The rest of the materials were ordinary enough—more photos from our family reunions, as well as pictures of parties at Chapters and other Beaufort events, and a few postcards and letters sent to her from members of my family. There were also copies of legal documents I thought I’d look through later, although a cursory examination revealed nothing of interest.
My first dig into Isabella’s past appeared to be a dud, at least in terms of proving, or disproving, Lincoln Delamont’s claims. So far there was nothing that explained how Isabella had acquired the funds to buy Chapters. In fact, all the legal documents seemed to date from after her acquisition of the property. Once again, it was as if her life before that date had fallen into a deep well.
I sighed and fluffed my now-dry hair. What had I expected? A signed confession from my great-aunt, detailing daring acts of thievery and other crimes? I snorted at my own naivete. IfIsabellahadstolen valuable items and sold them on the black market to fund her acquisition of Chapters and build her library, she certainly wouldn’t have documented that behavior.
As I slid the separated stacks of papers and photographs into an empty cardboard expanding file I’d found in the library, a small gray journal slipped out of one of the larger notebooks. I picked it up, my fingertips dimpling the soft suede cover. It was not one of the typical spiral-bound notebooks that Isabella had favored for recording random notes and recipes. It looked like something meant for more permanent, and perhaps more important, information.
The cover and spine lacked lettering or embossing of any kind, but there was a date scrawled on the inside cover—1952. A quick calculation told me Isabella would’ve been twenty-six that year.
One of the years she was out of touch with the family, I thought, remembering my mom’s comments about Isabella being at least “old enough to take care of herself” when she’d gone missing. I flipped to the first page in the journal, and slumped back against my pillows, baffled again.
The journal was filled with writing—in a hand I recognized from other documents written by Isabella—but the tightly packed script was total gibberish.
Flipping through the pages, I noticed changes in the ink used to write the curious arrangements of letters and numbers. It seemed that the journal had not been filled all at once but rather, as indicated by the fading and discoloration of the earlier entries, over a significant period of time.
I grabbed the photo of the mysterious man and slipped it between the pages before sliding the journal into the small purse I intended to carry when I drove over to Fort Macon.
Ellen Montgomery might know nothing about either the photo or the journal, but I didn’t care. I desperately wanted to share them with someone I felt I could trust.
Taking a deep breath, I stood and slung the purse strap over my shoulder as I slid my feet into my sandals. A glance at the clock told me it was time to drive to Atlantic Beach and meet Ellen at Fort Macon.
I smiled grimly as I padded over to the dresser and yanked a comb through my hair. Yes, it was definitely time to see Ellen—not just to chat about the murder of Lincoln Delamont but also to share these mysterious items from my great-aunt’s past.
Because, I thought, as I left my room and headed outside to my car,Lincoln Delamont might have been wrong on certain points, but he could’ve been right about one thing—my great-aunt might indeed have had secrets the family would not want exposed.
I climbed into my car, glad that the shade from the holly and a nearby magnolia tree had kept it relatively cool. As I placed my purse on the passenger seat, my fingers traced the edge of the journal where it pressed against the inside of the soft leather.
That ridiculous book, filled with nonsense.
No, I thought, fumbling with the key as I slid it into the ignition.You know better. You saw the patterns. You’ve already realized it might not be gibberish after all. That it could be a code.
Perhaps Isabella Harrington had not been a thief.
Maybe she’d been a spy.
Chapter Fourteen
Morehead City was only a short hop over the new bridge that crossed the Newport River. I’d left for my meeting with Ellen a little early, expecting to face bumper-to-bumper traffic. But fortunately, most of the tournament visitors’ cars were parked closer to the Morehead waterfront, and I realized that once they’d found a spot, they weren’t about to move. So even though things were a little more congested than normal, I was able to reach the bridge that spanned Bogue Sound in decent time.
I always felt a little thrill crossing the sound, which, like the Newport River, was part of the Intracoastal Waterway. Something about the clarity of the sky above the cluster of buildings that crowded the Atlantic Beach side of the bridge hinted at the greater vista to come. Beyond a narrow band of land lay the sea, which had lost none of its mystery and majesty despite human attempts to civilize its shores.
At the light, I took a left onto Fort Macon Boulevard, as Route 58 was called at this juncture. The road, which ran from the state park all the way down the island to the town of EmeraldIsle, was called different names along its route, but I’d quickly learned that it was impossible to get lost. With the sound on one side and the Atlantic Ocean on the other, all side roads would eventually lead you either to the water or to 58.
The sign announcing Fort Macon State Park appeared after a short stretch of road featuring small hotels, pastel-colored homes on stilts, and a few clusters of condominium and time-share properties. I drove past the official access point to the public beach on the right and the entrance to a Coast Guard station on the left before reaching the main parking lot. As I’d expected, it was crowded, but I was able to pull into a spot when a large SUV topped by strapped-down boogie boards left.
Despite its importance as a surveillance point, the fort itself was not visible from the parking lot. From previous visits I knew that only when someone walked out the back of the brick visitors’ center and up a hill could the true size and structure of the fort be seen. Removing my sunglasses, I strolled into the center and made my way to the information desk, where Ellen was waiting.
“Right on time,” she said, tying the ribbons of her straw hat under her chin. “I’ve eaten what little I brought for lunch, so let’s head outside and take the walkway to the beach. I’ve already changed my shoes,” she added, pointing her foot. Her flexible plastic water shoes were black with fuchsia stripes, matching the flowers on her short-sleeved cotton sundress.
“Stylish as always,” I said, with a woeful glance at my own battered sandals. As I followed her out the front of the building, the sunlight blinded me for a moment, and I had to quickly slip on my sunglasses while we crossed the parking lot to one of the paths leading to the beach.
“Not too many people out today,” I said as I pulled off my sandals and dangled them from my fingers. Walking in the drifted sand near the dunes was hard enough without the added problem of shoes. I glanced over at Ellen, admiring her good sense in choosing footwear meant for the pool or beach.
“Not here, maybe. But this isn’t really the official beach access. That’s closer to the entrance of the park.”
“Oh right, I saw that coming in.”
“That’s where most people park, if they can. There’s boardwalk access to the beach there, and a lifeguard on duty during the day, at least in season. But when that lot is full, people park at the fort. Which isn’t great for our visitors, but what can you do?”
