by Joe Coccaro
Luzia arrived in Cape Charles a few days later, still unaware that Douglas had been aboard the San Diego. She had used the money Douglas had given her and a stash provided by her father before leaving Portugal to rent a room in a boarding house owned by the Kinard family, a Victorian with six bedrooms on Harbor Street, just a block in from the beach. It was the address Douglas had provided. He had sent word ahead that the family inn was to reserve its best room for his special guest and that she was to be pampered. The innkeepers obliged.
Instead of arriving at a quaint summer resort, Luzia stumbled into a chaotic mess. Cape Charles had become constipated with stranded travelers seeking passage to Norfolk and angry barge crews stuck in port. The Navy had suspended all commerce and passenger ferry transport until it could deploy patrol boats to chase off German U-boats now lurking off the coast. Studebakers, Model T’s, and Packards awaiting ferry passage lined roads into town, their cloth tops baking in the sun.
Unsavory boat crew members, stranded and frustrated, plied the town for opportunities to replenish their dwindling cash reserves needed for booze, loose women, and lodging. Packs of thieves worked the area. They pickpocketed and stole from boarding houses, stores, or unoccupied cars. Local police were overwhelmed. Luzia had only been in Cape Charles a week and twice found her room broken into. So, she took her money and what jewelry she had and put it all in a safety-deposit box at Colonial Savings and Loan, one of the town’s local banks, one with armed guards by the door. That deposit was the last known record of Luzia Rosa Douro’s life.
***
Carter listened mesmerized, like a four-year-old being read Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss.
“Wow. So, your great aunt Luzia was here in Cape Charles. Did she ever hook up with her Navy guy, Douglas?”
“No. Aunt Luzia died here, or at least that’s my guess. I’m trying to figure out exactly how and where. What I know for sure is that the bank she put her money in burned up really bad. What I don’t know for sure is if the fire had anything to do with her death, but I’m guessing there’s a connection. She was never again heard from. Two people died in the fire: a bank security watchman and a woman. Newspaper accounts said the fire probably was an arson and that the body of the woman was found in the vault and couldn’t be identified.”
“Seems strange. You’d think someone in a small town like this would know the identity of someone who was killed,” Carter said.
“You would think so,” Rose said. “But remember, little Cape Charles was bustling back then and had a lot of strangers hanging around. Transients held up here waiting to get passage to Norfolk.”
“Still strikes me as odd. A woman turns up dead in a bank vault, and no one knows who she is.”
“Carter, you’re thinking like a twenty-first century man. Lots of people in the early 1900s were undocumented. There are gravesites around this country filled with people who died anonymously. I think that’s what happened to my mother’s aunt. There was no record of Luzia in this country—no birth certificate, Social Security number, nothing I could find other than her passage through Ellis Island. I think the woman who died in the bank was her. What I can’t figure out is why she was in the building at night when it was burning.”
“What about the Navy guy, that Douglas character? Did he come for her?”
“He died too. I found some old news stories online about the USS San Diego. Just about everyone abandoned ship. Douglas Kinard III of Norfolk, Virginia, and four or five others died on board.”
“What the hell,” Carter said. “Sounds like a 1940s melodrama.”
“It was, Carter. And I need to write the ending. That’s why I’m here. I need to find out what happened to Luzia. The worst part is, she may still be among us, stuck.”
“What do you mean by among us?”
“Meet me at C Pier at seven. I’m on the Topp Kat, third boat from the end. It’s a cabin cruiser with a dark blue hull. And bring a couple bottles of that pinot gris Gil serves. I’ll grill some tuna steaks. Oh, and one more thing, Carter. We’ll have company.”
CHAPTER 9
CARTER WAS HAPPY for the invite, but disappointed he’d be a third wheel. He walked from the beach to Gil’s to bum a couple of more bottles from his friend, knowing he wouldn’t escape unscathed.
