What a character, thought Katie. Surreptitiously she wiped her fingers on the back of her skirt, just to make sure.
At the top of the steps, Daphne fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a large ring of variously sized keys. “Here we are!” She inserted the key into the door and pushed, flicking on a light switch as the door swung open into the room. She stood aside to let Katie in.
Glass-fronted barrister’s shelves were arranged along one wall, with black metal filing cabinets along the other three. Two long tables with six chairs each stood in the middle of the long, narrow room. Late-afternoon light streamed through the tall windows opposite the door. The room was cool and immaculately clean.
“This is the catalog.” Daphne motioned to a large ledger in the middle of one of the tables. “It’s arranged so you look up the topic you want—in your case, it would be property records—and then the address. It will give you a list of all the records of that property, and where they are kept.”
“Everything’s here?” Katie looked around. The room was fairly large, but the town was old.
“The oldest records are kept at the historical society, and some are at the courthouse. We have most of the more modern ones on microfiche. But yes, we have a fair number here.”
“Are you a native of East Bay, Mrs. Hughes?”
“Call me Daphne—everyone does. And yes, I was born here.”
“Did you know Mr. Monahan?”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “Everyone knew old Ronan.” She shook her head. “He certainly had some crazy ideas, let me tell you. He was harmless enough. I used to cringe whenever I saw him coming. I was only the assistant librarian back then, and so I couldn’t say too much. He’d ask for some of the most peculiar titles—I was always calling Boston, and there were quite a few I had to send away to New York to find. And his hands were always filthy—nails all crusted with dirt. Made me weep just thinking about it, I tell you.”
Daphne looked Katie up and down, and once more Katie thought she might demand to see her hands. “You’ve heard the story?” Daphne asked instead.
“Which one?”
“The ghost, of course. Pirate captain washed ashore and died on the beach.”
“Are there any records confirming the story?” Katie tried to sound as casual as she could.
For a moment, Daphne looked taken aback. “Well, come to think of it, not that I know of. It happened hundreds of years ago—there haven’t been pirates along this coast since the middle of the eighteenth century. There are lists of shipwrecks, but those records begin after the Revolution.”
Katie was tempted to ask more, but glanced at her watch. It was already after seven. Any later and she’d be more than fashionably late—she’d be rude. “This has been very kind of you. But I should be going—I’m meeting a friend for dinner across the street.”
“At Chez Yvette? The food’s great, but watch your pocketbook. They cater to the tourists there.” Daphne turned off the light and shut the door firmly. “Just let me know when you want to see the records. Come any time.”
With a smile and a wave of thanks. Katie crossed the nearly deserted street and pushed open the door of the restaurant. As she stepped inside, she heard the muted clatter of cutlery and the soft hum of conversation. Despite the quiet streets, the place was crowded.
A dark-haired hostess who looked no older than sixteen approached. “Hello. Do you have a reservation?”
“I’m not sure,” said Katie. “I’m meeting a friend—”
“Oh, yes. Dr. Proser. This way, please.” The girl turned on her heel.
Katie followed the girl past tables clustered with patrons. The food smelled wonderful. She hastened after the hostess, who led her through the main room into a small alcove where Alistair was waiting. He rose when he saw her approach. This time he was wearing a rumpled navy blazer and khakis and a bright yellow polo shirt. His blond hair was pulled back in a smooth ponytail, and Katie noticed he wore a tiny gold stud in his left ear.
“You found your way here,” he said by way of greeting.
“Yes, with no trouble at all,” Katie replied. She nodded her thanks to the hostess, who handed her a menu as she took her seat. “I’m sorry if I’m late. I was checking out the town library. Daphne Hughes is quite a character.”
“Mrs. Hughes?” Alistair rolled his eyes. “She’s something, all right. She was there when I was a kid. Did she give you her ‘order is heaven’s first rule’ speech?”
“Yes,” Katie said. “And I got the ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’ speech when I inquired about looking at the archived town records.”
