by Cate Dean
“Not even worth that much. How is Spencer?”
“Furious, and a little bruised. His van only has a small dent in the front bumper.” She smiled, some of the worry easing from her clear blue eyes. At least, he thought so; without his glasses, her face was a bit of a blur. “That thing could take on a tank and probably win. I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t shown when he did.”
She knew exactly what would have happened. Martin saw it in her eyes.
He tugged at her hand, and she stretched out next to him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Maggie, I want you to stay with Spencer tonight.”
“Spencer already issued that order. He’s picking me up here, after he meets Grace at the museum.”
Martin relaxed. She would be safe in Spencer’s flat. He lived in the village, just behind the Bonnie Prince Charlie Pub. She would be surrounded by people. Safe.
If Martin could not stand between her and danger, he trusted Spencer to be as vigilant.
Maggie let out a sigh, and relaxed against him. He rubbed her back, slowly, hoping it would help her relax more. The muscles under his hand unclenched.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I might actually be able to sleep tonight. I wish it was with you.”
“As do I, love. I will be here only one night. Enjoy your time with Spencer; I know you get little of his attention, with Grace in Holmestead now.”
“Is that a hint?”
“I am afraid so.” His voice was starting to slur, now that the pain medication was taking effect. “I will be poor company in about ten minutes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She slid off the bed, and he was too drugged to hold onto her. “Get some sleep. I’ll be here first thing to take you home.” She leaned over and kissed him, ending it long before he was ready. “I love you. Now go to sleep.”
“I love you back, my beautiful Maggie.”
Her smile warmed his heart. “You’re loopy.”
“I believe—I am.” He yawned, his eyes watering. “Kiss me goodnight.”
“I just did.” Chuckling, she kissed him again, then brushed hair off his forehead. “Sleep well.”
Before he could gather the momentum to lift his arm and stop her, she was gone.
He drifted off, dreaming of vibrant ginger hair, crystal blue eyes, and a sad, lonely ghost.
***
“Stop moping, Mags.”
Spencer plopped down next to her on his long, worn, striped sofa and draped his arm over her shoulders. She appreciated his attention, but she was starting to regret agreeing to stay here. He and Grace were adorable together, and obviously wanted to be social.
Telling the events of the afternoon to Ian had forced her to relive the horror, and the certainty that they were not going to survive the ordeal. All she wanted to do was curl in a ball and try to forget.
The sound of music and laughter filtered through the open window, coming from the Bonnie Prince Charlie, which was just up the block from his building.
“You and Grace can go. You don’t need to keep me company.”
“Are you certain you don’t want to join us?” Grace sat on her other side, taking her hand. “It will help distract you.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be poor company. Go on—have fun. I’ll hang out here.”
“Come on.” Spencer stood and held out his hand. He shook his head when Grace hesitated. “Trust me, when Mags has made up her mind, nothing can sway her.”
“True.” She smiled at Grace, hoping it looked sincere. “Go on—get out there and have fun.”
She waited until they left the flat, then moved to Spencer’s desk and opened his laptop. It was time to find out more about their mysterious ghost.
After typing in a dozen different searches, she found a list in an online paper of the stolen art objects. She went down the list, then typed in a search for art, object and ghost. Halfway down the search results, she hit gold—an article about the jeweled knife on the list of stolen objects.
“The legend of Karina Jones, the dumped debutante, has traveled in art circles for decades, along with the knife she supposedly used to kill the man who rejected her. The latest owner of the jeweled, 18th Century knife, the Minton Gallery, had removed the knife from public display after a rash of frightened patrons reported seeing a ghostly woman near the case.” Maggie shook her head. “Whoever stole that knife made a mistake.”
She kept reading.
“Karina found the young man she loved in the arms of one she thought was a friend. In a rage, Karina grabbed the jeweled knife off its display stand, and stabbed the poor man fifteen times.” She sat back, absorbing that grisly fact. “Yikes. I wonder what happened to the supposed friend.” She found out in the next paragraph.
“While Karina was occupied, as the friend/witness reported, she managed to escape. But not before she saw the young man she fancied die a horrible death. When Karina realized what she had done, she took her own life, dying next to her young man, holding his hand.”
Maggie stood and paced the small living room, absently rubbing her left wrist. She knew, from watching Martin’s documentaries, and talking to him extensively about the subject, that ghosts who had died violently could attach themselves to an object important to them in life. If one of the Cragmoors had taken the knife—and her appearance pretty much made that a certainty—then they had stolen a whole lot of trouble along with it.
She couldn’t feel sorry for them. Not after one of them tried to run her and Martin off the edge of the cliff.
Karina’s appearance brought up another question. What was she trying to show them? The latch Maggie had found at the back of the book case opened something. In a house as old as Cragmoor, so close to the coast, secret rooms and passages were common. Smugglers had used this part of the coast for years.
She sat and started typing in other searches, ignoring the twinge in her left wrist.
After what felt like minutes, she leaned back and rubbed her eyes. Karina had been seen at every gallery that had owned the knife. It didn’t stay anywhere long; ghost sightings tended to keep away most gallery patrons. Especially if that ghost gives off violent vibes.
