Ghosts
of
Coronado Bay
A Maya Blair
Mystery
By
JG Faherty
JournalStone
San Francisco
Copyright © 2011 by JG Faherty
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ISBN: 978-1-936564-09-5(sc)
ISBN: 978-1-936564-10-1(ebook)
Printed in the United States of America
JournalStone rev. date: June, 2011
Cover Design: Denise Daniel
Cover Art: Philip Renne
Edited by: Edwina Jackson
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Acknowledgements
Writing a book is hard work; don’t ever let anyone tell you differently. You spend months at the computer, not only writing but rewriting. And proofreading. And emailing people. At times your eyes want to fall out of your head, your back feels permanently bent into unnatural shapes, and you imagine you’re turning into a blob of jelly no matter how often you get up to stretch your legs (which often leads to visiting the refrigerator!). But somehow it all seems worth it when you see those hours of work transformed into something you can hold, a book with pages and a cover that is ready to be shared with the world.
It’s also true that you can’t do it alone. And, for that I say “thank you,” as always, to my wife Andrea, who accepts the time I spend in my office even if she can’t understand how I can drag myself out of bed so early on Saturday and Sunday mornings when I could be sleeping. She doesn’t understand the ”need” to write, but she is still my best salesperson and promoter, better at talking about me than I am about myself.
Thanks also to my usual suspects, those people who lend second pairs of eyes, professional advice, or plain old encouragement: Michael McBride, Shaun Jeffrey, Stephen Owen, Hank Schwaeble, Greg Lamberson, Rick Hautula, Kathy Ptacek, Dave Simms, Thomas F. Monteleone, Lee Thomas, Jeff Strand, and Benjamin Kane. Very special thanks also to Jeff Mariotte and John Passarella for the early readings.
To Christopher Payne, thanks for taking a chance on this book and for having the vision to see it in print even before I did.
To all my friends - you know who you are! - thanks so much for your support and for spreading the word on Facebook, Twitter, and all sorts of other places.
To my Mom and Dad - as always, thank you for being my very first readers back when I wrote in pencil and thought writing was so easy anyone could do it.
Finally, a big thank you to all the people who read my books and stories. It’s because of you that writers get to write. Keep buying our books - whether written on paper or stored electronically - so we can keep entertaining you.
If I’ve forgotten anyone, I apologize. There’s never enough room to thank everyone you need to. Just remind me, and I’ll make sure you get into the next one.
Last but not least, to Harley and Buffy for getting me away from the desk so I can walk you, feed you, and sometimes just sit on the floor with you - thanks!
Prelude
Coronado Bay, 1908
The storm came out of nowhere, lashing the Black Lady with forty-mile-per-hour winds and rain that hit hard enough to leave red welts on exposed flesh. Captain Jonas Freeman shouted for his crew to pile more coal into the furnaces as he struggled with the wheel, fighting to keep the small ship aimed towards the relative safety of the coast.
Freeman swore at the weather, and his own foolish greed, as another gust of gale-force wind pushed the Black Lady farther out to sea. Under normal circumstances a river steamer such as his would never be out in open water to begin with, but the lure of Gavin Hamlin’s gold had been too strong.
“It’s only a few hours up the coast,” the dapper young man had said, his cultured voice at once cajoling and filled with hidden danger. “Surely the Black Lady can handle some waves?”
Damn that evil-hearted dandy! Now they’d be lucky to make it to shore alive, let alone with the boat in one piece.
As if summoned by Freeman’s angry thoughts, Gavin Hamlin appeared in the doorway, his shoulder-length black hair tangled and soaked from wind, rain, and sea spray, his long fingers gripping the door frame so tightly their knuckles looked like snow caps atop flesh-colored mountains. As always, his face held the same sickly-pale hue of a hospital patient.
But his eyes were still as black and deep as bottomless pits.
“Captain! How far from Boston are we?”
“Boston?” Freeman couldn’t believe the man’s one-track mind. “An eternity, if we don’t find a shelter of some kind, be it cove or island. This storm’ll smash us apart like a toy.”
“What chance if we continue forward, that the storm will fall behind us?”
Freeman shook his head, wondering who the bigger idiot was, he for accepting Hamlin’s offer, or Hamlin for not understanding the basics of New England weather despite living in the region all his life.
“None. Wind’s blowing west to east, pushing us farther to sea. Storm like this one’ll hang on for hours, maybe into the ‘morrow.”
“Damn it to Hell. All right, do what you can. But the moment the weather lets up, we continue north.”
The tall man, hardly out of boyhood, disappeared before Freeman could reply, turning sideways so Benson, the first mate, could enter the cabin.
