Page 22 of Light of Day
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Amy Lou Westbrookarrived on the dot of nine and ushered them into the Sea Smoke Museum and Historical Society headquarters, which was set up like a small gallery. Photographs of the island, along with artifacts such as old lobster pots and cookware from the early 1900s were displayed in the front room. Filing cabinets and shelving units filled the back room, and a stack of folding chairs hinted at group meetings and workshops.
Amy Lou—her blond hair in a wedge cut, a jaunty duck-print scarf around her neck, lime-green sweater tied over her shoulders—greeted Heather with her usual dismissive half-smile, which Heather returned in kind. Amy Lou was a distant cousin of Sally’s, slightly older, which she’d seemed to believe gave her the right to police every move Heather made. There was the time she’d made Heather move her sandcastle to a different part of the beach…the time she’d sent Heather back home from the tide pools because the strap of her swimsuit had broken, and she’d deemed it improper for her to be in public, even though Heather had been barely seven years old…the time she’d accused Heather of drinking on the dock with the other deckhands, even though she was clearly drinking a sparkling probiotic soda…
Heather shook off the memories. She was a full-grown adult now. Maybe things would be different. Besides, all she wanted was information.
Luke took the lead. “We’re here to talk about Gabby Ramon.” He showed her the photo Heather had given him. “We understand she came to a historical society meeting.”
Amy Lou eyed the photo, then smiled smugly. “She was here only briefly. Those meetings are for members only.”
Heather suppressed a massive eye roll. If Amy Lou had her way, the whole island would be members only.
“When was this?”
“Last Tuesday. The meeting was from five to seven in the evening, but she was only here for the first few minutes.”
“Do you know why she came?”
“She said she had some questions about the island’s history. I thought it was quite nervy of her, to be frank.”
The word “nervy” set off a red flag for Heather. “Why was it nervy? Don’t you want people to be interested in our history?”
Amy Lou’s eyes—blue as chipped sea glass—flicked her way. “She’s an outsider. I don’t know why it would matter to her. Our mission is to preserve and maintain our shared past, as a community. She’s not a member of our community.”
Luke intervened, which was a good thing because Heather could feel that telltale vein in her neck bulging the way it did when she was ready to rumble. “Do you know what questions she had?”
“Why are you asking?”
“She’s missing. We’re just retracing her steps, trying to reconstruct what she was doing over the past few days.”
Amy Lou’s expression lost some of its smugness. “Missing? My goodness. Well, I doubt I can be of any help. She was here for such a short time. But I can say that she was asking about our oral history project.”
“Sounds interesting. Can you say more about that?”
For the first time, Amy Lou seemed happy to answer a question. “We’ve been sitting down with some of our oldest residents and recording their stories. It’s a huge amount of material, but we hope to edit it down into a multimedia presentation at the community hall.”
“How long have you been doing that?”
“My predecessor began the project decades ago. He started small, with just an analog tape recorder. Since then, we’ve been digitizing everything as well as making new recordings. We never know how much time our elders have left, so we try to prioritize those we might lose soon. One of our interns even went to the mainland to talk to some folks who are now in nursing homes.”
“Sounds expensive,” Heather murmured. “You must be well-funded.”
“Since I took over, our donations have skyrocketed.” She barely glanced Heather’s way as she answered. “By the way, we have a donation box for visitors. No obligation, it’s only for those who can afford it.”
Oh, she didn’t…Heather clenched her teeth so hard they ached.
“Did Gabby listen to any of the oral history tapes?” Luke was asking.
“Of course not.” She bristled like an offended sea urchin. “Most of them haven’t been processed yet.”
“Processed?” He cocked his head at her.
“People tell stories about all kinds of random things that are of no interest to anyone else. We’re only trying to preserve the important stories.”
“Which you decide, of course,” Heather murmured.
Amy Lou gave a smug smile, but then again, thought Heather, weren’t her smiles always a little smug?
