The woman turned back, pulling her Acadia sweatshirt a little more closely around her but otherwise appearing unaffected by the light. She took a step backward, away from Ann and toward the door. “Don’t do what?”
Ann shrugged in what she hoped was a conciliatory way.
The woman turned quickly and left the restroom.
“Damn,” muttered Ann, her attention returning to the yellowish light. It was hovering right over where her comb had fallen, and she decided she could sacrifice the comb in the interest of getting out of there as quickly as possible. She tucked her hands under her opposite arms, feinted left, and then dashed to the right, past the light and out the door.
With frequent glances behind her, she caught up with Scott in the gift shop where he was holding two baseball caps decorated with Acadia National Park logos.
“I thought that if it kept raining, it would be useful to have something to keep the rain off our faces. I have one for you, too.”
“Thanks, Scott,” she said, her fisted hands pushed into the pockets of her parka, her head pulled down into the collar.
Scott gave her a second look. “Are you okay, sweetie? You look pale.”
“Yup, just cold from the walk, I guess,” she said. Her thoughts were a jumble and she wasn’t in the mood to have Scott haul her back to Somesville for Garrick to check her out. Then she caught a glimpse of the woman from the restroom standing by the door to the gift shop, pointing at her. A park ranger was at her side.
“Damn,” Ann muttered.
Scott followed her gaze. “What’s that all about?”
The park ranger, who looked to be in her twenties, crossed the gift shop to Ann and Scott.
“Ma’am,” she said, nodding to Ann. “Sir,” she said with a nod to Scott.
“Ranger,” said Ann, not knowing quite how one was supposed to address a national park ranger.
“Sir,” said the ranger to Scott, “might I speak with this lady alone for a moment?”
Scott turned to Ann, his eyebrows raised.
“It’s okay,” she said to him.
He retired to a position that Ann suspected was just within earshot.
The ranger turned to Ann. “I understand that a man followed you into the restroom?”
Ann shrugged. “It was just some guy who had gone in there by mistake.”
“I understand you were calling him by name.”
“Me? No, I didn’t know him,” said Ann.
“I understand you were calling him Biden Firth.”
Ann smiled cheerfully. “No, she must have misheard me.”
“Isn’t Biden Firth the man who killed his wife in Philadelphia?”
Ann’s eyebrows rose. “You heard about that up here?”
“Sure, it was big news.”
“Well, I guess it wasn’t Biden Firth because he’s dead,” said Ann with somewhat manic levity.
The ranger sidled a bit closer to her, speaking low so as not to be heard by the other browsers, who were now aware of the conversation and drifting into their vicinity, trying to keep up an appearance of disinterested nonchalance.
“Are you Ann Kinnear?”
Ann experienced a confusing mixture of alarm and pride; so they knew about her in Maine after all. She smiled weakly. “That’s me.”
The ranger lowered her voice further. “I followed that story on the Yahoo group. Is his ghost following you? Do you think you’re in danger?”
“There’s a Yahoo group about the Firth murder?” Ann asked, louder than she intended.
“There’s a Yahoo group about you. It’s about all your cases. But I followed the Firth case especially closely because I’m originally from near Philadelphia. And because, you know, of what happened to you ...”
Still digesting the fact that there was a Yahoo group dedicated to her, Ann shook her head. “I thought I saw him, but I was wrong,” she said, sounding as businesslike as possible. “I’m sorry to have caused trouble.”
The ranger straightened up. “No problem, ma’am. Just please let us know if anyone is bothering you in the park.” She began to turn away.
Ann said, “Excuse me ...”
The ranger turned back. “Yes ma’am?”
“I’d prefer it if she doesn’t know who I am or who I was talking to.”
The ranger smiled conspiratorially. “Yes ma’am, I understand. We don’t want her to think that both of us are crazy.” And with a tip of her hat, she turned away.
Chapter 20
Of course, Ann had to explain to Scott the ranger’s interest in her, but managed to avoid having him immediately whisk her off to Garrick by making the argument that she would be seeing him later that evening.
