Onyx Webb 8

by Diandra Archer

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  DECEMBER 9, 2010

  Olympia drove slowly down the road, cursing herself for not having flown out of New York earlier. It was getting dark and driving in the dark freaked her out—ever since her experience with the ghost children at the railroad tracks in New Mexico.

  Olympia had made it forty years without ever seeing a ghost—then, overnight, her life had become a nonstop spook--fest.

  It started the night she and her co-host, Nathaniel Cryer, were doing a live remote from the lounge at the Forsyth Park hotel in Savannah to report on a piano playing by itself. That was the night Olympia saw the girl in the mirror.

  Next, Olympia looked on helplessly as an invisible entity swung a stick and beat Nathaniel, sending him to the hospital. Not long afterward, Nathaniel died and began haunting her, claiming yet another ghost—the man in the bowler hat, Stormy Boyd—had murdered him.

  The final straw, however, took place when Olympia was chased out of a bar in Santa Fe, New Mexico, by a ghost—only to end up being pushed onto a set of railroad tracks by a group of dead schoolchildren.

  That was it. Olympia had no choice but to quit the show she waited her entire life to get.

  But Olympia still had to deal with Nathaniel.

  In life, Nathaniel was a self-absorbed, tantrum-throwing drama queen who only thought of himself.

  In death, nothing had changed. Making noises, breaking things, appearing at her bedside while she was sleeping—constantly demanding she find his killer.

  Enough was enough.

  It was time for Olympia to get Nathaniel out of her life, once and for all.

  Stormy Boyd walked along the edge of the new fence that surrounded the perimeter of the Mulvaney estate. The fence was Stormy’s idea, but Declan agreed.

  Stormy decided on wrought iron, the most common type of fencing used by owners of large estates and government buildings, and was satisfied with how it looked.

  The fence company suggested a less expensive material—either aluminum or steel, which could be painted black to mimic the look of wrought iron—but Declan insisted on spending the extra money.

  The quote came in at $164 per linear foot, plus the cost of the gate, for a total $42,500. Plus the cost of the gold-painted spikes every four inches across the top of the fence for an additional $31,200.

  Not only was the six-foot-tall fence ornate and beautifully designed, it was secure.

  Which was the point.

  For the past forty years, what served as the gate were two decorative redbrick columns with a row of hedges on either side. The columns were constructed in 1858 just before the civil war. Stormy replaced all that with a sixteen-foot-wide, eleven-hundred-pound electric-operated gate with an attached guard shack from which the gate was controlled. They built the new gate right outside the columns at Declan’s request—he said he couldn’t see something that old get torn down.

  Stormy also had a sixteen-inch convex mirror installed outside the guard shack, which allowed the guard to see the fence line in either direction.

  The biggest disagreement was whether the fence should run all the way around the property or just down the front and sides, leaving the tree line in back unsecure. In the end, Stormy got his way and the fence was installed around the entire perimeter of the property.

  Stormy was pleased.

  The Restoring Savannah Foundation event was ten days away and would no doubt draw countless members of the media, as well as numerous onlookers and paparazzi.

  The fence wouldn’t solve all his problems, but it would make things more manageable.

  Stormy reached the front gate as the sun was breathing its last breath. He glanced at his watch. It was 5:17 p.m. Guests would be arriving between seven thirty and eight. Providing security in the dark presented its own set of challenges.

  Stormy watched as a car slowly made its way up the road. The car slowed even further and turned into the drive and pulled to a stop at the gate.

  The door opened and a black woman with a massive head of dark curly hair stepped out. “This is the Mulvaney estate, right?”

  “I’m sorry, but the Mulvaneys do not take visitors without an appointment,” Stormy said.

  “I’m not here to see the Mulvaneys,” the woman said. “I’m here to see you, Mr. Boyd. Or should I call you Stormy?”

  Stormy was momentarily caught off guard. “Me? What could you possibly want with me?”

