Woo Woo

by Joe Coccaro

  “Carter, I heard there was a spooky lady in town,” Cyril said.

  “Spook lady? It ain’t right using that word,” Mac huffed. “Cyril, this ain’t the ’50s no more. I don’t appreciate talkin’ like that. You is supposed to say colored or black.”

  “Not spook,” Cyril said more loudly. “Spooky, like ghosts.”

  “Oh . . . I see.” Mac laughed. “Ain’t all that surprisin’. We got those damn things all over town. Just like stray cats—ever’where. I ignore ’em. And if I think I see somethin’, I just shoo ’em away, just like if I see a cat sittin’ on my porch or shittin’ in my flower bed.”

  Cyril shook his head and sipped Scotch from his red plastic cup. “I haven’t seen any ghosts, except maybe Natalie Wood in my dreams, but plenty folk around here say they have experienced something. You just heard old Mac here.”

  “I know you fellas are just yankin’ my chain,” Carter said.

  “Not really,” Cyril said. “Folks around here call it woo-woo.”

  There goes that word again, Carter thought.

  “Woo-woo. Look it up,” Cyril said. “Real word.”

  Carter recalled how Hattie had described it, but he did a search on his iPhone to humor Cyril. There it was, the definition of woo-woo in Merriam-Webster: dubiously or outlandishly mystical, supernatural, or unscientific. Hattie had pretty much nailed it.

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” Carter said. “So where have people seen ghosts?” He’d heard Hattie’s take; he might as well hear Cyril’s.

  “Oh hell. The old Royal Palace movie house; the old schoolhouse down the street; at least a couple dozen houses in town; a couple of the B&Bs,” Cyril said. “People say the ghost in the coffee house tosses forks, knives, and spoons around. They just jump off the table. Even Gil’s supposedly got one in the pub.”

  “Really? Gil never said anything to me,” Carter said.

  “Not something people really talk about. Probably not good for business. People will think you’re crazy, or at the very least a liberal,” Cyril said. “Same people who believe in ghosts believe in global warming. It’s all in their heads.”

  Carter laughed. “The Donald would be proud of you, Cyril. I’m surprised your Trump sign by the door isn’t bigger. Is this his campaign headquarters for Cape Charles?”

  “Trump?” Mac piped. “Did you say Trump? Nothin’ but a loudmouth maniac who thinks he’s God’s gift to women. National Enquirer says he can’t get it up. That’s why his first two wives left him. That’s why he had to go to Russia to find a third. Ask me, his new wife, Mel . . . innia, whatever, looks like a man. Bony face and thick eyes. I bet he got her through one of those Internet dating sites. A limp dick, that’s what Donald Trump is.”

  “At least Trump has a dick,” Cyril countered. “That’s why I’m for ’em. We’re too damn soft in this country. The Chinese are pissing all over us. We got Muslims running around with bombs. Our boys are dying in Afghanistan. We need someone in that job with balls, not some liberal lesbian who’s gonna keep getting our boys overseas killed.”

  Mac rose from his chair and hobbled over to the counter. He opened one of the umbrellas left there by the women. “Made in China. See that, Cyril. You’re a damn hypocrite.”

  “You guys are brutal,” Carter said. “I don’t know how you remain friends.”

  “No one said we was friends. Weez just Army drinkin’ buddies,” Mac said as he slid back into his chair.

  Cyril smiled, leaned forward, and the two clicked their plastic cups in a toast.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Cyril said, grinning. “Cheers, you liberal fruitcake.”

  “Back at ya, you mean old Nazi.”

  “You two need marriage counseling,” Carter said. “I know someone who can help.” The two old guys laughed. “So how about we avoid politics, at least until I leave. Tell me about this ghost lady.”

  “I don’t know her name,” Cyril said. “But she was in here a few weeks ago asking about historical records, and she bought a couple flashlights, a beach umbrella, and sunscreen. She paid cash. She was with some old guy with an accent. Irish or Scottish I think. Says they was doing some genealogy research. The old guy said somethin’ about them being para . . . psychologists from some Scottish university. Edinburgh, I think.”

  “Parapsychologists! What’d she look like?” Carter asked, alarmed.

  “Pretty sandy blonde. Nice ass and mouth.”

