mansion two miles north of the pier. The property, though long abandoned, was considered a treasured monument by the townspeople, which meant that I had to submit numerous permits, plans and blueprints and have every single inch of my work preapproved by the town Planning Commission before I could start the job.
Things weren’t starting out on a positive note, though. I’d just called the Commission office a few minutes ago to cancel my first meeting with them. Vesta, the secretary who’d been working at City Hall for as long as I could remember, answered the phone. As soon as I explained about Jesse’s death, she’d sympathized. But then she had scolded me for disrupting her schedule.
I had no idea how old Vesta was, but she was considered by some to be another treasured town monument. Somewhere in her fifties, I’d guess. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, with blond hair flowing down her back and a face that never seemed to age. She was a walking encyclopedia of town knowledge. People in Lighthouse Cove knew who to talk to whenever they had a question about town history or some obscure law or ordinance. “Go see Vesta,” they’d say. I’d known her most of my life and was aware of her obsessive-compulsive disorder, so I’d made my phone call with some trepidation. Any little ripple in her schedule hit her like an 8.5 earthquake, so for her sake, I acted suitably chastised when she reprimanded me for changing my appointment. I figured she’d get over her pique as soon as we ended the call and she could start spreading the news about Jesse, no doubt with the velocity of a Doppler radar signal.
I wrote myself a calendar note to call her back later in the week to reschedule my meeting with the Planning Commission. Happily, there wasn’t a lot of urgency to get the plans approved since Mac Sullivan was currently living in one of the comfortable apartments over my garage and seemed in no big rush to move to his new home next to the lighthouse. And truth be told, I was in no hurry to see my ultra-attractive neighbor leave my area.
I had other active jobsites, of course, and over the past month, I’d hired three new workers. My guys and I had recently finished the last of the exterior work on Hennessey House, Jane’s elegant new bed-and-breakfast. She had inherited the grand old Victorian from her grandmother. Actually, she and Jesse had both inherited it, but he had immediately signed his share over to her, and Jane and I had worked on renovating it for almost three years. Hennessey House would open its doors to the world in just a few weeks, and the whole town was excited to attend the grand opening celebration.
It was just so sad that Uncle Jesse would miss it. And if I thought about that too much, I would tear up again and I was tired of crying. Instead I replayed the brief, private conversation I’d had with Eric a few minutes before he met with Jane.
It was nice to know he agreed with me that Jesse had probably been the victim of a burglary. Whether Jesse had been dead or alive at the time of the break-in, though, was for the county coroner to determine. One positive note was that Jesse himself hadn’t appeared to have been attacked physically. But that meant that the coroner would also have to determine if the shock of seeing an intruder had brought on a heart attack, or if something else had happened.
I figured it was murder either way.
I wasn’t about to share my thoughts around town, though, and whether Eric agreed with me or not, it wouldn’t change his methodology. He would play by the rule book, as usual, gathering evidence, interviewing neighbors, and waiting for the coroner’s autopsy report before drawing any conclusions. It was frustrating, but I was confident in his ability to track down the person responsible for Jesse’s death and bring him to justice.
* * *
At six o’clock that night, Lizzie showed up at my house with Emily and Marigold and food. Since the three of
Things weren’t starting out on a positive note, though. I’d just called the Commission office a few minutes ago to cancel my first meeting with them. Vesta, the secretary who’d been working at City Hall for as long as I could remember, answered the phone. As soon as I explained about Jesse’s death, she’d sympathized. But then she had scolded me for disrupting her schedule.
I had no idea how old Vesta was, but she was considered by some to be another treasured town monument. Somewhere in her fifties, I’d guess. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, with blond hair flowing down her back and a face that never seemed to age. She was a walking encyclopedia of town knowledge. People in Lighthouse Cove knew who to talk to whenever they had a question about town history or some obscure law or ordinance. “Go see Vesta,” they’d say. I’d known her most of my life and was aware of her obsessive-compulsive disorder, so I’d made my phone call with some trepidation. Any little ripple in her schedule hit her like an 8.5 earthquake, so for her sake, I acted suitably chastised when she reprimanded me for changing my appointment. I figured she’d get over her pique as soon as we ended the call and she could start spreading the news about Jesse, no doubt with the velocity of a Doppler radar signal.
I wrote myself a calendar note to call her back later in the week to reschedule my meeting with the Planning Commission. Happily, there wasn’t a lot of urgency to get the plans approved since Mac Sullivan was currently living in one of the comfortable apartments over my garage and seemed in no big rush to move to his new home next to the lighthouse. And truth be told, I was in no hurry to see my ultra-attractive neighbor leave my area.
I had other active jobsites, of course, and over the past month, I’d hired three new workers. My guys and I had recently finished the last of the exterior work on Hennessey House, Jane’s elegant new bed-and-breakfast. She had inherited the grand old Victorian from her grandmother. Actually, she and Jesse had both inherited it, but he had immediately signed his share over to her, and Jane and I had worked on renovating it for almost three years. Hennessey House would open its doors to the world in just a few weeks, and the whole town was excited to attend the grand opening celebration.
It was just so sad that Uncle Jesse would miss it. And if I thought about that too much, I would tear up again and I was tired of crying. Instead I replayed the brief, private conversation I’d had with Eric a few minutes before he met with Jane.
It was nice to know he agreed with me that Jesse had probably been the victim of a burglary. Whether Jesse had been dead or alive at the time of the break-in, though, was for the county coroner to determine. One positive note was that Jesse himself hadn’t appeared to have been attacked physically. But that meant that the coroner would also have to determine if the shock of seeing an intruder had brought on a heart attack, or if something else had happened.
I figured it was murder either way.
I wasn’t about to share my thoughts around town, though, and whether Eric agreed with me or not, it wouldn’t change his methodology. He would play by the rule book, as usual, gathering evidence, interviewing neighbors, and waiting for the coroner’s autopsy report before drawing any conclusions. It was frustrating, but I was confident in his ability to track down the person responsible for Jesse’s death and bring him to justice.
* * *
At six o’clock that night, Lizzie showed up at my house with Emily and Marigold and food. Since the three of
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