“My lovely, romantic Pisces,” Madam Selena said, beckoning me away from the circle. I followed her as she crooked a finger at me.
“Yes?”
“Be careful, little fish.” She grabbed my wrist. “Fiery Aries is quick to temper, and their selfish, hot-blooded passions often lead them to promiscuity. More so than any other sign. The ram has not the fierce loyalty and emotional depth that draws the fish to its natural mate, the scorpion, whose union is blessed by lifelong passion as a true joining of souls. Guard your heart.” She leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Blessed be.”
“Um, you too.”
Madam Selena’s jewelry tinkled as she walked off into the ether. Fish and scorpions? It was hard to take any advice seriously when it concerned various disparate members of the animal kingdom. But even though she was a little strange, she was nice, and she smelled like patchouli. I liked her. I made my way back into the circle and stood at Garrett’s side.
“Okay, now who are the rest of these people?” I asked.
“BAGS, ma’am,” a guy with a close-shaved beard and a baseball hat answered for Garrett, shaking my hand vigorously.
“Bags? Like under your eyes?” I patted my under-eye area for emphasis. “Or like shopping!”
“No, actually, neither.” Garrett swallowed something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “BAGS. The Bureau of Accredited Ghost Slayers.”
“We’re not all BAGS!” a housewife-looking woman contradicted shrilly, joining Beardy at the front. “Paranormal Enthusiasts of Maine. Pleased to meet you.”
“BAGS,” Beardy began, “is the nation’s premier paranormal investigative society. We promise to bring professionalism, personality, and confidentiality to each case we investigate. You ever heard of Ghost Slayers?”
“What, like on the Syfy channel?” I asked, not that I’d ever watched the Syfy channel, but their ads were all over every magazine I’d ever read. They were impossible to miss.
“Exactly.” Beardy grinned.
Housewife, looking worried, jumped in. “We are not a cheap thrill-seeking publicity stunt of a television show,” she sniffed. “We are not affiliated with any forms of media. Our society is an experienced group of professionals dedicated to the study and research of paranormal activity, using the latest in technology and scientific techniques to claim or disclaim the possible existence of paranormal phenomenon, not to raise Nielsen ratings.”
“We are not amateurs,” countered BAGS, as if to emphasize that the Mainers were. “We’re one of the only nationally recognized paranormal societies, not a group of bored housewives and off-duty bus drivers.” Housewife’s nostrils flared. “We’ve had extensive experience. The BAGS plan brings a levelheaded and comfortable atmosphere into your home, or, uh, ship, to listen to your experiences and concerns, to help you understand the nature of the problem by supplying you with the information you need to understand why this is happening. We then set up equipment and begin trying to recreate and debunk personal experiences in an attempt to find good evidence either for or against paranormal activity.”
“There is no ‘plan’ at the Paranormal Enthusiasts of Maine,” Housewife said smugly. “We use professional clairvoyants and mediums to custom-tailor our investigation to your specific spirit’s needs.”
“Come on, man.” Beardy tried out a new tactic: approaching Garrett from a “bro” angle. “We like to have fun. We are, after all, normal people.” He made a crazy sign at Housewife. “Heck, I don’t think any of us even watch Star Trek. Heh, heh, heh.”
Ooh, bad move. Beardy had just insulted sci-fi in front of Garrett. He had no idea what he was in for. Garrett took a deep breath, about to go into lecture mode.
“Okay.” I headed him off at the pass before he could get going. “What is it you guys want?”
“To get on the boat!” Beardy and Housewife answered simultaneously.
“Like I said, I’m not authorized to do that.” Garrett shrugged. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow and take it up with museum personnel. I’m more than happy to answer your questions, but I can’t let you on the ship.”
“Dude, be cool,” Beardy tried again.
“Sorry, no,” Garrett said firmly. “Press conference over.” He placed his hand squarely on my back and steered me up to the deck of the Lettie Mae, securing the rope over the entrance to the ship that meant the Lettie was closed for the night. I peered apprehensively over the side, half afraid a mob of aggressive ghost hunters was going to rush the gangplank and storm the ship. The paranormal enthusiasts muttered discontentedly and milled about, but made no move to enter the ship by force.
