“Almost there.” She patted Rob’s shoulder, then stood and spoke to the others. “When we dock, let the medics board first. We’ll get you off as quickly as possible, but I need you to all stay clear.” She herded them to the back of the boat.
Leroy radioed his approach to crash corner, Port Largo’s dangerous ninety-degree turn, to make sure it was clear of traffic. The timbre of the engines changed as they motored through the bend.
The Aquarius Dive Shop was a short distance beyond the turn, and one of the few dive outfits in Key Largo that had its own dockage, retail space, and parking all in one spot. When Mer glanced at the dock, she did a double take.
Emergency lights from the ambulance and the fire truck splashed off of the shop windows in waves of red and blue. Medics stood in front, but a crush of media people and gawkers crowded the remaining space. Reporters jostled for position and did last-minute primps in anticipation of their impending live shots. The gawkers held their cellphones aloft.
Kyle had a front-row view of the spectacle from the doorway of the equipment room as he guarded the expensive regulators, dive computers, and other gear the shop rented to divers. As soon as the LunaSea drew near, he closed the door and pushed through to the dock.
Leroy spun the boat in the narrow canal and brought it broadside against the dock, pointing in the direction they’d just traveled. Kyle handed Mer the lines, and the medics pushed on board. A couple of photographers tried to follow, but Leroy slid down from the wheelhouse and blocked their access. The click of electronic camera shutters filled the air like cicadas on a summer night.
The medics secured Rob to a backboard and carried him off the boat to a waiting gurney. A cheer rose from the crowd when he raised his hand and waved.
A reporter sporting a brunette bob shoved a microphone into Rob’s face. “Wendy Wheeler, Keys News. Is it true that you encountered a ghost on the Spiegel Grove today?” He nodded. “How on earth did you get to Molasses Reef?”
Rob scraped the mask off his face. “I can’t explain it. Mind-blowing. Terrifying.” One of the medics brushed her aside and cleared a path while the other pushed the gurney through the crowd and into the parking lot, where the ambulance waited.
Wendy spun on Mer. “Wendy Wheeler. Were you the heroic rescuer?”
The question surprised Mer. “Heroic? No.”
“Brave, beautiful, and bashful. Come on, now, don’t be shy. What was it like to encounter a ghost?”
“There was no ghost. Only a man who needed assistance.”
Wendy held her hand so that her body shielded it from the camera and made a circular motion that urged Mer to elaborate. When she didn’t, the reporter shot out another question. “How long has the Spiegel Grove been haunted by the Spiegel Spirit?”
Mer swallowed a groan. “It’s not.”
“How did Rob get to the reef?”
“I don’t know.”
Exasperation flickered across Wendy’s face. “Good thing you were there to save the day. I’m Wendy Wheeler, the key to Keys News.” She signaled her cameraman to cut. “I’d love to do a more in-depth interview. You know, after you’ve had some time to prepare.”
“There’s really nothing to prepare.” Mer stepped off the boat and was engulfed by jostling reporters shouting questions about ghosts, mermaids, and other supernatural phenomena. More camera clicks, more questions. People reached out to touch her, grab her clothes, talk to her.
She desperately wanted to escape.
Wendy had moved deeper into the crowd and was now holding a microphone under the nose of the young diver who’d posted a video to YouTube. Mer recognized at least three of the other divers giving separate interviews.
Leroy stood on the stern of the LunaSea, the straw in his mouth whirling like a mangled pinwheel. He made eye contact with Mer and motioned her to meet him in the shop. Grateful to get away, she wiggled through the horde and bounded up the stairs of the two-story building.
By the time Leroy entered the shop, Mer had found two YouTube videos. She hit Replay and handed him her phone.
Rob’s tinny voice described his ghostly encounter.
She shook her head. “It’s generated eighteen thousand hits. The rescue clip has even more. After tonight’s news, it will be everywhere.” A new horror occurred to her. “Do you think this nonsense is going to tarnish my reputation?”
