by Bryan, JL
“Renoir, so good to see you.” Darika stepped forward and shook the enormous man’s hand, smiling broadly in a way she’d certainly never smiled at Stacey and me. She was about half Renoir’s size, and he seemed to take care to go gentle on the handshake. He nodded at Gary, acknowledging him quickly before looking at us.
“Who are they?” he asked, his voice a deep baritone.
“Consultants,” Darika said. “Local private investigators.”
Renoir removed his glasses and looked us over, his deep brown eyes piercing, making me feel almost guilty, like a cop doing an interrogation. “And what exactly are they investigating?” I thought I caught a trace of Cajun accent in his voice.
“They’re fine,” Darika said. “Fully licensed. They signed NDAs like everyone. I didn’t know Wyatt was coming here today—”
“Neither did we,” Renoir said. “It started as just another working cruise. But you know him. He decided to swing on down and have a look at what y’all are up to around here, do a little surprise inspection.” He smiled. “So, surprise! Inspection.”
“How’s his mood?” Darika asked, her voice dropping low.
Renoir smiled more widely and turned away like he wasn’t going to address that.
Next to emerge was a petite, heavily tattooed woman in jeans ripped to threads, probably to help show off her blazing-neon tattoos, mostly lizards crawling up and around her legs. Open-toed sandals served as a display case for her many and assorted shiny toe rings.
A young man in a light blue suit followed, weighed down with several black electronics bags, which gave me the idea he was some sort of personal assistant. His red hair, short but carefully carved and styled with a razor-sharp part that took no prisoners, didn’t move in the stiff, warm ocean breeze.
Finally, Wyatt Lanigan emerged, and I recognized him instantly in his trademark outfit: retro video game t-shirt—Galaga, at the moment—thousand-dollar Kiton cargo shorts, tree-fabric sneakers from hyper-sustainable company Allbirds. He was short and slender, his brown hair dyed blond at its spiky tips, his eyes darting around wildly, like he was trying to see everything at once. He was twenty-three, but I might have guessed a little younger.
He hurried down the stairs like he was running from a burning house full of monsters.
“Wyatt, it is so good to see you!” Darika stepped forward, beaming at her boss.
“Why would you be happy about this complete nuclear meltdown? Have you seen this place? We don’t even have a month, Darika! Gang way!” Wyatt leaped over the last four steps and landed in the sand on one knee and one fist like Iron Man, but with more of a wince on impact. When he stood, the redhaired assistant guy bustled over with wet wipes to remove the sand from Wyatt’s fingers and knee, an action Wyatt seemed to barely notice. The guy straightened a couple of the tiny spikes on Wyatt’s head before retreating.
“I’m sorry. I know what you’re saying, but—” Darika said.
“That makes one of us, because your reports make less and less sense,” Wyatt said. “We just overflew the whole site from above. I wasn’t even planning on stopping here. It was intended to be a relaxed brainstorming cruise over the East Coast. But now I see nothing is ready. Nothing!” Wyatt paused as the redhaired assistant guy whispered in his ear. Wyatt’s gaze shifted to Stacey and me. “Who are those two?”
“We’ve had unique difficulties,” Darika said. “For which they are specialists. Perhaps we could discuss this more privately—”
“How could it be more private?” Wyatt asked. “We’re on an island. There’s literally nobody here.”
Darika’s eyes flickered among Wyatt's three-person entourage. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Please tell me what mysterious job I’m paying these two to do. Based on what I saw on my flyover, it better be landscape design or roadwork. And they’d better be geniuses at it.”
“They’re…” Darika sighed like she was already mentally updating her resume and starting up a job hunt. “They’re paranormal investigators. The contractors and work crews quit because they’re scared. They all believe this house is haunted.”
Everyone fell silent and nearly as motionless as statues, watching Wyatt for his reaction.
He covered his eyes and moaned.
“Great,” he finally said. “First the congressional hearings, now this. It’s all piling up like when you're about to lose at Tetris. What am I supposed to do, Darika? Just tell Adrienne, ‘Sorry, that dream wedding I promised will be a disaster because the place is haunted. How about a mud-themed wedding? It’s ecological.’”
