Ghost across the water, p.13
Ghost Across the Water, page 13
“Someone shoots Angela Carenton in the cemetery and Ned’s widow gets engaged.”
“Clara—really? Well. After all this time.”
“You’re giving me something to think about, Mac,” I said. “Any one of us could be the catalyst that brought Ned’s ghost back.”
“You’re still assuming he’s real. I guess if he could come back, Ned would like to meet you, Joanna. Maybe he’s mixed up and thinks you’re a private investigator.”
“Right. He wants me to solve his murder, but then he’d have to appear to me. I don’t want to see a ghost.”
“I’ll bet you would.”
“Only on my own terms.”
“You can’t negotiate with a spirit.”
Our lively ghost talk inspired Mac to relate a series of inexplicable happenings on the back roads of Spearmint Lake, including the surprising number of strange lights in the sky. Once a farmer claimed that a flying saucer had landed in his cornfield and taken off again. Apparently dramatic events were always unfolding in this quiet little corner of Michigan.
The minutes ticked by, Mac continued to spin his outlandish tales, and my pancake stack dwindled down to a single tiny piece. Reluctantly I twirled it around in a small pool of syrup. Whether Mac was serious or amusing, he was a fascinating conversationalist.
This pleasant, unexpected meeting had been fun. I felt so much better now than I had when I’d walked through the American Legion door an hour ago. Energized by sunshine and sugar, combined with the attention of a friendly man, I felt as if I could finish my book, go swimming, walk with Kinder, and paint the rest of the cottage before dark. Everything I wanted to do was possible. And if that was the case...
“You mentioned Loosestrife Inn a minute ago, Mac,” I said.
“Damson Brewster’s million dollar project? I’ve been keeping an eye on its transformation for months.”
“I have an invitation to the Grand Opening.”
“That’ll make an interesting background for your next murder.”
“I don’t have many murders in my books,” I said. “Just danger, romance, and atmosphere.”
He glanced at his empty cup. “Would you like more coffee?”
“Yes, I think so.”
He started to rise.
Hurry and ask him.
“I can bring a guest, but I don’t know many people in town yet.”
Mac held his hand over my cup, standing now, towering over me again.
I was heading toward dangerous rapids, but it was too late to turn around. “Would you be interested in coming along with me? As my escort?”
There! I’d said it. Once spoken, words can never be taken back. I wouldn’t have uttered them at all if it hadn’t been for the strong sunshine and empowering breakfast. I held the cold orange juice glass in my hand, waiting for his reply.
I couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t imagine what he was thinking. Probably he was searching for a way to turn down my invitation gently and extricate himself from this bold woman he’d invited to share his table.
Great chunks of time passed. Whole minutes. That couldn’t be. The hand on the wall clock hadn’t moved.
“This Saturday, right?” he asked.
“It’s short notice, I know. You’re probably working.”
“No, I’m off, and I’d like to take you to the Loosestrife Inn.”
I remembered to breathe and smile. Setting the glass down on the table, I said, “I live on Shore Road. It’s the first cottage on the right.”
“I’ll find it,” Mac said. “Thanks for the invitation, Joanna. I’ll get us that coffee refill now.”
Watching Mac move through the aisles to the coffeemakers, stopping to talk to people he knew, I felt like the shy girl who had snagged a date with the captain of the football team. Who would have thought that being a little bit aggressive with a man would net such quick results? Definitely I intended to come back to this place of instant miracles.
Still, I’d just taken a serious risk. Mac might have been seeing someone. Like that pretty dark-haired girl he was laughing with at the moment, the one in the short blue shirtwaist dress. He might even have a wife.
Fortunately, good sense prevailed. A wedding ring, or the lack thereof, is proof of nothing. If Mac were involved with another woman, he wouldn’t have been sitting with me in the American Legion Hall where he was so well known, and he’d agreed to be my escort. Nothing else mattered.
In the last few minutes, Opening Night at Loosestrife Inn had acquired an exciting new significance.