Then, after Scott dropped her off in Somesville that night, she had to put up with a lecture from Garrick. “Good heavens, are you hoping it will just pop up in my consulting room? It would greatly facilitate my assessment if you would come to me when it makes an appearance.”
Now, an hour before midnight, Ann was traveling down Indian Point Road in Garrick’s Cadillac, her body tensed in anticipation of a slow-driver-precipitated road-rage event.
They turned off Indian Point Road onto Lynam’s Point Road and made their circuitous way around the peninsula. Just as they were entering the woods at the northern end of the peninsula, a small, dark form shot across the road in front of them.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Ann. “What was that?”
They were going so slowly that Garrick barely had to brake to stop. The creature stopped in the safety of the pine seedlings by the side of the road and turned toward them.
“That was a raccoon.”
“Well, it looks like a little demon with those glowing eyes.” The raccoon turned away and trundled out of the range of the headlights.
“Scared of ghosts?” Ann could tell by a slight tightening of Garrick’s mouth that he thought he was being amusing.
“No, I’m not scared of ghosts, but this whole thing is giving me the willies. It’s all very cloak and dagger.”
“You don’t find the surreptitious nature of the assignment intriguing?”
“No,” said Ann, crossing her arms. “It’s creepy.”
“Well, the sooner begun, the sooner complete.” He looked down the road. “I’ll let you out here, it’s only about a hundred yards to the hotel.”
“Maybe I could hide in the backseat and you could take me all the way to the hotel. It’s black as pitch, Garrick.”
“Don’t be silly, you just need to let your eyes adjust.” Garrick made a shooing motion. “Out you go.”
Ann opened the door and stepped into the cold October night. Garrick had turned off the dome light before they had left Somesville. He leaned over to peer out at her in the faint light of the moon.
“Come back here when you’re done at the hotel and I’ll pick you up on my way out.”
“How much time will I need?”
“I have no idea. How much time do you think you will need?”
Ann considered. “He appeared pretty quickly before. But it might take me a while to understand what he’s saying.”
“Very well, I’ll plan to be here again in approximately two hours.”
“What will you be doing in the meantime?”
“I’ll conduct my usual engagement with the client. If he appears to me, I will continue to attempt to make progress on the assignment on my own. If he doesn’t appear to me, I’ll assume you are engaging him and will ensure the client stays away from the entrance to the lobby.” Garrick gestured impatiently. “We’re taking too long. Shut the door.”
Ann swung the big car’s door shut and winced at the loud thunk it made. She could imagine Garrick glowering. The car glided away down the road.
She watched as the taillights disappeared around a curve, although she could continue to track the car’s progress as the headlights cast a ghostly illumination into the woods. She saw a line of lights flick on—the lights along the drive, she guessed. Her ears now m
ore attuned to the night’s sounds, she heard the car engine shut off and a few moments later the line of lights flicked off.
She started off toward the hotel.
For a time, she kept to the path by adjusting her direction when the crunch of the gravel gave way to the muffled thud of her feet on the grassy verge of the road, but gradually the mass of undifferentiated blackness resolved itself into suggestions of tree trunks, the darker shadows of understory growth, and the silvery glow of the roadway curving off into the pines. The woods around her were quiet, but then she heard a howl somewhere ahead of her that was answered by one nearby and then passed on to another in the darkness behind her.
Eventually, she passed the cemetery on her left, the headstones vague, hunched forms in the darkness. As the pine woods thinned out, the sky opened over her, the lack of artificial light making the stars brilliant despite the almost-full moon. Across the lawn loomed the darker mass of the hotel.
She followed the road to the circular drive and then kept to the drive to avoid tangling with the row of now-extinguished lights, placing her feet carefully to minimize the crunching of the gravel. When she reached the veranda, she squatted behind the branches of a rhododendron near the stairs to screen herself from the lobby windows.
