Emily's Ghost (23 page)

"C'mon, Fergus. Look at
me," she said morosely. "Do I look as if I've had a nice
time?"

"What ye
look
,"
he said in a low voice, "is fair
beautiful."

It caught her off guard;
she'd been so expecting it from Lee. She stared at her new shoes
for a moment, then said awkwardly, "Thanks, Fergus. For trying to
cheer me up."

"It's a fact,
Emily."

It was the first time he'd
ever used her name. She used to wonder why he didn't. Now she was
wondering why he did. "I'm being an awful bitch, I know," she said,
trying to shift to firmer ground. "I guess it's because I felt so
out of my league at the Copley Plaza."

"It's Fiona was the
bitch," Fergus said calmly.

"Fiona? Fergus, you were
there!" she wailed. Now she
was
mortified.

"Ye forget, I know how it
feels," he said. "Anyway, all's well that ends well. Fiona left
early with a cigar burn in her hindquarters. At least that's what
she thinks it was."

She was scandalized.
"Fergus,
don't
tell me—" She caught her lower lip in her teeth, repressing a
smile. "This is awful. You're cheering me up."

"That was the intent,
ma'am," he drawled.

"Well, I appreciate it."
She dragged herself up from the side chair. "Good night again," she
said softly. At the door to her bedroom she turned and said,
"Fergus? Did she howl?"

"A little," he said with a
wink. "Sweet dreams."

Emily had been asleep for
a couple of hours when the phone rang. That's how the call about
her mother had come, so now whenever she picked up the phone late
at night, it was with a fearful, hammering heart.

"Emily? It's Lee. Did I
wake you?"

No one was in the
hospital, then. She felt relief, then anger. "Yes, you did," she
said, annoyed. "It's late."

"I know; I should've
waited until morning. But I wanted to know if you got home all
right."

"I'm safe," she said
ironically. "The cabdriver was a perfect gentleman."

"I mean -- well, where the
hell did you
go
?"
he demanded. "I looked around,
and there was no you."

"I decided we should do
all our talking by phone. It's easier. And cheaper, I might
add."

"Right after you walked
into the room, I was working my way toward you --"

"I can't believe you knew
I was there."

"Of course I did. But Jim
dragged you over to Tiffany and her crowd, God knows
why."

"Oh." He'd knocked her a
little off center with that one. "Tiffany wants to marry you," she
said, trying to regain the offensive.

"She's a good kid. A bit
of an airhead."

"Gloria wants you, too,"
she added evilly. "And Heather, whom you met only briefly." Why was
she doing this? "And I'm not sure about Fiona, but
probably."

"All right, all right.
That's what campaigning is about, Emily. I'm sorry if somehow I've
offended you, but without contributions there are no reelections,
and without pressing the flesh there are no
contributions."

"Well, there was plenty of
flesh around to press, so you should do just fine," she said
coolly.

There was a very
cautious-sounding pause at the other end of the line, and then he
said, "When do you want to do the interview?"

She sighed. "Soon, I
guess. If I want to keep my job."

"I'll be up here this
weekend. How about tomorrow morning?"

"No, tomorrow's
impossible. I'm going to the Vineyard on -- on
assignment."

"Before you leave,
then."

"I'm taking the first
ferry."

There was another pause.
"All right. Sunday, anytime?"

She'd rather walk on hot
coals, but she said, "Sunday at three?"

"That'll be okay. Millie
will be in the office. We'll meet there if that's all
right."

"Sunday it is, then," she
said, ringing off.

Once again he was choosing
to meet her in the public arena. Not that she was surprised. After
the
Newsweek
rumor Lee Alden obviously was going to play it safe. His days
of candor about the paranormal were over, at least until after the
election. As she drifted off to sleep, she realized that things had
come full circle: a few weeks ago he'd been afraid of what she
might print about him; now he was afraid of what others print
about
her.

Somewhere around Plymouth
it became apparent that they were going to miss the seven-fifteen
ferry out of Woods Hole. Between the accident near Braintree and
the line for the Egg McMuffin, Emily had used up all the extra time
she'd allowed.

"No big deal," Emily told
Fergus, who was along for the ride -- his first in a horseless
carriage. "We'll be there in plenty of time for the eight o'clock,"
she added, swinging out between two eighteen-wheelers into the
passing lane.

Fergus was sitting next to
her, his upper body ramrod straight against the back of the seat,
his face a study in pale fear. "Ye drive like a madman," he said
through gritted teeth.

"I'm only doing sixty,"
she protested.

"To pass over sixty miles
of land in one hour is unnatural."

She hooted. "This, from
someone who can zip through time and space in the blink of an eye.
How
do
you do
that exactly? How did you get back from Talbot Manor on the night
of the fire?"

"'Tisn't a bodily
experience. I'm somewhere, and then I'm somewhere else. That's all.
It's only when I make the effort to be present in the physical
reality that I feel a little of what ye do. At the moment that's a
lot."

A red-hot Firebird,
weaving in and out of traffic, cut them off ahead. "Another
madman!" Fergus said with an oath.

"That's a Pontiac. 'We
build excitement' -- remember?" she said lightly.

"Aye, well, I'd rather
stay home and watch it on TV." His tension was making him
irritable. "Could ye not have done yer business with the Home for
the Aged by phone?"

"No. They think the
necklace belonged to a lady named Hattie Dunbart, but no one seemed
very sure. Anyway, Hattie is very old and hard-of-hearing and can't
talk on the phone. It seemed simpler to go to her. Besides,
Marsalis is playing at the Tabernacle tonight. And it's a lovely
day for a ferry ride. All good reasons."

