Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“No idea. Could be coincidence.” Daniels shrugged. “But Mrs. Pennington at the historical society mentioned Lily had been asking questions about the lighthouse’s history during Prohibition. Smuggling, illegal activities, that kind of thing.”
Brooks added it to his notes. “Melissa Clarkson was interested in local history too. Daniel told Chief Sullivan his wife had been researching the lighthouse.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“I think two women interested in the same location going missing twenty-five years apart is worth investigating. But also, Mr. Clarkson wasn’t at the search yesterday.”
“Distraught husband?”
“Or guilty and doesn’t want to unsuspectingly show us where to look.”
“Always the first suspect.”
“Sadly.” Brooks closed the file. “Where’s Sullivan?”
“Coordinating the search. Coast Guard’s got boats out, and we’ve got volunteers covering the trails.” Daniels hesitated. “Detective, I heard Chief Sullivan mention you were with that woman from the tea shop yesterday. The one who does readings. Miss Hawthorne. She’s got a reputation in town.”
“What kind of reputation?”
“Well that depends on who you ask. She just came back to town not too long ago—been living in Boston, I think. But her grandmother ran that shop for decades, and people still talk about her. Some folks say the Hawthorne women have helped solve cases going back generations. Others think it’s all nonsense.” Daniels shrugged. “Either way, Miss Hawthorne showing up right before a woman goes missing has people talking.”
“She’s not a suspect,” Brooks said flatly. “Just someone who knows the area.”
“Right.” Daniels didn’t sound convinced, but he let it drop.
His phone buzzed. Unknown local number. He answered. “Harrington.”
“Detective, it’s Martha Morgan.” The woman’s voice was elderly, strained. “Vivienne Hawthorne said you might be willing to listen. About my daughter Lily.”
Brooks pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d hoped to avoid this conversation until he had more information. “Mrs. Morgan, I’m reviewing the file, but I’m primarily focused on—”
“Melissa Clarkson. I know. But they’re connected, Detective. Both interested in the lighthouse, both disappeared in October. Lily found something at that lighthouse, something that got her killed. If you don’t figure out what it was, that Clarkson woman will end up just as dead.”
The conviction in her voice made him pause. “What did your daughter find?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me, said she needed more proof before she could share it. But she was frightened those last few days. Kept looking over her shoulder. And then she was gone.” A long pause. “Will you come talk to me? Please. I have Lily’s research notes, her photographs. Twenty-five years I’ve kept them, waiting for someone who’d actually investigate instead of just filing paperwork.”
Brooks glanced at his watch. “I can come by this afternoon. I have a few things to take care of this morning.”
“Thank you.” Relief flooded her voice. “107 Harbor Street. The blue house with white trim.”
After she hung up, Brooks sat for a moment, processing. Two missing women, twenty-five years apart, both connected to the lighthouse. Both interested in its history. And according to Martha Morgan, Lily had discovered something worth killing for.
His instinct—the one he’d learned to trust during fifteen years in law enforcement—said the cases were related. But proving it would require evidence, not feelings or the word of the local psychic.
“Daniels,” he called. “I need everything you can find on the lighthouse’s history. Ownership records, maintenance logs, any incidents reported there over the past fifty years.”
“That’s a lot of records.”
“Then you’d better get started. You can get me on my cell.”
Brooks grabbed his jacket and headed out. The Hotel Oceanview occupied a renovated Victorian on the waterfront, its turrets and gingerbread trim freshly painted in cream and sage green. The kind of place that charged premium rates for “historic charm” and “ocean views.”
The lobby smelled of coffee and potpourri. A middle-aged woman behind the desk looked up from her computer as he entered.
“Detective Harrington,” he said, showing his badge. “I’m here to see Daniel Clarkson.”
“Room 203. Second floor, end of the hall.” She lowered her voice. “Poor man. He’s barely left the room since his wife went missing. I’ve been bringing him meals.”
Brooks climbed the narrow staircase, noting the creaking boards and worn carpet runner. At room 203, he knocked twice.
The man who opened the door looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Mid-thirties, unshaven, wearing wrinkled clothes that suggested he’d slept in them. Dark circles shadowed his eyes.
“Mr. Clarkson? I’m Detective Brooks Harrington. May I come in?”
Daniel stepped back without a word. The room was small, dominated by a queen bed with a white duvet. A laptop sat open on the desk, screen dark. Through the window, Brooks could see the lighthouse in the distance.
“Have you found her?” Daniel’s voice was rough, unused.
“Not yet. But we’re actively searching, and I need to ask you some questions.” Brooks pulled out his notebook. “Tell me about your wife’s interest in the lighthouse.”
Daniel sank onto the edge of the bed. “Melissa’s a photographer. Freelance work, mostly—travel magazines, some commercial stuff. She wanted to do a photo essay on New England lighthouses. We were making a vacation out of it, hitting different spots along the coast. It’s our anniversary.”