“East Bay’s records?” He cocked his head. “What on earth for?”
Katie shrugged. “I’d like to know more about the town in general. And Pond House has quite a reputation. Everyone I’ve met wants to tell me about it.”
Alistair shrugged. “Ghost stories. If you ask me, half of everything I’ve ever heard can be explained by the wind. The other half is overactive imaginations. When I was a kid, we used to dare each other to go out there. Scared ourselves half silly. It’s a wonder someone didn’t get hurt on that path going down to the beach.”
Katie leaned forward. “But weren’t you ever the least bit curious about the stones? I mean, they look practically authentic.”
Alistair shrugged again and waved one hand dismissively. “But ‘practically’ is a far cry from truly authentic, you know.” He smiled and opened his menu. “Hmm. I wonder if the marsala is any good here?”
Katie hesitated. She was about to respond that if old Mr. Monahan had copied the Irish set of stones faithfully, it might be worth studying the Ogham characters. Instead, she bent her head and opened her menu. They chatted about inconsequential things while the waitress took their order.
“So are you all ready for your first day of class?” Alistair asked as the waitress set their drinks before them.
Katie stirred her vodka and tonic, watching the lime wedge bob up and down. “Well.” She looked up at him and smiled. “As ready as I’ll ever be. I have my two hundred-level course all worked out. It’s the sophomore survey course I find difficult. There’s so much material, and you can only cover so much in one semester. And when you deal with first-semester sophomores, it’s even harder to decide how much they can absorb.”
Alistair nodded. “That’s true. I’ve always avoided teaching lowerclassmen if I can. I’d rather spend my time doing research.”
Katie shrugged. “I enjoy teaching. But I know you’re right. Research is critical.”
He leaned back and regarded her with a superior air. “Not so much research. Publication is key. For example, the Sean Seamus Clancy Award—I assume you’re familiar with it?”
She leaned forward. There was something about his attitude that was beginning to annoy her. He was reminding her more and more of Josh, as well as everyone she’d ever met in academia who’d struck her as pompous and overbearing. This wasn’t so much a conversation as a means of impressing her.
“I have. I’m applying for it.”
“Oh, you are!” Alistair shifted in his chair and laughed. “So here I think I’m coming home to write my article in peace, and instead I find a wolf in the fold.”
He raised his glass to her. “Well, to academic rivalry,” he said, sipping. “May the better man—err, paper—win.”
“To academic rivalry,” she echoed, sipping her own drink. She leaned back in her chair and wondered how genuine his jovial attitude really was. There were a lot of cutthroat rivalries in academia, and many of them were downright vicious. The last thing she needed was to make an enemy of this man. “I’m sure I don’t really have a chance at winning,” she said to break the silence. “I think the experience alone is important, don’t you agree?”
“Without a doubt. I was applying for my first grants and scholarships by the time I was a sophomore. My father thought I was absolutely wasting my time, but all those experiences taught me some very valuable lessons. It isn’
t so much winning in the beginning, it’s the fact that you’re willing to go for the goal that matters, I think.”
Bull, thought Katie. Winning absolutely mattered. She could tell he was disturbed. “May I ask about your subject?”
“Oh, yes, “ he said, leaning forward, his hands clasped in a steeple before him. “It’s a bit controversial. Of course.”
“A follow-up to your last book?”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh.” Katie looked around, wondering how much longer the food would be. This wasn’t turning out to be the chummy dinner she’d anticipated. “What’s it about, then?”
He seemed to swell in response to her interest. “Have you ever been intrigued by the mysteries one so often encounters in history?”
“You mean, like who killed the Princes in the Tower, and what really happened to Anastasia?” she asked, willing to play along. “Sure. Have you uncovered another?”
“Not exactly.” He dabbed his lips with his napkin. “I’ve solved one.”
“Oh?” Katie raised her eyebrows and looked at him with real interest. “What’s the mystery?”
“Have you ever heard of the missing Earl?”
