Ghost across the water, p.20
Ghost Across the Water, page 20
A car door slamming, followed by a loud knock, sent my fanciful thoughts scattering. Mac was five minutes early. As I rushed to let him in, I resolved to leave all dire imaginings behind, to keep this night light and airy.
He stood on the porch, like the traditional fairy tale prince, tall, tawny-haired, and handsome. Very handsome.
“Evening, Joanna,” Mac said.
The glimmer of admiration in his eyes convinced me that I was right about the dress and the light scent in my hair, my choice of a date—about everything.
“You look terrific,” he added.
“Thanks. You do, too. Maybe I shouldn’t say that?”
He closed the door and stepped inside, bending to pet Kinder. “Say away.”
I couldn’t possibly have a nicer escort or a more impressive one. Mac wore his dark suit as easily as the uniform of an FCPD officer and still exuded power. I imagined he was always a policeman, whether on duty or on his way to a gala summer affair.
“I’m used to seeing you in your uniform with all those decorations,” I said.
“With my badge,” he added.
Kinder lay down in the doorway, watching us. I resisted the impulse to give her another biscuit. She was only going to be alone for this one evening.
“Thank you for inviting me tonight,” Mac said.
“Thank you for accepting.”
No one would ever guess my flair for writing sparkling dialogue from these formal exchanges, this painful politeness. Ever since our chance meeting at the restaurant, I’d found it easy to talk to Mac. Why should this change because we were on a date?
“If you’re ready, we can leave,” he said. “They’re forecasting heavy fog tonight.”
“How wonderful! I love the fog.”
“I thought you might. Will Kinder be all right? She looks a little hangdog.”
“She’ll be fine.” I checked to see that my house key was in my evening purse. “You watch the house, girl.”
I’d give her another biscuit when I came home, or bring her a bag of leftovers. She’d be all right. Everything would.
“Let’s go then,” Mac said.
Mac’s turquoise Sunfire was a bright change from the severe police cruiser. He helped me in, and I settled back against the seat, looking forward to a long ride with someone else doing the navigating. Instead of turning around, he drove straight down Shore Road.
“You’re going in the wrong direction,” I said.
“I know a shortcut, Joanna. Relax. We’ll get there. You’re with a man who knows these byroads like his own driveway. You’re the lady who gets lost.”
“Not any more. Speaking of lost ladies, I still don’t know what happened to Angela.”
“Didn’t she ever get in touch with you?”
“No, and she checked out of her motel.” I filled him in on my conversation with the Fairspring clerk. “Attending the Grand Opening was important to her. That’s why she came to Spearmint Lake.”
“Miss Carenton hasn’t been missing for forty-eight hours yet, and she’s an adult. Wait a few hours. She may be at the Inn tonight.”
“You’re probably right.” A green lake half hidden by a fringe of spruces slipped by, and we entered a deeply wooded stretch with several ‘No Hunting’ signs nailed to the trees. This was a new area for me, one I’d never explored. “I tend to see mysteries everywhere. It’s an occupational hazard.”
“Did you finish your book?” he asked.
“Almost. I couldn’t concentrate when Kinder was missing.”
He cast me a knowing smile. “And now that she’s found?”
“That only happened yesterday. Now nothing’s holding me back. I just have a few pages left, and I’m done.”
“What then?”
“I’ll unwind for a few days and start another book. Writing is my job.”
“Save one of your unwinding days for our swimming lesson,” he said.
Puzzled, I turned to look at him. Then I remembered that Mac was going to teach Kinder to swim by throwing sticks into the lake. Afterward, we were going swimming ourselves. “I will. You confused me for a minute. I already know how to swim.”
“Have you been swimming lately?”
“Not since we last talked about it. I’ve had some other distractions.”
Mac only knew about the theft and Angela’s disappearance. If we were closer, I’d tell him about the water haunting—How odd that sounded!—and asked him for his professional opinion. But I couldn’t do that. He’d think I was unbalanced. Besides, Mac was a catcher of criminals, not supernatural sounds.
