Chapter 12
In Forestview, they grabbed a quick sandwich at the local Subway, then headed to the Hidden Bay Maritime Museum.
Once inside, Braden wasn’t sure what he’d expected.
Considering the building was new, he was surprised at the overwhelming scent of salt water and burnt wood permeating the place.
The builders must have brought some of the old in with the new.
A woman in her sixties welcomed them at the entrance. “Good afternoon. My name is Sheryl. Tickets are fifteen apiece. We used to be free, but with the fire—”
“Oh, no need to explain.” Cressida smiled. “We’re more than willing to pay. I’m paying for two tickets.” She looked at Braden as if to make sure he was okay with her paying.
He said nothing. This was her show.
“Do you want a tour?” Sheryl asked.
“I’d prefer taking my time going through, and then, if I have questions, will you be around?”
“Until two o’clock.” Sheryl glanced at the clock, then smiled at Cressida. “We close early today.”
Way to let them know that Cressida couldn’t really take her time, at least not today.
After Cressida paid, Sheryl stepped aside, and Cressida led the way into the first room, filled with all things nautical. “I’m surprised to see it so packed with artifacts. After a fire, I wouldn’t imagine they would have salvaged so much.”
Cressida’s eyes were bright and beautiful, filled with hope and possibilities.
He’d never been interested in history. Marine history in particular.
Maybe that’s because his dad had been a fisherman out of a small town in Maine and died in a storm when Braden had only been ten.
He didn’t need the reminders. His mother raised him and his sister, Lauren, while working as a waitress.
He didn’t relish remembering those hard times.
Still, that experience growing up taught him how to work hard.
His throat tightened as they entered, and the images accosted him.
He’d give Mom the credit for instilling in him a sense of responsibility and loyalty through hardship.
He definitely knew how to prioritize family—and he’d do anything for Lauren and Elise.
He supposed, if anything, he should be personally fascinated with Hidden Bay’s history—like Cressida was.
Octavia’s words from last night came back to him. “I’m concerned that her father was killed because he ran across delicate information . . . Cressida’s caught in the middle . . . Protect her, and maybe seeing this through will help you discover what it’s about.”
Her words turned this into an unofficial investigation into Cressida’s father’s death, or rather a search for why he was killed and if his death was somehow connected to Hidden Bay.
To Braden’s knowledge, Cressida remained unaware of her mother’s suspicions the man might have been murdered.
This museum visit could hold answers. Good.
He’d found the justification he needed to ignore the memories and focus on the present.
And in this current moment, Cressida’s expression as she took in marine artifacts made him smile. She was a distraction for all the wrong reasons.
“This place is amazing,” she said.
Just looked like the normal stuff to him, so he kept his mouth shut.
A sextant, a ship’s wheel, a boring piece of hull timber.
Whaling harpoons and nets. An old nautical chart of Hidden Bay, expanded to cover an entire wall.
He continued following Cressida, letting her take her time as she explored.
What, specifically, she was looking for that could tie into her research on the Specter’s Bounty, he wasn’t entirely sure.
Would the museum even have information on the lost vessel?
She paused in front of a huge anchor belonging to some old ship—the Sea Fortune—and looked at him. “The dim lighting and the real wood floors are just the right ambience, don’t you think?”
“Hmm?”
“The historical feel. Even though the place is new, someone went to a lot of trouble to make it feel old and build on that setting to take visitors back.”
If you say so. “I see.”
Sheryl remained in the room, hovering nearby but not too close. Guarding the relics? Available to answer questions?
Cressida continued through the museum, and she talked about various artifacts like she’d been an expert all her life.
For all he knew, she had—her father, the maritime historian, would have kept her informed.
A display case of barnacle-encrusted planks, brass fittings, and a compass caught her attention.
Ship logs. Journals. Faded documents in protective cases.
Maps. Charts. Photographs of local ships and ports, and even of Hidden Bay.
Then they found the partially burned relics.
Charred remains.
He glanced at his watch. Twenty-two minutes until Sheryl would kick them out.
Cressida read out loud to him about the history of Hidden Bay.
