The Legend of Sleepy Harlow

by Kylie Logan

  “You said you wanted it in your room with you,” the man sucked in a breath and shot back. “And that means—”

  “What it means is that you’re not listening. When I’m ready for it, that’s when I’ll tell you to bring it in.”

  “In like, what, ten minutes?” Dimitri ran a hand through his mane of glorious hair. “I’ll tell you what, Noreen, you want it back in the truck, you take it back to the truck. I’m not moving it another inch. Not now, not ten minutes from now. I’m not stacking anything alphabetically, either, or measuring stuff to make sure it’s precisely two inches apart. You want to waste your time with your crazy organizing—”

  “It’s not a waste of time, it’s a system.” Noreen held her arms close to her sides, her fingers curled into fists. “And so far, it’s worked pretty well, hasn’t it? If it wasn’t for me—”

  Was that a collective groan I heard?

  From everyone but Fiona, who was so ashen I had no doubt she wanted to fade into the woodwork.

  And Noreen, of course. With a look, Noreen dared them all to say another word.

  We’d been introduced like three minutes earlier and already I knew Noreen wasn’t the type of person who backed down from anyone. Or anything.

  Fine by me. I wasn’t, either.

  And it was about time I proved it.

  “I’ve got all your rooms set and your room keys ready,” I said, deftly sidestepping their bickering. I darted into the hallway and grabbed the keys I’d left on a table at the bottom of the stairs. “Each one’s marked,” I said, handing them around. “All the rooms are on the second floor.”

  I’d received room instructions along with the group’s reservations and I knew that the only two guys bunking together were Ben and Eddie. Since I had six guest rooms, that meant Noreen and Dimitri each had their own room as well as the other three men, who, according to their reservations forms, were Liam McCarthy, David Ashton, and Rick Hopkins.

  “I know. That leaves me with no room.” Fiona Blake watched as the others stacked their equipment cases (alphabetically, I presumed) and headed upstairs. She scraped her palms against her jeans. “Noreen”—her gaze darted across the room to where Noreen was doing another once-over of the equipment and checking off a list on a clipboard—“Noreen told me I wouldn’t be staying here. That there aren’t enough rooms. You don’t have to apologize.”

  “I wasn’t going to.” I softened the statement with a smile and would have gotten one back if Fiona’s gaze didn’t shoot Noreen’s way again.

  “It’s not like I didn’t know you were coming,” I told the kid. “Ms. Turner told me you’d need a room. I’ve got everything arranged.”

  Fiona squinched up her nose in a way that told me that whatever I was going to say, she had heard it all before. “I know, some little no-tell motel on the other side of the island. That’s fine, really. I’m used to it. It’s not always possible for me to stay with the rest of the crew. I get it.” Her gaze landed on Noreen, who was so busy restacking the equipment the others had just stacked, she didn’t notice. “I just joined the group and I’m only the intern and I don’t rate the same perks the rest of the crew gets.”

  “Which doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be comfortable.” I waved a hand, directing Fiona to look out the window. “That’s why I was able to arrange a room for you next door, at my friend Chandra’s house.”

  “Right next door?” Some of the stiffness went out of Fiona’s shoulders.

  “And you’ll be joining us here every morning,” I told Fiona, loud enough to make sure Noreen heard. After all, Noreen had made the original reservations and agreed (begrudgingly, as I remember) to pay an extra small charge for Fiona’s breakfasts. “Breakfast is every morning at nine, and we’ve got coffee and tea available all day, too, and cookies in the afternoon. Anything you want, just stop in.”

  Fiona would never be described as pretty, but when she smiled, she was cute. She was taller than me (most people are) and in her early twenties, a gangly kid with wide blue eyes that were set a little too close together and a sprinkling of freckles on her nose that made her look as if she’d been dusted with cinnamon sugar. Her hair was a wonderful dark mahogany color that I suspected wasn’t natural, and she wore it pulled back in a ponytail. Like the rest of the crew, she was dressed casually in jeans and an EGG T-shirt, but she’d added a filmy pea green scarf that gave a pop of color to her outfit and perfectly framed the unusual necklace she wore: a white stone about the size of a walnut that was crisscrossed with black veins. The stone was wrapped with a spider web mesh of silver wire, and the whole thing dangled from a black leather loop that hung around Fiona’s neck.

