by Sarah Abbot
Ronnie gasped aloud, her thickly lashed eyes widening. “You mean the White Lady? I’ve lived on this island all my life, and I’ve never so much as caught a glimpse of her!”
“Obviously, you’re not on a collision course with disaster.”
“Pah!” exclaimed Ronnie, throwing up her hands. “You don’t believe that old wives tale? Everyone knows The Lady lived at your cottage. Perhaps she was just out for a stroll?”
Abby stared at her, incredulous. “I saw a bloody ghost, Ronnie! Right about now, I’d be willing to think anything. I don’t even believe in ghosts! How is it possible to see something you don’t believe in? I’m trying to convince myself that she was just a manifestation of my subconscious; you know, a way for it to tell me—my consciousness, that is—that things just weren’t right. What do you think? I mean, Cora had just told me about the White Lady and her connection with danger…” An ominous chill raced through her. “Of course! That’s all it is, right?”
“You’re babbling. There are worse things than seeing a ghost, Abby, like being stalked, so calm down and focus.” Ronnie strode a little faster. “You need to get this situation under control. Now. I can think of two things that will make that happen. Number one,” she said, grasping the door of the police station and pulling it open, “is talking to the police, which we’re about to do. If they don’t take Old Bart seriously, you can bet they’ll jump to action when they hear that you’ve seen the White Lady.”
“What?” Abby asked, stunned. “They’d act on a ghost sighting faster than a stalker?”
“This is Destiny Bay, luv. We follow the beat of our own drummer. You’ve got some real leverage with the White Lady on your side.”
Abby rolled her eyes. “So what’s the second thing?”
“You’ll find out,” Ronnie said with a wink. She strode into the police station as if she owned the place. “Hey, Miss Warner,” she said brightly. “Let Deputy Flynn know that Ronnie Morgan and Abby Lancaster are here to see him.”
Chapter Fifteen
Abby watched Connor Flynn turn the bouquet that Bartholomew had left for her over in his gloved fingers. He slipped the wilted flowers into a clear, plastic bag and placed them on his desk.
She sat at a chair he had pulled up to his desk, tucked neatly between twin stalagmites of case files and books that erupted from the floor. Carefully, so as not to jar the overflowing in-box, she rested her elbow on the worn veneer of his desk. Above his head, a thin, wooden frame evidenced that somewhere beneath the fluttery deluge of thumbtacks and notes, there was, in fact, a corkboard.
In the midst of it all, a comical bobble-head police officer held a sign that read: NERVE CENTER. If this was to be believed, the nerve center was in dire need of some Valium.
“Well,” he said at last, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “I admit it’s sure not a pleasant thing to come home to. And you say these flowers are significant why?” he asked, frowning.
“Rosemary and forget-me-nots are both suggestive of remembrance,” she said, leaning forward and pointing through the bag. “My mother lived here before, and I’ve heard through the grapevine that she had a stalker. Everyone says I look exactly like her. Wouldn’t it be reasonable to suppose that same stalker could have taken an interest in me?”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
Abby hurried on, intent on wiping the skepticism from his voice. “I mentioned the painting that I’d discovered of my mother, right? Well, honeysuckles figure very prominently in that very painting. And look at what it’s bound with,” she said. “Those strands are definitely human hair, Officer Flynn. Just look at the color. It’s the exact same shade as my mother’s was. Don’t you get how creepy this is?”
“Creepy is one word for it, but I think maybe you’re reading too much into this, Miss Lancaster.”
“I am not!” she said loudly. Faces turned toward her, some with narrowed eyes, others with expressions of unmasked curiosity. She cleared her throat self-consciously.
“And how can you be certain it was Bart who left them?”
“Who else could have done it?” she asked wearily. Her spirits were sinking as quickly as her energy level.
“Can you think of anyone else who might want to scare you or run you out of town?” he asked, eyes intent upon her.
