Page 4 of Artifice (Pros and Cons Mysteries #4)

W hile Margaret continued the tour, Olive tried to get the image of that singular dark eye out of her mind. But it was hard to forget.

As was the terrified cry.

As they walked, Olive noticed how the salt-laden wind whistled through gaps in the century-old window frames.

The sound created a symphony of moans and whispers throughout the sprawling structure, almost making the house seem alive.

The oak floors beneath her seemed to creak with every footstep, announcing arrivals long before they appeared.

Most of the students arrived at Lighthouse Harbor through court mandates—juvenile offenders given one last chance before more serious consequences. Others came from desperate families, their substantial tuition payments secured through second mortgages or depleted college funds.

A small percentage were state-funded cases, children with nowhere else to go after cycling through foster homes that couldn’t handle their behaviors. The average stay lasted between six and twelve months, though some remained for up to two years if their progress warranted the extended program.

The home operated through a complex funding structure: private tuition covered about 60 percent of operational costs, with state contracts providing another 25 percent. The remainder came from private donations.

Halfway through the tour, the thunderstorm fully arrived. The building seemed to inhale and exhale with the storm, its timber bones expanding and contracting as they had for generations.

In its own way, the grand old structure was perhaps the most effective therapist at Lighthouse Harbor. Its isolation forced introspection, its history offered perspective, and its very survival against the relentless sea was a testament to resilience.

For teenagers who’d exhausted all other options, resilience was the most valuable lesson of all.

They breezed through a recreation room then the kitchen. Finally, Margaret led Olive to her office.

“Let me show you this.” Margaret pulled what looked like a scroll from her bookshelf and unrolled the paper across her desk.

Olive crept closer for a better look.

Margaret began to enthusiastically show Olive the architectural plans for renovations the facility desperately needed.

As she pointed to the blueprints, her voice rose with barely contained excitement as she described the proposed addition to the east wing that would house an expanded therapy center and vocational training facilities.

“The state grants only cover our basic operational needs, Ms. Bettencourt,” she explained, straightening her skirt.

“But these young people deserve more than the basics. Our heating system dates back to the sixties. Last winter, we had students wearing coats indoors for nearly three weeks when it failed during a particularly brutal cold snap.”

She gestured toward the windows where the view of an old lighthouse was partially obscured by scaffolding.

“And the electrical system . . .” She sighed. “Well, I’m sure you noticed the lights flickering when you came in. We’re constantly at risk of falling out of code compliance.”

“It definitely sounds as if there’s a big need for financial donations. I’ve narrowed my choices down to three different nonprofits. Yours is one of them.” Olive didn’t want anyone to feel too confident that her decision was made.

“We’re so pleased to hear that. As you can imagine, the work that we do here is life-changing. The funding you’re potentially offering us would go really far.”

“I agree that this place has a lot of potential. However, I’d like to know more.

My father instilled in me the importance of doing my research before giving money away.

I want to make sure I’m using these funds for something positive, giving it to a nonprofit that won’t simply flush it down the drain or use it to pad the pockets of administrators. ”

Margaret’s expression was unreadable as she observed Olive. “That’s only wise. I’m confident that after you spend some time here you’ll see that’s exactly who we are. This money will go toward bettering life for these students.”

Olive wasn’t so sure about that. It was too easy for those in positions of power to cut corners or abuse the system.

Despite that, she offered a smile. “Now that I’ve gotten the tour, I’d love to get settled in at the bed-and-breakfast where I’m staying. I find travel to be quite exhausting. But if the invitation still stands, I’ll come back tomorrow to learn more.”

Margaret nodded curtly. “Of course. We’d love to have you. Perhaps you could sit in on some of our instruction so you can see what our school day is like.”

“I’d like that.”

“And, of course, there’s the board meeting on Thursday and the fundraising gala on Friday. We’d love to have you here for those too.”

“I wouldn’t miss them.” Olive paused. “What are the chances I could also talk to some of the students? I’d love to hear their perspectives on how this program has impacted their lives.”

