The Phantom of Nantucket (2 page)

“Does he look like he's up to something?” I asked Bess, nodding toward the guy.

She laughed. “Nancy, you're on vacation. I order you to relax.”

I knew she was right. I was making something into a big deal when nothing had even happened. My brain just wasn't used to not having a case to solve. That man was probably waiting for his date to arrive or something.

Pete looked down at Jenna from the window and gave her a thumbs-up. “Just a few more seconds,” he shouted. It took all my willpower not to turn and see how Mr. Fidgety reacted to this news, but I could feel Bess's eyes on me, and I wanted to prove to her that I could be on a real vacation—detective work not included.

“You ready?” Pete shouted at Jenna.

Jenna nodded, turning to Bess. “Can you take a picture on your phone? I know my parents are going to want to see this.”

“Of course!” Bess said, getting herself into position.

“On the count of three,” Pete yelled down. “One . . . two . . . three.”

He unfurled the banner. It dropped down the side of the building, billowing with a satisfying
whoosh
. When it finally fell into place, a gasp went through the crowd that had gathered outside the museum.

The banner advertised
MYSTERY OF THE
ELEANORE SHARPE
SOLVED!

But written across it in bright-red letters was the word
LIAR
!

CHAPTER TWO

The Lady Vanishes

“THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!” PETE BELLOWED
as he struggled to rein in the banner.

Whoever painted it had done so recently: The paint hadn't quite dried and was dripping slowly, giving the impression that it had been written in blood. I've seen a lot of disturbing things while solving cases, but even I found the image chilling.

“Who would do something like this?” Jenna asked quietly, her voice catching as she fought back tears.

Immediately, I turned my head toward the suspicious guy I had seen earlier, but he was gone. I thought I could just make out his back heading down the street, but a thicker crowd was already forming around us. I wasn't going to be able to go after him before he got out of sight.

“Jenna, are you okay?” I heard Bess say urgently next to me.

I turned to see Jenna breathing rapidly and her eyes twitching back and forth as she registered all the ­people around her snapping photos on their phones. She looked like she was in shock.

The look on her face reminded me of an old friend, Dana from summer camp, who was petrified of heights. One day we went on a hike that required crossing a bridge. When Dana caught sight of the ground and how far away it was, she froze. It had taken us over an hour to get her off the bridge. Later the nurse told us she'd had a panic attack.

Right now Jenna looked exactly like Dana had on that bridge. Her face had lost all its color, and her eyes were glazed with fear, as she inhaled rapidly, as if she couldn't catch her breath.

“Let's get her inside,” I urged. Jenna was embarrassed enough already, and I didn't want any more of a scene out here with all these people gathered around. George and I led the way, elbowing through the crowd, clearing a path for Bess to lead Jenna up the museum's steps.

“Jenna,” Pete said, opening the door. “It's okay. We'll clean off the sign right away. It will be good as new in no time.” He ushered us inside, guiding Jenna into a chair. “Just rest here a moment and catch your breath.”

“Kelsey,” Pete called to a woman dusting a display of harpoons hanging on the wall. “Can you get Jenna some water, please?”

Kelsey looked from Pete to Jenna for a second, almost like she was deciding whether she was going to protest, but eventually she went with a loud, put-upon sigh. It seemed like a rude response, given how clearly upset Jenna was. Any of us would have been happy to get the water if we knew where it was. Out of habit, I mentally flagged her as a possible suspect before catching myself. This wasn't my case. No one had asked me to look into anything. I was just here as a supportive friend.

Kelsey was taking her time getting the water, but even without it, Jenna looked better already. The color was coming back to her cheeks, and her breathing was slowing down.

I could understand why; the museum felt like a sanctuary. Two of the interior walls were brick, giving the whole place a cozy feeling. The sounds from outside were muffled to a murmur. A scale model of a ship sat in the middle of the room, and a skeleton of a whale hung from the ceiling.

“I knew whales were big,” George remarked, a hint of awe in her voice, “but I didn't realize just how big.” We don't have a lot of opportunities to see whales (or their skeletons) in River Heights.

