Whack A Mole

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Howland House is this two-story brick building that used to belong to a whaling ship captain named Jebediah Howland.

About fifty years ago, a bunch of ladies, the “Daughters of the Sea,” got together and raised enough cash to buy the place before it was torn down to make room for another miniature golf course. Now it's a museum nobody goes to.

I guess few vacationers want to walk around a dank house looking at dusty furniture during their week off from work. Sure, there are a couple of ship models in glass cases mounted on the walls. There are even three or four model ships in glass bottles. But mostly, it's moldy furniture and velvet drapes.

The museum doesn't give tours or anything. In fact, nobody is ever there. Somebody comes by in the morning and unlocks the front door. They come back in the afternoon to lock up. There's a plexiglass box on a desk in the front hall with a hand-written sign: SUGGESTED DONATION $2.

“Is that Norma?” Ceepak asks as we pull up to the curb on Oyster Street and see a figure on the porch.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Norma Risley, a dignified Daughter of the Sea, is seventy-five years old and works part-time as a hostess at Morgan's Surf and Turf, the restaurant where Rita waitresses. When Norma leads you to your table, you have plenty of time to contemplate the daily specials. In fact, you have time to do your laundry.

“Officer Ceepak!” She is waving hysterically. “Hurry! Please!”

Ceepak speeds up the brick pathway. I'm right behind him.

“Norma? Are you injured?”

“No. No.” Her hand flutters near her chest.

Ceepak reaches her in time to catch her when she faints.

“Danny?”

I grab an arm. We haul Norma inside, find a velvety chair in the foyer, and sit her down.

About fifteen seconds later, she comes to.

“Oh, my.”

“Norma, do you need an ambulance?” Ceepak asks.

She shakes her head. Lifts up an arm. Points down the hall.

“What is it? Was something stolen?”

Another head shake.

“Take it slow. Tell us what happened.”

She swallows. Nods. “I came by during the thunderstorm. Figured I might as well lock up early today. When I got here, I found a family inside, waiting for the rain to let up. The mother started screaming at me. ‘How dare you!’ she said. ‘How dare you put something like that on display in a museum?’ Her youngest, a little girl-oh, she was bawling her eyes out. Something had scared her, that's for sure.”

“What was it?”

She shakes her head. It's so atrocious, she can't even tell us. So, once again, she points up the hall. Her arm trembles.

“The Scrimshaw Room.” She chokes out the words.”Bookcase. Top shelf. Two jars.”

“Jars?”

Norma nods. Breathes in deep.

“Plastic jars with screw-on lids. Small.” She curls her knotted fingers to make a tiny fist.

“Okay, Norma. You stay here. My partner and I will investigate….”

Her hands fly up to her chest again. If she doesn't have a heart attack, she might give me one.

“Danny?” Ceepak says. “Secure the front door. Use your evidence gloves.”

I put on these lint-free gloves Ceepak insists I always carry so I won't contaminate potential evidence, such as fingerprints on a doorknob. Ceepak pulls on a pair, too.

I close the front door.

“We'll be right back, Norma,” says Ceepak.

We head up the carpeted hallway.

We reach the door to the Scrimshaw Room and Ceepak does this series of hand signals to indicate how we will enter.

He'll lead. I'll follow.

The room looks like it always looks. Dark bookcases. Overstuffed furniture. Framed oil painting of men in a boat harpooning a gigantic whale on one wall, carved figurehead of an Indian lady in a red headdress on another.

We see them at the same time.

On the top shelf of the bookcase on the far side of the room.

Two small jars filled with clear liquid and something else-something pinkish and blobby with stringy bits floating in the fluid. It could be somebody's jellyfish collection or one of those pig fetuses in formaldehyde they give you to dissect in junior high biology class. There's writing on both jars. Labels. We move closer.

Ceepak sucks in a deep chestful of oxygen.

“They're ears,” he says. “Severed human ears.”

I feel the sausage-and-pepper sandwich I had for lunch move an inch up my esophagus. I choke it back down and lean in for a closer look.

The label on one jar reads: RUTH. SUMMER. 1985.

The other jar doesn't have a name, just a date: SUMMER. 1983.

No name because it doesn't need one.

The ear lobe suspended in the specimen jar has an earring stuck through its pale flesh. It spells out a girl's name in sparkly letters.

“Lisa,” Ceepak whispers.

I guess he's thinking what I'm thinking: Lisa DeFranco might've lost more than a class ring that summer she visited Sea Haven.