She had expected to find something like the efficient commuter craft that flew between New York and Boston. What she'd found instead was a plane that looked as if it should have flown by rubber-band power.
The pilot, in oil-stained khakis, had taken her luggage and tossed it into the rear of the tiny aircraft. Then he'd told her to find a seat and put on her seat belt.
After an hour of roasting in the sun, the plane had lurched into the sky, carrying Kathryn, three passengers who chattered to each other in something that was not quite Spanish, and a piglet and a crate of live chickens.
The flight had been terrifying. The plane had dipped low over the water, lurching upwards unsteadily whenever an island loomed ahead. The piglet had squealed, the chickens had squawked, and the passengers had muttered under their breaths while they'd crossed themselves.
That they'd survived the trip was almost impossible to believe. That they were to land on what looked like a pale pink ribbon stretched between scrub-covered hills that began at the edge of a cliff was even harder to accept, especially since it seemed they were going to make mincemeat out bf a bunch of children and a couple of goats in the process.
Kathryn could see the children laughing as the plane skimmed past. The animals' eyes rolled with fear.
I'm with you, she thought grimly.
But somehow, the plane's wheels touched down safely. The engines made a slow, groaning sound and then, mercifully, the Cessna shuddered to a stop.
"That's it, folks," the pilot said as he turned towards them. "Welcome to Elizabeth Island."
Kathryn's fellow passengers were already rushing for the exit. She'd have rushed, too, if her knees hadn't felt like rubber.
The pilot was just tossing her suitcase out onto the runway when she got to the door. She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. What was the sense? It was too late to do anything but grit her teeth and get on with what she'd come here to do.
Stepping out of the plane was like stepping into a furnace.
The heat seemed to lick up from her toes and coil its way around her like a living thing. The air was flame, searing her lungs as she breathed it in. The crisp linen of her pale yellow suit was surely wilting.
She glanced at her suitcase, still lying on the runway, then shaded her eyes with her hand and looked around her. There was nothing out there but blue sky and green grass. If the taxi she'd requested was anywhere within hailing distance, she certainly couldn't see it.
"Miss Russell?"
Kathryn swung around. A small man in a white suit was striding towards her. The wide brim of a Panama hat shaded his eyes but she could see the glint of perspiration on his fine-boned, ebony face.
"Good," she said. "I'd begun to think Mr. Carter had forgotten to send a taxi to meet me."
"Miss Russell, I am Amos Carter."
Kathryn's brows lifted. She had formed an image of the man from his voice. Amos Carter should have been tall, slender, and young. This man was slender but he was also short and he had left youth behind decades before. And he was looking at her with something that could only be described as polite hostility. That didn't surprise her. He'd done everything during their phone conversations but tell her, flat out, that her arrival on Elizabeth Island was going to be one huge imposition.
Kathryn smiled politely and held out her hand.
"Mr. Carter. How kind of you to meet me."
Carter's hand clasped hers. His fingers were bony but his grasp was surprisingly strong.
"A matter of simple expediency, Miss Russell." He dropped her hand and reached for her suitcase. "This is yours, I take it?"
"Yes, but I can manage it myself."
"Nonsense." Carter gave her another thin-lipped smile. "You will find we are somewhat old-fashioned, here in the islands. Men believe in being courteous even if women do not wish it."
It was Kathryn's turn to smile thinly. The putdown was subtle but it was a putdown nevertheless. Terrific, she thought, as Carter set off along a rutted track that led through the scrub. That was just what she needed, an attorney who was an aging male chauvinist. Well, at least now she knew why he'd seemed hostile over the telephone.
She thought of a couple of sharp-tongued rejoinders, then decided against them. She would only be here a week and she needed this man's help. There were negative vibrations in the air already. Why make things worse?
Carter led her to a dusty Land Rover. He put her suitcase in the rear, then opened the passenger door and motioned her inside. When he was settled behind the wheel, Kathryn cleared her throat.
