and more expert opinion.”
He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, took his glasses off, and rubbed at the lenses. He popped them back on his nose, then produced a pair of white cotton gloves and slipped them on. He knelt on the floor beside the trunk and reached inside. He picked up the topmost book, ran his finger over the leather cover, and felt the spine before cautiously opening the book. “The Naked and the Dead by Normal Mailer. First published in 1948. This volume was printed five years after publication.” He examined each book with great care before putting it aside to pick up the next. It wasn’t long before he stood up and brushed off the knees of his pants. “Your instincts are correct, Lucy. Nothing in there is of the slightest value to anyone but a used bookstore. And perhaps not even then. They’re not in good condition. The sea air, you know, and I suspect you’ll find some of the paper is now lining mouse nests.”
“That’s what I thought, but thank you for coming anyway.”
Connor had gone back downstairs; Charles perched on the top of the children’s table and watched us. Theodore glanced around the room without much interest. The light caught the clusters of spiders’ webs hanging in the corners, and the air was full of dancing dust motes. “Usual household junk, looks like. My mother’s attic’s much the same.” His eyes rested on the photograph hanging crookedly on the wall. “May I?”
“Help yourself.”
He took the photo down. He spent a long time looking at it. He turned it over and read the photographer’s stamp on the back.
“Do you recognize the subject?” I asked.
“I don’t. Who is it?”
“Ezekiel Froomer, the builder of this house. I was thinking of hanging it by the entrance, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ve learned he wasn’t a very nice man.”
“There’s something about the eyes, isn’t there? Something … unsettling. Not a nice man, indeed. It’s an interesting photo; would you mind if I take a picture of it?”
“Not at all. Why?”
“No reason. The face intrigues me is all.” He used his phone to take a few quick shots of both the front and the back, and we climbed down the stairs.
* * *
Saturday afternoon, as the upstairs library resounded with the chatter and laughter of children and the downstairs with the chatter and laughter of their parents, I had an unexpected visitor.
“I’ve decided to be a veterinarian,” sixteen-year-old Charity Peterson, Phoebe’s eldest sister, had told me, and I was helping her search for information on veterinarian colleges while her youngest sister was upstairs and her mother gossiped between the stacks. “Mom didn’t approve until I told her that I could be called Dr. Peterson, so she said that was okay then,” Charity said. “She admitted that’s better than Phoebe, who wants to be a farmer. As if.” We talked as she scrolled through college information pages.
“I’ve seen your sister a couple of times helping Jo Harper in her garden. How’s it working out?”
“Phoebe loves it. Mr. and Ms. Harper are mighty weird, but they’re nice. I’m hoping one of their chickens gets sick.”
“Why?”
“So I can go over and make it better, of course.”
“Excuse me,” said a voice. “Do you work here?”
“Looks like you’re okay here, Charity,” I said. “Give me a shout if you need anything more.”
“Thanks, Ms. Richardson.”
I smiled at the new arrival. “Welcome. How can I help you?”
She was in her late sixties, tall and hefty, and rather rough around the edges, with overly dyed black hair showing an inch of gray at the roots, tired eyes, sunken cheeks, and networks of lines carving through the skin around her eyes and mouth. Her jeans had tattered hems, and her running shoes were badly worn. The scent of tobacco both stale and fresh hung over her like a cloud. “I’m not here to use the library, thanks. I’m looking for someone I was told works here. A Lucy?”
