The cameraman had filmed Rod on the beach. Ann went to turn up the sound. “I met him in Hatteras.”
“He's as mum as you are.”
“I'm sure.”
“Don't seem to me he should be so mad about somebody taking a time trip with his great-granddaddy.”
Ann shook her head, thinking how clever people could be when they pried.
Mrs. Sweeney said, “Maybe he's sorrowful because his wife was drowned last summer.”
“I heard that,” Ann said, walking to the door.
“Sad, really,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “He's real community-minded. He comes up here and does lectures at the museum on conservation of marine life and stuff like that.”
“I think I passed it today. It's on Fernando Street.”
“It's a good place for the children to learn about their heritage.”
“Any shipwrecks in the museum?” Ann asked.
“I believe so, but it's more a teaching place, how to build boats and stuff.”
“I see.” So why was Poblo Quitano waiting at the museum for Missi today? She said, “Boat building is a good thing to know around here.”
Mrs. Sweeney said slyly, “I heard on TV that that Poblo Quitano was fired from The Graveyard.”
At the door, Ann said, “I'm going to be out for a while.”
“Not going to be around for dinner?”
“I hadn't planned on your fixing me dinner.”
“Normally, we don't. We're bed and breakfast. Lunch and dinner's on you, but seeing as you're our only guest, and we all got to eat, and I got plenty of that, I was going to ask you.”
Mrs. Sweeney's goodness tugged at her. “I can't thank you enough, really. But, please don't plan on me. I'm going to sight-see.”
Mrs. Sweeney's face was doubtful about sight-seeing. “Go see the theatre down by the water then.”
“I'm thinking about it.”
“Well, we're having a roast beef, so there'll be some left for a sandwich or two, if you return hungry.”
Ann did something she normally wouldn't do. She went to Mrs. Sweeney, leaned down and kissed the side of her forehead. “You're wonderful.”
Mrs. Sweeney's little teeth showed when she smiled. “So'er you, my dear. Wouldn't matter to me if you were related to that McLellan or not.”
“I doubt I am, but one never knows how far back…” she said, letting the sentence die.
“My point being, we can't answer for our ancestors, and no use trying.”
Ann looked down. “I'd like to ask you something.”
“I'll answer if I can.”
“When I'm in villages like this, I like to stay at B&Bs because I get to know the people more quickly, and more personally. But most journalists like to stay at the more impersonal hotels and motels. Where would they stay down here?”
“Well, here in Manteo most would stay at the Duke of Dare. They come for the hurricanes, and we're on the sound side, away from the ocean. But if they want to be on the ocean, they stay at Budget Host Inn in Kill Devil Hills or The Travelers in Nags Head.” She tilted her head. “You got someone trying to track you down?”
“You're too, too perceptive Mrs. Sweeney.”
“You gave me too, too many clues, Miss Ann.”
“Don't give me away, will you?”
“Wild horses couldn't drag it out of this mouth.” She reached into a can and took out a handful of cashews and tossed them into her mouth, making Ann laugh.
She waved, left the room, and for some unfathomable reason, felt like skipping down the steps to the street.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
--
Missi thought Poblo was an ass, but a good-looking ass who was caught up with himself. While they ate their grilled-chicken Caesar salads and drank iced teas, he'd bored her senseless with his credentials. When she could take it no more, she wiped her collagen lips. “One thing that makes the story so believable is your credentials,” she told him. “My goodness gracious, a museum as small as that little ol' thing couldn't possible expect to keep you.”
He blinked as if Missi hadn't understood his dilemma. “I need more experience before I move on to the major museums.”
She grabbed his folded hands. “Don't give up hope, sugah. When the whole truth comes out, you will be vindicated.”
“I trust what you say is true, but when I am the only one saying a thing, well, it is I who must provide the proof of what I am saying. Do you see that?”
Missi's mouth twisted thoughtfully. “Too bad you didn't record your conversations with Ann Gavrion. That would be proof enough.”
“Yes, it is too bad, but I did not think …”
“Of course, you are a trusting lamb. You thought she would do the right thing and tell the world what you two had discussed.”
“That is correct. I thought she would be frank, as she had been with me.”
“Well, we'll have to figure out a way to correct that.”
“How? The story will soon lose the public's interest. Mamie Borderson is the only one on Hatteras who half way backs me up, and she's not called Mad Mamie for nothing.”
Missi shrugged off Mad Mamie. “I'll find more credible witnesses.”
He looked doubtful. “But you have just told me that Ann is taking leave from her job. She will disappear somewhere in the world where we cannot keep the spotlight on her. And then, the whole thing goes away. I am left in ruins.”
What a drama king! “Ah, but I don't think Miss Ann Gavrion is going somewhere in the world. I think Miss Gavrion is returning to the scene of the crime.”
“Crime?”
“Well, where it happened.”
“She is coming here?”
“I believe she's coming to the Outer Banks, yes.”
“Ho. There are those who would not like that.”
