by Paisley Ray
“There are various types of dowsing: rods, pendulums. Everyone is unique, and so is what they seek. Since the technique doesn’t use any scientific laws or forces of nature, it’s considered a type of divination. She’s locating her reading glasses using an occult means.”
The cooking part of having Mom around, I liked. The metaphysical informational overloads and suggestions pertaining to junk food intake, not so much. “Can we have a conversation when I’m awake?”
She began cracking eggs. “Not too early for Francine, she left in the wee hours. Couldn’t have gotten eight hours of sleep.”
“Maybe she doesn’t need eight hours.”
“How well do you know her?”
“I’ve KNOWN her for three years. Lived with her for two. What are you getting at?”
“What kind of law office has college interns working around the clock?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked.”
“You sure she’s not…”
I stared at Mom.
“Being taken advantage of?”
“Francine?” I laughed.
Mom didn’t see the humor.
Regaining my composure, I said, “Nobody takes advantage of Francine.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I haven’t had a chance to get to know her. I want to make sure that you surround yourself with good, strong people.”
Me? Maybe you should think about whom you hang with!
“So what are your plans today?”
Was she keeping tabs on me?
“Open the gallery, close the gallery. It’s the same Monday through Saturday.”
“Betts and I have some work in Savannah and will be gone for a night, maybe two.”
“Work, what kind of work?”
“A graveyard reading for some local historians.”
Was reading code for pillaging? I could envision Betts digging up fresh graves to steal treasured jewelry.
“Can’t she do that alone?”
“We are a team,” she reminded me before cutting into an onion. “Are you selling much at the gallery?”
“Not really. Mostly handmade sweetgrass baskets. They seem more popular than paintings to the tourists.”
“Maybe Mr. Larkin needs to mix things up, bring in some new artists.”
“That’s what I think. I’ve bought some pieces at yard sales and secondhand shops. After repairing them, I was thinking I’d place a few of the items for sale in the gallery.”
“That sounds like a good idea. Spur some business.”
I didn’t mention my real motive: pay Trudy off for the car loan sooner rather than later. One could only assume that her relationship with Dad would crash, and once it did, I wanted the signed car title in my possession so there’d be no strings connecting us.
Mr. Larkin was paying me minimum wage and giving me a rent-free summer in exchange for managing his gallery. It was an okay deal. But calling the store a gallery was a stretch. The art hanging on the walls was mostly high-priced reprints of seagulls, seashells, and porch swings. He had a few oil paintings of colonial art and some marina seascapes painted by artists I’d never heard of. The modest money made by his store as far as I could tell was mostly from the baskets.
Filling the Mr. Coffee pot with water, I partially listened to my mom talk about a tai chi meet up in a park somewhere near the business district in downtown Beaufort. Outside the sink window, morning broke above the still water and cast a glimmer on the salt marsh that contrasted with the effervescent greens in the grasses that grew out of the muck-bed bottom. Mom and Betts’s pontoon was marooned next to the dock that was more like a funhouse bridge than a sturdy structure to moor something with a motor. I wouldn’t mind exploring the hidey-holes of Brickyard Creek, and as I listened to the dripping of the automatic brewer, I made a mental note to ask Francine if she’d join me. When I lifted my head, I glimpsed the figure of a man with a walking stick, moving along the bank.
At first I thought it was Hodge, but his lean build appeared stalkier. Head down in the still-dark morning, the man scanned the ground, occasionally thwacking the stick he carried into the goopy ground where shore met water. Steadily covering the area by the bank, he’d start five feet from shore, then work his way to the water’s edge before snaking backward and repeating. He was dressed in a nondescript pair of khaki shorts, ankle boots, and a t-shirt. When he removed his baseball cap to readjust it, his identity registered.
