by LK Rigel
“I’m sorry about your aunt,” he said, “but everything is going to be all right now.” He gave her a hug, then lifted her chin and smiled, his blue eyes twinkling.
“Bram, I’m so glad you’re here. It feels like I haven’t seen you in weeks. Months.”
“Me too, babe.” He kissed her gently. She held him close and pressed against his chest. She was hungry for more than food. Starving.
“I’m famished,” Bram said.
“Actually, we’ve been invited to dinner,” she said. Her body wanted his, and her heart wanted comfort. But it was too soon to let him back in, no matter how much she needed him.
“Good. I could use a drink.” He held her at arm’s length. “And you look like you could stand to get out of here for a while. Away from the ghosts.”
“Let me just get my purse.”
Bram drove. As he pulled Sara’s car onto Turtledove Hill Road, she looked back at the house. Crud. She forgot to turn off the observatory light. She shouldn’t be surprised. She was tired and sad and not thinking straight. She’d watched her aunt die today and hadn’t eaten since this morning.
But that didn’t explain why her hallucination, the man on the stairs, was Aunt Amelia’s lover.
- 10 -
Dinner, Dolls, & Dollars
THEY STOPPED IN THE VILLAGE to pick up Peekie and drove over to the Blue Pelican, the restaurant at the Chase Me Inn. The Victorian mansion built in the 1880s was so far out at the end of the peninsula it looked ready to fall into the sea if a big enough storm came along. Fog rolled in over the deck and gazebo, creeping through the hydrangeas and camellias that hugged the main building.
It was like being in a Hitchcock movie. Or a T.S. Eliot poem.
Embers flickered in the bar’s stone fireplace. As they waited to be seated in the restaurant, again Sara felt how much she preferred the cool northern California coast to the heat of the state’s interior.
Bram asked if they served crantinis. “A martini made with cranberry juice,” he said. “You know what they call a crantini, right? An orgasm in a martini glass.”
The waitress played along, laughing suggestively. “Here satisfaction is assured with anything you order.”
Peekie looked away. She had the good sense to be immune to Bram’s charms. As Sara expected, it only made him turn on the schmooze all the harder.
“I could get used to this,” he said, “being out on Saturday night with two lovely ladies.” He gave Peekie his best smile, his dimple working overtime. She didn’t respond, and he softened his voice. “But I wish it was under happier circumstances.”
It was odd watching Peekie’s reaction to Bram and even stranger hearing the self-doubt in his voice. Maybe she didn’t like the flirting, or maybe she thought Bram was being disrespectful of the dead. After all, Aunt Amelia hadn’t been gone twenty-four hours.
The waitress brought their drinks, and Peekie relented, pronouncing the martini lovely. She nodded toward the door. “Look who’s here.”
Bonnie Norquist walked into the bar with Gracien Poole. She scanned the crowd, and when she spotted Sara her face lit up. She waved and charged toward their table, leaving Poole to follow. Sara was as unhappy to see Poole as Bonnie. She still felt encroached upon by all the Poole Haven Wines equipment in the barn.
Not to mention, she wasn’t so sure either one was entirely innocent regarding Aunt Amelia’s death. Ludicrous, probably. But now that the idea had worked its way into Sara’s brain, there it was.
“Hi, Peekie,” Bonnie said. “Sara, how are you doing?” She was all sweetness and concern. “Gracien and I were just talking about Amelia.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Poole said. He did seem embarrassed to be there.
“Thank you, Mr. Poole,” Sara said.
“Excuse us for intruding.” He turned to go.
Bonnie stayed right where she was. She stared at Bram like she’d just seen her first banana split. “Sara, who’s your gorgeous friend?”
For the first time ever Bram was speechless, clearly gobsmacked by Bonnie’s flat-out stunning looks. It should be irritating, but the expression on his face was priceless. Sara even felt a little sorry for him. First the blow of Peekie’s rejection, and now the force of nature that was Bonnie Norquist. Good. Let him suffer.
Bonnie dragged an empty chair over between Bram and Peekie. Sara nodded encouragement to Mr. Poole, and he sat down between Peekie and her.
