Chapter 5 #2
Brooks was taking notes, his handwriting neat and precise. “The file mentions she might have had information about illegal activities. Was there any specific rumor about what she might have discovered?”
“Nothing concrete. But there were whispers that the Aldrich family’s involvement in smuggling might not have ended with Prohibition.
Winston Aldrich’s father, Gerald, was a lighthouse keeper in the 1990s, which gave him control over who accessed certain areas.
He and the girl’s father had a falling out shortly after she went missing. ”
The detective looked up sharply. “That connection wasn’t in the file.”
“Small town dynamics rarely make it into official police reports. Especially when they involve powerful families like the Aldriches.”
“What was the nature of the disagreement between Gerald Aldrich and her father?”
She hesitated, weighing how much to reveal. The town’s history was a tangled web of old alliances and grudges, and she had learned caution in discussing Westerly Cove’s prominent families.
“I don’t know all the particulars. What I heard from my grandmother was that Robert Morgan worked on the lighthouse maintenance crew.
He discovered something in the keeper’s records that troubled him.
There was an argument, witnessed by several people.
A week later, Robert was dismissed from his position.
Within a month, he suffered his fatal heart attack.
” She paused. “Most people in town think he died of a broken heart while you’ll find some who think it was stress, and there are a few who will say Robert found out where his daughter was and was killed to keep the secret buried. ”
“Martha didn’t mention an argument.”
“Maybe he didn’t tell her,” Vivienne said. “I imagine things at home were a bit stressful.”
His expression remained neutral, but his pen moved rapidly across the page. “Was his death investigated?”
“I doubt it. Chief Morrison, was Gerald Aldrich’s brother-in-law.”
He set down his pen. “What about your grandmother? Did she help with the investigation unofficially?”
She hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal about Emmeline’s involvement. Chief Morrison likely never documented her grandmother’s assistance in the official case file.
“Not officially. The girl’s mother came to her privately after the police search efforts were scaled back. My grandmother tried to help, but what she could see was limited. She said something blocked her, something connected to the lighthouse itself.”
“Blocked her.” His tone remained neutral but skeptical.
“Some places accumulate layers of history over time. The lighthouse has witnessed both protection and deception since its construction. Those opposing purposes create interference. My grandmother could only get fragments, never a complete picture of what happened.”
“And those fragments were?”
“Water. Fear. A hidden place beneath stone. Something valuable being protected.” She looked down at her hands, remembering her own session minutes earlier. “Much like what I perceive now with Melissa Clark’s disappearance.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Chief Sullivan mentioned your grandmother occasionally provided insights on cases. He seemed to have found her input valuable.”
This surprised her. “He never mentioned that to me.”
“I got the impression their relationship was complicated. Professional respect competing with personal reservations.”
She nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. Her family, particularly the women, had always occupied an ambiguous position in Westerly Cove’s power structure—too useful to dismiss entirely, too unusual to fully embrace.
“And now you’re trying to decide where you stand on the skepticism spectrum.”
“I’m trying to solve a missing persons case. Using all available resources.”
“Including the town psychic?”
It had never been important to Vivienne whether people believed her or not until now. She liked the new detective. A little more than she cared to admit. Of course, her fondness for him could have something to do with the premonition she had when she moved into her family home.
Brooks sighed. “Including local historical knowledge and community insights that might not appear in official records.” He countered smoothly. “Your family has been in Westerly Cove through the centuries. That perspective has value regardless of its source.”
It was a diplomatic answer that neither accepted nor rejected her abilities—exactly what she would expect from a careful detective. She appreciated his approach more than outright dismissal or false credulity.
“What else do you want to know?”
“Tell me about the hidden cove. You mentioned it was used during Prohibition. Has it been connected to any other illegal activities since then?”
“Nothing confirmed. But local fishermen occasionally report seeing unfamiliar boats in that area, particularly on foggy nights. Old Jack Thornton once told my grandmother he witnessed packages being transferred there in the 1980s. He never reported it officially—the Aldriches controlled harbor operations then as now, and Jack didn’t want to lose his fishing license. ”
He frowned. “The Aldrich family’s name keeps coming up. As mayor, Winston Aldrich would have significant influence over local law enforcement.”
“Chief Sullivan has always maintained his independence. But there are social and economic pressures in a small town that don’t require direct interference.
Aldrich money supports half the businesses on Harbor Street.
The family donated land for the new school complex five years ago.
Their contributions to local politics ensure favorable treatment without explicit corruption. ”
The detective took another sip of tea, digesting this information. “And the tunnels you mentioned earlier today? Are they connected to the hidden cove?”
“According to local legend, yes. I’ve never seen them myself. Their entrances were supposedly sealed or disguised decades ago. But my grandmother’s journals mention at least three access points: one near the lighthouse, one beneath what is now the Lighthouse Grill, and one . . .” She hesitated.
“Where?”
“Here. Beneath The Mystic Cup. Though I’ve searched the basement many times and never found any evidence of a sealed passage.”
He set down his cup. “Would you object if I took a look at your basement sometime? Professionally speaking, of course.” She didn’t reply, and after a long moment of silence, Brooks continued.
“How extensive is the space beneath The Mystic Cup? Any unusual features—brick walls that seem newer than others, unexplained drafts, hollow-sounding sections of flooring?”
“My grandmother mentioned a bricked-up archway in the northeast corner. I always assumed it was structural, perhaps from when the building was renovated in the 1920s. There’s a section of floor that sounds different when walked upon, but I’ve never found any mechanism to open it.”
He tapped his pen against his notebook. “Would such tunnels still be usable after all these years? The coastline experiences significant erosion.”
“The original passages were carved partially through bedrock. My grandmother’s journals suggest they were reinforced during Prohibition with concrete and modern supports. If maintained, they could certainly remain functional.”
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then answered. “Harrington.” His expression shifted as he listened, tension returning to his posture. “When? . . . Yes, I know where that is. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He ended the call and stood, reaching for his jacket. “I have to go. They found Melissa Clark’s rental car abandoned near the old marina, about five miles north of town.”
She rose as well. “Any sign of her?”
“No, but evidence of blood in the trunk.” His gaze met hers, professional but not unkind. “Thank you for the tea and information. I’ll follow up tomorrow.”
She walked him to the door. “Detective, be careful at the marina. It’s an isolated area, and the old boathouse has a reputation for incidents. The flooring is unstable in places, and several fishermen have reported unusual sounds after dark.”
He paused, seemingly heeding to the tone in her voice. “Another insight?”
Vivienne shrugged. “Just local knowledge. And perhaps a bit of intuition.” She smiled softly.
He nodded, accepting the ambiguity. “Lock up behind me. These recent events suggest caution would be wise for everyone in Westerly Cove.”
After he left, she secured the shop as suggested, checking the locks twice before heading upstairs to her apartment. The day’s events had left her mentally exhausted but too unsettled for sleep. She moved to the bay window that overlooked the harbor, her gaze seeking the lighthouse in the distance.
Its beam swept steadily across the water, a rhythm unchanged for over a century and a half. Yet tonight, the light seemed to falter occasionally, developing an irregular pattern. The image from her meditation returned—the hidden doorway in the cliff face, the girl looking back in terror.
What had Lily discovered twenty-five years ago? And had Melissa Clark somehow stumbled upon the same dangerous secret?
She touched the pendant at her throat, its warmth a reminder of her connection to both the past and whatever was unfolding now. The Hawthornes had always served as guardians of Westerly Cove in their own way. Perhaps it was time to take a more active role than simply waiting for clarity to come.
The next morning, she walked to the blue house with white trim on Harbor Street. The small yard looked meticulously maintained despite the season.