Christmas Spirit

by Rebecca York

  The man nodded. “Well, there’s plenty you could write about.”

  “That sounds intriguing. Like what?”

  The guy downed the rest of his beer and signaled the bartender for another one. Cardon lowered his voice and said, “Like Rufus there. Rufus Shea. His son died thirteen years ago, and he’s never gotten over it.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He was murdered. Out in the bog.”

  “You have a lot of murders around here?” he asked.

  The man laughed. “Not so many.”

  Before Michael could ask another question, the guy launched into a monologue.

  “This is a town of real contrasts. You’ve got your rich people who buy up the prime property. And they’re likely to stay here only a few months out of the year. Well, not the Drakes. They live here all year round.”

  “Who are the Drakes?”

  “Brandon Drake and his uncle Clifford. They have a lot of business interests. Shipping. The Drake Yacht Club. Stuff like that. They got offices in town and big houses on the creek. I just did some wallboard repairs for Clifford. A plum job.”

  “Uh-huh.” Michael filed that away.

  Rufus Shea came back with the crab cake platters. “Enjoy your meal,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  Michael took a bite. “You’re right. This is good.”

  “Told you,” the other diner said. He took another swallow of beer. “People like the Drakes have the cash to pay you. But then there are the watermen who are having a hard time making ends meet now with the fishing industry going down the tubes.”

  “It is?”

  “The crabbing and oyster businesses aren’t so good anymore, because the bay’s not getting any cleaner.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Phil Cardon dipped a French fry in ketchup, bit off the end and chewed before continuing. “Guys like the Drakes can afford to pay what your work is worth. Not like the bed-and-breakfast owners. They haggle with you ’cause they watch every penny.”

  “They’re not doing well?”

  “The tourist industry is the main business in Jenkins Cove, and there’s a lot of competition. Where are you staying?”

  “The House of the Seven Gables.”

  He made a whistling sound. “Those two ladies are a little…” Instead of finishing the sentence, he held his hand flat and wiggled it.

  “Yeah.” Michael laughed. “You think they’re just kooks? Or do they have some scam going?”

  “The aunt’s got some psycho…psycho something up in the attic.”

  “Psychomanteum,” Michael said. “How do you know about it?”

  “Everybody does. She showed it to you?”

  “Not yet. A lady from town came to contact her dead husband.”

  The handyman snorted.

  “You don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Naw.”

  Michael considered asking if Cardon had ever felt cold spots in the air or felt as if someone invisible was watching him. He decided to keep that question to himself.

  ***

  CHELSEA LISTENED FOR THE SOUND of the door. The couple from Baltimore had come in a half hour ago, but Michael Bryant was still out.

  There was no reason she should be waiting for him. Especially in light of the scene in the kitchen earlier this evening. She should keep as far away from him as she could get. A little difficult, since he was staying in the same house with her.

  She glanced at the clock. It was almost nine. His car was still in the parking lot across the street, which meant he’d walked into town. She wondered what he was doing till nine o’clock. Was he the kind of man who solved problems with drink?

  Or had something happened to him? That was a ridiculous assumption, she told herself. Yet she couldn’t turn off the nagging feeling of impending doom.

  She snorted. Impending doom. That was a pretty strong phrase. Yet since the night of her trip to Tilghman Island, she had felt hypersensitive, tuned to fears and worries that hovered below the surface of her consciousness.

  She couldn’t turn the sensations off. They lingered with her, much like the feelings she felt in her dreams. Feelings that someone was whispering to her, only she couldn’t quite decode the message.

  Now, for some reason she couldn’t identify, Michael Bryant was part of the equation.

  That made no sense. She didn’t even know him. Why should she care about him?

  Unable to talk herself out of her worry, she kept listening for the sound of the key. After a while, she came downstairs, intending to sit in the living room. Instead she walked to the front hall and stared out the sidelight, watching the street.

  No, watching for Michael Bryant.

  ***

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK about the niece? Chelsea,” Michael asked his dinner companion.

  “She’s pretty.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d ask her out, only she keeps to herself.”

  “Oh?” That hadn’t exactly been Michael’s experience. She’d been more than willing in the kitchen a while ago. Not that he would share that experience with a casual dinner companion.

  Instead he said, “The aunt says Chelsea saw a ghost.”

  “More than one, the way I hear it.”

  “Yeah,” Michael answered again. “But you think it’s a bunch of crap.”

  A strange expression crossed Phil’s face. “I do,” he said, but he didn’t sound perfectly sure.

  The guy looked around as if he wondered who had been listening to the conversation.

  “I’m talking too much,” Phil said.

  “Of course not.”

  He climbed off the bar stool, reached in his pocket and got out some bills, which he left on the counter. Then he turned and walked to the door, weaving a little, and Michael wondered what Phil had really wanted to say.

  Rufus Shea came back, presumably to clear the plate away. He stopped and rubbed a hand against his scraggly beard. “I guess Phil was giving you an earful about Jenkins Cove.”

  “Yeah.”

  “People around here tend to be opinionated.”

