A Spirited Gift mpm-3

by Joyce Lavene

  “You always were a sassy girl. Just like your grandmother. I should’ve warned Kevin from the get-go, only I felt like the two of you would be so perfect together. At least I was right about that, huh?”

  “You’re right about a lot of things, Gramps. I just try not to let on.” I got out of the golf cart, and my knees gave out on me. Gramps came around and helped me up. We went up the stairs together, and I lay down on my bed.

  “I’ll get you some tea, honey. You just lie there and take it easy.”

  I’d been around Rafe so much in the last few days, I could feel his presence before I could see him. Gramps was barely out the door when the pirate showed himself.

  “God’s teeth, that was stupid and witless, girl! Just when I think my blood must be running strong in you, ye do something ridiculous. What if you had been killed? What if you had been lost in those past moments?”

  “Don’t even pretend you care—except for the fact that I couldn’t help you if I’d been injured.”

  “That’s enough for me. It should be enough for you too. Who cares who killed that silly female and her lover? You have a once-in-a-lifetime chance to clear your blood relative’s name. That should be enough to occupy your silly female brain.”

  “Go away,” I told him. “I have a headache. I don’t feel like talking to you.”

  “Bah! You don’t know if you’re up or down. I’m going to have some rum.”

  Chapter 44

  Gramps coddled and fussed over me the rest of the day. He even skipped his newly restarted pinochle game to stay home. We watched TV together, and I wondered if he’d told everyone to leave us alone that night—the phone didn’t ring once.

  It was nice and cozy—a good way to recover from the shock of emotions coming from the gun. Kevin had been right about the extreme passion, anger, hatred and fear.

  But I pulled out of it, and the next morning I was fine. I’d slept well—no wisecracking pirates or fatal dreams about the past. I was ready to go to Missing Pieces when Mrs. Euly Stanley called me.

  “Dae, you won’t believe it! I think we’ve found the magistrate’s descendant. Come down to the museum and take a look.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I told her and closed my cell phone.

  “Is this it? Is this the diary?” Rafe demanded as I walked out the front door.

  “I don’t know yet. She didn’t mention the diary—just William Astor’s descendant. He or she may not live here anymore. We may have to call or email them to find out if the diary still exists.”

  “Go on with ye and your fancy blasted words. Tell me when you know where it is.”

  “Since you seem to hang around all the time and listen in on private phone conversations, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  I got a “Bah” for my trouble, but it didn’t bother me. I was almost running along Duck Road—as excited as the pirate ghost that hovered near my shoulder.

  Having him with me made me wonder how many ghosts were out there that most of us couldn’t see. Was there a ghost following Luke Helms as he jogged by in the other direction, waving to me as he went? Was Cailey Fargo’s Aunt Twinny whispering in her ear as she drove the fire chief’s SUV to the station? How many ghosts were trying to communicate but we couldn’t hear them?

  Marissa was at the Blue Whale’s mailbox at the end of the driveway as I went by—breathlessly walking now. “Morning, Dae! You look like you’re in a hurry.”

  “I was until I realized how out of shape I am. How are the repairs coming along?”

  We both looked up with our hands shading our eyes against the bright sun. Kevin was silhouetted before the brilliant blue sky, a pack of shingles slung over one shoulder. He waved to both of us, then disappeared over the crest of the roof.

  “Pretty good. Another couple of weeks and it will be like the mayor’s conference never happened.” She frowned, her pretty face puckering. “Sorry. Not that it wasn’t a good idea. You couldn’t know there’d be a storm.”

  “Or a murder. But that’s okay. I know what you mean. Maybe we’ll try it again someday—if Kevin will ever consider it again.”

  “He’d do anything for you. It’s good when a man cares that much. Not many do—at least not in my experience.”

  I smiled, recalling that Marissa was divorced after a disastrous marriage. “I think there’s someone for everyone. I hope you find your someone too.”

