THE GHOST SHIP

by Gerrie Ferris Finger

  “No, but I told him you lost your job.”

  “Did he care?”

  “He didn't say.” After a hesitating silence, Spence said, “But Roddy'll come around. He's got a conscious.”

  “He may not think there's anything wrong with his conscious when it comes to me.”

  “Rod knows who the troublemaker is.”

  “Not me?”

  “Poblo Quitano.”

  “You forget I started it.”

  “Lots of people see ghosts down here. It's not unusual, and Rod knows that.”

  “Not his dearly beloved great-granddaddy, though. By the way, tell me about this Mamie Borderson.”

  “Mad Mamie, you mean?

  “The reporters don't call her that.”

  “It doesn't suit them to, but she's been seeing things for years. She'll read your palm if you want, or look into a crystal ball for you. The tourists keep her in ginger beer.”

  She gave a moment's thought to Mad Mamie's sighting, which happened to be not so mad after all. She asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Never saw one.” He cleared his throat. “You know Poblo Quitano got his walking papers from the museum.”

  “I heard.”

  “Rod saw to that.”

  She was tempted to tell Spence she'd seen Poblo in Manteo, but no – wise not to.

  He said, “The good thing is, with the little bastard out of here, things will quiet pretty quickly. Then I think you and Rod could have a sit-down. I never mentioned to him that you wanted to get the case re-opened with the authorities in Washington.”

  “I know what his reaction would be.”

  “He doesn't like being hounded by reporters.”

  “Who does? But I can't do anything about it – especially since he won't talk to me.”

  “Let it be for the time being.”

  “I'll have to,” she said. “Now just remember – avoid Missi McNamara.”

  “Haven't seen hide nor hair of a female brain-picker yet.”

  “You will.”

  “Uh …”

  “Yes?”

  “You thinking of setting up your Tarot shop down here?”

  “Maybe.”

  He laughed uneasily. “Might not be a good idea.” Pause. “You might give me the Death Card.”

  She laughed. “People misunderstand the Death Card. Never fear it. Once you've been through the dark night of the soul, you are ready for Change – as in a sea change, which Shakespeare says is something rich and strange.”

  “Jesus, where did that come from?”

  “I'm an expert at research, haven't you heard. Better you don't get the Justice Card. It's not a nice card.”

  “I think I've had them both already.”

  “Haven't we all?” She thought of Boyd, and Guilt, and Justice.

  “Don't give up on Roddy just yet.”

  “I'm glad you called.”

  “Me, too. Take care of yourself.”

  --

  Sitting in the rented MDX, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, watching the storm clouds gather over the sea, she wondered how long Missi would be. Ann had been here for an hour. Then at six-fifteen, Missi's rental swung into The Travelers parking lot. The car had Virginia tags. Ann wrote down the number, the make of the car, and the color. She was sure that Missi had mined all she could from Poblo. The only place left to go was Hatteras. And with the storm tracking in, that would be tomorrow morning.

  When she got back to The Croatan Inn, Mrs. Sweeney was scraping food off plates into the garbage disposal. “Mr. Sweeney's already gone up for the bed,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “He was hoping to meet you.”

  “In the morning,” Ann said. “I'm up early.”

  “You hungry tonight?”

  “Earlier, you said something about a roast beef sandwich.”

  “Sit, let me make it for you.”

  “I'll finish loading the dishwasher while you make the sandwich.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Ann pushed up her sleeves and went to the sink, and Mrs. Sweeney opened the refrigerator door. Taking two slices of rye from a bag, Mrs. Sweeney said, “Something happened I think you'll want to know.”

  Ann glanced over her shoulder. “What?”

  “There was a call for you.”

  Her hand threatened to crush the glass she held.

  “The girl asked for you.”

  “And?”

  “I says, 'Who?'“ Mrs. Sweeney's voice was harsh and she scowled. “The girl says, 'I understand Miss Ann Gavrion has a room at your inn.'“

  “And you said?”

  “I beg pardon, I know of no one by that name.”

  “Good.”

