Ghost Night (7 page)

Impossible. The figurehead was long gone.

She looked again, and for a moment, she could have sworn that she was seeing a woman’s face—and the sleek lines of a beautifully crafted figurehead.

She blinked, and it was gone.

She moved the camera away for a moment and lowered herself down to the ruins. She shook the image
of the figurehead and filmed the length of the ruins, taking in the fish, the barnacles growing on those sad bare bones that remained.

Something crusted rose from the bed of sand on the floor of the ocean that held the wreck. It was just a dot on the sand, but through the lens, it seemed to be something. Vanessa moved down and reached out, gently swishing sand from the object. She wasn’t sure what it was, it was so encrusted, but it was odd, so she picked it up.

Sean was behind her. He eased himself down on his knees and she showed him what she had discovered. He took the camera from her and pointed upward. He was ready to surface.

They had moved a good hundred feet from the boat and stopped at thirty-three feet to pressurize. Sean reached the dive platform and ladder before she did. He set the camera down on the platform and threw his flippers on board as she grasped hold of the platform. The sea rocked around them, but Sean ably drew himself up and turned to reach for her. She hesitated only briefly and then accepted his hand, throwing her flippers up as well and climbing up the ladder.

They came through the little custom hatch to the deck of the Sea Ray and he spun her around without asking, unlatching her tank.

“I’ll get yours,” she said.

He didn’t protest but accepted her help and stowed the tanks. He came back to her and asked for the object she had picked up from the ocean floor.

He turned it around and around in his hand. “I have friends to take this to,” he murmured.

Vanessa felt a sudden, eerie sweep of air around her. She spun around, looking for…

Something.

But there was nothing around her.

Still, she was suddenly cold. She could remember the figurehead she had seen through the camera lens with a frightening clarity—since it hadn’t really been there. And now…

This. This chilling sensation that…

They weren’t alone.

Sean looked at her suddenly. “What’s wrong?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Nothing. A goose walked over my grave, I guess. What do you think it is?”

“A coin…or a pendant. I think you’ve found a real relic,” he told her.

“Really?”

“Well, we could find out it’s a 1950s Timex or something…I don’t know enough to take a chance trying to get the ocean crust off it, but as I said, I have friends who do this professionally. We’ll bring it to them. I’m driving in. Want water, beer, soda? They’re in the cooler, over there, portside. Help yourself.”

He pulled down the dive flag and drew in the anchor—it was automatic, all he had to do was push a button. The Sea Ray was definitely nice.

He went to the helm, starting the motor, taking the wheel. She still had the crazy feeling that they weren’t alone, that the air was charged.

She grabbed a couple of bottles of water out of the cooler and hurried back to the companion seat.

“So—did I pass inspection?” she called to Sean,
more to start a conversation than because she was really ready for an answer.

He didn’t reply; he was looking straight ahead with a small smile on his face. The wind had ruffled his hair, he was in board shorts and nothing else, and his chest was gleaming bronze and powerfully muscled. She was startled to feel a stirring of admiration or something worse, even—attraction.

It was the smile, she thought.

He reached for sunglasses, and leaned casually against the captain’s seat rather than sitting.

She eased back in the companion chair, tired from the night before. She closed her eyes and allowed herself just to feel.

The figurehead had seemed so real…

Her eyes flew open. She almost bolted out of the chair.

The figurehead! The figurehead with its beautiful face…

The same face she had in her own possession, her copy of the artist’s rendering of Dona Isabella.

V
anessa Loren knew how to work and how to move. She seemed familiar with every aspect of equipment and the importance of rinsing off their dive gear and his camera rigging as soon as they got back to the dock. When they were done, she slipped her oversize T-shirt back on and looked at him expectantly.

“Tell her she’s hired,” Bartholomew said. He was stretched out on his back on the aft seat, hands crossed behind his head, hat over his eyes, as if he still needed to shade them from the sun. One leg dangled over the other in lazy comfort. “Tell her that she’s hired, and you’re doing the story. You know you’re going to do it. She’s a scriptwriter, she knows cameras, she knows boats, and she sure seems to have a great work ethic. Not to mention great legs as long as a yardarm and…well, nothing wrong with the rest of her, either.”

Sean ignored Bartholomew. He smiled at Vanessa. “You know we’ll do a background check,” he told her.

“Go for it,” she said, looking off into the distance. She seemed distracted.

He nodded. “Oh, the object you found—I’m going to take it to friends who have a small shop on
Simonton—they usually work privately, but they have a little storefront. It’s called Sunken Treasures. You’re more than welcome to take it yourself, if you prefer. You discovered the piece.”

