Ghost Across the Water, page 25
I could tell him that gentle Clara had wished her husband dead and perhaps stopped by the murder scene, but that confidence I wouldn’t break. In any event if Clara and Mac had once been close, he might already know her secrets.
“Nothing yet. I’m still working on it.” Something else troubled me. “Mac—I’d rather not go swimming tomorrow. Couldn’t we just have the picnic?”
“Because of what happened to Angela?” he asked.
“Well, partly.”
“Sure. I understand.” He squeezed my hand. “A picnic sounds like fun. We’ll take Kinder, the way we planned. Say tomorrow, around two?”
“It’s a date,” I said. “Water sports can be deadly.”
“That’s true of anything. Apparently Angela went out on the lake alone in stormy weather without letting anyone know where she was. That’s reckless. When we go swimming, you’ll have me.”
“So I will.”
“We can go to the beach or a quiet island park I know.”
He created a tempting picture, but as we’d have to travel by water to reach the island, I’d settle for the beach.
“I’ll let you know if anything new turns up on Angela.” He set the picture down and touched my shoulder again. The brief physical contact made me glad to be alive and to have Mac in my life.
I wasn’t ready to accept Angela’s death. That mysterious, vibrant woman couldn’t simply be gone from the earth. In my mind, I saw her again, wearing one of her ankle-length dresses with a hat, strands of long red hair blowing across her face. From some faraway place, she shaded her eyes against the glare of a brilliant light and watched me as I drifted by.
“You’ll have to look for the answers now,” she seemed to say, while Ned, tall and blonde and handsome at her side, added, “Find the clue if you can.”
“I’ll try to find your answers,” Mac said.
“It’s nice to have a friend on the force,” I said. “Thanks for telling me about Angela. It would have been a shock to read it in the paper.”
“I didn’t want you to do that. Take care, Joanna.”
Mac gulped the rest of his tea quickly and left, and I turned back to the file, hoping the short break would allow me to search for my clue with fresh eyes.
Ever since her disappearance, I’d expected Angela to return some day and explain all the mysteries over T-bones and cheesecake at the Steakhouse. Now I was on my own. Rifling through the loose clipping and photographs, I found the article I’d been about to read when Mac knocked on the door.
Thirty-one
The fatal shooting of Lieutenant Ned Seymour occurred two miles from the scene of a hit-and-run accident that claimed the life of a six-year-old child...
I knew the story. I’d stood at the child’s grave and struggled to keep my tears from falling. They fell now, for little Alicia May and Angela and all the lost ones who had been snatched away from their lives too soon.
Kinder appeared at my side, whimpering softly and nudging my hand with her nose.
“It’s all right girl,” I said, reassuring her with a pat on the head.
It was far from all right, but I couldn’t alter past events, only hope to understand them. When the words on the page came back into focus, I read on, running my fingers through Kinder’s warm fur for the comfort it gave me.
On her sixth birthday, Alicia May’s grandmother gave her a tricycle. After dinner, the little girl rode up and down the driveway of her house, eventually making her way to White Pine Road, which was off limits to her. But when did that matter to an excited child with a wonderful new present?
As soon as her family realized that she was missing, they searched the grounds and the adjoining woods. Less than an hour later, her mother found a mangled heap of metal in the road, several yards from the drive. The tricycle’s straw basket, with its pink ribbons still attached, had survived the impact. It lay in the underbrush beside the little girl’s body. There was no sign of the car, no evidence that anyone had stopped.
A lazy country trail with little traffic, White Pine Road curved around hidden drives and private woodland that restricted visibility. Most likely, the driver didn’t see Alicia May until it was too late.
But you had to know you hit something, I thought. Why didn’t you go for help?
Ira said that every Sunday morning Alicia May’s mother placed a bouquet in the lamb statue on her daughter’s grave. Faithfully, year after year, in all seasons. Whenever I’d stopped at the cemetery, the flowers were always fresh and often pink.
