“Oh, Meg, they’re wonder—” Before she could finish her sentence, the front door burst open and Justin Marguilles walked in toting a bottle of champagne in one hand, paper cups in the other. For a moment I was reminded of how Nate Klein had come into the kitchen last evening with the hopes of toasting the showhouse’s opening. That surely hadn’t happened. I was surprised Ashley would bring the Hamptons’ ace lawyer in on the deal. The same attorney that I’d called to represent Jenna. It truly was a small world, especially in the Hamptons.
“My apologies, ladies. Sorry I’m late. Business called.” The first time I’d heard about Justin Marguilles, I’d been intimidated by his reputation alone. Adjectives such as shark, brutal, smooth talker caused anxiety before I’d even set eyes on him. But after the court case, I realized he was just a darn good lawyer. He dressed impeccably. He wasn’t thin, more muscular, over six feet tall, handsome in a rugged, pirate kind of way, his eyes the color of cognac when you held your glass in front of a fire. He had a sardonic smile, keeping you on guard, and rightly so. As far as I knew, he’d never lost a case. As I’d found out, he wasn’t someone you’d want as opposing counsel. That was the main reason I’d suggested him to Jenna.
He also had a way with women, a lifetime bachelor, never condescending, always polite.
“Business always calls,” Ashley said in a pout that turned into a grin.
“Well, darling, did Ms. Barrett here give you her green light?”
Green light? Darling?
“Is it time to toast our future summer retreat?” he asked, popping the cork on the champagne. It almost hit the skylight, then bounced onto the marble floor like a child’s rubber ball. The same way my heart felt at the news.
Justin Marguilles and Ashley Drake were engaged.
Not Ashley and Patrick.
“Oh, I love it!” Ashley said, clapping her hands. “And Meg knows exactly how to transform it. It checks all our boxes.”
Justin raised an eyebrow. “She does, does she?” He handed each of us a cup, filled it to the brim, then wove his arm through Ashley’s. They locked gazes and he said, “I approve, my darling. It’s perfect.” Then he glanced over at me. “Ms. Barrett, how would you like to decorate our modest honeymoon cottage?”
Modest? “Please call me Meg.”
“And call me Justin. No more formalities between us. Hopefully we will never be on opposite sides of a courtroom again. By the way, thanks for the reference.”
“You’re welcome. It would be my pleasure to have Cottages by the Sea at your disposal,” I said, adding a huge grin. If there’d been a ladder propped outside the cottage, I would have climbed it and shouted from the rooftop, “Hell, yes!”
“In that case,” he said, “let’s have a toast.” We raised our glasses. “One my Irish grandmother would approve of—May joy and peace surround us, contentment latch our door, and happiness be with us now and bless us evermore.”
“Hear, hear,” Ashley said, tapping her fiancé’s cup, then mine. “Bottoms up.”
The champagne went to my head. Caught up in their excitement, or more honestly, in my own excitement at what their news selfishly meant to me, I said, “I also have an Irish toast that I usually say to my clients after the completion of their cottage. In this case, I think it’s apropos to use it now.” Justin refilled our cups, and I said, “To Ashley and Mr. . . . Justin, bless the corners of this house and be the lintel blessed. And bless the hearth and bless the board and bless each place of rest. Bless each door that opens wide to strangers and to kin. And bless each crystal windowpane that lets the sunshine in. And bless the rooftree overhead and every sturdy wall. The peace of man, the peace of God, the peace of love to all.”
We tapped our cups together and drank.
All was right with the world.
For the moment . . .
Chapter 24
After leaving the lovebirds inside their new summer nest, I walked to my car on cloud nine, only to plummet to earth when I remembered what I’d found on Frank Holden moments before Ashley had shown up. It was obvious Frank had been a novice at tracking down spirits who’d traveled to the other side. Had his ghost hunting been a ploy for him to seek revenge on the Eastman family for what had happened when Jenna’s grandfather shot his father? Now that Frank had a motive, I hoped it would take the spotlight off Jenna. Frank was obviously a phony paranormal investigator, but was he a murderer?
