“I’ll make my famous gravy,” he added.
It had been too long since they shared a meal. She missed his laugh, his candor. “I was hoping you’d say ghosts didn’t exist.”
“I’ve never known you to ask a question before you already knew the answer.”
“Not very often, but this one’s perplexing,” she said.
“The important ones usually are.”
—
Mer contemplated her brother’s words. Maybe she could bridge the chasm between science and faith that yawned in her mind. Stranger things had happened, some of them quite recently. In the meantime, she had something a bit more secular in mind to try to discover: Ariel’s secrets.
Everyone had a morning routine. The perimeter of the Key Largo Community Park measured a half mile, and those striving for fitness ran laps around it or entered the park to use the exercise stations scattered across the lawn. Mer preferred the Starbucks a couple of blocks away. It didn’t improve her fitness, but drinking an iced latte didn’t cause her to break out in a sweat, either. Unfortunately for her, Echo’s daily routine started with a romp in the park. She placed her flip-flops in the closet and laced up her sneakers.
She found him at the pull-up station. Even midmorning, a combination of Florida heat and personal exertion caused sweat to track rivulets down the side of his face. The muscles of his arms bulged with each repetition.
She waited until he finished his set. “I was hoping to talk to you about Ariel.” It still struck her as odd to refer to a hydroacoustic device by a name.
He interlaced his fingers at the small of his back and stretched his arms straight. “Ariel?”
“Last night, Lindsey mentioned it. I didn’t know you’d gotten it back from the Sheriff’s Office.”
“The Sheriff’s Office copied the data from it.”
“So you have the recording from the night Ishmael disappeared? Did you listen to it?”
He positioned himself under the bar and jumped. He hung a moment and then started another set. “It didn’t have much on it.”
“It doesn’t matter how much, just how useful.”
He ignored her as he grunted out more repetitions.
The tattoos on his arms danced when he flexed, and mesmerized Mer. “You don’t talk much, do you?” she said.
He released his grip on the bar. His feet landed on the ground with a solid thud. “You always so nosy?”
“Occupational hazard, I guess.”
A workout watch circled Echo’s wrist. He pressed a button and Mer heard a tinny beep, then he ran to the next station.
Mer followed at a much slower pace. “How’d you meet Ishmael?”
He placed his hands on the ground, propped his feet on a low bench, and cranked out a series of incline push-ups. It fatigued her just to watch. “Ishmael was my big brother.”
“Your brother?” She felt her eyebrows disappear under her ball cap before she realized that big didn’t necessarily mean older. “Sibling or mentor?” she asked.
He stopped mid-push to give her a look that clearly conveyed the fact that he considered her to be an idiot. After a final push-up, he stood and wiped his hands against his shorts. “Mentor. Look, I’m busy.”
“Too busy to help me find out what happened to Ishmael?”
“Ishmael’s dead. It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said.
“It matters to Amber.”
“Amber’s better off.” He set off again at a run.
For a moment all she could do was stand there, rooted to the uneven asphalt of the path. She hadn’t expected that. Maybe Rabbit was right and there was something between Amber and Echo. That would certainly ratchet up the tension between Echo and Ishmael, but it still left a whole lot to the imagination.
Echo ran past the parallel bars and kept going. Mer took a deep breath and sprinted after him. Lack of oxygen slowed her synapses, and she switched from thinking about the statement to concentrating on staying conscious. She caught him three stations away, but only because he had stopped.
Mer struggled to catch her breath. Perhaps she should consider running more regularly. “Why is Amber better off without Ishmael?”
“Ishmael. Enough about Ishmael. I’m done talking about him.”
“Ariel might hold the clue to what went wrong that night. That’s not about Ishmael. That’s about me. What I did. Please. Tell me what’s on the recording.”
He stared at her for a long moment, as if assessing her motives. The muscles in his legs flexed as he bounced from one foot to the other to keep from tightening up. “The recording didn’t have much. Scraping noises when you guys tried to stick her to the hull, a little engine noise. Amber’s scream.”
