“And who knows what sort of toxins they’ve just let loose?” said another voice. “I googled it. Decomposing bodies emit chemicals that are harmful to the girls’ health. And there will be guests coming on Friday night too. We don’t need a lawsuit.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” I heard Shelly say.
“I think Jane will have to bow out moving forward,” said a dad.
I waited for an argument from Jane, the most boisterous of the scouts. I’d be willing to bet she was one of the imps who’d thought to take a peek at The Shack. To my surprise, I heard no protest.
Andy had his list of concerns; I now had my own. The first was the medical examiner’s suggestion that this was at most a project for historians. I had a vision of well-meaning professor types, taking their time to brush off dirt and catalog bones over months and months of tedious work, only to conclude what we already knew: that our skeleton had been a Quaker woman who had suffered trauma and had been mysteriously buried in an unmarked and unusual grave. The house would become a tourist attraction, and ridiculous stories would abound. I knew that even by the end of today, rumors and fantastically tall tales would begin to make the rounds. But I, for one, wanted the real scoop on what had happened in this small candle workshop.
I was also entirely disappointed that the Girl Scouts had fallen for their own propaganda about ghosts and goblins. I didn’t mind a few scary stories floating around, but fear of a skeleton, an historic discovery no less, was unacceptable. We were not going to let a few old bones keep us from raising money for the island’s neediest, and having a great event in the process. We needed a dose of girl power to show everyone that there was nothing to fear.
I was still holding up my phone, and John Pierre was still on the line.
“John Pierre? It’s Stella,” I said. “What would you think about letting me stay in the main house? I’d like to show the girls that there’s nothing here to be afraid of.”
Andy, ever on alert for my extracurricular interests, raised an eyebrow, but I was prepared for that.
“As it turns out, my kitchen window broke this morning, and I’d love a place to stay while it’s being fixed.”
It was Peter’s turn to look surprised. And a little concerned.
“What happened to your window? Also, this place is really old and drafty,” he said. “You should stay with me.”
“I love the house,” I said, truthfully. “When else will I be able to enjoy it? Tinker’s already made himself at home inside.”
We looked at the back window, where Tinker, in fact, could be seen happily curled in a ball and taking a nap on the sill. Peter shoved his hands into his pockets, knowing not to fight me.
“You know we’ll lock up the door at night and keep everyone—that means you—away from the skeleton until an archaeologist takes a look,” said Andy.
I nodded, seriously. As if a lock would stop me.
“Sure, you can stay,” said John Pierre. “It would give me some peace of mind, actually.”
With that much decided, John Pierre and I worked out the details of my stay while the officers considered the next step of calling in an anthropologist.
“If you don’t need us,” Peter said to the group when I hung up, “we’re heading out to Crab City for low tide.”
Andy smiled with something of a victorious look.
“I’m working on a seaside scent,” I said.
Did I sound defensive? Perhaps. Nonetheless, Peter and I left the action and walked to the sidewalk in front of the Morton house.
“You want to work on the skeleton, don’t you?” Peter said when we reached my car door.
“Do you blame me?”
“Nope,” he said with a kiss on my forehead for good measure.
“Say hi to the crabs for me?”
He pulled out his pad and untucked his pencil.
“Say-hi-to-crabs,” he said, writing in his pad. Then he gave me a smile and headed to his car.
I followed behind Peter’s car for a couple of streets, knowing exactly where to start. Nantucket is a small town with a big history. Fortunately, it’s been well documented. The Research Library on Fair Street holds thousands of pictures, periodicals, and documents related to the island’s history, many from the time that the Coopers had run their chandlery. If there was any information to be found about my skeleton, the library would have it.
I liked the plan, but it came with one immediate problem. Extended periods of time amid the quiet, peaceful air of a library have resulted time and again with me falling into a cozy nap, my head on a table or against a chair, until my arm drops or my foot falls asleep. It’s a curse. In high school, Andy and my best friend, Emily Gardner, even drew a mustache on me once while I soundly slept. And I’d been working on college applications at the time. Skeleton or not, I knew myself, so when I reached the road to Main Street, I decided to make a pit stop at my favorite coffee place in town, The Bean.
Chapter 3
Parking in town, I walked down Centre Street and passed my store, the Wick & Flame. I waved through the window at my assistant, Cherry Waddle, who was covering for me this weekend. She waved back, busy with a customer, and I paused momentarily to study my window display, which was filled with orange and black candles I’d made every night over the last week. For fun, I’d come up with some unique scents for the holiday, like Eyeball of Newt and Spider Soup for those who were really into the spirit of the season. As you might imagine, Halloween is one of the highlights of the year at the Wick & Flame. I light many candles to turn up the spooky vibe, albeit one that includes jack-o’-lantern candles scented with pumpkin spice and glow-in-the-dark ghost candles. This year, I’d added the Tinker Special to my product line. It was a black cat, inspired by my feline friend, Tinker, wearing a jaunty orange witch’s hat from which the wick extends.
It’s hard to pass my store without stopping in, but I had no idea how things would unfold back at the Morton House, so I forged ahead to my caffeine fix and trip to the library. When I rounded the corner and reached the entrance to The Bean, I stood aside as a woman exited the cafe.
“Hello!” I said, realizing I’d come face-to-face with Brenda Worthington.
Over the last decade, Brenda has become a sort of fixture on the island. She runs Nantucket Legends and Lore, one of the best ghost tours in town, and we have a lot of ghost tours. Brenda’s tours are unique for two reasons. The first is that she is a walking encyclopedia about the island’s history. Not textbook stories, but legends handed down from generation to generation. My family, the Wrights, can be found in every nook and cranny on the island, and it was a proud day for us when Brenda added the tale of how my great-grandma once chained herself to a flagpole on Centre Street, in front of where my store is now, to advocate for women’s right to vote.
The second of Brenda’s specialties is her claim that she can speak with the dead. As a result, Brenda was not the kind of person that the police or historians would solicit for help. I, however, wondered if she might have an angle on my discovery that others would not. It was worth a shot.
“Greetings, friend,” she said.
There’s something about Brenda that feels otherworldly. For example, although she was wearing sweats and a windbreaker, today her prematurely graying hair was in an old-fashioned bun, and she was carrying a basket of produce from a local farm’s truck stand in town. The basket looked like something my Quaker skeleton would have owned.
“I have news for you,” I said. “I think you’ll soon have a new addition to your ghost tour.”
“Not a ghost tour,”