Kevin finished his wine and glanced around the room. “I hope we’re not about to find another surprise. If old Bunk Whitley is stuck in some closet, I don’t want to know about it. But it’s a nice ghost story. Maybe I can use that in my brochure.”
Trudy shuddered. “Isn’t one dead body enough? And talk about legends! Everyone around here knows about Wild Johnny Simpson. How he broke Miss Elizabeth’s heart. How he courted both sisters who were equally beautiful, but he only wanted Miss Elizabeth. How Miss Mildred never forgave her sister for taking him from her. Now that’s the stuff of legends. Real legends, not some stupid pirate ghost.”
At that moment, there was a loud thump that rattled the windows in the bar. Kevin got to his feet and raced outside. We followed him and stood in the courtyard with the mermaid fountain, staring up at the roof, silhouetted against the dark sky.
“What is it?” Nancy whispered. “I don’t see anything.”
“Is it a pirate ghost come to get Trudy for being so ignorant?” Shayla demanded, nudging Trudy with her elbow.
“I wish it was something that interesting.” Kevin ran his hand through his dark brown hair. “It’s the roof. I was worried about some soft spots yesterday. See that hole up there? Unless we find Bunk Whitley’s body in it, I’m going to have to put a new roof on over there.”
Chapter 12
I went into work early the next morning. It was one of those cooler mornings when the fog swirls around the houses and lays across the sound like a blanket. Gramps offered to drive me to Missing Pieces on the golf cart, but I wanted to walk.
I had thought I’d be up all night thinking about everything that happened at the Blue Whale, but I fell asleep two minutes after I climbed into bed. That meant I needed some time to think before I opened the shop. I had promised Kevin I’d come back this afternoon to start painting, if the morning was dry. He planned to continue with his painting on the ground floor despite the new hole in the roof that needed patching.
I walked along Duck Road, glad for the early morning quiet. The bushes and shrubs dripped with the heavy fog. It was like being wrapped in gooey, wet cotton candy. I remember when I was a kid and hid outside under the bushes to keep from being seen. It’s much harder as an adult to hide or even get away for a few minutes to think things through.
But what to think? If there was a ghost at the Blue Whale last night, he or she didn’t give me any answers I could use to help Miss Mildred. We still had no clue who really killed Miss Elizabeth, let alone who killed Wild Johnny thirty years ago. I wondered, as I listened to some birds chirping from inside a thicket, if the two crimes were related. It seemed likely to me. What were the chances that we’d find Wild Johnny’s body right after Miss Elizabeth was killed? On the other hand, no one could guess when Johnny’s body would be found. The whole thing was giving me a headache.
The Duck Shoppes and the boardwalk were hazy in the fog, with seagulls folding their wings beneath the clapboard eaves, waiting for the sun. I headed to town hall first to surprise Nancy before she got there. I thought if I returned the note she’d lost to her desk, she’d think it had been misplaced. She could call the chief and tell him what he needed to know.
I slipped my key in the lock, glancing around now since I’d had my purse stolen. I was trying to be more aware of my surroundings, as Chief Michaels always advised. It appeared to be only the seagulls and me. None of the shops were open. I pushed open the door and closed it quickly, locking it behind me.
The Post-it wasn’t hard to find. Of course it helped that I knew exactly where to look. I reached my fingers along the floor beside the file cabinet and snatched it out along with a few dust bunnies. With a flourish, I spread it out flat on Nancy’s desk. She’d be surprised when she came in.
As I flattened the rounded edges and the part that wouldn’t stick anymore, I read the note. It was brief—“I need to talk to you about Millie. Silas Butler. 252- 411-9750.”
I stopped flattening for a moment and looked at the note in disbelief. Silas Butler? Everyone knew about Silas Butler. He was Elizabeth and Mildred’s younger brother. A ne’er-do-well who was thrown out of the army. He’d come home to Duck in disgrace only to take up gambling and any other illegal activity he could find. He was legendary for stealing a poor box from the Duck Presbyterian Church in 1964.
The unthinkable had happened after that. He was killed in the 1970s running some kind of scheme or selling drugs. I’d seen his grave marker in Duck Cemetery a hundred times. My mother told me once that there was a song written about the Bad Butler.
This couldn’t be the same person. There were probably plenty of Silas Butlers in the world. But how many who wanted to talk to the chief about Millie?
I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was one of those standard round clocks, black and white with hands that crawl from one number to the next when you’re bored. I had at least an hour before Nancy came in. I dialed the number on the Post-it and waited for someone to pick up.
“Sea Oats Senior Care.” The voice at the other end of the line was cheerful for this hour of the morning.
At first I couldn’t think what to say, and she repeated her opening line. I gave myself a hard mental slap and said, “I’m sorry. Where are you located?”
“We’re in Kitty Hawk.” She gave me the address. “Do you need directions?”
“No, thanks. I was thinking about visiting Silas Butler later today. I hope he’s feeling all right.”
“As far as I know. He’s been popular here lately. Lots of visitors. That’s a good thing, though.”
I thanked her again and hung up. Silas Butler. It couldn’t be coincidence. But what could it be?
I went and sat down in my office and considered the possibilities. Silas Butler was dead. Nancy probably wouldn’t have realized the importance of this when she took the message because she had only lived in Duck for a few years. The Bad Butler was mostly forgotten now. Even we can’t recall all our folklore. But Chief Michaels would know.
I turned on my computer and looked through the old files. Most of them had been slowly but surely put into the computer database. I typed in “Silas Butler” and his file came up. Silas had been shot and killed on Monday, June 8, 1978. The day after Wild Johnny Simpson’s arrival at the Blue Whale!
I looked at the notes on his death. Silas was suspected of “illegal trafficking,” which I’d learned from Gramps could mean anything from smuggled drugs to cigarettes. It was kind of a catch-all phrase used by the sheriff’s department. I read further into the file:
Silas was shot and killed by a sheriff’s deputy after failing to lay down his gun. Deputy Ronald Michaels was on desk duty for two weeks during an investigation. It was found that he had performed his duty adequately, and he was returned to his job without further issue. On August 19, 1978, he was given a commendation for his handling of the event.
The chief had shot and killed Silas Butler! No one had ever mentioned that part of the folklore. It never failed that in telling these tales, long-time Duck residents left out some facts and embellished others all in the name of making a better story.
I’d been only about five at the time Butler was killed, so naturally I couldn’t recall anything about the death. But I had to wonder why Miss Elizabeth and Miss Mildred didn’t hate the chief for his role in their brother’s death. Finding that Post-it had led to more questions I couldn’t answer.