“I hope you can help,” she said. “About twenty years ago, a boat sank at one of the marinas in the harbor. I want to see if I can find out anything about it.”
“Sure,” he said. “We have a microfilm reader. If you know when it happened and if it was reported about, you should be able to find something.”
He led her to a desktop computer in a back corner of the library. An old looking machine sat next to it, connected to the CPU. Pippin told Harold the year her father vanished. The young man disappeared into a back room, returning a few minutes later. He turned on the monitor, loaded the film onto the machine, and showed her how to scan through the information. “The local newspaper was a lot more robust back then so there’s a lot to scroll through.”
“Got it,” Pippin said.
“Let me know if you need anything else.” The guy was really very accommodating.
“I will. Thanks, Harold.”
He gave a little salute with two fingers before he went back to the circulation desk. Pippin sat down, put her purse on the table behind the computer, and got started.
It was tedious work. The Devil’s Cove Gazette articles were reduced to twenty-five percent of the original size and felt microscopic after a while. She skimmed, looking for keywords. After fifteen minutes, she wished she’d stopped first for a cup of coffee. After another twenty, her fitful sleep caught up with her. She tried to stifle a yawn but couldn’t manage it. She scrolled, yawned, scrolled, yawned, scrolled, yawned.
After yet another fifteen minutes, her hopefulness that she’d find anything began to wane. She’d just scooted back in her chair, ready to give up, when her father’s picture appeared on the screen. “Oh!” Her eyes widened and she leaned closer to the screen. The accompanying article was written by someone named Quincy Ratherford. A photo of her and Grey when they were about eight years old was there, too. She slowly read, stopping when she figured out that the article advanced the idea that Leo had walked away from them.
Pippin’s eyes filled. She couldn’t prove it yet, but she knew Leo hadn’t willingly left her and Grey. If the police had looked into her father’s disappearance at the time…taken it more seriously—a missing person rather than a deadbeat dad, maybe his life could have been saved. Maybe he’d still be here with them.
She shoved the What Ifs aside. They didn’t do her an ounce of good, and she couldn’t change history. Still, she went to find Harold Manatee, asking him how to print something. He showed her, and she printed out the article. A visit to this journalist, Quincy Ratherford, seemed in order.
The boat sinking at the marina had happened before her father disappeared. Pippin scrolled further back, searching. It didn’t take long before she came across a photo of Devil’s Cove Landing. Bev at the marina had been right. The sinking had taken place the day before her father had vanished from their lives.
She saw no mention of her father’s name in that article. Of course. That would be too easy.
Another photograph accompanying the article showed the empty slip, where presumably the sunken boat had been docked. Next to it was the boat that was now sitting in her front yard. The Cassandra. The fact that the boat was pictured didn’t mean anything in connection to the article. The focus was on the empty slip, but she printed out the image anyway, as well as the article, which, she saw, was also written by Qunicy Ratherford.
It didn’t take long to find the address for The Devil’s Cove Gazette. The building was located off the beaten track, but still bike-able, as everything in the village was. Pippin thanked Harold, tucked the printed articles into her purse, which she secured in her bike’s basket, and once again, headed off. A few short minutes later, she locked her bike in front of a single-story red brick building. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the large windows. Strands of her hair had come loose and framed her face. The chill in the spring air had tinted her cheeks red. The time she’d been spending in the garden, even though it was only spring, had warmed her skin to a light honey color. The sea air had done her good, she thought. She looked like so many of the other young women who lived in or visited Devil’s Cove—windblown, sun kissed, and casual.
She pushed through the door and found herself in a preternaturally quiet office. She’d expected busy. Bustling, even. But this was a small island village, as people kept reminding her, so her expectations had been way off.
A middle-aged man sat behind a desk facing his computer monitor. He’d looked up at the ding of the bell when she’d opened the door. He had ginger hair that was a shade lighter than hers, a ruddy face, thick arms, and he wore his beret like it was nobody’s business. As he stood up and came toward her, she raised her brows at his orange and brown plaid pants, a little flare at the ankle, the orange a perfect match to the color of his tucked in polo shirt. He had a little hop in his step. He put his hands on his hips and greeted her with a dipped chin and an enthusiastic, “Good God, but you are a beauty, aren’t you?”
He wasn’t hitting on her. She knew that right away. The tone of his voice. His demeanor. His clothes. No, she definitely wasn’t his type. His voice was pleasant and had a little lilt to it. She didn’t need to win him over. He seemed thrilled to have her in the office. His exuberance was contagious, and she smiled. “I’m looking for Quincy Ratherford. He used to be—”
The man flung his forearms out to the side, palms up. “Lo and behold, you’ve found him!”
“Oh. Wow! Okay. You’re Quincy Ratherford?”
He chuckled. “Guilty as charged, and at your service.”
There was no point in beating around the bush. Pippin pulled the articles from her purse, unfolded them, and held them out. “I’m hoping you can help me with something. I was doing some research at the library and came across these. I see that you wrote both articles.”
He took them from her and gave them a good once over. His voice lost some of its buoyancy. “I remember both of these well. They happened so close together, and the strangeness of them, well, they’ve stuck with me all these years.” He ushered her to where he’d been working, pulling a chair from another desk over for her to sit in. “Can I venture a guess?” He continued before she had a chance to even react, let alone acquiesce. “You’re Pippin Hawthorne, aren’t you?”
She stared. “How did you know that?”
“Investigative journalism at work,” he said jauntily. “But seriously, I assumed you were connected to these articles in some way. Plus, my dear, you and your brother are the talk of the town. I’ve been by to see what you’re doing to that house, oh, probably ten times! I saw you outside a few times enjoying that big porch of yours.”
Another person keeping tabs on hers and Grey’s progress with the house. “Why am I the talk of the town?”
“Oh honey, everyone, and I do mean everyone, is thrilled that you’re doing something with that house. You’re bringing it back to its heyday glory and, well, we’re all excited! Mrs. Pickle gives us all weekly updates.”
Mrs. Pickle. That name. It rang a bell in the depths of Pippin’s mind. How did she know it?
“She’s your neighbor, of course,” Quincy said, as if he knew she’d drawn a blank. “Across the street and down one, if I’m not mistaken. She’s a character and a half, and she knows everything. If you invite her inside, by the next day, we’ll all get a blow by blow of that, too!”