A Spirited Gift mpm-3

by Joyce Lavene

  “About time you got here,” she said when she saw me. “I’ve got this package I want to send to my son in Dallas. When do you think it will get there?”

  I had become the UPS packager for Duck recently—I didn’t make a lot of money from it, but every bit helped. I opened the shop and set down my bag before I answered. “I don’t think UPS will pick up or deliver until the repairs have been made to the bridges.”

  “And when will that be? And before you say you don’t know, let me remind you that you are also the mayor and up for reelection next year, missy. So answer carefully.”

  I thought about it. There was no clever response. “I know I’m the mayor, Martha, and I know I’m up for reelection. But what I don’t know is how much damage was done to the bridges or how long it will take to repair them. We can walk down to town hall and see what Nancy knows about it, if you want.”

  “All right. Maybe then you’ll know what to tell the next person who asks.” She took a small notebook out of the pocket of her rain jacket and wrote in it. “That’s right. I keep track of these things. And it’s a sad state of affairs when the town clerk knows more about what’s going on than the mayor. Mad Dog Wilson might just get my vote for mayor next year.”

  I smiled and closed the door to Missing Pieces. I’d rather have tea and look at all my treasures than spend time with Martha, but I was the mayor and that was part of my job.

  Town hall was only a few doors down on the boardwalk. It was filled with Duck citizens complaining and yelling at Nancy, who was trying to answer their questions. The phones were working again—and they were ringing off the hook. It was like a scene from one of those badly made disaster movies I’d loved so much as a teenager.

  And as much as I loved my fellow Duck citizens, this was no way to get the answers they needed. I tried to calm everyone down, to no avail. Finally, I grabbed my gavel from Nancy’s desk and pounded hard with it until everyone was quiet.

  “I know this is hard for all of you,” I said to the crowd, “but it’s hard on us too. Now I want all of you to make a line, single file, and come to the desk one at a time with your questions and problems. We’ll do the best we can to get answers for you. I know most of you—Martha, Vergie and Andy—you’ve lived here all your life like I have. We get through these things together but not by going crazy.”

  “Thanks,” Nancy whispered as the crowd grumbled but made a line that stretched out the door. “I was about to take out my pistol and shoot a few of them.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” I asked as I took a seat and got ready to talk to people.

  “I did—I called you and everyone else on the council. I guess none of your cell phones are working yet. Home phones are still offline too. We’re just blessed up here to have working phones to add to the chaos.”

  I apologized. I had no way of knowing about the chaos here. While Nancy manned the phone, I wrote down names and questions as each person had their turn. Basically, the Harris Teeter, the only grocery store in Duck, was running out of food and none was expected for at least another day. I told Martha again that I wasn’t sure when UPS would pick up, but I would keep her package until I heard from them.

  Andy Martin, who ran the ice cream and Slushee store, was understandably upset because there was no power. “My ice cream is ice goo, and my Slushee machine won’t work without electricity. Isn’t there some way to get some? I know the hospital has power and some of the houses in Duck have power. Why don’t I?”

  “You might want to consider buying a generator, Andy,” I said. “Since your business depends on your freezer, it’s a good idea. For now, I’d suggest you clean up and close down for a few days. We must be almost at the end of your season anyway.”

  He nodded. “I close for the winter and these last few days are important to me. I don’t understand why the power comes on for some people and not everyone.”

  “My best advice on this is to talk it over with the power company. You know there’s only so much we can do from town hall. I’m sorry about your ice cream, and I hope you have insurance to cover it.”

  He nodded and put his cap on, then left the line.

  Almost all the questions, the bulk of which focused on water leaks, power outages, and beach erosion, went the same way. People asked, and I offered suggestions but had no definitive answers.

  Little Hailey Baucum, the daughter of Reece Baucum, claimed to have seen a ghost ship. “I saw it last night, Mayor Dae. It was real old looking, and there was no one on it.”

