Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel)

by Sandra Marton

  "No need. You want to present a buyer with a structurally sound house. Aesthetics are not the issue."

  "I'm delighted to hear it."

  Olive smiled. "Same goes for things like redoin' floors and windows and such." She paused and frowned at the foyer walls. "Of course, it doesn't make such a good first impression, seein' that moldin' lookin' as if the termites have been at it."

  "Yes," Kathryn said, sighing as she kicked a piece of molding aside. "I figured that."

  "Well, check with Hiram. Ask him what he can do that will make things look better without it costin' you an arm and a leg."

  "Right."

  "You should probably also ask him to see to any leaks in the roof. And to check the plumbin' and electrical systems."

  "I will. The first time the pipes began rumbling, I almost jumped out of my skin. And the lights have a really wonderful way of flickering on and off. The ones that work at all, that is."

  "Anythin' else you've noticed that I've overlooked?"

  Kathryn shook her head. "I don't think so. If you'll put me in touch with somebody who'll pitch in and help me scrub things down, it will help. I'd like to get rid of most of the grime and the yuck. And the spiders." She shuddered. "New York roaches are one thing, but spiders that build trampolines instead of webs are another."

  Olive chuckled. "Fine. Well, is that it, then?"

  They had wandered to the foot of the great staircase. Kathryn paused and looked up, to where the sunlit dust motes disappeared in the darkness of the second floor.

  "Just about, except for that miserable draft. Feel it?"

  Olive's gaze followed Kathryn's. "No. No, I can't say that I do."

  "Really?" Kathryn gave a dramatic shudder and wrapped her arms around herself. "Boy, I certainly do."

  "Maybe there's a broken window somewhere."

  "I told that to our friend Amos. He assured me there wasn't. And I checked, after he left. He was right. The windows are fine."

  Olive's head tilted further back. "Maybe the draft's comin' from the attic."

  "The attic? You might be right. I never thought of looking there."

  "Well, don't." Kathryn's brows shot up at the other woman's emphatic statement and Olive laughed. "Attics are always full of mice. And in this house, the trampoline-buildin' spiders are probably havin' themselves a fine time up in the attic, as well. Let Hiram do the lookin' for you, when he comes. Now, what can we say about Charon's Crossin' that will make it appealin' to a buyer?"

  " 'For sale,' " Kathryn said in a mincing tone as they made their way out to the terrace again. " 'Handyman's special. All you need is a fat checkbook, a little imagination and a couple of dozen years and you'll have the vacation hideaway of your dreams.' "

  Olive laughed as they leaned back against the rusted wrought-iron railing that rimmed the terrace.

  "You're supposed to be tellin' me what a wonderful buy this house is, Kathryn. Don't you know that?" She turned and gazed out over the garden. "We can start by emphasizin' the beauty of the surroundin's."

  "I agree. And the privacy. Seriously, I've been thinking about it, the fact that the house is pretty much off the beaten track, and it seems to me that our best bet is to deal with that head-on, turn it into an asset."

  Olive gave Kathryn a wry look. "You sure you're not lookin' to take my job?"

  Kathryn smiled and leaned her arms on the railing.

  "What we need is a buyer with lots of money who's looking for a very private getaway. Right?"

  Olive nodded. "Right." What an old fool you are, Amos, not to recognize how bright and quick this young woman is. "We want a man of discerning tastes and great wealth."

  "A man," Kathryn said, "or a woman."

  The realtor laughed. "Oh, I can just see how you must have jolted poor Amos."

  Kathryn reached out and plucked a flower from a vine that had twined itself around the railing.

  "It really is lovely here," she said, twirling the flower in her fingers. "Is the weather always this perfect?"

  "Not always. We get storms sometimes, blowin' in across the sea. In late summer, mostly, but sometimes in the winter, too."

  Kathryn spread her fingers and let the breeze carry the flower to the grass.

  "I'll have to phone my fiancé and torture him a little," she said, and smiled. "Give him a first-hand weather report, you know? I'd have done it last night, but the phone doesn't work."

  Olive nodded. "It is a problem on the island. I will speak with Hiram, see if he can think of a way to improve things."