Fergus perked up. "Who is
this Marsalis, and what game does he play? Will there be
wagers?"

She laughed. "The game he
plays is jazz. He -- oh, gosh, jazz came after you, I forgot.
You're in for a treat, Fergus. The Tabernacle is a lovely place for
an outdoor performance. It's in the middle of what used to be a
huge camp meeting ground. Church folks from all over the country
came to the tents to preach and pray. I'm surprised you never heard
of it in your day."

"It sounds like what we
used to know as Cottage City. But ye call it Oak
Bluffs?"

"Ah, you're right. That
name came later. The tents are long gone, by the way, replaced by
tiny gingerbread cottages. It's all very charming now."

"There's no more
preaching? No more praying?"

"How can there be? Like it
or not, times have changed, Fergus. These are resort properties
now. Island real estate is very expensive."

He snorted. "I can't think
why. It's damned hard to get to."

"Not the way it once was.
Besides all the ferries, there are planes that fly back and forth,
at least to the bigger islands."

"Ah, that's right, planes.
When will
we
fly
the Friendly Skies? That seems to me one hell of a lot safer than
this," he said, sticking his head out the window and swearing at a
snappy little Celica that was squeezing them.

Emily smiled but did not
answer. It was dawning on her that Fergus would probably never know
the thrill of air travel. They'd talked about how much time he had,
and though he didn't really know, he felt sure it couldn't be that
long. It was one of the things she'd worried about the night
before: not devoting enough time to Hessiah's murder. She was
thinking about taking a temporary leave from her job. But besides
jeopardizing her career, she'd certainly be running the risk of
foreclosure; her savings were piddling.

But if time ran out -- if
suddenly Fergus got dragged away -- she'd never forgive
herself.

"A penny for yer
thoughts," Fergus said after a while.

"I wish I could charge
more for them," she answered with a sigh. They were parking the
Corolla in the ferry lot, and she was spared the effort of having
to explain. She went in to the ticket office to pay her fare. It
was still early in the season and there was no crowd, which she was
glad to see. She'd be able to sit away from everyone else and
reduce the risk of being seen chatting with air.

Emily turned to leave, but
before she got out the door, one of the waiting passengers lowered
his newspaper from in front of him and gave her the shock of her
life.

"Lee!"

He stood up and folded his
paper under his arm. "Mornin'.
Thought
I might run into
you."

His smile she recognized,
but nothing else. He was wearing well-worn jeans, a bright blue
baseball jacket, and a black duckbill cap that said "Pennzoil." He
looked like many things -- Little League coach, True Value store
manager, free-lance plumber -- but he did not look like a United
States senator.

"Nice threads," she
remarked, hiding behind irony. Really, it was too much, having him
pop up like this. Her heart was still thundering; Fergus himself
hadn't given her such a start the first time he'd showed
up.

Lee's blue eyes had an
ironic cast of their own. "You laugh, but this lets me come and go
as I please."

Which must be very
important to a hit-and-run type like you,
she thought, but she kept it to herself. "Off to the
Vineyard?" she asked sweetly. She had no idea why he was following
her. If he thought he was going to back her into some pal's cottage
for an afternoon quickie, he certainly had another thought coming.
She wasn't born yesterday, even if she was born in New
Hampshire.

"I have a house on the
Vineyard, near West Chop," he said.

Aha!

"Today is my mother's
seventy-first birthday, and the family is gathering there to
celebrate."

Ah.

"Are you traveling alone?"
he asked in the polite tones of someone bumping into an
acquaintance on the
QE 2.

"In a manner of
speaking."

"Well, good. We can sit
together."

Just like that. "We can
sit together." How incredibly presumptuous.

"All right," she answered.
What else could she say? "I can't, the ghost and I have to go over
our clues"?

They walked out of the
terminal together and sauntered over to the boarding area, where a
dozen passengers had already lined up. The ticket taker took their
fares with a big good-morning grin. "Beautiful day, Senator. Goin'
sailin'?"

"I'm hoping," he answered
pleasantly as they walked on by.

"Real good disguise," she
murmured to Lee, smiling in spite of herself.

"Okay, so it's not
perfect," he said equably. "Nothing ever is. Speaking of threads,"
he added, "you look very --"

"I know, nice," she said
cooly. She was wearing a pale floral print skirt and a white linen
blouse, just the thing for interviewing elderly ladies on the
Vineyard. She'd also brought along a cardigan and a straw hat with
wide ribbons to protect her from the sun on the ferry ride
over.

Lee looked a little
puzzled. "Do you have a problem with looking nice?"

God, she was being a boor.
She reminded herself of Fiona. "No, of course not," she answered,
truly sorry for the prolonged snit she was displaying. It
wasn't
his
fault
that women up and down the coast were after him.

"Nice will do fine," she
answered in a far more gracious voice.

They found a bench pretty
much off on its own. Lee offered to get coffee, Emily accepted, and
he went off. While he was gone she remembered -- almost as an
afterthought -- Fergus. Fergus! She jumped up. Where was he? She
half expected him to be in the shadow of the bridge deck,
sulking.
Don't be stupid, Emily,
she told herself.
Fergus
isn't the one with a history of sulking;
you
are.
She sat back down, reassured. "Don't fall overboard, Fergus,"
she whispered to the air.

Lee returned and presented
her with a cling-wrapped Thing and a cup of coffee, then sat down
and stretched his legs out in front of him.