‘The Havenford Mysteries’ returns with Chapter 3: Family Legacies

Welcome back to “The Havenford Mysteries” series by local author R.A. Coscia. Installment three of “The Holiday Heirloom” is called “Family Legacies.” A new chapter will be published each week in The Beacon.

Monday morning brought a deep frost that blanketed the entire countryside. The drive into the shop was chilly. I hadn’t warmed the car engine, and my frozen breath filled the air almost the entire drive. I was grateful to step into the heat of the shop and busy my mind with the morning chores.

After the morning rush, I poured myself a hot caffé mocha to-go, kissed Aunt Mae on the cheek and rushed out the door. The bell was harsh and quick. Stepping outside into the cold air, I doubled-checked my bag — the envelope with the partial letter was tucked neatly inside. I took a deep breath and started east toward the library, just two blocks away.

During the summers I spent in Havenford, Aunt Mae would take me every Friday to the library. I would get lost inside the stacks, searching for the perfect book to devour under a willow tree. Approaching the building and its two-story brick façade felt like seeing an old friend. The library had been built at the turn of the century with money donated by Andrew Carnegie and had been lovingly kept in beautiful condition over the years. I pushed open the doors and was glad to find that almost nothing, except the area rugs, had been changed.

“Cora Wren, my how you have grown.”

My eyes met those of Ruth Ann Rowe, her smile spread from ear to ear.

“Ruth Ann!” I exclaimed, quickly approaching the desk with my hands outstretched to embrace hers. “Are you still working here?”

Ruth Ann was in her 60s when I was visiting as a child. She must be retired by now.

“Not really. I just can’t seem to stay away from the books. I volunteer here a few hours a week.”

I noticed how much time had changed her, but not her kind smile.

“I heard that you had moved to town to help your Aunt Mae and take over the shop. I am so happy to see that this wasn’t just a rumor.”

Word sure does spread fast in a small town, I thought to myself.

“I moved officially just a few days ago. But I just stepped out of the shop for a bit. I was wondering if I could head to the newspaper archives to do a little research?” I wanted to stay and chat, but I was already feeling guilty about leaving Aunt Mae.

“Yes, my dear. Is there anything in particular I could help you find?”

“I am looking for anything on the fire of 1900 and Lydia Wren.”

Ruth Ann gave me a sly smile, nodded and asked no further questions.

Minutes later I was reading articles from 1900 titled “Christmas Fire Destroys Homes,” “Lydia Wren Opens Farm to Fire Victims” and “Christmas Feast Hosted for Fire Victims at Wren Farm.” I was humbled to see how my family had opened their farm up to so many people in need and kept the Christmas spirit alive for those who had lost everything.

The next article Ruth Ann had queued up for me was from December 1901: “A New Christmas Tradition — The Passing of the Light.” The article described what Aunt Mae had told me, confirming Margaret had given the light to Lydia to carry on the Christmas Spirit. The accompanying picture showed two women, both holding the Founder’s Light, lighting a candle on a large Christmas tree. I leaned in, noticing a small detail. On the base of the candlestick was an engraving of a honeycomb, a small feature I had failed to notice at the coffee shop.

I scrolled to the next article, from 1917: “Lydia Wren Takes Over Shop While Husband Helps War Efforts.” It was a beautiful piece that filled me with pride, describing how Lydia had learned the ropes of the shop and helped keep the town supplied during WWI.

And finally, from September 1918, “Flu Outbreak Takes Lives of Many Havenford Residents.” There, listed among the lives lost, was Lydia Wren. I was taken aback, such a sudden end for a woman who had given so much. I sat in a moment of silence.

“That’s it, my dear,” Ruth Ann said, turning the lights back on. “Was I able to help you?”

“Oh yes. Thank you so much for your time,” I said as I stood up, making my way to the stairs.

“Come back soon and check out some books. I know how much you love to read.” I smiled at Ruth Ann as I walked out into the bright, cold day.

My next stop was just another three blocks away, the Havenford Museum. I hoped there were artifacts in the archives that could help me piece together more of this mystery. Aunt Mae had only taken me once, when I broke a valuable piece of glass, and we never went back. I prayed the curator had changed in the last 16 years.

The Havenford Museum was built inside — and added onto the back of — the original fire station. Every time I saw the building, I was reminiscent of the movie "Ghostbusters." I pushed open the heavy wooden door and found a woman about my age behind the desk. Her blonde hair was cut short; her eyes sparkled. “Welcome to the Havenford Museum! How can I help you?”

“Hello. I am Cora Wren,” I started cautiously. Her smile disappeared. “I am here to see if you have any information on the Founder’s Light or my ancestor Lydia Wren.”

She stared at me, took a deep breath and composed herself. “We have not met before Cora. I am Hannah McMahan. In the three years I have been curator, I have petitioned twice to have the Founder’s Light turned into a town heirloom and brought here. I obviously didn’t succeed.”

Her smiled faded again, just momentarily. “I firmly believe in preserving history in a place where it is respected and cherished. Why, just yesterday I was in a heated debate with a woman — oh what was her name?”

Hannah put both her hands on her temples. “Ah! Eleanor Whitcombe. She was here yesterday demanding I return some of her family’s heirlooms. The nerve! We provide a public service. We ensure history has its place.”

She had become passionate, red-faced, slamming her fist on the counter.

I stood motionless, my mouth agape.

“Oh my. This is not becoming of me and extremely unprofessional.” Hannah took another deep breath and smiled. Her swings from pleasant to angry unnerved me. Could I even trust her?

“Why don’t you follow me? I was just setting up an exhibit on Christmas tree lightings of the past. Maybe you’ll see something useful.”

Hannah walked me into a small room filled with pictures of Christmastime in Havenford for the last 130 years. She stepped back, allowing me space to take them all in. My eye caught on the picture I had seen earlier, the 1901 newspaper image of Lydia and Margaret lighting the tree together.

“There is a note on the back of that one, Cora,” Hannah said, stepping forward to take the picture from the wall. She turned it over; the back of the frame had been cut away and replaced with glass. A handwritten note read:

“To always keep the hope alive, we light the flames together — M.”

I gasped and reached into my bag, pulling out the partial letter. I held it beside the picture. The handwriting matched perfectly, the two Ms almost a carbon copy. Hannah raised an eyebrow at my note, reaching her hand to touch it.

“I appreciate your time. Let’s talk soon.” I fumbled as I quickly put the note back into my bag. I rushed out of the museum, not wanting to instigate Hannah again. Walking down the sidewalk, I felt uneasy. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Hannah watching me from the museum window.

Later that evening, after sending Aunt Mae home, I sat with Beans in front of the fire. From the handwriting on the back of the picture, it was clear Margaret Whitcombe had written the partial letter I had found in the shop. Why had Margaret wanted Lydia to hide the Founder’s Light? Why was all this resurfacing right now, right after the light had gone missing? Did any of it even matter?

Suddenly, a loud band startled me and sent Beans flying. I turned to the front door to see the brass mail flap swinging hard, a note lying on the floor beneath it. My heart still racing from the scare, I picked it up. This one was new, written on computer paper with ballpoint pen.

"The light has been held too long by the wrong people. It belongs in its rightful home."

I looked out onto the dark streets of the small town. I could see nothing, but I couldn’t shake the feeling someone was looking back in at me.