She listened for voices coming from inside the hotel, but she could only hear the slap of water on the point and, far off, the almost-inaudible hum of the engine of a boat on a midnight run. She waited a minute and then two, becoming increasingly nervous about the possibility of Ellen Lynam emerging unexpectedly from the hotel. How would Loring know she was there? She was wondering if she would have to reveal herself more obviously—to Loring and to whoever might be looking out the lobby windows—when she became aware of a presence near her. A second later, she had to stifle a squawk when she heard a voice right by her ear.
... come to see me?
It was like listening to a very old recording—a wax cylinder engraved by Edison. Only once before had a spirit actually spoken to Ann, and in that case it had been a largely one-sided conversation—the spirit of Biden Firth’s wife attempting to give her instructions, but not expecting any response from Ann beyond compliance. But to have a spirit ask her a question, to invite an interaction, was a new experience.
“Are you Loring Lynam?” she asked.
Suddenly she could see his face, illuminated by a bright smile.
Why yes! And you—?
The rest of the sentence faded and she lost it.
“I’m Ann Kinnear. Could we go somewhere else to talk?”
Of course. Follow—
He turned toward the stairs to the veranda, his face disappearing, his form indicated only by a slight opacity that blurred her view of the objects behind him. Ann made a psst-ing noise and he turned, his face once again visible.
“Can we talk somewhere outside?”
He made some noise of agreement, then …
… boathouse?
“Yes, that would be good.”
His form descended the steps and passed Ann and then completely disappeared into the darkness. Ann followed in the direction he had taken, recalling from her earlier visit the general location of the boathouse. She stayed on the grass bordering the drive to avoid the crunching of gravel this close to the hotel, relieved when she turned the corner of the building and was out of sight of anyone who might be looking out the lobby windows.
On the point behind the hotel, the moon provided more illumination and she was able to make faster progress. She crossed the lawn quickly, uncomfortably aware of the large windows—designed to take full advantage of the view—overseeing her progress. She stepped onto the porch of the boathouse, searching the darkness for some sign of Loring, when a light—evidently motion-activated—snapped on. Blinded, she stumbled along the porch to where it turned the corner, putting the boathouse between herself and the hotel. She waited there, pressed to the wall, listening for the sound of a door opening and closing, someone coming to investigate, but heard nothing. In a minute, the boathouse light clicked off.
“Loring? Are you there?” she whispered.
Yes, right here.
The voice once again was right beside her and again she jumped.
... go inside? ... not much warmer ... sit down.
The voice faded in and out, like a sloppily tuned radio.
“I’d rather not have the light go on again,” said Ann. “I don’t mind standing.” She burrowed her gloved hands deeper into her pockets—she hoped the conversation wouldn’t be a long one. “I have a question for you from Ellen. Where is the lady?”
Chapter 21
1947
Chip stood at a workbench in the shed just inside the stand of pines that surrounded the hotel lawn, fiddling with a cage trap he had devised to catch a rabbit that was wreaking havoc in the hotel’s vegetable garden. If he caught it, he would drive it to the mainland and let it go.
“Chip!” He heard his name and looked up from his work. His father stood in the doorway and, based on his expression, Chip guessed it was not the first time he had called his name. His father gripped the frame of the door—these days, he always seemed to be holding onto something to steady himself.
For a moment, before returning completely from his reverie, he saw his father as others must see him. Never a large man, the lean, muscular build Chip could remember from his childhood had given way over the years to a frailty that made him look much older that his forty-four years. His formerly wavy brown hair had thinned, his cheekbones jutted, his face was cut with deep lines. He looked, Chip thought, like a scrawny fox that might eat the rabbit that was grazing in their garden.
His father cleared his throat, as if the effort of getting Chip’s attention had taxed his voice. “Pritchard called. They’re putting on a party and need some extra hands. Seems a little late in the season for a party. Aren’t they usually gone by now?”
Chip put the trap on the workbench. “Yes. I guess with the weather being so hot and dry, there’s no reason for them to go to Florida just yet.”
His father tried to peer around him. “What kind of trap is that?”
“Nothing. I’m just experimenting.”