“I don’t think Adrienne would like that,” the redhaired assistant guy leaned over and said, in a voice that sounded like a whisper but wasn’t.
“We already have the final invites with the location reveal back from the printer, ready to mail,” Wyatt said. “We sent save-a-date notifications two months ago. I’m flying in cruelty-free foie gras from Spain. We’re bringing the entire wedding party down from New York on the Benetti. Everyone we know will be on the island, hundreds of people. If this is a disaster, Adrienne will kill me. Murder me, Darika. Probably with one of her dad’s hunting rifles. And then, as I’m bleeding out and dying, she’ll dump me, too. I can’t screw this up.” Wyatt looked at Stacey and me as if just remembering we were there. “And now we’re talking about ghosts? Is this real?”
“Sometimes people see abnormal things because of toxins in their systems,” said the densely tattooed girl with the sizable toe-ring collection, whose name and role I still hadn’t sorted out. “A three-day juice cleanse will flush that out.”
“This isn’t a dietary issue, Farlee,” Darika said, with a quick glance and tight smile before returning her attention to Wyatt. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the truth. I was hoping to have it resolved before I had to explain this to, well, anyone. Other than Gary, who’s seen it all.”
“Yeah, this place is haunted as all get out,” Gary added. “If you ask me, I’d move the whole wedding someplace else. Because mixing all those people with all the trouble on this island—”
“That’s probably enough unsolicited input, Gary,” Renoir said, and Gary closed his mouth and lowered his head.
“No, I want to hear him out.” Wyatt looked at Gary. “You’ve seen things, too? What’s your name, again?”
“Gary. It’s like Darika says. Everyone hates it here. Bad enough to quit.”
“Well, great. Maybe I'll stick around for a night or two. It’ll be nice to finally get a look at the place in person. Brad, the luggage.”
“Of course,” replied the redhaired assistant, apparently named Brad, after a twinge of displeasure crossed his face and vanished quickly. “I’ll just shed what I have first. May I disgorge here?” He stepped to the nearest golf cart, Darika’s, and she nodded. He stripped off his various computer and tablet bags, including the one from which he’d drawn the wet wipes. “Anyone else want to help?” he asked before heading back up the clear staircase. Nobody followed.
“Could you grab my backpack, Brad?” the heavily toe-ringed woman, Farlee, called up after him. “And the cooler bag? And my carving and plating kits? Thanks, Brad, you’re a beautiful and kind soul.”
“Oh, my pleasure, Farlee,” Brad replied, not bothering to submerge his sarcasm.
“So, these two girls are, what, again?” Wyatt asked Darika, pointing at Stacey and me. “Ghost exterminators?”
“They’re with Eckhart Investigations, a firm in Savannah that specializes in paranormal investigation,” Darika said. “They have quite the reputation if you dig into it online. Mixed reviews, but some clients are happy afterward.”
“You can’t win ’em all,” I said, drawing Wyatt’s gaze very quickly before he looked back at Darika.
“Tell me this isn’t one of the hidden-camera shows,” Wyatt said. “You know I hate those. I’m sure it would help with the blown budget, but no.”
“It isn’t,” Darika replied. “This is a real problem.
I didn’t want to believe it at first, and then I didn’t know how to tell you. It’s been nothing but stress day and night, coming to grips with this and researching how to address it.”
“You should try chamomile and lemon balm teas for stress,” said Farlee, who’d been gazing off at the ocean.
“I drink gallons of both, thanks,” Darika said. “Wyatt, I know it sounds insane, but this is the root of our problem here, and we are addressing it.”
“How long will it take?” Wyatt asked.
“I’ve given them a very short deadline.”
“We need replacement crews out here today. This place is a wreck. Keep going with…” Wyatt gestured toward us. “Whatever this is. Is the master suite ready, at least?”
“No, only some of the guest suites on the second floor,” Darika said. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to stay in the main lodge.”
