Page 19 of First Street (Harbor View Cozy Fantasy #1)

Chapter Fifteen

Arthur

Clare had been Arthur’s closest friend for over forty years and losing her had been hard. More than hard. Frankly, it’d knocked the wind out of him. It had been a difficult couple of weeks, waiting for Skye to arrive. More difficult than he’d expected.

Arthur had been just a thirty-something when he took a chance on this dusty old bookstore in Harbor View.

He’d been through the village a few times, and something about the feel of the place stuck in his head.

The slower pace, the salty smells, the cobblestones, the brisk breeze off the water all seemed to beckon to him.

It was all so different from Manhattan and the life he’d been leading there.

Since college, Arthur had been involved in theater in New York. Writing, directing, and occasionally acting, he’d become so totally immersed in the endless hours, the drinking, drugs, and the toxic relationships, that after a while he lost track of who he was and what he wanted.

One morning, he’d woken up on a ratty sofa in an unfamiliar apartment. A number of other bodies lay strewn about the place, and he’d been ready to vomit from the stale odor of cheap whisky and cigarettes. Then he realized that the smell was coming from him.

That was the turning point. The life he was leading was going nowhere, and he knew it would kill him if he didn’t make a change. A major change. And that had to start with getting away from his crowd.

His family was gone, except for a divorced aunt who lived in Connecticut. When Arthur called her, she suggested a stint in a rehab center near her.

Six weeks later, he emerged looking at life quite differently, and he’d thought of Harbor View. It offered the change he needed to make.

Now, four decades later, it was still the place he was always meant to be.

Right off, he’d liked his neighbor across First Street.

Clare was sharp-tongued, fiercely independent, and—to most of the town—downright prickly.

But not to him. From day one, she’d been his person .

Showing up for weekly dinners and impromptu visits, she’d always been good for wine and leftovers and gossip and opinions. Arthur loved it.

Over the years, they’d stopped needing labels. Neighbor, friend, family (albeit self-selected), it all blended nicely. In the end, they were just Arthur and Clare. And they always had each other’s back.

God, he still remembered the wintry day she called him over, voice unusually soft, and introduced him to a wide-eyed, frightened little scamp who’d just lost her mother on the interstate.

Now, here she was, all grown up, sitting at his kitchen table. The daughter of his dearest friend, true. But Skye was the absolute closest thing to a child of his own. In his heart, she’d always been exactly that.

Grief was written across her face like a scar. The loss of Clare definitely hung heavy between them. But there was comfort too, in being together. In her knowing she could lean on him now. It warmed him to his core that she trusted him with finding out what happened to her mother.

And Arthur himself? He was in this all the way. For Skye. And for Ocean. And for Clare.

He handed her a mug, the steam curling in the air between them.

“How’d you manage to leave your urchin behind?”

“That house is like a treasure cave for her,” Skye replied with a half-smile. “Clare’s stuff is everywhere. I told Ocean I’m bringing in some dealers next week to help clear out the house. I asked her to put aside anything she wants to keep.”

“I’m sure that went over beautifully,” Arthur said with a smirk. “She’s a packrat like her grandmother. I can tell.”

Skye smiled as she closed her eyes and breathed in the mocha. “Oh my god, how I’ve missed this.”

Out of nowhere...literally...Henry’s voice cut in, surly and impatient. “Well? Are you going to discuss what’s in that box or what?”

Arthur didn’t look up. He just waved a hand through the air, like batting away a fly.

“He’s here, isn’t he,” Skye said, glancing around the room. “Hello, Henry.”

Arthur sighed dramatically. “Of course he is. As nosy as ever.”

Henry Stewart, the bookstore’s resident ghost, had never met a mystery he didn’t consider his personal assignment. As a lifelong Sherlock Holmes devotee—even in death—he considered the process of ‘deduction’ a sacred act.

And solving the mystery of Clare’s death was something that he was determined to be involved in.

“Why won’t you show yourself to me?” Skye asked the empty air. “Jo does.”

“I didn’t decide who could see me and who couldn’t,” Henry snapped. “Not to be blasphemous, but it was the same Meddler who trapped me with this pill of a flibbertigibbet.”

