OTHER BOOKS BY ELIZABETH HALL
Miramont’s Ghost
In the Blue Hour
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Elizabeth Hall
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503954687
ISBN-10: 1503954684
Cover design by PEPE nymi
For Misa and Marcos
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
AFTERWORD
IN MEMORIAM
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
BOOK CLUB DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
The sky was the color of a bruise, dramatic shades of gray and purple and lavender, feathery tinges of soft gold. A storm loomed on the western horizon, just beginning to rattle the edge of the island. Wind tossed the branches of the cedars and hemlocks and firs, bending them into dramatic poses. In the deep blue-gray water of Haro Strait, waves skipped and jumped, kicking up sprays of white. Seagulls rode on the swells of air; an eagle called out from the heights.
The sign for the Buena Vista Cemetery danced in the wind, chains creaking and moaning. Just outside the cemetery gates, Emmie stopped and shivered, watching the coming storm. It seeped into her bones; her joints scraped and sighed, a combination of winter storm and the accumulated wear and tear of sixty-five years on the planet.
From here, she had just enough height to look down on the main street of town, two blocks long, filled with various businesses of the tourist trade, or at least filled when the economy was good. She looked down there now, admiring the way the Christmas lights managed to soften the threatening storm. Lights filled every window, some lit only with white, others boasting every color of the rainbow. They managed to bring a feeling of warmth to the bleak, short days of winter. Like stepping into a Norman Rockwell painting, they made life in this town look pretty and perfect and charming. With lights like those, it was almost possible to believe that nothing bad could ever happen here.
Almost possible, but the lights did not deceive her. Even as she stood, looking down at that picturesque little town, sparkling and twinkling like a child’s favorite dream, she could feel the gusts, moving through the trees and the stones of the cemetery. Wind moaned, like the voices of the long dead. Leaves picked up, swirling away in the squall. Something was stirring in those stones. Stirring up the past, stirring up memories and ghosts that were best left quiet.
“Hush now,” she whispered over the graves of the dead. As if her quiet command had any purchase. As if she could stop the wind and rain and storm. As if she had the power to stop the spirits from whirling up into the present, wreaking havoc on them all.
She turned to continue her way up the hill to her home, and that’s when it hit her. She grabbed her left arm, doubled over in pain, as if she’d been kicked. For one moment, stars filled her vision, multicolored bursts of light, similar to the Christmas lights in town. She leaned against the cemetery fence, hung her head, and waited for the dizziness to pass.
Her old dog, Pete, stood close to her, watching intently. The dog was attuned to every movement Emmie made, to every subtle change in her eyes or her voice, or the occasional tremor that crept into her hands. He watched her as if he were her guardian angel and not the other way around. She lowered herself to a bench, forced herself to breathe. After a long minute, her breathing returned to normal, and she reached to rub the dog’s ears.
“It’s okay, boy. I’m okay.” Emmie leaned back against the bench, and the dog sat down next to her leg, both of them surveying the gravestones in front of them and the storm-tossed sea beyond.
Emmie had long been ultrasensitive to every ripple of energy around her. But now, combined with her advancing age, she wasn’t always sure just which energy, just whose pain she was feeling. When she was younger, she could always sense whatever it was out there that was hurting: a horse or a dog or a coyote with its foot in a trap. Somehow, she knew, and always managed to find the creature that was radiating pain and needed the healing touch that Emmie had to offer.
But lately, when the waves of hurting washed over her like this, she couldn’t always tell where it was coming from. Could be animals, could be humans. Could even be something going on in her own body. And lately, there had been times when she had also been feeling the pain of the dead.
Emmie sat still, gazing over the gravestones and the eternally green grass, past the cedars on the edge of the graveyard, out to the purple sky and pewter waves. She had always found it odd that the founders of the tiny town of Copper Cove had seen fit to place the cemetery just exactly here. It was on a rise of land, with breathtaking views of the waters of both Copper Cove to the south and Haro Strait to the west, the village spreading out below. The best view in town, Emmie thought, yet again. As if the dead could appreciate such a thing.
As she sat there now, surveying the town and the water and the storm, she thought that maybe this cemetery’s location was not some random miscalculation on the part of the founding fathers. Certainly, the dead had the best view in this town, the prime piece of real estate. But for the first time in the nearly fifty years that she had lived here, Emmie thought maybe there was a good reason for that. Maybe they used this vantage point to keep an eye on the living. As if the dead were the ones in charge.
ONE
The smell of cedar permeated every molecule of air, and Alexandra inhaled it like tonic. She was driving off the ferry, her first such encounter with the Washington State ferry system, and onto Saratoga Island, a place she had never been before and knew next to nothing about. The only thing that mattered, right at this moment, was that she had managed to put two thousand miles and a one-hour ferry ride between herself and her old life. She was as far north as she could possibly go without leaving the country, and Alex hoped it was far enough.
