by Rebecca York
She swung her legs out of bed and tiptoed to the window, looking out. A streetlight illuminated the side of the bed-and-breakfast. Down by the dock, another light shone, illuminating some of the small craft that were spending the winter in the sheltered harbor at the center of Jenkins Cove.
Fog wafted through the lights. As she stared at those spots of brightness, she thought she saw shapes swirling in the mist, shapes that took on human form.
No. That was ridiculous. It was just air moving.
She shivered, her eyes still fixed on the scene beyond the window as she imagined phantoms drifting through the town.
Damn!
Since her trip to Tilghman Island, ghosts had been on her mind. And she couldn’t get them to go away.
She looked around the room. Well, the good news was that she wasn’t seeing them in here. And she didn’t want to. Which was why she hadn’t gone near the third-floor room that Aunt Sophie called her “psychomanteum.”
Chelsea made a sound low in her throat. Aunt Sophie had always been a little off-the-wall, but in the years since Chelsea had been away from Jenkins Cove, her aunt had let her eccentricities run wild. Now Chelsea had to cope with that, too.
She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was four in the morning. She should go back to bed, because she had to be up at seven to prepare breakfast for their guests. At the moment, they had three couples staying with them. One from Baltimore, one from Boston and one from Cleveland. The Cleveland couple were retired and traveling around the country, taking in holiday celebrations at various locations. The other four visitors were younger, and they had come to House of the Seven Gables for a weekend getaway.
Chelsea was about to climb back into bed when the same rattling sound made her stop in her tracks.
This time she thought it might be in the house.
Refusing to call the police, lest they think she’d gone hysterical, she pulled on her robe and grabbed the gun she’d started keeping in her bedside drawer. After slipping the weapon into the pocket of her robe, she scuffed her feet into bedroom slippers, stepped into the hall and started down the stairs, her hand in her pocket and her fingers wrapped around the butt of the gun.
The house was dark and quiet. All the guests were in their rooms, sleeping. The two weekend couples were leaving in the morning, and the maid would get the Preston Room ready for Michael Bryant, who was coming from Washington, D.C. He’d said he wanted to get away for a few days, but she’d wondered if he had more than that in mind.
Something in his voice had made her think he had a hidden agenda.
Silently, she pressed her lips together. Now she was getting suspicious of Michael Bryant. Lately, it seemed, she didn’t trust anyone.
But look what had happened with the cops. She’d made a report about the incident the other night, and because she’d wanted to be absolutely honest, she’d put in the part about the body she’d thought she’d seen on the road.
She was sorry she’d been so scrupulous, because evidently someone who had read the report had started talking about it. Was it Hammer? One of the patrolmen? Or a detective from the state police? Whoever it was, the breach of police confidentiality had led to talk about the ghost incident fifteen years ago.
She sighed. Since that article had come out in the local paper, she knew people were looking at her with curiosity in the grocery store and in the shops on Main Street. And she was sure they were talking about her behind her back.
Or was that just her own paranoia?
She had the number of that detective from the state police, Rand McClellan. Maybe she’d ask him if he knew something about the leak. Or maybe it was better to keep her mouth shut, hold her head up and ignore the town gossip.
She walked across the front hall, where the light had been left on to illuminate the steps.
She had reached the dining room and was just walking between the sideboard and the long Chippendale table when the kitchen door opened and a figure filled the doorway.
Chelsea started to draw the gun.
Then the man’s shape registered. He was lean and stoop-shouldered, and she realized it was Mr. Thackerson, from Baltimore, wearing a T-shirt and jeans and bedroom slippers. He was coming out of the kitchen with a plate and a cup in his hand.
“Oh,” he said. “Sorry to startle you.”
“What…what are you doing down here?” she asked.
“I got hungry in the middle of the night, and I remembered that you had some delicious banana bread left over from yesterday’s breakfast. It’s one of my favorites. I hope you don’t mind my helping myself to a slice—and some cranberry tea.”
“No. That’s fine,” Chelsea allowed, seeing that he actually had two slices. Extra cake in the middle of the night wasn’t really part of the deal, but she wasn’t going to lecture him about it. She didn’t want him bad-mouthing the House of the Seven Gables to his friends back in Baltimore. Instead, she stepped to the side, letting him pass her.
“I’ll see you for breakfast in the morning,” she said.
He mumbled an answer, his mouth already stuffed with Aunt Sophie’s banana bread.
When he was gone, she leaned against the wall, breathing hard, thinking that she’d almost shot one of their guests.
She should get rid of the gun. But she couldn’t do it. It was too much of a comfort to her.
After waiting a few minutes, she followed Mr. Thackerson back upstairs. In her room, she lay down and ordered herself to relax. She was going to look like hell if she didn’t get some sleep. And instead of painting after lunch, she was going to have to take a nap.
She closed her eyes, thinking about all the things she had to do in the morning. Then she pushed them aside and focused on the painting that was half-finished in her studio upstairs. It was set in downtown Jenkins Cove, along Main Street.