Arthur scoffed. Henry could be downright rude when he wanted to be.

“What did he say?” Skye asked as the ghost materialized.

Henry was scowling fiercely at him, but Arthur had long ago lost any concern regarding the changeable moods and flashes of temper.

“My resident malingerer was just expressing his gratitude for being blessed with someone as charming as myself.”

“Charming, hah!” Henry huffed. “Come on, Booker. Let’s get on with the business at hand.”

The spirit strode to the table, as solid as the mug in Arthur’s hand. Henry stopped and shifted his weight slightly to one side, leaning on his cane. The ivory-colored handle, carved from whalebone, gleamed from a century of constant use.

His vest was wool, and a deep burgundy color.

It was tailored nicely to his slender frame, and the shine on the brass buttons had dulled enough to avoid being showy.

Beneath the vest, a cream-colored shirt, the sleeves rolled up on his forearms with practiced precision.

A chain hung in a graceful arc to a vest pocket where Henry kept a gold watch engraved with his initials.

His trousers were dark and high-waisted, pleated but unpretentious. His well-made shoes were broken in, as if he walked more than one would expect of a ghost trapped in one house.

The clothes, taken as a whole, were informal and yet dignified. Henry had style, though Arthur would never admit it in the ghost’s presence.

Henry’s face was strong, with a square jaw and the faintest shadow of stubble that never looked unkempt.

One eyebrow bore a thin scar, a single pale line through otherwise expressive brows.

And his nose, slightly crooked, suggested a brawl that hadn’t gone entirely his way.

But instead of ruining his looks, the flaw made him interesting. Roguish, even.

His gray eyes were sharp, intelligent, flinty, and intense.

He had a gaze that seemed to see straight through skin and bone.

And then there was his hair. Thick and chestnut brown, a little tousled, as if he’d just run a hand through it mid-thought.

Not slicked back like some overly polished film star.

No, Henry possessed the kind of effortless, understated good looks that would be hard for anyone to ignore. If they could see him, that is.

Arthur took a sip of his hot mocha and muttered under his breath, “Ridiculous, really. Even in death, the man has cheekbones.”

Skye was on the same wavelength as Henry, though she didn’t know it. She tapped the box on the table with her free hand.

“Tell me about this stuff,” she said to Arthur. “Who is Madeline Hart?”

“Yes. Who is she?” Henry repeated.

Madeline Hart . Arthur tried to keep his distaste for the woman out of his voice.

“She’s a Connecticut congresswoman. Powerful and well-connected.

She’s got half of Washington’s lobbyists putting money in her pocket.

Rumor has it, she even has a connection with one of the remaining crime families in New York.

She’s a loose cannon, politically. But she knows how to play the game, and she plays for keeps.

And when she wants something, she gets it, no matter who it hurts.

The knife goes in and out quite silently, and she leaves no fingerprints behind. ”

“And she wants what’s in here?” Skye asked, pulling out an envelope and placing Clare’s notes on top. “What’s so important, and what was my mother doing with it?”

Arthur shook his head slowly. “Madeline built her entire career spouting off about family values. Neglected children, bad parenting, etc. She’s all about protecting the sanctity of the home.

She shows up randomly at school board meetings and Sunday fundraisers, kissing babies and preaching support for working mothers and fathers.

Either party would canonize her to keep her on their side of the political aisle. ”

He paused, his voice dropping. He laid a hand lightly on the table and pointed one finger at the envelope. “But in that folder is evidence that she wants buried.”

“What is it, old man?” Henry demanded, tapping his cane on the floor. “What’s in there?”

“She had a child of her own,” Arthur continued. “A baby boy, born with a disability. And she had him institutionalized. It’s a secret she has kept locked away. There has never been any public recognition of his existence. No name, no photos, not a single mention. Erased. As if he never existed.”

Henry gestured with his cane at the papers on the table. “We have our suspect.”

Arthur shot him a look. “No, we don’t, Henry. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Wait.” Skye’s brow furrowed. “Are you saying my mother was blackmailing her?”

Arthur scoffed. “Of course not. But an administrator from the now-defunct institution was doing exactly that. In that box, there are birth records. Copies of cashed checks. Letters from the time that the place was closing, demanding that Hart come and get her son. She didn’t.