  “Yeah, her lips was nice,” Mac piped, “but not as nice as Roberta’s.”

  CHAPTER 8

  THREE SHOTS OF Scotch before noon were hard to shake off. Carter hated Scotch. In fact, about the only hard booze he could stomach was vodka mixed with either fruit juice or tonic. He was more of a wine guy, which only added to Gil’s insults.

  Carter left the hardware store with paint cans in hand and headed to Gil Netters for lunch. He didn’t want to be harassed by Gil, but he was hungry and curious about the girl and the ghosts and the old dude she was with. When he arrived, Gil was behind the bar with Lil.

  “Hey there, Sparky,” Gil bellowed. “What can I do ya for?”

  “You seem cheery. Hell, you’re even smiling. What’s up with that?” Carter said.

  “He’s always cheerful,” Lil said, “just sometimes less so than others.”

  Lil looked good today. Her breasts bulged beneath her black Gil Netters T-shirt, and she had pulled her black hair back into a ponytail. Gil, as usual, wore a clover-green collared golf shirt large enough to hide his midriff bulge. Despite the poundage, he looked solidly built, with broad, thick shoulders and a barrel chest.

  “So, tell me about not getting laid, moron,” Gil said.

  “I will. But first, tell me about the Gil Netters ghost.” Carter figured he’d start with that first. A part of him didn’t want Rose’s identity as the ghost lady confirmed. She seemed too sophisticated for that type of thing.

  “Who told you about that?” Lil said.

  “Doesn’t matter. I heard, that’s all.”

  “I don’t like talking about that stuff,” Gil said.

  “Well, I will,” said Lil. “I’ve seen it and felt it. Don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it.”

  Lil’s wide green eyes bulged, and she leaned over the bar close to Carter so nobody could hear. She stood on her tiptoes. The tattoos on her arms’ cleavage rippled.

  “We call the ghost ‘Gina.’ She’s definitely a woman, maybe in her twenties or thirties. Kinda hard to say.”

  “So, you’ve seen her?” Carter asked.

  “Well, kinda,” Lil said. “I was facin’ the mirror behind the bar one night, looked up, and saw the reflection of a woman walkin’ into the dining area in the vault. She looked well dressed. I figured she’d seated herself, so I went in there with a menu. I looked around, and no one was there. A minute later, our cook, Frier, comes running out the back yellin’, ‘A lady just walked into the pantry area, and when I walked in there to see who it was she disappeared!’ Frier was pretty freaked out. He’s superstitious to begin with and didn’t come to work for a week.

  “Another time I was leaning over cleaning bar glasses, and I felt someone tap my shoulder,” Lil continued. “I looked up, and no one was there. The same thing happened to Gil a couple nights later, right, Gil?”

  “I guess so, yeah,” Gil said. “There’s been lots of stuff like that over the years. Pretty much everyone who has worked here awhile meets Gina. It’s usually the same kind of thing. They get a glimpse of some lady who disappears, or they feel someone tapping their back or pushing them. I felt it a couple times. It’s weird. It’s like a white glowy thing with people features.”

  “Who came up with the name Gina?” Carter asked.

  “I did,” said Lil. “That was my aunt’s name. She and my mom used to hold séances when they was kids in North Carolina. My mom didn’t believe in that stuff, but Aunt Gina did. She used to tell me scary stories all the time. She made my brother cry once, and I peed on myself in bed ’cause
I thought somethin’ evil was tryin’ to get me. My grandma made Aunt Gina go talk to the minister. He told her the devil would take over her body if she kept messin’ ’round with spirits.”

  “Interesting,” Carter said. “But it doesn’t exactly sound like you have proof of anything here at Gil Netters.”

  “I’m not saying I have proof, Mister Smartass,” Lil said. “And I sure as hell don’t know for sure what I saw. But I saw something, and I felt something. That I am sure of. And I know Mr. Frier, our cook, and some of the others will tell you they’re sure too. I ain’t sayin’ what it is running ’round here. But it’s something, and I damn sure don’t like it.”

  A group of tourists walked into the pub and sat at the bar.

  “Enough of this crazy stuff,” Gil said in a low voice. “So, Sparky. What about the girl? Couldn’t make it happen, huh? You owe me twenty-six bucks for that bottle of wine. And where are my glasses, moron?”

