Aquamarine

by Catherine Mulvany

They left Kevin at the police station feeling extremely sorry for himself.

  Shea’s room hadn’t been ransacked; that was obvious as soon as they opened the door, but Teague spent a good ten minutes checking the locks on the doors and windows anyway before pronouncing himself satisfied.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “For what?”

  She smiled and his heart gave a jolt. “For caring enough to make sure I was safe.”

  He cleared his throat. “Least I could do. I suppose I should go back to see if the deputies have discovered anything.”

  “Probably.” She smiled again and he knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet.

  He cleared his throat. “They’re probably waiting for me.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “They want me to inventory my stuff as soon as they finish dusting for prints. Apparently the intruder jimmied the back door. Used a crowbar.”

  “Not a pro then,” she said.

  “Kids, the cops figure.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m a suspicious bastard by nature. Maybe I’ll change my mind once I see what’s missing. Speaking of which, I should get going.”

  “Yes, I suppose you should.”

  Still, he didn’t move. “This isn’t the way I had hoped to end the evening,” he said at last.

  “Why? What had you hoped to do?”

  Teague pulled her into his arms and kissed her—thoroughly.

  When he finally lifted his mouth from hers, he stared steadily into her face, not saying a word.

  Shea blinked a time or two. “Oh,” she murmured faintly.

  He brushed a strand of soft dark hair back off her cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” she whispered, making it sound like a question.

  He left her slumped against the wall, breathing hard and looking dazed. Dazed, but happy.

  And despite the fact that he probably wasn’t going to get any sleep at all, Teague whistled all the way back to Strawberry Point.

  SIX

  Shea didn’t head immediately for Massacre Island the next morning even though she was anxious to get through the rest of the photo albums. She went first to the Liberty Public Library to see what information they had on possession. There she enlisted the aid of Emily Freitag, the local librarian. Ms. Freitag was eager to help Shea locate sources for her hypothetical psychology research paper since she herself had a strong interest in psi phenomena, having grown up in a haunted house.

  As she put it, “I’ve always adored reading about ‘ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties / And things that go bump in the night.’”

  Since Ms. Freitag looked like the stereotypical librarian, prim and elderly with a salt-and-pepper bun, lavender-flowered dress, and glasses slipping halfway down her nose, her tastes surprised Shea, who’d had the woman pegged as the Danielle Steel type.

  “I’m mainly interested in actual case studies of possession,” Shea said.

  “Hmm.” Ms. Freitag adjusted her bifocals. “There was that incident with the boy in suburban Washington—the one William Blatty based The Exorcist on.”

  “Isn’t that movie about a girl who’s possessed by demons?”

  The librarian nodded. “Right. In the book and the movie. But the actual case involved a little boy, and in my humble opinion, it sounded more like poltergeist activity than possession.” She fell silent for a moment, staring fixedly at her computer monitor.

  “Anything else?”

  “Of course there are always the poor deluded souls who’re convinced they’ve been possessed by Elvis or Napoleon.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Ms. Freitag frowned. “How about that little girl from Illinois,” she said slowly, frowning fiercely as she dredged the details from the depths of her memory. “Funny name. Yancy? Delancey? Something like that. She was purportedly possessed by the soul of another girl who had died some years before.”

  “That sounds more like it,” Shea said.

  The older woman gave her an odd look. “More like what?”

  “More like what I’m interested in,” she said hastily. “Not possession by demons or celebrities but by plain ordinary people.”

  “Plain, ordinary dead people.”

  “Okay, dead people, but ordinary people who lived ordinary lives, not devils or demons or even historical figures. Where could I find something about the girl with the odd name?”

  Ms. Freitag tapped away at the keyboard, then printed out a list of relevant references. “Good luck,” she said.

  Volumes had been written on the topic of possession, much of it scientific or pseudo-scientific, and none of it describing phenomena resembling that of her own experiences. Even the story of young Lurancy Vennum, the Watseka Wonder, whose body supposedly had been inhabited for some months by the spirit of Mary Roff, a girl who’d died twelve years previously, offered little parallel.

