She nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. Her family, particularly the women, had always occupied an ambiguous position in Westerly Cove’s power structure—too useful to dismiss entirely, too unusual to fully embrace.
“And now you’re trying to decide where you stand on the skepticism spectrum.”
“I’m trying to solve a missing persons case. Using all available resources.”
“Including the town psychic?”
It had never been important to Vivienne whether people believed her or not until now. She liked the new detective. A little more than she cared to admit. Of course, her fondness for him could have something to do with the premonition she had when she moved into her family home.
Brooks sighed. “Including local historical knowledge and community insights that might not appear in official records.” He countered smoothly. “Your family has been in Westerly Cove through the centuries. That perspective has value regardless of its source.”
It was a diplomatic answer that neither accepted nor rejected her abilities—exactly what she would expect from a careful detective. She appreciated his approach more than outright dismissal or false credulity.
“What else do you want to know?”
“Tell me about the hidden cove. You mentioned it was used during Prohibition. Has it been connected to any other illegal activities since then?”
“Nothing confirmed. But local fishermen occasionally report seeing unfamiliar boats in that area, particularly on foggy nights. Old Jack Thornton once told my grandmother he witnessed packages being transferred there in the 1980s. He never reported it officially—the Aldriches controlled harbor operations then as now, and Jack didn’t want to lose his fishing license.”
He frowned. “The Aldrich family’s name keeps coming up. As mayor, Winston Aldrich would have significant influence over local law enforcement.”
“Chief Sullivan has always maintained his independence. But there are social and economic pressures in a small town that don’t require direct interference. Aldrich money supports half the businesses on Harbor Street. The family donated land for thenew school complex five years ago. Their contributions to local politics ensure favorable treatment without explicit corruption.”
The detective took another sip of tea, digesting this information. “And the tunnels you mentioned earlier today? Are they connected to the hidden cove?”
“According to local legend, yes. I’ve never seen them myself. Their entrances were supposedly sealed or disguised decades ago. But my grandmother’s journals mention at least three access points: one near the lighthouse, one beneath what is now the Lighthouse Grill, and one . . .” She hesitated.
“Where?”
“Here. Beneath The Mystic Cup. Though I’ve searched the basement many times and never found any evidence of a sealed passage.”
He set down his cup. “Would you object if I took a look at your basement sometime? Professionally speaking, of course.” She didn’t reply, and after a long moment of silence, Brooks continued. “How extensive is the space beneath The Mystic Cup? Any unusual features—brick walls that seem newer than others, unexplained drafts, hollow-sounding sections of flooring?”
“My grandmother mentioned a bricked-up archway in the northeast corner. I always assumed it was structural, perhaps from when the building was renovated in the 1920s. There’s a section of floor that sounds different when walked upon, but I’ve never found any mechanism to open it.”
He tapped his pen against his notebook. “Would such tunnels still be usable after all these years? The coastline experiences significant erosion.”
“The original passages were carved partially through bedrock. My grandmother’s journals suggest they were reinforced during Prohibition with concrete and modern supports. If maintained, they could certainly remain functional.”
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then answered. “Harrington.” His expression shifted as he listened, tension returning to his posture. “When? . . . Yes, I know where that is. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He ended the call and stood, reaching for his jacket. “I have to go. They found Melissa Clark’s rental car abandoned near the old marina, about five miles north of town.”
She rose as well. “Any sign of her?”
“No, but evidence of blood in the trunk.” His gaze met hers, professional but not unkind. “Thank you for the tea and information. I’ll follow up tomorrow.”
She walked him to the door. “Detective, be careful at the marina. It’s an isolated area, and the old boathouse has a reputation for incidents. The flooring is unstable in places, and several fishermen have reported unusual sounds after dark.”
He paused, seemingly heeding to the tone in her voice. “Another insight?”
Vivienne shrugged. “Just local knowledge. And perhaps a bit of intuition.” She smiled softly.
He nodded, accepting the ambiguity. “Lock up behind me. These recent events suggest caution would be wise for everyone in Westerly Cove.”
After he left, she secured the shop as suggested, checking the locks twice before heading upstairs to her apartment. The day’s events had left her mentally exhausted but too unsettled for sleep. She moved to the bay window that overlooked the harbor, her gaze seeking the lighthouse in the distance.
Its beam swept steadily across the water, a rhythm unchanged for over a century and a half. Yet tonight, the light seemed to falter occasionally, developing an irregular pattern. The image from her meditation returned—the hidden doorway in the cliff face, the girl looking back in terror.
