"So, miss, how do you like our island?"
Kathryn looked at the boy. He couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen, and he was dressed as stylishly as any kid back in New York. His hair was long and worn in dreadlocks, his gold earring discreet. His red shirt was casually unbuttoned to take full advantage of his hollow adolescent chest, his jeans were artfully torn, and his sandals were fashionably chunky.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Efram."
"Well, Efram, your island is very beautiful."
"Is it more beautiful than New York City?"
Kathryn tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned her arm on the door.
"You know that's where I'm from, hmm?"
"Oh yes. You are the first visitor Charon's Crossin' has had in a long time, miss. People talk."
"Well, trust me, Efram. Elizabeth Island has it all over New York when it comes to beauty."
"Really?"
Kathryn smiled. "It was about twenty degrees when I left New York. The sky was grey and the weatherman was predicting snow."
Efram made a face. "Doesn't sound so good."
"Nope. Not if you like blue skies, warm breezes and bright sunshine." She cleared her throat. "So tell me, Efram. What do people say?"
"Ma'am?"
"About me. You said, people talk. I was wondering what it is they talked about."
"You know. That you are from New York, that you are thinkin' of fixin' up Charon's Crossin'..."
"I'm fixing it up so I can sell it," Kathryn said emphatically.
"So it is said." The boy shook his head. "Still, some folks are surprised."
"That I'd sell the place?"
Efram grinned. "That you'd stay in that old jumbie house all by your..." He shot Kathryn a guilty look. "I mean, that you'd be willin' to, ah, to deal with a job like that all by yourself, miss."
Kathryn scooted into the corner of her seat and looked at him.
"Is that what people call it? A jumbie house?"
Efram's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
"You know what that means?"
"A spook house, right?"
The boy nodded, his expression one of pure misery.
"Why do they call it that?"
"It is just silliness, miss. I did not mean—"
"I'm sure you didn't but now that you went this far, you might as well tell me the rest. Do people say Charon's Crossing is..." She hesitated. Just saying the word was ridiculous. "...is haunted?"
Efram hunched lower over the steering wheel. "They say all kinds of foolish things."
"I understand that, but I'm interested. Who haunts the house, do you know? I mean, who's supposed to haunt it?"
"Nobody."
The single word came out in such a rush that Kathryn knew it was untrue. She sighed and leaned her head back.
"Relax, Efram. I don't believe in ghosts."
"Oh, but..." The boy shot her another look. "I don't, either, miss."
"But if I did-—if I believed in them, and if I thought there was one at Charon's Crossing, who would it be?"
"I don't understand, miss."
"I mean, what would the ghost look like?"
"I don't know."
"Efram, come on. You can tell me. Honestly, it won't bother me."
The boy shifted uneasily in his seat. "I really don't know, miss. I have only heard stories of—things."
"Things?"
"Noises. Moans." He swallowed. "Things."
"Have you heard these 'things,' Efram?"
"Oh never, miss. I would not go into that house... I mean, I prefer not to."
"And you've never seen anything?"
Efram looked at her. "Well... well once, I was with some kids. We meant no harm, of course." Kathryn nodded. "Of course."
"We came through the garden, there at the back of the house. It was late at night, you see..."
"Go on."
"Well, we, ah, we saw someone."
"In the garden?"
"Yes."
"What did he look like?"
"I didn't get a good look, miss, except to see that he was tall and skinny. And he had long, funny hair."
Kathryn grinned. She leaned over and tugged lightly at one of his dreadlocks.
"Long and funny, huh?"
Efram was beyond seeing the joke.
"Not like mine. Tied back, you know, like in the old days. And he was carryin' somethin' in his hand."
"What?"
"I don't know." He did; she could tell.
"Efram, come on. What was this—person—carrying?" Efram shook his head. "I told you, I don't know."
"But you think he was a ghost?"
The boy's mouth tightened. "Don't know that either, miss."
"Well," Kathryn said carefully, "let's just assume for a minute that he was a ghost. Why would he be haunting my house?"
"Efram?"
"I don't know."
