by Bobbi Holmes
According to the signs, he was still in Frederickport. He was fairly certain Beau assumed he was dead—that he had drowned. If Beau believed for a moment Wilbur had survived, he would have sent someone to find him. Wilbur leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes, thinking of his sister. He needed to get back to Portland and put this nightmare behind him.
He remained sitting on the bench, leaning back, eyes closed, when he heard someone sitting down next to him. Glancing over, he saw a tall man and a woman sharing his bench. The man looked to be in his fifties, slender with a hook nose. The man sat between Wilbur and the woman, so he was unable to clearly see the woman’s face. Closing his eyes again, Wilbur returned to his private thoughts.
“I missed you this morning at breakfast,” Wilbur heard the man next to him say to the woman.
“Walt Marlow spoke at the library this morning, and we thought you’d want someone there,” she told him.
Wilbur barely opened his eyes and glanced over to the pair. They know Walt Marlow? Wilbur asked himself, closing his eyes again, pretending to be asleep.
“Why wasn’t I told?” the man demanded.
“We didn’t know what would come of it. And we figured you’d already be upset about the bag washing up on shore.”
“That’s an understatement. What did you find out?” he asked.
“According to Walt Marlow, there is no diary—no letters. He claims events in Moon Runners are a product of his imagination, and he only researched the era and this general area for inspiration and background,” she said.
“That’s a lie,” he grumbled.
“I agree. It’s too big of a coincidence,” she said.
“July Fourth is in four days,” he began. “And on the fourth, you can get into Marlow House without breaking in and look for it again.”
“How do you figure that?” she asked.
“They’re having a fundraiser. It includes a tour of the house. A perfect time to look for it.”
“With all the people around?” she asked.
“If someone catches you looking in a drawer, what’s the worst that can happen? They’ll think you’re nosy,” he said.
“But what if we can’t find it?”
“If we can’t find it in Marlow House, there’s one other place we need to look,” he said.
“Where?” she asked.
“Jon Altar hooked Marlow up with his agent. And Altar lives across the street from him. Reportedly, they’re close friends. I’m wondering if Marlow collaborated with Altar. After all, it was Marlow’s first book. From everything we’ve learned about the man, before he showed up in Frederickport two years ago, he was a real estate agent, and I’ve read a couple of articles where they interviewed people who knew Marlow back when he lived in California.”
What is he talking about? Wilbur wondered. I don’t think Marlow ever lived in California.
“From what I’ve read on Marlow, according to those people they interviewed, before moving to Oregon, he was never much of a reader and expressed no interest in writing. That’s why there must be a diary or letters. And I’m wondering if Marlow found them and took them to Altar.”
“Are you suggesting Altar wrote that book, not Marlow?” she asked.
“It’s possible.”
“Maybe. But today, when someone asked Marlow about the book he’s currently writing, he wouldn’t say much. In fact, he mentioned that when he wrote Moon Runners, he didn’t let anyone read it until he finished it, not even Jon Altar, whom he credited for helping him get the book published.”
“And he could be lying. He lied about the diary or letters,” the man reminded her.
“And what if we don’t find them at Altar’s house either?” she asked.
“I’ve already decided one thing we’ll have to do. I don’t see any way around it.”
“You’re not suggesting…” she began.
“I told you before, if we can’t find it, we burn down Marlow House.”
“But someone could get hurt.”
“Someone will,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Marlow is writing a second book. What do you imagine it’s about?” he asked.
“Yeah, that thought crossed my mind when I heard him talking about it today.”
“If it comes to burning down the house, we might as well do it right. Think about it. If Marlow dies, the rest of the story dies—remains untold. And the best time to set a fire is when they’re sleeping.”
“You want them dead?” she asked.
Wilbur froze. He needed to stay quiet, pretend to be asleep. These insane people were talking murder and so carelessly discussing their plans while he sat next to them. If he was to stand up now and walk away, the man would undoubtably try silencing him.
“What about Altar’s house?” she asked.
“When we’re there on the fourth, I’m sure the Altars will be there—or more accurately, the Bartleys. If I feel Altar didn’t write any of Moon Runners, and Marlow hasn’t shared the research with him, then there’s no reason to do more than take down Marlow and his house.”
“What about Danielle Marlow?” she asked.
“Collateral damage.”
When the plotting couple sitting next to him finally stood to leave, Wilbur remained frozen on the bench, refusing to open his eyes. He continued to feign sleep, even faking a snore. He assumed they had forgotten he was sitting next to them when they started talking, and once they stood up to leave the bench, they would see him and wonder if he had overheard their deadly conversation. But if he could convince them he had been asleep the entire time, perhaps they would not bother him. Were they now standing nearby, watching him?
After a considerable amount of time elapsed, he opened his eyes and looked around. Relief washed over him; he was alone. Many of those on the pier when he had first arrived had left. The sun was setting. Wearily, he stood up and walked to the side of the pier and looked over its edge. He watched the foamy water slosh around the wood pilings.
