A Spirited Gift mpm-3
Page 17
Kevin nodded and got in the pickup while the chief kind of nudged me into one of the park shelters. “You know, you’ve always been like a daughter to me. I always wanted a little girl, but Marjory and I were blessed with boys. I’m telling you this because I think you’re in way over your head with Danny Evans.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I replied. “He was at that wreck Kevin and I helped out on. I felt sorry for him.”
“Tim told me he was staying at your shop. He’s bad news, Dae. You need to put some distance between you and him. I don’t like the thought of you getting mixed up with Danny.”
I put on my big mayor’s smile. “I appreciate the thought, Chief, but—”
“I know who he is. Even more important, I know who he is to you. I don’t think Horace recognized him back there. But you know, don’t you?”
I shrugged, but my heart was pounding. I wanted to tell him to mind his own business, but it was better for me to deal with this than to have him go to Gramps. “I know he works at the Sailor’s Dream and that his place was flooded. He had nowhere to go.”
“So you took him in.” The chief’s brown eyes narrowed. “Why not take him home? Why take him to Missing Pieces and the Blue Whale?”
“It seemed easier at Missing Pieces because I met him there.” What kind of game was this? He obviously knew the truth—but he was still trying to decide if I knew that Danny was my father. “Kevin offered to let him stay at the Blue Whale. I thought he’d be more comfortable there.” I wasn’t giving away anything either.
“You mean after you and Brickman went and got him out of the county lockup? Come on, Dae! How naïve do you think I am?”
I raised my chin and looked him in the eye. “That’s right. I went to get him because Tim arrested him after I’d said he could stay at my shop. What’s wrong with that?”
He nodded. “Okay. Have it your way. You know you can talk to me if you need to—if there’s something you can’t say to Horace. Whatever that may be.”
“And I appreciate that.”
He cleared his throat, brushed a blade of grass from his shiny black shoes and set off back to the crime scene.
“What was that all about?” Kevin asked when I climbed in the pickup.
“He knows that Danny is my father. Gramps didn’t recognize him at the Blue Whale—but the chief did.”
“It’s a very small town, Dae,” he said, starting the engine. “You’ve told me that before. Everyone knows everything.”
“Maybe. But why didn’t I know, Kevin? They managed to keep my father a secret from me all these years.”
“I don’t know.” He covered my hand with his. “I’m sure they thought they were protecting you from him. You have to admit, your father doesn’t have the best reputation. And you’re talking about lawmen. They tend to get more protective when someone they love gets involved with a criminal.”
“It just makes me wonder what else they know that I don’t.”
“You should tell your grandfather, Dae. If you don’t, you risk all of it blowing up in your face—like it would have at the inn if Horace had recognized Danny.”
“Well, he didn’t recognize him. I think it’s better this way. He’ll only get upset, and we’ll have another big fight. I’m not giving up being with my father because of things he did wrong in the past. And right now, I’m not really sure if Gramps is all that innocent either. He drove Danny away when my mom needed him. That might not make him a convicted felon—but it makes him wrong.”
There was a white SUV parked to the far right of us—almost in the bushes. I recognized the driver. Shawn Foxx. “What is he doing here?”
“Who?” Kevin followed my gaze. “Mayor Foxx’s husband? Maybe he has a police radio.”
“Maybe.” I told him about Shawn’s visit to the Blue Whale.
“I don’t think it’s unnatural for him to want to know what’s going on,” Kevin said. “I’d be following the chief around if I knew he was looking for the person who killed my wife.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “Should we go and talk to him?”
“I don’t think so,” Kevin answered. “Let’s leave the poor guy alone. He has enough problems.”
We talked about Shawn a little more on the way back to the Blue Whale. Since Kevin didn’t find Shawn’s actions suspicious, I reserved judgment.
Kevin didn’t press me any further about telling Gramps about Danny. I might have sounded hardheaded about my position. I just wanted a chance to get to know my father better before I decided if I should let him into my life and my heart. I wanted to know the truth about him without the outside interference.
Shayla was waiting for us at the Blue Whale. She and Kevin nodded to each other without speaking before he went inside.
“Is the ghost still bothering you?” she asked.
“Bothering her?” Rafe put in an appearance. “I’m helping her solve her lady friend’s murder. I would hardly call that being a bother.”
Shayla rolled her expressive eyes. “I wasn’t talking to you, blowhard. Dae, I think I can get rid of him for you, if you want me to. I found some old text and talked to my Aunt Marie in New Orleans. She thinks we can send him back.”
“Don’t I get a bloody say in all this? You summoned me. I’m not some random spirit ye can call up and put back without so much as a by-your-leave.”
I listened to them bickering. I knew Kevin understood what was going on. I hoped no one else was listening, since it would be a weird conversation to hear on the outside. “I’d like to say something.”
“Well, spit it out, girl,” Rafe said. “We haven’t got all day.”
“I’ve decided to help him,” I told Shayla. “He’s helped me, and I owe him that much. So I guess he stays for right now. Let’s talk about it later if he doesn’t go away once we figure out the truth about his death.”