“Joanna,” Mac said. “You’re something of a mystery yourself. That’s my job. Solving mysteries.”
“You’re welcome to try to unravel this one, Mac.”
“You or the Case of the Missing Tourist?” he asked.
With a soft laugh, I threw out a challenge. “Well, both.”
This was better. Our carefree banter set the tone for the evening. I felt more relaxed with Mac now, as comfortable as I had that stormy night at the restaurant when he’d entertained me with ghost stories by candlelight.
For a full fifteen minutes, by the car clock, we discussed the unusual warm August, tonight’s forecast for heavy fog, and the imminent end of summer, which Mac didn’t mind, as his favorite season was fall.
Our conversation might not be scintillating, but it was comfortable, and I felt at ease with occasional stretches of silence. While the fog formed outside, the last vestige of tension in the car dissipated. We had a long night ahead of us, and I hoped for continual smooth sailing and perhaps a touch of romance at the evening’s end.
With a little help from my good luck charm.
Twenty-five
Although the sun was still shining when we arrived at Loosestrife Inn, myriads of lights illuminated the mansion’s graceful gables and high turrets. It looked like Damson’s Victorian cottage several times magnified, with waves of pink loosestrife curving around the perimeter instead of a lake.
“It’s as bright as a Christmas tree,” Mac said as he locked the Sunfire. “That’ll come in handy if this fog gets any thicker.” He laid his arm on my shoulder. “Are you ready to mingle with the elite of Spearmint Lake, Joanna?”
“Willing and able,” I said.
The freshly tarred lot was already crowded with vehicles, a few of them sporting out-of-state license plates. I looked for Angela’s black Buick, not really expecting to see it. Damson would have picked her up in his own car or perhaps in one of the quaint horse-drawn carriages parked at the entrance. Or had his chauffeur do so.
“This is the way the place used to look when it was known as the Old Rose Inn, except for the lights and horses,” Mac said.
“Have you been here before?” I asked.
“Lots of times. This was my family’s favorite place to come for Sunday dinner. Until the fire, it was a plain country inn with good food. Nothing fancy.”
“It sure has changed.”
“Brewster’s turned it into a real showplace. He even added a new wing for a ballroom.”
We were close enough to hear the music, a poignant melody that I didn’t immediately recognize. It was the kind of sentimental old ballad I would expect to hear in a house with candelabrum shining through every windowpane.
Mac reached for my hand, and we strolled past a quartet of costumed ladies up a flight of steps to the double mahogany doors. Damson stood inside at the foot of a majestic staircase. The lady at his side wore a violet, turn-of-the-century gown with a stunning amethyst necklace at her throat. She greeted us with a smile and a warm handclasp.
“Welcome to Loosestrife Inn.” Her voice was as smooth and sweet as honey. “I’m Lani.”
“Yes, welcome, Joanna... Lieutenant Dalby.” Damson nodded his head, quickly concealing an emotion that might have been surprise.
But why surprise?
“Joanna, you look lovely tonight.” Damson’s gaze dropped to my green heart. “With one antique piece, you’ve achieved a charming vintage look.”
“In other words, I fit in?”
“Absolutely.”
“Have a wonderful evening and enjoy the Inn,” Lani said. “We have music, dancing, the best food in the county, and special surprises. The dining room is at the end of the hall.”
Damson added, “Be sure to take Joanna for a walk in the rose garden, Lieutenant.” Then he turned to greet the couple behind us, and Mac’s hand dropped to my waist. “Would you like to have dinner first, Joanna?”
“Hmm. Yes.”
“I’ve been thinking about roast chicken and apple pie. I wonder if they’re on the menu.”
“Let’s find out,” I said.
We walked slowly down the hall, past tables holding vases filled with roses and loosestrife, colorful reminders of the past and present. On the walls, striking black and white photographs captured life at the Inn in bygone days. The soft lighting and the old-time music that followed us reinforced the early twentieth-century ambience.
“This is like walking down Memory Lane,” Mac said.