  “My name is Olympia Fudge,” Olympia said. “I was hoping you could tell me what I need to do to get rid of a ghost.”

  Stormy remained silent. He wasn’t sure what to make of the woman. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place from where. Whoever she was, she knew he was a ghost—and that concerned him. The list of people who knew was growing uncomfortably long.

  “Wait there,” Stormy said.

  Stormy walked over to the guard shack and stepped inside. He pressed the red button that controlled the gate, but it didn’t move. He pressed the button harder.

  Nothing.

  It was obvious there was a problem and a call to the manufacturer would need to be made first thing in the morning. The last thing Stormy could afford was for something like this to happen on the night of the Solstice Eclipse Masquerade Ball.

  That would be a disaster.

  Stormy exited the guard shack, walked to the gate, and grabbed the handle that allowed for the gate to be opened manually. He pulled on it again, but it didn’t budge. It was jammed.

  “What’s going on?” Olympia asked. Stormy did not answer her. Instead, he walked back to the guard shack and stopped beneath the round convex mirror and gazed up.

  Olympia looked on, wondering what the man was doing, then—suddenly—he was gone.

  “Over here, Ms. Fudge,” Olympia heard someone say from inside the car, and she swirled around. Olympia looked inside the car and saw Stormy Boyd sitting in the front seat.

  “Get in, Ms. Fudge, and ask your questions,” Stormy said. “Then I have a few questions of my own.”

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  MARCH 17, 2009

  How hard could it be to find a lighthouse?” Tara Schröder thought as she navigated her rental car down the narrow strip of highway lined with tall trees on both sides. What was the saying? You can’t see the forest for the trees? The same was apparently true for lighthouses.

  The only thing to do, Tara decided, was to head back to town and start over.

  By the time she arrived back on the small main street that ran through downtown Crimson Cove, Tara was famished. Certainly there was somewhere to eat other than the vending machine at the gas station.

  Eventually, Tara found what looked to be the only restaurant—a dingy-looking coffee shop-ish joint called Spilatro’s. With any luck, she could get a decent breakfast, along with a side order of good directions.

  “Coffee and a menu,” Tara said to the waitress behind the breakfast counter.

  The waitress—a woman wearing a name badge that read Ellen—brought the menu, poured the coffee, and pulled out a pencil and pad. “Know what you’re having?”

  “I’m not sure,” Tara said. “Any recommendations?”

  “Yeah, don’t eat here,” Ellen said.

  Tara laughed. Ellen didn’t.

  “No, seriously,” Ellen said. “Ever since the owner decided to sell the place, the food has gone straight downhill—not that it was on a hill in the first place.”

  “Is anything safe?” Tara asked.

  “You want safe, there’s a vending machine at the gas station. You wanna take a chance, go with the number three.”

  “Well, number three it is then,” Tara said.

  Ellen stepped to the kitchen window behind her and called out: “Got a three in the window, eggs over hard, burn the pig, and hold the hash browns.”

  “I like hash browns,” Tara said.

  “Not today you don’t,” Ellen said and walked off.

  “The food’s not that bad,” a
man said from Tara’s right. Tara turned and saw a sheriff two stools down. “Besides, what’s a small town without a disgruntled waitress?”

  “Why doesn’t the owner fire her?”

  “Why? You want the job?” Clay asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, neither does anyone else,” Clay said, holding out his hand. “I’m Sheriff Clay Daniels IV. The Daniels men have run the sheriff’s office going on a hundred years.”

  Tara reached out and shook Clay’s hand. “Tara Schröder, the one and only,” Tara said.

  “So, Tara Schröder the first, what brings you to the cove?”

  “Other than possible food poisoning, you mean?” Tara asked.

  “Yeah, besides that,” Clay said, finding Tara’s sense of humor both charming and refreshing.

  “I’m trying to find the Crimson Cove lighthouse,” Tara said. “I’ve tried twice but can’t quite figure it out.”