Instead of heading home to feed my bratty cat and change my outfit into something spy-worthy, like black sneakers, pants and a hoodie, I made a kneejerk decision and passed the turnoff to my cottage. Continuing east toward Montauk Point Lighthouse State Park.
Morgana’s note had me meeting her at sunset, which gave me plenty of time to take a detour to see if Frank, or his boss, Mac, were hanging around the lighthouse looking for Montauk’s favorite ghost, Abigail.
As expected, there was traffic leading into the park because of the Montauk Point Lighthouse Week festivities. As with every trip I’d taken to the lighthouse, I always stopped at the park’s scenic overlook. Not that the view from my cottage deck wasn’t as magnificent, just different. What I loved about the small hamlet of Montauk was all its different parts. Each section, from the Block Island Sound to the Atlantic, offered up its own majestic views, wide assortment of wildlife and even different smells—pine trees, salt breezes, and just plain clean air. It was amazing that New York City was only eighty-five miles away. Thankfully, years ago someone had been smart enough to set aside more public park land than residential. I was happy that Carl Fisher, the man who thought he could make Montauk into the next Miami Beach, had failed. The Great Depression had something to do with it. Montauk was the unHampton; unpretentious and unspoiled. I hoped it would stay that way.
The overlook’s parking lot was packed. Dogs, children, young couples (yay, Patrick and Ashley would never be sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G). There wasn’t one parking spot, so I moved on.
I traveled up the one-way entrance to the park, my windows down. When I pulled up to the parking attendant’s kiosk, I talked my way out of paying, telling her I was picking up someone who was ill. Not a lie. If Frank Holden turned out to be Roland’s killer, you couldn’t get sicker in the head than that. I drove slowly, looking ahead to the vine-entwined low fence sprouting pale violet clematis that fronted the walkway leading up to the lighthouse. Its stature always took my breath away.
The air was nippy but the sun was out. Seagulls dove and coasted on the stiff breeze, sometimes dive-bombing the area at the back of the snack bar for scraps. I pulled into the yellow-lined No standing or parking spot and saw Mac the ghosthunter’s tall form, his distinctive gelled-up spiky dark hair and oversized black-framed eyeglasses. He was holding court to a bevy of male and female followers who were dressed in identical black T-shirts that read Keep Calm and Ghost Hunt.
Getting as close as possible, I pulled the Wagoneer a hundred feet from the fence and laid on the horn. The line of people waiting outside the gate for the tour that would take them up the lighthouse’s one hundred and thirty-seven steps gave me dirty looks, as did a park ranger who looked torn between coming over to sanction me or staying to collect the tickets.
Paranormal Investigator Mac finally glanced my way. I waved. He waved back, but then turned back to one of his ghosthunter groupies. He had a sharpie in his hand and was autographing the girl’s T-shirt in a very strategic place. I tapped the horn, gently this time, giving off a weak beep. Mac didn’t look my way. Darn! Best laid plans and all that. Then I had an idea. I dug in my handbag for the business card he’d given me on Friday when I’d come to Frank’s rescue, then shot him a text from my phone. Need to talk to you about Frank Holden. You could be liable for what he’s been doing at Enderly Hall.
I watched him pull out his phone, glance at the screen and start typing. The light on my phone flashed, and I read, You mean Frank Mullens? I don’t know a Frank Holden. A little busy now. Who are you?
Meg Barrett
. I saved Frank’s arm from the fence at Enderly Hall and talked the cops out of pressing trespassing charges. I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll pick you up in front of the snack bar.
Ok. But I only have fifteen minutes till I go on camera.
White Woody Wagoneer.
I see you.
It seemed Mac wasn’t the only one who saw me. The ranger in front of the gates to the lighthouse must have called for backup, because he was pointing out my car to another ranger. Ranger number two took a step in my direction and I gunned it, parking in front of a Hamptons Jitney bus parked just north of the snack bar.
Mac showed up just as I was in the middle of reading a text from Elle saying that when she went to Montauk Manor to interrogate Vicki, she’d been told Vicki had checked out. The desk manager said she’d left without paying her bill. That wasn’t a surprise. What was a surprise was that Vicki left town while being a suspect in a murder case.
