Unraveling Isobel (10 page)

I
had to wonder how Morrigan could have a ballroom but no wireless internet. Where were the priorities? The only internet connection was the computer in Dick's study. Apart from the fact that I wasn't keen on spending any time in a room stuffed with dead animal heads, there was the very real chance that Dick would discover that I'd been digging through his family dirt. I was willing to bet his “ho ho ho, we're all one big, happy family” act would be over. If I was going to play Nancy Drew, then I needed to be clever. Since Nathaniel wasn't talking to me, I couldn't ask him for a ride to the library, and Nicole already knew too much, so involving her wasn't an option. It was times like this I could see the value of having a driver's license.

When we lived in the city, being able to drive seemed like more of a hassle than it was worth. Traffic was lousy and there
was never anyplace to park once you got there. There was usually someone around who could drive me, and if there wasn't, then I could always take public transportation. On Nairne Island there was no public transportation. Not even some sort of hippie VW bus that ran on old cooking oil. The school bus only ran twice a day, so it was less than perfect for my purposes. This is why I was in the garage trying to clean what looked like a century's worth of cobwebs off a bike.

My mom poked her head in the garage. “Are you sure you don't want me to give you a ride?”

“No, thanks. I want to have my own mode of transport, instead of having to wait on other people.” Something fell off the back of the bike and skittered away. I yanked the bike out. The tires looked a bit squishy, but most likely they would make it into town once I pumped them up. There was a rusted basket fixed to the handlebars, and I dumped my backpack in there. “Besides, biking will be fun.”

My mom didn't look so sure. She didn't say anything, but I could tell she was thinking I'm not really the cycling sort. To be fair, it's not just cycling—the term “sporty” isn't used to describe me. I don't run unless something is chasing me, and I have some kind of visual-spatial ball deficiency. I'm always that person in gym class who gets smacked in the face with the ball. Volleyball, softball, basketball, those nasty, stinging red rubber dodgeballs … you name it and I've eaten it.

It only took a few minutes to pump the tires up, but I was
already a little winded from the effort by the time I led the bike out into the yard and straddled it. The bike was pale blue and looked like it was from the 1950s. I told myself the vintage look was in and began pedaling. I would have sworn the road into town had been flat yesterday, but now that I was biking, it was clear there were hills. Lots of hills. It was also clear that my cardio levels were that of an eighty-year-old woman who smoked a few packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day. Nathaniel passed me in his car. He slowed down as he went by. I would have said something, but I was sucking air for all it was worth. He shook his head and then sped off. All I could do was hope that my trip to the library would be worth it.

The library on Nairne is in the center of downtown, the term “downtown” being used fairly liberally. The entire thing is only four blocks long, over half of which consist of stores that cater to the tourists and are only open during the summer months. If you want a T-shirt, cheap fudge, or homemade soap with seashells floating in it, then downtown Nairne is your shopping paradise. The library is in a converted house and shares the space with the post office.

The librarian (who also does double duty as the postmaster) watched me very carefully when I walked in, as if she thought I might suddenly start stuffing paperbacks under my shirt and make a run for it.

“Can I help you?” Her smile was so tight, I wondered if she'd been sucking on lemons. I could see from where I was standing
that her lipstick had bled into all the creases around her mouth. It was like her lips had grown tentacles. She also needed to do her roots. She had a halo of gray all around her face.

“I'm fine, thanks.” I glanced around the room.

“I'm afraid only residents can check out materials.”

“I am a resident.”

Her eyes widened and her lips pressed together even more tightly. “Ah.” She shifted like she'd just noticed her shoes were too tight. “Well. I heard Mr. Wickham's new wife had a child. Welcome to the island.”

“Thanks. Is there a computer I can use?”

“Of course. It's over in the corner. There's a teen section too, under the window. I'll get a card made up for you so you can check things out. Things can be borrowed for two weeks, with a maximum of ten items. There's a twenty-minute rule on the computer if someone else wants to use it. We also forbid anyone going to pornographic sites.”

“Got it. Two weeks, ten things, twenty minutes, and no porn.”

The librarian gave me another lemon-sucking smile. I could tell she was one of those people who hated teens and secretly believed we were all drug-taking hooligans. I smiled back and began to wander up and down the aisles between the shelves. The bell over the door rang again and a woman backed in with two large boxes that she carried over to the postal counter. I could hear the women whispering, and when I looked over, they were both staring at me.

I sat down at the computer and pulled up Google. There were a few travel articles on the island (apparently Melanie's Sea Shanty Bed-and-Breakfast had the best blueberry muffins on the West Coast) and some random articles on its history, but other than a short piece mentioning a funeral, I couldn't find anything on Dick's first wife and daughter. The story might have been too small to be picked up by the larger papers. I tried a few other searches. I found an article on West Coast architecture that mentioned Morrigan. Apparently the Wickhams used to offer house tours during the summer. In the summer of 1957, one of the tourists took a nasty fall down the stairs, and after that the house had been closed to the general public. The article didn't mention whether the tourist had recovered, but it would have said something if the tourist had died, wouldn't it?

“Ah. Morrigan,” a voice said behind me. I jumped and spun around. Jesus. She must have been wearing super-quiet librarian shoes. It was another librarian, younger than the first. She had a nice smile and I noticed she was pretty, but she needed some major fashion advice. Her outfit was heavy on the pastels and had shoulder pads. Her name tag said
Mandy
. She looked over my shoulder at the screen, and I cringed.

“Uh.” I couldn't tell if this was worse than being caught with porn.

She looked me in the eye. “Researching the island history for school?”

Was she really going to give me this easy out? “Um, yeah. I have a paper.”