Not one of her moody landscapes. It was for a holiday auction, so she’d deliberately painted a Christmas scene and set it at twilight so that she could show off her talent for bringing out the holiday lights.
As she let her mind picture the touches she was going to add tomorrow, she felt herself relax. Thinking about her work always soothed her. A good thing, because she needed to defuse her tension.
***
THE BRIGHT AFTERNOON SUN turned Jenkins Cove postcard perfect, Michael Bryant thought as he drove the length of Main Street, getting the lay of the land. This was definitely a tourist town. Very different from the gritty inner city where he’d grown up.
Most of the businesses that lined the street were decked out for the holiday season. Scattered among the shops were restaurants and real-estate offices—in case the tourists wanted to buy themselves a place in the land of pleasant living.
He circled the town square, where artificial icicles dangled from the roofline of a wooden gazebo, then passed two churches—one a Gothic stone and the other brick—on opposite sides of the street. They seemed to be in competition for the most elaborate crèche scene.
When he got to the outskirts of town, he turned right, heading down a residential street until the road stopped at the bank of what the locals probably called a creek. They used the word around here for bodies of water that he would have called rivers.
The creek was a surprise. He’d seen rivers and coves as he’d driven toward town, but he hadn’t realized how much water hemmed in the community. Apparently you couldn’t get very far without driving over a bridge—or into the water.
He turned around in the last driveway before the drink, then started back down Main Street. Consulting his GPS, he turned on Center Street, which dead-ended at Laurel. As he’d been instructed, he parked in the nearby public lot and wheeled his suitcase across the street toward the House of the Seven Gables.
The front garden was nicely tended, although winter obviously wasn’t the best season to view it. The house itself was a green- shingled building with red and white trim, three stories if you counted the dormer windows under the gabled roof. It looked as tho
ugh it had been built in two or three stages.
Like every other building in town, it was adorned for Christmas. The wreath on the front door was decorated with miniature duck decoys, and the garlands twined around the porch posts were studded with small sailboats and something red that he at first took for ribbons. Then he saw they were Maryland crabs.
Leaving his suitcase near the front entrance, he walked around to the water side and saw a long, two-story porch facing the harbor. Careful not to end up in the water, he turned and looked at the house. Shading his eyes for a better view, he counted at least five chimneys, hinting that the building had been constructed before central heating.
The inn had a prime waterfront location on the sheltered harbor at the center of town, directly across from a rambling seafood restaurant. Probably it was noisy in summer, but there weren’t that many people operating boats at this time of year. For that, he was grateful.
***
A KNIT CAP COVERED the watcher’s wiry brown hair. His jacket and pants were brown, too, giving him the appearance of a workman who had some off-season business at the dock area.
Yeah, he had business, all right. But it didn’t have anything to do with repairing boats.
He was here to keep an eye on the House of the Seven Gables.
It was a boring job. But it paid well, and he wasn’t complaining.
When the B & B guests were out, and the two ladies had departed to get groceries, he’d used his lockpicks and slipped inside the house to have a look around.
After helping himself to one of Aunt Sophie’s chocolate-chip brownies, he’d looked at the guest book and snooped in some of the rooms. Back in the kitchen, he’d taken a long look at the step stool pulled up at the side of the cooking island.
He’d seen Chelsea climb up on it to get something from a high cabinet. Maybe if he loosened the leg a little bit, she’d fall and break her neck, and he’d be rid of one problem.
Now he leaned forward, zeroing in on the tall, dark-haired man prowling around the house. From his perusal of the guest book in the office, he suspected it was Michael Bryant, who was scheduled to arrive that afternoon. His build was athletic, and he was wearing dress slacks and an obviously expensive dark coat. He looked like a guy who liked a little formality instead of the grubby attire of some of the tourists who showed up in town.
The watcher noted the man was skulking around. Not your typical guest behavior. But he’d already looked up Bryant on the Web, using the computer at the town library.
Apparently, the guy was an investigative reporter. So what was he investigating?
Murder in Jenkins Cove?
That was a good bet. Bryant definitely didn’t look as though he was just here on a fishing vacation. At least, most people who came to a B & B didn’t start by poking around the outside property. They introduced themselves first and got settled in their rooms—then went exploring.
Or maybe he was interested in ghost stories.
The watcher snorted. Well, he’d come to the right place, if town gossip was any indication.
The porch door opened, and Chelsea Caldwell stepped out, wearing her typical jeans and a cable-knit sweater. After watching her for days, he knew she’d be casually dressed, even when she was expecting guests.
He liked the way she filled out the jeans. Too bad the sweater covered her curves.
She stood for a moment with her hands on her hips, observing the nosy guy. Then she dropped her arms to her sides, squared her shoulders and came down the steps.
“Can I help you?” she called out in a loud voice.
The watcher waited for the guy’s reply. If it was Bryant, he was going to make a report on this meeting.
***
MICHAEL TURNED AROUND and saw a woman coming down the steps. Petite, blond, with blue eyes and an upturned nose, she was immediately recognizable.
