by Joanne Pence
I look forward to seeing you, sister dear, the only good and faithful woman I have ever known. Your loving brother,
Jack
How could Susannah have borne it all those years, Angie wondered, knowing that her interference had caused the destruction of the lives of two people who had done nothing worse than fall in love with each other?
“Are you through? Did you like the letters?”
Angie looked up to see Danny standing in front of her. He’d been sketching while she read and now held the sketch out to her. He had drawn a good likeness.
“Why, thank you. It’s lovely. And yes, I liked reading the letters very much.”
“It’s not raining hard anymore,” Danny said.
Angie quickly glanced through the other papers and letters, but there was nothing that told her what had happened to Jack, although it was clear that the dissipation of his body as well as his soul had killed him.
Nothing told her, either, what had happened to the baby.
Her heart ached as she put everything away and went back to the inn with Danny. If unhappy souls walked the earth after death, those three surely did.
“Good Christ, I thought you’d disappeared, too!” Paavo stood in the doorway, his jacket on, a fierce scowl on his face.
“I won’t disappear, I promise.” Angie went up to him, wanting to give him a hug, but he was in no mood for forgiveness. She hurried past him into the house, taking off Moira’s hat and slicker as she went. “I was just waiting out the rainstorm at Quint’s cottage and—”
“Quint’s!” He paced back and forth in front of her. “Don’t you know the dangers out there? Two people dead, a woman’s missing, and you decide to go waltzing off to Quint’s cottage!”
She walked into the drawing room to stand by the blazing fire in the fireplace. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You never mean to, Angie.” Paavo took off his hat, jacket, and gloves, leaving them in the foyer as he followed her. “Did you even stop to think that I might be worried about you? Did you even care?”
“Your hands!” She stared in shock at the pads of gauze and tape on his palms. Taking hold of the backs of his hands, she closely inspected his bandages and torn skin. “What happened to you?” She still held his hands, not wanting to let them go.
“It’s just a rope burn. Martin was on an old bridge that broke. Jeffers and I had to pull him up.”
“My God! Is he all right?”
“Just a little sore.”
“But you…Oh, Paavo, this is all my fault. I never should have asked you to this hateful place.”
He pulled his hands from her. “It’s nothing. You’re the one I’m worried about. First I hear you and Chelsea were locked in a root cellar, and next you disappear altogether.”
“I’m sorry. I lost track of time. I was reading—”
“Reading! That’s just great, Angie! Great!” He walked around as he spoke, his hard gaze never leaving her. “Here I was being stupid enough to worry—”
“There’s a good reason,” she cried, interrupting him.
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t see how there can be any good reason for being thoughtless, not to mention careless.” His voice was low, his words challenging, as if he didn’t believe her.
He had to be the most obstinate man who ever lived! “I said I’m sorry! What more do you want from me?”
“That you stay put!” He turned on his heel and left the room.
Rationally, she knew he talked to her as if she were an inconsiderate child and refused to listen to her explanation because he had been worried about her, and because he was tired after spending so many hours trudging around in the mud and the rain looking for Patsy. But that didn’t make it any easier to take.
Her eyes welled with tears, also caused, she realized, by her own weariness, worry, and frustration over all this. “It’ll be all right, Paavo,” she said aloud to herself, to these walls that seemed to have ears. “Once we get away from here, things will be right again between us.”
She thought back on her afternoon as she looked around the drawing room, her gaze resting on Susannah’s portrait. Elise…Jack…Susannah. Lonely, loveless, jealous Susannah.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “For all of you.”
Then, realizing that she was standing there talking to dead people, she hurried down the quiet hall to the kitchen—the domain she knew, the world she was comfortable with. There was no sign that anyone had done anything about dinner. That she could handle.
19
Angie peered into the refrigerator. What could she cook for all these people, who didn’t even appreciate the work she went through for them? Peering at a tub of soy cottage cheese, she got an idea.
In a drawer was a set of file cards that Finley had written a number of his special recipes on. She took them out and went through them, one by one, until she hit upon the perfect meal:
salad: alfalfa sprouts, celery, carrots, and onion
soup: cream of lettuce, made with soy milk
entrée: gluten, brown rice, and soybean casserole
vegetable: wheat-germ-covered spinach
dessert: soy cream custard
Finley hadn’t been joking when he said he knew seventy-three ways to prepare soybeans.
This menu, for sure, would make them wake up to the interesting meals she’d been trying to cook for them.
She went into the pantry for the soybeans and rice. She’d have to find the gluten. It should be out there somewhere as well. She’d been through all the regular cabinets to see what canned and dry goods, spices, and condiments were available and hadn’t seen any. She hadn’t yet taken the trouble to look through the bottom cabinets and shelves, though.
Inside a bottom cabinet, a ten-pound sack of dried lentils stood beside a twenty-five-pound sack of brown rice. Next to them was a large canister. She lugged out the cannister and pried the lid off. Gluten flour. Success.
Checking the recipe, she saw she needed four cups of the stuff. She got a bowl and metal scoop and brought them into the pantry. She put one, two, three scoops into the bowl; but on the fourth scoop, an odd ropelike thing turned up. She poked at it with the scoop. It looked fleshy, but not human. She poked a little deeper into the flour. Coarse brownish-gray hairs appeared, then the base of the tail….