The aroma of cedar wrapped around her, and she let herself take her first real breath since leaving Albuquerque three days before. The tension of the drive had lodged in her shoulder blades, and she leaned forward in the seat, trying to stretch her back and navigate her surroundings at the same time. Rain had started, yet again, and she flipped on the wipers and the headlights, staring into the murkiness of the ro
ad that led her from this quaint tourist town where the ferry emptied, into the northern, rural reaches of the island.
Dusk came early this far north. The sun was gone and the light was dim, despite the fact that it was not yet four o’clock. Eight miles later, down a twisty, two-lane road that wound through huge stands of Douglas fir and cedar and hemlock, she pulled into the tiny town of Copper Cove, population 514.
Tapping the brake, she drove slowly down the main street. A smattering of businesses clung to two blocks, staring out at the water of Haro Strait to the west. The buildings were old, a New England painting of 1870s homes and businesses. She reached the end of the street and curved to the left, and then turned left again, heading back north through a few blocks of Victorian-era houses. Everything was dressed for Christmas. Twinkling lights decorated all the lampposts and trees and swooped down lengths of fence. Windows and yards glowed with rainbow-colored twinkle lights. She stopped the car, staring at the street and the lights and the reflections of lights on the wet pavement. To her right, a few boats sat moored in the marina of Copper Cove, also bedecked with Christmas lights, as if this whole place were lifted straight from a Hallmark card.
Alex exhaled. The trip was a blur of highways and rest stops; she had not stopped at a motel but had simply pulled off the road and slept in the car when exhaustion overtook her. Her sleep was fitful and brief, whether she was in a real bed or tipped back in the front seat of the car, and so she had not counted it as much of a sacrifice. But now, three days later, she needed a shower and a good night’s sleep in a real bed. And at this moment, she really needed to eat. Alex had not eaten a real meal since before leaving Albuquerque—nothing but fast food and gas station junk. Her brain was fuzzy with exhaustion; her body craved nourishment and rest.
She grabbed the three pages of magazine article that had prompted her northern journey, taken from the pages of a recent edition of Nature magazine. Alex had known, as soon as she saw the article and the picture of the woman who had written it, that this was information she needed to keep.
She tucked the folded pages into her bag and headed into the Drift Inn for a meal. The café, like the town around it, was cozy and quaint and teeming with Christmas lights. They decorated every post, every beam in the ceiling, and ran along the backs of each knotty pine booth. Alex slipped into a booth by the window and glanced around. A bar ran down one entire wall of the café, and it, too, was flooded with Christmas lights, doubled by the mirror behind them. A few people were seated, but it was early for the dinner hour, and Alex was grateful for the quiet.
The waitress brought a menu and a glass of water. Her eyes lingered, for a moment, on Alexandra’s face. Alex swallowed and dropped her gaze to the menu. She hated being scrutinized like that, hated the feeling of sticking out.
“Special tonight is polenta with spicy shrimp. Can I get you a drink or anything, to get you started?” The woman’s face had changed slightly. She was back to doing her job, not so intently focused on the facial features of this stranger before her.
“The special sounds good. And some hot tea.”
Alex turned and stared out the window, drawn to the sight of the water.
“Up for a visit?” the waitress asked when she returned with a cup of tea.
Alex met her eyes. “Actually, I was thinking I might stay awhile.”
“It’s a great place, for sure. If you can get used to rain and clouds and short, dark days. Gray, gray, gray. Where you from?”
“New Mexico. No rain. No short, dark days.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Alex felt a moment of panic. She did not want to answer questions, and now that it was too late, she wished she had lied about where she was from.
The waitress smiled and nodded. “Looks like you go for extremes.”
Alex took the folded pages of the magazine article out of her purse and opened them, pressing the creases with her finger. “Would you happen to know where I could find this woman? Dr. Margaret Edwards?”
The waitress cocked her head to look at the small picture of the gray-haired doctor of biology who had authored the article. “Maggie?” she asked, straightening her neck. “Sure. She’s sitting at the booth right behind you.”
Alex turned. Dr. Margaret Edwards looked very much like the picture in the magazine article that Alex held in her hand. Late seventies, with a severe short haircut, her thick gray hair obviously not something she spent time worrying about. Her eyes were a keen and piercing blue, even behind the thick glasses. Alex stood for a moment, taking in the real woman, the cup of coffee on the table before her, and a pile of reading material, which consisted of several scientific journals.
“Dr. Edwards?”