“I found a map!” Water dripped from Benson’s soaked jacket as he spread a crumpled piece of paper on the desk. Once opened, it showed a surprisingly detailed map of the New England coastline. Considering the Black Lady had never been farther out to sea than the mouth of the Hudson River, Freeman thought it a wonder they even had any maps of the coast on board.
Maybe Lady Luck is with us after all.
“Captain, there’s an island not too far ahead if we stay on our present heading. It’s right on the border between Rhode Island and Massachusetts, twelve miles off shore.”
“Aye, and naturally so small we’ll be lucky as all get-out to find it in this mess,” Freeman said, looking at where Benson’s finger pointed. “But it’s the closest thing to us, and our engines aren’t strong enough to fight these damne
d winds. Full speed ahead, Mister Benson.”
“Aye, sir.” Benson hurried from the cabin.
Freeman stared out at the gale and tightened his grip on the wheel until his hands felt as if they might freeze there forever.
Half an hour. That’s all I ask, Lord. Just keep us together another half hour, and I swear I’ll never gamble or go whoring again.
He was still praying when the Black Lady struck one of the many rocky shoals surrounding Coronado Island.
As icy water filled his lungs and the screams of drowning men echoed through in his head, one final thought played over and over in his brain.
I wish I’d never met Gavin Hamlin. May his soul rot in Hell forever.
In the dark depths of the ocean, the Black Lady settled to the bottom in a cloud of silt and muck. The fish and lobsters, the only living witnesses, hurried out of its way.
In the eternal blackness, the spirits of the dead howled with grief and anger.
All except two.
Chapter 1
Coronado Island, Present Day
The late afternoon sun gilded the tops of the waves in gold as Maya Blair walked the wide, mostly empty sidewalk of Coronado Bay’s Main Street. It was almost five, a time when the majority of residents were either making dinner or eating it.
Approaching the Bay Diner, Maya gave a low groan as she saw the parking area filled to overflowing, indicating yet another busy dinner shift. For the billionth time, she wished her parents hadn’t decided to give up their regular jobs and buy the diner five years ago. Not that she begrudged their following their dream, but their owning the diner meant she had to work there too, and waiting tables most certainly wasn’t her dream.
Of course, the odds were pretty good that even if they hadn’t owned the diner, she’d have ended up waitressing there or working nights and weekends at the Gap, like her best friend Lucy.
Not like there’s a lot of jobs to choose from when you live on a one-town island. At least I don’t have to worry about getting fired.
Entering the diner was like entering her second home. The delicious smells of her mother’s homemade recipes mixed well with the standard odors of coffee, hot grease, and frying hamburgers. Swirled and tossed around by the overhead fans, the rich, homey goodness twisted between the tables and booths, swept past the long counter, and exited through the doors and exhaust system to the outside, where they served as free advertising, beckoning people to come in and stay a while.
Meatloaf, stuffed cabbage, eggplant parmigiana, beef stew. She’d have known what was cooking even if she didn’t know the Thursday specials by heart.
“Maya!” her mother’s voice came, loud and anxious. “Hurry up and grab an apron! Tessa called in sick again.”
Crap. Maya waved a hand to let her mother know she’d heard her, and then ducked into the storage room and pulled a black apron off a rack. Tessa Farr had a habit of calling in sick at the worst times. She always made up the hours, but in the meantime it meant Maya and Jessica, the other full-time waitress, would have to handle the rush themselves.
No sooner had she tied on her apron than her father rang the bell at the kitchen window, indicating another order needed fast delivery. “Order up!”
“Got it,” Maya said, grabbing the two plates of eggplant and pasta.
“Table seventeen,” Jessica shouted from where she stood by a booth, taking someone’s order.
Maya hurried through the obstacle course of tables and chairs and delivered the dinners to two old men. One of them had the local newspaper open on the table, and she caught a glimpse of the headline.
“Museum to Open Black Lady Exhibit on Friday”
She smiled to herself. No need to read that article. The Maritime Museum, Coronado Island’s only tourist attraction other than a few miles of stony beach and a supposedly haunted lighthouse on the opposite side of the island, was counting on a big opening day turnout for their new exhibit. Maya’s history class would be there too, Mrs. Brackenberry having somehow managed to schedule a private tour.
Wonder how the old goat did that? Probably taught the museum’s head curator a hundred years ago.
As soon as the words popped into her head, Maya scolded herself for the mean thought. Mrs. Brackenberry was a nice lady and a decent teacher. Just out of touch with the times. Seriously out of touch. Like, she’d need a time machine to get back in touch.
I think some of Lucy’s sarcasm is rubbing off on me. Why couldn’t it be her self-confidence instead?
