Page 42 of In the Pursuit of Haven
I returned the books to the box, recognizing Haven’s favorite romances as I went through them. I’d smuggled quite a few of these into my room back in the day. Reaching for the last item on the upper shelf, I noticed a corded rope swinging from a perfect square of wood attached to the ceiling. Those usually brought down stairs or a ladder that folded down from an attic, but… this was a closet.
The shelf was in the way.
My eyes went to the board that made up the shelf, and I noticed that it could be easily unhooked from the sides. Snapping open the buckled edges, I peeled out the board. Filled with more curiosity, I quickly took out Haven’s clothes, along with the pole, and set them on the bed.
The whole closet was cleared of junk.
With everything gone, I tugged on the rope and, just as I suspected, a ladder unfolded from an attic above.
Well, of course Haven had never used this odd entrance to get up there. It was horribly inconvenient to move everything out. The attic wouldn’t have anything in it, either, not that the fleeting thought stopped me from investigating.
Snapping on the flashlight on my cellphone, I found myself taking the creaking rungs into the darkness.
More afraid of spiders than anything, I moved the light around to stop myself from hitting webs that might cover the entrance. So far, so good. I wondered if there would be stray animals up here, too.
What I saw instead took my breath away.
I’d found a mystery room.
Stacks of notebooks covered a desk on the far side of the attic. Newspaper clippings like the ones from crime shows were tacked to the wall, complete with the strings leading from one piece of information to another—maps of Salem and its islands, pictures of ships, gravestones, magazine articles, even coordinates.
Haven was conducting a full-on investigation.
Drawing closer, I noticed that everything had to do with the Crabbs… as if I didn’t already know. Haven was trying to figure out the mystery of this treasure. She had information on ships and their boarding records that went clear back to the 1600s. She’d pinned up write-ups on famous historical personalities from around Salem, from anyone to do with the witch trials to more recent political figures.
My light drifted past newspaper clippings on Drake’s death, Matthew’s death, notes on Pete’s aimless deep-sea fishing expeditions. Every piece of the family’s information was tacked or written next to their photographs in black marker.
There was dust on everything… except a picture of Jessie pinned in the middle of it all. She’d written something next to his name:“Matthew and Drake’s nephew; Pete’s son; Abby’s brother; Roxy’s husband.”And then in a red pen, she’d written:“Next to die.”
Chapter Thirteen
My tears had dried to my cheeks.
Aunt Haven knew what Jessie was doing… but what had she been up to?
My legs felt rubbery. I sank into the chair in front of the desk, staring up at all the pieces of information Haven had gathered on this treasure hunt.
Samuel Cheever’s gravestone was on her board. I’d almost forgotten that Matthew had taken Haven there on their date-gone-wrong-gone-horribly-right!
Haven’s Polaroid of the headstone made it look like a blur, especially with all the mold and moss covering it. Her notes beside it were more interesting:“Cracked in half; does the Latin match up on the cracks make a clue? Need to get Luther to look at this translation. Double arched gravestone. Is something else buried here too? Why do the Crabbs believe this headstone is significant? Why would the reverend know where the treasure was? They were only rumored to be friends—that’s it. Did Asher Crabb just not have a lot of friends?”
I smiled uneasily. Trust Haven’s brusqueness to come out in her investigation. Her next notation by the gravestone pic made me catch my breath:“Did this get Drake killed?”
C’mon, that was all she had for me? Jessie’s uncle had died in a fire on Gerry Island. That was an accident. Wasn’t it?
She’d focused on Corwin’s cane, too, but she hadn’t figured out that the handle opened to show a message inside. That had been a lucky break on my part. She’d translated the Latin about turning the handle on a cardstock note, and wrote,“Luther says this doesn’t make sense.”
It certainly hadn’t. Luther might be her confidante… or had he just become her unwitting helper like he’d become mine?
I followed the information covering the board, using the light on my camera. Haven had tacked a Polaroid of Robert Corwin next to the Latin translation, though this shot of her cousin’s dashing suitor was far less suave than the ones I’d found in the society papers. The picture had been taken behind the needles of ship masts on the wharf, like whoever was behind the camera was stalking him. He was glancing over his shoulder like he was afraid he’d been followed.
Felicity’s photograph had“Scotland”next to it, and“Last contact was 1982.”
That was heartbreaking. I could just imagine what Felicity had gone through losing her fiancé to the same shipwreck that had taken Matthew.
Drake had more info next to his picture with a photo of Gerry Island—where he’d met his end.“What does he know about Matthew’s murder?”Haven had written that in black marker too.
That was new.
