A Spirited Gift mpm-3

by Joyce Lavene

  I put my hand on his arm—too emotional from what I’d seen about Rafe not to tell him the truth. He should know. He deserved to know I was his daughter. It could change his life the way it had changed mine.

  “Dae!” Tim Mabry said as he ran up to us. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

  The moment had passed—sanity returned. I knew I couldn’t tell Danny the truth yet.

  “What’s up?” I asked in what I hoped was a normal voice.

  “They need you up at town hall. We’re gonna be on TV! The Weather Channel is here, following the path of the storm. Can you believe it?”

  Chapter 37

  I had to run home and change clothes. No one wants to see a sandy, rumpled mayor on TV! Tim’s announcement was like a cold slap of seawater in the face, jerking me away from the past and into the reality of the present.

  I put on a little lipstick and made sure there was nothing stuck in my teeth, then I sailed out the door.

  I saw the TV vans in the Duck Shoppes parking lot. I was sorry the bad weather had brought them to us, but I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. One of the vans was from the Weather Channel amd the other was from our local station in Virginia Beach.

  Town hall was packed with residents, TV crews and members of the town council. Like me, they had changed their everyday clothes for suits and ties. Nothing but our Sunday best to show off Duck!

  I was excited and happy to be there—until I saw Mad Dog talking to a reporter on air.

  “And this is why we need new leadership in our town,” he said, waving his arms like a crazy octopus. His dark blue suit was too small for his large frame, its brass buttons threatening to pop off his jacket. “Two murders in Duck within days of each other, following a terrible act of nature. And what has Mayor O’Donnell done for us?”

  I disliked the way he made it sound as though I were responsible for the murders as well as the storm. After going through an emotional wringer all morning, I was tempted to just walk back out the door.

  But I wouldn’t let him get to me. I straightened my black suit, plastered on my mayor’s smile and pushed my way through the crowd that surrounded Mad Dog.

  “What I’d like to know, as mayor and as a citizen, is what Councilman Wilson has done about the things that have happened in the last few days. Not once while I’ve been out helping with cleanup after the storm or aiding the Duck Police with these terrible crimes, have I seen Councilman Wilson. Where have you been, Mad Dog?”

  “Mad Dog?” The smiling TV personality looked back at him. “That’s an unusual nickname.”

  “He got it racing cars around the Outer Banks when he was younger,” I told her.

  “So you were one of the infamous moonshine runners, huh, Mad Dog?” she asked with a practiced smile of her own.

  “I was a stock car driver,” he corrected her. “I never ran moonshine. Not once. Not in my whole life.”

  His words added fuel to the allegation, and the reporter put a match to the whole thing. “Was that during the time of prohibition?”

  Mad Dog frowned at me. “I’m not that old. What do you take me for? It’s Dae’s fault—she twists words around.”

  The reporter turned away from both of us and laughed as she faced the camera. “Sometimes history gets a little too real down here in the Outer Banks. Reporting from Duck, North Carolina, I’m Christine Thomas and I’m out and about!”

  The cameraman lowered the lens, and Christine Thomas put away her microphone.

  “Wait a minute!” Mad Dog tried to stop her. “I haven’t finished. There’s more to say about the mayor and all of the mysterious goings-on right here. Maybe we should do an in-depth piece.”

  Christine smiled at him and kind of patted him on the shoulder. “Maybe—once Duck gets to be more important. Right now, it was all I could do to get my boss to let me come down here with the Weather Channel. Sorry.”

  The expression on Mad Dog’s face reminded me of a hound dog on an old calendar. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe his time on-air had been for nothing. “You know, one day, Dae O’Donnell, the world is going to hear how you and your grandfather manipulated the last election. Then I think you won’t find it so funny.”

  I started to tell him that I didn’t think it was funny now, but he made a humphing sound and stormed out of town hall. Really, I couldn’t believe our little election could turn so dirty. Again I thought it might be best to leave the race and let him have it. I didn’t want this to turn into a campaign of dragging each other’s dirty laundry through the streets of Duck.