Her patience snapped. "Will you stop saying that? Of course you know!"
"I don't."
"Efram..."
"Here we are," the boy said. The VW lurched violently as he swung it to the side of the road. Beyond it, a series of small cinderblock houses marched towards the harbor. Efram opened the car door and all but leaped out. "Good-bye, miss."
"Efram." Kathryn threw open the door and jumped out. "Hey, wait a minute..."
The boy waved his hand and took off.
Kathryn sighed. After a moment, she slammed the door, went around to the driver's side, and climbed into the car. She put one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift lever.
No matter what was going on at Charon's Crossing, there was a perfectly rational explanation for it. It was just infuriating to be the last to know what it was.
It would be even worse if it turned out she couldn't unload the damned place because of local stuff and nonsense.
Frowning, she put the car in gear. It was years since she'd driven a stick shift and the sound the VW made proved it. But the car finally shot backwards into the road and, after more horrible grinding noises, she coaxed it into first.
The Volkswagen bucked, then lurched forward.
"You'd better watch your backside, Amos," Kathryn muttered, "because ready or not, here I come."
* * *
Any other time, Hawkins Bay would have charmed her right out of her shoes.
Her father must have loved it on sight for it surely had to be an artist's idea of nirvana. Every street corner was worth sketching.
Even Kathryn, who was hardly in the mood for sightseeing, was impressed.
A sheltered, aquamarine harbor gave onto a wide pink sand beach bordered by a grove of palm trees. Beyond the palms were stuccoed, cinderblock houses which faced a narrow, cobblestone street.
Front Street, an old-fashioned street sign said, which made perfect sense considering that the only street that paralleled it was Back Street. The two thoroughfares were lined with modest buildings, each painted in one of the soft pastel colors of the Caribbean. Both streets were bisected by narrow alleys.
It was a charming scene. And a familiar one. Matthew's journal entry had described the town with accuracy and little seemed to have changed in the years since.
Well, Kathryn thought as a minivan shouldered past her, some things had changed. There'd been no cars or trucks lurching through these streets in his time. And no reggae music blaring from their radios. The music was loud, very different from the stately Bach fugues she preferred, but she found her shoulders swaying to the rhythmic beat.
A woman carrying a net shopping bag over one arm stepped down from the curb. Kathryn slowed the VW to a crawl. Nobody seemed to care very much if they walked on the sidewalk or in the road. People strolled as they liked; the cars, trucks and minivans drove the same way. If everybody did that in New York, there'd be bodies all over the place.
Kathryn smiled to herself. Maybe you caught on, if you lived here long enough.
She was more than
happy to drive slowly. It gave her time to search for Amos's law office. She knew it was here, someplace on Front Street, but she couldn't remember the number. Not that it mattered. There didn't seem to be numbers on most of the buildings.
Eventually, she saw a discreetly lettered sign.
Amos Carter, Attorney at Law.
She pulled the car to the curb, edged it between a pink Studebaker that was older than she was and a spanking new Dodge minivan, and got out.
The door to Amos's office was locked. Kathryn jiggled the knob, then peered in through the dust-smeared plate glass window. It seemed awfully early for him to be out to lunch.
"You lookin' for Mr. Carter?"
She turned around. A heavyset woman wearing a grey and white striped smock that stretched from her enormous bosom to her ankles had popped her head out of the shop next door and was examining her with friendly interest.
"Yes. Yes, I am. Do you know when he'll be back?"
"I'm Ada." The woman smiled and jerked her head towards the sign over the shop door. " 'Ada's Ladies and Gents Fine Apparel,' that's me."
Kathryn nodded politely and held out her hand. "I'm Kathryn Russell. I'm staying out at—"
"Charon's Crossin'. Yes, I know."
"I was looking for Mr. Carter. Do you know when he's expected to return?"
Ada shrugged. "Two, three weeks, maybe."
Kathryn's mouth fell open. "What?"
"He flew to England."
"To England? Are you sure?"
