THE GHOST SHIP

by Gerrie Ferris Finger

  The woman reporter asked with all the concern of a Barbara Walters affectation, “Mr. Gavrion, do you have any idea where your daughter is right now?”

  Her daddy seemed to not understand. He blinked. Her mama answered, “I – No. We surely don't. We surely don't.”

  The reporter said, “For the record I must ask about the McLellan name.”

  Her mama straightened and frowned. “It's my name, spelled McClelland.” She spelled it out in her slow Southern drawl.

  “Is there any truth to the suggestion that Charles B. McLellan, the first mate on the Carroll A. Deering, was related to you?”

  “Of course not. We McClellands do not go to sea. We are landowners going way back before The War Between the States. No relative of mine would be on a ship.”

  “You know your family tree then?”

  “I surely do. Mr. Gavrion and I have listened to the nonsense, and I want to tell everyone that Ann Gavrion is in no way kin to a drunken sailor.”

  Good for mama, Ann thought, and wished that the interview would end there. But it didn't.

  The reporter tried another tactic. “Have you been contacted by your daughter, Mrs. Gavrion?”

  “Well, we have spoken, of course.”

  Her daddy was shaking his head up and down.

  “When was that?” the reporter asked.

  “Now, I don't really think Ann would like us to tell you when we talked or what we talked about.”

  “I can understand that,” the reporter said. “Is your daughter all right?”

  “Surely, she is.”

  “Is she in the state?”

  Her parents shook their heads unresponsively. The reporter made a moue of annoyance. She'd gotten an interview with the parents of the hottest topic on television, and yet she couldn't pin them down with anything sizzling.

  “Is she living with you right now? Under this roof?”

  Anabel looked aghast – a dead giveaway. “I couldn't say.”

  “Okay,” the reporter said, “is your daughter in any medical facility.”

  “Why – I never!” Anabel Gavrion sat on the pinnacle of insult.

  “I take that as a no,” the reporter said.

  Claude tried to wobble to his feet. “Sit, daddy,” Anabel said. And when she had hold of his hand again, Anabel continued, “There is nothing wrong with our daughter, I can surely assure you. We are god-fearing, god-loving Southern folk who came to this country practically at its founding, and we have poured our lives and souls into this beautiful land of ours. My daughter, Ann Flanery Gavrion, is the sweetest, kindest, most intelligent child ever to grace a family at its table. You won't find a more level head on a girl's shoulders. But since her fiancé died, yes, that caused her great pain and sorrow. And loneliness, I believe.”

  Ann felt the shock start in the pit of her gut.

  She recovered to listen to her mother's further utterances, ones that stabbed her heart. “Boyd and she went out on his boat, they dined, went to symphony. They were going to be married, and…” Anabel leaned closer to the reporter, “don't you see what I'm saying?”

  “That people get delusional from loneliness?” the reporter asked.

  Anabel straightened and looked into the camera. “She loved Boyd with all her heart. That's all there is to it.” Anabel sat back as if she'd given the reporter her comeuppance, one that broached no further discussion like she'd do when offering the last word at the Columbus Historical Society.

  But it was Claude who had the last this time. “We'll get her to a psychiatrist when she gets home. Know some damn fine ones.”

  --

  Spence glanced at Rod over the rim of his coffee cup to gage Rod's mood. Spence wondered how he was going to bring up his liaison with Missi, the hated newspaper reporter. Very dicey, so he'd have to word his explanation just so, and get out the important points before Rod blew up. Rod had to know immediately that Missi wasn't going to use anything he'd told her. Yeah, Spence thought, he'd told Missi too much, but he could trust her. He felt himself get itchy just thinking about last night. God, she was the real thing. He’d tell Rod he intended on marrying her. I'll tell him that it's like nothing that's ever happened to me before. We got like glue the minute we saw each other. You remember that feeling, don't you, Rod old boy, when you and Carmen – No, don't bring Carmen into this. Keep it with Missi and me.

  --

  Rod watched Spence throughout breakfast for the tell-tale signs of new love. Spence's red face and high jocular spirits had always given him away. But this morning there was no extra ruddiness in his complexion, and he was uncommonly quiet. He seemed afraid to meet Rod's eyes.

  Holding a forkful of scrambled egg, Rod asked, “Did you see BNN this morning?”

  Spence raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  Chewing, Rod said, “A reporter in Atlanta is requesting the tapes from the museum.”

  “What tapes?”

  Rod hadn't missed the glitch in Spence's voice. “The ones for the day that Ann Gavrion and Poblo were together in the museum. I was there, too.”

  “What did y'all talk about that time?”

  “The Deering.”

  “That won't show on the tapes, unless they can read lips.”

  “They'll get experts, don't think they won't.”

  “No big deal. Everybody comes here talks about the Deering. The museum promotes the mystery.”

  “But not everybody is trying to prove they took a ride on the Deering.”

  “Stupid woman.”

  With those two words, Rod knew that Ann was right. The female reporter had Spence by the balls. He said, “According to Poblo, Ann came to the museum and did some research with him. The two of them working at the computer would be on the video, too.”

  Spence riffed his fingers on the table. “What does that prove?”

