Chapter 7
SEVEN
vivienne
Morning light streamed through the stained glass panels framing the front door of The Mystic Cup, casting jewel-toned patterns across the worn wooden floor.
The opening routine steadied Vivienne after last night’s vison of hidden doorways, watching eyes, and Lily—dead at the hands of Gerald and Winston Aldrich.
The bell above the door chimed. Mrs. Pennington from the historical society entered at eight-thirty, exactly when she arrived every Wednesday morning for the past decade.
The older woman held herself rigid, her silver-blond hair styled in an immaculate bob, pearls gleaming at her throat despite the early hour.
“Good morning, Vivienne. Earl Grey, if you would.”
“Of course.” Vivienne prepared the woman’s usual order. “Anything to accompany it today?”
Mrs. Pennington’s perfectly manicured fingers tapped against her handbag. “Actually, I came to inquire about your visit with the police detective yesterday. Velta Wright mentioned seeing him here after hours.”
The book club gossip network operated with remarkable efficiency. Vivienne kept her expression neutral as she set the teapot to steep. “Detective Harrington had questions about local history. Given the current situation with the missing tourist, I thought it prudent to assist however possible.”
“How civic-minded.” The condescension dripped from Mrs. Pennington’s voice.
Her right eye twitched, a nervous tic Vivienne had observed only during board meetings when the woman felt threatened.
“And did he mention visiting the historical society archives? We have the most comprehensive records of Westerly Cove’s past, after all. ”
“I believe he intends to explore all available resources. Though perhaps you could save him time. Records from the 1990s would be particularly relevant, I imagine.”
Alarm flickered across Mrs. Pennington’s face before her usual mask slipped back into place. “The lighthouse records? Whatever for?”
“The missing woman researched New England lighthouses, particularly their role during Prohibition.”
“An unfortunate coincidence.” Mrs. Pennington reached for her tea with trembling hands. “Bringing up old rumors about smuggling and such. Hardly relevant to her disappearance, I should think.”
“Perhaps. Though coincidences accumulate. The timing, the location . . . it reminds many people of Lily Morgan.”
The teacup clattered against its saucer. Mrs. Pennington leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Your family brings darkness. Always has. The town tolerates it because we need you, but we fear you more.”
The words stopped Vivienne’s hand mid-pour. Her grandmother’s warnings echoed, about those who silenced the truth-tellers, who preferred comfortable lies to uncomfortable realities.
“My family has served this town through the ages. We’ve helped solve crimes, found lost children, provided comfort to the grieving. If that brings darkness, then perhaps the problem isn’t with us but with those who prefer ignorance to truth.”
Mrs. Pennington’s face flushed. “The Hawthornes have always been troublesome. Too curious about matters that don’t concern them. Look what happened to your mother.”
The mention of Cordelia struck, but Vivienne kept her expression neutral. “My mother’s death . . .” Vivienne couldn’t continue.
“Was it? Or did she ask too many questions about the wrong families? Emmeline knew when to keep quiet. Cordelia never learned that lesson.”
Mrs. Pennington stood, leaving her tea half-finished. “A word of advice, Vivienne. Some secrets exist for good reason. Not everything that’s buried should be dug up.” She paused at the door. “Especially not by outsiders who don’t understand our town’s complexities.”
After she left, Vivienne stood in the quiet shop. Mrs. Pennington’s fear was genuine, and frightened people often became dangerous.
The morning passed with regular customers, but Vivienne’s mind remained on last night’s conversation with Brooks and her certainty that Melissa Clarkson’s disappearance connected directly to Lily Morgan’s fate. The pattern was too precise to be coincidental.
Around noon, Brooks arrived, his expression focused and determined. “We need to talk. Is now a good time?”
Vivienne nodded and walked toward the door. She locked it and flipped the sign to “Closed for Lunch,” then led him to a table in the back corner. Brooks spread several photocopied pages across the surface. Lily’s neat handwriting documented her discoveries.
“I’ve been reviewing Lily’s research notes from Martha Morgan, and there’s something you should see.
