The Lightkeeper's Daughter (20 page)

Mr. Eaton gasped and reared back. “Laura,” he whispered. “My dear Laura.” Moisture filled his eyes.

His obvious emotion brought tears to her eyes. Everything she’d heard was true. He’d loved her mother very much, but what about her? “That necklace was around my neck.”

“So you’re . . . Julia?”

She swallowed past the tight muscles in her throat and searched his expression for a hint of joy. “I suspect that is so.”

Sternness replaced the longing in his eyes. “Is this a scheme to take my money?” he asked. “How did you get this locket? The truth, now!”

“I told you everything I know, sir,” she whispered. “My mother swears it is so. I myself have no memory of that night, though I have a dreadful fear of storms.”

“It might be true,” he said. He glanced at the still-sleeping Edward, then stumbled to his feet. “Your father. I must speak with him.”

“He died of consumption five years ago. My mother took over for him, but she transferred to Mercy Point Lighthouse this week. Her name is Josephine Sullivan.” She touched Edward’s warm cheek. “What of Edward?”

“He will awaken soon. I’ll send his grandmother to him. I want you to come with me.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Might I have my locket back?”

His features hardened, then he dropped the necklace into her outstretched palm.

Did his passion for her mother extend to her? She prayed it was so. Her pulse galloped at the thought that she might finally be welcomed into the bosom of the family she longed for.

The automobile rattled over the potholes in the dirt road that led to the lighthouse. Addie held on to her hat when the bottom of the machine dipped and swayed. Riding in this thing wasn’t as much fun as she’d expected. She felt bounced like a badminton birdie. The car tore along the street at such a fast clip that she’d been hard pressed to keep the wind from ripping her clothes. She suspected they were traveling more than twenty miles an hour.

She sneaked a peek at Mr. Eaton. His jaw was grim, and both hands gripped the steering wheel. She caught him stealing glimpses of her from the corner of his eye. Perhaps he suspected she was an imposter.

He cleared his throat. “You have th-the look of Laura,” he said.

“So Mr. Driscoll said.”

He lapsed into silence again. The automobile lurched around a corner, then down a hill before stopping at the footpath to the lighthouse. He clambered from the automobile and extended his hand to help her down. She prayed she wasn’t reading too much into the way he held on to her fingers a few moments longer than was necessary.

“This way,” she said. She led the way up the hill past purple wildflowers blooming on the slopes. The waves crashed against the shore, and she drew a deep breath of salty air. In an instant, the tension in her shoulders eased, and her erratic breathing evened out. The rocky path led to the house, and she opened the door.

“Josephine?” she called.

Mr. Eaton turned to stare at her, and she realized how odd this was. She’d just told him about her parents, yet she called her mother by her Christian name. Turning from his questioning eyes, she led him across the painted board floors to the parlor. “Josephine?” she called again.

The stillness confused her. After rising at three in the afternoon, her mother was usually bustling around, polishing the lenses and preparing for another long night of tending to the light. The parlor was empty. So was the kitchen. She hurried up the steps and checked the bedrooms. No sign of her mother.

After returning downstairs, she stepped through the kitchen to the back door. Mr. Eaton followed her onto the stoop. Sea spray misted her face. The tide was rolling in, leaving flotsam on the rocks as the waves ran back to the depths, gleaming in the moonlight. She cupped her lips and shouted for her mother. No voice replied except for the squawk of two seagulls soaring in the blue sky.

“Perhaps she went to town,” Mr. Eaton suggested.

She shook her head. “Not at this hour.”

“Could she be down at the water? Or in the tower checking something?”

She peered toward the light tower attached to the back of the home. “It would be unusual for her to be there now, but not impossible. I shall check. Would you like to come with me or stay here?”

“I’ll escort you.”

The tower would likely be accessed from upstairs. She climbed the stairs and found the access door at the end of the hall. “Josephine!” she called up the steps. Her words echoed against the round walls. “I don’t think she’s here.”

“Shall we ascend to make sure?”

“She would have heard me.” Addie studied the open network of the iron staircase but could see nothing. Mr. Eaton put his foot on the first step, then glanced at her, as if seeking permission. She nodded and followed him up the circular stairway. The metal clanged as their shoes struck the treads. The noise reminded her of a mourning bell.

The air was close and stale. As they neared the top, the scent of kerosene grew stronger, but it was carried on the wind of some fresh air. Her steps quickened, and she lifted her skirts to prevent tripping. She came up against Mr. Eaton’s broad back. His arm came out and prevented her from stepping onto the platform. “What is it?” she asked.

“You stay here a moment, Miss Sullivan.” He planted his other foot onto the metal floor, then disappeared from her sight.

In spite of his admonishment, she followed him. At first his bulk blocked the view of the floor where he knelt. Then he stood, and her gaze fell on the still figure there.

Josephine lay face forward. The back of her head didn’t look right. Addie put her hand to her mouth when she realized that blood matted Josephine’s hair. A scream tried to escape from her mouth but lodged somewhere below her Adam’s apple.

“Mama?” she finally managed to whisper. She moved closer.

Mr. Eaton blocked her from reaching her mother. “I’m most sorry, Miss Eaton, but I fear she’s dead.”

A wave of dizziness assaulted her. “Dead? You must be wrong. Let me tend to her. I can help her.”