I unlocked the car door and Mac hopped in, bringing with him the scent of the briny ocean and too-strong spicy aftershave. I shoved my phone in my handbag.
He said, “You gotta make it quick. I go live in fifteen. They’re clearing out the lighthouse museum for our crew to do a short segment.”
“I’ll be quick,” I answered, taking my pointer finger and swiping it across his long nose where an eyelash had fallen. “Make a wish,” I said, holding it in front of his lips.
“I wish we could hurry this along,” he said ungratefully, but superstitiously blew on the eyelash anyway.
“I just need to know if Frank Holden was with you or any of your ghost . . . paranormal investigators on Saturday between ten and noon?”
“First of all, Frank’s last name is Mullens. At least that’s what he told me. Second of all, he was let go a couple of minutes ago. I’m surprised you didn’t see him. He stayed overnight with us in the lighthouse. Showed up last night around seven—two hours later than scheduled. Didn’t contribute a thing. Funny thing was, he didn’t seem too upset about being fired. After his incident with the fence and the loss of my EVP recorder, not to mention his complete lack of interest in what’s going on here at the lighthouse . . .”
“How about yesterday between ten and noon? Was he with you and your crew?” I repeated.
“I have no idea where he was during those hours. Just last night and today.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“No. He’s not part of our usual band of brothers.”
“How come there’s no band of sisters in your ghost hunting enterprise?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. Apparently he’d never thought about it. “We travel the country and pick up extras if one of my PI’s is ill or is needed at home. And before you ask, I paid Frank by cash. That’s the way he wanted it. He didn’t even squabble like they usually do about the eight dollars an hour. Ghost hunting isn’t as lucrative as some might think. Do you mind telling me what’s going on? Does it have anything to do with the dead guy? We picked up a lot of strange (pause) disturbing (pause) anomalies on our geomagnetometer when we were at Enderly Hall the other day.” He projected his voice like he was talking in an auditorium without a mike, occasionally waving his hands spastically for extra emphasis.
“What ghost did you pick up on? Captain Kidd’s?”
“Why would Captain Kidd be there?” he asked, his interest piqued. “I thought Kidd buried his loot on the banks of Gardiners Island. We tried to check out the island, rented a skiff, but had to turn around at the point of an assault rifle. That family takes their privacy seriously.”
And rightly so, I thought.
I quickly explained about Shepherds Cottage and its link to Gardiners Island. He seemed surprised at the story.
“Surely you know about the money ponds near the lighthouse?”
“That treasure is supposedly buried there. Yes. But I didn’t know anything about Captain Kidd having a connection with Enderly Hall. That might explain a few readings we had.”
“So, if you weren’t looking for Captain Kidd’s ghost, why were you at Enderly Hall? Or more succinctly, what ghost were you hoping to run into? Or should I say run through. Ha, ha. Get it? They’re transparent.”
“Good one.” He was getting fidgety, a step from annoyed. He answered, “It was your guy Frank Mullens or whatever you said his name was . . .”
“Holden.”
“Frank told us that there were numerous ghost sightings at Enderly Hall. His family had been witnessing them for ages. When I told him we were only interested in the lighthouse ghost, he said that the original owner had been a keeper.”
“As far as I know, that’s not true.”
“He told us he had some documented proof that there was recent paranormal activity going on. Some story about a suspicious death and rumors of a demonic presence. He also said he got permission from the owner so we could go on the grounds to check it out.”
That confirmed what Jenna had told me about her husband allowing the ghosthunters on the property to help with publicity.
“Hey, why are you asking about this unless the dude’s death was suspicious? With everything going on this week at the lighthouse, I don’t know if I can get back to the estate. Maybe I could send one of my guys over to see if he can get a reading?”
“That’s not necessary. But I will talk to the man’s widow and ask her permission.” I couldn’t imagine Jenna wanting them on Enderly’s grounds, and he must have read something in my remark, because he said, “Ms. Barrett, I think if you came with us when we go back inside the lighthouse, you would see how paranormal investigators roll and be quite impressed. Everything is scientific. On top of that, we use groundbreaking equipment. I can show you documented proof that there are at least two entities inside the Montauk lighthouse. One evil. One pure.”
