Chris had managed to find an eyewitness on the beach. Her name was Mamie Borderson. Mamie's photo had been taken in profile as she looked over the swells of the Atlantic. Her hair was thin and her nose sharp. She looked about forty. Her quotes were: “I come down here of a morning, sure, like always of a dawn, and I seen them standing there, him and her. He was somebody I ain't never seen before. No the man weren't no ghost. Real as you and me. And then they disappeared, and then she was standing there with Rod Curator.”
Who was going to believe that? But, if true, this woman actually had seen her and Lawrence, and then her and Rod. Where had she been lurking that day?
The knife-in-the-back award that Sunday morning went to her good friend Missi – someone you could count on. Ann groaned, feeling beat to shit by a confessional stick. If speaking the truth in front of Poblo was her first mistake, having a trusting chat at brunch with Missi was her second. She hadn't thought to say “off the record.”
She looked at Missi's column again, one headed MISSI'S PEOPLE:
Missi had led with a quote:
“I've caused that man more pain than he deserves.” – Ann Gavrion.
Missi went on to write:
That man is Rod Curator, great-grandson of Lawrence Rodrick Curator.
We in the esteemed Fourth Estate need to cut Rod Curator some slack. We also need to cut Ann Gavrion some slack.
My friend, the talented magazine editor, Ann Gavrion, is being held hostage in her own home because of a story that has been largely told by one man with an agenda. That agenda, it seems to this humble columnist, is money and media attention.
Poblo Quitano claims that he helped Ms. Gavrion in her research that was intended to back up her adventurous voyage with a man from another era. Lawrence Curator was investigating the grounding of the schooner, Carroll A. Deering, in 1921, on Diamond Shoals. (See Page 1A for complete story.)
That was nine decades ago, folks. That same year, Lawrence died when his ship went down before that investigation was complete.
Your humble columnist asked Ms. Gavrion what Lawrence Curator was like. Ms. Gavrion answered, 'I don't talk about him. It's a promise I made.'
You'd be better off betting that the sun won't shine for a month than betting that Ann Gavrion would break a promise.
Ms. Gavrion is certain that her journey back in time wasn't a dream. She said, 'I wasn't sleeping.'
“But could it have been a daydream?’ this columnist asked.
Ms. Gavrion answered, “I've thought of that. That's why I went searching for answers.”
“And you went to the museum where this Poblo helped you in your search?”
Ms. Gavrion said, “Can you believe I was so naïve?”
Yes, Ann Gavrion, this columnist can believe that you are that naïve. You're one of those romantics. Not many like you left in this world. Bravo, to you. I wish I'd have gone to sea, too.
And bravo to Rod Curator, who cherishes his privacy.
So let's cut them some slack, dear readers. Reporters, pack up your notebooks and put those cameras where they belong. Maybe someday Ms. Gavrion will be released from her promise and maybe someday Mr. Curator may want to smile for the camera.
End of column.
End of friendship.
The doorman brought her two bottles of Blue Sapphire. No need for tonic.
As she drank, tears rolled down her cheeks and off her chin. She didn't hear the phone ring. She didn't care who called. If it wasn't Rod, it wasn't anyone she wanted to talk to.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
--
Ann prided herself on being a pedestrian, and nearly car-free. After all, she lived in the heart of Atlanta with a mass transit system at her doorstep and a bicycle in her storage locker. Whenever she needed to go where MARTA didn't, she took a cab. Cabs were about as ubiquitous in Atlanta as they were in New York. It hadn't always been that way, but then that was back when Atlanta was a provincial town, pretending to be a city.
When a cab was absolutely necessary, she used the same cab company , and they sent the same driver when he was available. And when long driving trips were absolutely necessary, she trotted on down to Superior Car Rentals two blocks away.
Her dilemma on this, her first day back at work, was how to get to the cab without being mugged by microphones. The reporters who were staked out knew that she had to surface to get to her magazine office.
Rubbing her forehead to forestall the throbbing, she approached the doorman who'd already couriered her laptop and briefcase to the magazine office. “Good morning, Miz Gavrion.”
“Morning, Joe.”
She and Joe looked through the glass door of the lobby. She could feel the buzz seething through the crowd outside on the sidewalk.
Joe said, “Want me to run interference?”
“You could, couldn't you?”
“I been a football player and a bouncer, I can knock the crap out of five of those sissies at once.”
“I wish you could, Joe, but you won't be going to jail on my account.”
Then, seeing her cab arrive, she straightened her spine and let Joe hold the door open for her. Pulling the cloche over her forehead, clutching her pocket book under an arm like a football, she dashed outside.
The crush was frightening, but steeling her ears against the din, she ran full out for the cab. Against the babble of voices, she felt her foot stomp a shoe top as its owner rammed his elbow into her side. A microphone wand brushed her hat, but she made it to the cab where Bobby, the cabbie, held the door open.
After he had the cab in the right lane and speeding away, he looked over his shoulder. “Whooooo, God-al-mighty Damn! Talk about your rattlesnakes in a jar.”