“The same who booted you, who asked you to resign because of the adverse publicity.”
“Yes, the museum's board of directors.”
“This Rod Curator's on the board, isn't he?”
“He is the driving force.”
“He drove you from your job because you exposed his what? – girlfriend? – as a time traveler?”
“Oh, she is not his girlfriend.”
“What is she to him?”
“They do not like each other. I can say that assuredly. They were in the museum. They looked daggers. He hates what she says. No, they are not lovers at all.”
“Why then did he get you ousted?”
“I truly do not know. He will not speak of the matter. But I believe that he thinks it is his ancestor who is being mocked.”
“Mocked?”
“It was not my desire to mock his ancestor. I revere ancestors – everyone's ancestors. I think it would be wonderful if one of mine could come back and help me solve a riddle, but he apparently does not think like I do.”
“Nor Ann Gavrion, apparently.”
“No. When I spoke with her that day in the museum, she was full of wonder. I know in my heart it was a fabulous journey for her.”
“Like you said, she came to the museum to prove her story, didn't she?”
When the little recorder that sat between them clicked off, Missi said, “One moment, sugah, I got to flip the cartridge.” That accomplished, she repeated her question.
“Yes, she did.”
“Are there cameras in the museum that could have showed when she came in, what she did, and when she left.”
“Yes, we have security cameras. But our system is not state-of-the-art.”
“Explain the system to me.”
“Because we have a small staff, we put in a system that watches itself, although we can see all areas of the museum at the same time. The cameras shoot images on to a black and white screen. They are all visible at the same time on the monitor, but we can focus on one area by pushing a button.”
“Are the images saved?”
“Yes, the monitor is connected to a 24-hour, time-lapse VCR. The museum has s
even videotapes, representing each day of the week, to record 24 hours of activity. By having seven tapes, the tapes can be archived or taped over. If a breach in security is detected, the tape can be set aside until the problem is resolved.”
Missi felt her heart pumping faster. “Excellent. Now this is very important. Is there a time and date stamp?”
“Yes, it notes that the action has taken place at the time and date on the video.”
“Let's see if we can put some pressure on some folks and get our hands on those videos. That museum isn’t a private entity, is it?”
“No. That would be wonderful if we could get the tapes. Do you think it is possible.”
You bet your boots it is, boy, when I challenge the museum to address the issue. She said, “Now let's talk about Rod Curator.”
He frowned. “I do not want to talk about him for the record.”
Missi felt like scratching his face with her very long, very well-manicured fingernails. “All right, sugah.” She pressed Stop. “This is just for background. I need to understand the people involved.”
Poblo rolled his eyes in an okay, here we go, gesture. “Rod is a very nice man.”
She asked impatiently, “That's all?”
“He was. He has always been – until this happened. He is very angry now, with everyone.”
“Including Ann.”
“He has always been angry with her.”
“Who have you spoken to about Rod Curator's anger?”
“Well, Spence Reilly.”
“Let's see, he's the Park Service guy, isn't he?”
“Yes, they are very mum about the subject.”
“But this Spence talked to you?”
“Well, you see, we meet at The Pub every evening to drink and talk about our day. There is very little else to do in Hatteras, you understand?”
“People in big cities do that, too.”
He smiled. “Some days are not so exciting.”
“So you met this Spence in the pub after you exposed the story of Ann's ghost voyage?”
“Yes, well – he was not very friendly, but I told him that I had told the truth, and he knew it. He said Islanders did not appreciate outsiders coming in and making up stuff about someone's ancestors. Alas, they will always consider me an outsider. But I said I did not make it up, but he said, Rod doesn't believe you, and if you keep up with the lies, you will be sorry.”
“He said you'd be sorry?”
“I think that is the word. Sorry.”
“Is this Rod a violent man?”
“I have never known him to be.”
“I heard his wife died. What of?”
“It was an accident.” Then, as if a sudden thought struck him, Poblo lowered his voice, “They say.”
Missi understood speculation when she heard it. “What do you mean, they say?”
“Nobody was there on the sound that day. Her boat flipped and she was found at the bottom.”
“Did she drown?”
“She must have, she was in the sound.”
“Was there water in her lungs?”
“I do not know.”
“Did she have any cuts or bruises?”
“She had an injury that they say happened when the boat capsized.”
“Interesting. How was the Curator's marriage?”
He hesitated. “They were mismatched.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is an academic man. He loves his birds and his turtles and the sea. She is – was – a party girl.”
“Serious academic and party girl? Was it a case of opposites attract?”
He shrugged elaborately. “In matters of a man and a woman, who knows?”
“Okay, then. I got your story. Who else can I talk to?”
“You just named them. Spence Reilly and Rod Curator.”
“Who else? Think for me.”
“I have thought and thought. People like Mrs. MacGregor loves her ghosts. She tells travelers about the drowned sailors that walk on the shore at night. She says to watch out for them. I watched out one night, and it was ghost crabs. But people who come to the islands love the stories.”