“So, Sparky, the little hottie invites you over but says you’ll have company. Interesting play. She’s either lying to keep you off guard, or she’s yanking your chain for grins. Or maybe she’s into kinky stuff.”
“Come on, Gil. Always with the weird sex stuff. You’re watching too much porn, or you had a weird childhood. Jill needs to cut off the cable and find you a shrink. In fact, I know one.”
“Don’t need cable for porn. There’s plenty on the Internet. And you should know.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not my thing.”
“Bullshit, Sparky. We all look at the stuff. Keeps the juices flowing, and it keeps us all sane when we’re not getting any. Maybe if I strapped you into a chair and made you watch for a few hours, you’d grow some balls. Anyway, here’s a couple bottles of pinot gris. I’m charging double.”
“Don’t you always.”
“Throw the other person overboard and try to get laid, moron. Maybe some weed will improve your chances. Ask Lil. She usually has some.”
“No thanks, Gil. The stuff makes me dumb and paranoid.”
“Try it. You might like yourself better that way, moron.”
***
Carter took a little longer than normal getting ready. He put a new blade in his Trac II razor, plucked a few nose hairs, lathered on a scented hair conditioner, and spritzed his chest with a musky cologne his ex had given him on their last Christmas together. The final touch: hair-styling cream. A dark-blue collared shirt with the tail out over pleated shorts. Leather sandals.
Hope this isn’t overkill. I feel like a freakin’ teenager on a first date.
Carter knew the Topp Kat well. It was a charter boat used to go offshore for billfish and finfish. When the fishing was lousy, as it had been throughout most of June, Captain Neally would rent the forty-six footer to those looking for a place to have a private party. Rumor was that discreet out-of-town businesswomen who were regular fishing clients sometimes rendezvoused on the Topp Kat with boys for hire. The boat had two berths, a head, one room with couchlike benches, a wet bar, and a flat screen that rose from a cabinet with the touch of a button.
“Permission to come aboard,” Carter called out.
The glass door to the cabin slid open. “Come on in, and watch your step,” boomed a man’s voice with a heavy accent.
Carter shook hands with the old guy, quickly figuring it was the same person Gil had described slobbering all over Rose at the pub.
“Nice to meet you. Carter, is it?”
“It is. And you are?
“My birth name is Malcolm Dunbar.”
“Make that Dr. Dunbar,” Rose interrupted as she stepped from the berth below into the main cabin. “Nice to see you, Carter.”
Carter handed her the two bottles of pinot gris.
“These are for us,” Rose said. “Malcolm wouldn’t touch the stuff. He only drinks—”
“Brandy,” Carter interjected. “Very old brandy.”
“Quite right, my boy. What gave it away?”
“Well, you kind of look like John Houseman, you know, the actor in The Paper Chase. You have that air of sophistication.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. I’ve worked decades to appear pretentious. Tried snobbery, but it didn’t feel quite right.”
“Well, now that you boys have been properly introduced,” Rose said, “how about a toast to newfound friends?”
The three verbally danced for the next twenty minutes, making small talk while Rose seared tuna steaks on a propane grill on the stern.
“Spring asparagus and fresh tuna caught this morning. A full moon and calm summer night. Here’s to perfection,” Rose toasted.
A
fter dinner, the three settled into deck chairs on the bow. They watched other boaters come and go on the pier, some quietly holding hands, others swaying and loud from too much beer or pot. Music and partying echoed over the water from other boats moored along the pier. A squawking heron flew overhead and Canada geese followed, honking with necks stretched looking for a landing strip.
“Quite an eclectic crowd you have here,” Malcolm said.
“Yes, this sleepy town wakes up in the summer. Tourists and retirees have been pouring into this place the past couple years,” Carter said. “Some of the locals worry it’s turning into another hoity hangout for Northerners. Some of the old Virginia families are even spreading rumors that the Italian mob has been buying up waterfront land to drive out the locals and build a hotel.”
“Think it’s true?” Rose asked.
