LITMIR.BIZ

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explain the theoretical difference between the two. Emily, who is an event planner, had made the error once when planning a party, and had been an hour late for a movie night we’d planned, so I kept talking. “You know the house that the Girl Scouts are using for Halloween Haunts?”

      “A wonderful house, although a little worse for wear,” she said. “You know, the building out back used to be an old smokehouse.”

      I smiled and realized who Shelly’s source was. I also made a note that all of Brenda’s facts weren’t necessarily true. I understood why the experts didn’t pay her much attention.

      “I found a skeleton buried above the mantel,” I said.

      For a moment, I thought that Brenda might drop her basket. She looked like a Girl Scout who had sold her five-hundredth box of cookies and won the big prize.

      “The police are there now, but I’m staying at the main house,” I said. “Feel free to stop by tomorrow.”

      “I will,” said Brenda, her hazel eyes dancing with excitement.

      “By the way,” I said, “have you ever heard of a candle maker named Cooper from the eighteen hundreds?”

      “No,” she said, “but there were many candle makers back then. They were as common on Nantucket then as tourists are now.”

      “Have you ever heard of Quakers burying the dead at home?” I asked, trying another angle.

      “Oh, no,” she said. “This is very mysterious. I’d like to see if the woman’s aura is still in the room.”

      “It’s worth a shot,” I said, hoping I hadn’t made a mistake by reaching out to her.

      “Did you say Cooper?” Brenda asked, furrowing her brow.

      I nodded.

      “Does the name ring a bell?” I said.

      She shook her head, but I had a feeling she was searching through her encyclopedic mind.

      “I spoke to the ghost of Mary Coffin the other day,” she said instead.

      “Get out,” I said.

      Brenda’s eyes widened.

      “OK,” she said, and headed down the street.

      “I didn’t mean ‘leave,’ ” I said, calling after her. “It’s an expression.”

      But Brenda continued along her way. I let another patron pass me out of The Bean and entered to the rich aroma of their brews.

      My coffee stop was uneventful after that. My favorite barista, Clemmie, gave me a sympathetic smile after seeing Brenda bolt from me down the street. I downed a shot of espresso and continued on to the library. When I pulled up to the building, it looked empty, but I got out to make sure. The library is fittingly an extension behind the old Quaker Meeting House. The front door was closed, but I knocked and tried to listen for noise inside. When none was forthcoming, I knocked again. I was about to leave when the door opened.

      “I heard the wind is going to pick up this afternoon, so I closed the door,” said a friendly, familiar face.

      “I didn’t know you worked here,” I said to Agnes Hussey, whose laugh lines framed her fading hazel eyes and whose gray hair looked something like a halo. Agnes is a sometimes member of my candle-making classes. She is a gem. She had joined my current workshop, and had arrived for the first class with delicious, freshly baked scones.

      “I volunteer here,” she said, welcoming me inside. “Since my family and I have been on Nantucket for as long as I can remember, I decided to do my part. I’m helping an historian today. Jameson Bellows. He’s been working at the Historical Association for the last six months, preparing for an exhibit at the Whaling Museum. I hear they’re planning to hire him full-time if all goes well. He’s certainly hungry for the job. I can’t remember the last time we opened up on a Saturday for someone.”

      “Well, I’m in luck because of it,” I said. “I’m here to research a few old stories, but I don’t know where to start.”

      “Then you need to come upstairs,” said Agnes, leading the way inside.

      I followed her up a flight of stairs and to a light-filled reading room on the second floor, which was empty aside from one gentleman who had his head buried in a large tome with yellowed pages. The aroma of old books wafted through my delighted nose; it’s a scent that is hard to describe but is familiar to everyone who loves books.

      “Here you go,” Agnes said, motioning to a computer terminal. “This will connect you to our research database. If you find a manuscript or a photo or a map you like, I can pull it out for you to peruse further.”

      “Perfect,” I said, taking a seat.

      When Agnes left me, the man across the room looked up as if noticing me for the first time. He wore a corduroy jacket whose elbow patches seemed to have been added for necessity rather than style. His forehead was a little shiny, and his hair was a bit matted. I surmised that the fashion statement of his jacket was important to him since he wore it in spite of his growing perspiration.

      I smiled. He nodded and went back to his tome, so I typed in the first word that came to mind in the search box on my screen.

      MURDER

      I was surprised to find twenty-five hits, most of which were dated from the nineteenth century. I clicked on each return, and realized that much of the information came from private journals. These dozens of journals—all owned by different individuals—included pasted-in newspaper clippings, handwritten notes about local news and family issues, accounting lists, and some drawings, doodles, and creative writings.

      I felt I’d come to the right place when the name Cooper jumped out halfway down my search results with a listing from a diary from the 1860s. I clicked on the header, but when the summary of information found in the diary popped onto my screen, I knew I’d have more work ahead of me. The entry mentioned the confession of one Phoebe Cooper about the murder of one Phoebe Fuller. Unfortunately, there was no missing body in Phoebe’s confession. Also, Miss Cooper was described as a servant. It was therefore unlikely that she was a member of the Cooper family that had lived in my friend Jean Pierre’s good-sized house and had owned Cooper’s Candles. I was disappointed, but honestly not surprised I hadn’t found a good lead right away.

      I continued to scroll down the page.

      In his letter book, William Coffin, a well-known Nantucketer, noted the murder of Barnard Grayham by Jaiz Cushman. Two men. Not my story.

      Eduard Stackpole mentioned “the trial of two Indians held for murder” in the 1730s, which was too early to be connected to my skeleton if I was to believe the medical examiner, which I did.

      There were also notes about murders on board ships from the right time period that were interesting, but not helpful.

      Putting aside the hope that I’d find a story about the Cooper murder I was seeking, I typed my next query:

      COOPER’S CANDLES

      The return was disappointing: NO RECORDS FOUND BY LATEST QUERY.

      I typed in HOME BURIAL.

      NO RECORDS FOUND BY LATEST QUERY.

      I typed in MISSING WOMAN.

      This time, I was happy when NO RECORDS FOUND BY LATEST QUERY popped onto my screen again. If I wasn’t going to learn more about my skeleton with this search, I didn’t want to find anything.

      After a few other dead ends, I typed in COOPER, on its own, to see it anything other than the Phoebe Fuller murder might come up.

      Sometimes the simplest route is the best. I was in luck. Two pages of listings hit my screen. The Cooper murder I’d already read about was featured, but to my surprise, another story was listed that had nothing to do with murder. Instead, the listing referenced COOPER THIEVES.

      Thieves

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