Bram still looked gobsmacked by Bonnie, but he recovered his ability to speak. “We’re waiting for a table in the dining room,” he said. “Why don’t you two join us when we go in?”
“We don’t want to interrupt your dinner,” Poole said quietly. “I shouldn’t have let Bonnie drag me in here.”
“Please don’t apologize, Mr. Poole,” Sara said. “It helps to talk with people who knew her better than I did. It really does make me feel better.”
“Then let me assure you Amelia was a wonderful person.”
“That’s all set then,” Bonnie said happily.
At dinner Poole insisted on ordering the wine. With the salad they had Gewürztraminer. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering wines made from Turtledove Hill grapes,” he said.
“I’ve always wondered what this would taste like,” Sara said. “I’ve been afraid to order it because I don’t know how to say it.”
“That’s easy,” Bram said. “Geh-VERTS-trah-meen-er. Just like it’s spelled.”
Everyone laughed, and Sara practiced saying Gewürztraminer. Luckily, pinot noir came with the main course. “I can pronounce this,” she said. “And I pronounce it wonderful.”
Mr. Poole wasn’t an expressive person, but Sara’s enjoyment of the wines obviously pleased him. “The Blue Pelican carries all Poole Haven’s wines, the Gewürztraminer and pinot and our chardonnay, which are all excellent. This is a special reserve, not on the menu. They keep it for special guests.” He lifted his glass. “To Amelia.”
“Amelia.” Everyone joined the toast.
“Thank you, Mr. Poole.” Sara was truly touched. He was well-spoken and genial, so unlike her brittle and judging father.
“Remember,” he said. “I asked you to call me Gracien.”
“Gracien then,” Sara said. “And again, thank you.” Maybe she’d been too quick to judge, herself.
The restaurant was on the ocean side of the building, and their table was near a corner pop-out window. An antique doll was propped up on a pillow in the window seat as if it was looking outside. Sara thought of the ghost stories she’d heard that morning, and of her own ghostly encounter on the stairs.
The arms that saved her from falling were solid, real. She could still see the man’s dark eyes and hear his strong voice. Not a hallucination, no matter how much she wanted it to be. It was the same man she saw in the hall years ago. Aunt Amelia’s lover. But he wasn’t a ghost then. He spoke to her. Touched her. Fourteen years ago. Today on the stairs, he was the same age. He wore he same clothes.
Clothes like the ones in J. Montague’s trunk.
“Does anyone know how Joss Montague died?”
“Who’s that?” Bram said.
“The owner of Turtledove Hill before Amelia,” Peekie said. “The son of the first owner.”
“Montague joined the navy after Pearl Harbor,” Gracien said. “He first leased the vineyards to my father while he was away. Only they weren’t vineyards. In those days it was all pears and hay.”
“Prohibition killed the wine industry,” Bonnie said in a Little-Miss-Know-It-All voice. It reminded Sara of her favorite student—and her feelings about Bonnie softened too. Slightly.
“After repeal,” Gracien continued, “my father replanted grapes on his land. When he leased Montague’s property he ripped out the pears and hay and planted more varieties, first the Gewürztraminer, then Riesling. I started the pinot noir twenty-five years ago, and last year we brought in our first pinot grigio.”
“So he died in the war then,” Bram
said. “Montague.”
“No, he made it through,” Gracien said. “But when he came home he was changed. Wasn’t interested in Turtledove Hill. My family has continued to work the vineyards to this day.”
Sara didn’t believe that. Not from what she’d read in Montague’s journal.
“No one knows how he died,” Bonnie said. “It’s a mystery even now.”
“A mystery to this day,” Bram said. “Could be something to write about. A ghost story.”
“No,” Sara said, louder than she’d meant to. “I…I don’t like ghost stories.”
“Oh, babe.” Bram chuckled and kissed the back of her hand. “Don’t listen to her. My wife loves to teach nineteenth century gothic novels. She prefers Wuthering Heights to Jane Eyre.”