A shadow passed through Margaret’s gaze, but she smiled and nodded. “Of course. That only makes sense. We’ll be happy to do whatever you need.”

Olive grinned. “Great. I’ll be here bright and early in the morning. How does nine a.m. sound?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Excellent. I’m planning on spending all week here and then leaving on Saturday. If there’s anything else you can do to help me see all aspects of this program, then I’d love that. Maybe I could even talk to some kids who’ve graduated from the program.”

Margaret’s smile remained terse. “I’m sure I can arrange that also.”

“Great.” Olive paused. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

One week. That was all the time Olive had to gather the information she needed.

To find out what happened to Colin Andrews.

She had no time to waste.

Olive couldn’t be seen in public with Tevin. The town was too small, and people might ask too many questions if they were seen together. That would make this assignment a little more challenging—but they were both up for challenges.

Edgewood, Maine, a town of 2,300, nestled against the Atlantic’s unforgiving edge.

Founded in the late 1700s as a fishing village, the town still derived most of its income from the sea.

Lobster traps and fishing trawlers lined the working harbor, while three seafood processing plants provided year-round employment to nearly a third of the residents.

The downtown area consisted of a four-block stretch of weathered clapboard buildings painted in faded blues, grays, and whites. Those buildings housed a hardware store, a grocery, two pubs, and several shops selling local crafts that attracted the modest summer tourism trade.

Visitors came mainly for the unspoiled coastline and the historic lighthouse that stood sentinel on the northern headland. Despite that, Edgewood remained blissfully overlooked compared to more popular coastal destinations farther south.

Olive had a knack for remembering numbers and facts that could sometimes be useless—but oftentimes, it wasn’t. She found the history of the town fascinating, however.

Olive needed to talk to the people here and find out what they knew. Sitting in her hotel room by herself wouldn’t get her any answers.

That was why she decided to eat dinner out at one of the town’s charming restaurants.

Olive pushed open the weathered blue door of The Salty Kettle, grateful to escape the misting rain that continued to fall.

The restaurant occupied the ground floor of a converted nineteenth-century chandlery, its maritime heritage preserved in the exposed wooden beams overhead and the collection of antique navigational instruments displayed along the whitewashed brick walls.

The hostess, a woman in her sixties with salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a loose bun, greeted Olive with an easy smile. “Just one tonight, dear? The counter’s full, but I’ve got a nice table by the window.”

Olive nodded, following the woman through the busy dining room. Monday night in early May should have meant a quiet off-season atmosphere. But The Salty Kettle appeared to be the exception to the rule. Nearly every table was filled.

The table offered a perfect view of the harbor, where fishing boats gently rocked against their moorings and strings of lights twinkled along the wharf despite the relatively early hour and gloomy weather.

A small candle flickered in a mason jar on her table, its flame reflected in the rain-speckled window.

“Our special tonight is the lobster mac and cheese,” Olive’s server—her nametag read “Stephanie”—informed her, placing a glass of ice water on the table.

“It’s what made us famous, if you believe the travel magazines.

Chef uses three kinds of Maine cheese, cream from the dairy up the road, and lobster caught this morning.

Comes with a side of garlic bread and house salad. ”

The aroma of garlic, butter, and seafood that permeated the air had already made Olive’s decision for her. “I’m sold.”

“Perfect.”

As Olive waited for her meal, she mentally reviewed what she’d learned at Lighthouse Harbor that afternoon.

Margaret had been so eager to show her the plans for expansion, so transparent about their financial struggles. Her earnestness would make what Olive was planning to do both easier and infinitely more complicated.

What was the home hiding? Who knew its secrets?

And where was Colin Andrews now? That was her main concern.

She needed to find the boy, and she prayed he was unharmed.

Nothing was worse than delivering devastating news to hopeful parents. She hoped that wouldn’t be the outcome.

At that thought, her phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen and felt the blood drain from her face.

Someone had sent her an old picture of her father.

Probably the same person who’d hinted they knew who killed him.

Why was someone tormenting her like this?