discuss Agnes, her mother’s suicide or any other sensitive subjects.
“Really.” He glanced at me as though trying to verify that I was telling the truth. Probably one of those law enforcement techniques they teach. “As I understand it, Bunk discussed Max Caudle and Sam Meacham’s death with you. Old Bunk even took responsibility for Meacham’s death. Is that right?”
“Sort of.” By this time we were parked in the Blue Whale’s driveway. It would’ve been easy to step out of the car with a fast good-bye and make for the shelter of Kevin’s inn. But Brad had given me a ride here. I didn’t want to be rude.
“That’s fine if you’d rather not talk about it,” he conceded to my great relief. “But I have another question for you.”
“Oh?” My skin prickled, and I glanced out the window through the cold rain to the bright blue building in front of us.
“The chief says you have a gift, Mayor. That you’re psychic. He says you can help people find things they’ve lost by holding their hands. Is that true?”
He seemed sincere—his eyes were worried and his voice wavered slightly, as though this really meant something to him. It wasn’t a secret that I could find lost things. Maybe I’d prejudged him because we’d gotten off on the wrong foot. “Yes. Sometimes that’s true.”
“Could you—would you be willing to help me? I’ve been looking for something for a long time. It belonged to my father. He and I are strangers. It’s the only thing I have of his. I’d take it as a personal favor if you could help me find it again.”
Going through my own struggle with an unknown father, how could I say no? I wanted to help him if I could. “I’d be glad to. We just need a quiet place to sit for a few minutes.”
I could see Kevin (I thought it was Kevin, hard to tell in a poncho and boots) walking out of the Blue Whale and headed our way. This wouldn’t be a good time or place. “I’m going to be here for the rest of the day, but maybe later tonight or tomorrow would work out.”
“That would be great! Whenever you can do it, Mayor. I’ve waited a long time. I can wait a little longer.” He scribbled down his cell phone number and handed it to me.
“Call me Dae, please, everyone does. I’ll give you a call and we can meet somewhere.”
“Thank you, Dae.” He smiled—it was like the sun coming out after the rain. Proof, I guessed, of how much this meant to him. “I’ve never believed in anything like this, you understand. But I want to. I really want to believe this can be the answer for me.”
By this time, the hooded figure had reached us and it was Kevin. He rapped on the passenger-side window, peeking out at me from under the hood of his brown raincoat. I rolled down my window.
“Dae? Are you okay?” He gave Brad a significant stare.
“Sorry!” Brad smiled at him. “I didn’t mean to keep her so long, Brickman.”
“That’s okay,” Kevin said, though he didn’t seem to mean it.
“Thanks again,” Brad said to me before I got out of the car. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay. See you.” I closed the car door and ran up to the Blue Whale with Kevin.
“What was that all about?” he asked. “I thought the last time you talked with him he accused you of killing Max.”
“Anyone can make a mistake.” I sniffed the air, avoiding several anonymous people in ponchos, their arms filled with Duck history. “Lunch smells great! I guess I’d better get started if I’m going to earn my seat at the table.”
It was hard to believe a town as small as Duck could have so much history to share. There were dozens of old dresses, suits and kids’ outfits worn by Duck residents from the 1800s through the 1950s. There were antique writing desks and chairs that had graced sea captains’ quarters. Not to mention hundreds of boat parts, from lanterns to anchors.
Many people said they’d been waiting, holding these items until Duck got another, larger, museum. Of course, no one had dreamed it would happen this way. There was an air of regret that it had taken so long to move the museum out of the tiny building Max had overseen for so many years.
The members of the Duck Historical Society made a special announcement during the luncheon of orange salad, fresh-baked bread and twice-stuffed ravioli I’d watched Kevin prepare. They told us that a bronze plaque was being made to honor Max and his contributions to the community. It was supposed to be ready midmonth, in time for the ribbon cutting on the new museum. His memorial would also be held at the same time.
There was a spontaneous burst of applause. Agnes, Celia and Vicky were there, crying as they listened to the appreciative remarks about Max. Agnes said a few words about her husband’s love of history, which were followed by another round of applause.
The Duck Historical Society members thanked Kevin profusely for his wonderful lunch. The dining room in the Blue Whale was completely filled with volunteers. I was amazed to see how many people were willing to give their time for the move.
I could imagine how the dining room had looked in Bunk Whitley’s day. Probably not that different. Kevin had added some modern lighting and decoration, but the crystal, sterling and china were older, reflecting a more elegant, graceful time.
By midafternoon everything that had been stored at the Blue Whale was in the Simpson house. It wasn’t in any order. Portraits of old Bunk and Banker relatives were pushed against chamber pots, old photos of fishing boats and jewelry from the early 1800s made from shells.
My back, arms and legs were killing me, but I’d been careful and wore gloves so as not to have any incidents with these objects. There were a few things I knew I was glad not to touch—a noose left over from the last man hanged in Duck, a blunderbuss and some knives that were of questionable origin. I didn’t think those were only rust stains I saw on them.
“Nice to have your lobby back?” I asked Kevin after everything had been moved.
“Sure, but business is slow right now anyway. It was a good time to do it even if the circumstances weren’t anything anyone wanted.”
“What will happen now about Max and Sam?” I asked him, sitting down on the old high-backed circle chair in the center of the lobby.
He shrugged. “I guess it will depend on what they find on the island. Maybe Bunk Whitley killed Sam and Max. Case closed.”
“Old Bunk Whitley kill someone?” Mrs. Pearl Dabbs, one of the town’s wealthiest and oldest citizens, not to mention a charter member of the historical society, caught the last of our conversation. “I’m sure he never killed anyone in his life. He was a lover, not a killer.”
Chapter 21
Kevin and I exchanged looks. Neither one of us wanted to get into that discussion, but it seemed as though we had no choice.
“I let Bunk escort me a few places after my husband died,” Mrs. Dabbs explained. “He was always courteous, polite and the perfect gentleman. Of course, that was after his wife’s tragic death in Europe that summer. I can’t remember what killed her, but I know it was something terrible like an avalanche or something.”
“Bunk was married?” I asked as she sat beside me. She was tall and thin, always wore carefully creased slacks. She reminded me of Katharine Hepburn.
“Yes, he was. They had a child together. His wife wasn’t from Duck, you see. He brought her home, from Paris I think, but I’m not sure about that. She did have some kind of accent. She was very beautiful, as you can imagine. I can’t think that Bunk would court anyone who wasn’t. He always had to have the best of the best.”
“How long ago was that, Mrs. Dabbs?” Kevin joined in. It was like trying to look away from a bad car wreck. Discussing Bunk Whitley might not get us anywhere, but he was fascinating.
She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Probably in the late sixties or early seventies. You know, Bunk would be
