Page 18 of First Street (Harbor View Cozy Fantasy #1)

Chapter Fourteen

Skye

The first thing I did Thursday morning was text the real estate agent and cancel her walkthrough. It was supposed to be tomorrow, but I couldn’t deal with that now. Not with everything hanging by a thread.

Yesterday, I’d sent Bernie and Mateo home. I’d also asked Arthur not to share the driveway footage with Sheriff Craggs. Not yet. Right now, I had a hell of a lot more faith in Arthur helping me figure out what really happened to my mother.

Besides, in my gut I knew the teenager was telling the truth. Someone had already been in that barn before he got there. What Arthur told me later, about where he found Clare at the back of the barn, the stories lined up exactly.

The side door to the barn was accessible from our back yard. It was easy enough to get in that way too. The fence was barely waist-high, and it was rotted and broken in places. Anyone could’ve come in that way without breaking a sweat.

Arthur offered to talk to our neighbors who lived in the adjoining properties behind us on Second Street.

Maybe see if any of them had security cameras.

Or a motion sensor light had been triggered.

One of them might have caught an image of something.

At this point, even a blurry shadow on grainy footage would feel like progress.

Last night, Ocean and I were both wiped out, so we ordered takeout and curled up in front of Clare’s old TV to watch one of my mother’s movies on VHS. Of all the tapes on the shelf, Ocean picked Topper . I hadn't seen it in years.

As the black-and-white film flickered to life, the opening strains of the theme song stirred old memories. I caught faint whiffs of Jo’s perfume drifting through the room. Lavender with a hint of citrus. I knew she was watching too, but thankfully she didn’t materialize.

Topper —both the movie and the old TV series—had been favorites of Jo’s.

I remembered how she and I used to watch the movie over and over until we could recite the lines right along with Cary Grant and Constance Bennett.

The two of them were ghosts, making old Topper’s life a mess.

We knew the dialogue by heart and laughed at the same scenes every time.

Last night, Ocean had snuggled against me, completely caught up in the absurdity of it all. I knew Jo was somewhere nearby, hovering quietly in the background, and it felt like past and present were gently stitched together. It was a strange, sweet kind of night.

This morning felt quieter. More grounded, somehow. I poured a second cup of coffee, sat down at the kitchen table with my mother’s old calendar, and added notes to my lists.

That’s when Jo appeared and dropped into the chair across from me like she owned the place. Honestly, considering how long she’d been haunting this house, she probably qualified for squatter’s rights. She watched me scribble for maybe ten seconds before breaking the silence.

“When is Bernie coming back to move some of that furniture out of the living room?”

I didn’t even look up. “Where’s he supposed to move it to? The barn’s full.”

“I warned Clare not to buy all that stuff. Most of it is only good for firewood.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How would you know what’s good for firewood? When was the last time you even lit a fire?”

“Mom, who are you talking to?”

I froze, pen still in hand, mouth half open.

Ocean stood in the doorway, hair tousled, still in her pajamas, blinking like she wasn’t sure what she’d just walked in on.

Jo had disappeared the instant she heard the voice, thank God. The last thing I needed was to have to explain my breakfast guest from the great beyond.

“Just thinking out loud,” I said, forcing a casual tone as I reached for my coffee. “Didn’t expect you to be up this early.”

Ocean stepped into the kitchen, eyes locked on the empty chair across from me. “Okay, but you were definitely talking to someone. Like, full-on convo. With pauses and everything.”

I gave a short laugh, trying to shrug it off. “Yeah, well, maybe my brain’s thinking Grandma’s still here. I was wondering what she’d want to do with all her stuff.”

Ocean didn’t move. “That wasn’t just wondering. That was, like…questions and answers. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

She opened the fridge door, looked inside, and closed it again.

“What happened with your meeting yesterday? I thought those guys were supposed to move some of the stuff out.”

I let out a frustrated breath. “I don’t want to start clearing things out at random. There are a few names in her calendar. Probably other antique dealers. I might call a couple and see if they’re interested in buying anything.”

“Speaking of people interested in Grandma’s stuff…” Ocean dropped a business card on the kitchen table in front of me. “George gave this to me a couple of days ago. Said some lawyer stopped by the bookstore. Looking to buy something.”

I picked up the card and read the name, printed in crisp, serif font.

Catherine Lowe, Esq.

Estate & Property Law

A New Haven address and phone number.

I looked at the name again, and something stirred in my brain. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen it.

I got up from the kitchen table, went through the sitting room into the front room, and crouched by Clare’s desk. From beneath it, I pulled out a small plastic bin. Right on top, paperclipped to a thick manila folder, was the exact same business card.

“What’s going on?” Ocean was right behind me.

“This lawyer. She’s persistent,” I said, holding up the bin. “Out of all the boxes Grandma had lying around, this is the only one she stuck under her desk. And it’s got this woman’s card on it.”

“Maybe it’s important.”

“Maybe.” We walked back to the kitchen, and I set the bin on the table. “Why don’t you grab some breakfast?”

“Don’t open it. Wait for me.”

“I won’t,” I said, but my eyes were already on the folder.

As Ocean hurriedly poured some cereal, I slid the manila folder out of the bin.

Right inside was a single sheet torn from a legal pad.

My mother’s handwriting was scrawled across it in quick, slanted lines.

Dates and times, a few cryptic notes, dollar amounts, and one name written in bold strokes along the margin, underlined three times.

I didn’t recognize the name, but it wasn’t the lawyer’s.

“Who’s Madeline Hart?” Ocean asked, beside me with her bowl of cereal in hand, peering over my shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

I grabbed my phone and texted Arthur:

Who is Madeline Hart?

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then his reply.

Merd. Don’t tell me Clare still has those letters.