“You saved a man. That’s usually a checkmark in the good column.”
“But this YouTube clip makes it sound like I saved him from a ghost.”
“If you believe Rob, you did.”
“I don’t. And neither will most research facilities, including the two that have my applications.”
“You’re taking the long way round the barn, Mer. What’s got your knickers in a bunch?”
“Living in the Keys was supposed to be temporary. I’m a scientist. A researcher. I have to be seen as serious. Credible. Now I’m linked with ghosts and ghouls. Someone even suggested that Rob encountered a mermaid. Seriously?”
Leroy waggled his straw. “I’d like to see a mermaid.”
“You’re not helping,” Mer said.
“Doesn’t change the fact that I want to see one.”
—
Mer punched her code on the security pad. She’d never been so happy to see the massive gate lurch open, granting her access to the exclusive Key Largo neighborhood. The day’s bizarre events had left her with an unfamiliar fatigue. All she wanted now was to enjoy a bath, sip a glass of wine, maybe spend a couple of minutes scanning the Internet for research opportunities, and then off to bed for some much-needed sleep.
She replayed the rescue in her mind. Again. Few things in life defied explanation, and it bothered her that she didn’t know the science behind this particular oddity. No one had yet posited a satisfying hypothesis for how a distressed diver had traveled five miles from the Spiegel Grove to Molasses Reef without the use of teleportation, a TARDIS, or a wormhole.
The last rays of the sun cast long shadows across the empty street. Years ago, this stretch of land had been an airstrip, before a savvy developer realized that planes didn’t need the view. A canal paralleled the street on one side. Palatial homes, built to withstand tropical storms and hurricane winds, rose above carports, garages, and surge levels on the other side. When the economy crashed, many of these ground spaces were converted into illegal rentals for those who couldn’t afford homeownership in the Keys.
Like Mer.
Finding an affordable place in the Keys was as common as spying a roseate spoonbill flying through the mangroves. They could be found, but it took someone in the know to point them out. She’d been lucky. Her brother knew a friend, who had a neighbor with an unoccupied furnished granny flat and a cash-flow problem.
She neared the end of the road. One house separated her home from the ocean, and the two driveways shared the same access before branching apart. An unfamiliar car blocked the narrow entry, its liftgate open.
Lights blazed in the neighboring house. In all the time Mer had been here, she’d never seen anyone next door. Now she couldn’t even pull into her own driveway, one more irritation to add to an already vexing day.
She parked on the street. Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, she tiptoed down the driveway and slipped past the passenger side of a Range Rover. Enough light fell from the neighbor’s house to illuminate the gear in the back: two rebreathers, a couple of tanks, and several large black bags. She shook her head. There was more cash wrapped up in that unattended gear than she’d been awarded for her last research grant.
The main door of the residence opened, and Mer sidestepped into the shadows of her own property.
“If you’re trying to avoid detection, you shouldn’t park under a streetlight.”
Mer squeaked, her heart in her throat.
A man stepped onto the driveway from the path that led to the other house. His face stirred memories, and she froze. Ian Phillips. It couldn’t be.
“I w
asn’t hiding,” she said.
“On this, we agree.”
Yup, it was him. Still infuriating a dozen years later.
Darkness bleached the color from his features. With half his countenance in relief, his sharply angled cheekbones and severe jaw reminded Mer of an artful black-and-white photograph. The only softness about him was his voice. Low-pitched and smooth, it raised goosebumps on her arms.
Just as it had when she first met him.
Mer tried to regain control of her pulse. “What are you doing here?”
“Still as direct as ever, I see.” He tapped a button on the liftgate and it closed with a pneumatic sigh. The window tint hid everything from view.
“If you want nice, you shouldn’t jump out of bushes and scare me.”