  “I’m finding that out.”

  He wondered how much of the conversation Shea had heard—like the part about his son dying.

  “Phil was bragging about working for the Drakes,” Shea said.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “They’re the big cheeses here in town. Of course, since Brandon’s wife died, he’s kept mostly to himself. He was hurt bad in the accident.”

  “She was killed in an accident?”

  “Car accident.”

  Maybe Brandon Drake would show up at the House of the Seven Gables to try and contact his dead wife through the psychomanteum. Or maybe he already had.

  In the short time he’d been here, it felt as if all roads in Jenkins Cove led back to death—murder or accidental.

  Chapter Six

  Michael walked back the way he’d come. The Christmas lights still gave the shops along Main Street and in the town square a festive air.

  Maybe he was avoiding going back to the B & B, but he kept walking through the shopping area, past the turnoff that would take him directly back to the House of the Seven Gables.

  Finally, when he was on his way out of town, he turned around and took Carpenter, heading toward the town dock.

  Once he left the shopping area, he realized he had his ears tuned for any unusual sounds. Did he hear footsteps behind him? He stopped and listened intently. If anyone was there, they stopped, too.

  Had someone followed him from the Duck Blind, or even from the House of the Seven Gables? That would make more sense than ghosts hiding in the bushes. Well, more sense if you were trying to fit this evening into the pattern of reality.

  But who would have a reason to be checking up on him?

  He didn’t know.

  Could it be someone with an interest in the B & B? Like that real-estate guy, Ned Perry, who had come into the kitchen?

  But what would he
want with one of the guests?

  As Michael turned over the possibilities in his mind, he found that he was walking faster than usual. When he realized what he was doing, he deliberately slowed his pace. No way was he going to let a ghost or anyone else chase him.

  A ghost. Good Lord, was he really starting to think in those terms? Was the atmosphere of Jenkins Cove turning his mind to mush?

  He gritted his teeth. If he was being honest with himself, he’d have to admit that somehow Jenkins Cove was affecting him in ways that he couldn’t figure out. It was as if he’d crossed some invisible barrier into a world where the laws of the universe were different—and unpredictable.

  Even as the thought surfaced in his mind, he scoffed at it. He’d been in some of the world’s real hellholes. He wasn’t going to let this small town on the Eastern Shore of Maryland get to him. More important, he was not going to leave until he’d accomplished his mission.

  ***

  CHELSEA PUT ON HER COAT and stepped out the back door. She wasn’t sure what she was doing out here. She just had the feeling that she should be outside.

  Then, from where she stood on the back porch, she saw a figure walking along Carpenter Street. A man. As she stared at him, she was sure it was Michael Bryant.

  Finally.

  A little speech played through her mind. She wanted to tell him that she was worried about him. That he should have told her if he was going to stay out so late. Plus, he should be coming straight back to the House of the Seven Gables. He shouldn’t be making a detour to the dock area.

  Then she told herself those thoughts were so out of bounds that they shouldn’t even have surfaced in her head.

  She wasn’t his wife.

  Lord, where had that come from?

  He didn’t owe her any explanations. Just because she’d fallen into his arms and kissed him didn’t mean that they had a relationship.

  She was about to go back inside when she saw a little gust of wind hit him as he walked across the bridge toward the dock.

  He lurched unsteadily. Then she saw headlights barreling up the street in back of him, the car moving much too fast as it approached the bridge.

  It looked as though Michael didn’t know the car was there, maybe because the wind had picked up.

  But the vehicle was heading right for him.

  She found herself running and shouting at the same time, “Michael. Watch out! Michael.”

  He glanced up and must have caught the twin beams streaming past him.

  Luckily his reflexes were good. The speeding car was only inches from him when he jumped out of the way. But he was already so close to the edge of the little creek that when he jumped, there was nowhere to go but into the brackish water.

  “Michael!” she shouted again, hurtling down the path toward the creek that separated the B & B from the dock. From the corner of her eye she saw the car careen along the lane, then turn and head back toward Main Street. But she wasn’t focused on that.

  The man in the water was her main concern. The creek probably wasn’t deep. But it was lined with rocks to keep the banks from eroding, and if he’d hit his head when he went over the side, he could be in trouble.

  “Michael, are you all right?” She couldn’t see him, and she wished she had a flashlight.

  When he didn’t answer, her heart leaped into her throat. Then she heard a splash followed by a scrambling noise. As she climbed down the rocks, she saw a figure climbing up.

  She waved, then reached out her hand. “Michael. Over here, Michael. Thank God.”

  Grasping a large rock with one hand, she leaned over and reached down with the other.

  His fingers fumbled for hers. Then they locked on, and he hauled himself up.

  In soaking-wet clothes, he weighed a ton, but in the light from the dock area, she saw that he’d managed to keep his head out of the water.

  When he reached the edge of the pavement, he wavered on unsteady legs.

  Chelsea grabbed his arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” Michael answered. “If you don’t count wet and cold.” He looked in the direction where the car had vanished. “Is that a street?”

