Ophelia and Bernadette shared a knowing look. “Yes, there is a code of silence in that case. Usually,” Bernadette said.
I slipped the photo back inside the journal. “But you say the guy in this picture was a more lasting relationship?”
“Oh yes. He would pop up from time to time for as long as we knew Isabella. Until she started up the bed-and-breakfast, that is. Never saw him again after that,” Ophelia said.
I tightened my grip on the journal. This information supported my supposition that the man in the photo was my great-aunt’s mysterious benefactor.Or blackmailer, I reminded myself. “Did they seem close, Isabella and this Paul Peters guy? Did it seem like she cared for him, and he her?”
Bernadette pursed her lips. “Hard to say. Isabella was so flirtatious and charming with everyone. It was almost impossible to tell if she liked one person better than any other.”
“I always thought he cared more deeply for her than she did for him. I don’t really have anything to back that up. Just a feeling I had,” Ophelia said.
“Interesting.” I pressed the journal to my chest. “Well, thanks for helping me unravel a bit of the mystery. Too bad we don’t have a key to the code, but I suppose that’s gone forever.”
“Maybe. But you might want to search the library. I walked in on Isabella once and caught her studying some sort of document with strange writing in one column and regular words in another.” Ophelia plucked at the lace on her collar and cast me an embarrassed smile. “She had it opened up on the desk, but folded it as soon as she caught me staring. She wasn’t expecting me, you see. I was returning a vase I’d borrowed and showed up earlier than we’d planned. Anyway, I saw her shove the document inside a book. Can’t remember what book it was, sadly, and she probably changed it out once I left anyway. But maybe she left the key to that code buried somewhere in the library? I do recall the strange writing resembling what you just showed me in that journal.”
“Worth a look, I suppose,” I said, groaning inwardly at the thought of searching through every book in my great-aunt’s extensive library.
“You never told me about that,” Bernadette said, with a sharp glance at her sister.
Ophelia fluttered her hands. “Oh, I just thought it was one of Isabella’s little games. Nothing to talk about, really.” She offered me an abashed smile. “Truthfully, I thought she was just planning some sort of treasure hunt or something for one of her parties. She liked to do that sort of thing, you know.”
I didn’t, which made me realize, once again, how little I actually knew about the great-aunt who’d left me a valuable legacy.Why me?I thought, resolving to solve that mystery someday too.
“Well, thank you for the refreshments and the information,” I said, crossing back to the sofa to retrieve my purse. “But I should let you get back to your own business. I’ll just say good-bye and show myself out.” I shoved the journal into my purse and slung the purse strap over my shoulder. “And just so you know—despite all this real-life mess, I do intend to hold a couple of the planned special events this week. There’s a cocktail party Thursday night, and the final book discussion on Tey’s works scheduled for Saturday night.”
“I thought you had planned a murder-mystery party for Saturday,” Ophelia said. “One of those things where we would play detective.”
“Yes, I had, but …” I cleared my throat. “I decided that might be in poor taste, given the circumstances.”
Bernadette nodded and offered me a smile. “Good thinking, and don’t worry, we’ll be there. For both events.”
“Okay, see you Thursday, then, if not before.” I waved good-bye as I headed out the door.
Pausing on the front porch, I considered the sisters’ comments about Lincoln Delamont. He’d gotten into arguments with both his wife and Damian, as well as had a confrontation with Julie, on the night he was killed. Which meant that my friend was not the only one who should be listed high on the suspect list.
It shows a pattern of combativeness, I thought as I descended the porch steps and made my way to the sidewalk.And speaks to Lincoln’s tendency to bring out the worst in people. So perhaps there was someone unrelated to Chapters’ staff or guests who wanted him dead.
It was a hope I intended to cling to as long as possible, anyway.
Chapter Sixteen
Taking a detour on my walk home, I headed for the waterfront. Right off the boardwalk, a long wooden building housed several businesses, including Julie’s store, Bookwaves.
Peering into the picture window of the bookstore, I saw only silent shelves and shadows and remembered Julie’s comment about the store being closed on Mondays. So much for a chance to talk with her again in person.
I strolled along the boardwalk, appreciating the bright splashes of color the flowers in the over-the-rail flower boxes lent to the grayed timber railing that separated the walkway from the boat slips. As usual, the harbor was filled with boats of all types and sizes, from small dinghies to sailboats boasting towering masts. The Rowleys’ yacht, theCelestial, was docked at the end of one wharf. Its pristine white hull glittered in the bright sunlight, outshone only by the chrome fittings. Indigo and turquoise stripes swept from bow to stern in an undulating pattern that mimicked the waves.
Leaning on the top rail for a moment, I wondered how it would feel to have enough money to buy something sobeautiful—and so expensive to maintain. I supposed owning a yacht was like most things—if you had to ask how much it would cost, you couldn’t afford it.
Not that I had any reason to complain, since I owned property that was worth over a million dollars. Yet I was almost always short on cash. I pushed a lock of hair behind my ears. That wouldn’t be the case if I sold Chapters, of course. I could make a great deal of money, and without a mortgage to pay off, it would all be profit.
But I had no intention of doing that. Great-Aunt Isabella had bequeathed me the bed-and-breakfast for some reason. Perhaps because she’d realized that, since I was widowed and childless, I’d be the one family member willing to uproot their life to move to Beaufort.
Or maybe, I thought, as I turned away from the railing and resumed walking,it was that conversation I had with her after Brent’s funeral. When she caught me in my old kitchen, weeping silently, unable to continue to make small talk with the people who’d come to pay their respects.
When she told me that what I needed was a new start, somewhere far from the home I’d shared with my husband. When she said that sometimes you have to reinvent yourself in order to survive.
I thrust my hands into the pockets of my shorts, allowing my purse, swinging from its shoulder strap, to bang against my thigh. Isabella had been over ninety at that point, yet she was still talking about new beginnings. I only hoped I could remain as positive throughout my life.