“‘A remote, small fishing community, founded in the late 1800s, turned out to be ideal for smugglers during Prohibition, while Forestview developed into a thriving local lumber supplier. But the area remains isolated and is known for artists and reclusive retirees.’” She looked up at him to make sure he was listening, then continued.
“‘The Hidden Bay marine fog lends to the haunted beauty.’ I can relate to that. It feels eerie and could be the reason a person gets attacked and nobody sees it.”
Before he could respond, she continued. “Look at this. Five years ago, the fire swept through the marina and destroyed a couple of historic boats and part of the museum.”
Nothing she didn’t already know. Braden continued reading along with her. “Says the case was filed an accident, but whispers of arson lingered.”
She glanced up at him. “You’re the detective. You don’t know about this?”
“I’ve only been here a few months. Joined the county sheriff’s department in February.”
She blinked. “I didn’t realize that.”
She suddenly turned her back on the documents and gave him her full attention, and that could have knocked him over.
“What brought you here? I don’t know much about you.
I mean, not that it’s any of my business, but I’d like to know.
Where are you from, Detective Sanders? I detect a bit of a New England accent. ”
She smiled, and he might tell her anything she asked if he wasn’t careful.
“I grew up in Maine. My dad was a fisherman.”
Her mouth made a perfect O. “So this is old school to you.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Dad died on one of his trips. As soon as I could, I went into the Army. Not the Navy, mind you.” He shrugged. “End of story.”
“But still, why are you here?”
He glanced at his watch. “This place closes in fifteen minutes. We can talk about me, or you can learn everything you need to learn while there’s still time.”
“Oh, you are so right.”
He’d dodged the proverbial bullet.
“In fact, I can come back for the history later.” She glanced over Braden’s shoulder. “Excuse me.”
Sheryl came forward eagerly. “Yes, what can I help you with?”
“I’m here to learn more about the Specter’s Bounty. Do you have any documents or related artifacts?”
The woman chuckled but with a warm smile. “Of course. We have an entire section dedicated to that more recent deserted vessel.” She led Cressida and Braden to a far back corner.
To his way of thinking, the local ghost ship story should be front and center.
Sheryl stood next to the photographs of locals and their tales, some handwritten. A photograph or two of the vessels in the fog, like the photograph Remi had taken that was up at the lodge.
“Endeavor Spirit?” Cressida read the name, then looked to Sheryl for an explanation.
“Yes. Connected to the Specter’s Bounty. Begin here for the full story. Built in 1980 for the Harborstone Shipping Company as a state-of-the-art salvage ship. You can read all the details, but I’ll skip to the high points since we’re closing in ten minutes. Normally, I’d stay late, but—”
“Oh, please, we won’t keep you. I can always come back tomorrow. I might come back every day this week.”
“I appreciate it. I have to babysit my grandbabies.” Sheryl’s smile was heartfelt. She turned serious again and continued with her practiced spiel. “The Endeavor Spirit was sold to a private shipping company that supposedly was tied to organized crime. Smuggling goods. Weapons. Pharmaceuticals.”
“Oh no.”
Sheryl nodded. “Rumors only, mind you, but adds to the mystique. In 2010, the Endeavor Spirit left Hidden Bay. One of the fiercest storms we’ve had in the area hit, and it never arrived at its destination. All contact was lost. Originally it was believed to have sunk.”
“And the Specter’s Bounty?” Cressida asked.
“Never saw it again until about ten years ago when suddenly, locals claimed to have seen a salvage vessel drifting aimlessly in the fog, almost unrecognizable as the Endeavor Spirit. Then more rumors of secret, mysterious cargo. The Coast Guard boarded it—no one was aboard. They towed it, but another storm hit, and it broke away and was lost again.”
“Lost?”
“And renamed. Fishermen and locals in Hidden Bay claim to see it now and then. And it has since been renamed the Specter’s Bounty.
Some believe it carried a mysterious treasure that was stolen but most especially a warning that these waters are dangerous.
” Sheryl acted as if she practiced telling her grandchildren ghost stories. “You can read the legend here.”
She led them over to a big plaque written in an aged, slightly weathered-looking font, giving it an old-world maritime appearance, that said, “The Legend of Specter’s Bounty.”