by K. J. Emrick
The Getaway
A Pine Lake Inn Cozy Mystery Book 5
K. J. Emrick
First published in Australia by South Coast Publishing, October 2016. Copyright K.J. Emrick (2012-19)
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This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and locations portrayed in this book and the names herein are fictitious. Any similarity to or identification with the locations, names, characters or history of any person, product or entity is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
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Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Glossary of Australian Slang
More Info
About the Author
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Chapter 1
Sometimes a girl just needs a vacation. A getaway. There’s a whole “top ten reasons” list out there that explains why women need to pick up and have a holiday.
I think finding out your husband didn’t really abandon you—like I thought mine had—should be tops on the list. Years of dealing with the guilt and anger over him leaving only to find out he hadn’t left me and our kids after all.
He’d been murdered.
That’s right, my Richard wasn’t a deadbeat. He was just dead. Not something I was going to get over in a single afternoon. Grieving isn’t something I do well. Or quietly. When my best friend Jess was murdered in my Inn I went a little nutso. Yelling, banging things, and what-have-you. Even then, I held it together for the sake of appearances.
But this was my husband. A guy I’d thought for years was alive, hating me and his kids so much that he’d left us without so much as a goodbye. Instead, I found out he loved us very much. He didn’t leave me. He’d been taken from me by someone I considered a neighbor.
With all that weighing on me, quiet just didn’t do it for me.
After getting several complaints from the guests at my Inn about banging and swearing and screaming—mine—I figured it was time to go somewhere else to blow off steam. I mean, there’s a handful of ghosts at the Pine Lake Inn who like to bang on walls and make themselves heard. Yes, real ghosts. Not exactly something I put on the brochures, mind you. No reason to turn people off from staying in a beautiful old Inn with a gorgeous view of the water. It wasn’t them banging around this time. It was all me.
A few of the guests called the police. ‘Course, when somebody at the Inn calls the police in Lakeshore, they get my son coming down to talk to them. He’s the Senior Sergeant in town. Sort of embarrassing for everyone. Including my daughter Carly. She’s staying at the Inn with me now. It’s nice, having her back in my life. Finding out the truth about her father had brought our whole family together again.
That was one of my other reasons for taking off for a long weekend. I didn’t want Carly to think her mother had cracked up.
It was actually my wonderful boyfriend who finally suggested we take some time away from Lakeshore. He’s a smart man, my James Callahan. Knows when to give me space. Knows when to give me time.
Knows when to take me to a haunted prison sanatorium to make me feel better.
See, when I say it now it just sounds weird but when he first suggested we come here to Port Arthur I thought it made perfect sense. One of Tasmania’s greatest tourist attractions, and one I’d never been to. Plus, there was this whole thing about it being haunted. Considering the recent changes in my life I could hardly pass up the opportunity. I could see ghosts. I could talk to ghosts.
What would I find waiting for me in a place like Port Arthur?
This was a chance to get away, a chance to see a bit of Tasmania’s history, and a chance to take a vacation. Of sorts. I don’t ever take vacations. Ever. I’ve got my Inn to worry about, and my son Kevin just got to be senior sergeant in our little town, and my daughter Carly is still on the outs with me a little bit, and the town is still reeling from one of our neighbors turning out to be a murderer…
All right. That’s enough of that, in my opinion. Time to put all the rest of it aside and just enjoy the time here with James.
That is, if I can get him to pay more attention to me than he’s paying to the buildings.
Port Arthur is, officially speaking, a top tourist attraction in Tasmania. I like to think my Inn comes in a close second, but the numbers don’t lie. It’s not just us here on vacation. There’s stacks of people around. The town itself only has about five hundred people living in it, or so the “Welcome to Port Arthur” sign said. Not hard to tell who was the townie and who was the tourist.
At least we had a private cabin rented in town. We had our nights alone and away from everyone else. Like last night. James was paying me lots of attention last night.
Not so much right now.
The group we were touring with was too interested in listening to the guide to be very talkative, but I picked out an American accent and an Italian as well. There were three university-aged kids, too. Two girls and a guy. One of the girls had her hair dyed a deep blonde, with a red heart that was either tattooed or drawn on her cheek. Kind of cute.
People came here from all over the world to see the ruins of a piece of our history, and all I wanted to do was go back to the cabin and soak in the tub and have James rub my shoulders. That was going to have to wait. James was too caught up in the tour. As much as I enjoy broken down buildings and tales of ghost stories, I was beginning to think we came here more for him than me.
