“Modern technology may be able to provide some answers.”
“About what?”
“What happened to the S. S. Hewitt, for instance.”
“I know she disappeared about the same time as the Deering,” he said. “You may be right that they can find something, but I don't know what it would be.”
“Nobody does until the case is re-opened.”
“Go ahead then.”
“Not without Rod's blessing.”
“I can't answer for him.”
“I know.”
“Where are you?”
“In South Carolina.”
“Hiding out?”
“For a while. I'm on leave from my job.”
“Got fired?”
“No, but I know I won't be going back. Contrary to what Rod thinks, serious magazine publishers do not like their editors sensationalizing themselves.”
“What will you do?”
“Go somewhere, get a pack of Tarot cards, put up a sign for the Gavrion Order of Eternal Suspension.”
He chuckled. “Pretty woman like you, you won't have any trouble making it in the world. Besides, you can always get married.”
“The male's age-old answer to any woman's dilemma.”
“Ouch. Well – I'm glad to you called to give me a heads-up on this Missi – what's her last name again?”
“McNamara. Just remember, she can pick your brain before you know it's being picked.”
“I'll remember.”
The amusement in his voice echoed in her mind long after she hung up and got back on the road.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
--
She stayed the night at the Sunset Inn in Wendell, North Carolina. Next morning, while she dressed, she caught the latest on the Broadcast News Network. The BNN reporter interviewed Mamie Borderson. She repeated her recollection of seeing a stranger with a woman that looked just like Ann Gavrion – “right there on the beach a stone's throw away from where I hunted for shells.” Ann thought there was something not quite right about Mamie Borderson.
On the road, following US 64 East, the North Carolina piney woods looked indistinct in the fog of an early morning dawn. The lines on the road were invisible and at times her only hope of keeping to the asphalt was being behind a logging truck. Crossing the Virginia Dare Bridge, she reached Manteo, Dare County's biggest city. She had booked into The Croatan Inn on Sir Walter Raleigh Street. She'd spend a couple of days laying low, hoping for a break in the news cycle – something sensational to divert the public's interest – before she journeyed south to Hatteras.
The homey white picket fence around The Croatan Inn invited the inn dweller. Inside the fence, rhododendrons in full flower bordered the carpet lawn. Her tub-potted rhodies in Atlanta bloomed in spring and by fall were too worn out with the heat to produce blossoms again. The only odd thing about the inn was the four satellite dishes mounted at the edges of the roof.
At the glass-fronted door, a calligraphic sign requested that she pull the bell rope.
The door opened and a woman as wide as she was tall stood in the doorway; her mass of brass hair almost covering her eyes. She said she was Mrs. Sweeney and stood aside to let Ann walk in.
Ann had talked to the innkeeper on the telephone yesterday after BaLenda got Arnold to recommend a quiet place for her to hide. Mrs. Sweeney led her into a room off the front hall and then sat behind the old-fashioned roll top desk situated in the front bay window. On the other side of the room an oversized Lazy-boy chair took up a lot of space. A table next to it was loaded with chips and nuts, and a giant glass with dark liquid in it. A supersize television was mounted in a bookcase against the wall. Some serious TV watching went on at The Croatan and the idea suddenly made her nervous.
She gave Mrs. Sweeney a credit card which was all that registration amounted to.
“It don't matter how long you stay,” Mrs. Sweeney said, getting up from the desk chair with some effort. “We have no reservations. This time of year vacationers are back home, the kiddies are in school.”
“I'll let you know my plans,” Ann said, following Mrs. Sweeney from the office.
At the bottom of the steep steps, Mrs. Sweeney said, “Yours is the suite directly above the office on the second floor. It called The Elizabeth. It's the biggest. I can't show you up, because my ankles are killing me.”
“I'm fine. I'll find it.”
“You can pull your car into the driveway and around to the back,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “It's narrow, but since you're the only one here at this time, we don't have to worry about parking like we would if we had several guests. Of course, you can always park in front, on the street.”
“Great,” Ann said. “Everything sounds just great.”