Bram was so wrong, but that wasn’t the point. The truth was she didn’t want him messing with Joss Montague’s story. He’d change it. Ruin it. Misunderstand, like Gracien Poole had done. Don’t let them have it, Aunt Amelia had said.
Sara agreed. She felt protective of Turtledove Hill’s history and inhabitants, even one changed for the worse by war. Especially. And at this point Bram didn’t deserve her loyalty. Maybe he’d earn it back one day. Now she’d be loyal to Turtledove Hill.
It’s a sad story,” Peekie said. “Montague’s wife Olivia was killed the year after he came back from the war, hit by a car. About a year after that, their little boy died in an influenza epidemic. Montague went missing a month later.”
On to Olivia… Sara said, “Bonnie, didn’t you say Olivia Montague was your aunt?”
“Great aunt.” Bonnie nodded. “My grandmother’s sister.”
“When the flu hit Pelican Chase,” Peekie said, “Amelia was part of a group of high school girls who volunteered as nurses’ helpers. Girl Scouts or Job’s Daughters, something like that. She went out to Turtledove Hill to nurse Montague and his son. The boy was was just too young to fight it.”
“And Montague?” Bram said.
“He pulled through,” Peekie said. “But he was a broken man. He wouldn’t leave the house. Amelia stopped by every day and tried to get him to eat something, but he’d always send her away. And then one day he was just…gone.”
Poole said, “My father went to the house to talk about buying the vineyards instead of renewing the lease, but Montague wasn’t there.”
“Speaking of which,” Bonnie said, “Gracien is still ready to make a very good offer.”
“Bonnie, this is hardly the time,” Peekie said.
“I agree.” Gracien gave Bonnie a hard look across the table. He went on, “My father couldn’t find Montague anywhere. After a few days, the police chief organized a search, but it was no good. Nobody ever saw the man again. I imagine one day his body will be found in some obscure corner of the vineyards.”
“Maybe he fell off a cliff,” Bonnie said.
“Then he was food for the crabs and his bones washed out to sea,” Bram said, “which would explain why they never found him.”
It must have been something awful, a terrible accident. It would explain why he haunted Turtledove Hill now—if he was the ghost. “How did Aunt Amelia end up with Turtledove Hill?” Sara said.
Peekie said, “After the required five years passed, Joss Montague was declared legally dead and the estate went through probate. It turned out he’d changed his will after his son died and left everything to Amelia. He had no family left.”
“They were lovers then.” Bram said.
Bonnie exchanged a quick look with Peekie, but Sara saw it. She stared into her wine glass. So Peekie believed it too.
“It was everyone’s first thought.” Peekie smiled indulgently, as if Bram had said something incredibly stupid but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “He made a codicil to his will with a note saying he was grateful to her for trying to save his boy and that, unless he married again, she was to inherit all his estate.”
“Which doesn’t sound like a man planning to disappear,” Bonnie said.
“No,” Sara agreed. “It doesn’t. Did he have any enemies?”
“Not that anyone knows of,” Gracien said.
“If foul play was involved, only Amelia had the motive,” Bonnie said.
“By what logic?” Sara said. “She didn’t know she had motive.”
“Of course not,” Peekie said. “Amelia was the last person on earth who’d hurt anyone.”
Bonnie raised an eyebrow, but she said nothing.
“Hurt anyone on purpose,” Peekie amended her statement. What was all that supposed to mean? She and Bonnie, and Gracien too, went silent and stared at their food.
To change the mood, Sara said, “Does anyone have thoughts about a memorial service for Aunt Amelia? I was telling Bram I don’t think she was religious.”
“She wasn’t a churchgoer,” Peekie said. “But she was a spiritual person.”
“She’s being cremated, so there won’t be a graveside ceremony,” Sara said. “But I want to do something for her and the people who cared about her.”
“Why not have people out to the house?” Bram said. “A sort of memorial reception with food and drinks.”
“Bram, that’s a wonderful idea,” Sara said. “Oh. We’ll have to get the stairs fixed.”
“Then it might be a good time to give you this.” Gracien handed Sara an envelope. “The next quarterly payment on the lease is due in a few weeks. This is a partial advance. Working capital to help you through this time of transition.”
