Sea Scope

Chapter Three

Chapter ThreeSea Scope, Two weeks later

Julie Brewster had just finished a phone call with her niece Sarah. She was pleased the young woman was coming and wasn't surprised she was bringing along a friend instead of her husband, but Julie didn't like too many strangers at Sea Scope. It reminded her of what happened nearly twenty years ago when that college boy, Michael, was found dead by the lighthouse and her brother moved his family away. A year later, Martin killed himself. She squeezed her violet eyes shut a moment and then opened them wide. No time for tears or regrets. Life was for the living. Survival of the fittest and all that. She was a Brewster, descendant of a fisherman who built Sea Scope and brought his new bride through the doors. Jeremiah and Josephine Brewster made their home into a bed and breakfast to serve many of the town's tourists. They raised Julie and Martin there and taught them the hospitality trade. Josephine, a wonderful cook, taught Julie to bake muffins and other breakfast fare in the cozy kitchen where their guests joined them in the morning. Martin helped sweep the porch and the upstairs veranda, and he and Julie assisted their mother changing beds.

When their parents retired and moved to an assisted living complex in Florida, it was natural that Julie and Martin took over the family business. Julie had already earned a degree in hotel management, but Martin chose not to attend college and went into the construction field instead. After he married Jennifer, a social worker he met while working on a building project at the Beaufort clinic where she was employed, the couple moved into the suite of rooms at the top of the inn. The children arrived soon afterwards, and Jennifer left her job. Martin contributed his construction work, and Jennifer helped with the inn's bookkeeping. When they moved away to Long Island where Jennifer grew up, Julie closed the inn to the public and took jobs at nearby resorts. Without a husband and children to provide for, she managed her money well and continued to live at Sea Scope. Last year, on her sixty-ninth birthday, she decided to retire. She knew reopening Sea Scope would be a good source of retirement income, but the old fear returned. She thought it might be a good test to invite a few people she knew to stay there first.

Julie sat at the vanity in her bedroom, the room known as the inn's Gold Room. The walls were wallpapered in cream and gold. The bed featured a yellow and white bedspread and sheets. It had always been her favorite. Only the art studio directly above could compete for her affections. Like her niece, she also enjoyed painting, but her renditions weren't of cute little animals for children's books. She liked to capture portraits of people and had a collection of many faces that composed her portfolio of over forty years.

Looking at her own face as she brushed out her long auburn hair, Julie was happy with her reflection. She knew she could pass for someone in her fifties. The only wrinkles marring her skin were a few laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. She'd had a good life, a full one, and despite her family's unasked questions about marriage, she'd had many lovers and never regretted avoiding matrimony.

Julie's violet eyes, that men said reminded them of Elizabeth Taylor's and which they thought complimenting would get them a fast ticket into her bed, twinkled as she applied mascara. Everything was going to be fine. If things went well, she would ask Sarah to join her at Sea Scope and help her run the inn. She had a feeling her niece was having marriage problems. If that was the case, Sarah might be open to moving back to South Carolina. If not, maybe she could convince Derek to relocate there with her and apply for a teaching position at the local university.

Julie still had her robe on when she went downstairs. At Sea Scope alone, she didn't bother baking muffins and breakfast treats. She'd grab fruit from the bowl on the table and put on a pot of tea. Even when one of her lovers stayed over, she rarely made a big deal over breakfast. Usually, she'd talk him into getting up and making eggs for them.

As she chose an apple from the wrought-iron fruit basket, she heard a noise at the front door. There was a small mailbox on the porch, but usually she picked up the mail from the inn's P.O. box in town. She liked to take a daily walk there. It helped to keep her figure trim.

As she was about to check the sound, Alabaster came meowing into the kitchen looking for his breakfast. Alabaster, or Al, for short, was a black cat she'd adopted to keep her company five years ago. She'd named him for the white, stone-like material as a joke and thought it funny that he often hung out by the inn's statues that were composed of the same substance.

“Hi, Al. I was just going to check the mailbox before feeding you.”

The cat followed, tail held high as Julie walked out to the porch. The postal box stood to the side beyond the rockers and patio swing. It was a long white box that needed a touch up. She made a note to repaint it when she had time.

As Al circled her legs emitting short cries that signaled his hunger, Julie checked for mail. There was one letter inside the box. It wasn't in an envelope and bore no stamp. Someone had dropped it off. She figured it was an advertisement, but when she unfolded the paper, she saw that it was a note written in childish handwriting. Each letter had been marked with a different crayon. As one sensitive to color, she realized that the hues composed a rainbow missive.

She took the paper and sat in one of the high back rockers she had covered with padding with her mother years ago and had replaced one lonely spring when she was between boyfriends.

Al continued to beg for his breakfast.

“One minute, boy. Let me read this.”

Julie had forgotten her reading glasses inside. She didn't like wearing them because they aged her face. She squinted at the words, the light crayoned letters making them difficult to read.

“Do you really think you should reopen the inn? How many more deaths do you want on your head?”

Your nephew, Glen

She gasped. Al sensed her dismay and stopped crying, his body alert to danger; the fur on his back starting to rise.

She was tempted to tear up the paper but reconsidered. Should she go to the police? They were never helpful in the past, and this was obviously a prank. Glen was dead, buried in the family cemetery nearly two years ago.

She decided to ignore the note but brought it inside with her and placed it in a drawer in her bedroom.

Even though her morning was now ruined, she went back downstairs, fed Al, and ate her apple. In two days, Sea Scope would open its doors to guests. She wouldn't change her plans. Neither Sarah nor anyone else need know about the note. Everything was going to be fine.