  “Is that howlite?” I asked her.

  Automatically, Fiona’s hand went to the stone. “You recognize it? Most people have never heard of howlite.” Again, she slid a look to Noreen, who was now counting the equipment and acted like we didn’t exist. Fiona’s hand fluttered back down to her side. “It’s just something I like to wear.”

  “Well, it’s very nice. I’ve seen similar stones used in Native American jewelry. Is it from the Southwest?”

  I don’t think I imagined it; Fiona really did look Noreen’s way again.

  And I couldn’t help but think that like my ol’ buddy Jerry Garcia, Noreen really couldn’t care less.

  Fiona’s smile withered around the edges. “The necklace is from New Mexico. Can we stop at the truck on our way next door?” she asked, effectively changing the subject. “I’ll get my suitcase.”

  Together, we walked out to the front porch. I was quickly finding out that October on South Bass is a feast for the senses—and I was enjoying every minute of it. The wineries were in full production, and farmers sold cider and pumpkins from roadside stands. Goldenrod danced in the lake breeze, and the lake itself, as smooth as glass that afternoon, reflected the kaleidoscope mood swings of the sky: gray one day, sapphire the next, and when the clouds were low and the winds calm, ghostly white.

  In wonderful counterpoint to it all, the trees between my house and Chandra’s were a riot of rich color: golden elms, rusty oaks, and fiery red maples, all of their glory like an exclamation mark to Chandra’s purple house with its yellow windows, orange doors, and teal garage.

  Though I hardly knew her at all, something told me Fiona appreciated all of that as much as I did. Once I ushered her down the steps and she retrieved her suitcase from the truck, we closed in on Chandra’s and she caught sight of the windchimes and the sun catchers, the gnomes that filled Chandra’s garden, and the gigantic pumpkin near the front door carved with wide, round eyes and a huge grin. Her smile came back full force.

  “Cool!” Pink shot through Fiona’s cheeks. “Not that I don’t like your place. It’s a great house, but . . .” she stammered, looking back at my B and B. Believe me, I did not take offense. I know hulking Victorians aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, but this one was my pride and joy, from the teal color accented with rose, terra cotta, and purple to the distinctive chimney that caressed the outside of the house all the way from the first floor to the slate roof. I’d lived there less than a year and my business had been up and running for just one season, but already the house and the island felt like home. After a hectic life in New York and a past I was anxious to put behind me, a home was exactly what I was looking for.

  I laughed. “No worries. There’s a lot to like about Chandra’s, and I figured being close by was better than you staying all the way downtown at the hotel.” I didn’t bother to explain that, technically, all the way downtown was less than a mile. “Chandra’s so excited to have a guest. She’s . . .” I wondered how to explain and decided it was best just to lay things on the line. Fiona would know all about Chandra soon enough—Chandra would make sure of that—so she might as well get the truth from me.

  “Chandra’s our resident island-crystal-and-tarot-card reader,” I warned Fiona. “If you have any problem—”

  The kid actually skipped across the next few feet of l
awn. “This is going to be so much fun! I read tarot, too. And I meditate every evening. I have for years. It sounds like Chandra and I will have a lot in common.”

  I didn’t doubt it, especially when Chandra’s front door flew open and a plume of patchouli incense streamed outside. It was quickly followed by Chandra, resplendent (as always) that day in an orange turban that hid her bobbed blond hair and showed her earrings—witch hats studded with purple beads—to best advantage. The earrings looked just right with her diaphanous purple top, which was painted with orange jack-o’-lanterns and cute black cats.

  Chandra took one look at Fiona—and that T-shirt she wore with the icy EGG logo—and her welcoming smile vanished in a flash.

  “EGG? Bea, you didn’t tell me EGG was here again.”

  I wasn’t sure who was suddenly more pale, Chandra or Fiona.

  The kid backstepped away from the house. “I . . . I can stay s-somewhere else. I don’t want to . . . want to inconvenience you . . . or . . . or anything . . . or . . .”

