Chapter 12
The next rainy day, Gabby transferred all the photos she’d taken of Amelia Burnhauser’s notebook to her laptop, where they would be easier to read. She and Heather holed up in Gabby’s room at the Lightkeeper Inn, raindrops spattering against the windows like a lullaby.
John Carmichael had offered her the room as compensation for the work she’d done for him, and so far Barnaby hadn’t rescinded that offer.
She hoped he wouldn’t, since this room was by far the most luxurious place she’d ever stayed.
Every step on the carpet was like a foot massage, and she could get lost in that mesmerizing ocean view.
As they sipped the lemon sodas Sally had given them in thanks for their hours of painting, they pored over the list of names in Amelia Burnhauser’s book.
“I recognize lots of these names,” Heather mused. “But so what? Are we thinking one of these people killed her?”
“No, not necessarily. It’s just something to check out. Are they all islanders?”
“I don’t think so. Some of them are from off-island. Amelia was a famous pianist, after all, though I had no idea about that when I took lessons from her. I just thought she was a grumpy old lady who smelled like peppercorns.”
“Peppercorns?”
“I can’t explain it. That’s what I remember. Also, her teeth were very yellow. I remember wondering if I should tell her about those Crest White Strips.”
Gabby tried to imagine a former world-class pianist being lectured on dental products by a scrappy little island kid. “Did you?”
“No, but I did clip out a coupon from a magazine and discreetly dropped it after a lesson. Come to think of it, she canceled my lessons after that. Or my mom pulled the plug, one or the other. We didn’t have a piano so I couldn’t practice much.”
“I never liked piano lessons either. No wonder we’re friends.”
They shared a smile, both knowing their friendship wasn’t based on anything resembling piano lessons.
They’d first become friends when they’d worked on a class assignment together and discovered they had equal levels of drive and desire to work hard.
They also cracked each other up. But the true test of their friendship had come when their project—a story about a divisive local union election—had caught the attention of a regional magazine.
They’d contacted Heather because she was listed first—McPhee before Ramon.
Heather had refused to even have a conversation without Gabby on the line with them.
And then there was the biggest test they’d faced in the years they’d been friends. Heather had come to lunch with Gabby and her mother during one of her fly-by visits to Boston. At first things had gone well enough, with State Senator Paulette Ramon doing most of the talking.
But then the conversation had swung toward Gabby, and her mother had launched into one of her well-worn lectures about Gabby’s choice of profession.
And Heather had pushed back. Hard. She’d talked about the importance of journalism, Ida B. Wells—the first famous Black woman reporter—the importance of choosing for yourself, and on and on. It was all a blur to Gabby now.
“What was that?” she’d asked after her mother’s town car had driven away.
“I was defending you. You’re welcome. I’m used to it because of my mom.”
“You were disrespecting her. You can’t talk to my mother like that.”
“I…what?” Heather had stopped on the sidewalk, framed by a storefront filled with beige mannequins, which somehow felt appropriate, like a Greek chorus of whiteness behind her.
“Do you know how hard it is to work your way up from a cleaning lady to state senator? How hard it is for a Black woman like her to have a career in the public eye? What she’s had to face? Do you know how much her legacy matters to her? How easily it could all go away?”
Aghast, Heather had gone white except for her freckles. “Of course not, but you’re my friend and I couldn’t let her rip you apart like that.”
“That’s not what was happening. She loves me and she worries about me and she has every right to. It’s not your place to tell her anything. Why would it be? It’s family business. If I need to defend myself, I will.”
She’d watched understanding dawn, chasing away the automatic defensiveness.
“Oh shit. You’re right. I was way, way out of line. What can I do?”
It had taken a year and multiple apologies for her mom to warm up to Heather again. Nowadays she appreciated Heather’s loyalty and forthrightness, but there had definitely been some cultural differences that needed working out.
At the same time, Gabby did appreciate Heather wanting to defend her. Over the years, there had been many instances of Heather having her back, and vice versa.
The only time Heather had let Gabby down was when she’d found herself doing all the work on the podcast because Heather’s old show, Boiling Point, was eating up all her time. But they’d worked through that, thanks to a couple of kidnappings and a lobster boat shootout.
“This name,” Heather said, pausing on one of the photos Gabby had printed out. “I haven’t heard that one in a while.”
“Keith Garner?”
“Yes, the Garners lived…actually, I think Amelia Burnhauser bought the house from them.”
“Seriously? That seems like an important connection.”
“The family had fallen on tough times and had to sell. I think the father had an accident or something. It all happened when I was a kid, so the details might be fuzzy. Keith was a teenager then.”
“So he stayed around and took piano lessons from the woman who bought their house?”
“Maybe. I think maybe she let them stay in the guesthouse for a while, so Keith could finish high school? Something like that.”
“Hm.” To Gabby, it sounded like an odd arrangement, but what did she know about life on a remote island two decades ago? “So there’s nothing in that book that’s helpful.”
“Not that I can see, so far. It’s just names of her students.” Heather flipped through the photos, then went back to the one for Keith Garner. “I wonder what she said about Keith. This feels like eavesdropping, you know?”
Gabby shrugged. “It’s not like she was a therapist keeping confidential notes. What did she say about Keith? He was bad at scales?”
Heather scanned the page. “The first entry says, ‘excellent memorization skills and decent ear.’’’ She read on. “‘Little progress after six months. Resists instruction.’ And then the final note says, ‘Reported what I saw to Jill. He’ll be lucky to avoid police. Lessons over.’ Nothing after that.”