  She didn’t respond, just hugged the mail to her and walked back to the Blue Whale. I hated that terrible sadness I felt from her each time we talked. She was so pretty—it was hard to believe men weren’t beating down her door. But maybe they were all the wrong men. Shayla seemed to have the same problem.

  Rafe urged me toward the museum, and I burst in the door as the group was discussing the exciting implications of their new historic find.

  “Come on in, Dae,” Mrs. Stanley said, her faded blue eyes sparkling with the thrill of new knowledge. “There are sticky buns from the bakery and coffee on the side table. Help yourself.”

  But I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. I sat down and peeked over Mark Samson’s shoulder as he looked at a new family tree.

  “This is awesome!” he raved. “Not that we didn’t know there were magistrates that governed the islands during those early times.”

  “But many of their names and family histories have been lost down through the years,” Andy Martin continued. “Look here, Dae. You can see where Magistrate William Astor married Mary Smith-Masterson. They had four children—two sons from her previous marriage that he adopted as his own. Mary and William had two more children together in the eight years they were married.”

  “What happened to her?” I asked with no prodding from Rafe.

  “Not a clue at this point except that she died and Astor remarried and had two more children,” Mark explained.

  I felt let down. Mary was such a valiant woman. I wanted to know more about her. I’d have to research her later. “Did any of the Astor children survive?”

  “Yes. Two of the six survived—pretty good numbers back then with all the childhood diseases going around,” Andy added. “Magistrates were a pretty big deal in the late 1700s and early 1800s, so they’d have had all the advantages that were possible.”

  “Can you tell which two survived and if they have descendants?” I asked, feeling the anxiety in the pit of my stomach.

  “One of them was clearly Mary Masterson’s child. It seems he took back his birth father’s name after his mother died. He went on to become a governor in Jamaica. The other was from the second wife. He was hanged for murder. Pretty sweet, huh?” Andy teased.

  “Not so fast, boys,” Mrs. Stanley countered. “We have no proof as yet that this Mary Smith-Masterson was indeed married to Rafe Masterson. I’ve never heard that the pirate settled down and had a family—except of course from your perspective, Mark. We need proof before we can consider it history.”

  “And? What about now? Are there any descendants left of the son who was the governor of Jamaica, Mary’s child?”

  “Yes!” Mark jumped on that. “Thanks to the Internet and the library in Manteo, we know that the magistrate’s descendant is—drum roll—Joseph Endy of Duck, North Carolina.”

  I’ve never seen two faces lose their excitement so quickly. Mrs. Stanley sat down and made a modest humphing noise. “Oh, that diary. You’ll never get it from him,” she said. “Odious man! I didn’t know he was involved in all this. We’ve wasted our time.”

  I didn’t understand the problem. I knew Joe. He was okay.

  “We’ve tried for years to get even a glimpse of it,” Andy confirmed. “He won’t even let us see the diary much less tell us who wrote it.”

  “He taunts us with it.” Mrs. Stanley frowned. “He knows how valuable it may be to Duck history. He’s refused all of our efforts to get information about it.”

  Mark looked more crestfallen than any of us. “We have to do something about it. This could be definitive. He can’t hide
history. Maybe we could appeal to him. He might’ve changed his mind. Why hasn’t anyone told me about this before?”

  “You haven’t been a member that long,” Andy told him. “Besides, it hasn’t come up in years. I never thought about the diary Dae was looking for belonging to that old coot.”

  “But maybe this is an opportunity,” Mrs. Stanley said in a sly way as she looked at me. “A chance to change his mind. Joe always liked the ladies. I remember when he and Wild Johnny Simpson and Bunk Whitley used to have contests to see who could take out the best-looking girl.”

  “Dae isn’t bad looking,” Andy said. “And she has a very winning way about her. She might be able to get a look at the diary.”

  “Good idea!” Mark patted me hard on the back in his excitement. “If anyone can do it, our mayor can!”

  Funny how people loved you when you could get something they wanted.