  "Hiram certainly has his work cut out for him.£ When he comes by later... What's the matter?"

  "I wouldn't count on seein' Hiram today, I'm afraid. It is Saturday, and the bonefish are runnin' just off Coronado Cay."

  "Tomorrow, then."

  "Tomorrow is Sunday. No one on Elizabeth Island works on Sunday."

  "Then, he's got to stop by Monday morning, first thing." Kathryn's voice took on a pleasant but firm tone. "I only have a week to devote to getting things sorted out here. That isn't very long."

  "Especially not on this island. As I said before, things move at a slower pace than you are accustomed to." Olive dug into her shoulder bag and took out a pen and a small notebook. "Let's write down what we've agreed needs checkin', yes? So far, we've got the plumbin'. The heatin'. The electricity. The roof, maybe. The moldin'. The phone..."

  "I think there's probably some wainscoting needs doing, too. Oh, and we'll have to deal with whatever it is that's turning the place into Siberia." Kathryn sighed. "Sounds like a year's salary to me—in which case, I'm up the creek without a paddle."

  "Sorry?"

  She smiled. "Never mind." Kathryn hesitated. "Olive? Why would Amos have said what he did to me?"

  "About what?" Olive said, capping her pen and tucking it away with the pad.

  "About the house being haunted."

  "Because he's an old fool, just as I told you."

  "Yes, but he couldn't have just come up with something like that off the top of his head, could he? I mean, is there some sort of local folklore about Charon's Crossing?"

  "Well," Olive said slowly, "I suppose there is. We islanders are a superstitious lot, and Charon's Crossin' is very old. No one has lived in it for a very long time."

  "My father did."

  "Not really. He had this old sailboat, used to come sailin' in here a couple of times a year, dock at Hawkins Bay harbor, and put in some work on the house—you didn't know that?"

  "No. No, I didn't. Did he ever ask you to sell the place?"

  "Never."

  "Well," Kathryn said decisively, "I certainly want to. Do I need to sign a contract or something?"

  "It's not necessary. Amos vouched for you and that's good enough for me."

  "You trust his judgment, hmm?" Kathryn said, smiling.

  Olive nodded. "I know he didn't make a good first impression, but you can trust him too, Kathryn. He really is a fine lawyer. As for me—I'm goin' to do my best to sell Charon's Crossin' for you. It may need some attention, but the house itself is still sturdy."

  "We hope," Kathryn said without conviction.

  "Oh, I'm sure it is. These old greathouses were built to last. The English had every intention of stayin' in these islands forever."

  "Well, I suppose the house was great, at one time, but—"

  "No, no." Olive smiled and patted Kathryn's arm. " 'Great-house' is the name for houses such as this. But time has taken its toll."

  "Time," Kathryn said wryly, "and neglect."

  The other woman nodded. "Neglect is the worst enemy. It gives the natural world the chance to reclaim what was taken from it. It's a special shame in this case, considerin' that Charon's Crossin' has been in the same family..." She smiled. "Your family, Kathryn, for almost two hundred years."

  Kathryn looked at Olive with interest. "Is it really that old?"

  "Oh my, yes."

  "And why was it named Charon's Crossing? Do you know?"

&
nbsp; Olive's smile tilted. "I'm afraid I don't."

  "Are you sure? I have this feeling I should know what the name means, but I just can't place it."

  "Certainly, I'm sure."

  Certainly, she wasn't. Kathryn knew she was getting the brush-off, but there wasn't much she could do about it.

  "Now," Olive said briskly, "where was I? Oh yes. I was tellin' you the history of your house. Well, it was built in 1799 by Lord Arthur Russell." Olive smiled. "Your great-granddaddy, I suppose, several times removed."

  "Why? I mean, what brought him all the way from England? Do you know?"

  "George the Third sent him, to govern the island. And to make money growin' sugar and turnin' it into molasses and rum."

  "You mean, Charon's Crossing was a distillery?"

  Olive's laughter was soft and melodious. "It was a plantation, with its land planted in sugar cane." She walked to the other side of the terrace and pointed out over the deep green landscape. "You see there? Where those flamboyants are bloomin'? Well, back behind them, all grown over now, you can still find what's left of the kitchen and the bathrooms."