Chelsea Caldwell in the flesh.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
To his annoyance, he felt an instant zing of attraction. He hadn’t come down here to start anything with her. He’d come to find out why she’d made up the ghost stories.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m Michael Bryant. I’ve booked a room here.”
“Chelsea Caldwell,” she answered. “I believe we spoke over the phone. I saw you looking around, and I wondered if you were thinking about staying here.”
“I wanted to get an impression of the exterior before I came inside,” he answered, thinking that the explanation sounded stuffy. And maybe defensive. That wasn’t the way he wanted to start off, but now he was stuck with it.
“Well, I’ll be waiting for you in the office. It’s to the left of the front door.”
“I’ll come with you.”
He followed her along a path made of some kind of white rocks that crunched under his feet. “This some kind of special gravel?”
“Oyster shells.”
“Oh.” Yeah, that made sense in an area where half the people made their living from the water.
At the front of the house, he reached for the handle of the suitcase at the same time Chelsea did, and their hands collided with a little jolt of electricity. They both drew back quickly and said “Sorry” at the same time.
“Electricity in the air,” she murmured.
“Yes.” Folding down the handle, he carried the bag up the steps to the front porch, then into a square front hall.
As soon as he stepped inside, delicious aromas wrapped themselves around him, and he took an appreciative breath.
Chelsea was watching him. “Aunt Sophie loves to bake. If you don’t watch out, you’ll gain weight while you’re here.”
“Warning taken.”
Chelsea led the way past what looked like genuine antique furnishings to the office.
“I’m sure you’ll like Jenkins Cove,” she said. “What brings you here?”
“I just wanted to get away and enjoy the small-town holiday atmosphere,” he answered, thinking that she wasn’t what he’d expected at all. After reading the article, he’d wondered if she was involved in the murder. In person, he was having trouble picturing her in that role. Then he reminded himself sharply that he’d just met her, and that he had no basis to form an impression.
Moreover, the instant attraction he’d felt was dangerous.
He realized she was speaking again. “You’re welcome to watch television or visit with the other guests in the living room. We also have a collection of DVDs that you can use with the television in your room.”
“I should have asked: do the rooms have Internet access?”
“We’ve got a wireless network.”
“Great,” he said, meaning it. He’d be able to keep up his research while he was here.
“Breakfast is usually between eight and nine-thirty,” she told him. “If you want to eat earlier, we can make special arrangements.” She consulted a sheet of paper. “You said you didn’t have any dietary restrictions.”
“That’s right.”
“That makes it easy.” She started toward the door and must have seen that they were going to touch again if she tried to get past him.
Obediently, he stepped out of the way.
“The Preston Room is down here. You’ll have a nice view of the water.”
As they stepped into the living room, a plump woman wearing a dark skirt and blouse covered by a long white apron came bustling through a doorway. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and her lined face was wreathed in smiles. It was obvious that she was related to Chelsea. The shape of her face was the same, and her gray hair still had some traces of gold.
“You must be Michael Bryant,” she said.
“And you must be the woman who makes this house smell like a five-star bakery.”
She flushed. “I’m Sophie Caldwell, and you’ve already met my niece, Chelsea.”
“Yes.”
“We serve tea and cookies and wine and cheese in the parlor in the afternoon at five. You’re welcom
e to join us.”
“Thank you.”
“So, what do you do for a living?” she asked, taking him aback with the bluntness of the question.
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh, that’s so interesting. You know James Michener lived in the area when he was writing Chesapeake.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll find the books of a number of local writers in the shops on Main Street. Are you writing a novel?”
“Yes,” he said. He had an idea for a novel that he was toying with. But that wasn’t what he was working on now, of course.
“Does Jenkins Cove have a ghost tour?” he asked.
He saw Chelsea stiffen. But her aunt’s expression turned apologetic. “I’m sorry. The merchants’ association has talked about it, but we never got around to doing anything about it.”
“So, are you saying there are ghosts in town?” he asked.
“There are ghosts in every town,” Sophie answered serenely. “And, of course, Jenkins Cove has had its share of murders over the years.” She lowered her voice as she said the last bit.
She seemed as though she was about to add something else, but her niece’s narrow-eyed look made her close her mouth.
“I have some things to do in the kitchen,” Chelsea said in a strained voice. “Aunt Sophie, would you mind showing Mr. Bryant to his room?”
“I’ll be glad to. Come this way. You’re on the first floor.”
Chelsea hurried off, and the older woman led him down a hall to the Preston Room, which featured a bed with a blue and gold canopy that matched the drapes tied back over white-painted plantation shutters.
“Your niece seemed to get upset when I mentioned ghost tours,” he commented.
“She had a bad experience recently.”
“What happened?” he asked innocently.
She gave him a direct look, and he had the fleeting feeling that she’d seen through his ruse. But instead of calling him on his motivation, she said, “If she wants to tell you about it, she will.”
She left him alone, and he sat in the comfortable chair by the window, flipping through the brochures Chelsea had given him.