Eleanor Whitcomb pulled the small, well-worn office ledger from the bottom of the stack, dust motes dancing in the morning light slanting through the Thistle & Vine window. It was Thursday. The bulk haul was scheduled for Monday, four days away. She needed something solid.
“Anything useful in there, Nell?” Ro Pelletier asked, her voice cheerful from the back room. Ro was wrapping a pile of children’s books for a library sale in Kittery. The shop hummed with her industry.
“Just sorting through the supply records,” Nell called back, already scanning the copperplate hand that filled every page. “Cass kept good books.”
“Better than some,” Ro agreed.
Nell ran her finger down a page labeled ‘Maintenance & Repairs – Shop’. Dates and items: furnace filter, new faucet washer, exterior paint touch-up. She reached September. And there it was, an entry for the Monday after Win fell. *Cellar bulb replaced. One new 60W, standard base.* Ro’s hand, unmistakable.
Nell pulled her phone from her coat pocket, the heavy L.L. Bean fabric smelling of damp wool and her remembered David. He would have pointed out the efficiency of a single ledger for all expenses. She held the phone steady, angling it to catch the light, and photographed the page.
She closed the ledger carefully. The bulb at the cellar turn had been dark when Win fell. Doughty had dismissed it as a simple burn-out. But Ro had replaced it the Monday *after* Win’s death. That meant the bulb was out that Friday night, when he went down those stairs. And someone had put a new one in later.
Nell walked to the back counter where Ro was taping boxes. “This cellar bulb entry,” she said, tapping the closed ledger. “You replaced it the Monday after Win was found?”
Ro paused, a strip of brown packing tape half-torn. “Oh, yes. Poor old Win. I told him a hundred times about those cellar stairs, no rail on that open side. After, I just couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else going down in the dark.” She resumed taping. “Six dollars and fifty cents at Aubuchon, if you’re tracking. I’ll add it to the expenses for the estate.”
“Well,” Nell said.
She went upstairs, the ledger tucked under her arm. The list of people with keys to Thistle & Vine and reason to be there: Ro, who ran the place. Curt Prentiss, Win’s nephew, who had a clear interest in a fast sale. Theo Rackliff, Win’s former apprentice, who wanted onto the appraisal. And Win Prentiss himself, who had been there Friday night. But Win wouldn't remove his own light bulb.
Nell opened her case notes. She needed to talk to Theo Rackliff. He kept a stall over the county line, about twenty minutes away, mostly open weekends. But she knew he sometimes worked at his barn during the week.
She called Paulie at the Gull’s Nest. “Is Theo Rackliff still coming in for coffee, or has he given up on us?”
Paulie hummed a few notes of "Shall We Gather at the River," slightly off-key. “Theo? Saw him yesterday. Said he was headed out to his barn, had a few firsts to photograph before the light quit.”
“Thanks, Paulie.”
“You’ll want the chowder, Nell,” Paulie added, as if Nell had called to order. “Twelve ninety-five a quart. And ask Theo why he looked like he’d swallowed a lobster pot whole.”
Nell drove out Route 1, the late September sun bright on the blueberry barrens. Theo’s barn was a rambling grey structure, tacked onto a small Cape house. His truck was parked outside, covered in a thin film of red dust.
She found him inside, bent over a workbench, a loupe on a lanyard around his neck. He was sorting a tray of old postcards.
“Theo,” she said.
He jumped, dropping a card. “Mrs. Whitcomb. Didn’t hear you come in.” He straightened, wiping his hands on his canvas apron. “What can I do for you?”
“Just following up on a few things for the estate,” Eleanor Whitcomb said. “Win’s appraisal. You knew him a long time.”
“Forty years, near enough. Knew his mind, knew his habits.” Theo picked up the fallen postcard, a faded image of the Portland Head Light.
“When did you last see him, Theo?” she asked, keeping her voice level.
He hesitated. “The memorial, Mrs. Whitcomb. Just like everyone else. Said my piece, paid my respects.”
Nell nodded slowly. “Well. Sandy told Paulie you were at the shop Friday night. The memorial was the Wednesday after. Those are different days.”
Theo went still. His face, already pale, seemed to drain further, taking on the gray of dried-out mud flats at low tide. He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair.
“Sandy,” he mumbled. “She talks too much.”
“Did you see Win at the shop that Friday night?” Nell pressed.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked around the barn, at the stacks of books, the shelves of ephemera, as if searching for an answer there. He looked at Nell, his eyes wide.
“I… I have to go,” he said, his voice a whisper. He moved past her, almost a shuffle, and out the barn door, leaving the light on above his workbench.
Nell watched him go, then drove back to Merrow Harbor. She called Sheriff Doughty from the shop.
“Doughty,” she said. “Regarding the Prentiss matter. I have reason to believe the cellar light was not merely burnt out on the Friday night Win fell. And I’ve spoken with Theo Rackliff. He was at the shop that night, and he lied about it.”
There was a silence on the other end. “Mrs. Whitcomb,” Doughty finally said, his voice flat. “These things require paperwork. And my pen has developed a bit of a problem. Seems the accidental ruling can sit pending for a while yet.”
“Well,” Nell said, and hung up.
***
The light in the Rackliff barn burned late into the night. Inside, Theo sat at his workbench, staring at the scattered postcards. He picked up the faded image of the Portland Head Light. He put it down. He picked it up again. He knew the story he’d given the deputy. He also knew the story he’d just given Nell. Neither one felt right.
*He lied to the sheriff about the one night that matters.*
Comments
Loading the conversation…