Holding onto the wooden unicorn pendant at the end of the necklace I always wore, I felt over the little horn and the carved hooves and kept my mouth shut, like a good girlfriend should. Me and James would have time for just us later. For now, I could share him with our heritage.
“Over a thousand people died right here at Port Arthur,” our tour guide said, waving his arm around the room. The walls were stucco, and the ceilings were lacquered wood slats, and there was even a table and a chair that had been set in place like the inmates and the guards had just pic
ked up and left an hour ago. All part of the show. “Over its forty-seven-year history a host of characters came and went. Including the infamous Martin Cash, one of only three blokes to ever escape the penal colony.”
The guide’s name was Morten, and he had the thickest accent I’d ever heard from an Australian. It had to be put on for the benefit of the tourists. No one spoke Aussie like this.
James nudged me with his elbow, busy jotting down everything he heard in a top-spiral notebook he’s been keeping in his back pocket. “How bonzer is this? Such an article I’m going to make from this.”
I smile, because James’s accent is like listening to Matthew Le Nevez. Smooth like butter, rich like Vegemite. He’s proud of his heritage, he is. So am I. There’s no better place in the world than Australia, and no better part of it than Tasmania.
No matter how much I love being with James, in this moment it’s easy to see the real reason why he suggested Port Arthur as our vacation spot. He’s working an angle for a story. Sometimes having a reporter for a boyfriend kind of sucks. “We’re going back to the cabin after this, right?”
“Sure, sure,” he said, scratching out another note.
“James, you promised.”
“Hmm? Sure. I remember.”
The tour guide glanced our way with one of those smiles that people use when someone’s annoying them. His subtle way of telling me to shut up. So I smiled back at him. Showed some teeth. Morten the guide was a young kid, in his twenties maybe, with wavy brown hair and over-large eyes. I think I kind of scared him. That’s one of the benefits of being forty-five like I am. I might look like I’m in my thirties with my freckles and long auburn hair and a body that still turns heads, but that much life experience makes for a pretty intense glare when I want it to.
“Er, right,” the guide said, picking up from where he left off. “Once upon a time there was a fourteen-year-old sentenced to prison right here on these grounds. Originally, the nipper was imprisoned for attempted murder. That’s right, started early back then, they did. By all reports, our young lad was a model prisoner. Least, he was ‘til he buried a pickaxe in the back of another prisoner while the two of them was building the prison church. Got himself hung for that crime.”
He waited for the crowd to whisper and gasp. The university girls tittered with laughter, hanging off their guy friend. I’ll say this for Morten. He knows how to work a crowd.
“Up in the gift shop,” he told us, “you’ll find a nice selection of historical reprints. One of ‘em is a snapshot of the prison site from just ten years back. If ya look in the windows of the photo, there’s our young murderer’s ghost. Story is he still haunts these very halls.”
Death, and ghost stories. That’s what the tour of Port Arthur had been all about. All morning, I’d been watching around every corner for a real ghost. Some of the tourists were doing the same thing, but for them it was just fun. For me it’s a way of life.
Imagine, if you will, finding out that you can actually see ghosts. How’d that make you feel? How would it turn your life around? Along with murder and mystery, that’s what my life’s been like. It all sort of goes together, actually.
My Inn has a history. Maybe not as interesting as the Port Arthur prison, but still. If there’s a national average for how many suspicious deaths can happen in any given home, then my Inn is way above average. To hear Morten tell it, it’s the same for the Port Arthur Prison site.
So yes, I’m looking around at the crumbling walls and the mocked-up rooms with their tables and chairs and hanging uniforms actually worn by the guards who used to work here. I’m waiting for the ghosts to sift out of the walls. Or hover through the air like they do in the movies. Or come down the stairs with their faces all bloodied and bruised and screaming about how they were cheated out of life.
Haven’t seen one yet. We’ve been on the tour for nearly an hour now, and we were walking around the trails outside for two hours before that. No ghosts. Odd thing is, I’m kind of disappointed. Guess I’ve gotten used to Jess and Lachlan Halliburton—and yes, even my husband’s ghost—being around for company at the Inn. This unexpected gift of mine doesn’t freak me out any more. Maybe because it’s saved my life more than once. Or maybe because it keeps life from being dull. I don’t know. Either way, I know this “ghost” tour here is just for show. There are no ghosts in Port Arthur.