I coughed. “Gee, I wish I could tag along, but I have somewhere I need to be. Thanks for the info on Frank, though. Just one more question . . .”
He rubbed his chin, then leaned in closer, using his eyes instead of a piece of equipment to read my face. “A nonbeliever. Anytime you’re up for the challenge, send me a text. I’ll show you a few things that will not only make your hair stand on end but also make you see that what we do is a good thing. Ridding the world of evil . . .”
“One demon at a time.”
“Exactly. What’s your last question?” He looked down at his gold Rolex, then back at me. Frank might have been getting eight dollars an hour for ghostbusting, but Mac with his syndicated television show was doing much better.
“What kind of car does Frank have?”
“A late-model silver Lexus. Probably the reason he didn’t squabble over eight dollars an hour. The guy must have money.”
The fact that Frank drove a silver Lexus, similar in body and color to the car Jenna said ran her off the road, put Frank at the top of my suspect list. I couldn’t wait to tell Patrick . . . oops, Morgana.
“Now, I have a favor to ask of you,” he said. “I go on camera for our next segment in a few minutes. Let’s see if I can convince you with my intro that something truly evil is living inside the lighthouse.”
“Can ghosts really live inside anything? Aren’t they free to go anywhere they wish—willy-nilly, uncontained.”
Once again he ignored me, most likely because he was used to nonbelievers and ghost-related puns.
“Okay,” I said after an awkward silence, “what can I do for you?” I couldn’t turn him down. I needed to keep him on my good side in case we needed him to throw Frank Holden under the ghosthunter bus, if only for using an alias last name.
“I need to rehearse my monologue as to our findings last night when we were in the attic of the lighthouse museum gift shop. Where we encountered two restless entities . . .”
“One of them Abigail?”
“Precisely. It’s the other I’m worried about. We’ll be recording live for my show. They’re closing down the lighthouse just for me and the team. So, if you’re game,
I need to get the opinion of a nonbeliever on my opening monologue. I think I’ve got most of the history of the lighthouse ghost Abigail down.
“You should have filmed yesterday when we had all that fog and mist. Would’ve been the perfect setting for a ghostly hoedown.”
“This isn’t a game, Ms. Barrett. And we did film yesterday, all night until the park opened for the public.”
“Please, call me Meg.”
“It’s a five-minute intro, Meg. Let me know what you think?”
“Okay. But first answer one more question. Do you think Frank really wanted to be a paranormal investigator, or is it possible he was up to something illegal?”
“He certainly didn’t have the experience he said he had. Didn’t know a spirit box from an SLS camera.”
“SLS?”
“Structured Light Sensitive camera. You ready?”
I could tell Mac was at his tipping point. “Yes.”
“Here we stand”—Mac gestured behind him, the ring on his right hand whacking the passenger-side window—“in front of the Montauk Point Lighthouse, commissioned by George Washington himself in 1790.”
“I think it was 1792.”
He sent me a threatening glance, the dark intensity of his eyes magnified by his thick lenses. He took his job seriously.
“Shall I continue?” he asked, continuing anyway. “You are about to see footage of a harrowing, (pause) disturbing (pause) twelve hours of credible (pause) proof that there is a murderous entity living inside the historic Montauk Point Lighthouse. Numerous ships and lives have been lost off the shoals of Turtle Hill (pause) never to resurface again. What I am about to show you will set to rest the until-now unproven legend of Montauk’s ghost, Abigail. First let me tell you the backstory. We travel back in time to the year 1860, when young Abigail, the daughter of one of the construction workers renovating the battered lighthouse, fell in love with one of the masons working to fortify the lighthouse’s outer walls. I will tell the murderous (pause) tale of an innocent (pause) young couple who paid the price of falling in love with their lives. (pause) Stay tuned for a segment we call ‘Trapped. Abigail, the Montauk Point Lighthouse Ghost.’” He looked at me instead of a fake camera. “Pretend we are stopping for a commercial break.”
A Design to Die For Page 16