“Whoa…I wonder what she saw? He sounds like a problem. Did she say anything like that about anyone else?”
They scanned through the rest of the notes about Amelia’s long-gone piano students. “She sounds edgy, in general, kind of a no-bullshit sort of teacher. But Keith was the only one who got reported to his mother,” Heather finally said.
Gabby closed the folder on her computer and sat back, jiggling her leg the way she did when she was brainstorming. “So our working theory is that this Keith Garner came back to the island for revenge because of some piano lessons from twenty years ago?”
They both laughed at how absurd that sounded. “Bigger question, should we bring this bulletproof evidence and theory to the police?” Heather asked.
“You mean your boyfriend?”
“Or maybe Detective Chen? She helped us in May. I trust her.”
Gabby shook her head, needing no time to think about it. “The police would laugh us out of the office. A name from twenty years ago, from a notebook Amelia might or might not have been looking at? We’ll sound like idiots.”
“Right.” Heather extracted herself from her cushy armchair—upholstered in a divine shade of pistachio green—and stretched her arms overhead. “But we could try to find out where Keith Garner is today. I can ask around.”
Gabby snorted. “You mean, ask your mom.”
“What can I say, she knows everyone, and if she doesn’t, she knows who to ask.” When Gabby raised her eyebrows in an ‘I told you’ face, she added, “Hey, don’t hate. I deserve some bennies for having a mother who never left the island.”
“It’s all good. Your mom deserves a special credit on the pod, that’s all. ‘Investigative services provided by the Bloodshot Eyeball.’”
Heather smiled, then turned toward the rain-streaked window, which looked out over the rocky cliffs and the ocean beyond.
“What is it?”
“Thought I saw something out by the lighthouse.”
Gabby jumped up and joined her. The rain had stopped and the sky was already clearing, but the remnants of the storm lingered over the lighthouse, turning it into a distant blur.
Built on a minute rocky island that jutted from the ocean halfway across the bay, that lighthouse gave Lightkeeper Bay its name.
It was one of the oldest still-operating lighthouses in the state of Maine, now fully automated.
In the bright light of day, its beam could barely be seen, just a vague pulse of faint illumination at regular intervals.
“I can’t see a damn thing,” she finally said.
“Me neither. It could have been a boat or something. People like to have picnics out there. There’s a maintenance dock around back. It could be a repair crew, come to think of it.”
Heather gave up on her scrutiny of the lighthouse and picked up her iPad. “We need to make a decision about the pod. Is this Amelia Burnhauser story our next focus? I feel like Sasha’s journey still has a lot of juice.”
“Yes, but until she comes back, we’re stalled out on that. And people love true crime murder cases.” Gabby still hadn’t forgiven Barnaby for sending Sasha away, but on the bright side, a real-life possible-murder case could really draw some listeners.
She opened her laptop again to find the research she’d done on Amelia. “I’ve been reading up on Amelia, and did you know she performed at Carnegie Hall in the eighties? She had a world-wide reputation.”
“Wow, I had no idea. I always thought she was exaggerating or boasting. She used to talk about playing for kings, and I asked if she meant Burger King. I was such a little brat,” Heather said sheepishly, when Gabby laughed.
“Are you surprised someone like that would come to Sea Smoke Island?”
“Not really. It’s peaceful and beautiful and just look at the Lightkeeper Inn clientele—they’re all loaded. We’ve had quite a few famous people buy houses here. They spend too much money and make property values go up and then regular people can’t afford to pay their taxes anymore.”
Gabby threw up a hand before Heather could launch into one of the islanders’ favorite gripes. “Okay, no need to go on a rant. I’ve heard it before, from just about every fisherman here. So who’s getting Amelia’s house? Have they found her will yet?”
“Luke hasn’t said anything about it.”
Gabby tapped on her keyboard. “Let me check if anything’s been filed yet with the probate court, now that it’s been a few days.”
“Is that shit public?”
“Probate records are. But until a will is filed with the probate court, it isn’t public. Once it is, anyone can access it. If it’s digitized—and not all counties have done that yet—all you have to do is search by name and date of death.”
Gabby loved showing off her research skills, especially to Heather, who had plenty of her own.
In their working partnership, their strengths balanced each other out.
She was good at nailing down facts and interviewing people.
Heather was the scrapper, the one who kept digging no matter what.
Gabby counted on her for her fiery spirit, while Gabby herself was more analytical.
They both loved crafting storylines and doing the actual writing.
When it came to hosting, Gabby was more relaxed and natural in her delivery, while Heather tended to talk too fast.
“Find anything?” Heather asked, impatiently.
“Yes, a will has been filed. Woah, that’s weird.”
“What?”
Gabby blinked at the name on her computer screen, hoping she’d read it wrong. No such luck. “Amelia’s primary beneficiary is Tamara Brown. She left everything to her.” Gabby looked up to meet Heather’s wide-eyed gaze. “And the date on her will is three days before she died.”
“Holy appearance-of-guilt! Do you think the police know about this?”
“If they don’t, they will soon.” Gabby slumped back in her chair. She really liked Tamara, and had loved listening to her stories in her little cottage. “Do you realize what this means?”
“What?”
“Both the stories we’re following are taking us in the same direction. We don’t have to choose one over the other, because they’re pointing the same way—toward Tamara Brown.”