“That must have been awful to hear. I’m sorry, I know you care for her.”
He rubbed his hand over his heart. Selkie would say it was the kind of unconscious gesture that lent credence to Rabbit’s theory. Love was a powerful motivator. Something to think about.
Mer backtracked to his last statement. “You said you heard engine noise. The LunaSea was moored. She wasn’t running her engines.”
He shrugged, an eloquent motion that conveyed more than most soliloquies. He shifted his weight to his back leg, rocked forward, and, in a burst of speed, left her with only more questions and a single realization.
She really needed to start working out.
Chapter 22
The afternoon sun hit the canal and shattered into thousands of painful shards that embedded themselves behind Mer’s weary eyes. A face-to-face encounter with a possible ghost, four hours of sleep, a theological discussion, and an embarrassing attempt at a workout had sapped her of her whimsical joie de vivre. Although if she were honest with herself, few would credit her with possessing much of that quality to begin with. Now she had only minutes to draw some deep breaths and get in the right frame of mind for tonight’s dive.
For once, no media people loitered on the dock. The picnic tables stood empty, the parking lot lacked cars, and no ghost hunters fluttered around the shop. Mer sat on one of the tables and breathed deep of the humid September air. It smelled of palms and salt, hot asphalt and diesel. She missed the Arctic. The scents there were dulled by searing cold, but spiced with an exhilaration missing from the Keys.
“Mind?” Amber’s voice startled Mer. A visor shaded the young woman’s face but did nothing to hide the shadows under her eyes. Mer slid her backpack over to make room, and Amber settled down on the table. “Ishmael’s dead.” She plucked at her shorts. “Everyone saw him last night but me, and I can’t pretend any longer.”
“I’m sorry, Amber.”
“When I was growing up, I wanted to be a mermaid. My all-time favorite movie as a kid was Splash. You know, the classic one with Daryl Hannah and Tom Hanks?”
Mer nodded, although she wasn’t sure that a movie from 1984 qualified as classic.
“As a kid, I thought she really could breathe underwater. It all looked so real. As an adult, I knew she couldn’t, but I wanted to believe.” Amber tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. “Ishmael called me gullible. Explained how they did it. Now I can’t watch the movie without thinking about it. The magic’s gone.” Amber’s chin trembled. “You saw him. If the others had come back and said they’d seen him, I might still be able to pretend he’s not dead. But you wouldn’t lie about that.”
“No,” Mer replied.
“I figured if I wished hard enough he’d come back to me.” Her hands fluttered in her lap, like tired birds. “I didn’t expect him to come back as a ghost.”
“When you think about it, though, it’s kind of fitting.” Mer heard the words and mentally slapped herself.
Amber tilted her head. “Maybe, I guess.”
“I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.” Just once she wished she knew what to say in a social situation.
“Do you know why he hunted ghosts?”
Most of the reasons that came to mind were uncharitable, and this time Mer held her tongue.
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“He wanted the people left behind to be comforted. He wanted to bring them closure, let them know that their loved ones had moved on and that they should, too.”
The revelation surprised Mer. “That’s very considerate.”
“I mean, there was profit, too.”
A splinter pricked Mer’s leg when she shifted on the wood tabletop. “Of course. It’s a business.”
“He’d go to archaeological sites; his insight was really useful to the diggers. Sometimes he’d help cops recover forensic stuff,” Amber continued. “They didn’t pay anything, but he had some really wealthy sponsors that supported the team. At least he’ll never be forgotten now. Not with all the publicity he’ll get from the documentary.”
Posthumously. Once again, she swallowed her words. “How much more are you guys going to film?”
“Not much. There’s a lot of hauntings in the Keys, and Lindsey still wants witness accounts. But she’s already sent some of the raw footage to the studio editors. They want her to wrap things up so they can air it before Halloween.”