“Rattlesnakes don't hunt you down. More like jackals.”
The crowd in front of her building was half the size of that at her condo, but they waited with the same expectation – with the same look of jackals.
Bobby said, “I got the tab, you want an escort?”
“Nope. I rather enjoyed playing a running back.”
She put her handbag under an arm and made a crashing beeline across the plaza for the double gold doors. Inside, several colleagues clapped. But when the clapping stopped, nobody said a word, instead evaporating like her ghost commander. She'd become a pariah – something she thought might happen, but hoped against.
Upstairs in her office, BaLenda came in, white streaks of bad news framing her jaws. “Mr. Richter wants to see you.”
“Of course.”
“Just remember I'm here for you.”
“I know.”
“I hate Missi.”
“I think Missi had good intentions.”
“I hate her.”
“I do, too.”
--
“Issue a statement,” Arnold Richter said.
“What about?” she asked. “I'm not saying it isn't true.”
“You don't have to verify every detail. Tell the bastards you realize it was a dream after all. Who can prove otherwise?”
“Poblo Quitano's trying like hell. They found some woman to spice up the story.”
Bald-headed, usually loveable, Arnold looked up at the ceiling. He wouldn't ask a direct question about the truth of Poblo's account – typical of a man who believes you shouldn't ask a question if you know you won't like the answer. In fact, she had only heard him ask a direct question once or twice since she came on board as an intern right out of college.
He sighed loud enough so she wouldn’t miss it. “We've got our reputations at stake. Yours and the magazine's.”
“I won't lie for the sake of expediency.”
“I'm not asking you to lie.”
“What are you asking me to do then?”
“Issue some nonsense of a statement. It looks bad that you won't address an issue of your own making.”
“I don't see that it's of my own making. I didn't go public with the issue.”
“I understand, Ann. But when things force us
to confront issues in which we are involved, we need to take a stand.”
“I have taken a stand.”
“I haven't seen one.”
“I'm saying absolutely nothing.”
“That's not a stand,” he grumbled. His patience was nearing an end. “It's ducking the issue. It's not the way we in this business act. We are forthright. If we aren't, we lose all credibility.”
“With respect to credibility …” she paused, reality pressing against her rib cage. There was nothing more to say.
“I see where you're going.”
She studied his enlarged eyes behind his glasses, knowing that he didn't want to see. In his straight-forward way, he would have to conclude that one of his editors was wacko.
“Look,” he pleaded, “all I'm asking is for you to get this – mess – behind us. We have a lot of work to do.”
“It will eventually die down. Like Mama said, something more wonderful, or awful, will come along.”
He turned in his chair and looked at the skyline. She knew what it meant when he steepled his fingers.
He said without looking at her, “Perhaps it's best if you take a short leave.”
“I don't need a leave. I need my work. Look what happened when you made me take a vacation.”
When he swung back to face her, his magnified eyes blinked rapidly signaling that he was lost for words. She wasn't going to speak first, and he seemed to grasp it. He sighed. “You look tired Ann. Beat. Worn out.”
“That's because I am.”
“Just what I'm getting at. Get out of the city. Go see your folks.”
“That's the last thing I need.”
He raised his chin, a gesture that meant he was going to hark back to something. “My mother and father were always accepting of anything I did. I expect if I robbed a bank, they'd say, 'Come on home, son, as soon as you've done your time.”
A grin that began inside reached her lips. “My folks would accept that I robbed a bank, and served time in jail, but then they'd fight over whose fault it was that I'd been raised that way.”
It was over; she recognized a losing battle when she met one. He walked her to the door, squeezed her shoulders with fatherly fingers. “I'll see you back here in a month.”
No. I won't be back.
--
It wasn't so bad, really. Her mind wouldn't have been on the job. Her heart was in another place, and so she must follow her heart.
Saying goodbye to BaLenda was hard, but she was cheered that her leaving would give BaLenda a leg up on the promotion rung, one that BaLenda deserved.
BaLenda said, “I'll pack your stuff and courier it over to your place.”
“Thanks,” Ann said, giving her a hug of friendship and relief that she didn’t have to thrust ten years of a career into cardboard boxes.
When she walked through the quiet lobby for the last time, she waved at the guard and ran for the cab. Only two reporters were staked out and they weren't nearly fast enough to grab for her before she reached the end of the plaza.
She said to Bobby, the cabbie, “First I want to go to Superior Cars.”
“The one near you?”
“No, the one on Peachtree.”
“You got it.”
According to MapQuest, it was 675.89 miles from Atlanta to Hatteras. It would take 11 hours and 31 minutes of driving time.
The luxury rental car dealer had an MDX SUV. She drove it away fifteen minutes later, got to her loft by the back alley, went down the ramp into the underground parking lot and parked in a visitor's slot. She rode the elevator to her floor.
When she turned the corner, she saw Missi standing outside her door.
Shocked, she halted so quickly she almost fell.