The guide kept talking, not letting the lack of apparitions slow him down. He had plenty of facts to tell us as we all followed him down stone hallways that rang with the echoes of our steps. You could feel the history in the place. I know James is going to get the ambience of the place just right in the article he’s writing. The prison was nestled against a hill on the shoreline, surrounded by flat plains of carefully manicured grass. That sort of thing. I don’t have the way with words that my man does, but let’s just say this. There are some places in the world where time stops altogether. This is one of those places. We’re walking into the past with every step.
“As I’ve already said,” Morten was saying, “this here’s the main building. It was originally a flour mill and granary before being converted to the four-story penitentiary back in the 1830s. It housed over six hundred inmates, plus the guard staff and a few civilian employees. Supplies were scarce. The warden, now he was a crafty one, he was. Tried to make ends meet by having the inmates work the fields to grow veggies. It wasn’t enough, as they found out. That’s why another prisoner named George Hunt tried to get himself free by dressing up in a kangaroo skin and hopping away.”
Soft laughter filtered through the group. The man in front of us coughed into his hand. “Stuffed himself in through the pouch, did he?”
James laughed harder. I really didn’t think it was that funny. Picture it. A man skinning a kangaroo and wearing the poor bugger like a cape, hopping across the fields outside the prison building. Hop. Hop. Hop.
Okay, so it’s a little funny.
Our guide waited for the laughter to die down, smiling and happy to have everyone eating out of his hand. “Unfortunately for Mister Hunt,” Morten continued, “the guards weren’t getting much more to eat than the prisoners. Imagine that, can ya? They see him bounding across the grass and took a few shots at him, hoping for some roo meat for dinner. Well, Hunt doesn’t want to get shot, so he gives himself up and goes back. Gave him one hundred and fifty lashes for that. Little known fact, but the guards took his meal rations for the next week.”
Once again the man in front of us coughed into his hand. He was a tall guy, and I couldn’t see more than the curly black hair on the back of his head from where me and James were standing. Didn’t keep me from hearing him mutter, “I suppose folks will do anything when they’re hungry.”
It was the kind of condescending, not-quite-meant-as-a-joke comment that I’d just as soon let pass, but James didn’t see it that way. “Hungry or stupid,” he said. “Too right.”
The man looked back over his shoulder at us, appraising James with eyes the color of hot coffee. His face was angular and his chin jutted out sharply. It was the face of a man who didn’t laugh very often. The dark slacks and black button-up added to that image of a dark man with a grim disposition. “Hungry and stupid aren’t quite the same thing. A stupid man can still be taught. A hungry man, no matter how smart, will do whatever he must to fill his belly.”
“Oh, how good is that?” James said, jotting that down too. “Mind if I quote you, Mister…”
He fell back a few steps to walk beside James. “Alistair Grotton,” he introduced himself. “I didn’t exactly come up with that tidbit of wisdom so it’s of no matter to me if you use it. Why, exactly, would you be quoting me?”
“My boyfriend’s a journalist,” I tell him, some of my annoyance at being ignored seeping through into my voice. “Always on the lookout for a story.”
“Well that explains it, then.” Alistair held out a hand while we walked and James shook it after fumbling pen and paper into his pocket. “I myself am
a doctor. I’m always on the lookout for someone in need of immediate medical attention.”
I can’t say that I’m impressed with Mister Alistair Grotton’s humor. I suppose doctors don’t really need to be funny. They just need steady hands, and a patient to work on.
The tour took us to a hallway lined with rounded-top doors. There were little windows with metal bars on each of them. It would have been very dark in here if not for the electric lights running along the edge of the ceiling, added a century or better after this place was last used as a prison.
Our guide stopped us all right here, and that’s when the mobiles and digital cameras came out to start flashing pictures all around us.
“Now this,” he told us, “is an amazingly preserved section of the building. Right here, in these very rooms, the prisoners of Port Arthur were subjected to a whole new method of punishment. Revolutionary for its time, it was. It was all based on isolation, and contemplation. Prisoners were locked into these single occupancy rooms for twenty-three hours every day, only allowed to come out for an hour of hard labor, and then sent back to their cells to think about what they’d done. Like being grounded by mummy and daddy, I reckon.”
All right, even I had to laugh at that one.
Alistair and James peeked into the room to our left where the door stood ajar for the tourists to get a good look see. “I’ve closets at my home bigger than this,” Alistair said. “Poor devils who had to endure this must have all gone mad.”
“Yer half right, mate” the tour guide called back to him. “Many of the prisoners here did go insane. They died a lonely death, screaming and howling as their last bit of sanity went bye-bye. Some say that you can still hear their cries now.”