"It really was very kind of you to meet me yourself," she said.
Carter swung the wheel sharply to the right, swerving around the goats that were once again fleeing their pursuers. The Rover shuddered as its tires hit a bumpy dirt track that Kathryn assumed was the road.
"I told you, Miss Russell, it was a matter of expediency." He shot her a faintly amused smile. "I know you expected a taxi to meet you, but I am afraid we have none here on the island."
Kathryn looked at him. "No taxis? On the entire island?"
"I am afraid we lack many amenities."
He didn't sound "afraid" at all, Kathryn thought, her eyes narrowing. What he sounded was damned well smug.
"That's quite all right," she said politely. "I haven't come here for a vacation."
"No. You've come to sell Charon's Crossing. I understand that." Carter glanced over at her. "But I would hope you will understand that your expectations for the house may not quite be in accord with reality."
Kathryn had already been thinking the same thing.
She had never been in the Caribbean before but, like almost everyone else, she'd come here with an image in mind.
Islands in the sun were supposed to be dazzlingly beautiful, with lots of lush, green vegetation, tall palm trees and bright flowers. The sky was supposed to be fairy-tale blue, the clouds puffs of white cotton, the sea emerald green and the sand anything from bone white to flamingo pink to lava black.
When it came to those things, Elizabeth Island delivered on all counts. The scenery, so far, anyway, was spectacular.
But where were the hotels? The charming villas that should have dotted the gently sloping hillside they were climbing? Above all else, where were the people?
Not that there weren't people. There were, and lots of them, but even Kathryn could tell they were islanders, not American and European tourists.
Her heart sank, but she citing to hope.
Amos Carter had described Charon's Crossing as a mansion. Surely, no one would have built a mansion on an island that didn't get its fair share of tourists?
"The house your father left you was built over two hundred years ago," Carter said, as if she'd spoken aloud. "At that time, the island was an important link in the British Empire."
"And now?"
The Rover was flying along at high speed and the wind was playing havoc with her hair, trying to tug it from the confinement of its usual French braid. She put her hand up to her head and pushed the errant dark strands back from her forehead.
"And now," Carter replied with a shrug of his narrow shoulders, "the Empire is no more."
"I know that," Kathryn said, trying not to sound impatient. "I meant—"
"I know what you meant. What of the island? Have tourists discovered it? Do they flock to its beaches? Do they befoul its waters with diesel fuel, do hotels threaten our limited supply of water?"
Kathryn looked at him. "Why do I get the feeling I know the answers to those questions, Mr. Carter?"
"We who live here are blessed, Miss Russell. We lead an idyllic, almost forgotten, existence."
Kathryn scarcely missed a beat. "Well, then, that's what the realtor's ads for the house must emphasize, that this is a perfect place to get away from it all and enjoy blissful peace and quiet."
Amos laughed. He had to admit, this young woman was not one to be put off easily.
"Perhaps you ought to offer to write the ad for
Olive yourself," he said.
"Olive?"
"Olive Potter. She's the local realtor. I told her you'd want to see her."
"The local realtor," Kathryn said.
Amos heard the question in the words and nodded.
"That is correct. I told you, we are—"
"A backwater. Yes. I know." She sighed. "Is there anything else you should tell me before..."
Kathryn broke off in midsentence. There was a house in the distance, standing alone on a cliff that overlooked the sea. Its multipaned windows caught the sunlight and reflected it back to the waves beating against the shore. Made of white stone, with a slate grey tile roof, the house seemed enormous even from here.
"Charon's Crossing," Amos Carter said.
Kathryn nodded. She had known that instinctively. The house was an impressive sight. And yet, there was something about it she didn't like. Despite the hot glare of the sun and the sharpness of the bright blue sky, there was a sense of brooding darkness here, something that sent a chill up her spine.
The engine of the Land Rover protested as Amos jammed down on the gears.
"Steep incline," he muttered.