While the idea of spending an afternoon staring at pieces of an old boat dredged up from the ocean floor didn’t appeal to her in the least, it would be nice to get out of school for a couple of hours. At least they didn’t have to tour the rest of the museum. Like every other person on the island, Maya knew the place nearly as well as the people who worked there.
Ding! “Order up!”
Maya sighed. Compared to waiting tables, even the museum sounded good.
* * *
By seven o’clock, Maya was sick to death of hearing people talk about the new museum exhibit like it was the greatest discovery since sliced bread.
If I hear one more person say they can’t wait to see--
“I’m going first thing in the morning.” A woman at a nearby table waved a forkful of meatloaf at the other two people sitting with her. “First thing. I cannot wait to see what they found inside that old ship.”
That’s it!
“Dad! I’m taking my break.” Without waiting for an answer, Maya hurried through the kitchen and out the back door. Inhaling deeply of the warm September air, she leaned against the building and concentrated on her breathing, the way her karate instructor had taught her.
“In and out. Slow and easy. Each time you exhale, release some of your tension. Each time you inhale, picture calmness entering your body.”
“Looks like something’s got you upset.”
Maya opened her eyes and smiled at the unexpected, but always welcome, visitor. “Hi, Grandma. Is it that obvious?”
Elsa Crompton, Maya’s maternal grandmother, shook her head, making her gray curls bob like buoys on the water. “Is it that obvious, she asks? A person wouldn’t have to know you for sixteen years to see something’s troubling you. What’s the matter?”
“I dunno.” Maya twirled a lock of her own dark auburn - Lucy called it black cherry - hair around two fingers, a habit she’d had since grade school. “I guess I’m just in a bad mood today. All my friends are at the Lanes, and I’m stuck here. Plus I’ve got a ton of homework I still have to do, and the whole town won’t stop babbling about a stupid boat exhibit at the museum.”
Elsa patted her granddaughter on the shoulder. “Sounds like you’re just being a teen-ager. Hormones, you know. They get all out of sorts at your age, especially when boys are around.”
Maya gave a sarcastic laugh. “Boys? Ha. I wish that were a problem.”
“What happened to that husky fellow you were dating?”
“Stuart?” Maya shook her head. “He turned out to be a jerk. The kind of guy who thinks he owns you, always has to know where you’re going, who you’re with, what time you’ll be home. I told him we were through.” Just thinking of Stuart Newman made her scowl.
“And how did he take that?”
“Exactly the way I figured he would. He accused me of cheating on him and said if he saw me with another guy, there’d be trouble.”
“Stay away from him, dear. He sounds dangerous.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice. I plan on avoiding him like a convenience store burrito.”
Elsa chuckled, and then her face grew serious. “Speaking of danger, I’ve been having bad feelings lately, like something is wrong in Coronado Bay.”
“Is that like when Mom has a bad dream and then tells me I shouldn’t go to the beach?”
“Just be careful, all right?”
Maya leaned up and kissed her grandmother on the cheek. “Sure thing. Thanks for stopping by and c
heering me up. I know how hard it is for you to come here.”
“Anything for you, dear. Have a good night.” Elsa smiled once more and then faded from sight.
Feeling better, Maya opened the door and went back inside. Her grandmother’s visits always cheered her up. She wished the rest of the family could still talk to Grandma Elsa, but the knack for seeing and speaking to ghosts - and, in Maya’s case, making them temporarily solid by being near them - had passed from Elsa to Maya, skipping Maya’s mother in the process. Grandma Elsa said it had as much to do with belief as natural ability, one of the reasons Elsa had made Maya promise to keep the secret of her ability to herself, even from her parents.
“Most people don’t want to know ghosts are real. It would just make them sad or scared.”
Not that there were a lot of ghosts to talk to or even see. Counting her grandmother, Maya knew of exactly one. Grandma Elsa said there were others, but they weren’t as common as people thought.
“Only rarely does a person’s spirit stay on after they die,” Elsa said one time, back when Maya was only seven or eight and talking to a dead person still seemed so amazing. “Usually it’s when a person is taken before they’re ready to go, and even then the person has to be very strong-willed.”
“Mommy told me I’m the most stubborn person she’s ever met,” Maya had replied. “Does that mean I’d make a good ghost?”
Elsa had laughed out loud at her granddaughter’s question. “You’d make a great ghost, my dearest. One of the best.”
One of the reasons Maya appreciated her grandmother’s visits so much was because she knew how hard it was for Elsa to appear in Coronado Bay. She’d died in a car accident in New York, in a taxi on the way to the airport after visiting her brother. While it was apparently easy for ghosts to manifest - a word Maya learned way before her peers - near where they died, it got harder and harder the farther they traveled from their place of death. Grandma Elsa’s visits rarely lasted longer than five minutes or so, and even then Elsa often looked fuzzy around the edges by the end.
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