She dropped the scoop, ran from the pantry, down the hall, and up to her room.
Paavo was stretched out atop the bed, his shoes off, asleep.
“Get up!” she yelled. “Quick!”
He was instantly awake. “What is it?”
“The rat! The rat I saw the first night after Finley disappeared. It just mooned me!”
Everyone showed up for dinner, probably because they were hungry after having run out on lunch; but they didn’t look particularly happy to be there. Especially when they saw the food.
“We should all join hands and pray to the Supreme Oneness to keep all of us safe,” Running Spirit announced. “And to bring Patsy home.”
“The only thing I’d pray to the Supreme Oneness for is that you shut up,” Martin said.
Running Spirit looked down his nose at Bayman, then turned to Moira. “Do you feel all right this evening?”
Moira nodded.
Martin said in a stage whisper to his wife, “I wonder how Patsy feels tonight. I wonder if she feels anything at all.”
“Isn’t it a shame?” Bethel said. “What do you think, Chelsea? Or are you still waiting for your ghost? You know, I’ve asked Allakaket about that, and he doesn’t think there are any ghosts here. None at all. He thinks your Jack Sempler is a myth.”
“Finley wouldn’t have lied about such a thing,” Chelsea said.
“But what proof did he have? Probably none,” Bethel said.
“It’s not facts that Chelsea needs,” Running Spirit said suggestively. “And it’s not a ghost, either.”
Chelsea’s face flamed. She put down her fork, the expression in her green eyes hurt and vuln
erable. Her thin lips seemed to sink and disappear altogether. “I don’t understand.”
“Sure you do, Chelsea.” His tone mocked as his gaze slid over her.
She drank some water, trying to ignore him.
“Time to be with the living,” he taunted.
“Stop it.”
“There are better cures for loneliness than ghosts. You should find one. If you can.”
Angie couldn’t stand it any longer. “Did you hear her say to stop? Or are your ears as deficient as your manners?”
“Oh, ho!” he said, giving her a haughty look. “Feeling left out?”
“Don’t even think about it, Jeffers,” Paavo said quietly.
Running Spirit jerked back in his chair. It was Angie’s turn to smirk.
Bethel leaned forward. Her turban slipped slightly. “I hate to admit it, Chelsea, dear, but Greg’s right. I’ve been worried about you myself.”
Chelsea turned to Moira. “What have you been saying to them?”
“Nothing, I assure you.”
“Don’t let it bother you, Chelsea,” Martin Bayman said, frowning furiously at his water as if by will alone he could make it turn into the sort of beverage he obviously wanted to drink. “I’ve seen lots of spirits myself.”
Everyone chose to ignore Bayman, their attention on Chelsea.
Running Spirit eyed Chelsea as he shifted sideways and hooked his muscle-bound arm over the top of his chair. His smile showed perfect white teeth. “Why don’t you come with me tomorrow morning. We’ll have an OBE.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s the matter, Chelsea? Are you afraid?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. I think you’re afraid to find out you can’t have an OBE. Or maybe you’re afraid if you’re with me you might want to find out what a live man is all about.”
Chelsea jumped to her feet, her whole body quivering and her eyes tear-filled. “You scum!”
Running Spirit opened his mouth to speak.
“Jeffers,” Paavo said, his voice calm but firm. “That’s enough.”
Running Spirit gaped at him, then shut his mouth.
Moira leaned toward Chelsea. “Don’t listen to Running Spirit. He doesn’t understand.”
A glimmer of a smirk touched Running Spirit’s lips before he cast a cautious eye toward Paavo, then seemed to decide it was safer to shovel more food in his mouth.
Reginald Vane hurried into the room. “I’m sorry I’m late.” He looked from Chelsea’s stricken expression to the others. “Is anything wrong?”
Chelsea backed away from the table.
“Miss Worthington,” Vane said as he reached out to take her arm.
“Leave me alone!” She brushed him aside and ran from the room.
Paavo walked into the kitchen to help Angie clean up after dinner, only to find that Martin and Bethel had beaten him to it. He left and went into the library. Jack Sempler’s picture was the first thing to catch Paavo’s eye. As he studied Jack looking off toward the horizon, Paavo couldn’t help but wonder what the man would think if he heard about the havoc he was wreaking on lives some ninety years after his death. Paavo went to the bookshelves to see if he could find a book to take his mind off the people in this inn for a few minutes.
He found a book on the history of the northern California and Oregon coasts during the time the Russians traveled there, built forts, and established communities. It was an interesting period that he knew little about.
He walked toward the fireplace, which had been lit, to sit in an easy chair.
“Hello.” Peeking out from a wing chair facing the fireplace was Moira. She’d obviously been crying.
“I didn’t see you there,” Paavo said. He didn’t like seeing a woman cry, especially not one who reminded him so strongly of his past. Too many tears had been shed back then. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“That’s all right. Come and sit. I’m glad for the company. I’ve been here with my own thoughts too long.”