He remembered the gunnysack. Where had it gone? he asked himself. Surely it had not washed back to sea. The sea had tucked it under some rocks the last time he saw it. He remembered thinking it was in a safe place until he could retrieve it. Wilbur frowned. Had he picked it up and taken it with him? Perhaps he forgot.
Wilbur asked himself why he had become so forgetful lately. Why did the world seem out of kilter? When had it all changed for him?
Closing his eyes again, he thought back to when everything began spinning out of control. He should never have come to Frederickport. But Beau had agreed to his terms for a reduced price. Perhaps Wilbur was being punished for taking the money that he should have shared with his sister.
He then remembered the opium. It wasn’t until after Beau had given it to him he was told what it was. After that, everything went sideways. He pondered the opium, and a thought came to him. Wilbur’s eyes flew open. “That’s why I keep forgetting things. I wonder…did I take it with me? Is that why I can’t find it?” Wilbur said aloud. “I took it with me and left it in the house. I bet it’s in the closet, I probably hid it in that box of toys. That’s why I can’t find it on the beach. I picked it up and took it with me. I never would have left it out in the open, where anyone could find it. That damn opium muddled my brain.”
Wilbur took off in a run and raced down the pier. When he reached the sidewalk, he continued north, heading to the house he had taken refuge in. Hopefully, the redhead had not returned. He needed to get inside the house again and find the bag he had stashed there, before returning to Portland.
He was about three doors down from his destination when he spied four people walking across the street from where he had been hiding earlier. Halting, he stared at the four people. He had seen them before. One was Walt Marlow. He watched as they got to the other side of the street. The redhead with the baby walked out of the house across the street and began talking to the four people. After a moment, th
ey all turned and walked up to the house the redhead had come from. Once they were all inside, he spun around and made his way to the beach, taking a shortcut through two houses. This was his chance to find the gunnysack before she returned.
When Wilbur reached the house a few minutes later, he didn’t stop to open the door but walked right inside. Not for a moment did he consider it odd that he didn’t need to first open the door. He had grown accustomed to the oddities of life since his brush with death.
Once inside, he headed to the nursery, where he searched through the closet and toy box. But it wasn’t there. He stepped out of the closet into the nursery. After a few minutes of searching the room, he heard a door open and close. He stood silently in the middle of the room and listened, wondering if he needed to hide in the closet again. Abruptly the nursery door opened, and he ducked behind the rocking chair. The man who had been there earlier looked in the room briefly and then left, shutting the door behind him. A moment later Wilbur heard the man shout, “Lily, are you here?”
The next moment he heard a dog barking. Wilbur raced for the closet and tucked himself into the far corner. Although again trapped, he was for the moment safe.
Ten
If one looked into the old theater and could see the woman sitting in the front row, they might assume she was an actress preparing for her role as the Gibson Girl, a pen and ink illustration created by artist Charles Dana Gibson in the late 1800s, considering her manner of dress, style of hair and delicate facial features. Despite the uncanny resemblance, it was not a drawing come to life, but the silent screen star Eva Thorndike, in death. Eva sat with her friend, a fellow thespian and recently deceased, discussing the previous night’s performance. All the seats in the theater except for theirs were empty.
The only other person—or more accurately, ghost—in the theater was Marie Nichols. Marie, who appeared as an elderly woman wearing a floral-patterned sundress, stood a distance from the pair, in the hallway leading to the restrooms, looking up at the clock. It was almost five a.m.
A moment later Marie moved from the clock to the front row and interrupted her friends’ conversation when she announced, “I think I’ll pop over to Frederickport and say hello to Walt and Danielle. They’re back from their trip, and I’d love to see how they enjoyed Hawaii.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little early to be popping in on them?” Eva asked with a mischievous grin. “Or is it really Connor you’re dying to see?”
“I’m already dead,” Marie reminded them smugly.
Eva’s male friend chuckled.
Marie shrugged. “I admit, I’ll probably stop in Connor’s nursery first, visit him this morning so his parents can sleep in. And then a little later I’ll drop in on Walt and Danielle and head back here for the next performance.”
“To be honest, dear, I’m surprised you haven’t gone before now. It requires little energy to travel from Astoria to Frederickport,” Eva said.
“I didn’t realize how much I’d miss that little stinker,” Marie said. “I don’t think I could love him more if he were my own grandson.”
Eva smiled. “He is a sweet child.”
“And I wonder, when do you suppose Walt and Danielle will give Connor a playmate? If they wait much longer, there’ll be too big an age difference for them to be best friends.”
“Have you given up on Adam giving you a great-grandchild?” Eva asked.
“Even if he and Melony get married, I don’t hold out much promise for those two having children. Melony seems determined not to be a mother, and I have to admit Adam sincerely does not seem to want children.”
Eva shrugged. “One never knows how these things will work out. But please say hello to Walt and Danielle for me, and if you decide not to hurry back, I understand.”
Marie arrived in Frederickport at sunrise on Sunday morning. She stood on the middle of Beach Drive and looked over at Marlow House and watched the sun peeking over its rooftop. The street was quiet, and while she could not feel the cool crisp morning breeze, she could smell the salty scent of the ocean, and for that she was grateful.