That meant time was running out. Mer wanted to know more about Echo and his history with Ishmael, but even with her limited social skills she sensed that this wasn’t the time to ask Amber those questions.
“So what’s next?” Mer asked.
“Ishmael should have a memorial service. If we do it soon, we can include it in the documentary. That seems fitting, doesn’t it?”
She had to admit, Ishmael would have approved. “Here in the Keys?”
“He’d like that.”
A movement to her left caught Mer’s attention. Detective Talbot strode toward them. Despite the heat, he wore tan slacks and a dress shirt. He stopped in front of Amber.
“Ms. Greene, may I have a word with you in private?”
Amber groped for Mer’s hand, clutching it. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather have Mer stay.”
Talbot’s eyebrows shot up, but he recovered quickly. “It’s about the life-insurance policy you took out on Mr. Styx.”
Her light-colored brows drew together. “I didn’t have a policy on Ishmael. We weren’t married yet.”
A black Hummer pulled into the parking lot, the crunch of gravel ominous. Lindsey.
Detective Talbot shifted his weight. “I have a document that says otherwise.”
Amber’s grip on Mer’s hand tightened. “You must be wrong. Are you sure it isn’t an old one with Lindsey’s name on it?”
“It was Ms. Hatchet who provided the information. The insurance company confirmed it. You are the beneficiary of a substantial chunk of money.”
She gasped. “I am? That’s so cool.” She dropped Mer’s hand. “I can start a paranormal research foundation in Ishmael’s honor!”
Mer interjected, “I don’t think that’s why the detective wants to talk to you.”
“No, it’s not,” he said. “You arranged for the policy two weeks before Mr. Styx disappeared.”
“I don’t understand.” All three remained quiet, then confusion gave way to comprehension and Amber’s face crumpled. “You think I hurt Ishmael?”
“That’s a discussion for us to have at the station,” Talbot said.
“Mer?” Tears spilled down Amber’s cheeks and spotted her shirt. She turned to the detective. “But I have to plan a memorial.”
Lindsey flounced onto the dock. “Yes, because it’s hard to collect insurance money unless the person’s actually declared dead. I told Ishmael you were nothing but a gold digger. He should have listened. Maybe he’d still be alive today.”
Rabbit stood rigid at the edge of the dock, a stricken Echo hunched behind him.
“Ms. Hatchet, this conversation doesn’t concern you.” Detective Talbot placed his hand on Amber’s elbow. “Ms. Greene, please come with me.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, but I’d like you to answer some questions.”
With a last desperate look at Mer, Amber allowed the detective to lead her away.
“You’re no longer welcome on the team,” Lindsey shouted at their receding figures. She whirled on Rabbit and Echo. “What are you two looking at? We have equipment to prep.”
Rabbit stepped forward. “Actually, I don’t feel good. I’m not going to be able to work tonight.”
A flush crept up Lindsey’s neck. “How dare you!”
“Yeah. It’s getting worse by the minute. Don’t worry, though, I’ll walk back to the hotel.”
“Go ahead, scurry away, you miserable rodent.” She dismissed him with a wave. “Interns. Good thing we don’t pay them.”
Echo turned to leave.
“And just where do you think you’re going? Wait, don’t tell me. Rabbit’s contagious, and now you’re sick.”
“Sick of you.”
Lindsey’s mouth dropped open. “What did you say?”
He just stared at her, unmoving.
The antics proved too much for Mer. She slid off the picnic table. The movement drew Lindsey’s attention.
“Oh, you, too?”
“You don’t have anyone to help you. I’m a safety diver, not your crew. And without another diver it looks like you’re not going anywhere.”
“You don’t call the shots for this team. You need to remember your place.”
“Blame yourself. You’re the one who insisted on my participation.”
Her expression turned ugly. “I see how chummy you’ve become with the crew. You’re bound by a confidentiality agreement. One word about Ishmael or our documentary to anyone—and that includes your little cop friend—and I’ll have you in court so quick you’ll wish you’d never met me.”