The coffee pot sputtered as the last of the water drained through the filter. Mom started in on the benefits of early morning meditation. Like hell was I getting out of bed to bang a gong at the rising sun on the dock. I poured two cups and added milk and sugar in mine, but left the second black. I hesitated for a minute as inner guilt took a pop shot at my loyalty emotions, but I brushed thoughts of Stone aside. We’d never said we were exclusive, and besides, he was a gazillion miles away in Paraguay having a blast, saving some endangered species.
“Breakfast is almost ready. Potatoes, scrambled eggs, onion, and sausage.”
“Be back in five minutes,” I said.
“Where are you going?”
“We have a visitor. I’m taking him a cup of coffee.”
“Him?”
“Mom, please,” I said as I stepped onto the porch.
“I made plenty, so be sure and invite your friend in for a bite to eat.”
How did she know he was a friend?
AFTER MAKING MY WAY through some unruly ankle-high grass, I found a stepping stone path that led to the water. As I approached, Forrest waved, and I offered him a cup of coffee.
“Well, hey there, Hazel. Thank you.”
The inner me deflated.
“It’s Rachael.”
He took a sip. “Right. Rachael.”
“The fire station’s a ways from here. Are you lost?”
He chuckled. “Firemen are required to have survival skills. Getting lost is a rare occurrence. Nice morning. Cool. Won’t last long; today’s supposed to be a scorcher.”
The black-shelled mussels that covered the bank where the water lapped made a slurping noise as the tide pushed out. I pointed to the walking pole he carried. “Is this a secret mollusk harvesting spot or something?”
Breaking a toothy smile that was goofy but cute, he said, “Naw,” and made a show of jamming the pole into the earth. “Just out on the water this morning. You got a wheelbarrow stuck in the mud at the edge of the dock. Not gonna be much use if the salt water gets hold of it.”
I noticed his Boston Whaler boat tied up next to the pontoon.
“This is in case I come across a water moccasin. Mean buggers. Damn things blend in with the creek bed. Have to be real careful near rocks and logs.”
Peeking down at my flip-flop feet, I said, “I hate snakes.”
Forrest took a sip of his coffee, and his eyes lingered on circular ripples in the water. “Mud minnows being chased by something hungry. Hope you don’t mind me poking around.”
“No, not at all. I often show up in the back of folks’ houses at the crack of dawn to be with nature.”
“Last time I was here, I lost my, err, gold wrist chain. Being the in the area, I thought I’d make a quick search for it.”
Tightening my robe belt, I watched the bank and the reeds for any sign of serpent movement. “That was weeks ago. If you lost the chain down here, it’s probably in the Atlantic by now.”
“I’ve searched my apartment and the station. Figured it was worth a look. Has everything been okay lately? Nothing bothering you and your friend?”
I thought about my mother and her “partner” showing up unannounced and offending the local root doctor. Now, a week into having houseguests, Mom and Betts hadn’t mentioned a move-out date. My carefree southern summer was screwed.
“Apart from the vanishing body, everything’s been great. Love it down here. The island’s really beautiful.”
Forrest began moving up the slope. “You staying busy at the art shop and all?”
“I wouldn’t call it busy, but it keeps me occupied.”
His eyes still scoured the ground while mine analyzed him. Maybe a head taller than me, he was fit, and I admired his toned and tanned legs and arms. His brown hair under the hat was a typical around-the-ear sporty guy cut. He’d taken me seriously when I told him what I saw that night, and I liked him for that. Forrest was the capable type. One who would help you get a kitten out of a tree or remove a body hanging from the ceiling.
Following in his footsteps, I moved with him in the direction of the garden shed I’d avoided. “Are you hungry? Breakfast is ready. Potatoes, sausage, eggs.”
“That’s mighty kind, but my shift starts soon.” He lifted his wrist to check the time. “In half an hour, and I gotta get the boat back to the marina.”