  Chapter 45

  So thirty minutes later (after an approved clothing change) I was at Joe Endy’s little house off Duck Road on the Currituck Sound side. The three members of the Duck Historical Society had taken me up to the Sunflower Fancy shop and purchased an outfit they felt would win Joe’s heart—basically softening him up enough that he’d let me take a look at the diary.

  I wasn’t so sure about the change, and I had plenty of clothes in my closet at home. The clinging, apricot-colored silk dress wasn’t exactly my style, and the extra makeup Mrs. Stanley put on me made me feel even less like myself. But there was no arguing with them. No talking on my part at all for that matter. They spent the whole time telling me what I should and shouldn’t say to Joe.

  I wasn’t thinking about any of their instructions, though, as I knocked on the weather-beaten door. Joe’s little house was like so many in Duck that were built in the 1950s, withstanding hurricanes and high tides. It had a little wrought-iron fence around an old flower garden. Weeds had mostly overtaken the late-season roses and mums.

  I was trying to get my pirate ghost to back off. Rafe was even more insistent and louder than any of the museum members. I knew he was excited about possibly having the end of his long road in sight. But I wouldn’t be able to concentrate with him shouting that way when I spoke with Joe. At least no one else could hear his tirade.

  “Come on in,” Joe called. “Door’s open.”

  I remembered that he’d suffered a stroke a few months back. While there had been sympathy expressed by the town council, members were also relieved not to have him complaining at every meeting.”

  “Mr. Endy?” I called as I walked in. “It’s Dae O’Donnell. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”

  He appeared in his wheelchair, a skeletal remnant of the man he’d been. His gnarled hands were clenched on the big wheels that moved him from place to place. “Mayor! To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  I took out my next secret weapon that Andy had insisted I bring with me—cookies from the bakery. Chocolate chip was Joe’s favorite. “Actually I was headed this way and my grandfather had these extra and asked me if I’d drop them off.”

  Joe took the cookies—but never took his eyes off of my cleavage. “Good old Horace! He’s always been a good friend. We had some great times fishing out on his boat. Thanks.”

  “I’m sure he’d be glad to take you out again. The Eleanore is in dry dock for repairs right now, but she’ll be up and running again in no time.” I glanced around the tiny house. “I hope the storm didn’t affect you too badly.”

  “Not at all.” He chomped a few cookies. “I hardly even noticed. Slept right through it.”

  “That’s good. We’ve tried to check in with everyone and make sure they’re okay.”

  “You do a good job, Mayor. Not that I’m surprised. Your family has a history of community service to the town. In a way, not too different from my own family in times past.”

  Rafe managed to nudge me, and a few papers flew off the nearby table. “Get on with it! Quit dillydallying.”

  “Really?” I smiled and looked interested. “I didn’t realize your family was involved with the town.”

  “You’d be surprised.” He laughed in a way that made me wonder if I should find some oxygen for him. “They’d all be surprised. Those harpies at the museum with their fine and noble heritages. I’ve got the best one of all. But no one knows.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t want them to know. Wouldn’t it be fun to see how amazed they’d be?” I was careful not to push too hard.

  “Who cares about them? They don’t matter. The only people I want to share this with are what’s left of my family. My granddaughter moved back here a few months ago. I hope she’ll keep the family name alive in Duck. I’ve left her my property—including the diary those witches at the museum want.”

  “Well, I’m glad you have Marissa, Mr. Endy. I’m sure she’s a comfort to you. I’ve met her at the Blue Whale. She’s very nice and does a great job.” I smiled even though Rafe was all but dancing a ghostly jig between us. “I’m glad to see you’re getting around all right after your illness. Don’t be afraid to call if you need anything.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks, Dae.” He frowned for a moment, then said, “What would you do with a diary like mine?”

  “I don’t know. I guess give it to someone who’d appreciate it. It concerns us all, Mr. Endy. If a family had a diary that described early times and people from Duck, it would affect the whole town.”

  “You want to see it?”