  Lurancy hadn’t just inherited Mary’s memories; she’d also inherited the girl’s identity. Her own personality had disappeared. For the period of her possession, she had recognized her own family only as acquaintances, claiming Mary’s family as her own. Shea’s experiences weren’t quite like that.

  Still hoping to find a clue, she expanded her reading to include theories on racial memory and clairvoyance. The more she read, the more farfetched any of it seemed as an explanation for her own strange intuitions.

  By eleven-thirty her head was aching and she was bored out of her skull. Somehow the exorcism of the nuns of Loudun in the 1600s just didn’t seem relevant. Also, the increasingly loud complaints from her empty stomach had begun to interfere with her concentration.

  After a frustrating couple of hours at the sheriff’s office, Teague stopped off for an early lunch at the Liberty Lodge Coffee Shop. He was just about to order when he spotted Shea and waved her over.

  “I hope your morning was more productive than mine,” she said, settling across from him with a sigh. “I’ll take the special,” she told the hovering waitress.

  “Make that two,” said Teague.

  She was wearing her hair in a high ponytail, secured with a red scrunchie that matched her T-shirt. She looked about sixteen, whereas he, after a short night and a bureaucratic nightmare of a morning, felt like a senior citizen.

  “Any news on your break-in?” she asked.

  He frowned. “Not much. I finished the inventory. All that was taken was my TV, VCR, and CD player. Funny thing is, the cops found the stuff already—dumped in the lake near the boathouse.”

  “That’s weird. If they were just going to dump it, why take it in the first place?”

  “Good question. And why did the burglar leave such a shambles behind?”

  “Maybe robbery wasn’t the real motive.”

  “Or maybe the burglars stole something I’m not admitting to. That’s what the investigating deputy suspects. He asked some very pointed questions this morning.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “About possible connections with known drug dealers or militias. Apparently he assumes I had a large sum of cash hidden on the premises, that I’m either dealing in drugs or illegal arms.”

  The waitress gave him an odd look as she set a cup of coffee in front of him.

  He dropped a couple of ice cubes from his water glass into his coffee, then took a careful sip. “So how was your morning?”

  “Not as depressing as yours.” She grinned. “I went to the library to research ghosts, possession, and related phenomena.”

  “And?”

  “My experiences are different from any of the stuff I read about. I’m not sure what that means. Maybe I’m just losing it.”

  Lunch arrived then, big bowls of corn chowder and fresh homemade rolls. As Shea dove into her food, Teague realized with a stab of guilty pleasure that once again he was getting aroused just watching her eat. She enjoyed food on a sensuous level. And if she got this excited over soup and br
ead, he reflected, chocolate would probably send her orgasmic. He smiled into his coffee cup. Might be interesting to find out.

  After lunch Shea bummed a ride with Teague to the island. As they neared the crest of the path, they heard the roar of a chain saw. “Doesn’t sound like they’ve been slacking off in your absence.”

  “I’ve got a good foreman,” he said. “Nick keeps everyone in line.” He raised an eyebrow in a sardonic look. “Including me.”

  “You’re going all the way to the house?” she asked, surprised when he didn’t take the fork that led to the gazebo.

  “Got some details to talk over with Jack.”

  He wasn’t touching her, but Shea’s skin felt hot and prickly anyway. She was very aware of his shoulder just inches from hers, aware too that he was spending more time watching her than the path. He stopped suddenly ten yards from the house.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, turning to him, her heart beating out of control at his intent expression.

  “Nothing.” The air between them all but snapped with electricity. Teague’s gaze held hers prisoner. “Have dinner with me tonight?”

  An innocuous request, but she responded to the silent subtext, nearly drowning in the resulting wave of desire. Her pulses pounded; her stomach fluttered. She trembled in a response so powerful, it was almost painful.