Rafe pounded the side of the inn with his fists. Birds flew up around us, and several people inside looked out to see what was happening. “It’s about time! Let’s get to work!”
Chapter 31
Since I knew Mark Samson would be my best source for Rafe Masterson lore, I set out for the Rib Shack with Rafe and Shayla on my heels. I explained why I needed to talk to Mark, but when we got to the Rib Shack, it was closed. There were no visible signs of damage to the old, squat building. It had been built out of cinder block in the 1950s. Those old structures like the Rib Shack always seemed to emerge from even the worst storms unscathed. It would probably take a car smashing into it to make a dent.
“He lives a few doors down from here. Let’s try there,” I told my companions. “He’s the one we need.”
“You think he’s the magistrate’s descendant?” Rafe asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “The magistrate’s descendant might not even live here anymore. People move around a lot more now than they did in your time. He could live anywhere in the world.”
“Can’t you do a spell or something, witch?” he asked Shayla. “We could get these answers faster.”
“I’m not a witch,” she protested. “I’m a medium. So unless you want me to contact the magistrate’s spirit, you’re out of luck.”
Rafe didn’t reply—we were at Mark’s little house by then. It looked much like the Rib Shack—pale green-painted cinder block with a dark green roof. I felt pretty sure the two buildings must have gone up at the same time.
Mark was working on his roof, pushing off tree branches and hammering down loose shingles. He waved when he saw us and came down with a smile.
“You know Duck history is my favorite subject,” he said after I’d told him the reason for our visit. “I need to wash my hands. Then we can talk. I’m afraid all I can offer you for refreshments is some warm Coke and a few Twinkies.”
He smiled at us in his warm, friendly way and ushered us into his home. He was a short, older man with gray hair and glasses who looked more like a librarian than someone who roasted pork for a living.
Shayla and I had some warm, flat Coke—it would have been impolite not to. Rafe paced and fumed at the interruption as we all sat in Mark’s tiny living room. There was a big masking tape X on the front window, but the glass was all in one piece.
We talked about all the gossip involving the storm—how the Harris Teeter grocery store was almost empty, and several residents weren’t able to get the prescriptions they needed with the road blocked. Mark knew some things I hadn’t heard, and I gave him some tidbits that surprised him.
When we were all caught up, Mark brought out his research into Rafe Masterson’s life. “Well, like I was telling Dae earlier, Masterson was a pirate—no doubt about it. He was a particularly nasty pirate too. Some historians feel certain he robbed and sank at least twenty ships.”
“That’s a lie!” Rafe roared at the man who couldn’t hear him. “I sank a hundred if I sank one!”
“He probably killed several dozen people too.” Mark leafed through his documentation and cleared his throat. “People around here were scared of him. They had good reason to be.”
“But you said he might have been hanged for something he didn’t do,” I reminded him.
“Oh yes. I have reason to believe from the old records, that he retired—if that’s what pirates called it. He kind of went underground for a few years, and no one knew what happened to him. Many people thought he was dead.”
I thought of the dream I’d had about Rafe’s ship being destroyed. Maybe that was when he disappeared.
“He reappears in a county document.” Mark handed me the copy of the old paper. “He got married. Looks like he tried to start a new life. But I have a feeling he couldn’t get away from his past. He and his wife had two boys in quick succession. I have their birth certificates, of sorts. They’re handwritten notes made by the local midwife who kept glorious records of the children she delivered, bless her soul. Her notes have been invaluable to anyone interested in Duck history.”
Shayla and I looked at the records and passed them back to Mark. “So what happened?” she asked. “Did people forget who he was?”
“There’s no way of knowing that,” Mark answered. “It doesn’t appear he was a landowner, probably kept a low profile, since the local law enforcement—probably a magistrate—would’ve remembered him too well.”
“What about the hanging?” Rafe yelled, swinging his arms. “Tell them I was innocent.”
“The next time we see his name, it’s on a docket at the prison. He was sentenced to die by hanging.” Mark looked up and smiled. “I’m not sure how he managed not to be drawn and quartered. It was popular at that time for pirates.”
“You know, I thought everyone always said he was drawn, quartered and hanged after being tricked into coming to shore,” I said.
“That’s just folklore,” Mark said. “This is what really happened.”
“And what makes you think Rafe wasn’t guilty?” I asked.
“Well, I found a few documents on other prisoners who were being held at the same time. One of them—I can’t make out his name—was released, and Rafe’s name was put over his for smuggling. I think someone just wanted him dead.”
Shayla looked at her bright red fingernails. “Who can blame them? I mean, the man was a thief and a murderer. He might’ve been killed for something he didn’t do, but it sounds to me like he deserved it.”
“Mind your tongue, witch!” Rafe yelled at her. His anger blew all of the documents we’d been looking at on the floor. Two of the windows (probably damaged in the storm) blew out, and the door that had been open, slammed shut.
“What was that?” Mark asked, looking around. “I didn’t even realize those windows were bad.”
I got on the floor and picked up all the papers. “Do you know the name of the magistrate who condemned Rafe to death?”