“Maybe you’ll find yourself in one of the pictures.”
He laughed. “I’m not that old.”
Turning at the French doors, we stood on the threshold, waiting to be seated. At seven-thirty, the dining room was already crowded with patrons, most of them in colorful period costume. The prevailing atmosphere was serene and dignified in a Sunday-afternoon-dinner kind of way.
I said, “This is all so beautiful... Oh no!”
Mac’s arm tightened around my waist. His voice turned to steel. “What?”
“Look—over there by the bay window. It’s the road ragers.”
Ben Jones and Jerry Smith sat at a small table laden with bottles and plates of food. Dressed for the occasion in powder blue tuxedos, they still had a rough look, although Ben had shaved and Jerry’s hair had a new cut. As he talked, Ben brandished a drumstick in Jerry’s face. Jerry’s elbow was perilously near a plate piled high with bones. I half expected one of them to toss a champagne bottle onto the floor.
“Finally.” Mac gave my hand a gentle pat. “You wait here.”
I grabbed his arm. “Mac—don’t. They’re only eating. You can’t arrest them or anything.”
“I’m just going to say hello.” The steel contradicting the mild words. “Wait here.”
Mac approached their table like a tawny mountain lion stalking his prey, certain of success. While I couldn’t hear the ensuing conversation, it appeared that he was merely greeting old acquaintances. Ben looked like a miscreant caught with a hammer at an ATM machine, and Jerry appeared to be on the verge of flight.
I shouldn’t have been surprised to find Ben and Jerry at Damson’s elegant social event. After all, they could afford his prices now, but where had they found those outlandish pastel tuxedos? Perhaps seventies’ styles were their idea of old-fashioned apparel.
Mac was back at my side in an instant with a smug “All’s well” look of reassurance. “They’re going to behave, but it’s a good thing Brewster has a private security force.”
“How do you know that?”
“Privileged information. A couple of decades back, Phillip Farquahr used to visit the Inn and mingle with the guests. When he left, he took their valuables with him. He had a little class, though, and was good at disguising himself. Eventually the police caught on, but they never apprehended him.”
“You don’t think that’s why Ben and Jerry are here, do you?” I asked.
“What do you think?”
“That they’re going to eat everything in sight. They’ll order extra bread just to take it home. Those two aren’t smooth enough to be jewel thieves.”
Subconsciously I touched my green heart. No one would be likely to steal it. Someone like Lani, bedecked in amethysts, would have more to fear, but with Damson’s security staff on guard, the guests’ jewelry was safe. With Mac at my side, so was I.
“This is the second time you mentioned Phillip Farquahr,” I said. “Do you know about him from old police files?”
“Some, and from reading about the Farquahr Legend in the Times.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Brewster created a fictional legend to go along with his Grand Opening. Supposedly Farquahr left a fortune in stolen jewelry behind when he ran from the police that last time. For some unknown reason, he never returned. According to rumor, it’s still hidden on the premises. There’s a cake in the ballroom baked in the shape of the Inn. One of the pieces has a real jewel baked into the batter.”
“But the hidden fortune story is all fiction, right? Damson made it up?”
“Yeah, with one of those poetic licenses you writers have.”
“If there was a cache of stolen jewelry at the Inn, someone would have found it during the renovation,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s a good draw.”
“I’ll bet the cake is already gone by now,” I said.
“I don’t think so. It’s still early.”
A costumed waiter in dark period costume appeared to lead us to a table laid with china and silver in an ornate Baroque pattern. Everything looked authentic and expensive. I hoped the guards were also watching the place settings and delicate crystal goblets with their slender ruby stems. They looked as fragile as air and would be impossible to replace.
While I sipped sparkling water, Mac opened the large menu, no doubt scanning the entries for the roast chicken he’d enjoyed as a child. For more than one person, it seemed, a night at Loosestrife Inn, was a journey back in time.
AS I UNFOLDED MY NAPKIN, a small, glittering object fell into my lap.
“What’s that?” Mac asked, looking up from his side dish of steaming rice.