  "But the house has a kitchen. And several bathrooms."

  "Added on, all of them. The rest of the outbuildin's, what's left, anyway, are further back. The sugar mill, the stillhouse, the boilin' sheds, the slave quarters—"

  "Slave quarters?"

  "Sure. There was slavery everywhere in these islands."

  Kathryn grimaced. "I'd forgotten that." She looked at Olive. "Was the island really important to the English?"

  "Very, until they lost the War of 1812." A mischievous grin lit her face. "Well, they didn't really lose it but they surely stopped thinkin' of themselves as the sovereigns of the seas, and all thanks to you Americans."

  Kathryn laughed. "I know that much, at least. Tell me more about this man who built Charon's Crossing."

  "There's not much more to tell. Lord Russell was typical of his time, I suppose. Pompous, dictatorial..." Olive frowned. "You know," she said slowly, "I'd forgotten, but he had a daughter. Her name was Catherine, too. With a C instead of a K. Could it be you were named for her?"

  "I guess. My name—spelled all different ways—has always been a family favorite."

  Olive hesitated. "Do people refer to you as Kat, then?"

  Kathryn felt a sudden tightness in her throat.

  "No," she said, after a moment, "no, they don't. Why do you ask?"

  "Well, I think that was what she was called, this Catherine. Cat, you know?"

  "Are you sure? How can you know that?"

  "Oh," Olive said with a wave of her hand, "it is how she is spoken of in all the..."

  "In all the what?" Kathryn said, when the other woman suddenly fell silent.

  A flush rose in Olive's dark cheeks. "It's just jumbie nonsense, Kathryn. Surely, you are not interested in—"

  "But I am." Kathryn forced a smile to her lips. "After all, this girl is my ancestor. What were you going to say?"

  "Only that there are stories, that's all. Tall tales. Island tales. There is nothing unusual in that. My people have always been great storytellers."

  "Tales about Charon's Crossing?"

  "About everything," Olive said with a quick smile.

  "And what stories are there about Cat Russell?"

  "Kathryn, really, I have no wish to bore you with—"

  "I'm not bored, I'm fascinated." Kathryn smiled stiffly. "What do they say about her?"

  "Only that she was very beautiful."

  "And? Come on, Olive. What else?"

  "Well, they say men flocked to her. Powerful men. Handsome ones, the ones other women wanted." Olive leaned closer. "It is even said she had two different lovers at the same time."

  Kathryn's smile eased. "Really?"

  "Oh, yes. One was an older man, with lands and estates in England. Lord Waring, his name was."

  "And the other?" Kathryn was leaning back against the railing now, enjoying the story. Why on earth had she been so nervous about hearing it? It was just what Olive had said, island, gossip. And, she had to admit, fun to listen to, even though it was a couple of hundred years old. She shot the other woman a conspiratorial grin. "Don't tell me," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He was young. And gorgeous. And a rogue. Right?"

  "Young, yes. He was an American, the captain of his own ship. And some did call him a rogue."

  "Why? What did he do?"

  "In 1811, his ship was commissioned to sail under the British flag as a privateer, seizin' ships and goods owned by the French. But they say he took to lootin' any ship he could catch, regardless of her nationality."

  "A pirate," Kathryn said with delight.

  "So some called him."

  "Well, go on. You said he was Cat Russell's lover."

  "Yes."

  "And gorgeous?"

  "So it is said." Olive was laughing. " 'Course, what else would they say? A rogue would never be described as anything but tall and handsome, with hair the color of burnished gold and emerald green eyes...."

  Kathryn clutched the railing for support, her hands as white as her face.

  "Kathryn? Kathryn, what is it? My Lord, girl, you look as if you're going to faint!"

  Olive was right. She was going to pass out, right here on the terrace...

  "Kathryn?"

  Kathryn dragged a breath deep into her lungs.

  "I'm—I'm all right," she whispered.

  "You are not," Olive said in a no-nonsense tone. "I knew we should have stayed out of this sun! You need time to acclimate to—"

  "Olive? This man. Do you know his name?"

