As I heard Julie’s voice crack on that last word, another scenario flitted through my mind. Maybe Lincoln hadn’t taken Julie’s dismissal well. Maybe he’d tried to force himself on her. Maybe Julie had struck him in self-defense …
But she would’ve had to have grabbed that knife and the key ahead of time. Which makes it premeditated. No, that can’t be right. Maybe Lincoln took the key, as well as the knife, planning to lure her into the carriage house and threaten her. Although that seems out ofcharacter for him, from what little I observed.I shook my head. I couldn’t sort all this out on my own.
I need my Sherlock, I thought, with a swift glance toward Ellen’s house. “Why don’t you run on home? I can make your excuses to the others.” I motioned toward the door. “Did you bring a purse or anything? I can grab your stuff if you want to wait out here.”
“No, I just carried my phone and my keys in my pocket. And thankfully I walked here, so no worries about me driving after drinking.” A single tear skittered down Julie’s cheek, streaking her blush. “Sorry, it’s just so much to take in, all at once …”
I gave her a quick hug. “I totally understand. It has to be rough, discovering Lincoln’s true nature and then experiencing the shock of his death. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
Julie’s lips trembled. “I know you mean well, but I can’t …” She dashed more tears from her eyes with the back of one hand. “You don’t know everything, and I can’t tell you. Not now.”
I stepped forward and patted her arm. “It’s okay. Go home. Relax. It will all get sorted, sooner or later.”
Julie pulled away so roughly that my hand flew up in the air. Turning on her heel, she made for the steps. “I know,” she called back over her shoulder. “That’s what worries me.”
Chapter Twelve
The book discussion fizzled soon after I returned to the library, disintegrating into a few half-hearted comments and desultory replies. Faced with one another’s obvious lack of interest, the guests soon made excuses to depart, leaving me with far too much leftover food and a headache that wouldn’t subside until I finally fell asleep hours later.
The next day, I called Ellen as soon as I felt it reasonable to phone someone on a Monday morning.
“I’d love to chat,” she said, “but I’m volunteering at the fort today. Maybe you could drive over and meet me during my lunch break? We could walk on the beach and talk.”
The fort was Fort Macon, a North Carolina state park located at the tip of Atlantic Beach. Offering views of the Atlantic Ocean, Bogue Sound, and Beaufort Inlet, it was a historic site and popular tourist destination. I’d visited there a few times, taking in the displays depicting the fort’s history, from its start as a military defense post built in the early 1800s and its part in the Civil War to its use for coastal defense during World War II. Ellen, a history buff, volunteered a few days a month, working as a greeter atthe information desk in the park’s visitor center and, as a member of the Friends of Fort Macon, assisting with special events.
“I could do that, but I suspect the parking lot will be jammed,” I said. “You know how it gets during the summer, especially with people trying to access the public beach near the fort.”
“True, but usually enough people are coming and going to make an opening. I tell you what—if you have a problem finding a spot, call me. I can move my car behind another volunteer’s vehicle long enough to free a place for your car. Especially since you’ll only be there for an hour.”
“I’ll give it try. Noon okay?”
“See you then,” Ellen said, and wished me a good morning before hanging up.
I pocketed my cell phone and considered what I could accomplish before I had to head over to Atlantic Beach. With only Scott and the seldom-seen Tara and Jennifer Delamont lodging at Chapters that week, Alicia and I had made quick work of breakfast. I had no events planned for the day, and so, despite the heat, I decided it was the perfect time to start my search of Isabella’s papers and photos.
But before I could put my plan into action, my cell phone rang. Seeing it was Julie, I thought I’d better answer rather than let it go to voice mail.
I barely had a chance to say hello before Julie launched into the real reason for her call. “I just wanted to assure you that I didn’t hate Lincoln despite everything.”
“You mean despite the fact that he lied to you about being separated and getting a divorce and all that? Oh, and the fact that he had a daughter that he didn’t tell you about.” I cluckedmy tongue. “I can actually see getting pretty angry over something like that.”
“Of course I was angry. You saw that last night. But you should know by now that I’m not one to pine over men. I mean, when it’s over, it’s over, as far as I’m concerned.”
“How did Lincoln take you breaking it off with him?”
“Not well, although he stayed calm and tried to charm me into changing my mind. He didn’t lose his temper. Not like …” Julie fell silent before finishing this thought.
“Not like what?” I sat up straighter on my bed. “Had he lost his temper with you before?”
There was a stretch of silence before she responded. “Yes, once or twice. I mean, he never hit me or anything.”
“But he’d scared you a little?” I stared at the opposite wall, where I’d hung one of my wedding photos. Brent looked back at me, his smile as gentle as always. We’d had arguments, of course, but they’d always been fair fights, never ones that escalated to the point where I felt threatened in any way.
“There was this one time when I got a little nervous, I guess. He was visiting me at Bookwaves. No one else was in the shop. He tried to kiss me, but I was worried that a customer could walk in at any minute, so I pushed him away.”
“I’m guessing he didn’t like that.”
“No. He grabbed my arm when I stepped back—”