  Or was it Kirsten’s reaction she felt?

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  “Seven all right?”

  “Perfect.”

  He shot her another of those high-voltage looks. Complete core meltdown, she thought muzzily. That pretty well summed up her reaction to Teague Harris, and frankly, she didn’t care if it was secondhand emotion or not.

  While Teague conferred with Jack, Shea leafed through the rest of the albums but found nothing to interest her.

  Retrieving the album she’d set aside, she flipped to the picture of her mother with Jack and his first wife. Teague had suggested the existence of a black-sheep twin, but Shea didn’t buy it. She remembered the way Jack’s face had changed when she’d shown him the photograph. Nobody special … I don’t recall her name.

  Jack Rainey was her father. She was convinced of it. And her mother knew he was alive; the postcard proved it, which maybe explained why her mother had never wanted to travel to the western part of the United States. Too many skeletons buried in them thar hills.

  The question was, did Jack know of Shea’s existence? She pulled the postcard of Liberty from her purse. Obviously Elizabeth had known Christine well enough to drop her a line, and equally as obvious, her mother had known the Raineys had a daughter. Our Kirsten continues to thrive.

  She frowned. But what was the rest of the message about? If ever you need anything—anything at all—don’t hesitate to contact us. It wasn’t the sort of message a woman sent to her husband’s lover. Hadn’t Elizabeth known about Jack’s affair with Christine?

  Shea pressed her fingertips to her forehead. The uncertainty was driving her crazy! Sighing, she sat up straight. She couldn’t get the story from her mother—not until her mom and stepfather returned from Europe, anyway—but she could ask Jack Rainey, and she intended to, as soon as possible. She was sick of pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Masquerading as a dead woman had seemed like a kindness at first, but in the long run, wasn’t it better if she told them all the truth—that she was Jack’s daughter, all right, just not the daughter they thought?

  Unfortunately, when she stopped in to see Jack, he looked terrible, and she decided that today was not the time for upsetting revelations.

  “I’m okay,” he said in response to her concerned look. “Just tired after all the excitement yesterday.” She took the hint and didn’t stay long.

  Feeling tired herself, Shea went in search of Cynthia to say good-bye.

  She finally spotted Kirsten’s stepmother on the deck near the pool. She started through the sliding glass doors, then pulled back as she realized Cynthia and Kevin were in the midst of a heated private discussion, not a good time to interrupt. She was about to slip away when something Kevin said caught her ear.

  “Disinherited? Over a stupid accident that wasn’t even my fault?” His handsome face was flushed with anger, his voice a bellow of rage.

  “Not disinherited, honey.” Cynthia spoke calmly, but the nervous movements of her long, pink-tipped fingers betrayed her. “What your father is considering is a trust. You’d still have the income.”

  “But I couldn’t touch the principal until I was thirty!” Kevin shouted. “That’s unfair, Mother, and you know it.”

  “Yes, darling, I agree.”

  “Dad’s just using the fender bender last night as an excuse to screw me out of my fair share of the inheritance.”

  “Don’t blame your father. Blame Kirsten,” Cynthia said.

  Shea clutched the edge of the door so tightly, the tendons in her hands stood out like the ribs of a fan.

  “Kirsten?”

  “She always could wind her father around her little finger.” Cynthia spoke bitterly. “But don’t worry, Kevin. Nobody’s going to cheat my children of what’s rightfully theirs. Especially not the long-lost daughter.” Cynthia’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper, but it frightened Shea as no shout could have.

  Shea slid the door shut quietly. Her fingers felt numb from having gripped it so tightly. She flexed them a time or two to restart the circulation, then turned back into the room, only to be brought up short by the sight of Ruth Griffin standing a few feet away.

  A nasty, malicious, and distinctly un-Christian smirk twisted her plain features into a gargoylelike mask. “Eavesdroppers seldom hear any good of themselves,” she said.

  Shea brushed past her. “Tell my stepmother I had to leave.”