  “The diary? I’d be glad to take a look at it. Whose diary is it?”

  “It belonged to one of the original magistrates—lawmen of their day. Back before Duck was a town or anything like that. The magistrates were judge, jury, and in some cases, executioners. This was a lawless place, worse than the Old West ever was. Pirates, cutthroats, press gangs and thieves. The magistrates cleaned up the islands and left their mark so the rest of us could lead decent lives. Kind of like you and Horace. That’s why I’d like you to have a look.”

  “That sounds really exciting.” My heart was beating hard, and my smile felt a little off center. I felt like Rafe did, but on the inside. I couldn’t let my emotions show and scare Joe off.

  “Great!” He looked around the cluttered room as I had a few minutes earlier. “Now where did I put that?”

  “Blast and hellfire!” Rafe threw his tricorn hat on the floor. “Get on with it, man! If I’d been alive, I’d have skewered your liver by this time.”

  “Quiet!” I mumbled.

  “What?” Joe looked up at me. “I know it’s here somewhere. Could you help me look for it? It’s in an old wood box with a crest on it. You can’t miss it.”

  So we started looking—under beds, in closets, in the tiny attic and behind every door. Nothing.

  “It’s been here all my life,” Joe said. “I know it has to be here. I just can’t remember where I put it.”

  “I don’t know where else to look.” I was pretty sure the apricot silk dress wouldn’t be returnable after all the dust and the grimy smears I’d just added to it.

  Joe started to say something, then shook his head. “What am I doing? You’re Eleanore’s granddaughter! You can tell me where it is, right?” He rolled up close to me and held out his hands. “Not sure how this works exactly. What do I do?”

  “You think about what’s lost,” I told him, taking his hands. They were cold and leathery. “Close your eyes and let’s see if we can find it.”

  Being in someone else’s mind searching for a lost possession was like looking through an attic full of memories and pictures. Most of them had nothing to do with what was lost. But if the person could hold the thought of the lost item in the front of their minds, the search was as easy as walking up the stairs and finding the item at the front of the crowded attic.

  In Joe’s case, the attic was so overcrowded, I wasn’t sure I could find the old diary he’d hidden. Then suddenly, as he concentrated, there it was. I could see the old, scarred box restin
g in a pool of sunlight.

  I opened my eyes to find him staring at me. “I think I see it.” I glanced around the room again. The box was hidden under a tobacco humidor. “You used to smoke before you had your stroke. I think you left it over here.”

  The box and humidor were both near the window where the sunshine was flooding in from the beautiful day outside. I lifted the humidor with one hand and pulled out the box with the other.

  On the outside of the box, still intact after so many generations, was the Forester crest. I recognized it from the makeup case William Astor had made for his adopted mother, Suzanne. My dreams seemed to have been right about this. I could hardly wait to see if the magistrate had chronicled his near death at Rafe’s hands—and the revenge he’d taken on the pirate.

  I sat down again near Joe. He smiled at me as I opened the box. I pulled out the worn, leather-bound diary. In an instant, emotions from the diary flooded through me.

  Wild Johnny Simpson had rummaged through Joe Endy’s parents’home looking for anything he could hold until Joe paid him back the money he owed him. He’d heard Joe talk about the old diary. Johnny laughed as he took it back to the Blue Whale.

  He wasn’t laughing as Joe shot him and took what belonged to him before leaving Johnny there to die.

  Chapter 46

  I came back to myself, slumped in my chair, the diary still in my lap. Joe was staring at me with a horrified expression on his face. I could tell he wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Are you okay?” he asked finally.

  “I’m fine.” I smiled and opened the diary again—Rafe prodding me to hurry.

  “Go to the middle or so,” Rafe demanded. “Find where that bastard murdered me.”

  But there was so much more. I could’ve gotten lost in it for days. No wonder the historical society wanted it. The rich history of the area was well chronicled by the urchin saved from death by Lady Suzanne Forester on the beach centuries ago.