He tipped his head back and laughed, a baritone boom that transformed his face. “In the future, I’ll take more care, lest I find myself on the losing side of a war of words with you.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
He slouched against the car, his hands in his pockets. “I was surprised to hear from your brother. We’d lost touch over the years.”
“I sense a pattern.”
They stared at each other. He’d aged well. Had she? She smoothed her hair back self-consciously. He used to tease her about her wild curls. Said her mane and height reminded him of an Amazon. But that was a long time ago.
Footsteps on the front porch broke their contemplation. A woman, about Mer’s age with straight red hair, leaned over the railing. “Selkie, I just opened a bottle of wine. You coming up anytime soon?”
Selkie. He still used the nickname.
“In just a minute,” he said. “I’m speaking with our neighbor.”
The woman dipped her head lower. “Hey there! Sorry, didn’t know you were home. You must be Dr. Cavallo. I’m Fiona. Come on up. Have a glass of wine with us.”
A pang of jealousy hit Mer. She squashed it, annoyed at herself. Of course he’d moved on. Theirs had been a summer fling. That’s all.
As if sensing her reluctance, Fiona added, “I promise you, I’m much nicer than my brother. I’ll get another glass.” She disappeared from the balcony.
Mer’s annoyance only increased. “You have a sister?” What else didn’t she know about this man?
He nodded. “She’s visiting for a couple weeks. Come on over, I’ll introduce you proper.”
Having wine with Selkie ranked right up there with swimming through a bloom of jellyfish. She readjusted her pack. “Thank you, but it’s been a long day.”
The magnitude of the past several hours sagged her shoulders; or maybe it was the unanticipated hefting of a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man onto a heaving boat that had taken its toll. Either way, her body ached and her mind was still spinning like one of Leroy’s straws. She didn’t even want to contemplate the implications of living next door to a former fling.
Selkie studied her face, then placed a hand on her backpack. “Let me take this.”
“I’ve got it.”
“It’s okay. I’ll give it back.” He lifted it off her shoulder and motioned her forward.
“You don’t need to do that,” she said, but the absence of weight felt wonderful.
“Let me be a gentleman.” He grinned. “Evidently, I need the practice.”
“Thank you,” she said with more feeling than she’d meant to reveal.
At the door, she turned her key and stepped inside. Selkie paused at the threshold while she fumbled for the switch.
The apartment was bigger than the berth on her last research vessel, but not by much. Her large walnut desk anchored the room, its utilitarian presence out of place among the whimsy of wicker and seashells favored by the decorator. A garage-sale aquarium acted as a room divider, screening her bed from view. Few other things marked the space as hers: a family photograph, dive gear, her computer. The important stuff.
Selkie held out her backpack. “Most people actually put fish in their tanks,” he said.
She took the bag and set it on the desk chair. “I’d planned to.”
“May I?” He pointed at the aquarium.
She thought about refusing, but apparently the roof over her head was due to his connections. “Sure.”
He crossed the space in three strides. He had a swimmer’s body: wide shoulders, narrow hips, long legs.
Mer focused on something safer and picked through the mail on her desk. The envelope from the university contained a check, but she was afraid to open it. The amount compensated her for a month on her recent research project. If she pinched, it would cover next month’s rent and some groceries, but not much more. And, thanks to funding cuts, it was her last one. She’d already interviewed for one research position and applied for another. If they fell through, well, with any luck the dive shop would have a rush of people wanting to learn to scuba before the summer ended.
Selkie tapped the tank and recaptured her attention. “Seems like a lot of rock.”
“To you, maybe. To a cephalopod, it’d offer wonderful places to hide.” Or would have if she stayed in the Keys long enough to condition the tank properly.
He whistled. “A cephalopod, huh?”
She slid the check into a drawer to deal with later. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Not a clue.”
“Class Cephalopoda. Octopuses.”
“Octopi,” he corrected.
Mer raised her chin. “I earned my doctorate studying them. I assure you, it’s—” She noticed his growing smile. “You’re messing with me.”