“Well, if you want to experiment, you could try experimenting on those lawn chairs when you get back—they’ll need sanding before we paint them. Don’t be too long, I need you here.”
Don’t be too long, I need you here was a refrain so familiar that Chip barely registered it except as a kind of ache in his jaw. Now that Chip was seventeen, his father seemed torn between the competing desires to send him out on errands in the hotel pickup truck or to set him to work on hotel projects.
Retrieving the truck from behind the hotel, Chip wound his way off the Lynam’s Point peninsula and cut across what he thought of as the western part of the “lobster claw” that Mount Desert Island resembled on a map. He passed through Somesville and then crossed the eastern part of the “claw” on Eagle Lake Road. It was early October, and normally he would have been wearing a jacket, but the island was enjoying a glorious Indian summer, the cloudless sky a startling blue. Chip had woken to frost on the fields only a few weeks before, but then the temperature had climbed and the sun had beaten down on Mount Desert, baking the little remaining moisture out of the fields and forests. There hadn’t been a good rain since May.
Just outside Bar Harbor proper, Chip turned off Eagle Lake Road onto Cleftstone Road and then turned between two granite pillars joined by an arch of metalwork with “Jardin d’Eden” worked into its apex. This summer “cottage” had been built by James Furness Senior, who had started a lumber business and made the family fortune through some shrewdly negotiated government contracts during the First War. James Junior, who had rarely set foot in a lumber mill, had expanded that fortune further in the Second.
When James Junior and his wife, Josephine, had inherited Jardin d’Eden in the 1920s, they had set about making it the cultural mecca of Bar Harbor high society. They brought chamber orchestras up
from New York for performances for their fellow society luminaries, decorated the rooms with museum-quality works of art, and hosted parties that were described with breathless excitement in the society columns of the Boston and New York newspapers.
At the end of each summer season, after the Furnesses had relocated to their winter home in Palm Beach, George Pritchard, Jardin d’Eden’s majordomo, hired a number of local boys and men to help with repairs and maintenance. For the last couple of years, after Lynam’s Point Hotel closed for the season, Chip’s father had sent him to work part-time at Jardin.
But this year, the Furnesses had extended their stay on Mount Desert and today the house was abuzz with preparation for that evening’s hastily arranged party. Gardeners carried baskets of flowers up from the greenhouses and gardens for which Jardin was famous. A delivery truck from Bar Harbor rattled by, headed to the kitchen entrance with crates of wine. A girl was setting up luminaria along the drive—no doubt an alternative to the usual tree-hung Japanese lanterns, dictated by the tinder-dry conditions. Beyond the veranda, Chip could catch a glimpse of the links at the Kebo Valley Golf Club and, beyond that, the town of Bar Harbor. In the other direction rose the thickly forested slopes of Great Hill.
Chip parked the truck behind the greenhouses with the other workers’ vehicles and went to find Pritchard.
He found him in the kitchen talking to Millie, one of the maids, who was polishing glassware with an old linen napkin.
“Check them all,” Pritchard was saying. “Last time, there was lipstick on one of the glasses and Mrs. Furness was none too pleased.”
“There’s no lipstick on a glass on my watch,” said Millie. “Must have been someone else in charge of the glassware for that party.”
“Well, let’s just make sure it doesn’t happen tonight,” said Pritchard.
“She just said it won’t,” said Chip.
Pritchard turned to Chip. “And what do you want, Lynam?”
George Pritchard was a local man made good. He had ingratiated himself with Mrs. Furness by towing her Packard out of a ditch after her chauffeur lost control on a slick patch of road. When Mrs. Furness heard his only slightly embellished story that he had served as a driver for high-ranking brass during the war, she immediately fired the chauffeur and replaced him with Pritchard, and since then Pritchard had risen quickly through the ranks of the Furness household. He had taken to his new high society life, and lost no opportunity to remind the locals of the importance of his position. They made fun of him behind his back, but each regretted that he had not been the one to have happened upon Mrs. Furness in the ditch.
The Sense of Reckoning Page 12
