I WAS IN no rush to rescue Libby Vail. For one thing, I wasn't positive where she was. The church was still my best guess, but if she was being held there I'd have to alter my theory that she was connected in some way to the power I'd experienced.
I knew it was a huge stretch to assume she was locked in a church on a relatively busy corner in St. Alban's. My reason for having made the connection was flimsy, at best: I'd seen a lady with a picnic basket walking up the church stairs a week before Beth left The Seaside carrying a similar basket. When Beth came back I found a woman's fingernail and scratch marks on the bottom of the basket that might be L and V.
So it was a hunch, more than anything.
Against that hunch, I had to imagine church leaders going along with the kidnapping of a young coed from Pennsylvania and allowing her to be held captive in their tiny building. Since church services are held there, you'd have to wonder how Libby Vail could be rendered quiet enough that none of the church members had ever heard her crying for help. Either that or you'd have to believe the entire congregation was involved. I also had to add the FBI into the equation, since they had set up camp in St. Alban's after the kidnapping, made a thorough investigation, and came away with nothing.
If I was right about Libby Vail being held captive at the little church all this time, it would require a conspiracy that started at the very top of local government, including the mayor and chief of police.
Which is why, at 1:00 pm sharp, I had Rachel drop me off at the court house. I walked up the three stone steps in front of the building, opened the main door, and walked about halfway down the hall until I found the mayor's office. The door was open, so I entered and passed the empty desk normally occupied by Milly, the mayor's secretary. This, I deduced by channeling my inner Sherlock Holmes. To put it another way, Milly's name plate was sitting atop the empty desk.
I knocked on the door to the mayor's office, and opened it.
"Mr. Creed," he said, rising to his feet.
We shook hands. He gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk and said, "Sit down, sit down." When I did, he pointed at the length of rope draped over my right shoulder. "What's that for, you planning to hang me?" He laughed.
"You know me as a cook, but I'm also the maintenance man."
He looked at the rope again and frowned. I couldn't tell if he was opposed to the rope itself, or the fact I wouldn't tell him why I had it. He brightened his expression a bit and said, "That corn bread you made was the best thing I ever put in my mouth. I told my wife about it, and she said, 'Ask him what his secret ingredient is.'"
"Yogurt."
"Well hell, that can't be true. I hate yogurt."
I smiled. According to comments I'd heard from our local breakfast customers, Carl "Curly" Bradford was considered Mayor for Life by the good people of St. Alban's. He was tall and lanky, mid forties, with sharp facial features and rust-colored hair flecked with gray. He had a stern, professorial air about him. I pointed to the bicycle hooked vertically on the far wall of his office. "You ride to work on that?"
"It's my exercise routine," he said. "I ride every day, rain or shine. Like you, except that you're a runner."
"Small town," I said.
"That, plus I've seen you running a time or two, out on A1A."
We looked at each other a minute without speaking. He seemed uncomfortable with the silence, and showed it by making small talk. "You're making quite a name for yourself as a cook."
"I won't lie, I enjoy it."
"You don't look like a cook, though."
"No?"
"Is it stressful looking after that old place?"
"Why do you ask?"
He smiled. "Couple of folks saw your car parked on A1A a few times, thought they might have seen you lying on the sand dunes."
"Is that illegal?"
"Closer to the beach it is. But not where you go, as far as I know."
I nodded.
"It's dangerous, is what it is," he said.
"How so?"
"Lot of fire ants in that area, as I guess you know. It's right near the spot where that young man nearly died from fire ant bites."
"You know anything about him?" I said.
"He's not from around here, is all I know. That, and the fact he got roasted in your fire pit."
"I heard he's going to be okay," I said.
"I heard the same thing."
"Mayor Bradford-"
"Please," he said. "If we're finally getting to it, you might as well call me Carl."
"Okay then, Carl."
He shifted in his chair. "What can I do for you, Donovan?"
"You can tell me about Libby Vail."
He didn't flinch. I know because I was watching to see if he would. Instead, he smiled and said, "Well, I don't know much more than what you're likely to have heard. Libby was a Liberal Arts major at Penn State," he said. "Her roommate told the police that Libby had planned to come here to research her roots."
"She thought she was descended from pirates."
"Gentleman Jack Hawley," he said.
I nodded. "You folks have a monthly celebration in Libby's honor. People come from all over the world."
"They do," he said.
"It's good for business."
"As it turns out, it is. But that's not the only reason we celebrate Libby's life. We do it to keep her memory alive. The whole town has sort of adopted her."