Had he heard about her run-in with Ryan last night? Stupid question. She was forgetting that she was in Destiny Bay, where gossip traveled faster than the speed of light. “Well,” she said cautiously, “I’ve had a few words with Ryan Brannigan. He’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of Baltimore, and he’s convinced I put it there. I’d say he wants me out of town.” But was he responsible for the threatening bouquet? Somehow, she doubted it.
“You know,” she said, her wheels turning faster, “I got a really bad vibe from the bartender at Rum Runner’s. Johnny something-or-other.”
Connor nodded sagely. “You got anything more for me than your ‘bad vibe’?”
She felt instantly foolish. “No,” she said, shoulders sagging. “Listen, it couldn’t be anyone other than Bartholomew. I mean, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s generally a duck.”
Connor looked up as the woman who was sitting at the front desk when Abby and Ronnie arrived approached in a cloud of L’air du Temps. She smiled nervously toward Abby. “Deputy Flynn, I just thought I ought to let you know that Sheriff called, and he’s on his way down.”
Connor’s expression was instantly guarded. “Thank you, Julie. Did you mention that Miss Lancaster was here?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said apologetically. “It was out before I even realized I’d said it! I’m sorry, Deputy.”
Connor nodded and smiled tightly at Julie Warner, who turned and scurried back to her desk. He grasped Abby’s elbow and gently urged her to her feet. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll have me another chat with Old Bart. You can rest easy that we’re taking this threat against your person very seriously. Now you do your part by leaving the police work to us and taking proper care.”
Was she imagining it, or was he rushing her out of the police station? “I, uh, also wanted to mention that the more I think about that warning sign on Cragan Cliff Road, the more I think it was sawed off deliberately to do me harm.”
He nodded absently. “I can see how you’d think that, but let’s go on the assumption that it was random vandalism, which it likely was. I don’t want you getting worked up. The sign’s already been replaced, in case you haven’t noticed.”
She had, but it was small consolation.
“Now, you just be sure to keep your doors and windows locked. Don’t settle into any predictable routines—”
“Don’t take candy from strangers, don’t walk down dark alleys…I follow you. Thank you for your help, Deputy Flynn,” she said hurriedly. He was nudging her toward the doorway so quickly, she was almost tripping over herself.
“That’s right.” He smiled kindly toward her. “I’ll be sure to keep you posted on any progress.”
Abby took in the sight of his perfectly pressed uniform, neatly combed hair, and shining badge. There was something authoritative about him that calmed her even as it gave her concern. Was he just placating her? And why was he rushing her out?
She kept her silence, realizing that it would do her little good to argue. It was obvious he wouldn’t be dissuaded.
They met Ronnie in the lobby as she strode back into the station. “Wow!” she said brightly. “Perfect timing! I take it you folks are all finished up here?”
“All done,” Connor said, his voice assuring. “Now you ladies take care. You still have my number, right, Abrielle?”
She nodded with a weak smile. “Thanks,” she said, and let Ronnie bustle her out of the station.
“I’ve been hard at work, my friend,” Ronnie said, grinning infectiously as they pulled up outside Artist’s Cottage. “I borrowed the spare key from Cora. ‘Solution number two’ is ready and wait
ing!”
“Oh, this I can’t wait to see.” Abby slipped her key in the lock and opened the door.
Her brow lifted at the improbable scene that greeted her inside the cottage. Candles glimmered from every horizontal surface, throwing wavering light onto the ceiling and echoing the unnerving effect of the dark, stormy sky outside. Her nostrils caught the scent of something pungent and spicy, then a plume of white smoke caught her eye. Incense.
“Ronnie, what on earth are you up to?”
“Follow me.” She led the way to the living room floor. The coffee table had been removed, and in its place sat a Ouija board, surrounded by a large circle of salt.
“Oh, you cannot be serious.”
“I’m dead serious, girl.”
“I told you,” Abby said incredulously, “I didn’t actually see a White Lady—or any other color lady for that matter! It was a manifestation of my subconscious.”
Ronnie dismissed her with an impatient hmph. “Don’t tell me you believe that psychobabble?”