Mrs. Sweeney lowered her voice. “I've seen you on TV, haven't I?”
Of course, she had. She was a TV addict. Fifteen minutes in town, and I'm outted.
Nodding, her heart making a fist in her chest, she said, “Then you know why I need privacy.”
“You came to the right place then. Just a few minutes ago I seen your picture on TV. They said you was 'on leave from your magazine' – that magazine that Mr. Richter, who came here in August, is head of. Well, I thought, could that be the Ann Gavrion that called me up and wanted a room with me?' And then, here you are, the one and the same.” Her wide grin showed tiny teeth.
Trying a smile, Ann said, “Yes, the one and the same.”
“Them media folks – they're the worst,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “Always hunting after a sensation. During hurricanes, they come here, tramping over everything. You got to tell them all the time, this is private property you're camping out on. They don't care.”
“No,” Ann said easing toward the door, away from the chatty Mrs. Sweeney. “I'll just drive around back then.”
“There's back steps, too. Oh, and here's your key.” She handed Ann a silver key, and took another one out of her jumper pocket. “This here's to the front door. You can come and go as you please. We don't have a locking up time when there's only one guest.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I usually turn in early.”
“Not me. Too much good on the tube late at night. But my husband, he's up and out early. He's a fisherman. Up at four ayem, down at night by eight.”
Outside, Ann resisted the urge to jump into her car and race down Sir Walter Raleigh Street, straight out of Manteo. But no, Mrs. Sweeney was a good-natured woman, provincial and out-spoken. Proud that she could hold her tongue. If she'd wanted to let the world know who was coming to her inn, she'd have let the reporters hide in the bushes for her infamous guest's arrival.
Unpacking, she felt oddly twitchy and wished she still smoked. For the first time in ages, she longed for a comforting cigarette. The lovely large room was a bit over-decorated by Ann's clean-lines' style: overstuffed chair and loveseat, double Victorian four-poster bed, massive walnut wardrobe and chest, bookshelves full of old volumes and knick-knacks. A small television sat amongst the fiction and non-fiction. She walked to the front bay window where a green chaise and writing desk had been placed, pushed aside a curtain and looked outside. Seeing the empty street, her twitching eased, and she let the curtain fall. Inside the spacious bathroom, which had been furnished in white wicker, she clapped her hands. Glory-be! A garden spa tub.
Half an hour in the jets, and she dressed in slacks, sweater, boots and cloche, and took off for a walk. She passed the Manteo Booksellers, a place that she might stop in sometime, and My Secret Garden, a boutique that she wouldn't. When she came to The Coffee House on Roanoke Island, she went in. The coffee was divine. The egg croissant superb.
Leaving the coffee house, the sunny, and crisp aired buoyed her steps. The wind came off the sound, and she sensed the mood of the island as the inhabitants strolled the streets with their kids and their dogs and with each other. Islanders the world over seemed to have the same relaxed attitude, as if being surrounded by water gave them a tempo of peace and
trust. She walked along a creek where crab pots were stacked, and she was reminded that this had been, and probably still was, a fishing village. Over the centuries it had added more shopkeepers and insurance offices, and turned the boardwalk into an artists' paradise, especially for those who liked to paint boats and people fishing on wharves. On one, a grandpa set the line of his granddaughter's fishing rod, while a salesman or a legal type leaned on the pier's wooden slats and talked confidentially with a client.
The stroll she had going was of no particular pattern. Charmed by the old courthouse, with its brick façade and columned portico, she could forget her predicament if only for a short time. Inside, the courthouse smelled of old polish, marble and law books. She wandered there for fifteen minutes or so looking at the old portraits before she came out and meandered Sir Raleigh and Burleigh streets, and then got back to Fernando. She'd walked maybe twelve steps and stopped so quickly she turned her ankle.
Poblo’s back was to her, but she recognized his lithe frame as he paced in front of a wooden building with a green roof. He carried a slim black briefcase. When he turned to pace toward her, she took two steps back and tromped the foot of a man in a suit. She faced the stranger. “Excuse me, I'm sorry.”