Sixteen
I left the American Legion Hall at noon, wishing I could shop for my dress today and wondering if it was too late to drive to one of the downstate malls. By the time I reached Spearmint Lake, I’d decided to wait until tomorrow. To prune my enthusiasm. To stay cool. I had plenty of time to get ready for the Grand Opening, and Kinder needed my attention today.
As I neared the cemetery gate, I resisted the urge to speed by before some new calamity reached out to claim my attention. This afternoon, all appeared to be well.
I recognized the truck parked at the roadside. Its load of flowers in patriotic reds and blues brightened the somber scene. Through the iron spires of the fence, I saw Ira in overalls, with a jaunty navy bandana tied around his neck.
Yielding to an impulse, I parked behind the truck and made my way over the high grasses to where he knelt on the ground in front of a grave. Surrounded by gardening tools, a sprinkling can, and more flowers, he was planting purple petunias around clusters of starry white impatiens.
He looked up and waved a trowel in my direction. “Morning, Joanna. Did you stop to lend me a hand?” he asked with a wink.
“I would, but I’m not dressed for gardening. Besides, it’s too warm.”
“It’s nice and cool in the shade.” He took a long drink of bottled water while I surveyed his handiwork. The flowers on the neighboring grave were already planted, arranged in the shape of an American flag.
“You’re quite an artist, Ira,” I said. “Don’t you ever lose your place?”
“Naah. It’s easy. The stars on this one are done. Now I’m going to make stripes. One row of white flowers, one row of red. I planted Ned’s flag first. It seemed fitting because his grave received the most damage and also...”
He looked around with a dramatic shudder. “Because he may be somewhere watching me.”
“If he is, I’m sure he’ll like what you’ve done.”
I wandered over to the tombstone of the slain policeman and read the inscription again. Beloved Husband of Clara. Rest in Peace.
Every person who left the earth deserved rest and peace. How had Ned become a character in a shivery ghost story? Because his killer had never been brought to justice? That was a traditional reason for a spirit to linger on earth. After so many years, it was unlikely that the police would apprehend the shooter, but not impossible.
“Rest in peace anyway, Lieutenant Seymour,” I whispered.
Ira’s newly planted flowers looked like needlework in the grass. But the broken wing leaning against the angel statue cast an oddly shaped shadow on the place where Angela had fallen. Vivid images sprang into my mind: A red dress, long auburn hair, and a pool of bright blood.
The pictures dissolved, and the colors around me changed back to green. I ran my hand over the jagged surface of the statue where the wing had been, remembering that I had drawn strength from the stone while the paramedics administered to Angela.
At the time I’d thought that Angela might have been visiting the child’s grave. Now it seemed likely that she had come to the cemetery for Ned. But what of her search for her great aunt’s burial place?
“They didn’t touch Alicia May’s little lamb,” Ira said. “Allyson was afraid she’d find it smashed.”
“I guess the angel was a more tempting target.” As were the flowers with their fragile petals, so close to the ground and easy to crush.
Some people created beauty in the world, while others destroyed it. Ira was a creator.
I walked back to his work in progress. He had already planted the first stripe, a neat row of six white impatiens.
“Did you ever find the grave Angela Carenton was looking for?” I asked.
“Was I supposed to find it?”
“One of her relatives is buried here. I thought she was going to ask you about it.”
“She never did. Maybe she lost interest in it after she got shot.”
Or there never was a lost grave, or even an aunt.
“Is anyone going to repair the statue?” I asked.
“For now, Clara says to leave it. She’ll decide later.” He shook his head. “I like for everything to be neat in the cemetery and in one piece.”
“It should be easy to reattach a wing,” I said.
“With super glue?” He chuckled and drank more water. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”
“With some kind of adhesive made for concrete.”
“That’s for Clara to decide. She may order a new monument or maybe do nothing. She didn’t sound very concerned.” Again he shook his head. “Poor old Ned. Forgotten so soon.”