She turned from Marlow House and made her way to Ian and Lily’s, heading for the wall leading into Connor’s bedroom. A moment later she stood inside the nursery, next to the window, looking at the crib, and startled to find a young thirty-something man standing over it, staring down at the sleeping child.
“Who are you!” Marie demanded. To her surprise, he looked up at her, his eyes wide.
“Alexa?” the man asked hesitantly.
Marie frowned at his comment. While he could see and hear her, she wasn’t convinced he was a ghost. A medium perhaps? And if he was a medium, was he a friend of Ian and Lily’s? Did they realize this man was alone with Connor in the nursery?
Focusing her energy, Marie wondered if this was a living man or spirit. She willed him to float up to the ceiling. The next moment—nothing happened. Nothing at all. He remained standing at the crib, looking at her.
“Alexa?” the man repeated.
“Do Lily and Ian know you’re in here?” Marie demanded.
“Who?” he asked.
Marie gasped. Realizing he definitely should not be in the nursery and not a hundred percent certain he was a ghost, she willed one of Connor’s stuffed animals to fly off the dresser. It hit him squarely in the chest and continued on, flying through his body. Relief washed over her, especially since Eva had assured her the universe would never allow a spirit to harm an innocent.
The man jumped back, startled, and looked down at the stuffed animal now on the floor. As if in slow motion, he looked back to Marie, his wide eyes now terror filled. “You’re a demon,” he muttered. He looked down at the sleeping baby and back to Marie. “I won’t let you hurt this child!”
“Oh, settle down.” She chuckled, moving to the rocking chair and sitting down. “And while you’re at it, keep your voice down, you don’t want to wake up Connor.”
“What do you want, Alexa?” he demanded.
“First, why in the world do you keep calling me that?” she asked.
“Isn’t that who you are?”
She rolled her eyes. “Obviously not if I asked why you keep calling me that. And please, come over here away from the baby so we can talk without waking him. I have to assume he can hear you since he can hear me and Eva.”
He turned from the crib and walked to her as she sat calmly in the rocking chair, studying him. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Oh my, you really don’t know, do you?”
“What are you talking about?” he repeated.
“That you’re dead,” Marie told him.
“What an insane thing to say!” he said.
“Says the man who accused me of being a demon and started calling me by some random name.”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Marie Nichols. When I was a baby, I lived in this very house. In fact, this used to be my nursery,” she said.
Both curious and confused, the man took a hesitant step toward Marie and then stopped. “Why did you say I was dead?”
“Because you are. Just like me. We’re ghosts. In my case, it involved murder. In my bed. Although it wasn’t my bed exactly; it took place in a bed in one of those horrid nursing homes. But either way, I’m still dead. I was in my nineties, so I had a decent run. You, on the other hand, look to be rather young. Unless you’re assuming the likeness of a younger version of yourself.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Wilbur frowned.
“I wonder how old you were when you died. And how long ago it happened. But considering you haven’t come to terms with your death, I doubt you could answer.”
“You’re saying I’m dead?”
“You’re a slow one, aren’t you?”
“And you’re dead too?” he asked.
“I entered through the front wall; in case you didn’t notice. That’s not something I could do when alive. Now, please
tell me, who are you, and why are you here?”
He took several steps closer to Marie before plopping down on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest, and wrapping his arms around them. For a moment she thought he might start crying.
“Oh dear, I am sorry. Truly. It is rather annoying to discover one is dead, isn’t it? I wasn’t thrilled when Danielle told me,” Marie sympathized.
He looked up to Marie. “Who is Danielle?”
“Danielle Marlow.”
“Any relation to Walt Marlow?” he asked.
“His wife,” Marie said.
He frowned. “Someone is planning to kill Walt Marlow and his wife.”
Marie sat up straight in the chair and stopped rocking. “Where did you hear this?”
“I overheard someone when I was down at the pier. They sat next to me on a bench. I wondered why they talked so freely about it; I was sitting right next to them. I pretended to be sleeping, so I guess they assumed I wouldn’t hear. But still, I could have woken up any minute.”
“They didn’t think you were sleeping,” Marie said.
“They didn’t?” he asked.
“Of course not. They couldn’t see you. You’re a ghost.”
He considered her words a moment and glanced to the crib and back to Marie. “The baby can see me.”
“Yes, and he can see me too. Often babies can see spirits. It’s when they get older, they typically lose the ability.”
“But some people have seen me in the last day or so. One looked at me and said hello,” he insisted.
“Perhaps you’ve run into one of the mediums on Beach Drive. We have a few of them in this neighborhood.”
“And the people who couldn’t see me…are you saying they weren’t ghosts?” he asked.
Marie smiled. “You thought they were ghosts?”
“Yes, I walked right through them, and they didn’t see me.”
Marie chuckled. “No. They walked through you…” Marie considered what she had just said and shrugged. “And I suppose you walked through them. But it’s because you’re the ghost, not them.”