“Sit-in at the president’s office!” Housewife yelled suddenly. “Protest! Let’s park ourselves outside his office! And we’re not moving until we get on that boat!”
The half of the crowd from Maine roared its approval.
“What do we want?” she shouted. “Onto the boat! When do we want it? NOW!”
The rest of the Paranormal Enthusiasts of Maine took up the chant and followed their leader to the president’s office. After deliberating for a moment, Beardy gathered his camera crew and left, hot on their trail, the boom-mike man bringing up the rear.
“Yikes,” I said as we watched them go off, “this is not good. President Harrow isn’t going to be happy about this. The museum is not going to like this one bit. Not one little bit.”
“No?” Garrett watched them too.
“No.” I shook my head. “Well, Roger will be thrilled,” I corrected myself. “The Syfy channel? He’ll be over the moon. But the rest of them . . .” I trailed off ominously.
“What’s so bad about it?”
“Most of the staff were apprehensive at best about the whole ghost thing, if not openly hostile. This is exactly what they feared: turning the museum into some kind of media circus or exploiting the ghost as a publicity stunt. They want to avoid anything that has any potential to damage the museum’s credibility. And I know the office is technically off the museum grounds, but people will still complain that a camp of clairvoyants and camera crews will shatter the illusion.”
“What illusion?” He adjusted his glasses.
“The illusion that in here, it’s always 1791, obviously.”
“Libby, I hate to break it to you, but they sell Bud Light and chicken fingers in the Golden Plough Tavern. The illusion’s been shattered.”
“You know what I mean.” I swatted his arm playfully. “But seriously, Garrett, this could be bad. I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“Well, what if they decide that this whole thing has gotten out of control and shut it down?”
“Shut it down? What do you mean?”
“I mean they might kick out all the media and release an official statement denying any knowledge or evidence of paranormal activity.”
“You don’t want them to kick out the media?” The corners of his mouth twitched. “You’d miss that guy from Ghost Slayers, wouldn’t you? I could see you checking him out.”
“No, you idiot, you!” I yelled in exasperation. “I don’t want them to kick you out!”
“You don’t? You mean you’d be upset if I left? If we couldn’t live on the boat together?” he asked carefully.
“Well, of course! I don’t want to go back to living with Ashling. If they kick you out, I’m off the boat too. And I can’t go back to Ashling. I just can’t.”
Garrett’s smile faded. “Oh, right. Yeah. Ashling. Of course,” he said gruffly.
“Yeah. Obviously.” I shot him a funny look, but he didn’t notice. An oddly loaded silence hung between us.
“You’re going to the Fourth of July Lobsterfest fireworks thing, right?” I eventually asked, to break the silence.
“Of course,” he said stoically. “Everyone in Camden Harbor goes. I’ve gone every year since I was born. I don’t see why this year should be any different.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I mused. “I always forget that you grew up
here. And Cam did too, right?” Shoot. I hadn’t meant to mention the C-word, because Garrett seemed to tweak out whenever it came up. But it just popped out.
“Technically, Cam grew up in the greater Rockport area,” Garrett said, clenching his jaw, which I was beginning to recognize as the sign of a seriously pissed-off Garrett, “but basically, yes. All the towns in the county feed into the same regional high school. He was in my sister’s class.”
“The one who was in Oliver!?”
“Uh, yeah.” He seemed surprised that I remembered. “She just graduated from Tulane. And to the delight of theatergoers everywhere, she is not pursuing a career on the American musical stage.”
I laughed, which seemed to jolt him slightly out of his ill humor.
“Sun’s setting.” I nodded in a westerly direction. No red sky tonight, just the sun dipping straight down into the water.
“I guess I’d better get ghost hunting.” He sighed.
“I wouldn’t mind bringing Madam Selena with us, would you?” I asked. “I like her. And maybe her patchouli would clean out some of the fishy smell in the galley.”
“Maybe.” He laughed. “I don’t know how we could bring her in and leave out the other ones, though.”
