He smiled back at her. “How'd they come out with you?”
“I must be a throw-back.” She sighed. “At that, all's I can do is write. It's not like I'm really smart, you know?”
“Working with words isn't using your smarts?”
“Not like doing math or being a scientist. Not like your friend, Rod. He's a biologist, isn't he?”
“A marine biologist.”
“Poblo said his wife died last summer.”
Stirring the tuna salad, he said, “See, I told you Poblo talks too much.”
“What's wrong with telling me that?”
“It's got nothing to do with – nothing.”
“You know, I wonder what's going on in Poblo's mind.”
“Why?”
“Well, he said that Rod's wife died in a boating accident. But the way he said it, the way he put it ...”
“Like how did he put it?”
“They say it was an accident.”
Spence went to the cabinet. “Goddamn little shit!”
“Listen, honey-pie, don't be mad at me.”
“Love, I'm not. It's just – did Poblo say where he was going when you left him?”
“I think Virginia. That's where he hails from.”
“Good riddance.” He took out a bag of white bread. No health freak here, Missi thought. Spence went on, “He better not show his ass down here. I'll kick it in for him. And don't you write what he implied about Carmen's accident.”
“Well, darling, it's public record.”
He pointed a finger at her. “Just don't.”
“Oh, I won't unless it has something to do with Ann's adventure at sea.”
After taking out four pieces of bread, he twist-tied the bag and put it back in the cabinet. “How could it?”
“Calm down, Sweetie. I'm just saying what Poblo said. He said she was a party girl, and that they were very mismatched.”
Spence looked thoughtful. “He was right about the mismatched part.” He looked at the fridge. “Ice tea all right with you?
“Sure, sugar.” He went to the freezer for the ice, and she said, “What do you think happened on that boat?”
Back at the sink, he placed the iced glasses on the counter and laid the bread on small plates.
She rephrased the question. “What could have happened?”
“Carmen took it out in bad weather,” he said. “She was determined to show Rod that she could do whatever she liked, no matter what he advised.”
“Has there always been bad blood between Rod and Poblo?”
“Bad blood?” Spence faced her and shook his head. “Nothing so melodramatic. Poblo was part of our after-work drinking bouts.”
“Why would he want to hurt Rod?”
“I don't think his motive was to harm Rod. He wanted to promote himself.”
“I can understand why Rod is angry at Poblo. But why's he angry with Ann?”
“He blames her for the tall tale. After all, without that, Poblo couldn't go mouthing off.” He prepared the sandwiches, slathering tuna liberally on the bread.
“I see,” Missi said, wrinkling her nose at the mess he was making. “So he's mad at the world because he thinks two people betrayed him.”
Spence frowned. “Look, let's not talk about Rod any more.”
“He wouldn't like it, would he?”
“No, he wouldn't,” he said, stirring a pitcher of instant tea.
“Darling, Spence, unless these walls have ears, nobody's going to know what we say to each other.” She got up and, from behind, while he poured tea into the glasses, circled her arms around his waist. “You still don't trust me, do you?”
He grunted, turned and put his lips on hers, but only briefly. “That reminds me of what your ex-friend Ann said.”
“What's she bad-mouthing me about?”
“Something like, 'Missi will pick your brain before you know it's been picked.'“
She lifted her lips to his chin. “She probably doesn't want me within a mile of you?”
“Why not?”
“She didn't make a play for you?”
“Ann?” A scoffing noise came from his mouth. “No.”
“She did her hard-to-get act, did she?” She leaned against the counter and folded her arms across her bra.
Spence snickered briefly. “When you women turn against each other, you go for the jugular.”
“We're competitors.”
Spence shrugged and picked up the plates and took them to the table. “Did you know Ann was coming to the Outer Banks?”
“Sure,” Missi said. “Let's see, I think it was Friday. She told me Arnold, that's her boss, told her to take a vacation the upcoming week, so she was coming here.”
“Did she say why?”
“She wanted to get some fresh ideas.”
“She told you that?”
“In our business – magazines are like newspapers, you know – we're always on the lookout for a new slant on old stories.”
“That so?” Spence said, setting the ice tea glasses on the table.
Missi said, “Nothing's new in the world. Whatever you can think of, people have said it, or done it, or will say it again, and do it again a million times. So, what you have to look for is a new peg to hang those old stories on.”
Spence turned. “Then Rod could be right.”
“Right? How?”
“He believes she made up that story about his great-grandfather to tell an exciting first person account of an old shipwreck mystery.”
“I couldn’t tell you if that’s true right now. I came to find out what really happened for my paper. You won't talk to me for the record, and I accept that. I'd rather sleep with you than quote you in the newspaper.”
“Don't get me started again,” he said rubbing his crotch. “My stomach's growling. I need to eat first.”
Missi looked at his growing erection. “First things first, huh, sugah?”
He faced away, and she pushed back her hair with both hands and blew through her teeth. She would do what it took not to have to eat that tuna crap. She asked, “How can I get Rod to talk to me? Can I bribe him?”
He looked over his shoulder. “With your body or your money?”
