In the article, Eel’s Nest was described as the summer residence of Mrs. M. Smith, widow of Capt. J. Smith. The writer focused on the unusual architectural details of the Victorian home, including the layout of its garden and its large boathouse. When asked why the octopus in the stained-glass windows had been crafted with nine limbs instead of eight, Mr. Morris stated that the design had been his client’s idea.
“The creature is meant to remind us that we cannot know all of the ocean’s secrets,” said Morris.
The circumstances of Captain Smith’s passing weren’t mentioned in the article, and there wasn’t a single biographical detail about Mrs. Smith other than her title as benefactress of the Young Oystermen Society. Jonathan’s notes indicated that the organization was founded as a means of expanding the oyster industry by creating paid apprenticeships for children between the ages of ten and fourteen.
There were two more articles tucked inside Jonathan’s notebook. The first of these was a short and mournful paragraph from July 1882 listing the names of the nine boys who were “swept away by a sudden storm” near Port Washington, a town twenty-seven miles west of Cold Harbor.
The boys were enrolled in the oyster apprenticeship program, Jonathan noted in the margin.I’ve found nothing to explain why they were together or why no other boats went missing in the storm.
Finally, there was a single paragraph in the August editionabout the tragic death of Mrs. M. Smith in a fire that destroyed the boathouse at her Eel’s Nest property. The cause of the fire was cited as a lightning strike.
Jonathan’s notes revealed his frustration.
How were the remains identified as belonging to Mrs. Smith? What is her Christian name? Why no obituary? Estate bequeathed to a cousin residing outside the country. Property records for Eel’s Nest show M. Smith as owner from 1878–present day. Was the estate put in a trust? Billy Phelps says mail to Eel’s Nest has been addressed to Mrs. M. Smith for as long as he’s worked at the post office. Current boathouse erected in 1968. Why not earlier? Attempts to contact new owner thwarted. No one picks up the phone or answers the door, but I feel a presence inside the house. Interviews with neighbors unhelpful. No one has seen or conversed with the resident. I’m determined to solve this mystery.
But Jonathan Stapleton hadn’t solved it. He’d finished his book and died shortly after its publication.
Una filled a bucket with warm water and vinegar and began to mop the floor in the dining room. She started in one corner and mopped backward until she reached the next corner. As her mop made circular patterns on the wood floor, she thought about the patterns in Jonathan Stapleton’s research.
The octopus in the window of Mrs. Smith’s house had nine limbs.
Nine boys had been lost in a storm.
For the past hundred years, the name on tax and property records and on every piece of mail delivered to the sinister gray house had remained the same: M. Smith. No one had seen or spoken to the current M. Smith until recently.
What does theMstand for?
Girls’ names floated through Una’s mind. Mary, Maria, Margaret, Molly, Morgan, Mae, Matilda, Mildred.
She shook her head in dismissal. The woman who livedin that house—that creature with the bottomless eyes—was no Mildred.
A crash came from the living room followed by a cry from Beth. “Oh, no! Your rug!”
Una guessed that Beth had dropped a mug. It had shattered, spilling coffee on the white shag rug. She was already moving to the pantry to grab some clean rags when Elaine shouted, “Una! Help!”
“Coming!”
Una dumped her bucket of mop water down the drain and refilled the bucket with a mix of vinegar, dish soap, and warm water. She hurried into the living room to find Beth kneeling on the floor, collecting pieces of broken crockery.
“Let me do it. You might cut yourself,” she told Beth.
As she blotted the spill, she noticed that Elaine’s face was in her hands and her shoulders were shaking. Without a word to Una or Beth, she got up and fled to her bedroom.
Una looked at Beth. “I can get the stain out. She’ll never know it happened.”
Beth pressed her fingertips to her temple. “It’s not the spill. She’s upset because I asked her if Charles really wanted this party. He’s such a shy kid, you know? I just wondered if she’d asked him if it was okay to plan all these over-the-top things. They just don’t sound like him at all.”
Una wasn’t about to get in the middle of an argument between two clients, so she kept quiet and continued blotting the rug.
“I shouldn’t have said it,” Beth went on. “I know how important this party is to her.”
Una made a sympathetic noise. In truth, she agreed with Beth. This party was right up Elaine’s alley. Charles would probably prefer a quiet celebration at home. Instead, he would have to stand under a spotlight, surrounded by hundreds of people.
Having soaked up the excess coffee, Una began to dab the rug with a rag soaked in the dish soap, vinegar, water mixture. She heard tiny granules of porcelain crunching under her palm, which made her think of the cut on Jill’s hand.
Beth got up to toss the pieces she’d collected into the can under the kitchen sink. Leaning against the doorway, she said, “Una? I’m going to go. If you see Charles, can you tell him I made his favorite rugelach?”
“Of course. I know he’ll love it.”
