“Not so sure that’s always true.” Bernadette’s tone betrayed a distrust I’d never have expected from her.
“You don’t think justice is always served?” I asked, keeping my own tone light.
Bernadette snorted. “Hardly. Depends on who you are sometimes, doesn’t it?” She cast me a baleful glance. “Sorry, but I’ve seen some things that make me a bit cynical.”
“When you were at the university?” I asked, remembering that Bernadette had worked as a nurse at one of the University of North Carolina campuses.
“Yes. Students got treated differently sometimes, depending on their backgrounds and … other things.”
I leaned my elbow on the arm of the sofa and rested my jaw against my balled-up fist. “But I don’t get the sense that the Beaufort police will be unfair. They seemed very professional.”
“Hopefully you’re right.” Bernadette lifted her feet off the hassock and kicked it away from her chair. “Sure we can’t get you more lemonade?” she asked, pointing at my empty glass as she stood up. “I need to check on something in the kitchen anyway.”
“Bernie’s making dinner in the Crock-Pot,” Ophelia said. “Chicken and vegetables.”
“No, no, I’m fine. And I don’t want to keep you much longer, but”—I grabbed my purse off the floor—“there is one more thing I wanted to ask you about.”
“What’s that?” Bernadette paused in the kitchen doorway.
“Nothing to do with the Delamont case,” I said, fishing the suede-covered journal out of my purse. “This concerns Isabella.”
Bernadette leaned against the doorjamb as she looked me over. “Something from the past?”
“Yes, a mystery I stumbled over when I was searching through my great-aunt’s things.” I rose to my feet and held up the journal. “I found this, and a photo I’ve slipped inside it, in the attic. Both are puzzling, and I thought maybe you could shed some light. You were both acquainted with Isabella for years.” I waved the journal. “Honestly, you’re the only people I know in Beaufort who knew her before she converted Chapters into a bed-and-breakfast.”
Ophelia squinted as she stared at the object in my hand. “Is that some sort of book?”
“It’s a journal or diary, I think. But it’s written in code.” I crossed the room to show the journal to both sisters. “Any idea why Isabella would’ve done that?”
Bernadette stepped forward and took the book from my hands. “Just to be inscrutable, I suspect,” she said, as she flipped through a few pages. “She liked to promote an air of mystery, didn’t she, Fee?”
“Oh my, yes. It was like she was always playing some sort of game. One where only she knew the rules.” Ophelia fanned herself with one hand, as if this thought had heated her face. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—I liked her very much. Bernie did too, didn’t you, Bernie?”
“Um, yes, I suppose.” Bernadette met my inquiring gaze with a lift of her square chin. “But she did like her little secrets. It was like she never grew out of playing games of pretend.”
“You think this code was something she used for … what, exactly?”
“Probably just to amuse herself,” Bernadette said, handing the journal back to me.
Ophelia, her eyes sparkling, glanced from her sister to me. “Or to hide the details of all her romantic relationships. She always had a man or two on the string, you know.”
“No, I don’t. She never brought any of her male friends along when she visited my family. In fact, she never even mentioned them.” I slid the photograph out from between the journal’s pages. “Like this guy? Was he one of her boyfriends?” I passed the picture to Ophelia.
“Oh yes, I remember this one,” she said, handing the photo to her sister. “He was the British fellow, wasn’t he?”
“British, my backside,” Bernadette said, with an audible sniff. “He had a British accent all right, but I always thought that was put on.” She cast me a sharp glance. “You’ll probably think I’m being fanciful, but I suspected he came from somewhere other than the British Isles. I’ve worked with a lot of nurses and doctors from England over the years, and he just didn’t fit the profile somehow.”
“You thought he was an impostor?” I asked, staring at the photo again after Bernadette passed it back to me.
“I was never sure about that. I mean, maybe he was who he said he was. He had some sort of very ordinary name. Paul something, I think.” Bernadette shook her head. “So maybe his name wasn’t fake, or anything like that. I just never thought he was actually British.”
“Yes, Paul Peters,” Ophelia said, her expression more serious than usual. “Come to think of it, therewassomething a bit off about him. Remember, Bernie? We used to say he was always a little too formal or guarded or something. Like he could never really relax.”
“Wound too tightly, is what I used to say,” Bernadette replied. “I’m surprised Isabella didn’t ever mention him to your family. He was one of the few who was around for more than a month or two.”
“Now, Bernie, be fair. She had some she dated off and on for a few years.” Ophelia sent me an apologetic smile. “But I’m afraid it’s true that Isabella tended to be a bit flighty as far as men were concerned.”
“Which is probably why she didn’t ever talk about her relationships with the family,” I said. “At least not openly. She may have shared some things with my grandma, who would’ve kept any confidences. They were sisters, after all.”