The reporter drew a weak connection between the two tragedies. After the accident, the police intensified their surveillance of the road. If Alicia May hadn’t taken that fatal ride, Ned might have been at another location on the afternoon of August twenty-seventh and so evaded the bullet that killed him.
No, I thought, only if the shooting had been a random act. A determined assassin would know where to find his target at all times. Still a connection might exist—a different one. In any event, White Pine Road was an unlucky place, the site of two unsolved homicides and a rape.
I poured the last of the iced tea and sat back to mull over the sad events. What kind of monster would run down a child on a tricycle and leave her in the underbrush to die alone? Who shot Ned, and what really happened to Angela? Finally, could a single thread tie these events together?
Carefully I folded the Times page and sifted through the rest of the material. Stories clipped from various newspapers crammed the file. They all contained similar information, but the black and white photographs captured the spirit of mourning for Ned. Pallbearers in police uniform. Ned’s parents and his sister. A flag-draped casket for a decorated veteran. The lonely, new grave before the arrival of the angel statue.
Ned’s official photo lay apart from the others. Unsmiling and somber, he seemed to gaze into the future, forewarned about his fate, but powerless to avert it. The picture I’d given to Angela of her and Ned was more flattering. Where was it now, and what had happened to the rest of Angela’s possessions? Her dresses and hats and the dinner ring? A suitcase was a large item, not easily concealed. So was a car.
My thoughts wandered in every direction and always came back to Angela’s long silence and death.
This file held no answers, only more questions. Tomorrow I’d return it to the library and find another way to uncover the truth. As I began to gather the clippings into a neat pile, a sheet tucked inside a photo story caught my attention. It was a copy of the Alicia May article on crisp, fresh paper that still held a whiff of printer’s ink. At the top, someone had scrawled “Saturday night call?” in blue ink.
Could this be Angela’s clue?
Excitement gripped me as I imagined Angela poring over the contents of the folder, discovering something significant in the hit-and-run story, and rushing out to search for a copier machine.
But why make a duplicate only to leave it with the old clippings? Assuming that Angela had taken the file, how did it end up in the motel’s Lost-and-Found? Maybe I should go to the motel and ask if anyone there knew. And what did that note signify? The mysteries were never-ending, like the whir of the fan in the hot kitchen and the feverish hum of the refrigerator motor.
An inexplicable force appeared to be at work, drawing my attention to the hit-and-run tragedy. I couldn’t afford to ignore it. Ira claimed to know the stories of Spearmint Lake’s residents and their dead. Perhaps he had more information about the incident. I’d try to find him this afternoon, either at the vegetable stand or in the cemetery. Whether the duplicate article proved to be a curiosity or a clue, it was worth investigating.
THE BREEZE WAS A BLESSING, moving out of the north to cool the sparse vegetation that grew at the edge of the sand. The lake water lay still, trapped in haze and silence. Boats sailed by slowly or remained in their docks. The sunbathers and swimmers had dwindled to a few, and the slides were empty.
Across the lake, yellow tape fluttered against dark woods, while Damson Brewster’s pink Victorian cottage looked strangely deserted for a place that was soon to welcome guests to an open house.
Clara’s car was parked on Lake Road. Wanting to talk to someone who had known Angela, I pulled up behind her and walked down to the beach quietly, not wanting to alarm her. She turned her head as I approached, but didn’t seem surprised to see me. She wore a short red dress, a bright banner shade that drained the color from her honey blonde hair and frosted lipstick.
“Joanna,” she said. “We always meet at the lake.”
“Well, I live close by and love to look at the water.”
“Now you know what happened to Angela,” she said.
“Only that she’s dead.”
“They closed the beach earlier, but people are starting to drift back. I came to say goodbye to an old enemy.” She looked across the water, beyond the tape, to the wild side, where a driftwood cross stood in silent tribute on a lonely stretch of sand. “Angela’s body washed up on Ned’s part of the beach,” she said. “It’s like one last insult.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s where Ned once appeared. My sister-in-law, Natalie, saw him.”