“Of course,” Katie said. “The Earl of Kilmartin was a well-known dandy-about-town in late eighteenth century London. He returned to Ireland to claim his patrimony on the death of his father around 1795, and the theory is that he got embroiled in the Rebellion of ’98, right? Apparently he disappeared from the records in 1799, when his brother, Timothy, was sentenced to exile in Australia. Neither of them was ever heard from again.”
“Very good.” Alistair raised his glass. “I see you do know your history.”
Katie managed a smile. “Thanks.” Had he forgotten that she had a Ph.D., too?
“However, I’ve found out what happened to our friend.”
“Really?” Katie was interested in spite of herself. “Tell me, please.”
“Well, as you’ve probably gathered, much of my inquiry over the years has concerned the activities of the Roman Catholic Church in Ireland and the influence that the Church as a whole has exercised over the people and the politics. As you know, my book looked at the period from 1870 through the Easter Rebellion of 1916. In the course of researching my book, however, 1 uncovered various other sources, heretofore unknown, which clearly indicate that it was the Earl himself who betrayed his brother to the British. He couldn’t stay in Ireland, obviously, after his brother was arrested and convicted, so he went to the Continent, and spent the remainder of his life living in obscurity.”
Katie sipped her drink. He was looking at her with an arch expression, and she knew she was expected to say something. “That’s very interesting,” she said at last. “And you’re sure you can prove it?”
He shrugged. “You know academia. There are bound to be naysayers. But I spent most of last year in Dublin going through some fairly obscure sources which most have overlooked.”
“My twin sister’s in Dublin right now,” said Katie.
“I was at Trinity,” he said, without acknowledging her remark.
“So’s Meg,” said Katie. “Do you know Dr. McKnight? She’s mentoring with him right now.”
“Tim McKnight?” Alistair raised his eyebrows. “I should say so. He’s a pompous old windbag who thinks he’s the foremost authority on Yeats in the world.”
“Meg speaks very highly of him.”
Alistair leaned back in his chair, waving an airy hand. “I’m sure he does strike people that way until they really begin to question him. Then he goes on the defensive. But it’s inconsequential, really. He’ll be out in a few years.”
Katie opened her mouth, then shut it. Was there any point in arguing with him? She smiled politely as the waitress set a plate in front of her. She picked up her fork, vowing to finish as quickly as possible then plead a headache. The promise of the solitude of Pond House loomed like the proverbial balm of Gilead. Especially when Alistair began holding forth on his personal interpretation of Yeats. Now if only she could refrain from throwing her plate at him.
• • •
A full moon reflected on the pond as she drove her car down the graveled drive and the chirp of insects filled the night with a high pulsing chorus. She had one more day before classes began, and she wanted to put it to the best use she could. Time for bed, Katie-did, she thought as she got out of the car, grabbing for her purse.
She stood by the car a moment, bathing in the moonlight. The trees were washed in a silver light that edged each leaf in silver gilt. There was no breeze, and she fancied she smelled the salty tang of the ocean. Her evening with Alistair Proser—she hated even the thought that it could be called a “date”—had left her even more determined to win the Clancy grant. She would show the world in general, and the faculty at East Bay in particular, that she was as much the scholar as Reginald Proser’s fair-haired boy.
On the other hand, she thought as she walked slowly toward the house, there was no reason to antagonize him. He’d treated her with that grating condescension so common in academia. Well, let him think she wasn’t much of a threat. He hadn’t even had the courtesy to ask her about her topic. Not that she would have been eager to share it with him. He probably would have sneered the same way he did when she mentioned Meg and her Irish mentor. She felt a soft motion in the air beside her, almost as though someone had stepped close to her, and she told herself it was only a breeze. She inhaled, and was not surprised to smell bay rum.
“You smell good, Captain,” she said aloud. Maybe if she treated it like a joke, she’d see that the episode could be explained by the breeze. But what about that mug, a little voice asked. You know you didn’t leave it on that book.