"I guess most young people want to leave small towns like St. Alban's," I said. "But Libby wanted to come here."
"Well, I don't imagine she was planning to settle down here or anything."
"I didn't get to see the Pirate Parade yesterday," I said, "but I saw the pictures in the paper this morning."
"Sorry you missed it," he said. "It's quite an event."
"I was particularly interested in the picture of the pirate ship float," I said.
"What about it?"
"That's Hawley's ship, right?"
He rubbed his face with his right hand and yawned. "Sorry," he said. "Long weekend, too much grog."
He winked.
I nodded.
"Yeah, they've had that float forever," he said. "It's supposed to be The Fortress, Jack Hawley's ship. Why do you ask?"
"In the news photo, on the bridge of the boat, there's a pretty young woman standing next to the pirate."
Mayor Bradford raised an eyebrow. "She's quite a looker," he said. Then he added, "But so is your Rachel."
"I'm quite happy with Rachel," I said. "What I was wondering about is the significance of the girl on the pirate ship. From what I've read about pirates, they didn't often allow women on board their ships."
For the first time since I'd entered his office, Mayor Bradford's face registered concern. He bit the top corner of his lip. "I don't believe there's any historical significance to it," he said. "I think they're just using the float as an excuse to show off the prettiest girl in Fernandina Beach."
"Really? Because I think it might be more than that."
He cocked his head to one side and squinted at me, and as he did so, his face drew into itself and grew as stern as it could without imploding. "Why don't you just tell me what it is you're reading into that picture from the newspaper."
"I've been doing some online research on Jack Hawley, and there's a story, a legend that supposedly happened exactly three hundred years ago."
Mayor Bradford's eyes darted around the room. He looked beyond me, to the open doorway as if searching for an escape route. "A legend," he said.
"Carl," I said. "Look at me."
He did.
I said, "You've lived here all your life. You have to know what I'm talking about."
He paused a moment before speaking. "If you're referring to Abby Winter saving the town, I think that was just a story from a dime novel written back in the 1800's."
"The story I read didn't say anything about a dime novel. But it's a fascinating story either way."
"Maybe you should re-write it."
"Maybe I will."
We sat there in silence. After a moment Carl clapped his hands and stood. "If that's it, I guess I better get going. I gave Milly the afternoon off and was about to close the office when you came in. I'm meeting the Mayor of Fernandina for a little surf casting." He pulled his bike off the bike hook and leaned it against his desk.
I stood and we shook hands again. I turned and walked to the doorway and paused.
"Was there something else?" he said.
"Yeah."
"What's that?"
"I think Libby Vail believed she was related to Jack Hawley through Abby Winter."
"That's ridiculous," he said.
"Maybe, but it would explain why she wanted to come to St. Alban's to research her lineage."
"It's been done," he blurted. Seeing my expression he realized he'd said more than he meant to. He hastily added, "What I mean is, back when Libby Vail went missing, that old story came out, the one about Abby Winter and Jack Hawley, and they did a whole search of Libby's lineage at the library."
"And?"
"And they couldn't find any connection, or any evidence that those things ever happened. It's just an ancient pirate's tale. Hawley never threatened to destroy the town, and Abby never offered herself up as a sacrifice. Hell, the whole thing's downright silly, if you think about it long enough."
"Maybe that's my problem. Maybe I haven't thought about it long enough."
Something flickered in Carl Bradford's eyes. He wasn't quite angry, but he was getting there. "What's your interest in all this?" he snapped.
"I'm thinking about resurrecting the old legend and turning it into a promotional event for The Seaside guests."
His look of great skepticism changed to a derisive sneer. "I sincerely doubt that," he said, fairly spitting the words.
"And I doubt your account of Abby Winter and Jack Hawley."
His jaw pulsed. Mayor Bradford was getting worked up, so I shrugged the rope off my shoulder and worked it in my hands a minute. He watched me do that, and it seemed to settle him down. He took a deep breath and said, "I told you about the search at the library."
"You did."
"It was quite exhaustive."
"I'm sure it was."
"Then what's your problem?"
"I wouldn't expect the library records to go back that far."
Mayor Bradford looked exasperated. "Then why are you bringing this up?"
"Because I think there's a better place to search for old records."
"You do."
"Uh huh."
"And where might that be?"
"The old churches around town."
He paused a long time before saying, "Any in particular?"
"Maybe I'll start with the one on 8th and A1A."