  “Poblo could be telling the truth.”

  “It won't show what was on the computer screen, will it?” It had been a long time since Rod had seen Spence so serious. Nary a joke yet.

  Rod said, “The camera's located behind the computer screen, looking down into it. So, yeah, I think they can enhance the image to show what they were researching. Besides, BNN went further. They are requesting access to the computer's hard drive, which will show that Ann was researching my great-grandfather and the Deering.”

  “Can they get the hard drive?”

  “I don't see how. There's been no crime committed.”

  Spence looked down. “No, no crime.”

  Poor Spence, Rod thought, doesn't know how to tell me about the reporter. But so what? It was his affair. What troubled Rod now was Ann's parents spilling the beans about an old love affair that ended in death. Death. The end of things. Oh, Ann, did you transfer your delusions – yes – isn't that what your mama said – delusions of a trip in time with a phantom mariner?

  And to think, he had begun to believe in her.

  He gave Spence his best frank stare. “We could use a diversion. You got something interesting going on these days?”

  “Me? Heck, your little piping plovers do more interesting things than me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  --

  She woke hearing the wind coughing against the windows. Last night she had fallen into a melancholy slumber with dreams of desperation vying with one another for supremacy. She dressed in the second pair of jeans, the turtle neck and peacoat, Wrapping the scarf around her neck, she unlocked the Buick and threw the two bags holding her possessions on the back seat. Driving north, she called Mrs. Sweeney, who asked, “You hear about what they're up to on BNN this morning?”

  She said, “It's so silly, them making such a big deal out of nothing when there's wars going on and people starving to death.”

  “Oh no,” Mrs. Sweeney laughed. “Don't everybody love a ghost story. Sorry about your old beau. How long ago did he pass?”

  “Two years almost.”

  “You wouldn't be mooning on about an old flame, now woul
d you?”

  “No, I wouldn't,” she said in a tart tone to end the discussion. “I'll be there sometime this afternoon. Hope Mr. Sweeney doesn't miss his Buick too much.”

  “Not one bit. He's got his truck, you see, and he doesn't like the noise it makes. The muffler rusted out from the salt air. Does it bother you?”

  “Not at all,” she lied.

  When Ann got to Rodanthe, she swung by Spence's house and saw Missi's car in the driveway. She wondered if Rod would ask Spence about Missi? Wouldn't I love to be a fly on the wall in Mrs. MacGregor's dining room this morning?

  She called Young Park. “Can you talk?”

  “Sure. I am the only one here.”

  “Don't face any cameras.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did you watch the television this morning?”

  “Oh, the videos. I'm covering my mouth right now.”

  “Is everything in turmoil there?”

  “There is an emergency board meeting this morning, but I have heard that they will not show the public the museum's videos. As part of the North Carolina Maritime Museum System, they will not make the decision and, he says, so far the main museum is declining an open records request. They say it has nothing to do with museum business, but is for harassment of a private citizen.”

  “That will keep it tied up in the courts for a time.”

  “Yes,” she said, a grin in her voice.

  “What's happening with Poblo?”

  “His truck is gone. He left this morning right before I did.”

  “Do you know where he's going?”

  “The man who lives next door to him said that he is going to Manteo for the museum job. He got another interview.”

  Missi was doing her damnedest for Poblo – and herself. “I've got a different kind of question. Did Poblo date anyone down here?” Young didn't answer. “Young, are you there?”

  “When he first came, we went out for a couple of dates, but we – he and I are so different. It ended well. We stayed friends.”

  “Who else did he date?”

  “Different ones. But not for long. Islanders are very insular. They do not seem to go outside their race so much.”

  “Anyone else you can name? If I have a chance to talk to these women, your name won't come up, I promise.”

  “This is rumor, but they say he dated a married woman.”

  “Who?”

  “I hate to say it. It is just rumor.”

  “Remember our conversation is private and confidential. Who is the married woman?”

  “They say Carmen Curator.”

  “Rod's wife?”

  Rod's words came into her head. I was going to call you when – everything died down. I felt maybe I was too hard on you. I felt something for you – that night.

  She asked Young, “Could Rod have known?”

  “I do not think it is true.”

  “Why not?”

  “Poblo – well, he is Poblo. And Carmen was so sophisticated. I don't think she would have a real affair with him. She would just tease …”

  “That can be dangerous. How was Carmen and Rod's marriage?”

  “They seemed – okay when they were together. Carmen was always going on with men, even when Rod was around, and he did not seem to mind her high spirits.”

  “Carmen liked it here?”

  “Well, no. She was not happy down here. But she was happy with Rod.”

  “Did Poblo date anyone else?”

  “He did not seem interested in anyone until …”

  “Until?”

  “I thought he was interested in you. Doris did, too.”

  “You did?”

  “We thought Spence was interested in you, too.”

  She laughed. “It's a very small world down here.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Seoul.”

  “You and me, Young, we are not from a small world.”

  She laughed. “It is hard to get used to.”

  No truer words were spoken.

  --

  Back in the Sweeney fold, Ann told Mrs. Sweeney that Poblo Quitano was supposed to be staying somewhere in Manteo. Half an hour later, Mrs. Sweeney had the place. The Bridge Court. “It's out just before you get to the bridge going over to Nags Head.”