  Reece, who’d been there to complain about a broken water main, grinned. “You know how kids are.”

  “Sounds like the Andalusia,” said Vergie, Duck’s postmaster. “You know how people see her from time to time. Especially after a bad storm.”

  I knew. The Andalusia was a Spanish treasure ship that had foundered off the coast of Duck around 1720. Several sailors had made it to the coast to tell of the huge treasure that went down with the ship. Though hundreds of people had searched for it, no one had ever found the gold and jewels that were on it.

  Through the generations, Duck citizens, and even some vacationing visitors, had called or written about seeing the ship off the coast. The Andalusia was our resident ghost ship. We all knew the story.

  “There was a moon last night,” Nancy reminded me while she was on hold with the North Carolina Department of Transportation asking for a time reference for the bridge repairs.

  Hailey nodded her head with the vigor of an eight-year-old. “I got a telescope for my birthday last month, so I got a really good look. It was the ghost ship for sure. The moonlight was shining on it, so I could see no one was there. But it was sailing anyway. The sails were like big spiderwebs. No way they could catch any breeze like that.”

  “Well, don’t worry. A lot of people have seen the Andalusia , but the ghosts never come to Duck,” I assured her. “They seem to stay on the ship, and they never bother anyone. We have a book here that we write down every time someone sees her. The sightings go back to the 1800s. You’re in good company.”

  I felt a chill sweep through the room as I finished speaking. My own personal ghost appeared at the back of the line of people waiting to see me. “Why are ye filling the child’s mind with such drivel?” Rafe demanded. “There are no ghosts on that ship. Those poor souls lie at the bottom like so many others.”

  I couldn’t answer him, since I was fairly sure no one else could see or hear him. I smiled at Hailey and gave her a sucker. Nothing like a ghost to put ghostly events into perspective.

  As soon as possible, I was going to find Shayla and see if there wasn’t some way to lay this ghost to rest.

  Chapter 16

  “There are serious problems needing yer attention.” Rafe waited impatiently, the heel of his booted foot stamping on the hardwood floor. As the line of residents moved forward, so did he—until he was standing at the desk, his hands on the pistols he wore at either side of his hips.

  Funny how I’d never noticed those pistols in the portrait or during our encounter in the bar. Maybe it had been an oversight on my part. Or maybe he’d added them from his ghostly wardrobe.

  I also had never realized from his portrait what a large man he was—wide hips and shoulders, long legs and arms. Probably scared people long before they saw his cutlass unsheathed.

  “I need a word with ye,” he said, glaring at Nancy. “Ditch the woman.”

  “Thanks for your help, Dae,” Nancy said. “Is it me or is it getting colder in here?”

  “You’re welcome. I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I’m going over to Missing Pieces for a while if you need me again.”

  “Okay, sweetie.” She hugged me. “Be careful out there. One of the maintenance men went to the hospital with a concussion this morning after a trash can fell on him.”

  “I know I shouldn’t ask—how’d he get under a trash can?”

  “It was on the roof of the community center. Crazy, right?” She laughed but not in a mean wa
y—Nancy doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. But both of us had seen some weird things while taking care of Duck for the past two years.

  “Simpering, blubbering female,” Rafe grumbled as I walked out of town hall with him at my side.

  “She is not,” I corrected him when we were out of earshot. “Not that you’d know the difference.”

  “And why do you say that?”

  “Because you’ve probably never known anyone like Nancy.” I waved to Trudy as she worked on Mrs. Marsh’s hair at her salon, still without power. “Women are different now. I don’t expect you to understand that, since you’re a pirate and all.”

  “Are you saying I’m daft or addlepated? Mind your words, girl!”

  “Or what? You’ll jump back into your picture frame?”

  He laughed—a loud, arrogant kind of laughter like you’d expect from a big pirate. “Oh, I can do much more than that. You see that window over there? The one ye were so happy yesterday that it had escaped the storm?”