  “Not one that’s used very often.”

  “I don’t suppose you got the license number?”

  “Sorry. I was looking at you—not the car.”

  Michael’s teeth started to chatter.

  “You have to get inside,” Chelsea said.

  He looked at her, registering the fact that she’d been outside. “What were you doing out here?”

  “I go for walks.”

  The explanation sounded lame, but he wasn’t going to call her on it—not when she’d probably saved his life with her warning. “Lucky for me that you saw the car.”

  “Come on inside.” She tugged on his arm, leading him toward the house, and he didn’t resist. He needed to get out of the elements.

  “Do people around here usually drive like that?” he asked.

  “Not usually. Maybe it was a tourist.”

  “From my point of view, it looked like someone was deliberately trying to run me over.”

  She winced, craning her neck back toward the turnoff where the car had disappeared.

  “Why would someone try to run you down? Do you have enemies?” she asked.

  “Not that I know of. And certainly not in Jenkins Cove. I just got here.” He tipped his head to the side. “Is this a dangerous town?”

  “I didn’t think so. Until the murder,” she clipped out as she marched steadily toward the house.

  She stepped onto the screened porch, and he followed her into the kitchen, dripping on the tile floor.

  She eyed him critically. “You need to take off your clothes.”

  He managed to laugh. “Is that an invitation?”

  “Very funny.” She gave him an annoyed look. “I have some of those white bathrobes we give guests.”

  She walked into a laundry room off the kitchen, then emerged with a robe. “Get undressed in there. And leave the clothes. I’ll wash them.”

  “The jacket’s got to go to the cleaner’s, I think.”

  He stepped into the laundry room, closed the door behind him and took everything off—except his wet briefs because he didn’t want to leave her his underwear. After pulling on the robe, he got his damp wallet, phone, keys and change out of his pockets. Luckily the phone was a waterproof model.

  He was feeling awkward when he came back to the kitchen, but she was very matter-of-fact as she handed him a steaming mug. “Hot chocolate.”

  “Thanks.” He took a sip. “This is good.”

  “And it will warm you up.” As she said that, she looked away, and he knew she was sharing the awkward feeling.

  “I hate to put you to any trouble,” he mumbled.

  “I have to do a load of wash anyway.”

  “I left my shoes over by the door.”

  “That’s fine. You should get into bed. Get warm.”

  “Yeah,” he answered, thinking that every word that came out of her mouth seemed to have a double meaning, although she probably didn’t intend it that way. “Thanks for being there. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Oh?”

  “We have a woman from town who helps us. I’m probably going to be in my studio.” She walked toward the front of the house; he followed, the mug warming his hands.

  She hurried toward the stairs, leaving before he could think of anything else to say to keep her there.

  They still hadn’t resolved the kiss in the kitchen. Now it looked as if they weren’t going to get a chance to talk in the morning, either.

  He set down the mug on a hall table and let himself into his room. He’d been going to check his e-mail. Instead he took everything out of his wallet and set the damp leather on the shelf above the radiator. Then he washed off the creek water in the shower before climbing under the covers.

  Taking a sip of the hot chocolate, he replay
ed the incident with the car. Had someone really tried to kill him? Or had it been an accident? Maybe a drunken tourist driving along the dock.

  He went over it again and again in his mind. But the only conclusion he could come to was that he’d been damn lucky Chelsea had been outside.

  He was tired, but he had trouble getting to sleep. He tossed and turned most of the night, then finally fell asleep just before dawn.

  He slept until nine, barely giving him time to make the breakfast hours at the B & B.

  True to her word, Chelsea wasn’t there. But her helper, who introduced herself as Barbara, had apparently been waiting for him. She handed him his shirt and pants, freshly washed.

  “Thank you. Thank Chelsea for me.”

  “Certainly. We put your shoes on the radiator. They’re dry, too.”

  “Yeah. I did the same with my wallet.” He took the clothing back to his room. When he returned, he poured himself a cup of coffee from the sideboard, then ate a piece of quiche along with a blueberry muffin.

  Neither of the Caldwells showed up while he was there, so he put on a heavy sweater and walked to the dry cleaner’s, where he left his jacket. They had an expensive four-hour service, so he’d be able to get the jacket before the evening chill.

  Next, he went back to the dock. With his phone, he snapped some pictures where he’d gone into the water. After that he took more pictures along Center Street and Main Street, which was bustling with tourists.

  In some of the shops, he pretended he was interested in local souvenirs like duck decoys, little lighthouses and books on the waterman’s way of life. He also managed to start conversations about the woman who had seen the ghost.

  He didn’t find anyone who hadn’t read the story in the paper or heard about it.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked a gray-haired woman who ran a candy shop.

  She gave him a narrow-eyed look. “I think it’s bad for business. There are fewer tourists here than in the past couple of years.”

  “But she had to report the murder,” he argued, finding himself suddenly defending Chelsea.

  The woman shuddered. “Yes, but she should have kept ghosts out of it. Murder is bad enough. Ghosts just make it worse.”