  ***

  Every old town has its stories, and most are just that—folklore, fairy tales, imagination run amok, some devious twist of history unexplained. No surprise Cape Charles has some of that woven into its fabric of abandoned train stations, lighthouses, and old Victorians. Imaginations could easily become unhinged here, Carter thought as he headed home after lunch. This would be a good place to stage one of those ghost “reality” TV shows.

  Carter took a slight detour and turned onto Bay Avenue in hopes of seeing Rose’s purple golf cart. The sun was now up, the breeze gentle, and the Bay nearly still. A perfect beach day. There it was, parked by the Tyler Lane beach entrance like before.

  Carter walked the sand path between the dunes and spotted Rose’s pink and green umbrella. She was alone, wading knee deep in the water. Her yellow bikini bottoms rode low on her hips, making her legs seem even longer than Carter had remembered. A gust coming in from the south pushed the hair off her neck. Carter removed his Keens and looked at his size ten feet imprinting the sand. Get some balls, he told himself.

  Carter set his sandals and paint cans by Rose’s chair, then walked over to the water and waded toward her. The water was flat, barely a ripple, and at least seventy-five degrees.

  “Hey there, pretty lady.”

  Rose pivoted. “Well, well. Don’t tell me. I’m in your wading spot.”

  “Yup. But I’m happy to share,” Carter said with a smile. “Friends share, right?”

  “Oh, we’ve graduated to friend status.” She smiled and adjusted her shoulder straps.

  “Afraid I’m getting sunburned.”

  Back at her chair, Rose handed Carter sunscreen. As he massaged it onto the back of her neck, he fought the urge to kiss below her hairline. He then moved to her shoulder blades and the backs of her arms.

  “You burn easy?” Carter asked as he stepped away.

  “Usually my first or second time at the beach. After that I brown up like a rotisserie chicken. Probably the Portuguese blood in me, from my mother’s side.”

  “Portuguese roots! What about the rest of you,” Carter asked as he sat on the beach towel beside Rose’s chair.

  “I’m a mutt. The name Portman is Eastern European on Daddy’s side, a mishmash of Polish, Austrian, and Hungarian, best I can tell. What about you, Carter? Are you a melting-pot baby too? Anything exotic in those veins?”

  “Nothin’ royal about my people from what I can tell. Dad’s people are from Rome.”

  “Italian. Yeah, I can see it,” Rose said. She ran her fingers through Carter’s slightly wavy, dark hair.

  “Last name is Rossi, which my dad shortened from Rossellini to sound more American. Dad designed display windows in fancy New York City department stores.”

  “Rossellini. Wasn’t there a famous Italian film director by that name?”

  “Impressive,” Carter said. “You’d clean up on Jeopardy. Yup. That’s the one. Roberto Rossellini made films in the ’40s and had a fling with Ingrid Bergman and apparently lots of other actresses. He was the notorious family playboy. My grandfather’s first cousin. I have photos of them together as kids in Rome.”

  Rose smiled and stroked Carter’s hair again. “The descendant of one of Italy’s most notorious playboys. That’s a lot to live up to.”

  “I think I’d rather be related to the Queen of England,” Carter said. “More dignified . . . and lucrative.”

  “Yes, but far more boring. Italian playboy—I like that. What about the rest of you, you know, your mother’s side?”

  “Like I said, more mysterious. She died when I was two. Her family name seems to be Austrian, or Romanian, or somewhere ending in ian—like you I guess. She had blond hair and light eyes. Her maiden name was Booth, like John Wilkes, the guy who shot Lincoln. I’ve never taken the time to find a birth record. I tried Ancestry.com, but it was a dead end. Kind of frustrating, actually.”

  “I know what you mean about Ancestry,” Rose said. “They tease you with a few tidbits of free information and then make you pay up for the good stuff. I got pretty frustrated too.”

  “So, your trip here is all about exploring your family tree?” Carter couldn’t work up the nerve to ask her about the ghost stuff; he hoped his guess about Rose being the ghost lady was wrong.

  “Kind of. There is one relative I’m interested in learning more about, a great aunt on my mother’s side: Luzia Rosa Douro.”

  “Is that where you get Rose from?”