I looked up and nodded. From the tip of its beaklike jaw to the end of the tail must have been a good sixty feet—longer than a bus. I felt like an ant in comparison. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to see an actual whale in the ocean.

I glanced at Bess, who was staring at a painting captioned
Nantucket Sleigh Ride
. It showed a whale, harpoon stuck in its back, dragging a ship along as it tried to free itself from the spear. I cringed at the gruesome image. And if I thought it was gruesome, sentimental Bess was probably having a much harder time. Sure enough, I caught her discreetly wiping her eyes.

“Bess,” I said, hurrying over. “You know you shouldn't look at things like that.”

Bess sniffled. “I know. I didn't realize what it was at first.” She followed me away from the painting. “I can't believe anyone ever killed these animals. They're such beautiful beasts.”

“Well, if you wanted oil lamps before they invented kerosene, whale oil was the best there was,” a voice said from behind us. We turned to see Kelsey standing there, holding Jenna's glass of water.

“It still seems cruel. Whales are extremely intelligent creatures. They didn't deserve to be hunted down,” Bess said fiercely.

Kelsey shrugged. “People did what they had to do back then. Who are we to judge them for their choice?”

She crossed over to Jenna, handing her the water without a word. Bess, George, and I exchanged a look. Kelsey didn't seem extraordinarily friendly.

“Feeling better?” I asked Jenna. She nodded. “Do you have any idea who would do something like this?” I prodded, going into detective mode again.

Jenna shook her head. Pete interjected, “It was probably just a prank. The island fills up with kids every summer, they get bored, they see an opportunity to pull off some mischief. . . .” He trailed off.

I nodded.

“‘Liar' is kind of a weird thing to write, though,” George mused. “What do you think they were saying you were lying about?”

They may tease me, but my friends like a good mystery almost as much as I do.

“I doubt they put much thought into it,” Pete said.

Jenna looked up suddenly, turning toward Pete. “You don't think it had anything to do with that letter we got last week, do you? It said something about us lying, right?”

“What letter?” I asked urgently. If it were just the sign being defaced, I'd agree that it was most likely a prank, but with a letter, it seemed like someone had a vendetta against the museum. That meant there could be future incidents.

“I told you, Jenna,” Pete sighed, “we get those letters all the time. At least once a week someone sends us an angry note.”

“What do people have to be angry about?” George asked. I was curious about the same thing. It didn't seem like a history museum on a tiny island would be the target of a lot of hate mail.

“Oh, a lot of it is from animal-rights activists who think we glorify whaling,” Pete answered. Kelsey, who was hovering nearby, threw a dirty look at Bess. “Sometimes people just had a bad day at the museum and write to us to complain,” he continued. “Really, they're not anything to worry about. We've gotten letters like that the entire five years I've worked here, and nothing has ever come of them.”

Jenna didn't seem entirely convinced. I wasn't sure I was either.

Pete went on, “Actually, this prank is probably the best thing that could have happened to you and the exhibit.”

I could tell that Jenna, who was mid-sip, fought hard not to spit her water out all over Pete. I was surprised too. I couldn't think of any circumstances where being accused of lying would be a good thing.

“How do you figure that?” George asked indignantly.

“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘There's no such thing as bad press'?” Pete asked.

“It's the idea that anything that gets your name out there is good, even if what they say is bad, right?” Jenna asked.

Pete nodded. “Exactly. For us it means that people's curiosity is now piqued. They think there's something scandalous about our exhibit—and everyone loves a good scandal.”

I had to admit that there was certain logic to what he was saying. It couldn't be a bad thing to have all those people taking photos on their phones, even if it hadn't seemed like it was good in the moment. They might post the photos on their social media pages, essentially giving the museum and the exhibit free advertising.

“You don't think Mr. Whitestone will be mad?” Jenna asked nervously.

Pete shook his head. “I think he'll be so ecstatic when he sees a packed opening reception that he won't care how we got the people through the doors.”

I could see Jenna visibly relax. Pete stood up. “Why don't you show your friends your exhibit? They can give you any last-minute feedback before Mr. ­Whitestone and the amazing crowds of people you're now going to have see it.” He walked into the back room, giving Jenna a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he left.