  “The lighthouse isn’t open to the public,” Clay said.

  “I know,” Tara said. “I’m trying to find the owner—a woman named Onyx Webb.”

  “Really? Does Onyx know you’re coming?”

  “No,” Tara said. “I was hoping to surprise her.”

  “Surprise her, huh?” Clay said. “Everyone around here knows you don’t just show up at the lighthouse unannounced.”

  “Well, I’m not from around here, Sheriff. Besides, what’s she going to do? Shoot me?” Tara said with a laugh—laughter that died away once she saw Clay hadn’t joined in. “Oh, I see.”

  Clay pulled out his cell phone and pushed a button and then waited. He hung up. “Onyx isn’t answering. She’s probably up in her studio painting.”

  “She’s still painting?” Tara asked, surprised.

  “That’s about all she does,” Clay said. “Is that why you’re here? You want to buy paintings?”

  “No, I—”

  Ellen approached and set Tara’s food down on the counter. “Don’t mean to eavesdrop, but I’m off in an hour. I can take you out there.”

  “That’s okay,” Clay said. “I’ll haul her out there. She might need armed protection.”

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  MARCH 17, 2009

  Noah was not big on chopping wood, especially when he could have made a phone call and ordered a full cord of forest firewood for $255 and had it delivered. But Onyx would have none of it. Something to do with her father, Catfish, and how a man’s worth was measured by his work ethic.

  Noah also got the sense Onyx enjoyed watching him slave away in the mid-day sun with his shirt off. Or perhaps that’s what he wanted to think she was doing? Besides, if the offer he’d made to buy Spilatro’s Place went through, Noah knew that long workdays lay ahead. His work ethic would be on display seventy hours a week.

  Onyx was standing atop the lighthouse, watching Noah swing her father’s old axe in the clearing a hundred feet below her with great amusement. Noah had planned to order wood for the caretaker’s house, but Onyx gave him a speech about how her father would never have done such a thing. “Real men chop wood themselves with an axe,” Onyx had said.

  In truth, Onyx’s father had stopped chopping his own wood once he’d reached his seventies and discovered he could simply order it by phone and have it delivered.

  Onyx watched Noah wipe his forehead and look up toward the top of the lighthouse. Onyx waved and smiled. Noah waved back and then went back to swinging the axe.

  What Noah didn’t know wouldn’t kill him.

  “No wonder I couldn’t find the place,” Tara said from the passenger seat when Clay made a sharp right turn onto the dirt road hidden between the tall pines.

  “It’s another half mile,” Clay said. “Let me do the talking when we get there.”

  “She really is dangerous then?” Tara said. “I was hoping you’d volunteered because you were so taken with me you wanted to show me the town tonight.”

  “You’ve already seen the town,” Clay said. But she was right—he was taken with her and was embarrassed at how easily she’d seen though his offer to escort her out to the lighthouse.

  Clay pulled the cruiser to a stop about fifty feet from where Noah was standing with an axe in his hand. “Dear God, you weren’t kidding,” Tara said gazing through the windshield.

  “Don’t worry. That’s just Noah,” Clay said. “Come on.”

  Clay got out of the cruiser. Tara remained seated. “Hey, Clay,” Noah called out.

  “Hello, Noah,” Clay called back. “I’ve got someone with me who wants a couple minutes of Onyx’s time. You think she might be available?”

  “I don’t know. Depends on who it is and what they want,” Noah said.

  Clay motioned to Tara to get out of the car.

  Tara exited the cruiser and made her way to the front of the vehicle. “Hi there. I’m Tara Schröder,” Tara said. “I own—I mean I used to own—an art gallery in New York.”

  “Did you say Schröder?” Noah said.

  “Yes, my grandfather was Ulrich Schröder’s brother,” Tara said. “Onyx and my grandpa Lucas did business together. He held an opening for Onyx at the Schröder Gallery back in the 1930s—a very successful opening actually.”

