I glanced over at him, curious at his obvious distaste for Lincoln’s behavior. Of course, it wasn’t praiseworthy, but I was sure Pete had encountered many other less-than-honorable men in the course of running his restaurant. Why did Lincoln’s behavior disgust him so?
“When did you first see him in Beaufort?” I asked as a thought flashed through my mind.
“About five years ago, I guess,” Sandy said. “I remember Liza talking about him once, and she’s been gone for around three years.” Sandy looked at me with a smile. “She only worked at the Dolphin over the summers until she finished college. Then she moved on to bigger things.”
Pete stirred in his chair. “I think she only met him the once.”
I cast him a side-eyed glance. I’d never met Liza, but I knew from photographs that she was a lovely girl. Although I remembered Ellen commenting that she had been a bit wild, at least until she’d left Beaufort to marry a naval officer.
Just the sort of girl Lincoln Delamont might’ve hit on, despite their age difference. I surreptitiously studied Pete, noting the tension in his jaw. I knew Pete was very protective of his girls. Had Lincoln incurred Pete’s wrath by messing aroundwith his daughter? There had been something in Ellen’s voice when she had mentioned Liza that had made me wonder if there was more to the girl’s story than just a little natural teenage rebellion.
And Juliehadmentioned a woman who’d contacted her to warn about Lincoln’s proclivity for violence. It was entirely possible that Liza had seen Julie dining with Lincoln at the Dolphin during one of her visits home. Was Liza one of Lincoln’s former girlfriends?
Victims, I thought.And if Lincoln had mistreated Liza in any way, that alone could have been Pete’s motive for killing the man.I tightened my lips and decided to ask Ellen to share more, if she knew it, about Pete’s daughter’s past.
Sandy, who seemed oblivious to this undercurrent, stood. “Sure I can’t get you something else to drink? Or a snack?”
“No, no.” I grabbed my purse and rose to my feet. “I should be getting along anyway. I know you must be tired, and I need to think about helping Alicia with some dinner for our guests.” I twitched my lips into a semblance of a smile. “There’s not many of them left, so I thought we’d offer some additional meals, if they’re interested.”
We said good-bye and I beat a hasty retreat, my mind racing with thoughts of Scott or Pete as the killer.Either one might have had a motive and opportunity, I thought, as I descended the stairs to the street.
I definitely needed to discuss my latest information, and my suppositions, with Ellen. Maybe she could help me make sense of it all.
Or maybe, I thought, setting off at a fast pace for Chapters,there is no sense to it at all. Maybe I’m just chasing an imaginary butterfly, like Shandy often does. Running in circles that lead nowhere.
I thrust back my shoulders as I reached my block. I couldn’t let my muddled thoughts derail my pursuit of the truth, especially if I could help Julie in any way. My sleuthing was still worth the chase, despite all the dead ends and detours.
Chapter Seventeen
Having given Alicia the day off, I was prepared to make breakfast for the few remaining guests, but soon discovered it was unnecessary. As I fiddled with the percolator, Jennifer Delamont wandered into the kitchen to inform me that she and Tara were taking off before breakfast. They’d been given permission by the authorities to leave the Beaufort area for the day, and planned to drive into Wilmington to consult with a lawyer on several matters concerning Lincoln’s death. Scott, my only other guest, had also refused my offer to make him breakfast, simply requesting one of Alicia’s cinnamon rolls and coffee.
“I want to take some additional photos of the area before I dive into more research at the Maritime Museum’s library,” he’d told me.
So I was left with more time on my hands than I’d expected. Pondering Ophelia Sandberg’s comments about my great-aunt hiding things in her books, I decided to search the library. Not that I could go through every volume in a morning, but I could at least make a decent start.
In the library, I stood in the middle of the room and surveyed the shelves covering all four walls. The idea of taking downevery volume and checking for hidden papers or other secret documents was daunting, but I knew the best way to accomplish any major goal was to break it into smaller components. I couldn’t allow myself to become overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of my task. Instead, I’d simply choose one section of shelving and make that my goal for the morning.
There’s no rush, I reminded myself as I climbed the rolling ladder to start at the top left edge of the shelving section.Whatever Isabella’s secrets, they’ve remained hidden this long without causing any harm. Or, at least, none you know about. Surely they can keep for weeks or even months longer.
It was two hours later before I discovered anything inside the books other than their bound pages. Shoved inside a first edition of Agatha Christie’sMurder at the Vicarage, I found a stash of folded onionskin paper.The type of thing that was once used for international correspondence, I thought as I backed away from the shelves, clutching the slender packet of papers.
Sitting down at the desk, I carefully opened the papers and spread them across the leather-bound blotter that covered the wooden surface.
I didn’t recognize the handwriting, but it was obvious from the sloppiness of the black ink scrawled across the translucent paper that the author had dashed off this letter in a hurry.
My dear Bella, it said, before devolving into an account of the weather in some unnamed country. Paragraphs devoted to banal descriptions of rainstorms and snow showers were followed by equally boring depictions of meals and visits from people only designated by the first initial of their names. My eyes glazed overas I read scintillating passages such as:Mr. K stopped by to ask my opinion on the best way to fertilize roses.
I slumped down in my chair with a sigh. Why Isabella would keep such drivel, much less hide it between the pages of her books, was beyond me. Flipping to the end, I noticed that the letter wasn’t even signed with a full name—just a flourish of one more initial. Squinting at the letter, I realized that it was a capitalP.
P for Paul?I sat up and stared at the pages again. Ophelia and Bernadette had identified the man in the old photograph as Paul Peters. Was this a letter from my great-aunt’s long-term companion?
Reading more carefully, I noticed the use of repeated words and phrases, and how they were often used to start a sentence. Perhaps, like Isabella’s journal, this seemingly innocuous letter was written in code. Pulling my cell phone out of my pocket, I dialed Ellen Montgomery’s number.
She answered on the third ring, but when I mentioned uncovering some new information about Isabella’s past and asked if I could stop by her house in a few minutes, she informed me she had a long-standing commitment that would take up most of the day.
“How about tomorrow instead? I can free up my entire morning if you like,” she offered, obviously sensing my disappointment.
I agreed to this plan before we hung up. Carefully folding the letter, I slid it into my pocket, then stood and wandered into the kitchen. Absently opening one of the standing freezers, I contemplated my options for lunch. I was startled out of my reverie by a series of sharp raps on the back door.