  “The girl goes on, 'I'm her assistant and she explicitly told me that she was going to stay at The Croatan.' I says, 'We don't take visitors after October first, so she couldn't be staying here.' And then I asked, 'Who did you say you were?' She says, 'BaLenda. I work with her in Atlanta.' I says, 'Well, BaLenda try some other places that stays open after the season's over.' And that was that. Do you know a BaLenda?”

  “Sure do, but BaLenda knows my cell number and would call on it. But Missi McNamara, the reporter, knows I prefer B&Bs and small inns to chain motels or hotels.”

  Mrs. Sweeney touched her nose. “I knew it. Them reporters is trying to get at you.”

  “Good for your intuition.”

  “Common sense, it is. Mr. Sweeney says so, too. You got to use your common sense in this world.”

  Common sense.

  Ann sat at the table, salted the meat between the bread, and took a bite. Her stomach went into reveries over the tender meat and white bread while her brain asked the question: What other avenues is Missi exploring to find me?

  She chewed thoughtfully, and Mrs. Sweeney said, “You got the wheels turning upstairs.”

  The rental car! Oh God!

  She jumped up from the table. “S'cuse me. I parked on the street. I need to pull my car around back.”

  Mrs. Sweeney looked startled, and then the light bulb came on in her mind. “You surely do.”

  “They can't stake out all the inns on the Outer Banks. But they'll be looking for a Georgia plate, especially one with a specific county tag.”

  “You need to get you another rental.”

  “And fast.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  --

  The rain had stopped around two in the morning, and now, with the dawning, the eastern sky was decked out in pink and purple ribbons.

  Mr. Sweeney was a slip of a man, all craggy and weathered with a crooked grin that charmed even at this early hour. The bright overhead light in the breakfast room shined on a picture hanging on the wall that had to have been forty years old. It was a faded wedding photo of a lithe Mrs. Sweeney and a beanpole Mr. Sweeney in a Naval enlisted uniform. Mr. Sweeney's size had stayed the same while Mrs. Sweeney had grown to epic proportions.

  Ann saw why.

  He filled his platter with eggs, potatoes, grits, ham, sausage, bacon. On the side was a half dozen biscuits with butter and honey. Mrs. Sweeney's plate was just as loaded. She ate what he ate, but he stayed slim, and she got fat. Genes.

  He talked with his mouth full of food, something Ann loathed, but overlooked. “Yeah, it's peaceful early like this in the Fall,” he said. “Nobody raging up and down on jet skis and boats.”

  Ann said, “A man I met in Hatteras says the sound isn't very deep.”

  “Deep enough in places. Deep enough to drown in.”

  “What do you fish for?”

  “Yesterday, me and an ol' boy I know, went and set out flounder nets. Dag! Didn't catch nothing big enough to take to the market that buys my catch. So today I'm going crabbing.”

  “Isn't it cold?” Ann said, for something to say. She supposed fishermen were impervious to weather of any kind.

  “Naw.”

  “I know in Georgia there are season when you catch certain things, and certain times when you
can't.”

  “Here, too,” Mr. Sweeney said, sopping biscuit in milk gravy. “Anybody wantin' to crab after October first has to get himself a Standard Commercial Fishing License, which I've had for nigh onto forty years. Don't stop the boaters getting their prop into your trap float though.”

  Talk of the sea and of the village continued, until the sweet came, which was peach melba.

  Mr. Sweeney said, “Mrs. Sweeney here, she tells me you need a different vee-hickle.”

  “One with a North Carolina tag.”

  “You don't want them ghost chasers after you, do you?”

  She didn't know quite how to reply. “Uh – no.”

  “Well, anyone come to this part of the world, they could take a lesson what we're all about. We're all about a little history, and a lot about myths and legends. You know about the Lost Colony?”

  “Some.”

  “Queen Elizabeth Number One sent Sir Walter Raleigh to put down a colony here twice. First one, he had to take the folks all the way back to England, with two Indians that turned on them.”

  Mrs. Sweeney interrupted, “Chief Croatan liked the English, but Wanchese didn't. More stuff around here is named for Croatan than Wanchese.”

