The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1) (7 page)

“We can eat lunch there, if you like,” Harris said cheerfully. He had to raise his voice as a small flock of seagulls had decided to fly by and shout at us. None were rude enough to do anything worse. I got the feeling that he liked being out on the water.

“And how does Goose Haven differ from Great Goose? Is it just the fishing vessels and the chowder house that elevate it?” I asked.

“The lighthouse lends a certain distinction. You may purchase a postcard of it if you wish to amaze your friends.”

Harris was teasing me. He certainly had unbent from the day before. I would have to ply him with oatmeal more often.

“I certainly must do so. Souvenirs are also expected by coworkers when anyone travels.”

“There are commemorative t-shirts and snow globes.”

“Perfect.” We were silent for a bit, watching the water and the birds,
then
I recalled a favorite quote from a seventh grade English teacher. “They change their skies but not their souls who travel across the seas.”

“That is by Horace, yes?” Harris asked. “For many that may be so, but I think that often beginning a new life can lift burdens of the spirit.”

My spirits were feeling less burdened, that was for sure. Stay or leave—and I was still fifty percent sure I would leave—the money I had inherited from my great-grandfather would be a big help. The leafy green dollars the newspaper ate were not growing on any local trees. The whole economy had been sprayed with weed killer and we were just another of the wilting businesses. Our subscribers had been flaking away like the paint on the office door, and though I tried cost-saving measures, we were already so lean we were bone and there was no support from the staff, who selfishly continued to like eating. Sometimes I thought I was the only one at the paper who noticed what was happening. Certainly I was the only one who cared.

Would anyone want to buy the paper if I decided to stay in Maine? What about Glory Peace nee
Braverman
. The new hubby was springing for a facelift. Would he want a newspaper too? Glory did like to be in charge of things and maybe she would be better at the job. I have a tradition of procrastination that annoys her. It’s self-defense though. Do the setup too early and someone will die, or a baby will come ahead of schedule, or there will be a surprise engagement to mess up the layout. But procrastination can lead to a second office tradition: panic. It doesn’t happen every week or even month, but at least four times a year the printer breaks down and I have to scramble to find a loaner.

“Are you feeling okay?” Harris asked solicitously.

I sighed as I heard my thoughts encroaching on the lovely day. My true-blue and loyal was beginning to fade. In my heart of hearts, I didn’t want to keep on with Grandma’s dream. The paper just wasn’t what I wanted to be enslaved to.

“Definitely,” I said, forcing the frown away. “What
kind of fish live
in these waters?”

We arrived at a busy wharf that smelled of
bluefin
tuna and black sea bass and all the other species Harris had named. I tried not to wrinkle my nose at the odor. Most of the boats were out plying their trade, but there were still several people moving about in the dockside shacks, mending nets and coiling ropes and doing things I couldn’t guess at. They nodded politely at Harris and me, but none spoke to us until Harris stopped beside two very old men sitting in an open-sided shed. They perched on stools with a barrel between them. They were playing checkers, about a third of which had been replaced with bottle tops. Both looked like they came from central casting.

“Morning, Ladd,” said the one with silver hair and bloodhound eyes.

“Good morning, Jonas. Morning, Saul. This is Tess MacKay. She is Kelvin Wendover’s great-granddaughter.”

Now both the silver-haired and white-haired man were nodding and smiling. There was curiosity but no surprise. Word of my arrival had spread.

I smiled and nodded back. There was no direct verbal greeting however. Apparently Harris would be speaking for me again today. I guess I was to remain a woman of mystery.

“What ails Amos?” Harris asked, nudging an animal that was at least part
Great
Dane that was laying at Saul’s feet. The dog sighed but didn’t look up.

Hoping I wasn’t being presumptuous, I knelt and stroked his head. His brindled coat was very shiny.

“He’s glum. The last batch of beer went bad—tasted like it had been washed out of
his own
kennel. Dog wouldn’t even drink it.
Had to pour it out.
Happened
only
wunst
afore. We’re waiting for more hops to arrive.”

The dog thumped his
tail,
either enjoying being petted or else recognizing the word “beer.”

Knowing I might well be reprimanded for speaking out of turn, I volunteered a bit of beer lore I’d researched for Oktoberfest.

“They used to use dandelion and horehound instead of hops for bitters,” I said.
“In Germany.”

“Likely that’s so, them being Germans,” Jonas agreed.

“
Don’t that
beat all?” Saul asked, smiling benevolently.

I nodded again and stood up. Once again, trivia had come through for me. Many people dismiss collections of small facts as irrelevant, but I have often found “silly rubbish” useful as icebreakers in social situations.

Encouraged by their forbearance, I ventured to ask a more personal question.

“So did either of you bet against Harris finding an heir?”

There was a moment of silence and then both men began to laugh. I glanced at Harris. He wasn’t laughing but his expression was rueful.

“I suppose that busybody Livingston told you about the betting pool. I hope that you don’t think less of us for it.”

“Yes, he told me. And I am not at all surprised about the pool. It’s exactly the sort of thing that happens in all small towns everywhere. Probably even in big ones. I expect a cut though from whoever wins,” I joked.

That made both old men laugh
harder.

“Best stop at Mike’s,” Saul finally advised. “He’s got your winnings. Missy here sounds impatient, Ladd. Best calm her before she raises a gale.”

I lifted a brow at Harris.

“Your winnings?”

“Well, I had to have the courage of my convictions,” he explained with feigned dignity. “I couldn’t leave the challenge unanswered, and I was quite certain that I would find someone eventually.”

“Good to have a Wendover back on the island,” the more loquacious Saul said.
“Happens we’ll have a good winter now.”

