by B. T. Lord
And Rick.
She knew he was terrified at the prospect of taking Cammie’s place. He refused to sit at her desk or go into her office. It was as though he’d made it a shrine – a place he was unworthy to enter. He wasn’t sleeping, and he barely touched his lunch. Hoping to cheer him up, she brought in her home baked macaroons that were his favorites. To her dismay, he wouldn’t even look at them.
Thinking about Rick inevitably brought up the issue of their relationship. If she could call it that. He’d insisted on talking to her about it, but finding Cammie’s resignation letter and badge had torpedoed that. He had yet to broach it again, and she didn’t have the heart to broach it for him. Not when he was so obviously burdened with the prospect of stepping into the sheriff’s shoes.
She longed to pull him into her arms and tell him that he was an excellent officer. He was good at his job and everyone knew that. Yes, Cammie was more experienced in the seamier side of law enforcement, but he still had the capability of meeting any emergency with level headed professionalism. He wasn’t in over his head despite what he thought. But whether it was her own creeping depression, or the fear that now was not the time to be talking about such personal feelings, she remained uncharacteristically paralyzed. Unable to move forward one way or the other.
She finished her coffee and glanced over at the tree. Well, there was one thing she could move forward on. In fact, she had to. If she didn’t put the Thanksgiving tree up, people would notice. And comment. If there was one thing she was determined to do, it was to carry on business as usual. No matter how much it hurt.
She stood up and started towards the window when the phone rang.
“Twin Ponds Police Department,” she said as she picked up the receiver. She listened for a few moments, her heart sinking with each word. “I’ll have Rick call you ASAP.”
She hung up and sighed again. “We’re screwed,” she said aloud to the empty office.
CHAPTER TWO
Eagla Island
Violet Munson stood on the porch of the large American craftsman-type house that stood on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The imposing blue structure had been built by her late husband’s grandfather back in 1955 who’d christened it Munson Cottage. She’d always chuckled at the name. Like the famous Vanderbilts of the 19th century who’d thought of their enormous mansions in Newport as cottages, Philip Munson had done the same. His ‘cottage’ was the largest house on the island, easily dwarfing the humble homes of the local fishermen and their families. If the old man had done it tongue in cheek, it was impossible to know now. He’d died in 1984 at the age of 75, taking the joke, or lack thereof to the grave with him.
A cold wind blew across the wide lawn, causing her to pull the hood of her coat up over her short blonde hair. She’d taken a break from packing and although the weather was frigid, it gave her a much-needed respite, not only from the moving boxes, but from the recollections that each piece she uncovered brought up.
Violet and her two sons had arrived on the island two weeks before – a trip she’d put off for as long as she could. She knew it would be difficult. There were so many memories associated with the house and property – all the summers she and Edward and their children spent here, sitting on the wide veranda, sipping cocktails as the ocean breeze cooled them down after a day frolicking on the beach below. She would never forget the look of peace and contentment on Edward’s face as soon as they stepped off the ferry. It was as though all the concerns and stress of his job melted away once he arrived.
Along with the happy memories came the reminiscences of the not so happy visits. The ones she’d taken at the beginning of her marriage. The ones when Philip Munson had still been alive.
He’d always been an eccentrically formidable character. Emotionally remote, with an ice-blue stare that cut right through her, she’d learned early on to treat him with kid gloves. Perhaps because Edward was long accustomed to the old man’s mercurial temperament, he never seemed bothered by the maddening mood swings. These days Phil probably would have been diagnosed as bipolar and given medication. But in those days, she felt herself at the mercy of his unpredictable personality. The old man could be charming and effusive. He knew so much about so many things and when he held court, she was transfixed by his words. It was his rages, however, that were distressing. His brow would darken for no apparent reason and he would fly into the most violent histrionics. The family knew enough to scatter until the storm blew over. Then peace would reign again. Thankfully, he spent hours in the dark room he'd built in the basement, developing the photographs that brought him a degree of fame. The more time he spent down there, the freer the family was from his stressful outbursts.
Violet could never admit it to Edward, but she was relieved when Phil died. She would no longer need to walk on eggshells in his presence, nor stress herself keeping her children away from his temper tantrums.
On her first visit to Munson Cottage after his death, she was amazed at the change. Edward’s father had inherited the home and immediately set about modernizing it, changing out the furniture and giving both the exterior and interior a much-needed coat of paint. Yet it was more than the new furniture and fresh paint that left Violet stunned. It was the general feeling and aura of the house itself. She hadn’t realized how Phil’s personality had acted as an oppressive blanket on their surroundings. Now that he was gone, it was as though the house was filled with fresh clean air, making each room feel lighter. Happier. Now it truly became a place of joy filled vacations and wonderful memories.
Then it all came crashing down. Two years before, Edward was diagnosed with lung cancer. He’d insisted on spending last summer at the house. Violet guessed he knew it would be his final summer at the place he’d loved so much. She couldn’t blame him for wanting to savor every last moment. When he finally passed away in September, he left Munson Cottage to her.