“Martin would love this,” she muttered. He specialized in artifacts with supernatural stories attached to them. The rosewood box she had bought, the one that brought them together, had held a rare apothecary jar that came with a ghost story. “I can tell him about it in the morning.”
She yawned, looking at the time on the computer screen. It was past midnight.
“Time for bed, Maggie.”
She was just glad this day was over, and that everyone she loved was safe.
It could have ended up so much worse.
***
Maggie didn’t hear Spencer and Grace come in, but their voices pulled her out of a dream she couldn’t remember. It left her troubled, and in need of company. She lay in bed for a few minutes, assessing her aches.
She hurt everywhere, but her left arm ached the most, and she knew she had to be bruised from slamming against the seat belt, more than once. She tried to rotate her left wrist, and lowered her hand halfway through.
“I should have taken something last night,” she muttered. Hours typing on Spencer’s laptop hadn’t helped. She had been too tired, her mind too full, to even think about popping a few ibuprofen before she crawled into bed.
After carefully getting out of bed, she moved to the attached bathroom, and pulled down the oversized shirt Spencer had loaned her, examining her tender left shoulder. She had already seen the ugly, purpling bruises on her arm, under the short sleeve.
A wide, ugly bruise striped her chest, left from the seatbelt. She knew she had other bruises she couldn’t see. Martin had been too drugged last night to notice how slowly she moved, but he would notice today. And eventually, he would see all her bruises.
Making a mental note to actually take some ibuprofen, after she ate something, she pulled on the robe Spencer had left f
or her and headed out of the spare bedroom. She found the couple in the kitchen, kissing.
With a smile, she waited for them to finish.
“Mags.” Spencer blushed, and her smile widened. “Why didn’t you make some kind of sound, let us know you were awake.”
“You wouldn’t have heard me. Good morning, Grace.”
“How did you sleep?”
“Better than I expected. I’m going to get dressed, and head over to the clinic. Martin is probably antsy, and ready to go home.”
“Not before you eat breakfast, young lady.” Spencer took her arm and moved her to the small dining table, under the window in his bright, black and white kitchen. “You didn’t eat last night, did you?”
She shook her head. “Busted. But I did some research, and found out about our—ˮ She cut herself off and glanced at Grace. “Did you tell her?”
“About the ghost?’ Grace said. “He did. What did you learn about her?”
They sat at the table, all of them sharing a delicious frittata while Maggie told them what she had learned last night.
Spencer leaned back in his chair. “The wankers deserve whatever Karina dishes out.”
“Spencer.” Grace smacked his arm. “Language.”
He grinned, and kissed her cheek. “They do. Is Ian going out to question them, Mags?”
“As far as I know. He said he would be able to get paint scrapings off Martin’s car, and narrow down the make and model. If they own a banged-up sedan that matches, at least one of them is screwed.”
Spencer glanced over at Grace. “Why aren’t you correcting her for her language?”
Grace smiled at him. “Because Maggie’s language is spot on. They are screwed.” Her smile faded as she reached across the table, and took Maggie’s hand. “Are you all right?”
“Sore, bruised, and I’ll probably have some unpleasant dreams, but I’m okay. Thank you,” she took Spencer’s hand. “Thank you both for taking me in. I needed the company, even if I didn’t want it.”
“Anytime, sweetheart. You know that.” Spencer stood, kissing the top of her head. “Did you want a ride to the clinic? I’ve time before I have to be at the museum.”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks for the offer.”
She stood, and headed back to the bedroom to get ready. Knowing Martin, he would be pacing the room by now, anxious to leave.
Cold wind slapped her when she stepped out of Spencer’s building. She flipped up the collar of her favorite Kelly green coat tucked both hands into her pockets, and headed up the high street.
It was still early, so most of the shops on this part of the street hadn’t been opened yet, but she was surprised to see a light in Only Old Books. She peered through the window, and spotted Patrick Tucker, hunched over a large, leather bound book. He must have heard something; he lifted his head, waving at her as he stood and headed for the door.
“Maggie. I heard what happened yesterday. Are you and Martin all right?”
“Yes, thank you, Patrick. You’re here early.”
“Checking out a book for a client.” He shrugged. “A demanding, unpleasant client. I would like to end our acquaintance as quickly as possible.”
She laughed, and hugged him. “Good luck.”
He patted her back, and eased out of the hug. “I will need all the luck I can gather. Good day to you.”
“Good day.” She watched him go inside, feeling lighter. Patrick was a good man, and she was glad she had been able to break through his shell.
Taking a deep breath of the cold, crisp air, she started walking. Wind blew long strands of hair in her face, reminding her that she had forgotten to contain it before she left. She would look like a wild witch by the time she reached the clinic, but she didn’t care.
Her relationship with her red hair had always been a love-hate one; by the time she moved to Holmestead, it had been much less hate. Now, she let the waves do what they wanted, pulling it back only when she needed to look neat, or be able to see where she was going. Living in a village that was windy ninety-eight percent of the time made that a daily necessity.