“My money, silly. My body's reserved.”
“If you offered him a million, he wouldn't talk to you.”
“Give me some leads, then.”
“Leads?”
“You know, who can I talk to?”
“There's always Mad Mamie,” he said, “Let's sit and eat.”
“She shot her wad with TV,” Missi said. “I need new sources.”
“The women at the museum were around. I don't know how much they know. More likely, they heard enough to guess at a few things, but the director and the board have clamped a lid on the subject.”
“Who are these women?” she asked.
“Sit.” Missi sat down at the table. He said, “Doris Finch, but she won't talk. Rod jumped down her throat for a quote she gave. Young Park helped me get Ann off the islands when Poblo started shooting off his mouth.”
“I recall her name. She was the one that didn't like Poblo.”
“She said Ann didn't like Poblo.”
“Did Ann?” Missi asked, running a finger down the ice tea glass.
“She was furious with him,” he said.
“I know how she can get,” Missi said. “When I told her I'd been assigned by the paper to do a story, she was furious.”
“Seems to me, it's your job.”
He ate while she spoke. “Your editor says go out and cover something, you do it, or you try not to let the door slam on your ass. Ann should understand that, being in the same business. I tell you what, if it were Ann doing the story about something I'd run across, she'd run down me and everybody in her path to get at the facts.”
“Your cheeks have turned red, honey,” he said, while chewing. “You get real worked up about this stuff, don't you?”
“I'm doing my jo
b.”
“I'm not helping, am I?”
“You are giving me the picture at least, even if I can't use it. I had a sense that I'd run into a brick wall, but I didn't know how tall and stout this one was.”
“Why won't the paper let this die?” he asked and swigged ice tea. He looked at her plate. “You're not eating.”
She ran her hand down from her breasts to her thighs. “Staying slim, sugah,. Hell, Spence, it's sensational. A woman claims to have gone on a sea voyage with a man that's been dead ninety years.”
Spence chuckled. “Now that you put it that way, sounds like your paper's turning into a tabloid.”
“It's not that,” she said. “Ann is the story. Ann is a big shot in Atlanta. Southern Monthly is a prestigious old magazine – hell, like The New Yorker. A senior editor with The New Yorker says she was on a ship that went down, well, what do you think New Yorkers want to hear about? They want to know if she's crazy, or on something, or pulling their legs. The public has a right to know about people they put their trust in.”
“I see your point.”
“But would Rod?”
He shook his head as if the question were not a subject for dispute. “Absolutely not.”
Rod's scowling television image reared in her head. No, that man will not be seduced.
Spence pointed to her plate. “Eat your sandwich, sweetie.”
“I'm not hungry any more.”
“You're not?”
“Not for tuna.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
--
There were only two cars in the parking lot of the Seashore Suites, a long, one-story motel that had been built in the fifties, a cheap place tucked between a diner and a house that advertised twenty-dollar haircuts. But it was close to the sea and no one would believe Ann Gavrion would darken its dingy doors.
She checked in using a pseudonym, Mary Ann Cannon, and paid in cash for the night. The clerk was a young woman who didn't look eighteen. Absorbed in a TV show with a bad laugh track, she hardly looked at Ann.
Unlocking the door to her “suite”, she was assaulted with the aroma of stale cigarettes. The last occupant had been a vigorous smoker, the signs against smoking be damned. The queen bed wore a faded blue chintz spread, the dark blue carpet was spotted with god-knew-what, and the furniture was plastic. But out her window she saw wispy clouds cooling the sun, and the racing dark sea seemed part of some Discovery channel program about the Bermuda Triangle. Compelled by some unrecognized longing, she wanted to fly out the door and walk in the deep.
But no. It was still daylight.
Idly wondering why she hadn't thought to bring luggage – even a change of underwear – she prowled the rooms like an alien looking for a leader. The amenities in the bathroom were few. A traveler's shampoo bottle and a small wrapped soap was it. Get with it. You have work to do. She sat on the bed, opened her backpack and removed her cell phone. Her cell number had an Atlanta area code so whoever answered the phone would think the caller was an out-of-towner. They couldn't know the call was being made from a few miles away.
“Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum. Good afternoon, how can I help you?”
Ann was sure the speaker was Doris. She said, “Young Park, please.”
“Miss Park isn't here right now. Can someone else help you?”
“Will she be in later?”
“This is her day off.”
“Thank you, I'll call her at home.”
Young Park's land line was listed in the telephone directory. Undoubtedly, she had a cell phone because immigrants to America usually kept in contact with each other by cell. Seeing Young's address in the white pages gave Ann a better idea, and she left the motel, drove to Hatteras village following the simple street map provided by a gas station. Young lived two streets over from Rod's house. She drove by the solemn cottage, a rock where her heart should be. No Jeep in the drive. Would I have stopped and knocked on his door if he was at home? She felt suddenly diminished that she couldn't answer that question.
Young Park answered the telephone, and Ann told Young who she was. There was a tentative tremor in the dead air, then Ann said, “I don't think I adequately thanked you for helping me get away from Hatteras. I appreciate the ride.”
