Page 26 of First Street (Harbor View Cozy Fantasy #1)

Chapter Twenty-One

Skye

“Clare set up that joint checking account when I was leaving for college,” I told Arthur quietly. “She put both our names on it. Said it was for incidental things. Books, food, whatever didn’t fall under tuition. And she always made sure there was something in it.”

Arthur sat across from me, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

The late afternoon light filtered through the kitchen window, casting his shadow long and solid across the table.

He was the one person I could talk to about everything.

What had happened to my mother, what I was going through now.

Ocean hadn’t pressed me with questions when I blurted out that her grandmother had known that something could happen to her. When I came into the house visibly upset, my daughter had simply wrapped her arms around me.

I told her vaguely that Grandma had made financial arrangements for everything. That was all I could manage in the moment. When I said I needed to go across the street and talk to Arthur, she just nodded. She understood.

“She never closed the account,” I went on. “Even after I graduated, even after I got married. Every so often, she’d text me out of the blue and say, ‘Check the account. There’s something for Ocean. Or something for you. Do what you want with it.’”

Arthur reached across and covered my hand with his. His touch was warm, solid.

“Then today,” I said, clearing my throat, “I went to the bank. I figured I’d try to get a short-term loan to cover what I owe Bernie and take care of the funeral arrangements until Clare’s estate gets sorted out.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Arthur interrupted, his voice rising slightly, sounding more hurt than angry. “You know I’d give you whatever you need.”

“I know. I do. And thank you.” A tear slipped free, and I swiped at it with the back of my hand. “But I didn’t want to ask anyone. I needed to feel like I could handle this one thing.”

Arthur nodded solemnly. He understood that kind of pride.

“I was sitting there with the branch manager, trying to fill out the paperwork, when she looked up at me and said, ‘You’ve got plenty of funds in your joint account with your mother.’”

Arthur didn’t flinch. “Clare always made sure you were taken care of, sweetheart. She knew what she was doing. Even when the rest of us didn’t.”

“No, this wasn’t just some money.” My voice shook. “She emptied everything. Her main account, her savings…all of it. It seems that she even liquidated her investments. And she moved it all into the joint account. And she did it the week before she died.”

Arthur’s brows pulled together. “Maybe she was just trying to plan ahead. Get her affairs in order.”

“The week before?” I said, my voice catching. “And not a word to me about it? That’s not planning, Arthur. That’s fear. That’s someone who felt her life was in danger.”

Arthur didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached for the desk calendar on the counter behind him and began flipping through the pages, scanning each one like he was trying to place something.

“That’s right around the time she was all wound up about Madeline Hart,” he said finally. “And those documents in the envelope.” He nodded toward the plastic storage bin I’d dropped off that morning. “When we first talked about it, she said she felt like she was holding a live wire.”

“You think she really believed a politician would come after her?”

Arthur let out a dry huff. “Skye, your mother could turn obsessing into an Olympic sport and take home the gold every time. All I can tell you is she was worried. The thing is, it didn’t stop her.

I told her more than once to get rid of it, to hand it all over to Hart or her people.

But she wouldn’t listen. This was trouble she didn’t need, and she knew it. But apparently, it didn’t stop her.”

A faint whiff of pipe tobacco drifted through the room, and I didn’t even have to look. I knew exactly who had arrived.

Arthur didn’t miss a beat. “Well, it’s about time you showed up. What were you doing? Taking a nap in your crypt?”

I glanced toward the empty corner and gave a small smile. “Hi, Henry.”

Arthur gave a long-suffering sigh. “He sends his regards. Along with the usual unsolicited opinions.”

“What is he saying now?”

Arthur tilted his head slightly, listening. “He wants to know your ultimate goal. And before you ask—yes, he’s quoting another Sherlock Holmes story.”

A pause. Arthur rolled his eyes. “No, Henry, The Adventure of the Norwood Builder is not helpful right now.”

Another pause. Then, “Nope. Not repeating that one out loud.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What is he saying?”

Arthur gave me a sidelong look. “Trust me, you don’t want to know. But let’s just say he’s invested in this situation. And possibly overcaffeinated. Spiritually.”

“I want to find my mother’s killer,” I said quietly. “Or at least know what really happened to her.”

Arthur shifted his gaze back me. “By the way, I made a couple of phone calls. None of the neighbors had anything. No cameras, nothing they saw that night to help ID whoever broke into the barn.”