“True.” I mulled it over. “I really don’t want seventy-five ghost hunters in here.”
“Regardless, tonight it’s just me.” He pushed off the rail he’d been leaning against and straightened. “Down into the hold.”
“Can I come with you again?” I asked tentatively. “This time I’ll be quieter, I promise. Well, I promise to try,” I said truthfully.
“Really? You want to come again?” We went belowdecks.
“Garrett, I’m gonna be honest.” I sighed. “It’s really creepy being all alone in the fo’c’s’le. And yes, it’s creepy in the dark galley too, but you’re there, you know? So it’s not so bad.”
“Yeah.” He pulled out our camping lanterns. “I’ll be there.”
Garrett switched on the light, illuminating the darkness. We shone.
Eight
Was there no end to the humiliation Roger the publicist would force me to endure? I was starting to think the man had a personal vendetta against me. To man the pie table, he’d dressed me as Betsy Ross. And I don’t mean as a nice, historically accurate Philadelphia upholsterer. No, I had on a giant mobcap and a white-starred blue dress with layers of red and white ruffled sleeves and a red and white striped overskirt with huge panniers. It looked like America had thrown up on me. When Ashling spotted me, she almost choked on her own bile, eyes bugging out of her head, before she ran off, presumably to tell off someone in charge. This time I could hardly blame her. Seriously, this was a travesty, particularly for any aspiring historian with a modicum of self-respect.
I tucked an escaping curl back under my mobcap. How was it the Fourth of July already? It felt like summer was speeding by.
A customer claimed my attention, jolting me out of my daydreaming. As I’d predicted, the pie table had been quite popular, second only to my next-door neighbor, the lemonade barrel, which Suze had somehow been coerced into running. I cut a slice of blueberry lattice top and handed it over on a not-so-historical patriotic paper plate.
“Hey, Suze, can I have some lemonade? It’s really hot today.” I fanned myself with a ruffle, but it didn’t help. I was just stuffed into too many layers.
“Of course.” She handed me a patriotic paper cup. “It is hot.” She wiped some sweat away from under the brim of a small, jaunty tricorn hat festooned with red, white, and blue cockades.
Roger had dressed Suze as Molly Pitcher—get it? Lemonade? Pitcher? The wit of Roger never ceased to amaze me—the semi-folkloric woman who’d given water to Washington’s troops and manned her husband’s cannon in the Revolutionary War. Her outfit was a lot less unfortunate than mine. It involved a long blue skirt and a red and blue militia jacket tailored for a woman. It was pretty cute, actually. But Roger had forced her tote around one of those long sticks used to stuff cannons, so it was pretty much a lose-lose situation.
The various vendors—us, beer, ice cream, candy, souvenirs—were ringed in a circle around the town green, leaving the middle open for everyone to mill around. The lobsters, roasted corn, and clambake were under a giant tent filled with long picnic tables on the beach. I think Ashling was pounding crabs with a hammer down there, but I hadn’t asked Suze for specifics. We chatted as the afternoon passed, dispensing pie and lemonade to a large, spirited crowd of holiday revelers.
“Excuse me,” said a thin, balding, redheaded man with wire-framed glasses after he took a contemplative bite of apple pie. “Is that a hint of cardamom I detect in the crumb topping?”
“Why yes—yes, it is,” I stammered, taken aback.
“Unusual. It’s an inspired choice.” He continued chewing. “And I’m going to say . . . cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and ginger—fresh grated ginger—in the filling.”
“Yes.” Oh my God. Red hair. Glasses. Way too informed about spices. Could it be?
“A lard-based crust, now there’s something you don’t see every day.” He smiled fondly at his forkful of pie. “But it produces a uniquely flaky crust and tender crumb. It might be time for lard to make a comeback.”
Dev, if he was still alive, would not be pleased.
The man finished his pie and put the empty plate down. “I’m Frank Sinskey,” he introduced himself.
“Emily’s dad?” I shook his hand.
“Yes.” He chuckled. “Slight family resemblance, huh? And you must be Miss Libby.” I nodded. “Did you make this pie?” Again nod. “It’s good. Really good.”