The woman nodded. "He has family there. Somethin' came up, he said, he had to go there to take care of it. He mentioned you might come by. Said to tell you he'd tried to let you know he'd be gone but your phone's not workin'."
"Do tell," Kathryn said with a tight smile. "Did he leave any other message?"
"He said you might want to go over to see Hiram Bonnyeman." The woman jerked her chin towards the opposite side of Front Street. "Walk up a bit, then cut down the next cross street. Hiram's house is blue and pink. You can't miss it."
"Thanks."
"Miss Russell?"
Kathryn swung around. "Yes?"
"How is it, livin' in that house?"
"It's fine," Kathryn said brightly. "Just fine."
"Glad to hear it. As for me, I don't think I could get a wink of sleep in a place like that."
"Listen," Kathryn said, grinding out the words through her teeth, "there's nothing wrong with that house that hard work won't cure."
"Oh, surely not," Ada said quickly. "I only meant that the stories about it... well, you know. And the name..."
"Charon's Crossing?"
"Well, it's peculiar, isn't it?" The woman's voice fell to a conspiratorial whisper and she leaned towards Kathryn. "Namin' a place for an old-time loa, I mean."
"A what?"
"A spirit, your people would call him. You know. The one used to sail dead folks over the sea to hell."
Kathryn's mouth dropped open. Ada wasn't talking about some voodoo spirit, she was talking about an ancient Greek god. Charon, whose job it had been to ferry the newly dead across the river Styx to the afterlife that awaited them.
How come she hadn't remembered that?
Her house, the house where she'd had such incredible dreams, where the cold came sweeping down the stairs, was a nineteenth-century metaphor for the river that separated the living from the dead?
The sun was high, the air hot. Despite that, a sudden chill swept the length of Kathryn's spine and she gave a little shudder. Ada, reading the swift play of emotions on her face, reached out a comforting hand but Kathryn forced a smile to her lips.
"Oh," she said, "of course. I should have realized."
She wanted to say more, something light and airy that would make it clear that she was above such nonsense, but she was too angry.
Damn her father for leaving her saddled with such a mess.
Damn Olive. And Amos, too, for not having told her about the house and whatever dark legends surrounded it, legends everyone but she seemed to know.
"Miss Russell? Are you okay?"
Kathryn smiled brightly. "I'm just fine," she said, and set off to find Hiram Bonnyeman.
* * *
It was easy, just as Ada had promised it would be.
The house was blue, its door and shutters pale pink. A sign hung out front, neatly lettered.
Hiram Bonnyeman, Plumbing, Heating, Electrical Work, Carpentry, and General Repairs.
It looked as if the era of specialization had not yet reached Elizabeth Island.
The door stood partly open. Kathryn knocked and waited.
"Yes, yes," a voice called. "Come in."
The interior of the shop was shadowy, almost dark compared to the brightness outside. She stood still, letting her eyes adjust, breathing in the pleasant mixture of smells that filled the air: new wood and wax, machine oil and something spicy. Cinnamon, perhaps, or nutmeg.
"Yes? May I help you?"
A man was coming towards her, stepping through a swaying curtain of small wooden beads. He was tall and wiry, with grizzled hair and ebony skin. A pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his aquiline nose, and was smiling so pleasantly that Kathryn immediately smiled back.
"I hope so. Would you be Hiram Bonnyeman, the building contractor?"
He smiled. "I would surely be Hiram Bonnyeman. And you would surely be Miss Kathryn Russell."
"Yes. Yes, I am, Mr. Bonnyeman. I've been hoping to make your acquaintance for some time."
The old man chuckled. "A polite way of askin' me where I've been keepin' myself, hmm?" He stepped forward, scooped a dozing ginger cat from a straight-backed wooded chair, and motioned Kathryn to sit. "Please, make yourself comfortable. I'll get us somethin' cool to drink."
"Oh, no. That's not necessary."
"It isn't. But it's what I'd like to do—unless you're in a hurry, Miss Russell?"
Kathryn sighed. "There's no sense in being in a hurry in these parts, Mr. Bonnyeman. I've learned that much already."