His face, which had been grim, turned pleasant. “Sure, Miss. Are you looking for something?”
She thought quickly, “A book store. I’m so sorry for stepping on your foot.”
“It'll heal. I pass a book store. Come with me.”
She shook her head. “I lost track of time. I'll go tomorrow. That's why I changed my mind so abruptly.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, clearly disbelieving. “I meant no harm.”
She touched his arm. “None taken. Truly.”
“So long.”
When the man stepped away, Poblo was nearly facing her. However, he was looking up the sidewalk on his side of the street like he anticipated something – or someone. Then he smiled and threw up a hand. He'd greeted someone behind her. Ann ducked behind a telephone pole sporting an advertisement for the Fall Festival. Pulling the cloche lower on her forehead, she eased her head around the sign and nearly gasped. Then she grinned. Why should I be surprised?
Missi's voluptuous figure came hurrying up the street, waving gaily, holding a Coach briefcase in the other hand. She extended her hand to Pablo and said in a voice loud enough for Ann to hear, “My, my, television doesn't do you justice, Mr. Quitano .”
“Call me Poblo.” He seemed nervous when he took her hand with his fingers.
“Well, sugah, I'm Missi. Where're we going to talk?”
“Are you hungry?”
Missi's hand slid down the side of her breast to her waist. “I'm always hungry, don't it show?”
“You look magnificent,” Poblo said.
Criminy, Ann thought. I don’t need to be a fly on the wall to hear that conversation. Still, she followed them to The Grill on Queen Elizabeth Street.
So Missi's piece had begun, and she was getting it straight from the ass's mouth.
When she got back to The Croatan, she didn't see Mrs. Sweeney at first, but she could see that a courtroom drama was on her big screen television. In the small picture-in-picture, a newscaster was reading script. Ann stuck her head in the office door and saw Mrs. Sweeney in the Lazy-boy popping barbecue potato chips into her mouth.
Mrs. Sweeney looked over her shoulder. A grin spread across her face that said she was going to be the bearer of the latest news. “They're saying on the news that your mama's maiden name was like that mate on the Carroll A. Deering. McLellan. Only they said it was a different spelling, but that it didn't matter, because there was many ways to spell McLellan, and people in the same family spelled it different.”
Dazed, she folded herself into the chair by the desk. “It's not an unusual name.”
Mrs. Sweeney's eyes were mildly inquiring. “You Irish or Scottish?”
“Mama's ancestors were Irish.”
“They, ahem, said maybe you wanted to clear the McLellan name since the first mate on the Deering was the crooked one. That was back in 1921, they said it was.”
Involuntarily, her hands went up. “I what?”
Mrs. Sweeney chuckled. “Don't think I'm saying that. I don't much believe what that man was saying. He said he did some looking up about the ship and its crew and came up with the name of the mate that everyone suspected was a no-good, and just threw it out that maybe he was an ancestor and that you wanted to clear his name.”
She scorned the ridiculousness of it. “By doing what?”
“Saying it was the Danes that set about to mutiny and not someone named McLellan.”
“That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. They don't know what they're talking about.”
“That Poblo came on again and said you saw the Danes mutiny.” Mrs. Sweeney waited for her to say something, but when she didn't, Mrs. Sweeney said, “You never told me what you saw.”
And I won't. “Poblo is guessing,” she said, while wondering who told the reporter that her mama's last name was McClelland? She asked Mrs. Sweeney, “Did the reporter say how he learned my mother's maiden name? I don't use it.”
“Let me remember. He said you were born in Columbus, Georgia to Anabel McClelland and Claude Gavrion. He gave your age and stuff like that. They had a picture of you when you were confirmed in the church.”
Where'd they get that?
Mrs. Sweeney went on, “They had a picture of you sailing with a man named Boyd Something. Looked older than you. Said he was your fiancé. Got killed in a plane crash.”
Goddamn them.
Mrs. Sweeney kept on, “I noticed on the news that they haven't quoted a thing you said. All they do is show your pictures when Poblo is talking.”