She wished he hadn’t. The legacy of his last summer were the sorrowful memories of Edward being ravaged from within. Of the days and nights listening to him hack and cough and wheeze as he struggled to breathe. The thought of returning to the house and reliving those horrible days and nights were too much. As much as she knew it would have wounded Edward, she made the decision to put the house on the market. It was useless holding on to a property she had no desire visiting. Her daughter didn’t want it. As to her sons –
Violet heaved a heavy sigh. In another life perhaps, Andrew and Teddy would gladly have taken on the ownership of this grand old house. They’d grown up on the bluff and beach below, spending entire days playing in the surf and sand. But now…
She shook her head sadly as another gust of wind blew up against her face. It had been a mistake to have her sons accompany her. Once she’d made the decision to sell, she knew she’d have to make the melancholy journey back here to pack up those items and family heirlooms she wanted to keep. Owing to the house’s size and the accumulation of over sixty years worth of Munson possessions, she’d planned on their help in going through everything and packing what they decided to keep.
Violet looked down the wide expanse of lawn that ended at the edge of the cliff. Beyond was the sea. She watched the sea gulls gliding in the wind, envying them their freedom to take off and fly away.
If only she could do the same.
Andrew and Teddy had always been competitive with each other. She never understood where it came from – she and Edward always tried to instill respect and a deep sense of family loyalty among their children. Since arriving at the house, she noticed with growing dismay, an edge of nastiness to their sibling rivalry. They were grown men in their 40’s. Yet they were behaving like children. Every discussion, no matter how innocuous, always devolved into a shouting match, resulting in one or both stomping off. She’d never seen them this way before and was at a loss on how to stop it.
It’s the house.
She glanced back over her shoulder and sighed again.
There was something different about t
he house. In a place where she’d always been soothed by the sound of the waves coming through her bedroom window, she now found herself unable to sleep. She spent every night since their arrival a week before tossing and turning. In those moments when she was able to drift off, she was always abruptly awakened by a nightmare she could never remember. At first, she’d chalked it up to the unhappy memories of Edward’s last summer. But slowly, she’d begun to realize it was something more. There was an almost imperceptible sense of foreboding. Of a heaviness that settled upon her shoulders, crushing the breath from her lungs.
It was the same heaviness she’d felt when Phil Munson was alive.
She’d tried to laugh it off, telling herself it was just her imagination. But maybe it wasn’t, after all. There was definitely something off inside the house. And whatever that something was, it made her sons act out of character.
She was almost tempted to abandon the house with everything inside. But there were items that belonged to Edward. Paintings, books, papers that had meant so much to him. She couldn’t leave them here. She had no choice but to finish up as quickly as she could. Then she could close the door behind her and never think about or experience this place again.
“Mrs. Munson?”
She gave a start and turned at the sound of the voice. A wrinkled, grizzled face covered with white whiskers looked back at her in concern.
Splash Mulroney was an islander whose family stretched back to the original settlers. He was the third generation Mulroney to serve the Munson family as caretaker. In her mind’s eye, she watched a memory come up of a six year old Teddy asking Splash how he acquired his nickname.
“Well, when I was about your age,” he answered in that distinctive sing-songy Maine accent, “my dad took me out fishing. Now I don’t rightly remember what exactly happened, but somehow I ended up falling overboard. As you can imagine, there was a huge splash when I fell in. When we got home, he told my mother about it. She laughed and laughed and started calling me Splash. I’ve been called that ever since.”
Glancing at him now, it wasn’t the first time she realized that in all the years he’d taken care of the house and looked out for her children, she had no idea what his real name was. She knew he was married to Molly, a short, chubby woman who occasionally cooked for them. She’d heard – she couldn’t remember from who – that she was ill with breast cancer. She recalled two daughters – Fanny and Charlotte who would come over and play with her children when they were all young. She could easily recall all of that. Yet, she couldn’t remember his given name.
“Molly made some extra peach cobbler. Thought you and the boys would enjoy it.”
They’re not boys anymore. They’re men.
Violet bit back the words. Instead, she reached out and took the aluminum pan from his hands.
“That’s kind of you. Please thank Molly for me.”
“I surely will.”
He hesitated. Violet felt a surge of irritation run through her. Edward had always teased that Splash was sweet on her. She’d ignored it over the years, but now she was beginning to see that Edward hadn’t been joking.
Since arriving back on Eagla, the man had become a nuisance. He was forever interrupting them while they tried to work. She quickly came to regret asking him to be the liaison between her realtor and any potential buyers. Knowing there wasn’t anyone who knew Munson Cottage and the property as well as Splash did, she’d hoped he would simply get the job done without bothering her with the details. Unfortunately, he was constantly stopping by, giving his opinion on how best to show off the house and asking what she considered inappropriate questions on what she planned to do once the house was sold.
Now here he was again, sneaking up on her and scaring her half to death. She swallowed her ire and forced a smile on her face. “I’d better get back inside.”
“If there’s anything I can do –”
“We’ll manage,” she interjected curtly. “Thank you.”
She turned on her heel and quickly entered the house.