“Such businesslike words for something so thoughtful,” Sara said. Now she felt small-minded for resenting his use of the barn.
She opened the flap on the envelope and peeked inside. Holy moly. The check was for $30,000. It was hard to keep calm as she tucked it into her purse. She’d never had so much money all at once. Sheesh, they still owed twice that on Bram’s student loans.
“How can you be sure I have the right to this?” she asked Gracien.
“Because,” Gracien said, “as Bonnie and Peekie can both tell you, I have tried to buy Turtledove Hill for years. Amelia’s answer was always the same. It would go to you.”
“I’ll have to look for her papers. I don’t even know who Aunt Amelia’s attorney is.”
“That’s easy. Same as everybody’s,” Bonnie said. “Briggs & Mason, the only estate lawyers in Pelican Chase.”
They moved on to other topics, stories from Peekie and Gracien about Aunt Amelia. Gracien talked with pride about the vineyards, new methods and varieties of wine Poole Haven was producing. The technical side of it was totally over Sara’s head, but she loved his enthusiasm for growing grapes and making wine.
Bram monopolized Bonnie, in heaven wooing a new fan. Sara heard Hot Heat mentioned a few times. He had his mojo back; Bonnie was impressed. She even pulled out her tablet to check out his website.
The food was good, the wine was wonderful, and the company was pleasant. But all Sara could think about was the journal in the observatory. She couldn’t wait to get back and find out more about the man who left Turtledove Hill to Aunt Amelia. She was sure it contained information no one else knew. Perhaps it would identify who in Pelican Chase would have wanted Joss Montague dead.
“Mrs. Blakemore.” Gracien Poole stopped her as they left the restaurant. “I meant to tell you earlier, a survey team will be out this coming week on the western vineyards taking measurements along the cliffs. We’re considering putting in more pinot gris next season. Don’t be surprised by them if you go out to tour your property.”
Bram said nothing about Gracien’s offer, but on the way back to the house Sara sensed the wheels turning in his head.
“You want to sell,” she said.
“I’d like to quit the restaurant altogether and write full time. I’d like to go back to school for my master’s,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. The house is great, like you’ve always said. But babe, it looks like it needs a lot of work.”
If the check from Gracien Poole was any indic
ation, the lease payments from Poole Haven would be enough for Bram to go back to school and to renovate the house too. He was her husband. She owed him that much—if they were going to stay together. She couldn’t get a divorce. She didn’t care what Dad would think, but her mother would weep in heaven.
“It seems tacky to make plans for Aunt Amelia’s fortune so soon,” she said.
“That’s true.” Bram kept his eyes on the road. “And I realize you probably aren’t in the mood to make my life any easier right now.”
“You’re right,” she said. “But that could change.”
While they got ready for bed, Sara told Bram about Aunt Amelia’s plea: Don’t let them have it. “We can’t sell Turtledove Hill, not yet. Not until we know why she was so desperate.”
“You know what I think, babe?” Bram pulled back the covers, still wearing his boxers. Sara couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept naked. “I think she was delirious. Drugged. She didn’t know what she was saying.”
“Maybe, but she was so insistent.” Sara stripped down to her panties and quickly put on her sleep shirt, Bram’s old practice football jersey. She wanted to sleep with Bram tonight, but for a change that’s all she wanted.
“Bottom line, don’t do anything,” he said. “Not until you’re comfortable with your decision.”
“Oh, Bram.” She threw her arms around him. “I appreciate your support.”
He hugged her, though it was awkward, and against her will her body warmed to his.
“After the long day I’ve had, I don’t know if I can keep the lights on, if you know what I mean.” His blue eyes twinkled and he threw his boxers across the room. “But I can try.”
No. She just couldn’t. It was too soon.
“The lights!” She remembered the observatory. “Just a minute. I’ll be right back.”
- 11 -
Lullaby
SARA HIT THE LIGHT switch just inside the door and turned to go, but something stopped her on the landing. She went back through the alcove to the observatory. Joss Montague’s journal lay open on the desk, outlined by blue-white moonlight shining in from the windows.