“I trust you to take it—I’m not after treasure,” she told him. Her hair was still damp; her eyes seemed the most brilliant blue he had ever seen, filled with honesty. There was something as she stood there, her answer to him filled with trust and disinterest, that seemed to catch at his throat. Or his heart.

Or, admittedly, other parts of his anatomy. Even wet, she was stunning. And yet beauty itself never created such an appeal. Maybe it was her energy or vitality. Or the way she seemed filled with warmth and vibrant, sleek movement—even when she stood still. He wanted to step closer to her, as intrigued by the woman as the mystery she brought.

He stepped back.

“All right, but you’ll know where it is,” he told her.

She smiled. The smile seemed a little distant. She looked around him and seemed confused, then shrugged, as if returning to the subject. “Thanks. I’ll, uh, talk to you later, then?” she asked.

“Yes. I’ll talk to you later,” he assured her.

“Thank you.”

She was sincere.

And yet it was odd. She still seemed distracted as she walked away. Sean watched her go, puzzled.

“She senses me—that’s what’s going on,” Bartholomew said, rising and adjusting his hat. “She’s got the sense—it’s not developed, but she’s got something. I know—trust me. I spent a few of my early years in this
rather awkward state playing tricks on people. There are those who will never sense a thing, and there are those who always get a feeling…but don’t really know what it is. She’s gifted, I’d say.”

“Wonderful. She’s tracking a murderer—seriously, that’s what she wants to do—and you’re doing your best to make her jump at every whisper of breeze,” Sean said.

“Excuse me! I don’t really have much to do with it. Well, maybe I do. I mean, ghosts can make an effort, as you know…but I wasn’t doing anything.”

“That’s not exactly true—since you talked a blue streak all day. Now I have to think over some things.”

Bartholomew shrugged. “But you know you’re going to work with her.”

“It’s not just my decision. David has to decide on this, as well.”

“David’s going to do whatever you want to do.”

“The point is, really, there’s nothing new that we’re going to discover. Say Carlos Roca did it—he’s long gone. Say someone else did it—that someone has managed to change the boat so that no one would ever recognize her, and they’re probably living in Brazil by now,” Sean said.

“You know better than anyone that it’s never too late to seek the truth,” Bartholomew said.

“Bartholomew, you’re like an old fishwife. Quit nagging. The story is intriguing. I have to see how I’m going to fit it in with the rest of the history we want to put out there—touching on enough, creating a story line—”

“You were creating a documentary about legends and mysteries in this area. Fits right in,” Bartholomew said.

“Hey, look—isn’t that the lady in white?” Sean asked, pointing toward the center of Mallory Square. There was no one there, but Bartholomew looked. He glared at Sean. “She has a name, you know. Lucinda, Miss Lucinda Wellington—Lucy.”

“Well, it’s just damned adorable to see you so smitten, my friend,” Sean said.

Bartholomew shook his head. “You won’t distract me. Lucy and I have a lovely relationship. We walk every afternoon through the cemetery, strolling and reading the headstones. And sometimes we stroll down Duval and observe the tourists. Ah, I can smell the rum, so it seems, at times. But, Sean O’Hara, God knows why, it seems I’m here still to help you, and my beautiful lady in white, dear Lucy, seems glad enough to be with me.”

“Great. Just great. Well, why don’t you go see if she’s in the cemetery now. I’m going to take a shower and then bring whatever that encrusted piece is that Vanessa found over to Jaden and Ted.”

He left the ghost on deck and went down to the
Conch Fritter
’s head. Twenty minutes later, he headed to his friends’ shop, curiously flipping the thing—trinket or treasure—in his hand.

Back in her room, Vanessa showered for a long time, luxuriating in the heat of the water, trying not to think. She emerged, and, convincing herself that she was overtired and suffering from the nightmares again, she went to the dresser and stared at the copy of the
likeness of Dona Isabella that Marty had given her the day before.

She’d never heard that any ship had sailed with a figure head carved as a replica of Dona Isabella.

Of course. There was no figurehead. She was exhausted, and she’d spent the morning trying to prove that she was more efficient than the Energizer bunny.

She dressed quickly and looked at the time. One o’clock. She realized that she was starving and still really exhausted. Okay, she was pretty sure that she’d pulled the morning off quite well—she’d been efficient, she’d gotten good footage, the giant grouper had certainly allowed Sean to get some good footage of her with the fish, and she’d discovered something at the bottom of the ocean, where the ship had wrecked and broken up nearly two hundred years ago.

She could take a nap.

Food and a nap.

And maybe a drink to help her relax. She was just a few feet away from the Key West Smallest Bar. Food, something good and stiff and a long nap.