Missi said, “You look like you've seen a …” Her abrupt pause meant she'd been about to say something dumb, like “ghost”. Missi said instead, “Someone you didn't expect to see.”
Shock really does leave a person gaping, Ann thought, and closed her mouth. What in hell to say to an old friend who's just become an enemy? She took a deep breath. “What did you expect?”
“I came to talk to you.”
“How did you know I'd be coming home in the middle of a working day?”
“I called the magazine. Actually, I called you. Got a vague answer from your secretary, and then I called BaLenda. BaLenda was rude.”
“I wonder why.”
Missi said, “You know I used to date Arnold Richter before he married that ol' prune face of a socialite that sits on the museum board, don't you?”
That didn't require an answer.
Missi went on quickly, “When I finally got him on the phone, he said you'd just left and that you were taking some time off. Ergo, I came to wait for you.”
It had taken courage, she'd give Missi that. But then, Missi wasn't a shrinking violet.
Missi slumped against the door frame. “Please don't look at me like that.”
Ann stepped toward her apartment door.
“Say something, anything,” Missi begged. “Cuss me out, utter a four-letter, I'll take it over silence any day.”
She put the key in the lock and pushed the door in. Half-turning, she said, “I've got things to do.”
“Please, Ann. I'm your friend. I did it for you. Don't hate me, please, please.”
“I’ve never hated anyone in my life. I certainly won’t begin with you.”
“Where are you going now?”
A rush of astonishment nearly knocked her against the door frame. “You're never at a loss for nerve,” Ann said.
Missi's chin thrust out. “As if I didn't know where you're off to.”
“You don't know. I don't know.”
“Bet I can guess.”
“You got your scoop. Now – go.”
“Ann, please, let me say what I've come to say.”
“Get it out quick.”
“I apologize for not telling you ahead of time that I was going to print your words. But Jesus, kid, you read what I wrote. It was favorable to you and your fellow. I think the press is giving you two a bad time, and I said so.”
“I've got things to do,” she said and walked into the foyer.
Missi followed, saying, “I also came to tell you something that you're not going to like, either.”
Ann took off her hat. “Hit me with it.”
“I'm covering the story for the paper from here on out.”
Funny how fury can chill you to the bone, she thought, and threw the hat at Missi. It bounced off her bosom. The words flew from her mouth. “You tell the press to lay off, and now you're joining the wolf pack? Bitch of a hypocrite.”
Missi bent and picked up the hat and put it on the marble table. “I've been assigned to the story by my managing editor.”
“You could refuse.”
“How?”
“Conflict.”
“Are we still friends?”
She hit the marble table with her fist.
“Are we? I can plead conflict to him if we are.”
She ran to the door and flung it open. “Go. Go cover the story. You won't get me on the record again because I won't talk to you.”
At the door, Missi said, “I'm sorry it's this way.”
“Get your goddamned fingers out of the way.”
Missi snatched her hand away just as the door slammed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
--
Ann stopped at the filling station just over the Georgia border into North Carolina and punched the number she knew by heart into the pay phone.
Spence answered.
“Spence, it’s Ann.”
“Ann?”
“Didn't recognize the number on your display, huh?”
“No, as a matter of fact.”
“Did you get my messages?”
“I did.”
“Yet, you didn't call me back.”
“No, I – had an agreement with Rod. We don't talk to people if we can help it.”
<
br /> “You'll have to try a whole lot harder in about eight hours.”
“What do you mean?”
“Haven' you been keeping up with wire service news?”
“Some. Rod doesn't. He's pretty much isolated himself away from it all. So, what are you getting at?”
“You familiar with a columnist named Missi McNamara?”
“Name sounds familiar.”
“Gossip columnist with a national audience. She used to be a friend.”
“You blabbed to her. Uh, sorry, didn't mean to put it quite that way.”
“Unfortunately, I trusted her friendship. I made a few remarks that she weaved into a big piece of cloth.”
“Like all the other jackals.”
“Missi is covering the story for The Atlanta Courier. The story will be picked up by the wire services across the country. She either is on her way to your island now, or will be as soon as the next flight leaves Atlanta for Norfolk.”
“So what? We have a bunch of jackals down here already – from cable, network and newspaper. She'll be just another sniffing around.”
“Missi is more treacherous.”
“She couldn't be.”
“Missi is beautiful, and seductive.”
“Are you worried Rod will fall for her and spill his guts?”
She laughed cynically. “Not Rod. You.”
“I can hold my tongue.”
“Rod probably wouldn't agree with you. He wouldn't like some of the things you've told me about him and his wife.”
“That was then.”
She hesitated. “I haven't talked to anyone about the Carroll A. Deering.”
Spence said, “The way the media makes it appear, it seems like your not saying anything, validates what Poblo's saying. They run your picture on television, give your biography. It's like they're saying that any time now you'll be giving an interview.”
“I won't until I can come to an agreement with Rod.”
“Agreement to do what?”
“I'd like to get the old Derring case opened again.”
“What would that accomplish?”
THE GHOST SHIP Page 16