  Feeling a bit as if the sidewalk had been pulled out from under me, I put a hand on the kid’s shoulder to keep her from bolting. “EGG’s been to South Bass before?” I asked Chandra.

  Chandra is nothing if not the friendliest and the most accepting of all the people I’d met on the island. With a start, she realized she’d made Fiona uncomfortable, and she smiled. Or at least she tried.

  “I don’t remember you from last year.” Chandra stuck out a hand and, as if she wasn’t sure what was going to happen when she took it, Fiona stepped forward for a quick shake. “Sorry! I was just surprised to see your shirt. That’s all. Bea, you didn’t tell me EGG was back.”

  I hoped my laugh didn’t sound as phony as it felt. “I didn’t know this was a return visit. Besides, EGG might have been here, but Fiona never has. She’s new with EGG.” Did the look I gave Chandra send the right message? That we had to make sure Fiona felt welcome and at home?

  “Sorry.” Chandra’s weak little laugh was an echo of my own. “I just . . . oh, never mind!” She backed up a step to allow Fiona to walk into the house. “Come on in and we’ll make a pot of white tea. How does that sound? It’s nice and mild and fruity and—”

  “I love white tea!” Fiona turned misty eyes toward me. “Thank you, Bea. I think I’m going to like it here. And sorry . . .” She turned that puppy dog look on Chandra. “I’m sorry I surprised you.”

  Peace.

  I was grateful for it, even if I was a little confused by Chandra’s reaction to her guest.

  I promised myself I’d have a talk with Chandra, told them both I’d see them later, and headed back home, only to find Noreen rearranging the equipment. Again.

  I poked my head into the parlor. “Need anything?”

  “No, we’re all set. At least for now.” Noreen set down her clipboard, picked it up, swiped a hand over the top of the case where she’d just deposited it, and set it down again. “We’re anxious to get started, of course.”

  “You never told me”—I looked around at the equipment cases and cameras—“you’ve been here before. What exactly are you doing back here on the island?” I asked Noreen.

  She barked out a laugh. “Elkhart Ghost Getters?” She looked at me hard. “You’ve never heard of us? Well, it doesn’t matter,” she decided even before I could tell her she was right. “We’re paranormal investigators.”

  It all made sense now, the thermal cameras and the Mel meters and such. Though I was not a fan of reality TV shows of any kind, I didn’t live under a rock. I knew cable television was fat with shows that followed the adventures of crews who were out to prove—or disprove—the existence of things that go bump in the night.

  “You’re filming a TV show.” It never hurts to state the obvious.

  Noreen nodded. “Not just a show. The first episode of our new series.”

  “And you’re doing it here on South Bass?” I realized my mistake immediately and, with a quick smile, apologized for the skepticism in my voice. “It’s not that I don’t think it’s great, but South Bass? I never associated South Bass with—”

  “Never saw our pilot episode we filmed here last fall, did you?” Noreen wasn’t just happy to show how completely out of it I was; she was downright smug. She crossed the room, flipped open one of the equipment cases, and pulled out an iPad. A few taps of the keys and she flipped the screen around so I could see it.

  Except for the glow of what looked like a gigantic camping lantern on the floor in the center of the scene, the video was dark and grainy, a mishmash of gray and black shadows, and I bent nearer, the better to focus.

  “You?” I asked, looking up briefly from the shot of the woman standing just outside the eerie beam of light. “You’re standing behind what looks like—”

  “Wine barrels.”

  “And this was taken here on South Bass?” It wasn’t really a surprise; there are any number of wineries on the island. “What am I supposed to be watching for?”

  “You’ll know it when you see it,” Noreen assured me.

  She was right. Fifteen seconds in, there was a movement to Noreen’s left that reminded me of the wave of heat that comes off a candle. It rippled and shifted, and the shadows darkened for a moment. That giant lanternlike object in front of Noreen flashed, and a second later—

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  I stared at the screen for a couple seconds, then stood up straight and fastened the same sort of sucker-punched look on Noreen. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Want to see it again?” Before I could tell her I did, she restarted the video, and this time, just like last time, I saw what I thought it was impossible to see.