  Mr. Sweeney looked pained at the interruption. “Then Raleigh brought another colony. He went back by hisself after it failed. Then White, the governor appointed by Queen Elizabeth, brought more people over, and had to return to England for food. The Indians had turned downright nasty. When he came back three years later, they whole damn colony'd disappeared. Nobody knows what happened to them. Did the natives slaughter them? Did they leave and go somewhere else? They couldna gone far, they got no transportation for that many folks. Truth is nobody knows.”

  Mrs. Sweeney said, “I saw on TV, they done DNA testing a while back ago. Found out that some of the natives have English blood in their bodies.”

  Ann said, “Sounds like the colonists went native.”

  “T'was that or starve to death,” Mrs. Sweeney said.

  “You watch too much TV, Gerta. Way too much TV,” Mr. Sweeney said. “My way of thinkin' the Indians killed them and threw them in the sound. That's why they say Roanoke Sound is haunted. You go out of a night, you see the haints of men and children walkin' over the waters.”

  “Truth in that,” Mrs. Sweeney said.

  “I'm a believer,” Ann said.

  “'Course you are,” Mrs. Sweeney said.

  Ann rued that remark, in case the Sweeneys got ideas to talk to the press, which didn't seem likely at the moment. Changing the subject, she said, “Where's the nearest rent-a-car?”

  “Right here.”

  “Will you give me directions?”

  “Don't need no directions. You get your car with the North Carolina plate right here.”

  “You rent cars?”

  “I lend cars, when I want to.”

  Thinking about the old Buick she'd seen in the garage, she smiled.

  Mrs. Sweeney broke in, “See, I tole you she was really pretty when she smiled big.”

  Ann felt her face flush, and murmured, “That's sweet of you to say.”

  “Tis true.”

  Mr. Sweeney wiped his mouth until she thought it would bleed, then placed his napkin at the side of his plate. Evidently finished, he rose. “I'll keep your rental car, and you can take my ol' jitney. Ain't so pretty as yours, but nobody'd take it for a loaner from Avis.”

  “That's exactly what I need.”

  The eight-year-old Buick had twenty-eight-thousand miles on it. “Ain't never been more'n fifty miles from Roanoke Island,” Mr. Sweeney said. “The Mrs. drives it most for chores, but she don't get out like she used to. Her ankles and knees – she gets down in them. You get your things, I'll meet you at the jitney.”

  Ten minutes later, Ann said, “Absolutely perfect,” and threw her backpack into the back seat. The backpack contained her mini-computer, cell phone, camera, identification and money. On top of the backpack went the cloche, a silk scarf and her cape. It was a crisp morning, but she was dressed for it. The black cashmere sweater and tan wool pants were heavy enough. On her head was a Philadelphia Phillies baseball cap, left by one of the Sweeneys’ guests..

  “Will you phone us from time ta time?” Mr. Sweeney asked, as a great blue heron flew over their heads.

  Watching the heron's graceful flight toward Roanoke Sound, she said, “It's lovely.”

  “It's a good omen for you, Miss Ann.”

  “I'll take it.”

  “I mean it, keep in touch or we'll send out the troopers if you don't.”

  She looked at him, at his brown weathered face against the smears of the early sky. “You have kids?”

  He shook his head regretfully. “Wan't to be.”

  Rolling backward down the driveway, she heard the muffler and grimaced, then she waved at his do-gooder grin, the sense of belonging swelling in her chest. She'd lost a friend in Missi, but gained two protectors in the Sweeneys.

  Missi's car wasn't in the slot where she'd last seen it, nor was it in the Traveler's lot at all. It was across the street at the pier, at The Breakfast Restaurant. She gave it a salute, and turned onto the beach road.

  Four miles later, she let Missi's car pass hers, and after two more early-morning travelers went by, she followed Missi when she made a left onto Highway 12 going south. Damn noisy car.

  It took an hour to reach Buxton, the National Park Service office.

  She saw Spence's Suburban in the lot and Missi pulling in next to it.

  “Get ready, Spence, you horny toad,” she said aloud.