  But I didn’t have time to dwell on it then. The Weather Channel crew wanted me to walk them through some streets that would show off the damage done to Duck. They also wanted to know what it was like the night of the storm, how the cleanup was going and what our normal precautions were during emergency weather.

  I was amazed at how thorough their questions were. We had nothing to hide, as far as I was concerned. Our emergency personnel and policies were as good as any other town around here. And I was glad to talk about them.

  The pace was rigorous as we drove to some spots for photos and video, then walked to other areas where I answered questions and we talked to Duck residents about their experiences.

  I saw Shawn Foxx standing outside Carter Hatley’s Game World and wondered what he was doing there. Given that Kevin had said the police were questioning him about Sandi’s death, I was surprised to see him in town. Was he doing his own investigation? The arcade seemed a strange place to start. But I’d be investigating if I were a suspect in a murder investigation.

  There wasn’t time to stop and ask as the Weather Channel van sped by. I was glad to hear that not a single resident thought the town had done less than its best. That made me feel proud even though I certainly couldn’t take all the credit. I told the TV crew the same thing—the aftermath of a few minutes from the hurricane feeder bands would take months for our public works people to take care of. “There aren’t many of us here, but we all pitch in.”

  At one stop, I found Kevin working on the roof at Betty’s Boutique and Floral along with a group of volunteers. I pointed out to the TV crew that Kevin—and probably the others as well—was helping out Betty even though his own business needed repair too. Betty’s situation was more urgent, since there had been a dinghy on her roof.

  The volunteers all shook hands with the camera crew. Kevin looked across the crowd at me. I smiled and he kind of smiled back. I thought it was a good sign. But I felt pretty sure we wouldn’t get to talk today. Maybe a little space would be good for us.

  It was going on evening when the Weather Channel crew finally wrapped up their taping. I suggested going to Wild Stallions on the boardwalk, since they were all hungry and thirsty. We had a good time comparing notes on storms in the Atlantic. One of the crew was from Wilmington, North Carolina, so we had a lot in common.

  By the time everyone had eaten all the French fries and seafood they could hold and had plenty of beer (except the cameraman, who lost the toss and became designated driver), it was almost ten P.M. I stood in the Duck Shoppes parking lot and waved to them as they left. The program about the aftermath of storms would air in January.

  I had just started walking home, sorry I hadn’t worn more comfortable shoes, when Rafe rejoined me. “It’s not as if I had much choice in the matter,” he said as though we’d never stopped talking from earlier in the day. “You’ve done good work, girl. But we need that diary if I am ever to lay down this blasted existence.”

  “I have everyone I know working on it,” I told him with a new feeling of camaraderie. “We’ll find the diary.”

  “Aye, I know ye will.”

  I kept walking and he stayed beside me. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but I didn’t want every one of them to be like a dagger to his heart—even though he was dead. “Will you ever see Mary again?”

  He looked up at the stars. “I’m hoping so. We’ve been ke
pt apart all these years. But I’m hoping, once I’m free, to be able to join her. My children too, for that matter. It’s been a long, lonely punishment for my crimes.”

  “What about William Astor? Will you see him too?”

  “I hope so, girl. I’d like to rip off some of his dead flesh and take the pieces—”

  “I think that’s how you got here in the first place, Rafe. Maybe you should be forgiving too.”

  “And who are ye to give me advice?” he demanded. “You haven’t even lived two score yet and you’re a woman to boot. I think I know what’s best for me.”

  Traffic was light this late, and I considered my next question carefully before I asked. “Will I ever see my mother again? I’ve tried to contact her for the last few years. Maybe she doesn’t want to see me.”

  “There, there.” His ghostly hand sort of patted my shoulder. “It’s probably nothing to do with you. Maybe yer ma’s not ready yet.”