Frank Sinskey rubbed his jaw, thinking, which was lucky for me, because I’d gone slack jawed and had lost the ability to produce coherent thought, so I couldn’t have answered a question if he’d asked one.
“I think I’d like to do a piece on classic—really classic—American desserts. I’ll pitch it to the magazine after the holiday weekend.” He handed me a business card—the words Bon Appétit glittered in the sun. “Call me when you have a minute to talk.”
Oh my God. Oh my GOD!! He liked my pie! Bon-freaking-Appétit liked my pie! I waved mutely as he walked off, mouth hanging open in a dopey grin. This was a Fourth of July miracle! I mean, yes, there was a chance that this was part of an enormous Mono Corps conspiracy, and they were just using another of their magazines in an evil plot to eradicate everything Dev held near and dear. But more likely, the man just liked my pie.
“Hey, sweetie pie.” It was Cam, leaning against the table. I hadn’t even noticed him approach, enveloped as I was in a hazy Bon Appétit–induced glow. “Get it? Sweetie pie?” I nodded, grinning dumbly. “You got any sweetie pies for your sweetie pie? On the house?” he asked sweetly.
Not even conscious of moving my arms, I somehow cut a slice of blueberry crumb top.
“You okay? You seem weird.” He eyed me askance, taking a giant bite.
“Bon Appétit likes my pie,” I said dazedly.
“Uh, okay.” I don’t think he had any idea what I was talking about. “Listen, when do you get off?”
“After the sun goes down. Just in time for the fireworks.”
“Right.” He started looking around the green. “I’d love to stay and keep you company here, babe, but I can’t.” He pulled a frown. “So I’ll come watch the fireworks with you, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Yo, Scrubs!” he shouted suddenly at someone across the green. “This shit is good! Come have some pie! What? Yeah, yeah! Beer me!” He kissed my cheek. “Later, Libs.” He went off to join the mysterious Scrubs, whom I’d still never seen, making his way through the crowds across the green.
“Libby, that’s unbelievable,” Suze said quietly.
“I know, right? I don’t think Scrubs is a real name either. It all seems a little fishy to me.” I looked around the green, searching for this “Scrubs” character.
“No, Libby, I meant Bon Appétit.”
She shook her head. “That’s incredible. You should be really proud.” She smiled. “Now I’ve really got to try a piece of that pie. Cut it.”
We split a piece of apple, watching as the crowd gathered around a small clearing dead center in the town green.
“Here ye, here ye!” President Harrow bellowed over the microphone. “Welcome, one and all, to the celebration of the birth of our great nation! Hip, hip, huzzah!” The crowd huzzahed right along with him. Appropriately enough, President Harrow was dressed as our nation’s father, the first president, George Washington. His white periwig was too big for his wrinkled head and kept sliding around, and he was trying to talk through what looked like an actual set of fake wooden teeth. Ah, what a great day to be an American.
“I’m very happy to welcome you all here today, and right now I’m especially happy to be out of my office!” The crowd laughed, well aware that the Paranormal Enthusiasts of Maine were still camped out outside the president’s office. Beardy and the Ghost Slayers, however, had decided to join in the fun. At the moment they were nibbling corn on the cob and drinking beer. The sound guy had traded out his boom mike for a giant red balloon.
“Before we kick things off with a bang”—the president gestured to the Revolutionary militia now standing in formation in the middle of the green—“I have a few brief announcements. First, fireworks begin at sundown! Don’t miss ’em! Second, if you wish to order the full New England Clambake Dinner, please place your orders now. And finally, the End-of-Season Costume Ball will be upon us before we know it, so I hope you’ve all started working on your getups!”
“Getups?” I repeated.
“The focus of the Costume Ball is on period clothing,” Suze said. “I mean yes, of course, there’s music and dancing, but a lot of it is more like a fashion show or costume contest. Any style from the latter half of the eighteenth century is permissible. I think there’s a costume rental shop in Rockport, but most of the hard-core historians sew their own clothing using period patterns and techniques.”
“They make their own clothes? Seventeen hundreds style? That’s insane,” I whispered. “People actually do that?”
Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink Page 12