She sent another check and told them to handle it. ”

“The woman is nefarious, and this...this is The Adventure of the Second Stain exactly,” Henry said. “A hidden packet of letters, damning enough to ruin reputations, upend political ambitions, perhaps even bring down a government.”

“What’s he saying?” Skye asked.

“He’s talking about a Sherlock Holmes case,” Arthur muttered.

“And as in Conan Doyle’s story,” Henry continued, undeterred. “It wasn’t rage or revenge that pulled the trigger. It was fear. Fear of exposure. Fear of those words landing in the wrong hands. A collection of letters like these can kill as cleanly as a bullet.”

Arthur didn’t dismiss it. He couldn’t.

Henry fixed his gaze on Skye. “So yes. I’d wager these letters got your mother killed. They surely gave this woman the motive to try.”

Arthur looked at Skye. “Our friend here believes this provides a possible motive for the attack.”

The fact that Clare still had this box certainly meant she’d been holding on to something very dangerous.

“All this had been in the possession of Penelope Arden, the institution’s administrator,” he said quietly. “She was the one blackmailing the congresswoman.”

Skye’s voice was barely above a whisper. “How did Clare get it?”

“The same way she ended up with a barn full of forgotten lives.” Arthur gave a small shrug. “An auction. An estate sale. Someone passed away.”

“This Penelope Arden?”

“Yes.” Arthur hesitated, the weight of it pressing down. “And so is…”

“Madeline Hart’s son?” Skye asked.

He nodded.

Henry let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Another Holmes case. The Naval Treaty . Confidential documents, ruined lives, political fallout. And also, A Scandal in Bohemia . One photograph, one letter, was enough to bring kings to their knees.”

Arthur watched him circle the table slowly, thinking and tapping the handle of his cane gently against his temple.

“In every case,” Henry continued, “it was the written word that did the damage. A scrap of paper with a damaging truth on it. Fear, not fury, was the killer’s motive.

These letters were enough to ruin Hart. Her political career, her personal reputation, everything.

She was attempting to make damn sure they never come to light. She is the villain.”

“What’s Henry saying?” Skye pressed. “Tell me.”

“I will, in a moment, my love,” Arthur said before looking back at the ghost. “Is that your last word on this, Sherlock?”

“It is.”

“Finally. A last word on something! ”

Henry scowled at him.

Arthur conveyed the gist of it to Skye.

“But how did this congresswoman know my mother had the box?” she asked.

“An insightful question,” Henry cut in.

“Hart was holding a town hall meeting in Harbor View a couple of months ago. Clare had just gotten her hands on the box. And what does she do?” Arthur shook his head. “She confronts the woman.”

“She confronted her?”

“Publicly,” Arthur said, still half in disbelief. “In front of a packed room.”

“What happened?”

“Hart called it a fabrication, waved it off like it was nothing. But a week later, Clare got a call from the congresswoman’s lawyer.”

“Catherine Lowe.”

Arthur nodded. “A poised, velvet-gloved, legal assassin. She offered to buy the documents.”

Skye motioned to the notepad. “Is that what these dollar amounts are?”

“I assume so,” Arthur said. “I told Clare it wasn’t worth the trouble. Hart plays dirty. I advised her to give them the damn box and walk away. And I thought she did. She didn’t mention it again.”

“This calls to mind The Adventure of the Priory School ,” Henry said from over near the fireplace. “Although a kidnapping occurred, it also involved a powerful figure, a hefty bribe, and a trail of murder and deceit.”

Arthur gave a snort. “For a change, there’s some value in that.”

Skye turned to him. “Value in what?”

“He’s actually being helpful,” Arthur said, then glanced toward Henry. “What would Holmes do in this case? What’s our next step?”

Henry didn’t hesitate. “Start with the attorney, Catherine Lowe. She’s likely the weakest link in Hart’s chain. People like that always think they’re the smartest in the room. That arrogance leaves an opening for us.”

That made sense to Arthur.

As he turned to relate this to Skye, Henry came closer, his voice low and certain.

“And don’t underestimate the value of a good bluff, old man. Even Moriarty flinched once.”