Page 17 of Is Anyone Listening?
Tessa parked in front of the library, and as I got out of the car, I smelled sea air and the scent of fresh-baked bread from a nearby bakery. "Something smells good. Maybe we should check out the bakery first."
"After the library."
I'd thought of Tessa as being the least focused of the three of us, but she was all business now.
The library smelled of old books and furniture polish that reminded me of weekends in college, when I'd spent hours studying while most of my friends were at parties or football games. My father had made his financial assistance contingent on my grades, and I couldn't afford to get anything less than an A, so I had to hit the books even when there had been more appealing alternatives.
The woman at the circulation desk looked up from her computer as we entered. She was in her mid-fifties with chin-length dark hair going gray at the temples.
"Good morning," she said with a friendly smile. "Can I help you find something?"
"We're looking for Margaret."
"That's me." Her smile widened. "And you are?"
"I'm Cassidy, and this is Tessa. We're staying at the Stonecross Inn for a few days, and we're researching historic inns across New England for a book we're writing."
"How wonderful!" Margaret stood, clearly pleased. "I love talking about local history. The inn is certainly one of our most historic buildings. Are you researching anything specific?"
"Just general background," Tessa said smoothly. "The architecture, the families who've owned it, any interesting stories or legends. We're trying to capture the character of these old places. And sometimes the owners don't want to share all the good stuff."
"Well, you've come to the right place. I've lived in Stonecross my entire life, and my parents before me, and my grandparents before that. I have deep roots in the community. Follow me."
She led us into a back room that was packed with filing cabinets, old photographs on the walls, shelves of binders and books, as well as a long table with two computers.
"The Stonecross Inn was built in 1872 by Captain Josiah Hartwell, a whaling captain who made his fortune before the industry declined," Margaret said. "Captain Hartwell's descendants ran it as a boarding house and eventually a proper inn until the seventies, when it was sold to Richard and Ellen Clarke."
My pulse quickened at the mention of my grandparents' names, but I kept my expression neutral.
"Ellen has been running the inn for more than fifty years," Margaret continued. "And the past thirty-six on her own, since her husband died."
"What happened to him?" I asked, eager to learn more about my grandfather.
Margaret's expression shifted, became more somber. "Richard fell from the cliffs behind the inn. It was a stormy night with heavy fog, and he'd gone out to put some plywood on the windows. No one is really sure what happened. Ellen was already asleep and didn't know he'd gone out until the sheriff knocked on her door the next morning. A tourist had found Richard's body on the beach. It was such a tragedy. He was only forty-one years old."
"That's awful," I said.
"The whole town was devastated. Richard was very well-liked. He ran the boatyard—Clarke and Sons. It had been in his family for generations."
"We passed that building on the way into town," I said.
"Yes. It's still operating, but not by anyone in the Clarke family. Richard's son wasn't interested in taking it over. David left town shortly after his father's death and never came back."
"Why not?" I asked, wondering if I'd finally get an answer.
Margaret hesitated, and I could see her weighing how much to say. "It's a small town," she said finally. "People talk. There were... rumors. After Richard's death."
"What kind of rumors?" I asked, even though I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer.
Margaret looked uncomfortable now. "I probably shouldn't gossip. It was a long time ago."
"We're just trying to understand the history of the place," Tessa said. "The full story, you know? The good and the bad. It makes for a more complete picture."
Margaret glanced toward the door, as if checking that we were still alone, then lowered her voice. "Some people thought David had something to do with his father's death. That they'd fought. That Richard fell during an argument." She shook her head firmly. "But the police investigated thoroughly, and it was ruled an accident. The cliffs are dangerous, especially in the fog."
My mouth had gone dry. People thought my father killed my grandfather? They'd suspected him of murder. No wonder he'd left. No wonder he'd never wanted to go back.
"Did his mother think that, too?" I asked.