The old man grinned and ducked behind the curtain. Moments later, he reappeared bearing a round wooden tray on which he'd placed two tall glasses and a pitcher filled with a pale yellow liquid.
"Lemonade," he said, setting the tray down on a small table. "My wife makes it fresh, every mornin'. Best in town, if I do say so myself. She adds a touch of passion fruit. Give it a special sweetness."
Kathryn accepted the glass he held out to her.
"Thank you, Mr. Bonnyeman."
"Hiram."
She smiled. "And I'm Kathryn."
"How's the lemonade, Kathryn? Good?"
Kathryn sighed. When in Rome, she thought, and she took a sip.
"Delicious. Mr. Bonnyeman... Hiram. Look, I don't mean to seem rude, but—"
"But you want to know where I've been and why I haven't shown up and when I'm goin' to come by Charon's Crossin' and get to work. Am I right?"
Kathryn nodded. "I've only got a week, you see, well, not even that anymore. I'm flying back to New York Friday, and... what's the matter?"
"If you're flyin' home Friday, we have a problem."
"What do you mean, we have a problem?"
"I can't possibly get out to Charon's Crossin' until next week, the soonest."
Kathryn put down her glass. "I distinctly told Amos Carter I'd be here just for the week."
"Well, Amos never told me."
"I don't believe this! The whole reason for this visit was to find out what repairs the house needs and now—"
"I don't need to come by your house to tell you that."
Kathryn blinked. "You don't?"
"No. I don't."
"Olive spoke to you, then?"
"Your father spoke to me, before his death. He asked me to come over, check things, tell him what I thought." Hiram smiled. "He was a nice man, your father. And he had great plans for that house."
"Expensive plans, I'll bet. What did you tell him?"
"That it was sad
, the condition of Charon's Crossin'. But that it was repairable, dependin' on what he wished to spend." He smiled gently. "Sad to say, he didn't have the money to do very much."
"A situation that runs in the family," Kathryn said crisply. "Not that I have any great plans for the place. I just want to do whatever needs doing so that Olive can sell it."
Hiram nodded. "Well, there's a long enough list of things to fix. The wallboard needs replacin' in some of the rooms. The wainscotin', too, in the entry and in the dinin' room, as well as the moldin'. Roof needs patchin' before the rains come. And it might be a good idea to shore up a couple of beams in the cellar. But the biggest problem is the hot-water heater."
Kathryn sighed. "Don't I know it. Well, the next owner can deal with that."
The old man shook his head. "Maybe. And maybe not."
"Look, I know an outdated heater will take away from the value of the house, but—"
"I'm not talkin' value. I'm tellin' you that old heater is a cranky son of a gun and you'd best fix it, or..."
"Or what?"
"Who knows? The best that could happen would be for it to quit for good."
"And the worst?"
Hiram sighed. "Fire. Explosion. Anythin' is possible."
Kathryn felt like burying her head in her hands. She'd been wrong thinking of Charon's Crossing as an albatross. It was an anchor, and if she weren't careful, it would pull her down and drown her in debt.
"Look, Hiram," she said, "maybe I didn't make myself clear. I don't have any money to waste on Charon's Crossing."
"And I won't ask you to waste any. Once I do a thorough check of the heatin' system, I'll tell you what your choices are."
"Oh. I didn't... I thought you meant you were going to have to replace the entire system."
"Maybe. Maybe not. I cannot tell until I take a closer look, which I can do in a week's time." The old man smiled. "You can stand right by my side, sayin' 'yes, Hiram, do that' or 'no, Hiram, let that stay as it is.' How's that sound?"
"It sounds fine... except I won't be here in a week's time."
"Might be you could sign a paper, let Amos make those decisions for you."
"Might be—if he were on the island." Kathryn's nostrils flared. "But he isn't."
"Oh yes. Now that you mention it, seems to me I heard somethin' about that this mornin', at the market." The old man pushed back his chair and put his hands on his knees. "Well, I don't know what to suggest, Kathryn, except to tell you I wouldn't take the responsibility for makin' those decisions for you, even if you asked."
Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) Page 11