  “Could you ask her for me?”

  “I could,” he agreed. “If I had any blasted idea of who she is.”

  “She was a Bellamy on my grandmother’s side. Maybe you could look her up.”

  He kind of snarled. “It’s not that easy. But I’ll try.”

  I could’ve hugged him, but I knew there was nothing really there but hot air and attitude. We reached the turn in Duck Road right before my house. Two police cars and a county sheriff’s vehicle were parked in the street and in the drive.

  “It looks to me like you’ve got company,” he said before he disappeared.

  I blinked my eyes, amazed again at how fast he could be gone. I wished I could disappear too.

  Chapter 38

  I’ve always known that once a lawman, always a lawman. Even though Gramps was retired, he had almost as many late-night meetings with Tuck Riley and Chief Michaels as he’d had when he was working.

  I grew up knowing my grandfather (who stood in as my father on many occasions) was different than other classmates’ fathers. Trudy’s father was an accountant. Tim’s father was a dentist. None of them seemed to worry about what was happening to the FBI or if there were more guns available on the island than there were twenty-five years ago.

  He also used a secret code for things my mother didn’t want me to know about. Gramps would come home and talk about problems and situations that to my ears didn’t make any sense. I learned later that, on those occasions, he used code words to describe nabbing a bank robber or a drug smuggler. My mother worried that these were issues that were too adult for my eight- through twelve-year-old mind.

  I remembered listening from the stairs to the lawmen gathered in the kitchen as they talked openly about getting shot, losing partners and dealing with other everyday life crises. Everything from murder to shoplifting was discussed during these sessions, which could last most of the night. Smuggling, from artwork to drugs and Cuban cigars, was always a popular topic. Being so remote, Duck had always been a target for smugglers.

  At the time, I romanticized smuggling, thinking it was like being a pirate. My mother would catch me on the stairs and tell me I shouldn’t listen to that kind of talk. I should be thinking about new dresses and dolls, boys and parties. I always reminded her that Batman was my favorite comic book. Her argument was that Batman wasn’t real—while what Gramps and the others talked about was.

  By the time I was a teenager, I knew more about law enforcement than most kids. But by then I’d lost interest, and boys and parties took priority. It was enough to know what was going on out there without hearing the boring details.

  So tonight, I walked into the house knowing exactly what to expect—anticipating the hot air and tense moments as the lawmen discussed whatever this evening’s subject was. But I was surprised to find that they weren’t talking only about old times.

  “Dae, will you put on another pot of coffee?” Gramps asked when he saw me, a frown furrowing his forehead beneath his old fishing hat. He looked like he’d just come in from fishing on the Eleanore.

  I knew that meant it was going to be a long night. Sometimes they went through three or four pots.

  Tim Mabry nodded to me but kept a low profile. Even more than Gramps’s expression, the fact that Tim didn’t flirt with me indicated a serious subject was being bounced around the kitchen table. Fresh donuts were present, but no one was eating—another bad sign.

  Sheriff Riley was walking around the room, his hand resting on his gun as he spoke. “This affects all of us, Horace,” he said. “That’s why we’re here. Two and two don’t always make four.”

  “In this case, I’d say they have no choice,” Chief Michaels said. “We had the gun and bullets tested twice. This is ballistics’ final report. There’s no doubt about it.”

  I measured the coffee carefully, taking my time, wishing they’d get on with it. Usually I didn’t want to hear their discussions, but tonight was different. I could feel it in the clipped sound of their voices and tense body language. Something else bad had happened.

  I was afraid they might decide not to continue until I left the room. I felt like a kid again, urging them silently to get to the point before my mother found me eavesdropping and ordered me to my room.

  “The .22 pistol that killed Matthew Wright and Mayor Foxx is the same weapon that killed Wild Johnny Simpson over at the Blue Whale more than thirty years ago.” Sheriff Riley stopped pacing and glared at the chief and Gramps as if they were at fault.