“A little gold seashell. A charm.” I held the trinket in my palm and pried it open with my fingernail to find a miniature pearl inside.
“Do you think this is part of Farquahr’s stolen loot?” I asked.
“I’d say it’s a favor.” Mac unfolded his own napkin, but nothing fell out. “Do you have a charm bracelet?”
“Yes, but it stays in my jewelry box. How do you suppose they—whoever set the table—knew that a woman would sit in this chair?”
“Sea magic.” Mac patted my hand. “They didn’t. If a man finds a favor, he gives it to his date.” He closed his hand around mine, successfully trapping it, charm and all. “You really do see mysteries all around, don’t you?”
“Sometimes. Right now I’d like to find the jewel in the cake.”
“That’s a dangerous gimmick,” Mac said. “Brewster will be lucky if one of his guests doesn’t choke.”
“They won’t if people know about it ahead of time.”
Damson paused at the table, handsome and blond in a dark evening suit that wasn’t quite vintage but gave the illusion of another time. “Good evening, Joanna—Lieutenant Dalby. Did I hear someone say my name?”
Hastily I freed my hand from Mac’s grasp. “I found the charm, Damson. It’s lovely.”
“Lani designed them. A certain mystery writer with a vivid imagination gave me the idea.”
I smiled at his allusion to our first meeting. “Have you seen Angela Carenton this evening, Damson?”
“Angela—oh yes.” Damson’s face darkened slightly. “I mean no. She was called back to Ohio. Some family emergency.”
Yes or no? This was the first time I’d seen Damson flustered. “Do you know what kind?”
“Some relative with a problem. Angela wasn’t specific, and I didn’t pry into her affairs.”
Nor should you, he might have added.
“That’s settled,” Mac said. “You won’t have to worry about Angela any more, Joanna.”
“Not at all,” Damson added. “She’s is a very capable lady. Have a good time, you two. I’ll see you later in the ballroom.”
Mac returned to his chicken with enthusiasm and set to work clearing his plate. This dinner was truly delicious—roast chicken with bread stuffing and hot biscuits. All wonderful comfort foods that I didn’t usually cook at home or order in a restaurant. Recalling my last meal-for-one at the Steakhouse, I pondered the new information about Angela between bites of white meat.
“Do you know how to bake biscuits, Joanna?” Mac asked.
“Of course I do. I’ll bake a batch for you some day.” The kind in plastic packages ready to be heated in the oven, I thought. The stores in Spearmint Lake must have them. “Mac, don’t you think it’s odd that Angela’s family emergency happened just when she’d discovered a clue to Ned’s murder?”
“And they say that policemen never rest. It could be a coincidence.” Mac helped himself to another biscuit. “Do you know Angela’s address in Ohio or how to reach her by phone?”
“Only the number of the Fairspring Motel, and she isn’t there.”
“Then, the way I see it, you reached a dead end.”
Mac was right. I’d intended to ask for Angela’s home address before she left Michigan, never expecting her to drop out of sight. That family emergency was a little too convenient. The only relative Angela had ever mentioned was the one who lived in Spearmint Lake.
“Right from the beginning, I thought there was something strange about Angela,” Mac said. “Did she ever say what she was doing in the cemetery?”
“Looking for her great-aunt’s grave, but...” I hesitated, wanting to say more, not sure if I should.
If Angela never came back into my life, was I still honor bound to keep her secret? Mac was right. There was something strange about Angela, including the clue she’d refused to reveal.
Still, she’d been so supportive and helpful to me when Kinder had been taken—which she could do and be secretive at the same time. Why should I assume that she’d told me everything? For a moment I wondered if her date with Damson was part of an elaborate fabrication. Had she really met him at a roadhouse, as she claimed? Had he even asked her to be his date for tonight?
If not, what would she gain by lying about it? When we’d first talked about Loosestrife Inn, Angela planned to go alone as all her friends lived in Ohio. It didn’t seem likely that a millionaire would frequent a roadhouse and form an instant attraction to a woman he met there.