  "What man? Honestly, Kathryn..."

  "Catherine Russell's handsome lover." Kathryn gripped the realtor's hand. "What was his name?"

  Olive clucked her tongue. The girl needed a cold compress, at the very least. Her face was not only pale, it was shiny with sweat, and her fingers felt icy. But it was obvious there would be no convincing her to go indoors until she'd had her foolish question answered.

  "I can't see that it matters, Kathryn," she said with a touch of impatience, "but if you must know, his name was Matthew McDowell."

  Chapter 5

  Kathryn stood at the front door, waving and smiling cheerfully as Olive's red Ford Escort wobbled down the rutted drive. She held the smile until the little car swung around a narrow curve and vanished in a swirl of dust, and then she groaned, slammed the door closed, and slumped back against it.

  At least she'd managed to pull that off, though when you came down to it, waving your hand and smiling like an idiot wasn't half as hard as not passing out when you learned that the man who'd paid you a midnight visit had been dead for almost two hundred years.

  Of course, she'd come close, but then Olive had taken over and Kathryn had been happy to let her lay the blame on the sun. Otherwise, she might have blurted out the truth and then they could both have spent the rest of the day trying to figure out if she really was going crazy or if she had, in fact, spent the hours before dawn playing hostess to Cat Russell's lover.

  Instead, she'd let Olive swoop an arm around her waist, march her inside the house, put her into a chair and bring her a cold compress. Then she'd endured a lecture on fair skins and ultraviolet rays and overheated brain cells which had ended only when Olive had finally run out of breath.

  By then, Kathryn had recovered her equilibrium, if not her sanity, though it had taken time to convince Olive.

  "I really don't want to leave you, Kathryn," she'd said. "Maybe you want to reconsider rentin' that little house in town for the rest of the week."

  Maybe I want to reconsider heading straight back to New York, Kathryn had almost answered, but that would have been out of the question. She had things to accomplish here and she couldn't accomplish them by running away.

  Besides, there was nothing to run from. By then, she'd calmed down enough to know that whatever was happening had a perfectly reasonable explanation.

  All she had to d
o was find it.

  So she'd smiled brightly and assured Olive that she was fine and that she wouldn't set foot out the door until late afternoon, when the heat lessened.

  "It's my English ancestors who didn't know enough to keep out of the midday sun," she'd said, "remember? 'Mad dogs and Englishmen'...?"

  But coaxing a smile from Olive had been hard.

  "Kathryn?" she'd said worriedly, "Is there somethin' troublin' you?"

  For just an instant, Kathryn had come close to blurting it all out. But then she thought of what Olive had said about how unfortunate it would be if people started whispering about Charon's Crossing being haunted and about how superstitious islanders could be, and weren't there enough stories about this place already without adding one about a ghost?

  So she'd swallowed hard, smiled, and said that the only thing troubling her was how much work the house was going to need.

  Two glasses of iced water later, she'd finally managed to ease Olive out the door.

  Now, Kathryn took a deep breath and closed every bolt the door possessed which was pretty stupid, all things considered.

  What good were locks and bolts against a ghost?

  A bubble of wild laughter rose in her throat and she clapped her hands over her mouth before it could escape.

  There was nothing funny about any of this, dammit! No way.

  There were no such things as ghosts. That was a given. And she had never heard the story of Gat Russell and Matthew McDowell before. So how could he have come wandering into her dream?

  It was a reasonable question. Unfortunately, she had no reasonable answer. Not yet, anyway, but she'd be damned if she wouldn't find one.

  Kathryn checked the door one last time. She was an old hand at finding reason in the midst of chaos, thanks to her parents. Living with them had been like riding a roller coaster, all highs and lows with very little in between.

  She had learned early to ignore the fireworks around her by concentrating on emotionless things. Things she could trust, like math and computers.

  And mops and brooms and plain, unvarnished hard work.

  It had amused her father and baffled her mother to emerge from the scene of their latest battle, where the plates and whatever else they'd both hurled at the walls still lay broken on the floor, and find their daughter busily cleaning her bedroom or reorganizing her closet.