  “Christ,” Missi muttered. The sand had blown across the tarmac, making it slippery. Her left foot almost shot out from beneath her when she got out of the car. “Godforsaken place.”

  She'd barely noticed the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse when she drove into Buxton village. She'd been on her cell phone for most of the drive, whenever she had cell service. And when she didn't, she spent the time cussing the primitive islands.

  Signage led her to a white-frame two-story building, where another sign said, “Cape Hatteras National Seashore Visitors Center and Museum.”

  She said, “Gotta have us a museum to sell a lot a li'l ol' lighthouses, don't we?” She grunted and admitted she was feeling very pissy this morning. Where the hell was Ann Gavrion?

  Stepping onto the single-story porch, she turned the handle and went inside. The bell gonged in the back. Her heels tapped over highly polished hardwood. The place smelled of potpourri, peppermint and coffee. Shortly, a small middle-aged woman came down the back steps.

  “May I be of help?”

  “I'm sure you can,” Missi said, her voice full of Southern friendliness. “I'm looking for Spencer Reilly.”

  “I see,” she said. Missi recognized this reaction as jealousy. Poor old soul had never been pretty. The woman asked, “And may I tell Mr. Reilly who wants to see him?

  “Regina McNamara,” Missi said. Regina is my real first name. I'm entitled to bring it out whenever I want.

  “Miss McNamara, please wait here.”

  When Spence walked into the room, Missi's heart fluttered like fireflies had been pumped into it. She watched Spence's reaction to her first sight of him. She'd bestowed him with a big wow because she adored tall blond men with greenish eyes. He, however, seemed guarded and that pissed her off. Just you wait. She held out her hand. “Mr. Reilly, I'm …”

  Before she could finish, he grinned. “I know who you are.”

  “You do?”

  He scratched a cheek. “Regina. No, that's not the name that I heard with McNamara. Uh, Missi.”

  Missi laid a palm on her breast. “Oh my. I've been preceded by an introduction. A good one, I hope.”

  “Name and occupation,” Spence said, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Well, then, call me Missi, although I assure you that my first name is Regina. I wouldn't tell a fib for nothing in the world.”

  “And you can call me Spence. Spencer
is a bit too formal. Like Regina.”

  She looked at him to see if he was goosing her, but his eyes were not cynical. “I'd like to talk to you, if I may?”

  “We can talk about most things. There's some that are off limits. Come into my office.”

  “Well, I was thinking … While I'm here, I'd sure like to go up in that magnificent lighthouse outside. Is that allowed?”

  “We're officially closed for the season.”

  “But I bet you've got a set of keys on you.”

  He laughed. “It's a good day for climbing, but you haven't got on your climbing shoes.”

  She held up a heeled clog. “I don't have any problem going anywhere with these shoes. Experience. I could climb it to the top in stilettos.”

  “Let's go then.”

  As they left the Visitors Center, Spence said, “The building we left is the original assistant keepers' quarters.”

  “Oh my, like they lived there then?”

  “Yes, it was one of the perks of being in the service, along with being underpaid.”

  “Well, with a house on the beach, who could complain?”

  He laughed again. “Yeah but it didn't have electricity, running water, television and computers.”

  “You have a point. Too rustic for me.”

  “You from Atlanta originally?”

  “Nope. Mississippi, thus my nickname.” She wouldn't lay the Miss Mississippi crown on him just yet.

  He said, “But you work in Atlanta.” She nodded, and he asked, “What's the name of your paper?”

  “The Atlanta Courier.”

  He stopped and faced her. Hardening his jaw, he said, “This isn't an interview, Missi. This is a guided tour.”

  “Do you see a notebook in my hand?”

  “But are you wired?”

  She opened her jacket. “You want to pat me down.”

  When he flicked her a glance, she could see a ribald remark come to his lips, but, thinking better of it, he turned and stepped ahead.

  At the red brick and white granite base, Missi said, “What a quaint thing you have here. My goodness, it's an octagon, isn't it! And those colors are so wonderful, they way they set off the black and white stripes.”

  “Do you write architectural articles for the paper?”

  “I've written on every subject, some you'd be surprised at.”