She walked into the clinic, not caring what her hair looked like, and waved at the nurse manning the reception desk as she headed back to Martin’s room.
He was pacing, just as she’d predicted, his right arm in the sling he hated.
“Maggie.” He halted, a smile spreading across his face. “Your hair is exceptionally exuberant this morning.
She finally touched her hair. “It’s windy, and I forgot—ˮ
Martin cut her off with a slow, sweet kiss. She wrapped her arms around his waist, careful of his arm, and let herself sink into the kiss.
A loud throat-clearing broke them apart. Ian stood in the doorway, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Good morning,” he said. “I hope I am not disturbing.”
“Not at all.” Martin kept his left arm around Maggie’s waist. “Anything new on the case?”
“The lab in London put a make and model to the paint sample. And the same model just happens to belong to a Craig Cragmoor, of Cragmoor Manor, Kent. I am headed out there now to have a little talk with Mr. Cragmoor, take a look around.” He glanced from Martin to Maggie. “Anything else I need to know before I meet with Craig?”
“Beside the fact that he’s a thoroughly unpleasant human being?” Maggie leaned into Martin. “There’s a good chance that he, or his brother, Leo, are behind the art thefts.”
“Do I want to know how you learned this information, Maggie?”
“Not by sneaking back to Cragmoor Manor, if that’s what you’re hinting. There were—indications, at the manor.” But nothing that would hold up in court.
“While I’m thinking of it, Martin, the results came back on the glove found at your dig site.”
“Anything?”
Ian shook his head. “It was brand new, and whoever used it wore some kind of protection on their hand.”
“Thank you, for expediting it.”
Maggie glanced from Ian to Martin. He smiled down at her, but that wasn’t getting him out of the questions she’d have for him later—and why he didn’t tell her everything that had happened.
Ian cleared his throat. “I should head on out, then.”
“Take care with them, Ian.”
“I plan to.”
“Would you be able to get a search warrant?”
“Not for suspicion. But if I find a dented sedan on the property, with silver blue paint transfer, there’s a good chance. Speaking of your car, Professor, I had it taken to the body shop in Dover. I know the owner, and he’ll take good care of it. He may even offer to buy it from you.”
“Thank you, Ian. Please keep us updated. And you can rest assured that neither Maggie nor I will go near Cragmoor Manor again.” He glanced down at her, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that right, Maggie?”
“I’m not going near that place, unless I inherit it. Even then, I’d probably hire someone to weed out what’s worth keeping, and sell the rest.” It meant never learning if there was a hidden room behind the book case. She could live with not knowing. “Watch your back out there, Ian. Both of them gave me a bad feeling—especially Leo. For all his manners, I trusted him less than Craig.”
“Thank you for the heads up. Take care of yourself, Professor, Maggie. If I have any new developments, I will let you know.” He handed a business card to Martin. “The body shop. I told Sean that you would ring him, discuss the details.”
“I will do that.” He tucked the card in his shirt pocket, and waited until Ian left. “You meant what you said, love? You won’t go back to Cragmoor.”
“Not even to find out what might be behind that book case. I don’t have a single good memory of that place, Martin. It was supposed to be part of my inheritance, but I told my solicitors to pass it on to someone else in the family. I should have taken a closer look at the Cragmoor family tree before I said that.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I should
have—Rich Danner and Arthur Cragmoor weren’t exactly pillars of society. I seriously think Jeremy was the last decent Cragmoor.” She sighed, and laid her head against Martin’s chest. “If they turn out to be the thieves, I’ll have to deal with that stone pile again.”
“We will deal with it, love. Perhaps donating it to a charitable organization, or offering it to English Heritage. It is an historical site, with an interesting history. Murder, betrayal, sibling rivalry all bring out the tourists.”
“I like those ideas. As long as I can wash my hands of the place, I’d be happy to give it away.” She eased out of his embrace and took his hand. “Ready to go home?”
“More than you know.”
Maggie helped him into his coat, draping the right side over his shoulder, and buttoning the top button to keep the wind from snatching it off him. With his release in hand, she walked with him out of his room, handing the paper to the nurse at reception.
She held the door open for him, and he stopped on the sidewalk, holding out his arm.
“Fancy a walk, Mrs. Martin?”
She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I would love a walk, Mr. Martin, if you’re up to it.”
“I feel as if I’ve been freed from prison. I need to spend time outside, see the water, kiss my beautiful wife under the winter sun.”
She smiled, and turned them toward the harbour. “I can get on board with all of that. Especially the kiss.”
They strolled down the center of high street, Maggie waving at locals doing their morning shopping. By the time they reached the promenade, her hair flew around her face. She stopped long enough to gather it into a low ponytail, using one of the hairbands she always kept in her pockets. A lifetime of dealing with her hair had taught her to always be prepared.
Martin pulled her into the shelter of the glassed in gazebo, and they watched the wind create whitecaps on the water. The few tourists who had braved the coast huddled in their coats as they walked along the promenade.
“Is your shoulder hurting?”
“Not at the moment.” He turned her in his arms. “I am happy you talked me into staying, the day I planned to leave you.”
“So am I.”