  The gun that killed Wild Johnny Simpson? I couldn’t believe it.

  “I thought we knew old Bunk Whitley killed Johnny?” Chief Michaels asked. “Maybe Bunk planted that gun to be found someday. Like now.”

  “Any prints on the gun?” Gramps wondered in a hopeful tone.

  “Wiped clean,” Scott Randall said as he smiled at me. I smiled back, and he looked away, his face stained red. Tim nudged him with his elbow as a warning not to flirt with me.

  “I don’t believe old Bunk came back to kill this Wright fella and his girlfriend,” Sheriff Riley stated like he was saying it for the record. “I’d say old Bunk has bigger fish to fry.”

  “But if not him, who?” Gramps demanded. “And how many times are we gonna ask this question about who killed Johnny Simpson?”

  Wild Johnny Simpson was a mythical kind of figure in Duck—like Blackbeard or Rafe Masterson. He didn’t start out that way. He seemed to lead a normal kind of life, building a house and marrying Miss Elizabeth Butler.

  Then something happened and he vanished, almost never to be seen again. If Kevin hadn’t reopened the Blue Whale, what happened to Johnny might still be a mystery.

  Kevin had been showing some of us around when we found Johnny’s long-dead body in one of the top-floor rooms. He’d been shot and left to die—the Blue Whale closed up around him as old Bunk Whitley mysteriously vanished the same night. No one had ever known for sure what happened to either man.

  Then I ran into Bunk Whitley on one of the supposed-to-be uninhabited coastal islands. Before he made another mysterious exit, he’d told me he’d left Johnny Simpson in charge of the Blue Whale and would never have hurt him. That left Johnny’s death still a mystery to some—while others, mostly the police, still accepted Bunk as Johnny’s killer.

  What Bunk had said made sense to me. He was also the one who told me my father was still alive after years of Gramps, and even my mother, lying to me. I guess I felt like I could trust Bunk to tell the truth about Johnny, since he’d been honest with me about my dad.

  Now the gun that had killed Johnny was involved in two more deaths—deaths that had no connection to Johnny or Bunk Whitley.

  “We’ll keep bringing it up until we have an answer!” Sheriff Riley banged his fist on the table. “You couldn’t solve this case when you were sheriff, Horace. Now, when this comes out, it’s gonna make us all look like monkeys. We have to figure it out before that happens. Any suggestions?”

  I finished the coffee and saw a look pass between Chief Michaels and Gramps. I knew
that look. They were thinking about having me hold the gun and see what I could find from it.

  It would be an easy answer—if what I saw made sense—and if they could convince Sheriff Riley to go along with the experiment. It wouldn’t be an answer they could take to court, but it might be something that could put them on the right track.

  Am I willing to hold something knowing it was used to kill three people? I considered the difficult question even before they asked me. I wanted to help. But the emotional strain would be terrible. Just handling Mary’s perfume bottle had been enough to make me feel the agony she went through for Rafe.

  What would it be like handling a weapon that had committed murder? How would I deal with that emotional pain when it was over? It was a terrifying thought.

  And I never knew exactly whose emotion I’d be feeling. In this case, it could be the killer’s—or the victim’s.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” I smiled at all of them and acted as though I didn’t know what the discussion would be about after I’d left the room. I just didn’t want to hear them discuss it—“Dae won’t mind, will you, honey? She’d be glad to help.” Or, “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard, Horace. We need real facts.”

  And I didn’t want to feel pushed into making a decision right away, which I might be if I stayed in the kitchen.

  “I’m turning in for the night,” I told them with a calm demeanor I was far from feeling. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Gramps.”

  Chapter 39

  I wished I hadn’t argued with Kevin. He was the one person I could turn to—the one person whose advice I trusted about these things.

  But I couldn’t call him and tell him I wasn’t angry anymore—Oh and by the way I have a problem I need to discuss.