The structure behind him loomed, taunting me with a dare to come inside. As hard as I tried not to look, I couldn’t help myself. It had been three weeks since I’d arrived, and neither Francine nor I had stepped within twenty yards of the building. Now, as my eyes grazed the ivy that covered the bull’s-eye glass on the paned window, morbid curiosity inside of me mixed with a chill of fear that rippled an icy shiver down my spine.
Setting his coffee cup down on a decayed stump, he asked, “Mind if I take a look inside?”
“Um, err, be my guest.”
Forrest swayed his stick across mounds of unruly grass that crept over the cement squares near the entrance. Hodge had been avoiding the shed too. Maybe that’s why he was always inside the house? My inquisitiveness morphed into distaste. I didn’t need to accompany him into the shed. I mean I knew what was in there: tools, lawn equipment, paint tins, and maybe a returned corpse?
Opening the door, he gazed at me.
Guess no one bothered to lock up since the sighting. I flashed a closed-mouth smile that signaled, I’ll wait out here.
He disappeared inside.
I heard some rustling, like something heavy was being dragged across the floor. Stepping closer, I tugged an ivy vine aside and peered in. It was like looking through prescription glasses when you had 20/20 vision. Tall grasses tickled my ankles, and I worried what might slither my way. Scurrying back on the cement slab near the door, I leaned against the outer wall. A sea breeze swayed the gray moss balls that dangled from low-lying tree branches. Gathering strength, a sudden gust ballooned my robe. The air smelled of warm, salty brine, and I longingly eyed Mom and Betts’s pontoon. I wished I didn’t have to go to the gallery today.
He was inside longer than I expected, and I called out, “Find anything?”
There was no answer, and I moved closer to the partially open door. Dragging my hand along the weathered siding, I stopped at the entrance and drank in the same smell as the last time I was here, only more woody, lawn mower oil than rotting stench.
I peeked my head inside. “Did you find your chain?”
“Back here,” he said before stepping around the tall, faded green metal shelf. “Are you still spooked?”
“No, maybe.”
He poked his pole at some hanging cobwebs. “You had me and the guys convinced. You really think you saw something?”
“Why else would we’ve come for help?”
“You girls wouldn’t be the first to have come round the station to check us out.”
As hard as I tried to tune in to what he said, I wasn’t on the same wavelength as Forrest.
“Ever since me and the guys did that calendar, we’ve become kind of famous around these parts.”
“Calendar?”
“It was for charity. Kind of a fireman Chippendale theme.”
“You posed nude!”
“No, no.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “It was tastefully done. I wore a helmet and held my hose. The props were strategically positioned.”
I couldn’t look him in the face, and my eyes found themselves staring up at the rafters. Unknowingly, I’d stepped inside. Three made from cypress had been treated but not painted. There were grooves and carved notches that you see in old beams, some more distinctive than others. Besides a bird nest, and cobwebs that rivaled our Halloween decorations back at school, nothing seemed standoutish.
Closing the space between us, Forrest leaned an elbow on a shelf. “Living in a big, isolated house like this would spook most anybody. And with the history and all, well, that’ll send an imagination spinning. Probably what happened to you and your friend? If I were she, I wouldn’t be comfortable round here. Can’t understand how all the Gullah still live in these parts after what happened.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t you know?”
I shook my head.
“Slaves were hung on this island after the uprising to overthrow the whites was foiled. Thirty-five of ’em. Very grisly.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“On the Larkin property?”
“Right near. Rumor is that this land is cursed.”
I began to back out of the shed. “Do you believe in that sort of thing?”
“Can’t say if I do or don’t.”
The door creaked behind my back. I spun around on the balls of my toes.
“Everything all right in here?”
A puff of air whooshed out of my chest. “Betts.”
“Breakfast is getting cold.”
NOTE TO SELF
Finally have alone time with Mom. Had forgotten how she hovers.
Could mass murders of slaves really have taken place on the property at the turn of the 1800s? Must check the library to find out if this is folklore, scare-the-pants-off-the-visitor ha-ha or the truth.