“See,” Kelsey snapped, “even when things go wrong, they still always turn out all right for you, Jenna.” She stormed after Pete. Bess stared after her, in disbelief at Kelsey's rudeness.

Jenna gave us an embarrassed smile. “Sorry for all the drama you stepped into. It's usually so quiet here.”

“That's okay,” I said with a smirk. “We're used to drama following us around.”

“I'm going to go wash my face and freshen up,” Jenna said, “but then I'll show you the exhibit.”

“I'm excited,” Bess gushed. “I still remember the exhibits you used to set up with your dolls when you'd make all of us play ‘museum' as kids.”

Jenna laughed at the memory. “Well, I can promise that this exhibit has cooler artifacts to look at than my beat-up Barbie dolls.”

She walked to the bathroom, and immediately George and Bess swarmed around me. “What do you think, Nancy?” George asked. “Is there a mystery here?”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “It does seem suspicious that the museum would get a letter and then the sign would get vandalized in the same week, but Pete knows this community better than we do. If he thinks it's just a coincidence . . .” I trailed off.

“I would bet money that Kelsey had something to do with the sign,” Bess huffed. “She seems like a thoroughly despicable person.”

George and I burst out laughing. Bess always sees the best in people, but if you get on her bad side—­usually by treating others badly—watch out!

“I just don't want anything to ruin Jenna's chance at this job,” Bess continued, suddenly somber. “This has been her dream for her entire life. She deserves this.”

I put my hand on Bess's shoulder. “I promise to keep my eyes peeled for anything suspicious, and if something else happens, we will go into full-on mystery mode, okay?” I asked. Bess nodded in agreement.

Just then Jenna came out of the bathroom looking like the same put-together girl we'd seen on the ferry dock. “You guys ready?” she asked.

“Sure are!” George exclaimed. We followed Jenna as she led us to the back of the museum.

“Do you know anything about the
Eleanore Sharpe
?” Jenna asked. None of us had ever heard of it. “She was a whaling ship built right here on Nantucket, one of the biggest in the world,” Jenna explained. “She brought back more whale oil than any other ship on the island. Her captain was a young, handsome man named Jeffrey Coffin.”

“Spooky name,” Bess interjected.

Jenna stopped in front of a locked door to a second exhibit space and continued her story. “By the late 1850s, the whaling industry was slowing down. Sperm whales had been overhunted and kerosene had been discovered as a cheaper alternative to whale oil. In 1857 the
Eleanore Sharpe
went out for one final voyage. . . .” She paused dramatically.

We all leaned forward, desperate to hear what happened next. I felt like a little kid huddled around a campfire, listening to a ghost story.

“Whaling trips were long,” Jenna continued, “so it was three years before the
Eleanore Sharpe
returned to Nantucket. When the call went out that the ship had been spotted off the coast, everyone in town rushed to greet it. But just fifteen miles from shore, the ship sank as the whole town watched. There were only three survivors, including the captain.”

Jenna abruptly stopped.

“So?” George demanded. “What happened? Why'd it sink?”

“That,” Jenna said, unlocking the door, “has been a mystery since 1860.” She pushed the door open with a dramatic flourish. “Until now.”

She turned on the lights, and we stepped inside the room. The walls were covered with paintings of the
Eleanore Sharpe
sinking. Display cases lined the room, housing artifacts that had been retrieved from the wreckage over the years. Worn down by the ocean, they looked otherworldly.

“This is way better than your Barbie dolls,” Bess whispered.

“The answer to what happened to the
Eleanore Sharpe
is in this room. See if you can figure it out,” Jenna said.

I didn't even get a chance to deduce the answer before Bess piped up. “Did the captain sink the ship on purpose?” she asked hesitantly, staring at a painting of the captain where he looked downright sinister.

Jenna nodded. “Apparently, he was so distraught about the idea of never going on another whaling trip again, he lost his mind. I'll show you the proof that he sank the ship deliberately,” she said. “It's over there.”

I looked across to a smaller room that seemed to hold only one display case. Spotlights shone on it from all directions, but I couldn't make out what was inside it.