” Brooks stood back and looked at the photographs for a moment.
“She created detailed diagrams of the structure. According to these notes, she believed there were concealed spaces in the foundation that didn’t match the official architectural plans. ”
Vivienne studied the drawings. “She was right. Mathilde helped design certain modifications that were never officially recorded.”
“Just there?”
“No, there’s an entire network of tunnels beneath Westerly Cove, some natural caves expanded and connected during Prohibition for smuggling.
Mathilde knew about them because the keeper, her husband Edmund, was involved in stopping the illegal activities.
After his death, the Aldrich family took control. ”
Brooks absorbed this information, connecting it to patterns he’d identified in the case files. “And you think Lily discovered evidence of the Aldrich family still using these tunnels?”
“I know she did. Just as Melissa Clarkson discovered the same thing twenty-five years later.” Vivienne met his eyes.
“Brooks, my mother died investigating the same connection. The official story was suicide because someone supposedly saw her walk into the ocean, but she was asking questions about the hidden history right before her death.”
“How old were you?”
“Nineteen. Old enough to suspect that her death wasn’t an accident, but too young to know how to prove it.
We all have a gift, but it’s odd to me that my mother was the only one who couldn’t handle it.
” Vivienne’s fingers traced the edge of Lily’s diagram.
“Countless people have died in this town, and somehow all tie back to the lighthouse. “
Brooks was quiet for a moment, working through the implications.
“Daniel Clarkson said Melissa had been researching the lighthouse for weeks, that she’d become secretive about what she’d found.
And Martha’s case files show Lily was investigating the same location.
Two women, twenty-five years apart, both digging into the lighthouse’s history. ”
“Lily Morgan. The connection between them goes beyond coincidence.” Vivienne’s fingers traced the diagram again. “Both women researching the same place, asking the same dangerous questions.”
Brooks leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “What made these questions dangerous? Prohibition ended decades before Lily was born. Why would anyone care about smuggling operations from the 1920s?”
“Because they never stopped.” Vivienne met his eyes. “The tunnels, the routes, the network Mathilde helped build during Prohibition—someone has been using them ever since.”
Vivienne considered the question. This was delicate territory, involving some of Westerly Cove’s oldest and most influential families. Yet if her suspicions were correct, these historical secrets might be directly relevant to finding Melissa Clarkson.
“I should show you something in my family archives upstairs.”
Brooks followed her through the back of the shop and up the narrow staircase that led to her apartment. Unlike the Victorian charm of the teashop below, Vivienne’s living space was more modern, though still filled with antiques and family heirlooms integrated with contemporary furniture.
As they passed through the living room, Brooks paused to examine a framed architectural drawing on the wall. The sketch showed detailed plans, with handwritten notes in French along the margins.
“Original construction plans?”
“Mathilde’s contribution to the design. My great-great-grandmother had unusual knowledge of architecture for a woman of her time. The keeper relied heavily on her input, particularly for certain structural modifications that don’t appear in the official plans filed with the authorities.”
Brooks studied the drawing more carefully. “Secret spaces built into the original design?”
“Precisely. Which is why the Hawthorne women have always known more about the true nature of Westerly Cove’s underground network than most residents. Mathilde helped create it.”
She led him to a small room that served as her home office and library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered two walls, filled with a mixture of personal reading material and historical volumes about Westerly Cove. A large oak desk occupied one corner, its surface neat and organized.
“My grandmother kept detailed journals. She recorded not just her own experiences, but information passed down from previous generations.”
Vivienne moved to a locked cabinet beneath one of the bookshelves.
She unlocked it with a small key she wore on a chain around her wrist and withdrew not just the leather-bound journal, but an ancient tome with symbols etched into its dark cover.
The grimoire felt warm beneath her touch, a repository of generations of Hawthorne family knowledge.
“This belonged to Mathilde.” Vivienne’s fingers traced the strange markings. “Written in three languages: French, Latin, and something older. My mother translated many of the passages before she passed, documenting the family’s protective traditions.”
Brooks leaned closer, studying the intricate designs on the cover. “What kind of traditions?”