CHAPTER 8
What the Sam Hill
“So why you meetin’ me here for happy hour when there’s nothing happy about your mood?”
Reaching across the rectangular Formica tabletop, I helped myself to a long guzzle of Francine’s signature cocktail, the crandaddy cooler, to lube the back of my throat. Tucked a few blocks off the downtown Beaufort main drag, it was an easy walk to Nippy’s from the Larkin Gallery. Nestled in a sleepy neighborhood off the main drag, the local dive bar, whose outside appeared to be a single-story stucco house with a sagging roof, drew a crowd of regulars, and I surmised that Francine had found her hangout when the waitress said, “Hey, Fran, the usual?”
Fran? Since when does Francine let anyone shorten her name?
I still wasn’t twenty-one, and when I hesitated to order, she held up two fingers. The waitress disappeared, and Francine took to thwacking her thumb on the table as she inspected everyone inside but me.
“Nice to see you too. My day was okay. Besides using half a bottle of polish remover on gum that some dear child stuck on the underside of the checkout counter, it was normal. Oh, except the sunrise visit from Forrest out back.”
She stopped her annoying drumming and shifted her shoulders to face mine. “Whoa there, what you sayin’?”
When the drinks arrived, I took my time sipping red through the cocktail straw. “The fireman lost his gold chain the night of the sighting and came looking for it.”
Francine’s eyes crimped, and I could see the wheels inside her head grind. “Did he now.”
“Thought he’d pop by and take a peek.”
“Did he find what he was looking for?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. When are you two going out?”
Removing a glass saltshaker from the edge of the table, I spun it. After a quick rotation, it fell on its side, and its lid popped off, spilling a portion of its contents. “He asked if he could look in the shed.”
After making the sign of the cross, Francine pinched some granules and threw them over her left shoulder.
“What was that for?”
“Judas spilled salt at the last supper.”
I considered giving her a ration of “what for” regarding her superstitious smorgasbord of cross-faith beliefs that she conveniently pulled out of her ass when it
suited her mood. In my mind, the folklore, potion concoctions, words of warning, woo-woo crazy contrasted with the organized religion she used as her moral backbone, but before I opened my mouth, an image of da Vinci’s painting popped into my head. Damn, she was right. Judas was depicted as knocking over a saltcellar, so I let that one go.
Ever since Forrest motored off the Larkin property, I’d felt edgy. Betts sneaking up to the shed to spy on me, then noticing a pajama-bottom-clad Hodge step onto his back patio to watch Forrest push off concerned me in a way I couldn’t put a finger on, and I needed some lip therapy to sort through events. Not bothering to wait for Francine to ask, I spilled the details. “We’re not going out. I mean he was leading up to that, but he just didn’t get there. Besides, I’m not sure about him.”
“What do you mean not sure? Either you’re getting the sizzle or you’re not.”
“Forrest is an odd one.”
“Most boys you take a liking to are.”
“That is not a fair assessment.”
“Let’s see, there’s Clay, Hugh, Bubba, Nash, and his squirrely friend Bix, and the jury’s still out on your bird boy squeeze ex-bartender…”
“Quit trying to distract me.” I hated when she had a point. “Forrest mentioned some fireman calendar he posed for, then jumped topic to an uprising that took place on—”
“What calendar?”
“Some Lady’s Island fireman charity thing.”
She straightened her shoulders. “This is the same Forrest who drove us to the house in his engine. Buff in a compact kind of container?”
“Yeah.”
“We need to get a copy of that calendar.”
“Wait a minute. You just told me the boys who like me are odd.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t like a giggle now and then.”
Francine’s mouth was racing down a hill, and I knew better than to roadblock it, so I let her words rip. Her eyes sparked mischief, and she lowered her voice. “I’ll tell you what I think. You watch out. That firefighter may be one of them pervy sex addict types that gets his kicks from exhibitionism.”