“That’s what I’ll tell our wedding guests. ‘Just avoid the main building where all the event space and lodging is.’ What about the smaller cottages?”
“The guest house, butler’s cottage, and some of the servants’ cottages have been restored—”
“We’ll take the guest house, then. Come on, everyone.” Wyatt started toward Darika’s cart, and Renoir and Farlee followed.
“But I’ve been staying at the…” Darika’s protest died on her lips as she watched them clamber into her golf cart, the security guy and the toe-ring queen in back. Up front, Wyatt took the wheel.
Wyatt stomped the golf cart’s accelerator and tore off down the beach with a loud whooping sound, pumping a fist in the air, and plainly no idea where he was going, since the only road was the opposite way. His current trajectory would eventually land him in the salt marsh.
“Where are they going?” Stacey asked.
“Wherever Wyatt's whims take them,” Darika said. “Just like the rest of us.”
After a minute, perhaps realizing his own lack of a clue about where to go, Wyatt circled back and pulled up alongside us. “Which way?”
“I’ll show you.” Darika hopped into the empty shotgun seat and pointed, and off they zipped.
“Wait! Seriously?” Brad called from the stairway, where he was only halfway down, bent over as he hauled suitcases in each hand, an overnight bag around his neck and a large denim backpack covered in bright patches and flags strapped to his back. He watched like an abandoned child as Wyatt and the rest of the entourage drove away without him.
“I guess we better help that fellow,” Gary muttered. He drove the security cart over to the staircase, where we all helped Brad load the luggage into Gary’s cart.
“Well, thanks for your help,” Brad told us, cutting a sharp look in the direction the other cart had gone. “I suppose it’s true what they say about Southern hospitality.”
“I’m from California,” Gary said. “Well, Wyoming.”
“Wyoming’s close enough.” Brad turned to Stacey and me. “I’m Brad Matthews, Wyatt’s personal assistant. Very pleased to meet you all.” It sounded like a rote, shallow pleasantry, but I was happy to take any pleasantry at this point.
After Stacey and I introduced ourselves, I said, “I’m guessing Renoir is security—”
“He's Wyatt’s personal bodyguard and ninjutsu instructor,” Brad cut in, seemingly eager to dish. “Renoir has a few black belts and was a martial arts champion in Los Angeles a few years back. He’s originally from Louisiana. You could probably hear the touch of remoulade in his voice. He’s mostly flattened it down, sadly, for his various attempts at acting, which rarely proceeded beyond stuntman work.”
“What about Farlee?” I asked.
“She is Wyatt’s personal chef. He goes nowhere without her.”
“And his fiancée’s totally okay with that?” Stacey asked.
“Why not? Adrienne is the one who recommended her.” Brad gave Stacey an amused smile.
Gary drove us back up the steep and narrow beach road, the bumpy and cracked surface bouncing us the whole way. I gripped the door, knuckles white again, and tried not to look at the ever-growing drop outside my window. I wasn’t always such a chicken about heights. My acrophobia began relatively recently when a poltergeist nearly threw me off a high balcony, and it wasn’t helped very much when a third-floor catwalk in a necromancer’s library abruptly collapsed beneath me.
In addition, I had a sinking feeling that we’d only made this terribly unpleasant drive down and back up the beach road in order to get fired…leaving everyone on the island exposed to the dangers of a severe haunting we’d barely begun to understand.
Chapter Fourteen
Darika’s golf cart was parked at the lodge, so apparently Wyatt had decided to look around the main building before heading to the guest cottage. We parked there, too, and went inside.
I’d expected to find everyone gathered in Darika’s office, or maybe touring through the various macabre exhibits of decaying old beasts.
Instead, they were in the card room, where Wyatt was checking out our array of little monitors and speakers and computers. I felt like he was intruding pretty deeply on our space there, but I couldn’t really complain, because technically it was his space, and he was now the client as much as Darika. More than her, I supposed.
“They say all this equipment helps them find ghosts?” Wyatt asked Darika. “And they've set it up all over the house?”