Kathryn nodded again, but without really hearing his words. She edged forward on her seat as they started up a twisting dirt road, heavily overgrown with shrubbery and palm trees. Branches beat against the sides of the Rover as they climbed; leafy fronds sighed as they tapped the window glass.
The house was out of sight now but Kathryn still felt uneasy. It was as if she'd been here before, which was ridiculous. She'd never been to this island, never been in this part of the world.
But she knew that the road ahead would suddenly take a sharp turn to the left, that it would then angle back towards a cascade of bright red and pink flowers that tumbled in almost obscene profusion down a high stone wall.
"Kathryn."
Kathryn's heart thumped. She swung towards Amos Carter.
"Did you hear that?"
"Hear what, Miss Russell?"
"A voice," she said, fighting to keep her tone calm. "A man's voice."
"You must have heard the wind. It plays tricks, up here on the cliffs."
The wind. Of course, that was what it had been, the wind, sighing as it swept through the palm fronds. Or the sea, perhaps, whispering as it brushed the white sand below.
Kathryn sat back again. She was edgy, but who wouldn't be? Once they reached Charon's Crossing and she saw exactly what kind of albatross she'd inherited, she'd feel better. And there was always the hope that she'd judged it wrong. Now that she'd seen its size, the way it stood on the cliff, looking out over the sea...
The Rover came to a shuddering halt. Kathryn looked up. Tall, rusty iron gates loomed ahead.
"Number one on your repair list," the attorney said wryly as he opened his door. "The entry gates need to be sanded, primed and painted. They've almost rusted shut." Carter dropped stiffly to the ground. "I'll only be a moment."
Kathryn stared at the house through the gates. A structure like this would have seemed more at home on an English moor or lost in the mists of a Scottish highland.
"Might as well leave the gates open," Carter said as he climbed back inside the Land Rover. "Is that all right with you?"
"Yes, that's fine." Kathryn cleared her throat. "Charon's Crossing doesn't suit the landscape very well, does it?"
For the first time, Amos wondered if there might not be hope for his new client.
"That's true. But the people who built it weren't interested in adapting to these islands. They were English, and they wanted to remain that way."
Kathryn smiled. "Some things never change, I guess."
Amos permitted himself a faint smile. "We'll be at the house in a moment. I'm sure you'll be glad to get out of the heat."
"Yes. And I'm really curious to see the place. It's looks very impressive."
The old man's smile faded. From the outside, perhaps. But he suspected she would not be quite so pleased with her inheritance, once she'd gotten a closer look at it.
* * *
The house was impressive, all right. Kathryn blew out her breath as the front door shut behind them.
Martha Stewart probably would have loved it.
But she wasn't Martha Stewart. She didn't have unlimited resources and endless time to turn a sow's ear back into the silk purse it must have been a long, long time ago.
Drafty, antiquated, falling-down-around-your-ears New York apartments were bad enough. Drafty, antiquated, tumbledown houses built on sand spits in the middle of nowhere were impossible.
She put her hands on her hips and turned in a slow circle, taking in what must once have been an elegant octagonal foyer. Now, if you wanted to be charitable, you could best call it a disaster.
Doorways sagged, window frames tilted. The floor was encrusted with filth. The walls sprouted irregular splotches of damp rot. The woodwork, ornate where it still existed, had been mostly reduced to splinters.
"Termites," Carter said, when Kathryn bent down to take a closer look.
"Termites?" She snatched back her hand. "In a stone house?"
"The house is stone but the trim is wood." Carter strolled the perimeter of the room, running his hand lightly over what was left of the wainscoting. "Termites dine where they can, Miss Russell. Fortunately, they seem to have spared most of the furniture."
Kathryn looked at the lumpy, sheet-draped shapes that had been shoved against the stained walls.
"What an oversight," she said dryly.
Carter's narrow shoulders rose and fell in an eloquent shrug.
"Charon's Crossing needs repair. I told you that when first we spoke."