She evaded Mr. Eaton’s hands and knelt beside Josephine. When Addie touched her, her skin was cold, so cold.

It was only then that the scream managed to rip free from her throat.

T
WENTY-ONE

A
DDIE SAT ON
the sofa with her hands clasped together. So much needed to be done. Josephine’s body would need to be prepared and a casket found. The lighthouse would need to be cleaned and the parlor readied for the funeral.

Who would come? Sadly, few people knew her mother, as she was new to the area. Perhaps she should arrange a quiet burial. Her fingers tightened. Money. It would take money to bury Josephine. She supposed she had money in a bank somewhere, but the thought of digging through the Sullivans’ personal affairs made her shudder. Still, it had to be done.

A cup of tea might fortify her. In the kitchen, she put loose tea in a tea infuser, then dropped it into a cup and poured hot water from the teakettle sitting on the woodstove. While it steeped, she stepped to the back door and peered out onto the lawn, where the constable stood talking to Mr. Eaton.

Mr. Eaton had taken his automobile to the neighbors for help. They’d called the constable. Addie’s mind didn’t want to examine why a constable had been necessary, but she forced herself to consider the circumstances.

Murder. Josephine had been murdered. Someone had hit her on the back of the head. A sob escaped her lips. Through the window she saw Mr. Eaton follow the constable toward the back door. She opened it as they neared.

Mr. Eaton’s expression was grim as he shut the door behind the constable. “Ah, tea. So thoughtful of you, my dear. Three sugars, please.”

She lifted the infuser from the cup and added sugar, then handed the tea to him. Her own desire for a cup of tea had vanished. “Do you know who did this?” she asked the constable.

The man removed his hands from his pockets and shook his head. His round spectacles made him look like President Teddy Roosevelt. “We will investigate, but I have little hope. The lighthouse has no near neighbors. Did your mother have any enemies?”

So he suspected murder. She forced down her nausea. “Not that I know of. She just moved here.”

He glanced around. “Is there anything missing?”

“I haven’t looked.” She rubbed her head. “I’ve not been thinking.”

“Would you accompany me as I look around?”

“Of course.” She sent a plea toward Mr. Eaton, who was sipping his tea.

“I shall assist as well.” He drained his cup, then set it on the table. “Where did your . . . she keep her money?”

Mr. Eaton didn’t want to call Josephine her mother. In other circumstances, it might have been funny. “The study is across the hall from the sitting room. I’ll show you.”

The house seemed so empty. Their footsteps bounced off the walls and floors in an eerie tattoo. She pushed open the door to the study and gasped. Papers lay strewn on the floor, and drawers hung open. She picked up her mother’s favorite globe, chipped and broken, and held it to her chest. Words escaped her.

The constable adjusted the spectacles on his nose. “It appears the perpetrator was looking for something.” He picked up a sheaf of papers and began to sift through them.

Addie’s head swam, and she rounded the desk to drop into the chair. The left drawer hung open. Her father’s money box still lay inside. She lifted it out and turned the key. Inside, she found stacks of money and coins.

“The murderer wasn’t after money,” she said, holding the box out to the constable. “When I was here this afternoon, Josephine said this had been hidden, but it’s in plain view now.”

“It’s all there?”

“I don’t know how much she had, but there’s over a hundred dollars here.”

Another officer poked his head in the doorway. “Sir, the coroner is here.”

The constable made notes. “I’d be obliged if you would make a note of anything you find missing. I need to speak to the coroner.” He exited the room behind the officer.

Mr. Eaton lifted a paper from the floor and scanned it. “Is there anything here to validate your claim as my offspring?”

Could he not bring himself to say
daughter?
“Josephine showed me some newspaper clippings. They were here in the lap drawer.” She yanked it out and riffled through the contents.

He moved to stand at her right arm. “Let me see.”

She sorted one more time, then leaned back. “They’re not here.”

He sat heavily in the chair. “Then there is no proof of your claim.”

She clutched the locket in her pocket. “There is this,” she said.

He fixed a stare on her. “You wouldn’t be the first pretty face to try to hoodwink me.”

Heat ran up her neck, but she refused to let her gaze drop. “Sir, I know nothing beyond what was told to me.”

“Which was?”

“That Roy Sullivan found me on the beach.”

“What else?” he prodded.

“He was paid to care for me.”

She heard Mr. Eaton’s quick inhalation, and her pulse ratcheted up. Of course. The person who had killed Josephine had paid for her upkeep. It made perfect sense. The culprit feared being exposed and having to face her father’s wrath. “The money is still here, but the newspaper article is gone.” Where else might her mother have hidden proof of their story?

She leaned forward. “This desk has a secret drawer.”

Once, her father had shown her how to find the spot, and when she was a child, she used to hide under this desk and press the access tab for fun. She’d never looked inside. Kneeling under the desk, she ran her fingers over the wood until she found the button. When she pressed it, the drawer sprang open. She lifted out the tray inside, then scrambled to her feet and laid it on the desk.

Mr. Eaton hovered over her shoulder as she sorted through the contents. On the blotter she laid out a bank book, some bills, an envelope of photos, and a copy of a birth certificate inscribed with the name Julia Eaton. The birth date was Addie’s own.

John glanced at his timepiece, then returned it to its home. “You have no idea where they went?”

Clara shook her head. “They rushed out and left a message with Molly that they’d return as soon as they could. It’s been hours.”