“It’s been twenty years, Ira.”
“No matter.”
“This is still the most impressive statue in the cemetery,” I said. “Only she looks different now. Like she’s lost some of her power to protect.”
The expression on the stone face did appear to have altered. In the half-light, it registered alarm—almost fear.
Ira said, “Gosh, Joanna. You have a pretty lively imagination.”
“It’s all the trees and darkness. The spooky, deep shade.”
“Well, it’s a country cemetery.”
This was a suitable habitat for surreal thoughts, a place where people saw folds of fog or a broken statue enveloped in mist and thought they were looking at ghosts. Even the colorful flag-shaped plantings couldn’t dispel the atmosphere of gloom. In spite of the heat, I had a sudden longing to walk in the sun.
“With shooters, ghosts walking, and now vandals, this old burial ground is seeing too much action this summer,” Ira said.
“Is there another ghost?” I asked.
“None that I know of—yet.”
“Let’s hope nothing else happens then. Ira...” As he was in a mellow, teasing mood, I decided to ask him about the old photograph. “Do you remember that picture we found in the credenza?”
“Sure. It wasn’t that long ago.”
“I think the man was Ned.”
Ira looked at me for a moment and then reached for a flat of impatiens. “Our Ned?”
“Yes. I happened to see another picture of him in the paper. You knew him. What do you think?”
“That there are lots of pictures of Ned floating around Spearmint Lake and not all of them are in Clara’s photo album.” He set six white plants in the ground and carefully mounded dirt around their roots. “Now I can’t say how one of them ended up in your cottage.”
“I could have a picture of Ned then?”
“At the time, I didn’t notice any resemblance to the man I knew, but sure, anything’s possible. I need to see it again.”
“Well, it’s curious...”
Ira nodded. “That it is. Another one of those coincidences. But it doesn’t have anything to do with this ghost business.” He finished the last stripe and gave the plants a liberal sprinkling of water. “How do you like my flag, Joanna?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“How’d you like to plant the next one?”
“Another day. I’ll dress for the occasion.”
“I’m going to finish today. This is the first time I’ve had to plant cemetery flowers twice in one season. If those vandals ever cross my path, I’ll plant them.” He raked his trowel across the loose dirt as if to underscore his vow.
“I’ll let you get back to work now,” I said. “I only stopped for a minute.”
Saying goodbye to Ira, I walked back to the road where my car baked in the sun, my thoughts on Angela.
She was a more likely catalyst than a Gothic-time travel-cozy writer who had wandered into a bizarre situation. When we met for lunch, I hoped she’d tell me more of her story and that it would be true.
I PAUSED ON MY FRONT porch, thinking about the falling water sound that had awakened me last night. Having breakfast with Mac and conversing with Ira had pushed the memory to the back of my mind. Now I had to meet it head-on. Wherever the mysterious sound originated and whatever it meant, I would deal with it.
Behind the door, Kinder barked a loud welcome. I turned the key in the lock and walked into seventy pounds of leaping, exuberant collie. Hugging her made me feel instantly better. As long as I had my dog, nothing could defeat me.
At the moment, all was well. The cottage was orderly, comfortable, and, above all, quiet. The only noise was the familiar humming of the antiquated refrigerator. So far, the water sound never appeared when I was listening for it, but that could change.
Kinder nudged my hand and pranced around my legs, anxious to communicate. Her walk was long overdue again. I was neglecting her. She would forgive me.
Giving her a fresh drink, a biscuit, and several pats on the head, I said, “Five more minutes, and we’ll go outside.”
In my bedroom, I pulled off my skirt and sweater and surveyed my arms in the mirror. The sunburn had faded, leaving my skin smooth and glowing. I could wear a sleeveless dress on Saturday night, something clingy, sexy, and shimmery. With my rhinestone bracelet and long, matching earrings, I’d be glamorous for one night.
