Perhaps eight to ten cars remained in the lot, their windshields becoming misted by the moist air. Candy pulled into an open slot near the head of the pathway that led to the lighthouse and shut off the engine. The day had dimmed to a brownish orange glow, created by the pale light of the descending sun filtering through the dense atmosphere.
As she climbed out of the Jeep, she was grateful she’d put on her yellow fleece pullover before she left the house that morning. Inland the air had gradually warmed through the day, but here by the coast it felt thick and damp as the fog rolled in. She could hear the low rumble of the foghorn over by the lighthouse, and the muted thunder of the ocean as the surf broke on black rocks, sending up great ragged sprays of foam that hissed as they splashed onto the shore.
Slipping her hands into the pullover’s pockets, Candy turned to survey the scene around her.
An elderly couple was headed toward their car, huddled together against the dampness and chill of the late afternoon. Farther down toward the oceanfront, a few devoted adventure seekers were climbing out onto the black rocks that lined the shore, allowing the spray of the crashing waves to wash over them. But other than that, the place looked deserted. Candy supposed a few folks might still be somewhere out along the Waterfront Walk, though with the arrival of the fog they probably wouldn’t be there much longer. And she might find some lingering tourists down by the lighthouse and museum.
Wilma Mae had been right about the ledger. If Charlotte had stolen it, then most likely she’d hidden it either at her home or in her office. And everything Candy had learned lately, including the most recent clue about Mr. Sedley’s volunteer work, pointed here. The connections were just too suspicious to be coincidence.
As she came over the rise and descended the path toward the lighthouse, her eyes rose along the height of the tower. Its white exterior seemed to glow ghostly in the dull gray matrix of the fog. A few visitors, indistinct shapes now, their clothing drained of color, still moved around the tower’s base and the Keeper’s Quarters. They all turned toward a small, squat redbrick building behind the tower as the foghorn sounded again. Housed in its own building, the foghorn could be heard at a great distance out over the waves, but its bellow was muted to anyone who stood inland, due to thick brick walls that funneled the mournful warning call seaward.
Still, the sound of the foghorn this close was enough to chase off most of the remaining tourists, who were starting to meander back to their cars, giving up on their sightseeing activities for the day.
Candy followed the path past a couple of outbuildings and a flagless flagpole, crossed the open area in front of the tower, and angled toward the museum. As she climbed the wooden steps to the small porch, she glanced back over her shoulder. She saw only the retreating backs of the other visitors as they headed toward the parking lot and their cars.
Quickly she looked in both directions. She was alone. If she was going to get inside, now was the time to do it.
A handwritten sign posted on the inside of the door window indicated that the museum was closing today at three P.M., due to the holiday. Candy glanced at her watch. It was a quarter past four. She turned the old doorknob in a faint hope it might still be open, but it was locked. She knocked as she peered in through the window, just in case someone might still be inside. But other than security lights, the museum was dark.
Candy took a few steps back, surveying the windows on either side of the door. They consisted of old glass in green-painted wood frames with what looked like original hardware, well maintained. They also looked like they were tightly locked. She’d never get in that way.
She turned, surveying the property, looking for Bob Bridges or anyone else who might let her in.
Her gaze settled on the maintenance shed. It stood off to one side of the central open area, its twin barnlike doors hinged open and secured by lengths of rope so they wouldn’t flop around in the wind. From where she stood, she could see no one inside.
She cast one last look over her shoulder and stepped down off the porch. As she started toward the shed, the fog seemed to pull apart before her like unraveling strands of cotton candy. But as she neared the shed, the fog closed back in around her, moving like a living thing. She pulled the collar of the pullover together and studied the shed’s interior as she approached. “Hello?” she called out, her voice sounding muted in her ears.
She reached the door and looked inside. “Hello?” she said again.
It was deserted.
She took a step inside, entering cautiously, her gaze sweeping the interior. The place was relatively neat for a maintenance shed. Workbenches stood at either end, laden with carpentry tools and various types of hardware. Ropes and extension cords were coiled in one corner, while stepladders of varying sizes leaned against each other in another. A couple of hand-propelled lawn mowers, along with clippers, trimmers, hedgers, and garden tools, were smartly arranged or placed on shelves to the right of the entrance. Along the back wall were several filing cabinets beside a small desk and chair, which sat in front of a large calendar hanging on the wall. Tasks and reminders were jotted into most of the date boxes.
There were only two small windows at either end of the shed, which accounted for the gloominess inside. But the windows were relatively clean, not swathed in cobwebs as one might expect in a place such as this, and the floor looked like it had been recently swept.
Apparently Bob Bridges was a very neat maintenance man.
Stopping a few steps inside the door, she turned quickly from one workbench to the other, and finally to the desk, her eyes scanning. She had only a faint hope she’d find what she was looking for — a set of keys, maybe one that would get her inside the Keeper’s Quarters. It seemed possible Bob kept a spare set out here somewhere. She thought it was worth a quick look.
The desktop, like the shed, was kept fairly neat. Two wire baskets held paperwork, and a gray and red blotter was surprisingly free of doodles. Pens and pencils were either lined up at the top of the blotter or corralled in an old white coffee cup. A clipboard with a sheet attached rested to one side of the blotter.
She could see no keys on the desktop but doubted they’d be left out in the open. More than likely, if they were out here, they’d be kept in one of the drawers — probably the top desk drawer.
She took a few steps toward the desk, and as she did so, she heard voices outside.
Her head snapped to her left. Out the window, she saw Bob Bridges coming around the corner of the Keeper’s Quarters, wearing the same uniform she’d seen him in before — a dark green shirt and pressed jeans. A faded green ball cap hid most of his sandy-colored hair, and his face was red, probably because he appeared to be arguing with his son, Robbie, who was walking along beside him.
“. . . don’t know what you think you’re doing,” she heard Bob say to his son. “You’ve got yourself mixed up in this thing too deep.”
“Don’t worry, Dad, I can handle it,” Robbie replied, sounding somewhat sullen.
“I do worry about it,” Bob said, “and now you’ve got me involved.”
Candy stood frozen, uncertain of what to do. Bob and Robbie appeared to be headed right toward her and the shed. Her heart beat faster. Should she make herself known to them, or should she hide?
In the end her instincts took over. Moving quickly, she stepped lightly across the shed into the front corner, trying to meld into the shadows. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, though, and if they entered the shed, she’d surely be seen. Her mind quickly tried to formulate an excuse, so she’d have something to say if she were caught.
“It’s time for you to get out of that game,” Bob said, walking along the side of the shed now. “You’ve already lost your shirt once, and it’s cost us both. Get out before it gets the best of you.”
“I can’t get out now,” Robbie protested. “I have too much invested.”
“That’s the problem with these things. They grab you and don’t let go. There’s no way you’re going to win your money back. Listen to me, son. I know how these things work.”
Candy could hear Bob unhooking something on the front of the shed.
“I’m fine, Dad,” Robbie protested, his voice now tinged with frustration. “I’m not in high school anymore. I’m almost twenty years old.”
“You’re still my son,” Bob said sternly, “and you’re still my responsibility.”
“Is that what this is all about?” Robbie asked angrily. “Responsibility?”
Candy heard a creak of hinges as Bob closed one of the shed’s doors. It slammed tightly shut.
“Don’t take that tone of voice with me. You’re grown up now, but I’m still your dad.”