  Before I could respond, he took a deep breath and blew hard on the glass. It didn’t break but it splintered into a thousand lines.

  “I can’t believe you did that!” I stormed at him. “Now I’ll have to get it replaced. What was the thinking behind that?”

  “Eh? I don’t understand what you mean. My own kin—not able to speak the King’s English.”

  I didn’t bother with a reply. For one thing, August Grandin walked by with a nod of his head, his Meerschaum pipe in his teeth. The smoke blew in my face as he passed—a sweet smell of fruit-scented tobacco.

  “Now that’s a man.” Rafe followed August toward the Duck General Store. I took the opportunity to hide in Missing Pieces. It would be nice if he couldn’t find me. But it didn’t seem to work that way.

  If I had to have a ghost attached to me, why wasn’t it one of our stalwart Duck female role models?

  I closed the door behind me and took a deep breath, relieved to be alone.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” a familiar voice said. “I wanted to thank you for your help yesterday.”

  I wasn’t alone after all. My father had finally come calling.

  Chapter 17

  “Your name is Dae O’Donnell, right?” he asked with a little smile playing across his lips. He needed a shave, and there were scratches on his cheeks and forehead. “Mayor of Duck!”

  “Yes.” I wondered if he still recognized the name. “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital?”

  “Nah. They released me when they found out I didn’t have health insurance. Besides, they needed the bed.”

  “Well, maybe you should be at home then. I could drive you, if you need a ride.” My heart was hammering in my chest. Why was I so nervous? After all, he was my father, though he didn’t know it.

  “Trying to get rid of me?” He got up from the burgundy brocade sofa and came closer. “I bet your mom and your grandpa have been telling you all kinds of bad stuff about me.”

  I could honestly say neither one of them had mentioned him—at least not until I asked. “No. Not really. Would you like some tea?”

  “Nothing stronger?”

  “No. Sorry. I have some strong tea—that’s about it.”

  “That’s okay.” He stopped at the counter that I’d put between him and me. “You know, I recognized you yesterday at the accident. You come into the Sailor’s Dream once in a while and order rum and Coke, right?”

  “Yep. That’s me.” I wished I could think of something fascinating to say to him. But glib conversation was difficult for me with him.

  “That’s why I asked about you. You look just like your mom. How is she, by the way? Happy with Mr. Right?” He looked up at me with a cunning knowing in his blue eyes. “I guess since your name is O’Donnell, Mr. Right either never came along or left real sudden.”

  I didn’t know how to answer that. I hadn’t anticipated having a conversation with him like this. He thought he knew who I was—the mayor of Duck and his old flame’s daughter. But he hadn’t guessed that I was his daughter. I felt awkward and even more nervous. “I’d like some tea.” I bustled to the cabinet and took out the Sterno and folding stove I kept for emergencies. After lighting it, I put some water in the kettle and put it on the stove. “Are you sure I can’t get some for you?”

  “No, thanks. I’m not that thirsty.” He started walking around looking at my treasures. He picked up the flintlock pistol that had belonged to pirate Stede Bonnett, a summer find at the Charleston Market.

  It had engraved silver mounts, gold leaf, silver wire inlays and a carved stock. The French barrel had a carved relief of St. George slaying the dragon. It wasn’t fully functional. There was no fly in the tumbler and no bridle in the lock. That meant it wouldn’t fire properly. It was a special piece—one that would net enough to tide me over for a long winter—but only to the right person.

  “So you own this place?” He kept talking. Maybe he was nervous too. “And you’re the mayor and you work as a firefighter or something?”

  The dealer who sold the pistol to me thought it was junk—but then he couldn’t touch it and find out where it came from like I could. I’d struggled for a while, wondering if that was cheating, until I thought about all the fake treasures I’d paid too much for. Treasure hunting was up and down.

  “I was just helping out,” I told him. “I’m not an official volunteer or anything.”

  “This is a nice place.” He came back and sat down. “You’re kind of young to own something like this, aren’t you? Does your mom help out?”