  In those couple seconds after the light flashed, a figure materialized out of nowhere.

  It was a man. I could tell that much from the cut of his clothes. He was tall and completely transparent and he was missing—

  I swallowed hard. “Where’s his head?”

  Noreen clicked out of the video. “No head.”

  “And he’s a—”

  “He is the best video evidence of a full-body apparition anybody anywhere has ever recorded.”

  “And you—”

  “Filmed it last fall. Right here on South Bass. This is the video we showed at a paranormal investigation conference last fall, and let me tell you”—Noreen’s eyes took on a dreamy look that told me she savored every moment of the memory—“that made the other investigators in our field stand up and take notice. Got the cable networks to finally come to their senses, too. I’d been sending them film of our investigations for years, and it showed some good evidence, too. But TV producers, they aren’t interested in what’s good. They only want what’s fantastic. This.” She tapped the iPad. “This is fantastic. This is what got us our show.”

  “Because it’s—”

  “Like I said, the best video evidence of a full-body apparition anybody anywhere has ever recorded.”

  In an effort to clear it, I shook my head. “A ghost here on South Bass?”

  Noreen tossed her head. “Not into island legends, are you? It’s why we came out to the middle of nowhere last year in the first place. You know, because of the legend.”

  “Of the headless ghost.”

  She slapped my back so hard, I nearly toppled. “You got that right, girlfriend. And that’s exactly why we came back this year. You know, to get more evidence. We’re headed out to find the ghost of Sleepy Harlow.”

  2

  “I’m not sure how many other ways I can say it. No means no. It means absolutely, positively not. No, no, no!”

  I’d been going over utility bills, tax statements, and the accounting ledger for Bea & Bees in my private suite, and the sound of the voice in the hallway just outside my door snapped me out of the foggy, groggy daze I’d fallen into. (It was, after all, boring paperwork.)

  My head snapped up and I bent an ear to try and hear more, but the only thing I got for my effort was the sound of a
nother voice, lower-pitched than the first, quieter and so undecipherable.

  “You’re kidding, right?” That was the first voice again. Blame it on the haze of numbers that clogged my brain, but it took me a couple seconds to realize it sounded familiar and another couple seconds after that to place it.

  “Kate?” I popped out of my chair and went out into the hallway, where I found one of my fellow members of the League of Literary Ladies, Kate Wilder, at the bottom of the stairs, fists propped on either side of the stylish brown and gold tweed pencil skirt she wore with a matching jacket. Kate’s cheeks were the same color as her flaming hair, and her eyes shot green fire across the hallway toward the spot where none other than Noreen Turner looked just as miffed.

  Chin out, jaw stiff, eyes narrowed, Noreen barely spared me a glance.

  But then, the full force of her fury was trained on Kate.

  “You don’t mean it,” Noreen growled. “You can’t possibly mean it. We made you famous.”

  “You made me angry. Then, and now.” In one movement as graceful as a dancer’s, Kate turned on her stylish pumps and yanked open the door. “I’ll talk to you later, Bea,” she called back to me, right before she stepped outside and slammed the door closed.

  “She can’t . . . She wouldn’t . . . You can’t let her . . .”

  I turned away from Kate’s dramatic exit just in time to see Noreen’s jaw pump like a piston. The vibration of the banging door still echoed from the high ceiling when she looked my way. “You have to help me,” she said.

  “Help you . . . ?”

  “Talk some sense into that crazy lady, for one thing!” Noreen scraped a hand through her short-cropped hair. “She’s a hothead! A prima donna! She’s—”

  “She’s my friend.”

  A smarter person would have taken the warning for what it was worth and been very careful about what she said next. Oh, it wasn’t like Noreen was wrong. Kate was high maintenance, all right. But it was one thing for her friends to point that out (and believe me, we did, frequently—and just as frequently, Kate ignored us). It was another altogether to hear that kind of criticism from a stranger to the island who was also a guest in my home. Noreen, her eyes lit with a fervor that was even more disconcerting than her anger, closed in on me.