Alice Kimberley - The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

"How do you get your guests out here?" I asked.

"If someone wants a ride to or from the Lighthouse, they just have to call the front desk. Barney, our valet Pedro, or I will give them a lift. But honestly, unless they're checking in or out and have luggage, hardly anyone asks for a ride, except at night. Most of my guests enjoy strolling to the inn or the restaurant."

Finally we pulled up in front of Fiona's newest restoration showplace. The Lighthouse was situated on a rugged cliff that overlooked an area of jagged shoreline known as Charity Point. Below us, waves crashed violently on the millennia-old rocks, kicking up white froth before withdrawing back into the dark blue Atlantic. Gulls cawed nearby as they circled on rising thermals. Across the path from the structure was a stretch of dark woods.

"How Gothic," Seymour quipped.

"Isn't it?" said Fiona with a wistful smile. "I've always told Barney is reminds me of Wuthering Heights "

Seymour rolled his eyes. "Guess all you have to do is get Pedro to change his name to Heathcliff, and you're all set."

This was my first visit to Charity Point in at least fifteen years, and the transformation of its lighthouse was astonishing. The century-old structure had never been used as an actual lighthouse in my lifetime, and for safety reasons, the main building had been bricked up decades ago.

Covered with teen graffiti, scorched by illegal bonfires, and ravaged by the elements, the lighthouse had become a real eyesore. The Town Council began debating whether to tear the place down. That's when the Finches stepped in and purchased the site-for a bargain price, too. But they had their work cut out for them. Clearly, they'd spent a small fortune to make this spot the romantic showplace it now was.

"The brickwork is pristine," I observed.

"Goodness, yes!" Fiona cried. "It took days of sandblasting to get rid of the graffiti and that garish orange paint. You can't imagine the mess we found inside when we broke through the bricked-up entrance." She shuddered at the memory.

"Well it's certainly lovely now," I said, climbing out of the cart.

The lighthouse tower was impressive. Three stories high, it was capped by a shiny brass-and-glass octagonal compartment that had once held the light itself. But the most noticeable change was to the blocky base, which had been turned into a charming cottage with bay windows, a sundeck, and a winding flagstone path that led up to the front door.

We walked through a rose-covered trellis, and I immediately spied yellow tape on the door, its thick strands emblazoned with the warning: POLICE LINE-DO NOT CROSS.

Without hesitation, Fiona tore away the tape. "Officer Womack said someone jimmied open the door."

Seymour examined the brass knob on the thick, polished door. He scratched the surface with his thumbnail and shook his head. "No way," he said. "There are scorch marks on the doorjamb, and some of the finish on the wood has actually blistered."

"From heat?" Fiona asked.

"You bet," Seymour replied. "I'd say a small explosive was used to break the lock open." You taking notes, baby?

Jack's old buffalo nickel was in my pocket, his voice still strong in my head. "I hear you, Jack. And if Seymour 's right, then this burglary and last night's near-fatal accident at the theater are connected. And if they're connected, then ruling Dr. Lilly's death an accident without further investigation would be idiotic."

Talk to your Buddy Boy first chance you get, commanded Jack in my head. Ask him if he found any evidence of an explosive device-pieces of a timer, chemical residue, anything-when he inspected the theater earlier this morning. If the same stuff was used there as here, you'll have hard evidence to take to the Staties.

I cleared my throat and turned to Seymour. "Are you sure about what you're saying? There could be a lot riding on it."

"I'm sure." Seymour nodded. "Back in the day, I sweetened an M-80-"

"A what?" Fiona asked.

Seymour rolled his eyes. "A firecracker, okay? I used petroleum jelly as an accelerant and added a touch of cordite. Ka-BOOM! Blew the door to shop class right off its hinges!"

Fiona grimaced. "Ugh."

"Good lord." I tensed, motherhood momentarily eclipsing my sleuthing. "Please do not repeat that story to Spencer. I'm anticipating girl troubles during his high school years, not random explosions."

"Don't worry, Pen. Times ain't what they used to be. A kid who tries that these days will probably be investigated for terrorist connections and end up at Gitmo. Then Spencer would spill that he learned his methods from his uncle Seymour, and I'd be on the hook."

"Very funny," Fiona said.

Seymour shrugged. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations is up for that minor act of vandalism."

"Maybe," I said. "But Mr. Kelly is still Quindicott High School 's shop teacher. And he has a memory like an elephant."

"Oh, yeah? I haven't thought about 'Big Bear' Kelly in years." Seymour shuddered. "That guy still freaks me out."

"Listen, Seymour," I pressed. "Can you find any proof of an explosive? Debris. Residue, maybe?"

"There's not much left of an explosive after the blast," Seymour explained. "Maybe if we had a spectrometer or something, we could detect residue."

Fiona huffed impatiently. "Sorry but there are no spectrometer's on my golf cart, so I suggest we go inside!"

FIONA PUSHED THROUGH the front door of the lighthouse and we followed, entering a bright, tastefully appointed two-bedroom bungalow. The cozy living room had a working fireplace, the walls were lined with aged oak paneling, and a massive plate-glass window overlooked the Atlantic shoreline.

A stiff breeze from an open side window brought in the tangy smell of ocean air, and I could hear waves splashing against the rocks below. It seemed the perfect hideaway for well-heeled vacationers who enjoyed privacy along with sweeping, dramatic views.

Just off the living room, near the door to one of the bedrooms, I noticed a circular wrought-iron staircase. "Does that go up to the lighthouse beacon?" I asked.

"It's a sunroom now," Fiona explained. "Before you go, you simply must see the view. We even placed an antique brass telescope up there."

Who needs a telescope in this joint? Jack quipped in my head. Nothing to spy on but seawater.

"I'm sure guests would enjoy looking at passing ships and seabirds." I told him.

Seabirds? Jack grunted. The only animal I ever cared about watching through a telescopic lens had four legs, a jockey, and ran around a racetrack.

I turned to Fiona. "I'll check out the scenery before we leave, but first I want to see what was disturbed by the burglar."

Our first stop was the bedroom Dr. Lilly had been using. The room was lovely, with a Victorian flower pattern, and a large antique bed with a lace canopy, also Victorian. Pretty much everything was Victorian, including a large standing mirror set in an ornate frame. On the bed, the sheets were rumpled. Dr. Lilly's robe hung on a wall rack beside a nightgown.

Adjacent to the bedroom was the bath; its tiled floor was littered with damp towels. On the basin I found a hairbrush, hair products, makeup, and a toothbrush.

I noticed a small jewelry box had been dumped on top of the dresser. A few necklaces made of hemp, beads, and other natural materials were scattered about, but little else. If there'd been any jewelry containing gemstone, gold, or silver, it had been taken.

While Fiona moved on to the next room, Seymour lingered to examine a framed painting of a sea battle. I was about to follow Fiona when I spied a piece of white paper on the nightstand. The corner of the paper had been deliberately tucked under the heavy Tiffany lamp, probably to prevent it from being sent flying by the brisk ocean breeze pouring through the open window. I tilted the lamp, pulled the paper free, and unfolded it.