  “I saw it.”

  “I know who runs it. Good trade in summer. Nothing this time of year – except come the festivals.”

  An hour later, Ann was sorry she left Buxton. The afternoon dragged on. She tried to read in her room, grew restless and went to watch television with Mrs. Sweeney. They talked about the weather, and its affects on everything from Mr. Sweeney's crab pots, to the coming Thanksgiving and Christmas festivals. “You need to be here for them. I'll save you a room.” Only God knew where she would be when those festivals rolled around.

  The highlight of the evening was BaLenda's call. “We miss you,” BaLenda said.

  “I miss you terribly,” Ann answered, meaning it heart and soul.

  “I'm sorry that BNN bimbo got to your parents.”

  “It was bound to happen.”

  “So naïve,” BaLenda lamented. “Folks sixty years old … They shouldn't be allowed to talk to the media.

  Ann laughed. “And Mama warned me not to talk to them.”

  “Arnold's worried about you.”

  “He has my cell number.”

  “He asked me to keep him informed and to tell you that he's here for you and that when you're ready to come back home, just holler.”

  “As I said, he has my cell number.”

  “You know how Arnold feels about you. I know some people here have been approached by reporters who want to talk about you and Boyd Stanton. If any staffer here runs his or her mouth, they'll be fired on the spot. Arnold has even stated that publicly, which is odd for a recluse like him.”

  “Missi's down here.”

  BaLenda's tone turned angry. “Bitch! How many goddamn times have the three of us had girl-talks in our cups.”

  “It's her job.”

  “Bullcrap! Listen to this, I talked with a friend over at The Courier. It's real hush-hush what stuff Missi's digging up, but my friend says it's dynamite.”

  “Does she know the nature of this dynamite?”

  “She wouldn't tell me because Missi knows she and me are great friends so she's got to tread like a fairy – not even toes touching the ground.”

  “I see,” Ann said, making up her mind to confide in BaLenda. “This is what I know – for your ears only.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Missi's hooked up with Spencer Reilly, Rod Curator's good friend, and someone I used to think I could trust.”

  “Before Missi got hold of him, you mean?”

  “I warned him.”

  “There went his cookies. He's spilled them all over her, so when we going to read all about it?”

  “Soon, I'm sure.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  --

  Missi’s column was a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, and Ann recognized some serious groundwork-laying in the first act.

  To begin with, Missi quoted Claude and Anabel Gavrion from outtakes of the BNN interview, throwing in a few of her own remarks on the love affair between Ann Gavrion and Boyd Stanton.

  Missi wrote: “I'd never seen Ann Gavrion so happy as when she was with Boyd Stanton. When he was killed in a plane crash, I've never seen her so distraught. Even before she took that fateful trip to the Outer Banks, she lamented that nothing interested her any longer.”

  Ann wondered how long it would take before it was reported that Boyd had been married when the two had met. A day, perhaps?

  Then, as if to tie two broken hearts together, Missi wrote that Rod Curator had lost his wife in the summer, and suggested that perhaps that was why he was feeling “hostile toward the world”.

  Ann could visualize Rod as a sulking Hamlet: To be, or not to be, that is the quest
ion. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles…

  So, what was this the dynamite that BaLenda had heard about from her newspaper friend? Missi hadn't quoted her folks until after their BNN interview – so that wasn't the dynamite.

  Was Missi holding back this dynamite story until she had more proof for her newspaper's editors – and Arnold Richter? Arnold may be reclusive, but he was a powerful force in the Southern media world, and you better have your facts right if you're going to write about his people.

  Or did this dynamite have something to do with Rod. Had she wormed some past indiscretion from Spence, who could let his mouth run away with him.

  Idly, Ann also wondered if Spence would get tough-girl Missi to fall in love with him. Missi had a vulnerable quality under the exterior, and Spence was good-looking and charming.

  She watched BNN with Mrs. Sweeney, who ate a six-pack of blueberry muffins, never losing the eager look on her face.

  The anchorman read the museum's position paper with the words scrolling on the screen. “The videotapes taken from the security cameras are for museum personnel use only. In cases of past criminal activity, we have turned them over to the proper authorities. In this instance, there is no such criminal activity. The matter resides between two individuals and their quarrel is not pursuant to a public interest inquiry. If further investigation proves otherwise, our position will change with the order from a court. “

  A couple of BNN's legal heads in blue suits and red ties argued the case. They agreed about no criminal activity, which was the reason the museum had installed the cameras, but a gray-haired former judge thought it might be a goodwill gesture if the museum cooperated with Poblo, who was, after all, trying to prove he was telling the truth about his research with Ann Gavrion.

  Ann got up to leave the room. “To hell with legal analysts,” she said and Mrs. Sweeney readily agreed.

  Her laundry dry and properly pressed by Mrs. Sweeney, she put on jeans, the sweater, the cap and left to check out Poblo's digs at the motel. His rental van appeared to be hiding by the dumpster. She watched the place for an hour before Poblo came out and got inside a red compact car, which he'd apparently towed behind the van.