“Well, when stacked against the scientific reasoning of a Ouija board, how can mere human psychology compare?”
“Now you’re talking.” Ronnie tossed a few pillows onto the floor. She sat upon one and motioned for Abby to do the same. “Now, since the White Lady has appeared to you, I thought perhaps we ought to have a chat with her, find out who she is and see if she has anything she wants to say. Why are you moving your lips like that?”
“I’m invoking Saint Jude, Patron Saint of Idiocy.”
“Saints preserve us, girl! Jude is the Patron Saint of lost causes. Protestants,” she muttered under her breath. “Now, we place our fingers like so, and ask it questions.”
“I know how it works,” Abby said wearily. “Our subconscious allows our fingers to move the gadget around, revealing exactly what we want to hear.”
“Again with the subconscious! Will you get a grip, Abby…it’s the spirits—provided you haven’t offended them.”
Abby sank onto her crossed legs, her gauzy skirt puffing around her in a fine imitation of the white dress worn by the lady on the rocks. A rippling shiver traced her spine, drawing her shoulders into its all-too-perceptible cadence.
“Ooh, spooked out, are we?”
Abby ignored the comment and placed her fingers on the arrow. “Shall we get on with it, then?”
Ronnie sighed dramatically and let her eyelids flutter shut. Abby would have chuckled if the darkened room hadn’t been wavering in the candlelight, if the wind wasn’t whispering around the eaves of the cottage, if the entire place didn’t seem so suddenly, irrevocably, creepy.
“Oh, White Lady of Abandon Bluff,” she intoned, “we call across the veil of time and death, and ask that you speak to us now.”
Abby wanted to chuckle, but somehow, couldn’t. There was a change in the atmosphere, finite and yet unmistakable, as Ronnie spoke.
Abby shivered involuntarily, eyes straining into the murky darkness of the room. A swath of goose bumps trickled over her flesh, calling each tiny hair to attention.
“We respectfully wish to ask questions of you. Will you converse with us, White Lady?”
Abby’s indrawn breath was deep and disbelieving as the device beneath her fingers began to vibrate infinitesimally. Slowly, it drifted across the board, landing, at last, on the word, yes.
“Stop doing that, Ronnie.”
Ronnie cracked a satisfied smile. “I’m not doing anything, Abs.” She adjusted herself on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut again. “White Lady, what is it that you’d like to communicate to Abby?”
The arrow sprang into action, darting to D, then A, followed by N-G-E-R.
Abby snatched back her hands as if she’d been stung. “Ronnie! Enough already!” She began rising, stopping only when Ronnie’s hand gripped her arm. Her eyes flashed intently.
“Don’t you want to discover what the White Lady knows, Abby? What if she knows something about your mother…something that no one else knows?”
Abby paused, staring down at the board and wondering why such foolishness so unnerved her. She dropped back down, repositioned her fingers, and sighed loudly.
Ronnie paused long enough to spare her a withering glance. “White Lady—”
“My turn,” interrupted Abby. She ignored the heaving in her belly, and took a breath to speak. “Okay, White Lady. Do you know why I’m here?”
The whining of the wind through the branches outside seemed to call a warning to her heart. Abby was gripped with the terrifying impression that if she were to lift her head and look through the window, she’d see the ghostly face of the White Lady staring back at her.
She began to tremble. Fear snaked through her body as the object beneath her fingers began to vibrate. Her breath came short, and then the pointer sprang into action.
S-E-C-R-E-T-S
It was all she could do not to race out of the room, for she felt certain—absolutely certain—that she and Ronnie were no longer alone.
Ronnie gave her a nudge.
Abby summoned her courage and asked, “Do you know about my mother?”
The pointer darted out from beneath her fingers and came to an abrupt halt over the word, Yes.
“Did you do that?” Abby whispered to Ronnie. “Please tell me you did that.”
But Ronnie looked as terrified as Abby felt. She shook her head slowly from side to side, eyes as big as quarters in the dim light. “Ask something else.”