Repair? What it needed was a miracle or a bottomless bank account, and Kathryn didn't have either.
She peered into a huge room that opened onto the foyer.
"The ballroom," Amos Carter said.
She nodded and looked up at the chandelier that hung in the center of the ceiling. The crystals were grimy and the whole thing looked as if a strong breeze might send it crashing to the floor. She was no fan of antiques but even she could see that it was beautiful. She supposed there were some who'd say that of the entire building.
Well, perhaps there was hope. The house stood in an absolutely magnificent location. The view from the foyer alone was impressive. And the old man was right about the furniture. Kathryn pulled the sheet from the nearest piece, revealing a small, delicately inlaid table. Some of it, perhaps most of it, might be pretty good.
Charon's Crossing had possibilities. It needed scrubbing from top to bottom, the furniture needed polishing, and she supposed it would be wise to make some basic repairs. Re-hang the doors, maybe, and replace the missing woodwork.
And then she'd put the house on the market. There had to be a buyer somewhere who'd want it. An eccentric millionaire, maybe, seeking privacy. Or one of those spas that were cropping up in the most unexpected corners of the globe and catered to the rich...
"I am sorry that you are disappointed, Miss Russell."
Kathryn turned around. Amos Carter had spoken politely, but she knew his words were empty of meaning.
"Disappointed?" Kathryn's smile was as polite as his tone. "Don't be silly, Mr. Carter. The house is pretty much what I expected. You said it needed work, and it does." She unbuttoned the jacket of her yellow linen suit. "Now it's time to do something about it. You've arranged for me to meet with some contractors, I hope?"
"We have only one, Miss Russell. I told him you'd be flying down and asked him to get in touch, yes."
"That's fine. And the realtor... What did you say her name was?"
"Olive Potter. Yes, she will contact you, too." Amos hesitated. "I hope you're aware that it may not be easy to find a buyer for a house such as this. Elizabeth Island is not a name on everyone's lips."
"And you like it that way, Mr. Carter. Yes, I understand." Kathryn smiled. "Well, maybe that's for the best. Any investor with enough money to buy this property would
want privacy."
Amos smiled. That was twice this young woman had surprised him.
"That's true enough."
"We'll just have to make the most of Charon Crossing's strong points." Kathryn scuffed her toe across the floor. A swath of flecked white appeared in the dirt. "Marble?" she asked.
Carter nodded. "I should think so."
"And the upstairs? What's it like?"
"No better and no worse than what you see here."
Kathryn walked to the foot of the wide staircase that rose towards the second floor. The banisters and newel posts were handsome. Mahogany, she thought, and reached out to touch the old wood...
Cold. Cold so deep that it was almost painful, played across her fingers.
Kathryn snatched back her hand. "Is there an open window upstairs?"
"I don't know, Miss Russell. I didn't notice any, from outside."
"Neither did I, but there must be. Don't you feel that chill?"
Amos's brows lifted. "Chill?"
"Yes. And—"
Kathryn.
"Did you hear that?"
"Did I hear what?"
That voice, she almost said. But that would have been silly. It was the wind, just as the attorney had said, rustling through the palms and blowing in through an open window somewhere in the house.
"Never mind," she said briskly. "Let's see the rest of the downstairs, shall we? Does the electricity work?"
"I assume so." Amos touched the light switch. A pair of wall sconces near the front door flickered, then blazed to life. "Yes, Miss Russell. It works."
"The heating?"
"I assume that works, as well."
"And the plumbing?"
"I assume—"
"Are we playing some sort of game here, Mr. Carter?"
"No game, Miss Russell. I offered to find out what needed doing at Charon's Crossing but you said you would see to it all yourself." He smiled coolly. "And so you shall."
Kathryn sighed. Enough was enough. "Mr. Carter," she said, "why don't you tell me the problem?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Come on, don't be coy. You don't like me and I'd like to know the reason."
Amos looked her straight in the eye. "I see no need for me to like you or for you to like me."
Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) Page 3