“I think it’s here.” Mark took some of the papers from me and started looking through them. “He was involved in a lot of cases around the Outer Banks—probably the only magistrate for miles. There wasn’t a lot of society out here at that time. That’s why they had to send men down from Virginia to kill Blackbeard. Not much by way of government.”
Mark shuffled through the documents, squinting at them despite his glasses. Rafe frowned and looked over his shoulder.
“Here it is!” he said after a few minutes. “His name was William Astor. He tried and convicted more than one hundred pirates in his time. Some of them were probably just smugglers, but he wanted his convictions to sound more impressive. From what I can tell, Rafe was his biggest catch. He wasn’t exactly merciful with his executions either—another reason I’m surprised Rafe was only hanged.”
I took all of it in, borrowing a pen and paper to write down some information. “Do you know if William Astor has any living descendants here?”
“I haven’t gotten that far in my research,” Mark said. “Although, I might not even go in that direction. I’m kind of only interested in Rafe. I think we might be related. How cool would that be—to be Rafe Masterson’s descendant?”
“Probably not as cool as it sounds.” Shayla got to her feet. “I have to go. I have an appointment.”
“Thanks for your help, Mark.” I shook his hand. “I hope you find out you’re related to Rafe.”
“No problem, Dae. There’s supposed to be a journal or diary left by William Astor. You could ask Mrs. Stanley about it. She might know where it is. That might give you some idea whether any of Duck’s current residents are related to the old magistrate.”
Shayla and I walked back out into the sunshine with Rafe floating along in front of us.
“Why isn’t he gone?” Shayla asked when we were a few yards from Mark Samson’s house. “Mark said he probably wasn’t guilty of smuggling. He should be gone.”
“You understand very little,” Rafe said. “I need the real proof—I need that diary wherein the man himself admits he killed me dead for naught. Nothing less will give me peace after all these years.”
“Whatever.” Shayla shrugged. “Say the word, Dae, and I’ll give Aunt Marie a call.”
“I want to get rid of him as much as anyone—”
“Lucky Mark Samson isn’t related to the pirate blowhard or he’d be taking up residence at the Rib Shack,” Shayla added.
“Anyway, it sounds like Rafe might not be guilty. All we have to do is figure out if someone here is still related to William Astor and has his diary.” I smiled at her.
“Sounds like fun,” she said. “Give me a call when you’re done. See you, Dae.”
Chapter 32
I decided to go to Missing Pieces and spend some time alone to think about everything. Being alone meant Rafe could be in the shop with me—according to our agreement—but I was hoping to persuade him otherwise. I thought of several convincing reasons why I needed some time without him.
But it turned out he had other plans anyway. Without any explanation, he vanished down a set of concrete stairs that led into the sound. Watching him disappear into the water gave me shivers.
Gramps had told me once that those stairs had been part of a pier that was destroyed during a hurricane years before I was born. No one had ever bothered to pull them up—they made for interesting stories to tell children and tourists.
Maybe hearing about his past from Mark Samson had left the old pirate in need of some time alone too, I speculated as I opened the door to Missing Pieces. I certainly wasn’t complaining. I sat down on my burgundy brocade sofa with a relieved sigh.
There was always something about the days following a bad storm—as though time stood still for a while as we recovered from the assault. Life, normal life, came back slowly until one day everything was working and where it belonged again. That transition was as much a part of the rhythm of the Outer Banks as the horses and the lighthouses.
I took a hand cloth and began dusting and rearranging all my treasures. This was one of my favorite chores. I was surprised and pleased to be interrupted by a customer.
“Where’s home?” I asked with a smile, quickly hiding my dust cloth.
“St. Louis. All my family is there. But I’ve had a wonderful time down here. My friend who comes every summer with her family recommended Duck—and your shop.”
“I’m glad you’ve had a good time, despite the storm. And I’m glad you stopped by. What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. She likes antiques.” She shrugged and looked around like she was lost. “I don’t know anything about them. I’d love it if there was something that has a story. She’s a writer and she loves history.”
“Really? What does she write?”
The woman laughed, showing perfect white teeth in her tanned face. “She writes murder mysteries set in the past. Crazy, huh? But she’s successful at it. My brother and I tease her all the time about it. She doesn’t care. She’s happy.”
I thought about the gold makeup case and dug it out. Apparently my previous buyer had changed her mind, since I hadn’t heard from her. “This belonged to Lady Suzanne Forester, and there is a story that goes with it. She spent some time here off and on with her uncle during the late 1700s and early 1800s. She was a writer too.”
“Murder mysteries?” The woman carefully examined the case.
“No, I’m afraid not. She wrote wonderful journals about her life and the people around her—what it was like to spend time in this area when it was still basically a wilderness then return to England and her life there. She was an early suffragette. She was very accomplished as an artist too. A Renaissance woman. Your sister can probably find some background material about her in books.”
“Really? How fascinating!” She turned the makeup case over, opened it and peered inside at the old mirror. “I think you’re right. I think she’ll love it.”