He turned toward where I guessed Henry was standing and went still for a moment, listening.

“Well,” Arthur muttered, “finally, a good idea.”

“What is it?”

“He says you should confront your suspect. Expose her. The same way your mother was trying to. Shine a light on her hypocrisy. He thinks that might be the only real shot at justice.”

“That sounds…reasonable.” And it did, at least on the surface.

But underneath, the truth pressed like a weight on my chest. There were no witnesses, no help coming.

Just me, Arthur and two ghosts. I had to tread carefully.

I had a daughter to protect. If this woman was capable of murder, I wouldn’t risk her getting anywhere near Ocean.

I pulled out my phone and opened the photo I’d taken of the business card Hart’s attorney had left at the bookstore. Catherine Lowe .

Tapping in the number, it rang once, then went straight to voicemail.

“Hi, this is Skye Randall,” I said after the tone. “I’m calling about your client, Madeline Hart. I need to speak with her directly regarding her interest in something my mother had in her possession. Please call me back.”

Ending the call, I stared at the screen for a long moment before setting the phone down on the table. The silence settled around us like morning fog.

“All we can do now is wait,” Arthur said finally, pushing to his feet. He went to the cabinet, pulled a bottle of wine, and set out two glasses.

“And drink,” he added, casting a glance at the empty corner. “And none for you.”

“She probably won’t see the message until Monday.”

“Naturally.” Arthur snorted, uncorking the bottle. “Lawyers don’t work past four, unless someone’s suing or dying.”

Crossing to the front window of Arthur’s apartment, I looked out toward Clare’s house across the street. Hopefully, Ocean was still buried in those photo albums. The door had been locked on the way out, but that didn’t stop the worry from creeping in.

When I turned back to the kitchen, Arthur had a plate of cheese and crackers waiting, along with two glasses of wine.

“Have you read what’s in that envelope? The letters?” I asked him.

“Only what Clare mentioned. General stuff about Madeline Hart. What she was about, what she’d done, and how she could speak out of both sides of her mouth without pulling a muscle.”

“In this day and age, why does that even matter? People with rap sheets longer than the Constitution still get elected to office.”

Arthur gave a wry laugh. “True. But those politicians don’t usually court votes from certain demographics while pretending to be saints.” He gave the wine in his glass a slow swirl. “It’s all polls and politics. Smoke, mirrors, and just enough moral outrage to keep the donations flowing.”

My cell rang. The number on the screen made me blink. It was the same one I’d left a message for only minutes ago.

“Well,” I said. “It looks like Catherine Lowe’s working overtime.”

Arthur rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together. Translation, there’s money in it for her.

I answered and switched to speaker, letting Arthur listen in.

After a quick introduction, the lawyer went straight on the defensive.

“My interest in purchasing a certain file folder from Ms. Randall, your mother, was on behalf of a client. It has nothing to do with Congresswoman Hart. My client?—”

“Let’s stop right there,” I cut in. “Your card was attached to the file you’re after. I found it among my mother’s belongings. Inside are letters from the congresswoman herself. And for the record, that folder is currently locked up safe at Rainbow Reef Books, with a friend of my mother’s.”

“Regardless of who owns it or has it in their possession, I’ve been retained for the purpose of purchasing the folder from you.”

“Well, I won’t work with an intermediary. What I want is a face-to-face meeting with the congresswoman, since she’s obviously the one making the request.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Lowe said.

“Well, then there’s nothing else to discuss,” I replied evenly. “Have a good night, Ms. Lowe.”

“Wait! Wait.” Her tone sharpened. “You do understand that the congresswoman is an important woman. She has responsibilities. She represents the people of Connecticut in Washington. Her time is taken up with drafting legislation, serving on committees, meeting with constituents?—”

“I’m not interested in her CV,” I interrupted her. “She wants something. I have it. Saturday morning, at the bookstore. Those are my terms. If she doesn’t show up, the folder…well, I’ll leave it to you to imagine in whose hands it could end up.”

“Ms. Randall, that’s quite unreasonable. And it borders on blackmail, I might add.”

“I’ve said nothing about wanting anything from her in return for documents that you say have nothing to do with her.”

The lawyer was silent.

“You heard my terms,” I continued. “We’re done here.”

I ended the call and looked at Arthur.

He raised his glass with a grin. “Sweetheart, you’ve got your mother’s spine...and her talent for putting people in their place. Love it.”