  The gloating sound of Ruth’s laughter followed her from the room.

  Teague took Shea to La Paloma, his favorite Mexican restaurant. She eyed the dingy cinder-block exterior with suspicion but seemed to relax once inside.

  “Piñatas!” she said in delight, pointing to the colorful assortment hanging from the rafters.

  As usual, the place was packed. “You do like Mexican, don’t you?” he asked belatedly.

  She blinked. “I guess so. Taco Bell counts, right?”

  “Close enough.” Teague caught the attention of the plump, middle-aged hostess.

  She smiled and nodded in recognition, setting her long silver earrings jangling. “Senor Harris. Reservation for two, no?”

  Teague nodded.

  “Follow me, please.” The woman moved quickly, dodging between the crowded tables, deftly avoiding collisions with the numerous white-shirted waiters. She seated them across from each other in a high-backed wooden booth at the very back of the restaurant, then brought them tall glasses of ice water and big handwritten menus.

  “What would you like?” Teague asked.

  Shea shrugged as she studied the menu in confusion. “I took only one year of Spanish. What are chongos?”

  “A custardlike dessert with cinnamon sauce.”

  “Sounds great, but not for a main course. Why don’t you order for me? Then if I don’t like it, I’ll have someone to blame besides myself.”

  “All right,” he agreed, the corners of his mouth twitching.

  “Watch it, Teague. You almost smiled there for a minute.”

  “What are you talking about? I smile.”

  “Oh, yeah? When?”

  “I’m smiling now.”

  “That’s not a smile; it’s a smirk.”

  Their waiter introduced himself as Javier. He and Teague got into a heavy discussion of the relative merits of pescado a la Veracruzano and mole poblano de guajalote, both specialties of the house.

  “Oh, go for the mole,” Shea said. “At least I can pronounce it.”

  “Excellent choice,” Javier said approvingly. He whisked away the menus and appeared moments later with a basket of tortilla chips, a bowl of salsa, and two bottles of beer.

>   Following Teague’s lead, Shea dipped a chip into the chunky salsa, then took a tentative bite. “Tell me,” she said. “What exactly is that mole whatever we ordered?”

  “Turkey cooked with chocolate sauce,” he told her, then choked on his beer at the expression on her face.

  “Turkey with chocolate sauce? You did say turkey with chocolate sauce?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll like it. They use unsweetened chocolate. It’s spicy, not sweet.”

  She ate another chip, then tried a cautious sip of the beer. When she made a face at the unfamiliar taste, Teague laughed out loud.

  “I take it you’re no beer drinker.”

  “You take it right. I’ll stick to water, thanks.” She leaned forward and he caught a tantalizing glimpse of white lace and soft, creamy skin. “Teague, I overheard a conversation this afternoon. Kevin and Cynthia were discussing the changes Jack plans to make in his will.”

  “And?” What was she getting at?

  “Kevin was furious because his father intends to tie his inheritance up in a trust.”

  “He’ll get over it.” He took her hand. “And Jack’ll probably change his mind once he calms down. They go through this same routine every time Kevin’s in an accident.”

  “But he claims it wasn’t his fault this time.”

  “It’s never his fault,” he said. “In this case, he shouldn’t have parked so close to the other car.”

  “But his date said the space next to them was empty when they parked.”

  “Right. Only what Kevin didn’t tell her was that he left the club to go buy condoms, and when he got back, he found that Walsh had pulled in on a diagonal, taking up a third of the adjacent parking space. Kevin managed to squeeze in. Unfortunately, Walsh wasn’t as adept at squeezing out.”

  “So why didn’t Kevin just park somewhere else?”

  “I asked him the same thing. He said he didn’t want Chelsea to realize he’d moved the car.”

  “He didn’t want to explain where he’d been,” she said.

  “Right. Anyway, don’t worry about Kevin. Believe me, Cynthia will make certain he’s not slighted.”

  She shuddered. “You should have heard her. She can be a little scary, huh?”