Hush, she told herself. With a sigh, she turned the key in the lock and pushed her front door open. The room was filled with moonlight and the ghostly glow of her computer screen from the kitchen. She put her purse on the couch and flicked on the light. She looked around the room with a satisfied air. She’d accomplished a lot in a few days. The imitation leather was covered for the most part by a colorful patchwork quilt, and her bookshelves were full of her much-used books. Her trinkets, amassed throughout the years, were arranged on the mantel, the coffee table and the windowsills. The place felt like home.
She walked into the kitchen, intending to warm milk, but she was so full from the meal, the idea had no appeal. Maybe a walk would help her feel less like an overstuffed bird. She reached on top of the refrigerator for her flashlight. She wasn’t about to go stumbling around in the dark again.
Once outside, she flicked on the light. Its powerful beam illuminated a wide cone about fifty feet ahead. She strolled around the pond to the bridge, and crossed it. She glanced at the woods. It was too late to think about going into the forest, she decided. She’d visit the Stones again in the morning. For a few minutes she stood beside the lower pond, listening to the chorus of frogs and insects. She trained her beam of light on the water, and a loud splash made her jump. The water rippled in wide half circles. “That was one big frog,” she said aloud.
“It was, indeed.”
At the sound of the masculine voice, her heart leapt into her throat. Nearly dropping the flashlight, she turned to see a tall man standing beneath the oaks. “Who the hell are you?” she managed, wondering how fast she could get back to the house.
“Forgive me.” His voice was deep and low in the evening quiet, and Katie was amazed to hear that he had more than a hint of a brogue. “I was coming up the path from the beach, and I saw your flashlight and the lights from the house. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You didn’t exactly disturb me,” Katie said, noting with interest his finely chiseled features. She trained the beam of light in his direction and saw that his eyes were a bright and piercing blue, and that he wore navy-blue shorts and a white T-shirt. “Please don’t sneak up on me.”
“Forgive me,” he said again. “I really didn’t mean to frighten you.”
&n
bsp; “Who are you?”
“I’m—my name is Derry Riordan. I’m visiting a friend of mine—Mary Monahan. She lives not far from here. You do know her, I think? She told me your name is Katie Coyle.”
Katie eyed him warily. If it were true that he knew Mary, he was probably a bit odd, but safe enough. “I’ve met her,” she answered. “Where are you from?”
“My home is—I’m from Ireland.”
“I thought I heard that in your voice.” There was something unsettling about the way he was looking at her—in the intensity with which he stared at her. “I teach Irish history.”
“Mary mentioned that to me. She thought we might have a lot in common.”
“She did?” Katie blinked.
Derry nodded. “She did indeed.” He gave her a crooked smile and Katie noticed at once the dimple that appeared in his right cheek. He ducked his head. “I won’t keep you any longer. Miss Coyle. It’s getting late and Mary will be wondering where I’ve gotten myself to. Good night.” He gave her a little nod and turned to go.
“Wait!” Katie cried. “What—what is it that you do? Do you teach, too?” She wondered at her sudden curiosity. Actually, she didn’t wonder at all. Who wouldn’t be curious about such a man?
He hesitated. “Not exactly. But I do look forward to making more of your acquaintance, Katie Coyle.” With another smile and a nod, he stepped back beneath the trees and disappeared from sight.
Katie stared after him. There was something at once compelling and disturbing about the appearance of the tall Irishman. He’s too damn good-looking, she thought. Between the way he looks and the way he sounds, he’ll have every female in East Bay swooning after him before long. She grinned, thinking that Mary was adding a new twist to her already infamous reputation.
• • •
“Katherine!” The voice echoed through the forest. Deep and demanding and compelling, forcing her to follow the overgrown path. Her feet crunched over sticks and when she looked down, she saw her feet were bare. “Katherine! “
“I’m coming!” she called, pushing through the low-hanging branches that drooped in her face. The woods glowed with a bright white light that still wasn’t sunlight, as though the trees were lit from within by some source of radiant energy that seemed to emanate from them.
The Ghost and Katie Coyle Page 7