“Fact and fantasy seem to mingle comfortably around here,” Carter said. “If you tell a lie enough times and enough people repeat it, then it’s no longer a lie. Cyril at the hardware store says the mob rumor is BS. No Mafia, no hotel. Just some Jersey guys thinking they’ve found Shangri-La.”
“Shangri-La. Very clever my boy, very clever,” Malcolm said. “He’s a smart one, Rose. Excuse me for a moment while I refresh and refill.”
By now Carter was on his third glass of wine and feeling bold. It was his first moment alone with Rose since arriving an hour earlier.
“So, what’s the deal with you two? Are you involved?”
“Involved? With Malcolm? Just what do you mean?” Rose teased. “Do you mean romantically? Jealous type, I see.”
“Yes . . . and no, I’m not.” Carter blushed.
“Malcolm is a dear friend and mentor. I was his graduate studies assistant at the University of Edinburgh. He visits when he’s in the US, and we still do some research together from time to time. He’s like an uncle to me.”
“Well, he must be a dirty old uncle because Gil says he was slobbering all over you at dinner the other night.”
“Gil. The eyes and ears of Cape Charles. You had better find more reliable sources for information. Malcolm wasn’t slobbering. He does get kissy when he’s been drinking, but never gropey. I hope you know the difference, Carter.”
“Yes I do, and no, I don’t get gropey either.”
“Did I hear something about groping,” Malcolm said as he slid the cabin door closed behind him. “In Italy and Spain, that’s a fine art.”
“It’s apparently been elevated to a fine art in this country too,” Rose said. “Donald Trump has been practicing the art for decades, if you believe the tabloids. He brags about grabbing women by the crotch.”
“Vulgar man,” Malcolm said. “Repulsive. I saw him once at a golf event in Edinburgh. He was dressed like a New York pimp—gold watches and rings, blue silk suit, three tall blondes at his side. His Trump jet. He kept reminding everyone he was ‘very rich.’ All the markings of a man with a small penis and really bad hair.”
“I’d rather not discuss the next president’s penis size or shape. We’ve been through that before with Hillary’s husband,” Rose said. “No more dicks in the White House, please!”
“Agreed,” Carter said. “So, Luzia brings you two to Cape Charles.”
Rose and Malcolm smirked at each other.
“The honor of explaining ourselves and our work is all yours, my dear. This old man has had too much libation and not enough sleep. I shall retire to my berth and let the waves rock me into a blissful slumber. Carter, the pleasure has been all mine.”
Malcolm puckered his lips and smooshed them on Rose’s cheek. “Goodnight, my beautiful dear.”
“Goodnight, dirty old man.”
***
“Quite a character,” Carter said. “Very charming.”
“Charming, cunning, and a daring intellectual. He is regarded as the grandfather of our field around the world.”
“And your field is?”
“Parapsychology.”
Rose is the ghost lady! “What do you mean, like the study of poltergeists?”
“No, not exactly. Let me explain.”
Rose talked for the next twenty minutes almost nonstop. Carter felt like a newspaper reporter again, nodding to show attentiveness and interest, asking short follow-up questions, and never interrupting. The best reporters were great listeners. If only he had a notebook and pen.
Rose explained that parapsychology is a branch of psychology that uses the scientific method to study psychic phenomena—reincarnation, religious miracles, levitation, psychokinesis, telepathy, clairvoyance, extrasensory perception, and, most commonly, apparitions, the meanest of which are poltergeists.
“So, you prove, or disprove, the existence of ghosts.”
“Well, not exactly, Carter. We use very strict scientific criteria to evaluate and understand what people think they saw and, more importantly, why.”
“No offense, Rose, but it sounds squishy to me. How can you prove something that may not exist or that is a figment of someone’s imagination?”
“Physicists do it all the time. Using quantum mechanics, they imagine worlds based on mathematical equations. On the other end of the spectrum, priests and shamans and rabbis and imams extrapolate from ancient stories to create alternative worlds too. No one has seen Heaven or Jannah, but tens of millions of people believe both places exist.”