“It's okay,” Young said, her voice uncertain, soft.
“If I may, I'd like to ask you how things are going for you at the museum?”
“How things are going?”
“Are you okay? Is your job okay?”
“Oh sure, it's okay.”
“Are you allowed to speak to me?”
Ann sensed her hesitation, but Young answered with force in her voice. “No one has said that I couldn't speak to you.”
Ann didn't miss the accent on the last word. There had been those she'd been told not to speak to. Ann said, “Good, because if I were to get you in trouble, I wouldn't like that, and I would end our conversation right now.”
“I won't get into trouble, unless you say something that I didn't, or wouldn't, say.”
“You and I understand each other. I am not repeating this conversation. It is very confidential.”
“I like that.”
“First off, has a reporter named Missi McNamara contacted the museum for an interview for The Atlanta Courier?”
“Miss McNamara called Poblo.”
“He talked with her?”
“For a short time over the telephone. The museum director has said that we cannot talk about museum's affairs with reporters.”
“But Poblo did anyway?”
“He was already terminated. He was packing his things.”
“Where is Poblo now, do you know?”
“He is here in Hatteras.”
“He is?”
“He returned to pack up his belonging. He lives by me, and he has a rental van in his driveway right now.”
Since Ann was cruising as she spoke into the cell, she passed Young's house.
“Young, I'm going to confide in you. I am back in the islands. I don't want it known until it is time for it to be known.”
“Why have you come back?”
“I have unfinished business here.”
“What is that?”
“I feel like I've harmed someone a great deal. I want a chance to make amends. And maybe find out if I'm really crazy.”
Why am I babbling about being crazy to a stranger, someone who could misquote me? But I must trust someone.
Young said, “I think I understand what you are saying.”
Turning left, Ann said, “Now listen, Missi McNamara is down here now. I think she will try to talk to you and Doris, and the director if he'll talk.”
“He won't talk to her. He is an academic man, and he doesn't trust the media to get things right. He is avoiding them.”
Ann thought for a moment. “When you think about it, it's not bad publicity for the museum.”
“People are coming down to see what it's all about. We've already been overwhelmed for this time of year.”
“I believe your director is a wise man.”
“Yes, but he is not so outraged as he appears to be.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don't know him so well, but he has often said that all things are possible in the universe.”
I'll say it again, your director is a wise man.”
Ann spied the rental van in the front of a small house, a cabin smaller than Rod's. She asked Young, “May I keep in touch with you?”
“That will be fine.”
“Watch out for a flashy blonde woman named Missi McNamara.”
“I will.”
“Good. Do you have a cell phone number?”
“Yes. I will give it to you.”
--
Back in Buxton, Ann drove through the narrow streets and lanes, familiarizing herself with the village. There were a lot of tourists, many more than when she first came down – how long ago? A lifetime ago.
She drove to the doc
ks and lingered, watching bare-ankled men mend nets and caulk and paint boats. Some looked familiar, as if they had manned the lifeboats that day when Lawrence came for her. She thought that they could be descendants of those valiant men and longed to talk with them. But that was not possible.
All roads led back to the main artery, Highway 12, which ran along the sea. Now it sparkled, having a ball throwing diamonds into the sky. Gulls swerved their chalk wings over the water like a formation of white angels, putting on a show for the tourists. When there was not much left to explore, she pulled into a clothing store parking lot. With her hair tucked under the baseball cap, her sunglasses covering her eyes, she went in. The Denim Store advertised denim jeans: Buy One -- Get One Half Price.
Having selected two pairs of blue jeans and a Navy peacoat, she paid and left. At a second store, she bought a red sweater, panties and a bra. At the drug store, she purchased shampoo toothpaste, glycerin soap and skin moisturizer. The shopping spree over, she noticed that the sky was filling with clouds. Most were cotton toppers with a line of gray at the bottom.
At a fast food drive-in, she ordered a chicken sandwich and a salad. Back in the motel room, she ate the cold food and watched cable news, thankfully nothing about her. But her thoughts were elsewhere and she continually glanced at the windows with their plastic blinds flipped open. Beyond the slats, just a short walk away, the sea grew restless. The pull of it nearly overwhelmed her, but resist she must. For now. She could see a few beach strollers bundled against the chill. A sail moving across the horizon gave her something to concentrate on, to keep her rooted here, keep her from coming undone.
Time passed, and the gathering clouds became black as oil smoke. Her trance ended when, in the blink of her eyes, the sailboat disappeared and the beach walkers came running in, heads lowered to their chests. A bolt of lightening cracked overhead.
Squall.
It lasted twenty minutes. The clouds raced away leaving the sky pale and diminished from the onslaught. Darkness would heal it, and there would be no more storms this evening. Soon, she could go to the beach. It would be cold and the wind would torture her face, but that’s what she desperately wanted. Biting, vicious, nerve-jumping cold. Maybe Lawrence would come and maybe they would go on another fabulous voyage. She wanted to laugh, but for reasons she knew too well, it would be bitter. The real world had intruded, and became burdensome.
THE GHOST SHIP Page 21