“Too late for that.” Mer left Lindsey spluttering on the dock and hailed Echo as he walked away. “Echo, hold up a second.”
The past twenty-four hours had whittled away Mer’s strength. At the moment, she wanted nothing more than to stumble home and pull an all-nighter with her pillow, but that would have to wait. In the words of the infamous Scarlett O’Hara, tomorrow was another day. Right now, she needed to apologize to the ears of the operation.
Echo hoisted himself onto the retaining wall between the dock and the parking lot, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands: a still-life of dejection.
“You okay?” Mer asked when she reached him.
He ran his hands through his dark hair before looking up. “Okay, I guess.” He drew a deep breath, and each word fought to break free. “This morning you said I don’t talk much. I don’t. But I listen.”
It felt like a decade had passed since she’d chased him through the park when in reality it had only been a few hours. He was still wearing his athletic shoes. “I was out of line earlier, and I’m sorry.” She leaned against the wall. “I mean about Amber.”
The hard lines of his jaw softened. “Amber.”
“I saw the sketches she made of you. She’s got a lot of talent.”
“Talent no one appreciates.”
“Ishmael did.” Mer yawned.
“Did he? He stuck a camera in her hands. Made her take pictures. She’s an artist, not a photographer.”
Lack of sleep made Mer’s whole body itch, and she combed her fingers through her hair. “I just wanted to apologize. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Later may be too late.”
Ominous words. Her mind cued dramatic music. Soundtracks. She must be even more fatigued than she thought. “I know you don’t talk much. That’s okay. But if you have something to say, just tell me.”
“Tell me something first.” He leaned over and tied his sneakers, jerking the laces with so much force that she worried they’d snap. “You think Amber killed Ishmael?”
“No.” Mer slid the backpack off her shoulder and slumped next to him. “But I didn’t expect to learn that she’d taken out an insurance policy, either.” She started to shrug, but lacked the ambition to finish the move. “I’ve been wrong before.”
“Before today, I didn’t think—” He
shifted, reexamined his shoes, shifted again. “I hear things. Ishmael didn’t love Amber.”
“Now you sound like Lindsey.” A second yawn threatened to split her face in half.
“Lindsey and Ishmael. They’d started seeing each other again, you know. Like, romantic.”
“An affair?” Eww! There really was no accounting for taste. “Did Amber know?”
“No. I didn’t want to say anything. Didn’t want to hurt her. Stupid me. She isn’t who I thought she was.”
“You don’t know that.”
“That cop took her away. No one buys an insurance policy two weeks before someone dies unless—”
“You honestly think Amber could kill someone?” Mer asked.
“Someone killed Ishmael. Yesterday I’d have bet on Lindsey, but not now. Who knows? Maybe Amber found out Ishmael cheated on her. Women be crazy.”
Too much drama swirled around the team. Even before they had arrived in Key Largo, there was Rob on Molasses Reef. Since his ghost story, all hell had broken loose on the island. Ishmael. Gone in a camera flash. Amber taking out an insurance policy within weeks of being able to collect. Now revelations of a rekindled romance between Lindsey and Ishmael. Only one angle remained, and Rabbit had alluded to it earlier.
“You love her, don’t you?” Mer asked.
Tears wet his eyes but didn’t spill over. His size and demeanor had always intimidated her just a bit, but at the moment she couldn’t remember why.
“Don’t you hate it?” he said. “You think you have things all figured out, only you really don’t know shit.”
Chapter 23
“I don’t know shit.” Mer stood in Bijoux’s kitchen, seeking solace. Copper pots hung suspended over a wood butcher block in the center of the small room, and coriander, curry, and cloves scented the air.
Bijoux handed her a cup of tea. “It does not sound like something you should spend much time pondering.”
A couple of leaves swirled on the surface until they settled to the bottom of the china cup. “I hate not knowing something. I grew up believing that if I applied myself, studied, I could learn anything.”
Bijoux brought the aromatic brew to her lips. “You were wrong.”
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