“Do you know what changed my mother?”
Yes.
Abby was petrified. She forced her fear down in order to ask the question she knew she must. “What changed her?”
D-A-N-G-E-R
“What caused the danger?”
L-O-V-E
“Love?” she repeated, frowning. “Could it be that simple? By danger do you think she means heartbreak?”
“Simple?” Ronnie hissed, gaping. “Jeez girl, have you ever been in love?”
Had she? She’d thought she had, once, a long time ago— as much as it was possible for her to love—but had she really?
“Okay, my turn.” Ronnie cleared her throat. “White Lady, is Abby in danger?”
As it had before, the pointer sprang into action.
Yes.
Both women looked at each other, terror streaking between them. “From what?” Abby asked, her voice little more than a whisper.
L-O-V-E
“This ghost has a one-track mind,” Abby said, trying hard to make light of a situation that was suddenly not.
“White Lady, what can Abby do to protect herself?”
L-O-V-E
“That makes no sense!” she said, straining for bravado when all she really wanted to do was hide under the bedsheets and recite every prayer she’d ever been taught. “I’m in danger because of love, and yet in order to protect myself I have to love.”
She let her eyes flit to the light switch, gratified beyond words that no White Lady floated there, and darted toward it. She flicked it on and the room was bathed in yellowy light, making every lit candle suddenly insignificant.
She stared down at Ronnie. “This was a bad idea. I’m done.”
“Yeah,” Ronnie said softly, looking up at Abby with the unmistakable glint of fear in her eyes. “Me, too.”
Chapter Sixteen
The rustling of paper beneath his elbow made him grimace, and Ryan squeezed his eyes closed.
Yes, Abby had been on the forefront of his mind since that catastrophe of a lunch yesterday at his mother’s house, but did he have to draw her?
Ryan didn’t want to see it—the extraordinary face that would stare back at him the instant he opened his eyes— the face that rested on the desk before him, captured on a piece of paper by the restless meanderings of his own hand.
That was the thing that disturbed him most. It was not so much the fact that he had drawn her—artists, he knew, were compelled to re-create beauty, and her face had beckoned his traitorous artist’s blood since
he’d first laid eyes on her—but the fact that she had come so easily from his pencil. It was the fact that she had been waiting inside him so silently that he hadn’t even felt his hand twitch with resistance.
Somewhere between hashing out a supply issue with a vendor and staring into the churning sky that loomed beyond the panes of glass, she had slipped from the dark place where he kept his hidden compulsion to create. He had looked at the formerly blank piece of paper that had rested on his desk, and there she was.
Of course, in a distracted, subconscious way, he knew his pencil was moving over the blank expanse, knew he was sketching her face. It wasn’t until a moment ago when he actually looked at the lines of her—the shadows that hinted of loss, the eyes that seemed to hold countless secrets—that a serpentine wisp of unease slithered from a coil in his belly and swayed hypnotically to the realization that she had been nestled there in his dark place, without his even knowing.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
Damn. She was still there.
Damn. She was still beautiful enough to make his heart thump, beautiful enough to make his eyes sting. And he had seen his share of beauty—heck, he had had his share of beauties—but somehow, she was different.
For the first time, he found himself incapable of saying her name, incapable of even thinking it.
Ryan lurched in his chair, roused by a thud on his door.
“It’s getting busy out here, boss.” Johnny Mackenzie poked his head around the door, letting The Proclaimers’ “Five Hundred Miles” spill into the shadowy office. “Any chance of you helping behind the bar?”
“Yeah. I’ll be out in a bit, Johnny. How’s that hand?”
Johnny flexed the bandaged appendage experimentally, barely wincing as he did so. “On the mend.”
“Did you fill out an accident report yet?”
“Nah, I’ll get to it tonight, promise.”
“You do that. Mind explaining to me how a barman with twenty years experience cut himself on a glass?”
“Just careless, I guess.” Johnny winked. “That Abrielle Lancaster walked by, and my brain turned to mush.”