“We don’t have nearly enough to cover this entire house,” I said as we entered. “There’s more coming on the ferry.”
“What is all this?” Wyatt looked at me. “What kind of equipment? Have you collected anything?”
“Only some sounds in the dining room,” I said. “That’s a place where many workers reported activity before they quit. But we haven’t had any time to review what we’ve collected—”
“Does it really work, though? Have you ever caught an image of anything before?” Wyatt gave me the impression of a kid who’d just heard about a promising new video game.
“Oh, yes, on past cases. Images, audio—”
“Audio?”
“Sometimes you can hear them talk.”
“Whoa. Wow.” He looked over the array. “Do you have your own router for all this input? It doesn’t look like you’re using the one in the house.”
“Our tech manager Stacey will be happy to explain all of that,” I said.
“Oh, yes!” Stacey beamed at Wyatt, and his jaw dropped open just a little, but he closed it quickly.
I was glad to pass that job to Stacey. While I could have explained our use of the equipment in the same detail, I wouldn’t have done it with Stacey’s peppy personality, and our continued employment on this case seemed doubtful. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted the future of the case to hinge on my ability to charm Wyatt into keeping us around.
Stacey explained in slow, honeyed Alabama tones how we used the camera, microphones, and other monitoring gear. Wyatt shied back from her at first but grew more engaged as he asked fine-grained details about the specifications of each piece of equipment. The more technical the conversation grew, the more comfortable and animated he became.
His entourage and employees—Darika, Gary, Renoir, Farlee, and Brad—watched Wyatt and his interactions with Stacey like a kettle of hawks eyeing potential prey, or perhaps a herd of sheep eyeing a potential threat. I sensed how their day-to-day lives rose and fell with Wyatt’s moods and impulses.
“All of this is aimed at giving you superhuman senses, isn’t it?” Wyatt said to Stacey after he’d looked at literally every monitor. “To see in many places at once, to see in the dark, to hear beyond the range of ears. Even touch, with the thermal devices and motion detectors.”
“Yeah,” Stacey said, beaming at him. “I never thought of it exactly that way, but yeah.”
Were they having a moment? If so, did I need to feel so alarmed about it? They were standing close together, eyes lingering on each other. They were the same age, and I had to admit that Wyatt Lanigan looked more attrac
tive in person that he did on TV. He’d always seemed pale and stringy, but in person was more compact and wiry. Maybe the martial arts training was paying off, and maybe he’d been lifting a few weights lately. And spending a few minutes out in the sun, too.
A digitized loon cry shrieked out, then another, and everyone in the room but me checked their pockets. Apparently, I was the only one without a LookyLoon app nesting in my phone.
“Wyatt—” Darika began.
“I see it,” Wyatt said. “A local news site’s showing footage of the airship parked on Satilla Island. Oops.”
“Oh, Adrienne’s going to hear about it,” Brad said, sounding very grave.
“You could tell the pilot to get it back in the air,” Darika said. “Say it was a minor maintenance issue.”
“Good idea,” Wyatt said. “Brad, text PR and make that happen. I’ll tell Captain Estevez to go home. We’ll bring my plane to the local airport instead. I assume there’s a local airport, right?”
“There’s several,” I said.
“Good! Problem eradicated.” Wyatt sent a text, then pocketed his phone and looked at Stacey again. “I want to see some of these ghost pictures you’ve taken.”
“Oh. Well, sure, once I go through the data—”
“I get it. Hey, everyone, let’s have an individual break and reflection moment, all right? Enjoy a little you-time. Farlee, why don’t you whip up some lunch for everyone?”
“For everyone?” Her eyebrows shot up. “We only brought enough in the cooler bag for a light lunch.”
“The kitchen here is massive, though,” Wyatt said.
“It’s not entirely functional,” Darika said. “Or stocked.”
“Then how are you guys eating while you live here?” Wyatt asked.
“I have my groceries delivered weekly by the ferry,” Darika said.
“We brought a week’s worth of supplies,” I said. “But only enough for two people—”