"Enjoying the ride?" Fiona asked as we sped by a small hand-painted sign for Chez Finch, the Finch Inn's brand-new gourmet restaurant.
"I feel like a set of Tiger Woods's golf clubs," Seymour muttered from the back, his knees around his ears.
The afternoon was luminous, with wispy high clouds in a cobalt sky. The landscaped and manicured grounds around Fiona Finch's Victorian inn smelled of lilacs, mingled with the salty tang of the ocean.
Situated on the shores of Quindicott Pond, the town's only bed-and-breakfast was owned and run by both Fiona and her husband, Barney. In less than a decade, the couple had turned a dilapidated mansion into a historical showplace, and a thriving business. Since then, they'd added the Chez Finch restaurant and a second, smaller rental dwelling called the Lighthouse, which was where we were headed right now.
"Have the police been here?" I asked.
Fiona nodded. "Right after I reported the burglary, Officer Womack showed up. He was all by himself, with a fairly rudimentary crime kit, which he didn't bother using. All he really did was look around, then rope off the area with yellow tape."
"That's it?" I said, surprised.
Fiona shrugged, eyes on the narrow trail. "Officer Womack said he thought the crime was committed by teenagers out to make trouble. He said fingerprints would be useless since the fingerprints of cleaning staff and other guests would make identification of the burglar nearly impossible. He also told me another investigation was going on in town and resources were tied up. I never imagined the two crimes were connected. Obviously, neither did Officer Womack."
I arched an eyebrow. Fiona was an avid reader of true-crime fiction and one of my best customers. She also had good instincts, and the curiosity and persistence of a natural-born investigator.
"So you do think there's a connection?" I asked. Fiona gave me a sidelong glance. "Odd coincidence if they're not."
I stared in thought at the trail ahead. "When did Dr. Lilly check in, exactly? Yesterday morning? Or the day before?"
"Much longer than that. She's been here a full week already, and she booked the Lighthouse for a second week, too."
I was surprised at that. "Dr. Lilly was in town for a week? It's odd that she never dropped by my store once. Last night, she made a big announcement about the post office losing her book delivery. Yet she'd never checked in with me or my aunt about it."
"She seemed pretty busy, if that's any help," Fiona said.
"Busy doing what?"
"One day, I saw her with a laptop in our restaurant, and another day it was a tape recorder and notebooks. I asked her what she was writing, and she said she was working on a new book."
Busy dame, that Dr. Lilly, Jack remarked. The ink's not even dry on her new book, and she's already scribbling the next one.
"That's not unusual, Jack," I silently replied. "Some authors are prolific. They have a lot to say. And most of them don't make much money, so they have to write a lot to make a living."
So what else is new. Every typewriter banger I knew had to hustle for every plugged nickel, too.
We'd come to the end of the pond and the golf cart's tiny engine really began to chug as we moved toward higher ground. Now the trail was bordered by a thick wooded area on one side, the rocky shore of the Atlantic Ocean on the other.
The only signs of civilization were the foot-tall, solar-powered lamps that Barney Finch had planted ten feet apart, along both sides of the trail to light up the path at night.
As we continued on, I began to spy patches of torn-up earth and deep tire tracks. I wondered about those tracks-the trail was far too narrow for a car to negotiate. I pointed out the damage to Fiona.
"Oh, I know," Fiona said in an exasperated tone. "This is private property, from here to the Lighthouse and a little beyond, but we get trail bikers racing through here some nights and almost every weekend. The noise is awful and there's been damage."
"Vandalism?" I asked.
Fiona sighed. "Probably not deliberate. A few of Barney's solar lights have been knocked over. I've spoken to Chief Ciders about getting a patrol up here, but he claims he hasn't enough manpower. He says the only way to do it is on a motorcycle, and he hasn't got any."
"That's the best he can do?" I asked.
"Oh, he suggested I hire my own security."
"When exactly did you discover the robbery?" I asked.
"No more than an hour ago."
A moment later, I spied the top of the conical tower. We were almost there. Clearly, the area was isolated, so breaking into and entering the Lighthouse bungalow and making an undetected search of the premises would have been a pretty easy proposition for any burglar.
"How do you get your guests out here?" I asked.
"If someone wants a ride to or from the Lighthouse, they just have to call the front desk. Barney, our valet Pedro, or I will give them a lift. But honestly, unless they're checking in or out and have luggage, hardly anyone asks for a ride, except at night. Most of my guests enjoy strolling to the inn or the restaurant."
Finally we pulled up in front of Fiona's newest restoration showplace. The Lighthouse was situated on a rugged cliff that overlooked an area of jagged shoreline known as Charity Point. Below us, waves crashed violently on the millennia-old rocks, kicking up white froth before withdrawing back into the dark blue Atlantic. Gulls cawed nearby as they circled on rising thermals. Across the path from the structure was a stretch of dark woods.
"How Gothic," Seymour quipped.
"Isn't it?" said Fiona with a wistful smile. "I've always told Barney is reminds me of Wuthering Heights "
Seymour rolled his eyes. "Guess all you have to do is get Pedro to change his name to Heathcliff, and you're all set."
This was my first visit to Charity Point in at least fifteen years, and the transformation of its lighthouse was astonishing. The century-old structure had never been used as an actual lighthouse in my lifetime, and for safety reasons, the main building had been bricked up decades ago.
Covered with teen graffiti, scorched by illegal bonfires, and ravaged by the elements, the lighthouse had become a real eyesore. The Town Council began debating whether to tear the place down. That's when the Finches stepped in and purchased the site-for a bargain price, too. But they had their work cut out for them. Clearly, they'd spent a small fortune to make this spot the romantic showplace it now was.
"The brickwork is pristine," I observed.
"Goodness, yes!" Fiona cried. "It took days of sandblasting to get rid of the graffiti and that garish orange paint. You can't imagine the mess we found inside when we broke through the bricked-up entrance." She shuddered at the memory.
"Well it's certainly lovely now," I said, climbing out of the cart.
The lighthouse tower was impressive. Three stories high, it was capped by a shiny brass-and-glass octagonal compartment that had once held the light itself. But the most noticeable change was to the blocky base, which had been turned into a charming cottage with bay windows, a sundeck, and a winding flagstone path that led up to the front door.
We walked through a rose-covered trellis, and I immediately spied yellow tape on the door, its thick strands emblazoned with the warning: POLICE LINE-DO NOT CROSS.
Without hesitation, Fiona tore away the tape. "Officer Womack said someone jimmied open the door."
Seymour examined the brass knob on the thick, polished door. He scratched the surface with his thumbnail and shook his head. "No way," he said. "There are scorch marks on the doorjamb, and some of the finish on the wood has actually blistered."
"From heat?" Fiona asked.
"You bet," Seymour replied. "I'd say a small explosive was used to break the lock open." You taking notes, baby?
Jack's old buffalo nickel was in my pocket, his voice still strong in my head. "I hear you, Jack. And if Seymour 's right, then this burglary and last night's near-fatal accident at the theater are connected. And if they're connected, then ruling Dr. Lilly's death an accident without further investigation would be idiotic."