Now it was everyday attire for a walk with my collie, but plain denim and a ruffle-edged blue tank top had their own allure.
I changed clothes, leashed Kinder, and left the cottage.
The sun burned down on the gravel, scorching the wildflowers that bloomed along the side of the road. As Kinder’s half-run slowed to a sedate walk, I breathed deeply, identifying the scents that drifted through the air. Spearmint, charcoal, water, and sweet cotton candy, a nostalgic fragrance, evoking memories of old-fashioned carnivals.
Someone was barbecuing and playing rock music. The lake and the beach would be crowded as the cottage dwellers and their guests savored the last hours of a perfect summer weekend. I could join them, throw sticks for Kinder to retrieve, watch the sailboats skim over the water, or...
I came to a standstill, trying to choose a route to match my mood. Kinder glanced back at me and tugged gently on her lead, casting her vote for the beach. The rock music was louder now, its strident notes blaring an invitation to join the party.
At the moment, country quiet and solitude appealed to me more than fun on the sand. I turned down a narrow byroad that wound away from the lake, and we walked on.
Down a haunted road and into the Twilight Zone. Something felt different. As soon as I left Lake Road, I was aware of it. In the bright August afternoon, my jet-propelled imagination whirred into motion.
I sensed an unseen presence in the area. It was everywhere at once, walking behind me, lurking in the thick underbrush, and moving ahead of me, never casting a shadow, its feet never touching the ground.
The notion was pure absurdity, a good scene for one of my books, but this was my life. Still, what could I expect when I wandered among the graves in a century-old cemetery and spoke of a ghost as if he were an old acquaintance?
Besides, ghosts didn’t walk in the sun. If they wanted to traverse a country road, they would wait until night and shroud themselves in darkness.
No, those were the habits of vampires.
I imagined that the spirit of the Ned Seymour took the form of light. He might be the halo floating above the sun-drenched black-eyed Susans or the haze that lingered in the air. Only his killer would have reason to fear him.
Enough, Joanna.
Pulling Kinder a little closer, I touched her head, concentrated on the birdsong and my dog’s panting and the tapping of my heels on the gravel. Gradually the eerie feeling slipped away. One day I would learn to reserve my wild imagination for my writing.
I reached for the small notebook and pen that I kept in my pocket, but they weren’t there. That was all right. The ideas would keep in my memory, as would the setting and background details that I gathered constantly on walks with Kinder.
The clumps of black-eyed Susans would join the list, along with the cloud-shaped rock with graceful green and pink veining, and the lacy ferns.
As I reached down to gather a few of the smaller Susans, I heard the sound of a car motor and looked back to see what kind of vehicle traveled behind us.
A police cruiser zigzagged its way around the ruts and crunched to a stop. Mac rolled down the window.
“Hey, Joanna. You must love these country roads.”
“Like in the song, ‘They take me home’,” I said. “Seriously, Mac, this one is a little spooky.”
“Why is that?”
“My own fault, I guess. I’ve been thinking about ghosts.”
“That’ll do it. Nothing bad ever happened here, to my knowledge.”
Kinder jumped up on the car, resting her paws on Mac’s muscular arm.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, trying to pull her back. “She’ll scratch your car.”
“It’s okay.” He patted her head roughly. “Hello, Kinder. You’re a good dog.”
Satisfied with Mac’s attention, Kinder lay down in the road, waiting for her walk to resume. In a blast of static, Mac’s radio came on. He gave me a slanted smile, said a quick goodbye, and drove on, raising a cloud of dust and pebbles in his wake.
I followed him for a while but turned around when I noticed Kinder lagging behind me instead of pulling me forward.
Encountering Mac again, if only for a few minutes, was a pleasant way to end the day. He inspired bright, happy thoughts. During the walk home, I amused myself with a series of steamy vignettes starring Lieutenant Mac Dalby and Joanna Larne. If the spirit of Ned Seymour hovered over the road in any form, I didn’t notice him.
Seventeen