“I get all of that. But religion is a belief system that denies science, and physics is at least something tangible that can be tested and duplicated.”
“You sure you want to drill deeper here?” Rose said as she filled her wineglass. “This stuff can make your head explode.”
“I’m good. My brain hasn’t felt this alive in months. Stories about ghosts and mind reading are far better than listening to Gil wax on about his glory days at Syracuse and me deflecting his insults.”
“You really need to get a life, Carter, or some new friends.”
“I thought I just did. That’s one reason I’m here, Rose.”
Carter sat stiffly beside Rose on the small cabin “couch”—mahogany wooden storage boxes covered with vinyl seat cushions and backrests. Rose’s summer dress slid higher as she curled her legs beneath her to better face Carter. He could see her blue underwear. The dress strap slid slightly down her right shoulder and exposed a tan line. Her shoulders and legs were bronze. Carter could smell perfume, or maybe it was shampoo. Either way, the lavender bouquet filled his head. So what that she was the ghost lady! He imagined sliding his face under her skirt so he could inhale her more fully.
Kiss her, you fool. NOW!
“So, you were saying that you try and figure out why people think they see what they saw—or something like that.”
“Right, something like that.” Rose giggled. “For something to be considered a science, you need to have a provable hypothesis. You remember that from grammar school?”
“No, I must have skipped the sixth grade,” Carter said. “But go on.”
“The problem with my field is that we can’t conduct experiments or duplicate our findings in a laboratory. If a ghost shows up someplace and is seen by a few people, we cannot tell when it might appear again—if ever. So, we can’t verify or measure.”
“So, it’s not a science then.”
“Well, that’s what the traditional scientific community would say. But that doesn’t prove or disprove paranormal activity. It only proves it’s not science by conventional standards.”
“You were right, Rose. This is making my head hurt. Maybe Gil’s rants aren’t so bad after all.”
“You asked for it, and now that you got me revved up, I can’t stop. So, pay attention.”
Carter stared at Rose’s full lips, trying to concentrate on her words, but imagining her locked on him.
“People claim they can have a premonition that something is going to happen, and then it does. You’re thinking about your mother, and then suddenly the phone rings. You have a vision of a car accident, and you find out a
cousin died in a wreck. Happens all the time, but not on a recurring basis to the same person in any predictable way.”
“So, then none of this stuff is science, which means it’s not considered real. That’s the bottom line, right?”
“No, not real by conventional terms, because science has been defined in a very narrow way. Like I said, you have to be able to replicate your findings so they can be tested by others. Under that definition, parapsychology will never be accepted as science, and, by extension, its subject matter will never be considered real.”
“So, where does Malcolm fit into all of this nonscience stuff?”
“What Malcolm, me, and hundreds of others are trying to do is come up with a scientific method for our field. We’re trying to figure out how to reliably predict and measure.”
“So, you really haven’t answered the million-dollar question, Rose. Are ghosts real? Are people reincarnated? Do we have extrasensory perceptions?”
“I don’t know, Carter, and I won’t until we have measuring sticks that work. But here is what I think: The truth is what we believe it to be. If someone believes they saw a ghost, then that thought is tangible. It exists in their mind. It is real to them. Maybe we have to first believe that ghosts exist before we are able to sense their presence. Maybe you can’t get to Heaven unless you believe it’s there in the first place.
“I am a scientific agnostic, Carter,” Rose continued. “I believe that our minds are far more complex and sensitive than we can imagine. There are psychological powers occurring within us that we barely sense. We have abilities of perception that we can’t comprehend. I believe evolution will fix that; but for now we’re still monkeys afraid of the unexplainable.”
“So, if ghosts are real then there would have to be some form of life after death. Correct?”
“Maybe. Or maybe our bodies leave a sort of carbon footprint that can be sensed by some of the living. Maybe we live in parallel universes. Maybe people on the other side see us cross from time to time into their universe and think we’re ghosts. Is that a mindblower?”