“I know what you mean.”
She smiled. “What thoughts have you been with too long?”
“Thoughts of Patsy Jeffers. Knowing she might have a chance if we could just find her, or get some help in our search. Wondering…” No, he wouldn’t say anything about Finley. As much as she didn’t seem to actually grieve for her brother, it wouldn’t be right to speculate on the means of his death. He ended with a noncommittal, “I don’t know.”
Running Spirit burst into the room. “Moira?” He saw her with Paavo. “Ah, there you are. I’d like to talk to you. Would you come with me?”
“No, Greg. I really don’t care to.”
He walked over and took her hand. “Come on.”
She pulled it back. “No.”
He leaned over her chair, his hands on the armrests, his face mere inches from hers. “Moira. I know how you feel. I can help.” He touched her face. “Let’s go to your room.”
She turned her head. “Please go.”
“Damn it—”
“Leave her alone,” Paavo said.
“This isn’t your business, Smith.” He turned back to Moira.
“It is now.”
Running Spirit straightened and faced Paavo with a murderous look. “Watch out for your glass house before you throw stones, Smith. I think you’re the one who needs to leave her alone.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Jeffers. And I don’t care to. Just get out of here.”
“Your girlfriend being a cook fooled me at first, but no mere cook wears Donna Karan and Ferragamo. Patsy buys all that stuff, too, only on her it doesn’t look so hot. Now you’re nosing around Moira. You tired of your woman’s money? Maybe you’re just tired of being bought and paid for. Big-time cop. What a joke!”
Paavo grabbed Running Spirit’s vest and jerked him forward as easily as if he were a child. Paavo kept his voice low, his eyes cold and hard. “You ever say anything like that again to me, to Moira, or to Angie, and you’ll pay.”
Moira stood, placing one hand on each man’s chest. “Please,” she said.
Running Spirit put his hands up as if to surrender. “All right. She’s upset. We’ll finish this some other time, Smith.”
Paavo let go of him. “Anytime, Jeffers.”
Running Spirit backed away. When near the doorway, he glanced at Moira. “Don’t waste your time falling for him, babe. Looks like little Patsy took a dive, and I’ll be free soon as her body shows up.”
Moira shook her head. “Get out of here, Greg. Go cause trouble somewhere else.”
“I’m going back out at dawn to look for her,” Running Spirit said as he turned.
“I’ll be there,” Paavo said.
Running Spirit cocked an eyebrow. “Whatever’s right.” With that, he left.
Moira studied the door long after he’d disappeared, her expression one of quiet desperation. “I wonder if the investors are right. They say I should sell this place, that it’d be a lot easier that way.”
“You’re thinking of selling to the Baymans?” he asked.
“Possibly to Martin and Bethel, but then Greg—I’ll never get used to ‘Running Spirit’—also wants to buy it. He thinks it could be the start of his ashram. I, on the other hand, would have been perfectly content to simply live here and take in a few guests now and then to help meet expenses.”
“Why are they both so interested in this place?” Paavo asked.
“It’s all because of zoning,” she answered.
“Explain.”
“This whole area is either U.S. Forest Service land or is owned by private logging companies. Between the two of them, and the old-time residents who are opposed to any change or any building along the coast, it’s impossible to build a new inn or bed-and-breakfast. There’s no way on Earth a resort or a complex like Running Spirit wants could be added. The only way to get one is to buy a place that’s already e
stablished.”
“In other words, if someone has big plans, this is the way to have them fulfilled.”
“That’s right,” Moira said, her voice low and soft as she caught Paavo’s eyes and held them. “This is the kind of place dreams are made of.”
Moira soon excused herself, and Paavo, lost in thought, stepped onto the back porch to watch the rain.
This inn must be haunted, he decided, but not necessarily the way people here assumed. It was haunted with lost dreams and lost goals. The investors came here with their dreams, their hopes, on the line. Even Angie, with her dream of a special assignment, special training, that would lead to the wonderful, elusive job she sought.
What was Moira’s dream? he wondered. Finley’s had seemed to be this inn. He had sought a dream but found death.
Since Jeffers was going to allow himself a few hours of rest before going back out again, Paavo thought he’d do the same. The longer he was out there, the more hopeless the search became. Wherever Patsy was, he didn’t think she was simply out wandering around lost. She was hurt, or dead, or purposely hiding.
The possibility that she was Finley’s murderer and was hiding so that she could eventually escape also couldn’t be ignored.
He was tired, though, of these people, these murders, coming between him and Angie. He had to figure out who was behind it all so that they would all be safe, but he also needed time with her. Time to remind her how much he cared. He hurried to their room.
There were too many lost dreams in this house. Angie wasn’t a dream, though. She was vivid, more alive than any ten women he’d ever known. Despite all his most logical, rational pronouncements, he loved her.
Bursting through the door, he stopped short, trying to appear nonchalant. She was there, looking all warm and cozy wrapped in a thick, snowy robe, seated in front of the fireplace. A low fire was burning, and she was reading a book. She put it down when he entered and gave him a cautious smile.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“Nothing. Jeffers and I will rest for a while, then go search some more at dawn.”