“Do you believe that?” I asked.
“I do. I saw him, too, but in another place.”
“Once I thought I saw a ghost there myself, a man from my past. It turned out to be Damson Brewster, I think.”
That wasn’t quite right. I didn’t know who or what I’d seen and simply stopped wondering about it.
“Damson doesn’t resemble Ned except for his blond hair,” Clara said. “You probably saw Damson.”
“Or some trick of the light.”
“We all have our ghosts,” she said.
I moved out of the sun to stand under a tree, taking care not to crush the small yellow flowers that grew amid the rocks. “I don’t believe Angela died in a swimming accident,” I said.
“That’s what the police say happened.”
“It leaves too many unanswered questions. I think she was murdered.”
“Why would anyone kill her?”
Should I tell Clara about Angela’s investigation into Ned’s shooting? Maybe... “She may have discovered some dangerous information and had to be silenced.”
Clara’s soft laughter struck an irreverent note in this quiet place. “Oh, Joanna, that sounds so melodramatic. I keep forgetting you’re a writer.”
“The idea of murder isn’t so farfetched. Don’t forget that someone shot Angela before.”
“Then she should have gone home as soon as she recovered. Only a fool stays in a town where someone wants her dead. I suppose she’s with him now. In heaven or hell—or trapped on the earth.”
Even now, Clara couldn’t seem to keep the bitterness from her voice.
“You sound envious,” I said.
“I’m angry. It’s like she’s hurting me all over again.”
“I hope the police treat Angela’s death as a homicide,” I said.
“As always, they’ll do their job.” Clara glanced at her watch. “In the meantime, I’m going to be late for mine.”
“I wonder if Damson is still going to have his open house—after the death,” I said.
“Probably. He’s never been known to cancel a party. Are you going?”
“I may stop in for a while.”
“I wish you wouldn’t. Didn’t you say he was mixed up in Angela’s disappearance?”
“I’m not sure about that. Supposedly Angela gave him some wrong information.”
“Some would say that Brewster is a real hunk, but he’s taken. I read that he and his business partner are practically engaged.”
I’d given Clara the wrong impression, but she didn’t know about my fondness for Mac. Quickly I said, “I’m not interested in Damson as a man. There’s a party in the neighborhood, and we’re all invited. Why turn down free entertainment?”
“Because it may not be free. Everything has a price.”
So many of Clara’s statements had a hidden meaning, but I didn’t trust Damson either and intended to be wary around him during future encounters.
Clara reached for the large fabric handbag on the grass. “I’ll see you later, Joanna.”
“Wait! Before you go, do you know anything about the little girl who was killed on White Pine Road back in 1981?” I asked.
She brought out her car keys and jingled them, glancing at her watch again. “Only that it was a hit-and-run. They never found the driver.”
“So I’ve heard. Anything else?”
“I remember Ned went to her funeral. Then he ended up being buried in a grave right near her. That sure was a weird coincidence.”
“Did he know her family well?” I asked.
“I don’t think so, but to Ned, everyone in Spearmint Lake was family.”
“Then attending the funeral wasn’t unusual for him?”
She frowned. “I never thought about it. Joanna, if you want to continue this conversation, we’ll have to do it at Grandall’s. I have to leave now.”
“I’ll stay for a while,” I said, thinking about Alicia May, Ned and connections. “Maybe I’ll stop in at the store later.”
Like a person in a hurry to leave an unpleasantness behind, Clara walked quickly to her car, not looking back, stumbling once on a fallen branch. Perhaps she regretted speaking ill of the dead with a casual acquaintance, but her feelings about Angela were no secret.
It must be the questions. Clara didn’t want to answer them, and if I saw her at Grandall’s later, I suspected she’d be too busy to talk to me.