Mama and Daddy are talking. And showing pictures.
“Were me,” Mrs. Sweeney said, “I wouldn't be afraid to tell what happened. People round here lives with ghosts all the time. Heck, if it weren't for the haints, some folks wouldn't have no friends at all.”
Because she felt drained of emotion, Ann knew her smile was lame. “I'll have to remember that.”
“Let me tell you a story that will make you feel better.”
“Do I really look that bad?”
“You could smile more. Pretty face like yours shouldn't be so long.”
“Tell me the story then.”
“It's about a ship, too. The ship of the Palatines. Know who the Palatines were?”
“Is that the John Greenleaf Whittier Poem?” She quoted, “And then, with ghastly shimmer and shine, over the rocks and the seething brine, they burned the wreck of the Palatine. In their cruel hearts, as they homeward sped, 'The sea and the rocks are dumb,' they said: 'There'll be no reckoning with the dead.'“
“It ain't no poem,” Mrs. Sweeney said and got to her feet. “The Palatines were German Protestants who came to settle New Bern. That's across the sound from here. Their homeland was Bern Switzerland, I believe.” Mrs. Sweeney made the painful walk to the television to turn down the sound. Back in her chair, she continued, “'Course, the Palatines didn't know they had to deal with Indians and thieves once they got here, nor the thieving crews on ships in those days. You see, the Palatines were rich. Several ships had come across and everybody knew that they had plenty of gold. Well, to keep the captain and crew from stealing their stuff, these Palatines pretended to be poor.”
She stopped speaking, as if giving Ann the opportunity to interject her opinion of such a subterfuge. Ann nodded to encourage her tale.
“Finally it came time to come ashore,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “The Palatines got together all their gold and jewelry. It wasn't hidden very good and the captain saw it. He told the Palatines they couldn't land until the next day. That night, the captain and crew knifed every man, woman and child on board. They set the ship on fire and left in life boats. When they looked back at the ship, they were amazed.”
Mrs. Sweeney's eyes widened as if she were seeing the ship. “I
t kept burning and burning, and then…” she drew in a breath for effect, “it began to move back and forth, and it wouldn't sink.” With her arms outstretched, she moved her hands as if they were waves on the sound. “It got going faster and faster – passing back and forth…” Her words tripped on her tongue. “Flaming away, to and fro, to and fro, at the very spot where the Palatines were killed. The very spot.”
She stopped as if to say, What do you think of that?
Ann kept her gaze steady.
Mrs. Sweeney squared her shoulders. “With the dawn of day, it stopped burning. But it stood there with spars, sails, and masts blackened. Then at sundown it began to burn again. It got to be called The Ship on Fire that Wouldn't Burn. Meanwhile, the captain and the crew landed their little boats and ran into the forest. They mingled with the natives and thieves, and their kin lived on the ill-gotten gains. They were never brought to justice. So every year on the date of the murders, the burning ship appears off New Bern.” She drank from a large glass of iced tea and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “And it will appear every year until the blood of the Palatines has been avenged.” Tale over, Mrs. Sweeney reached into the bag of potato chips on the table.
Ann asked, “You know anyone who's seen this ship?”
“My very own husband,” Mrs. Sweeney declared around the chips in her mouth. “Mr. Sweeney was fishing up at the mouth of the Neuse River of that evening, of that date, and then this bright thing comes speeding over the water. He said if it wasn't that sailing ship he'd eat his hat. Its masts were blazing. Then it disappeared as fast as it'd come.”
“What did Mr. Sweeney do?”
“He didn't get on that burning ship, that's for sure.”
Ann felt the stab of unmeant sarcasm. “Did he tell others what he saw?”
“Surely did. The ran a piece in The Islander saying a respected fisherman saw the burning ship and that it was something that locals see ever so often.”
Ann rose and asked with a twinkle, “Is it a true story, or did you make it up to cheer me?”
“True story, swear on a Bible.” Then she pointed toward the television. “Do you know that young man, Rod Curator?”
THE GHOST SHIP Page 17
