As Ellen ducked her head, the wide brim of her straw hat cast a shadow over her face. “And this is?”
There was a wariness in her tone that made me examine her face more closely. “A book full of gibberish. Or so I thought at first. But now I wonder …” I held out the journal. “Take a look.”
Ellen gingerly pulled it from my fingers. After flipping through the first few pages, she expelled one sharp breath before snapping it shut and thrusting it back at me. “Yes, it appears to be a journal. Written by Isabella. I recognize her hand. But, as you say, it makes no sense.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t know about that. I think it’s in code. And there’s one more thing. Check out the photo I placed between the pages.”
Ellen shot me a questioning look before opening the journal again. This time she located the photograph. “That’s Isabella in the garden at Chapters. Well, before it was Chapters, of course.”
“But who’s the guy? I’ve never noticed him in any other family photos.”
“I have no idea.” Ellen shoved the photo back between the pages and handed the journal to me. “You must remember, I didn’t move here until long after that picture would’ve been taken. It was probably just a friend, or even someone Isabella dated for a time. Although I don’t think she had many serious relationships, she did keep a gentleman or two on call for plus ones at parties. She was quite the social butterfly, you know. Always attending or giving parties. She liked to have an appropriate male escort always available, even later, when I knew her. I can easily imagine her dating a variety of men when she was younger.”
“I thought it might have been her benefactor, or sugar daddy, as you called him.”
“I really don’t know. Sorry.” Ellen yanked her hat farther down her forehead. “We’d better get moving or I’ll be late.” She took off, almost loping across the hard-packed sand.
I increased my stride to stay beside her. “Okay, but what about that strange writing in the journal? It looks like it’s a code. It made me think …”
Ellen slowed her pace and shot me a sharp glance. “What? That Isabella was some sort of spy or something? Really,Charlotte, I know you love books and stories, but sometimes your imagination gets away from you. This isn’t some suspense novel.”
“You have to admit it’s odd, especially with the date inside the front cover. It was one of the years when Isabella was out of contact with my family, in case you didn’t know. Which made me wonder if she was engaged in some sort of covert operation or something.” I lifted my hands. “I know, I know. I’ve read too many spy thrillers.”
“Oh, I grant you it probably is a code. But I’m guessing it was some personal code that Isabella created so she could write frankly about her life without worrying about anyone ever reading it.” Ellen strode along the water’s edge, her eyes focused straight ahead. “She could be fanciful like that.”
I straightened my sunglasses and marched in step with her. She was probably right—I was imagining things. Looking for conspiracies and crimes where there were none. “That makes sense. More sense than someone who lived most of their life in Beaufort being a spy. It’s not like she worked somewhere where they dealt in secrets. Not even at a company where she could’ve engaged in industrial espionage.”
“Exactly,” Ellen said, as we turned away from the water and plowed through the deeper sand to the path. “Honestly, I doubt that investigating Isabella’s colorful but decidedly ordinary past is worth much of your time. Now this murder, on the other hand …”
“We have plenty of suspects, that’s for sure. I just wish Julie wasn’t one of them. It would help if I knew more about where everyone was and what they were doing closer to the time thatLincoln was killed.” I paused to slip on my sandals before stepping onto the hot asphalt of the parking lot. “I thought I’d visit the Sandberg sisters this afternoon. They probably know something about that.”
“Good idea. They tend to keep an eye on everything. I’m sure they’ll have at least a little information on the movements of the people at the party.”
“That’s what I thought.” I paused as we reached the parking row that held my car. “I should let you get back to work. Thanks for agreeing to speak with me today. It does help to talk over all the options.”
“Happy to help.” Ellen patted my arm. “Just don’t worry yourself to death over this. Yes, it’s a tragedy, and I’m sorry it happened at Chapters, but I’m sure it will be sorted, sooner rather than later. The Beaufort police are quite capable, you know. They’ll find the culprit.”
“I’m sure. I just want to know who to avoid.” I offered her a brief smile. “I don’t want to end up like those foolish female characters in horror films—locked in a cellar with a murderer.”
Ellen tapped her forehead with her finger. “Good thinking, Sherlock.”
“I keep telling you, I’m Watson,” I called after her as she turned away.
She just waved her hand over her head and kept walking.
Chapter Fifteen
After driving back from Atlantic Beach, I parked my car at Chapters and called the Sandberg sisters to make sure they were home before I walked the few blocks to their house.
A charming bungalow situated on one of the side streets between the Beaufort waterfront and Broad Street, their one-story, wood-framed house didn’t have a historic designation plaque. But it was still an older home, with white clapboard siding and a covered porch. Aqua shutters framed the tall windows that flanked the cobalt-blue front door, and white wicker furniture provided an inviting seating area on the wide front porch. As I climbed the wooden steps, I admired the pink geraniums planted in ivory ceramic jars placed at either end of each tread. Ophelia Sandberg’s gardening expertise was renowned in Beaufort. Her backyard was filled with blooming shrubs and flowers, and she often provided fresh flowers for local businesses, including Julie’s bookstore and Pete and Sandy’s café.
Bernadette greeted me at the front door. “Have you had lunch yet?” she asked as she ushered me inside.
I lied and said I’d already eaten, knowing that sayingnowould drive the sisters into a flurry of food preparation. “But I’d love a glass of water,” I said, as I took a seat on a sofa covered in seashell-patterned chintz.
Ophelia popped her head around the corner of the kitchen door. “We also have lemonade and tea.”
“Lemonade, then,” I said, and was rewarded with a broad smile.