“You might want to check out the archives section. There are a couple amateur historians on the island. They've collected quite a bit of stuff. The local paper hasn't yet caught up to the idea of having an online presence.” She motioned over to a shelf on the left. “You can't check things from the archive out, but you might find what you're looking for in there. There are old letters from people who used to live here and copies of the local paper.”

“Thanks.” I walked over to the shelf, where there were three file boxes. I hefted one onto the closest table and lifted the top off. The box was divided into sections and I grabbed a file at random. It was an old copy of the
Nairne News
. The headline read
MISSING TEENS ASSUMED DEAD
. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. The box was full of documents. All day long I had been looking forward to finding out more, but now that it was in front of me, I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

“It's good to see people your age interested in history,” the librarian said. “You know what they say, don't you? Those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

After she left, I pulled the other two boxes onto the table. I started pulling out files, trying to figure out if there was a particular order to everything. There were clippings from the newspaper on various island events: Fourth of July parades, school plays, the election of a new police chief. The older
clippings were yellow and brittle. Overall, Nairne Island wasn't shaping up to look like a very happening place. Then I saw something that caught my eye. It was from 1924 and the black headline was in giant forty-plus-size font.

The Island Loses One of Its Own in Tragic Accident

Molly O'Shannon, 17, was found dead early yesterday morning at the Morrigan estate, her place of employment. Jonathon Mark, the butler, found her body at the bottom of the front hall stair. Cause of death is a broken neck following a fall.

Miss O'Shannon had lived on the island for just over a year, working as a maid at the Morrigan estate. “Terrible loss. She was a lovely girl. We never had any problems with her,” said Mr. Wickham, expressing his sorrow on behalf of the entire family. Reports are that the Wickhams have offered to pay the costs of the funeral for the girl. A service will be held at the Presbyterian Church this coming Saturday at 2 p.m. All are welcome.

I dug the first article I'd seen back out. A quick check of the date at the bottom showed that the paper was just over twenty years old.

Missing Teens Assumed Dead

The search for two missing sisters was called off today. Both girls, ages 18 and 16, have been missing since May 30.

The girls were last seen at a party on Tara Cove Beach on the night of the thirtieth. Three witnesses recall them stating that they were planning to go “ghost hunting” at the Morrigan estate. Witnesses have also confirmed the girls had been drinking. Early search efforts focused on the grounds of Morrigan and the surrounding area, but no sign of the girls was found.

“It's like they simply disappeared,” Holly Watson, a school friend of the girls, said at a candlelit prayer vigil held last week. The girls' parents declined to comment for this story, although Mabel Brink, a family member, stated: “These were good girls. Whatever happened to them, they didn't deserve it. All those people who said they ran off should be ashamed of themselves.”

Constable Edmunds stated that it wasn't viable to keep the search going after so much time with no identified leads. “Our hope is that the girls caught a ride with someone to the mainland. It's possible that they're fine, but they're afraid to call home knowing they'll be in trouble. Worst-case scenario is they went off swimming or boating late at night and had some sort of
accident. We've filed missing-person reports and at this point there isn't much else we can do.”

Anyone with any news on the missing girls is encouraged to call Constable Edmunds.

I rubbed the back of my neck. It might have been all the small, blurry print or the dust, but I was getting a headache. I still needed to find something recent about Nathaniel's family. At the back of the next box I found it. There was a picture under the headline. I recognized Nathaniel's mom from the picture in his room.

Catastrophic Boating Accident Claims Two Lives

Marine investigators declared yesterday that Sylvia Wickham and her daughter, Evelyn Wickham, were both casualties of the February 9 boating accident.

The Wickhams' boat,
The Tempest,
was found floating off Porto Cove Bay early in the morning of February 10. There was no one aboard and no damage to the boat. No life jackets were found on the boat. Mr. Richard Wickham reported his wife and daughter missing on Thursday evening when they failed to return home from what was planned to be a short sail. Mrs. Wickham's body was recovered two
days later, but Evelyn, age 10, has not been found. She is presumed dead at this time.

Investigators could determine no cause for the accident. Mrs. Wickham was an experienced sailor and there were no indications that the boat had any mechanical problems. The weather on the day Mrs. Wickham and her daughter disappeared was a sunny 38 degrees with light wind, which should have posed no difficulties. Although it is early in the season, it was not uncommon for Mrs. Wickham to take the boat out unattended. The police have stressed there were no signs of foul play and have declared the incident to be a tragic accident.

Mrs. Wickham and her daughter, Evelyn, are survived by Richard and Nathaniel Wickham. A private memorial service for family only is being held this weekend.

I put the paper down and rummaged through part of the box. It was clear that the Wickham family had had more than their share of trouble. Still, the boating accident sounded shifty to me. Why did the police feel it was so important to stress that there were no signs of foul play?

The librarian cleared her throat. That's when I noticed it had grown dark outside.

“We'll lock up soon,” she said softly.

I looked down at my watch. Shit. I'd lost all sense of time. It was already almost seven. My mom must be freaking out. I grabbed my phone out of my bag. I'd turned the ringer off when I'd gotten to the library. Shit. Six missed calls.

“Thanks for telling me about the archives,” I said, shoving the files back into the boxes.

“I hope you found what you were looking for.” Mandy pulled on the sleeves of her cardigan. She was wearing about a hundred small silver bangles on her arm.

“Most of it.”

She had a smudge of gray dust on her cheek. I had one more question she might be able to help me with, and after all, if you can't ask your librarian, who can you ask?

“Have you ever heard anything about a member of the Wickham family being kept locked in an attic?” I asked. I had to hand it to the librarian. She didn't look surprised or ask me how I could have become part of a family that I didn't know basic things about, like if they'd had relatives in the belfry.