Page 65 of Killer on the First Page
Moments later, Ned’s vehicle flew past the window, lights blazing.
“Ned’ll need backup,” said Andrew. “As his official deputy, I could—”
But Officer Holly was already out the door, car keys in hand. Miranda and Andrew followed. They were not guests of the B&B, so technically the ordinance that Officer Holly had cited, and which Miranda assumed she had just made up,*did not apply to them.
Holly barked at the two of them over her shoulder, “Andrew, Miranda, I want you outta here! Go back to Bea’s and stay there.”
“We will!” Miranda promised, adding under her breath, “... eventually.”
Officer Holly dove into her cruiser and followed hot on Ned’s heels.
In the distance, the lighthouse at Laurel Point loomed against the night sky as the sweep of the police cruiser’s beams disappeared down the narrow road toward it, only to be swallowed up by the darkness.
A beat, and then Andrew said, “I assume we’re going to the lighthouse?”
“Of course!” said Miranda, striding back to the Jeep. “The game is afoot!”
Chapter Seventeen
The Fallen Clock
The lighthouse at Laurel Point was built in the 1890s after concerned residents noted that ships coming around the headland had a habit of sinking. True, the underwater shoals did provide a bounty of flotsam over the years, some of it quite lucrative, but occasionally a body or two would wash ashore and have to be buried, which was annoying, and as these numbers increased, it was eventually deemed easier just to build a lighthouse. Hiram Henry donated a single picayune, symbolically it was assumed; the rest came from charitable women’s organizations and bake sales. It was said that Hiram had discouraged talk of building a warning beacon because shipwrecks had so often featured prominently on the front page of his newspaper, but the local Hiram Henry Society insists that this is not true, citing an editorial wherein he wrote, “If these nattering nabobs want to kill the golden goose, that’s fine with me.”
The lighthouse stood three stories tall, a round stone structure on a raised foundation. Although the light itself had been fully automated since the 1970s, the former lighthouse keeper’s quarters on the main floor was maintained, along with a grandfather clock that was deemed too historic (i.e., cumbersome) to move and had thusbeen leftin situ. The clock was an ungainly timepiece, one that had stopped ticking decades ago and had been appraised for less than the cost of moving it, so it stayed as a point of pride, part of the life-sized diorama inside: the lighthouse keeper’s cot and dresser, his stove and table and chairs, and that clock—which would provide a crucial clue in the hours to come.
Designated a Site of Minor Historical Interest, the lighthouse at Laurel Point had been carefully preserved by the town, although the outside had been painted over in a candy stripe of red and white to help “spruce up the view.”
The windows of the keeper’s quarters on the first floor were akin to cubbyholes, with embedded bars protecting thick panes of glass that were too high up to look through. The heavy door, which opened inward, into the quarters, was a solid slab of oak secured out front by a large padlock. The keys to this padlock were strictly controlled: only the local museum, its director, its summer students, the elementary school staff (for field trips), the local high school (ditto), the Gold ’n Silver Seniors Club (ditto), the owner of Klips ’N Kurls (because her dad used to work at the museum), the Tillamook Sailing Club, the Happy Rock Little Theater, the Duchess Hotel, the town council, and any tour companies, such as Melvin’s, had copies of the key. Oh, and also the local visitors center, in case visitors wanted to pop in and have a look around while they were in town. They had a couple of keys, too. Maybe three? Four? No one else had access to the lighthouse. Given this strict guidance, how could Fairfax DePoy have gained entry?
As Miranda roared up in Edgar’s Jeep, the glare of her headlights revealed Ned Buckley struggling with a crowbar at the door to the lighthouse, as Officer Holly stood back, hand on holster. The two officers turned, Ned squinting into the light. When Miranda killed the engine and turned off the headlights, Ned recognized the Jeep and waved them in.
“Andrew, hurry! Give me a hand!” he yelled.
They crossed the gravel, up the stairs to the oak door.
“You don’t have a key?” Miranda asked. “I thought everyone had a key!”
Puffing and out of breath, Ned said, “Don’t need a key. Padlock was removed.” He pointed to where it had been tossed aside on the stairs. “The door is locked from the inside.”
“Shoot the handle!” Andrew urged. “Shoot the handle, Chief.”
“I’m not firing my sidearm,” Ned said, stopping to wipe his forehead. “The door is bolted shut on the other side. A service revolver wouldn’t do it—and neither would a shotgun!” he hastened to add. “So don’t ask.” The cruiser had a shotgun in the trunk.
“Want me to give it a try?” Holly asked, and Ned nodded, stepping back to switch places with her.
A light was on inside; they could see the murky glow through the window. But the door was watertight, sinking below the stoop to be essentially sealed off by the door frame. Holly wedged the crowbar into the narrow space Ned had gouged out between the jamb and the metal plate that held the door’s rudimentary handle: an old-fashioned lever that lifted the latch on the other side. The entire arrangement was simple, clunky, and impossible to get through.
With Andrew helping, Holly managed to splinter some of the jamb and partly bend the plate free, but the door itself wouldn’t budge.
“Should I give Tanvir a call, Chief?”
“Try the other side first, away from the handle. Maybe we can worm the edge of the crowbar in that way, pop off the hinges.”
This approach proved effective. Stubborn and difficult and shoulder-socket-aching, but effective. With every wrench from Andrew and Officer Holly, a gap grew until the crowbar was firmly in place. All four of them now leaned into it, and with a satisfying crack of metal giving way, the door lurched inward as first one hinge then the otherbuckled and broke, until finally they were able to push the door open just wide enough for Holly to peer through the gap.
“Is he in there?” Ned asked.
“Yeah. He’s in there.”