  “My mom is dead.” There—it was out. The teakettle whistled, and I poured the hot water over the blackberry tea bag in the cup. “She’s been dead a long time.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “How could you? Why would you?”

  He shrugged. “I guess she didn’t mention me then. We dated for a while. It was a long time ago. We were both just kids. Did she marry someone?”

  “No.” Despite my earlier resolution to confront him, I wasn’t sure how far I wanted this conversation to go. It was crossing over into part of my life that I wasn’t comfortable sharing with him yet. I didn’t even want to think what Gramps would say if he knew Danny Evans was having a casual conversation with me about Mom in Missing Pieces.

  “I’m sorry.” He backed down. “I don’t know you well enough to ask you this kind of stuff, I guess. You’re just a lot like Jean. She was easy to talk to.”

  “Sure.” I added some honey to the tea but didn’t sit down to drink it.

  “Anyway.” He got to his feet and hooked his fingers in the pockets of his well-worn jeans. “I just came by to say thanks. And, I admit I was a little curious about you. I’ll see you around, Dae. Next time, the rum and Coke is on me.”

  I realized after he was gone that I’d been holding my breath, hoping he wouldn’t guess the truth. The connection was there—he couldn’t see it yet. How was I going to feel about it when he could?

  I took my tea and sank gratefully down on my sofa—only to jump up an instant later, emptying my cup as I sat on my ghost pirate’s lap.

  He winked and grinned at me, gold tooth showing on the right side of his mouth. “Aw, we ain’t that close related, dearie. The ladies favored me when I was alive. No reason we couldn’t have a little fun, even though you’re a mite scrawny for my taste.”

  “Don’t even go there!” I warned, not sure what I could do to prevent it, since I couldn’t stop him from being there at all. “Never mind. We’re going next door. Shayla has to know some way to get rid of you.”

  “Look, girl, there’s a very easy answer to you getting rid of me. You’re the last of my line—far as I can tell. I need yer help with the kind of thing only a relation can do. You do that, and I’m gone. Poof! Not like I want to be half alive, half in the grave in this foul time. The air stinks like bilge water, and the women have no rounding to them. What’s there to make a man feel welcome here?”

  The shop door fl
ew open and Shayla stalked inside without bothering to close the door behind her. “I knew it! I knew I sensed a presence here somewhere. Dae, what have you taken up with? Haven’t I warned you about messing around with things you don’t understand?”

  Chapter 18

  “Me?” I put down my teacup. “What are you talking about? He was in one of those spirit balls that came from the séance. In case you didn’t notice—he’s not my mother.”

  Shayla frowned, brows knitting over her dramatically made-up dark eyes. “I don’t know how that’s possible. I was very specific. Not just any spirit could come through like that.”

  “He says we’re related through my mother’s side of the family.”

  “Well, of course! That makes perfect sense.”

  “I’m glad you think so. But you haven’t heard the best of it yet. Shayla Lily, spiritual advisor—meet Rafe Masterson, hanged pirate who cursed Duck.”

  “That’s an old wives’ tale,” Rafe objected.

  “A pirate?” Shayla giggled and pranced around like a teenager. “How exciting!”

  “Shayla—”

  “Pleasure to meet you, beautiful lady.” Rafe sketched an elegant bow to her. “Is that a taste of the old spirits, from the islands, I feel about you? I had a friend—a very good friend—from Barbados who knew the spirits well. She was sweet and dark as good rum, like you, wench. A lovely prize for the taking.”

  I was getting impatient with this mutual admiration society. “All of this is very nice, but can we get rid of him or not?”

  “He’s amazing,” Shayla said. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t want to keep him. He could help you identify old stuff that you find.”

  “He’s not a puppy,” I reminded her, even though I was glad she was able to see and hear him too. “And I don’t want him hanging around.”

  Shayla walked around him with her eyes closed and presumably her mojo working. “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “We can try. But blood ties are strong.”