  Noah shook his head. “I don’t think Onyx has any interest in talking to any relatives of Ulrich Schrö—”

  “It’s okay,” Onyx called out through the open window atop the lighthouse. “Please have Miss Schröder wait for me in the foyer. I shall be down shortly.”

  Tara took her place on the red stair and waited as Noah and Clay went outside as Onyx instructed.

  “So, you are Lucas Schröder’s granddaughter,” Onyx began from behind Tara her up the staircase.

  “Yes,” Tara said, fidgeting nervously. She had no reason to be anxious—other than the strangeness of sitting on a red stair and talking to a woman who would not allow herself to be seen and had a reputation for shooting visitors.

  “Lucas was a nice man,” Onyx said. “He was good to me—helped me at a time when I truly needed it. He was good to Ulrich, too, in his own way, though my husband could never could see it. Without your grandfather’s help, we’d have both been in the poorhouse. And you inherited the gallery from him?”

  “Yes, well, my father did,” Tara said. “I took over when my father passed, though I’m afraid I wasn’t the business person they were. That, and it seems I have a gambling problem.”

  “Oh, I see,” Onyx said. “And that is how you lost the gallery?”

  “No,” Tara said. “The FBI discovered that my grandfather was dealing in art stolen by the Nazis during World War II. The feds are like elephants when it comes to things like that—they never forget. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  Tara told Onyx about finding the $12,000 and read her the article about the night of the opening.

  “I had no idea about any of this,” Onyx said once Tara had finished. “And you’ve come to apologize?”

  “Apologize?” Tara repeated. “Apologize for what?”

  “For gambling the money away,” Onyx said.

  “I didn’t lose the money, Onyx,” Tara said, pulling an the envelope from her purse and laying it on the red stair. “That’s why I came here. To bring you the money.”

  Onyx remained silent for several seconds. “It turns out the apology is mine then. Ulrich was a gambler and, well—I’m afraid I misjudged you, Tara.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Tara said. “After I found the envelope, I went straight to the casino in Atlantic City, but when I got there I stopped in the women’s restroom. When I went to wash up, I caught my reflection in the mirror. I didn’t like what I saw, so I turned around and left. It seems I have no problem losing my own money, but not someone else’s. I didn’t even know you were alive until I Googled you.”

  “Googled me?”

  “It’s a way of getting information on people,” Tara said.

  “Like the phone book?”

  “Yeah, like a big phone book,” Tara said, realiz
ing how sheltered Onyx was.

  “Allow me to split the money with you,” Onyx said. “It’s the least I can do for your trouble.”

  “I have a better idea,” Tara said. “These paintings in the foyer—they’re yours, right? You painted these?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you be interested in selling some of them?”

  “No,” Onyx said. “They’re worth too much to me to let them go for the few dollars they’d bring.”

  “A few dollars? See that big one on the far wall?” Tara said. “I could get fifteen for that—less my 25 percent seller’s fee, of course.”

  “Fifteen hundred dollars?”

  “No, Onyx,” Tara said. “Fifteen thousand.”

  “I see,” Onyx said. “Inflation, I assume.”

  “Not just inflation,” Tara said, “You heard what the New York Times said, didn’t you? Your work is amazing. I can sell your paintings all day long—as fast as you can push them out. Are there others?”

  “What did you tell Onyx to get her to agree to sell some of her paintings?” Noah asked as he walked Tara and Clay over to the caretaker’s house. “I’ve been trying to get her to sell them for over a year now.”

  “I told her how much I could get for them,” Tara said.

  “How much are they worth?” Clay asked.

  “Depends on the dimensions of the canvas how big they are and when they were painted,” Tara said. “Why wouldn’t she come down from the staircase? Is she too old now to move?”

  Noah and Clay exchanged a glance.

  “It’s complicated,” Noah said as he opened the front door to the caretaker’s house and ushered Tara and Clay inside. “The paintings are down here.”