Ghost crabs, for Gods' sake. “I must get Spence and Rod to open up.”
Poblo laughed cynically. “They would rather talk to the devil.”
“They don't know it yet, but they will.”
“Ho!”
Abruptly, Missi asked, “Will the museum here hire you?”
Poblo shook his head. “I don't know.”
She pressed the Record button on her tape recorder. “Tell me what happened.”
“There is nothing to tell. I presented my resume. The interviewer looked it over and asked me a few questions. Then I was directed to the head's office. He commented favorably on my qualifications, but then said they would not be making a decision for at least a month. They have a tight budget, he said.”
“Did either ask you about the media attention focused on you.”
“Not one word.”
“What we have here is a crusade, Poblo. A crusade to get your good name back. Two men and one woman can do that for you. Shame on them if they don't.”
“True,” Pablo said, giving a thumbs-up. “Shame on them.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
--
“Good afternoon, Duke of Dare Motor Lodge.”
Ann said, “Miss Missi McNamara, please.”
“Missi McNamara?”
“Yes, one of your guests.”
“Let's see.” Pause. “We have no one registered with that name.”
With that name.
“She is a reporter. I am an editor. I'm sure she said she was staying at your lodge.”
“She may be, but she hasn't checked in yet.”
“Thanks. I'll try her cell.”
Ann got much the same response with the Budget Host Inn in Kill Devil Hills.
At The Traveler's in Nags Head, the girl who answered was vague. “A Missi McNamara?”
“Yes, ma'am. She's there from Atlanta, and I'm an associate of hers. I've lost her cell number.”
“I – we – don't give out information on guests.”
“I can understand that. What if I describe her?”
No response.
“Blonde, big chest, friendly …”
“Well – but I really can't – I'd get in trouble.”
“I need to know if she's left for Hatteras yet. It's important that I reach her before she leaves.”
“No.”
“No, she hasn't left yet? She registered for tonight, too?”
“I can't say.”
“Thanks. I'll have to try harder to find her cell number.”
“That would be the best,” the relieved clerk said.
So, Missi was at The Traveler's for at least another night.
--
At the newspaper, Miss had two clerks to gather information, input her scribbled handwriting into the computer and clean up the misspellings and incorrect word usages she wrote into her copy. Before she left Atlanta, she'd told the clerks to stop everything and get a listing of all the inns, motels, and hotels on the Outer Banks – beginning with the little northern-most village of Duck and ending at the southern tip of Ocracoke Island.
When Missi called to check their progress, the senior clerk said, “Nothing, so far.”
“Did you call where she originally stayed?”
“First place,” he answered.
Missi mused, “Of course, she wouldn't go back there. I know she prefers B&Bs, so concentrate there.”
“We are.”
“She's here, on these islands, somewhere.”
“Hotel and inn clerks aren't very forthcoming,” he said.
“Press 'em.”
“We are.”
“Press 'em harder.”
“We do. The Holiday Inns practically hang up on us.”
“Waste of time there. She hates Holiday Inns.”
“Here's the thing,” he s
aid. “She knows you know that. So, why wouldn't she change her habit to throw you off?”
“You dinging me for a raise or something?”
“Or something, yeah.”
--
Ann was driving down the Manteo-Nags Head Causeway when her cell played Beethoven.
Ear bud inserted, she answered, “Spence. What's up?”
“Where are you?”
“Can I trust you?”
He made an exasperated sound. “Do you have to ask?”
“I'm in the area.”
“Nothing more specific?”
“Not right now.”
“You don't trust me.”
“It's not that,” she said. “I don't know yet what I'm going to do.”
“That the truth?”
“Swear on a Bible,” she said, thinking fondly of Mrs. Sweeney.
He said, “Listen, some woman called Mrs. MacGregor from Atlanta.”
“Atlanta?”
“Yeah. Four-o-four area code.”
“Right.”
“The woman asked for you.”
“What did Mrs. MacGregor say?”
“That you weren't there. Didn't have reservations. Then our astute Mrs. MacGregor said, 'I don't know who you are, Miss, but she ain't likely to be a stayin' down here any time soon.'“
“Good for Mrs. MacGregor.”
“Just thought I'd let you know.”
“Thanks, Spence.”
“Uh …”
The sudden dead air sounded hollow in her ear piece. “What is it, Spence?”
“I heard something about your mother's name being the same as the mate on the Deering. Is that true?”
“You mean did I come down to Hatteras to prove that Charles B. McLellan was not a mutineer?”
“I'm not asking that.”
“You seem to be. My mother's name is McClelland. It's spelled differently, but families spelled their names differently, depending on their literacy and what village they came from.”
“Do you know if the first mate could have been a relative?”
“All I can say is my mother knows the family tree up one branch and down another. She's never mentioned any seafaring relatives. We came here as busted potato farmers a couple of hundred years ago.”
“Thought I'd ask.”
“Has Rod said anything about – any of this?”
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