She’d barely taken two steps when she felt as though she were moving through an oppressively heavy blanket. Before she could consider what it meant, she glanced into the living room and saw Andrew and Teddy sprawled on the couch and recliner. The TV was on and by the shouts and whistles, she knew they were watching a football game.
Frustration turned to anger.
Along the walls were rows of frames that contained Phil Munson’s photographs. Despite his overbearing nature, he’d been a very talented photographer. She’d spent countless hours studying the photos, taking in the beauty of the nature he’d found on the Coffin Islands. There was a quality to each that always caught her attention, causing her to see something different each time she stood before them. It was no wonder his work had been featured in prestigious magazines, giving rise to a cottage industry on the islands of offering his photographs for sale. Edward never tired of bragging that every business in town, as well as many of the private houses, had a Munson photograph hanging on their wall.
She’d asked Andrew and Teddy to wrap them each in bubblewrap and pack them in one of the moving boxes. That was two hours ago, and the pictures were still on the wall.
Her fingers curled around the pan of peach cobbler. Standing on the precipice of resentment and rage, she lifted the pan, ready to hurl it at them. At the last moment, she managed to drag herself away from the edge. The anger was still there, bubbling under the surface, but she refused to give into it. She continued into the kitchen and placed the cobbler on the counter.
She then placed her hands on the cool marble and leaned back, lowering her head. She took several breaths to calm her roiling emotions.
After a few more breaths, she felt the ire slowly loosen its grip. She straightened and was in the process of putting the cobbler in the fridge when she felt a chill envelope her. Goosebumps erupted up and down her arms as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. For a moment, she could swear there was someone standing over her, their frigid breath against her skin. Before she could stop herself, she looked over her shoulder.
There was no one there.
Thoughts flooded her mind. What was going on? Why was she suddenly so cold? What the hell was wrong with this house? Before fear could set in, she heard voices raised in anger coming from the living room.
“What an asinine call! Is that ref blind?” Teddy yelled.
“You’re the one who’s blind. The guy was obviously holding.”
“You’re full of shit! You can’t be that stupid.”
“Bite me, you moron.”
Something broke within Violet. A fury she’d never experienced before rushed through her. She whirled away from the fridge and slammed her hands loudly against the marbletop island.
“Shut up, both of you!” she exploded. “You can’t even take the damn pictures off the damn wall and put them in a damn box like I asked you to! You’re both completely worthless.”
She stomped across the room and up the stairs. Reaching her bedroom, she slammed the door behind her, the echo reverberating throughout the house.
Her hands shook at the ferocity of her temper. She paced restlessly, knowing that if she didn’t dissipate this rage, she’d throw something through the window.
As she calmed down, her fear and worry increased. My God, what just happened? She’d never reacted that way before. Edward had always admired her calm levelheaded-
ness. She was always the one to diffuse a difficult situation. Now she was creating them.
It had to be the memories. There was no other explanation. They were creating havoc with her psyche, making her unable to sleep and get the rest she so desperately needed.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and made a deal with herself. She’d originally planned to stay as long as it took to go through the contents of the house. However, she’d give it one more week. Whatever she didn’t get to would become part of the sale.
Now that she had an end in sight,
her fears slipped away. However, it didn’t stop a headache from forming at the base of her skull. As she went into the bathroom to get some aspirin, she failed to see the outline of a dark shadow move across her bed and disappear through the door.
CHAPTER THREE
Jace screamed in horror as he saw Cammie go over the cliff. He forced himself forward, fighting against the roaring winds pushing him backwards.
Please God, don’t let her be dead. I beg you. Don’t let her die.
Fighting back tears, he finally managed to get to the edge where he willed himself to look over. His cries of terror turned to delirious relief when he saw a set of narrow stairs carved into the side of the cliff. Below, he saw Cammie running onto the beach.
Dear God, what is she doing? She’s not going to run into the water, is she?
“Cammie!” he yelled until he was hoarse. But it was no use. The wind was determined to rip his words away. Gripping the slimy rock with his right hand, he gingerly made his way down the wet soaked stairs. He wanted to bellow in frustration at the slow pace, but he’d already come close to losing his footing on the slippery stone. If he went too fast, he’d topple off and risk serious injury.
Finally reaching the bottom, he took off running on the wet sand. Once again, he felt thwarted. The faster he ran, the slower he seemed to go. Thankfully, he saw she’d come to a stop just out of reach of the incoming waves. She stood like a desolate sentry, looking out over the crashing, pounding ocean.
“My God, you just about gave me a heart attack!” he shouted as he came up and gathered the cold and shivering woman into his arms. “What were you thinking? What are you doing down here?”
Cammie tried to answer, but her teeth were chattering so badly, she couldn’t speak. Instead, she pointed towards the ocean.
Jace peered out to where she indicated. All he saw were angry white and grey waves hurling themselves against the beach. Rain pelted his face and stung his eyes, preventing him from seeing more than that. Whatever she’d seen was long gone. Worried that they’d both come down with pneumonia if they stayed out much longer in the driving rainstorm, he gently pulled her towards the stairs. “It’s too windy out here,” he shouted when she resisted.