“I am.”
She crossed her arms. “Why?”
“You looked as if you could use a laugh.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
He retraced his steps to the door and then faced her. “You still going by Mer? Or is it Meredith now that you’re a doctor?”
“Just Mer.”
“The French word for sea. Fitting, considering the ocean is the only thing you’ve ever truly loved.”
Was he baiting her?
He turned to leave.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” The question popped out before she could stop it.
“I have an affinity for spirits. My favorite is Lagavulin, a delightful single malt.”
She exhaled loudly. “Serves me right for asking. You never did take anything seriously.”
A shutter fell across Selkie’s face. “I should go before Fiona sends out a search party. If you change your mind, I hope you’ll join us. My sister really is nicer than I am.”
She reached for his arm, but stopped herself and clasped her hands. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
He smiled, but it didn’t erase the shadows from his eyes. “No apologies necessary.” He stepped across the threshold, then faced her. “To answer your question, yes. I believe in ghosts. Why do you ask?”
“I just—never mind.” She must be more tired than she thought. “Long story. I don’t. Believe in ghosts, that is.”
He closed his eyes for a fraction longer than a blink. “You will if you ever have to live with any.”
Chapter 3
The next morning, the scent of coffee and neoprene greeted Mer when she walked into the Aquarius Dive Shop. Leroy must have brewed a pot while she was helping Kyle prep the boat for the morning charter.
She wiped her feet on the mat inside the door and tried not to drip on her employer’s tile. Sunny Florida appeared to be a misnomer. Rain fell in deluges lasting from mere minutes to all day and created humidity levels normally found only in the shower. The locals swore it would taper off during the winter months. On the plus side, she hadn’t worn moisturizer since she arrived. Dropping her backpack behind the sales counter, she grabbed a paper towel to blot her hair.
The shop’s telephone blinked with thirty-seven new messages since last night. News traveled fast on an island that had a history of hauntings and more bars than boats. Steeling herself, she pushed Play. Mo
st of the messages were from reporters, but not all. One woman wanted to know if Mer could channel her Aunt Mamie, while another person asked what she’d charge to perform an exorcism. She erased them all.
Beyond the window, rain fell in splotches on the canal. Her horoscope had warned that today would be a day of intrigue. The weather report said it’d be sunny. Two for two. Served her right for reading either one.
Despite the weather, she longed to be on the ocean. There were only so many times she could rearrange the shop’s collection of postcards, snorkel gear, and colorful diving T-shirts.
But, first, coffee. She needed a cup to counteract the fitful sleep she’d experienced last night. Maybe one day she’d buy a coffeemaker for her place, but then she’d just have one more item to store when she got her next research job.
She’d taken two steps when the bell above the door jingled and a man entered. Gray tinged his surfer-blond hair, which appeared casually tousled with the help of too much hair gel.
He paused next to a slanting framed poster of the Spiegel Grove shipwreck, cocked his head to the side, then reached out and straightened it. Satisfied, his eyes fell on Mer and he steered toward her. “They call me Ishmael.” He thrust out his hand.
The spookiest green eyes she had ever seen pinned her in place. His hand remained outstretched, yet she found herself reluctant to shake it. When she did, his grip mashed her fingers.
“Captain Ahab’s out at the moment.” She withdrew her hand before he could do permanent damage. “Something I can help you with?”
“Finally.” He leaned against the counter and winked conspiratorially. “Someone who gets me.”
The overhead light bounced off the face of the Rolex Submariner that circled his wrist. Most men she knew who wore Rolexes fell into one of three categories. His manicure argued against a military background. Her photographer friends didn’t wear pressed khakis or crisp linen shirts. That left rich.
“What, exactly, are you seeking?” she asked.
He lowered his voice, even though they were the only people in the shop. “Something even more elusive than a white whale.”
Mer caught her eye roll before it made its full revolution. The only thing he needed to complete his act was a wand and a puff of smoke.
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