The woman looked up, taking in Alex from head to toe. “Nobody around here calls me that. Where are you from?”
“Albuquerque.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Which news crew sent you? Because you should know right off the bat that I refuse to do any more interviews.”
Alex shook her head. “I’m not from any news crew. I spoke to you about a week ago. About the archival work you need done? I’m Alexandra Fra . . . Turner.”
“Ah.” Maggie Edwards indicated the seat across from her, and Alex slipped into the booth.
Dr. Edwards appraised the face of the woman in front of her. “I wasn’t expecting you until after Christmas.”
Alex pressed her lips together. “There was a break in the weather, so I decided to go ahead and leave.”
“You didn’t want to spend Christmas with your family?”
Alex forced a slow exhale, trying to keep herself steady. She shook her head. “The weather report predicted a storm front. I didn’t want to spend three days on the road, fighting snow and ice the whole drive.”
“Ah.” Maggie took a swig of her coffee and continued to examine Alex Turner.
“How’d you get that shiner?”
Alex looked away. She had hoped that the bruises had faded enough to be unnoticeable. “It’s a crazy story, really. No one would believe it.”
“Try me.”
“I work at the University library, archival research. As you know,” Alex added, glancing at the woman across from her for a second before her gaze flittered away. “And last week, I was moving boxes of material that I’d been sorting and scanning. Anyway, I pushed open this heavy door to the storage unit—temperature regulated, you know—and then leaned down to pick up the box. By the time I had it in my arms, the door was swinging closed. Caught me right in the eye, just as I was standing up.” Alex brought her eyes back to her questioner.
Dr. Edwards took a deep breath. “That’s quite a story.”
Alex tipped her head slightly. “I told you no one would believe me.”
“A job at the University is a good job, just about any way you cut it.” Maggie ran her finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “I’m still a little confused as to why you would leave a good job to come up here to the end of nowhere in the dead of winter, just for a few months of work for me. I don’t pay very well.”
Alex shrugged. “I took a leave of absence.” She turned and looked out the window at the water. “I just needed a change, I guess. A break from routine. And when I read about your work, I thought this might be a good place for it.”
Maggie Edwards leaned back in the booth. “Well, the grant will pay for about two months of your time. That’s it. There’s a mountain of work, but not a mountain of money.” She began to gather her papers to leave. “The truth is . . . I am very far behind with cataloging and sorting and entering things into the database. My office is piled with data that’s not helping anyone. Totally inaccessible to researchers in its current condition.” She stopped and gazed at Alex again. “I’ve been overwhelmed with information for a long time now.”
Alex nodded. “That’s my specialty. Organizing information.”
Maggie stood and pulled on her coat and hat. “Where are you staying tonight?”
“I don’t know. I just got i
nto town. I guess I’ll look for a hotel.”
Maggie laughed. “A hotel? The week before Christmas? Not hardly. We’re on the islands, you know. Tourist season up here is all summer and every holiday. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years. Spring vacation. You aren’t likely to find anything available right now.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought. It’s not that much of an issue in Albuquerque.”
“And if you did find something, it would cost an arm and a leg.” Maggie finished gathering her papers and closed her satchel. “As I said, I don’t pay that well.”
She stood and wrapped a wool scarf around her throat.
“I had planned on putting you in the big house in a week anyway, so I guess it won’t make any difference that you’re here early. All I need to do is get some heat on. Eat your dinner and come up to the house. Turn left at the end of Main Street and head up the hill. I’m in the little cabin on the cove. First driveway after the cemetery.” Maggie threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table, then turned and left before Alex could respond, her steps firm and quick on the hardwood floor of the café.
Alex leaned back in the booth and took another deep breath. The waitress arrived with her dinner and set it on the table. Alex looked at the polenta and shrimp, and her stomach rumbled. She could not remember the last time she had eaten an actual meal. It felt like weeks.
“Need anything else right now?”
Alex shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
The waitress looked toward the door that Maggie Edwards had just exited, and then she leaned down a little, as if picking something up off the floor. “You going to work for Maggie?”
“For a bit.”
“Staying at her place?”
Alex nodded.
The waitress looked from side to side, and then leaned forward to wipe the table. “Don’t let her put you in the captain’s house,” she whispered. “That place is haunted, you know.” She turned and walked away.
TWO
Alex pulled into the driveway to Maggie’s cabin. She felt better already: breathing the sweet smell of the cedar, the biting scent of salt water providing the perfect base note to the perfume of green. She was here, safe and sound. She’d met Maggie Edwards and had at least temporary employment. And she’d just finished one of the best meals she could remember eating in months.
The Music of the Deep: A Novel Page 1