I shook my head as we turned away, but didn’t correct the assumption that I was staying.

“Did you have a cutoff date for finding someone?” I asked Harris.

“Yes.
New Year’s Eve.”

I recalled the legend he had told me about the island sinking into the ocean if a Wendover wasn’t in residence. I had an inborn prejudice about certain beliefs and the propagation thereof. But I know that I am closed-minded about certain subjects and try to keep my skepticism and disapproval to myself.

“Well, I don’t suppose there would be much point in searching if all there was to inherit was a drowned island.”

“Quite,” he said, but wasn’t looking amused. Maybe I wasn’t hiding my contempt for superstition well enough.

Harris took my arm and pulled me against the wall as a white
Westie
jingled by. He was followed by an elderly scarecrow walking purposefully toward the dock but turning at the last moment to enter a building flying the state flag. The
Westie’s
coat was glossy but no match for the perfect silver hair on the man, which looked like it had just been buffed and polished at the factory. Harris got a short glare as he went in the door. I received a shorter glance that was no friendlier.

“It’s the Reverend Ezekiel Burke,” Harris whispered.
“Retired.
He’s from Salem.”

I nodded, not sure what to say. That was a puritanical face that launched a thousand bonfires. Clearly there was a story here, but I was getting to know Harris and he wasn’t going to tell me anything unless I pushed it. This was getting tiring.

“I’m sure that he has excellent manners when he’s had time to shine them up.”

“Don’t count on it,” Harris muttered. “He thinks we’re all godless heathens clinging to our pagan, lawless ways. He especially disliked your great-grandfather.”

Did he think that? I wondered if he were right. Certainly people seemed rather given to strange beliefs and I noticed several of the buildings sported “witch balls.” They were really just old glass balls used to float fishnets, but many people thought that hanging them over the windows and doors would keep out ill wishes and bad luck. Still, that didn’t mean people drank blood out of skulls or drowned virgins on May Day.

“I suppose, this being New England, that there has to be one religious eccentric in town. Though I think it is rather rude of him to just assume I’m a godless heathen. Just because I apparently look like a Wendover doesn’t mean anything. I might be a lovely widowed person who teaches Sunday school to orphans and gives all my money to the poor.”

The tension left Harris’s body.

“It’s very rude and you are a lovely person. Don’t let his prejudice give you a distaste of the town. You will be very welcome.”

We started walking again.

“The pagans weren’t really godless or lawless, you know. He must not be much of a historian if that’s what he believes.”

I think Harris laughed, but it was silent and over very quickly.

“If you ever choose to tell him so, I would like to be there to hear it. A rebuke from a Wendover might make him faint from fear and spleen.”

Mike’s Chowder House was doing a brisk business. It was a very masculine place. The only soft touch was an apologetically small vase of dried flowers at the end of the bar, and given its placement, behind what looked like a pickle barrel, I had the feeling it was left out due more to forgetfulness than sentimentality toward the donor.

It was too early to eat again but I enjoyed meeting the owner and was carelessly introduced to Everett and Bryson Sands, the local law. Though I suspect it surprised them when I reached out to shake hands in a businesslike manner, they took my proffered fingers and pumped them once. I kept my grip kind of limp and ladylike.

Someone called to Harris and he excused himself and went to collect his winnings. No one seemed surprised about the betting, though the one officer scowled a little as he stared after Harris.

“So which of you is Bryson and which is Everett?” I asked.

It turned out that Everett was the younger of the brothers, the thinner, the more bleached, and the more uptight. His smile was there at the proper moments but he didn’t mean a single millimeter of it, and his hands were callused and scarred. I was betting he did some fishing. Bryson had hair the color of peanut butter and was
more slow
moving and slow talking. I wasn’t sure if this was because of personality, massive size, or a lack of ambition concerning his career. The slightly enlarged midriff and slouched posture didn’t mean anything one way or the other. I’d been a reporter—albeit a small-town one—for long enough to know better than to judge someone by their appearance even if—
especially if
—they conformed to a stereotype by, for instance, eating donuts and sipping coffee at ten in the morning. He might very well be someone who talked slow but thought fast.

Bryson offered me a lazy smile and a direct gaze, as though guessing he was the subject of my thoughts and finding my assessment amusing. I adore men with brains and I let myself smile back.

“I won’t judge if you don’t judge,” I said softly and got a laugh. Everett looked blank.

“Best offer I’ve had all day,” Bryson answered. “You should try the blueberry donuts before you go.”

“I will.”

Harris rejoined us and handed over his ill-gotten gains, asking Everett to give the money to his sister who ran some kind of benevolent fund for injured fishermen. After some polite goodbyes where I found myself saying that the brothers should feel free to visit anytime they came to the island, Harris and I headed to a sort of antiques and hardware store, clearly marked by the wheelbarrow full of books parked on the wooden walk.

“I think Bryson took a shine to you. That’s nice because Kelvin was not always his favorite person,” Harris said. He wasn’t prying, but I knew he wondered what had amused the older policeman.

“I told him I wouldn’t judge him for eating donuts if he didn’t judge me for being
from away
.”
And female.
And a Wendover, I guessed
,
if he hadn’t liked my relative.

Harris nodded.

“Bryson is a shrewd man. Some people miss that because of his casual demeanor.”

“Looks are deceiving sometimes,” I agreed, thinking how much I apparently looked like a Wendover and how little that meant to me though it seemed significant to others.
“And Everett?”

Harris forgot his dignity and shrugged.

“Everett is more formal.
Less relaxed.
Some people call him judge-and-jury Sands. Bryson keeps him from the tourists. Oddly enough, Everett and Kelvin got along fine. I never understood why, but he came to visit Little Goose every few weeks.”