  “Very observant, Carter. Gold star. Yes. My mom named me after her. From what my mom says, several members of the family fled Portugal around 1916. They were afraid of a German invasion. So, her aunt Luzia and a couple of other family members fled to France. Apparently, Luzia met an American sailor there.”

  Rose told Carter pretty much all she had been able to find out about her great aunt from Google searches, some old letters, and recollections of family members. The American sailor Luzia met had served as an officer aboard a Navy cruiser assigned to escort convoys bringing supplies to the British, French, and Italians. German U-boats were a constant threat, torpedoing supply ships. The Kaiser’s Navy even targeted passenger liners, sinking the British Lusitania and killing almost 1,200 civilians.

  Luzia met the young officer, Ensign Douglas Kinard III, while she was in a dress shop in France. Luzia was a dancer by night back in Portugal and a milliner by day. Her hats had become quite fashionable.

  She had trained in ballet and the classics and had hoped to perform in dance companies in Italy or France. She was stunning, with a face like Greta Garbo’s but with a harder body and more grace—shoulders back, chin up, and a gait more even and light than a Tennessee Walker. Douglas Kinard III had stood breathless when he saw her through the window of the dress shop as she measured a customer’s hat size. He stared for minutes until she finally noticed him and smiled coyly.

  Kinard was a handsome man, regal even, with a square jaw, deep-set eyes, and blond hair that glistened white when stroked by the sun; Rose had found online a family portrait of the Norfolk Kinards, a well-to-do family that had owned a small fleet of barges that hauled timber between Cape Charles, Richmond, and Norfolk. Douglas was the oldest of three brothers and by far the most handsome. His father was friends with a couple of Norfolk admirals and parlayed his son’s pedigreed education—he’d attended a private boarding school—into a Navy commission. Better to enlist as an officer than be drafted into what certainly appeared to be an unavoidable clash with the Germans, the admirals confided to their rich friend.

  Young Douglas, just twenty-two, asked Luzia to be his wife, jumbling Spanish and French phrases he had learned while at school. Luzia, who had been a virgin before enveloping the debonair ensign, accepted the proposal on a drizzly evening the night before his warship deployed. That night, filled with lust and his heart aching, Douglas slipped onto her finger a gold ring set with a ruby the size of a pinky fingernail. He had received the heirloom from his grandfather for luck and had worn it on a neck chain. The ruby, Grandfather Kinard had claimed, had come from a g
ypsy who had foreseen a bright future and good fortune for Douglas’ father, the senior Kinard, a prophecy fulfilled.

  Luzia used money Douglas had given her for passage to America. He had written on a postcard an address in Cape Charles, Virginia. From New York, she could ride a train to the small coastal town. On a map, he circled the spot in the shape of a heart.

  Douglas worried about Luzia making it to Ellis Island safely. He told his bride-to-be which passenger liners would have Navy escorts—a fortuitous tip. Luzia made it to New York about two months after she departed France and then boarded a train south to the spot on the map circled with a heart. She wasn’t sure when she and Douglas would rendezvous, only that she would wait there until they did.

  Luzia hadn’t realized that while she was in New York being processed at Ellis Island, her beloved Douglas had been heading toward the Hudson Harbor aboard the USS San Diego. Ensign Kinard was no hero and longed for his bride-to-be, so he had written his father, who, once again, had used his pull. Kinard had been reassigned to shore duty, instead of being sent back across the Atlantic. The cruiser was being sent to New York to guard a convoy of cargo ships heading to supply France with weapons and ammunition. He was to ride it to the Hudson Harbor, get off the ship, and take a train ride back to Norfolk.

  A German U-boat had been prowling the US coastline, looking for easy targets. It had come across two on the same afternoon: a Navy cruiser and a French passenger boat. Douglas Kinard had been on one and Luzia Rosa Douro on the other. The benevolent U-boat captain had passed on the civilian ship and, instead, stalked bigger prey. He torpedoed the San Diego near Fire Island just hours before Douglas Kinard was to disembark and report back to Norfolk. News about the U-boat attack exploded onto front pages. Shipping and ferry passage in deep harbors, like the Chesapeake Bay, or in open waters, was suspended while the Navy scattered ships to hunt down the ruthless German submariners.