AFTER CLARA LEFT, I stood on the beach, letting the spray wash over me, feeling cool and comfortable for the first time since leaving the cottage. I didn’t have to find Ira today. I could stay here until it was time to get ready for Damson’s party.
The breeze grew stronger, stirring the lake into a wavy froth and sending particles of sand flying into the air. I moved closer to the water’s edge, noting the color of the beach flags. Green signified safe conditions. With no deadly rip currents and no impending storms, I could take off my shoes and wade into the lake, except it was more pleasant on land.
No lifeguards watched over the swimmers. The Sheriff’s Department included a Marine Division, and colored flags issued their warnings to those who bothered to heed them: Yellow for dangerous conditions, red for hazardous. They were like traffic lights—Go, Caution, Stop—and a child could read them.
I’d never thought of Angela as a risk taker. The foul play theory or a sudden attack made more sense. Still I didn’t really know her. Nor did I know Clara, or any of the people I’d met in Spearmint Lake. Not even Mac, although I wanted to believe that we were more than friends.
Wherever Angela’s spirit was now, I hoped that she had found Ned. Her body must be in the morgue, identified by her Spearmint Lake cousin. The Medical Examiner would perform an autopsy and eventually return her remains to Ohio. Or maybe her next of kin would bury her in the cemetery near Ned’s grave. By then Mac might know the cause of her death.
Before that happened, I imagined a high wind would blow the driftwood cross out to the lake. I wanted to add something to the makeshift memorial, some small remembrance to let Angela know that I mourned her passing.
A funeral wreath from a florist shop or a simple bouquet, the kind I could gather myself right now? I surveyed the area behind me, considering my choices. Blue daisies, white Queen Anne’s lace, the purple coneflowers that grew along the side of Lake Road, and wild spearmint. I had a pair of scissors in the glove compartment and the ability to improvise. To tie the flowers together, I’d use one of the long stalks.
I set to work, gathering wildflowers, and soon had a modest bouquet. Now, I’d have to walk around the lake to reach the cross. Although it was still hot, the temperature seemed less oppressive. The breeze made the heat bearable, and the path to the other side wound through thin, shady woods. I might even find more flowers on the way.
I looked across the water, visualizing my floral tribute at the base of the cross, and noticed a tall, fair-haired man standing beyond the yellow tape. He was looking up at the pink cottage that now showed signs of occupancy. The outdoor lights glittered in the sunlight, outlining the graceful gables, while on the ground faraway figures unloaded musical instruments from a van.
The watcher had to be Damson, and this was a perfect opportunity to talk to him about Angela. I turned back, thinking I’d wave to attract his attention and he’d wait for me on the other side.
But he was no longer there.
Thirty-two
That was impossible. No one could vanish that quickly, but the beach across the water was deserted now. The yellow tape still fluttered in the wind, and the driftwood cross still stood in silent tribute on the sand with the dark trees in the background. Only the watcher was missing from the scene.
If he had been there to begin with. If he was a living person.
I’d turned my head for the tiniest fraction of a second, not long enough for him to walk back into the woods.
So had I seen a ghost and once again mistaken it for Damson Brewster? Ned Seymour keeping a vigil at Angela’s memorial would explain the uncanny exit. This was still the anniversary of Ned’s death, a time for restless spirits to walk.
When had I started believing Ira’s fantastic tales and Clara’s conviction that her late husband had claimed a section of the Spearmint Lake beach for his haunting ground?
These chilling fancies were more appropriate for my Gothic stories. The man I’d seen had to be flesh and blood, a person of exceptional speed. Besides, to see a ghost soon after talking about one was too theatrical, not to mention improbable.
Whoever had stood on the beach looking at Damson’s cottage was gone now. I had a bouquet to place at the cross and a party to attend. While I’d been contemplating the watcher, the mild breeze had turned into a summer wind. It blew my hair across my eyes and whipped my skirt high up around my knees.