She had imagined the figurehead in the water. But, really, if she thought about it, if she was going to imagine images, maybe in her mind the poor martyred Dona Isabella was trying to help her, she wanted the history known, she wanted the world to know what horrible villains Mad Miller and Kitty Cutlass had been.

Sleep.

And she would quit seeing things.

And with any luck, she wouldn’t dream.

Sunken Treasures was located on Simonton. The proprietors, Jaden Valiente and Ted Taggart, were friends
of Sean’s from school. They’d lived and worked together for years without choosing to marry, but they seemed happy, had no children, kept five cats in the small store, and appeared pleased with every aspect of their lives. They never fought, which was nice, since Sean was good friends with both of them. He’d traveled so much working that he hadn’t been home much since high school, but when he was in Key West, with the two of them, it was as if he had never left.

“Hey!” Jaden said, looking up from her workstation as he entered. Ted was across the room at an identical station. They were both equipped with bright, twist-neck lamps, bottles with all kinds of solutions and brushes with varying degrees of bristles. The shop was decorated with old broadsides and sailing paraphernalia from every century and decade. It was eclectic and had one showcase—where they displayed the reproduction pieces that they made, much more affordable than the real items that could be purchased many places in the city.

Jaden looked at him through magnifying glasses that made her eyes appear huge. They were warm brown eyes, and she had curly brown hair past her shoulders that gave her the look of a new age hippie. Ted had the same look—he was wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt and he also had curly brown hair that he wore long, a curly brown beard and mustache and an easygoing smile.

“Nice to see you in our neck of the woods. We usually have to go to karaoke down at O’Hara’s and warble out an old Cream number to get to see you, Sean,” Ted said, grinning.

“Speak for yourself. I do not warble, I sing delightfully off-key,” Jaden said. “What’s up?”

“A young woman diving with me this morning made a discovery,” Sean said.

“Oh? What?” Jaden asked, coming around from her workstation.

Sean produced the piece. “Right now, God knows, it could be anything, but…this kind of growth and debris upon it, whatever it is, it looks as if it has been out there awhile.”

Jaden took it from him, studying it. Ted came around, as well. “Looks old,” he said.

“Is it a coin?” Sean asked.

“Looks more like a medallion…a brooch? Where was it found?” Jaden asked.

“Pirate Cut,” Sean told her.

“That’s where the
Santa Geneva
went down under pirate attack,” Ted said. “Other ships, too. The water is so deep and then the shallow reef juts up—caught lots of ships over time.”

“We were diving over the bone structure—what’s left—of the
Santa Geneva,
” Sean said.

“Cool!” Jaden looked at Ted with a pleased smile. “This really could be something.”

“I’d have thought that, over the years, almost everything of any value had already been brought up,” Sean said.

“For shame, Sean O’Hara!” Jaden said. “The sea is ever a cruel mistress, and you never know what’s been found and what hasn’t—especially over time. I’ll get on it right away,” Jaden promised. “And carefully!”

“I knew you would,” Sean told her.

“It would be spectacular if this were a documented piece of jewelry!” Jaden said enthusiastically.

“Did you get any of it on film?” Ted asked him.

“Yes, some of the discovery.”

“’Cause you’re going to work with David Beckett and do a really cool documentary, right?” Ted asked. “Wow—and you start off by finding a treasure from the
Santa Geneva.
Lord, do I love that story!”

“Romantic in an icky kind of tragic way,” Jaden agreed.

“Gorgeous Dona Isabella captured, her ship sunk in Pirate’s Cut!”

“Apparently when Mad Miller attacked the ship, he swept Dona Isabella from it first. And of course, he was supposed to be asking her husband for a ransom,” Jaden said. “But he fell in love with her.”

“And infuriated Kitty Cutlass!” Ted said dramatically.

“The ship was blown to smithereens, most of the crew killed in the water, but some of them taken prisoner as well for slave labor,” Jaden said.

Looking at them, Sean shook his head and smiled. “You two should take it on the road. You’re very dramatic.”

“Well, who knows what really happened?” Jaden asked with a shrug. “All that is fact is that Mad Miller did attack the ship and he did kidnap Dona Isabella. And Kitty Cutlass was madly in love with Mad Miller. I mean, supposedly, Mad Miller was in love with Kitty Cutlass, so why kidnap Dona Isabella unless it was for ransom, and she had a rich husband, and whether they were living apart or not, he would have paid the ransom,
just for the sake of his pride. But, no—Dona Isabella is murdered, some say
by
Kitty Cutlass, and the crew of the
Santa Geneva
who were taken prisoner rather than murdered or left to drown at the site were then massacred on Haunt Island. Oh! And those other murders took place on Haunt Island just about two years ago—now, there’s a story for you, Sean.

“Hey, who were you with?” Jaden asked him curiously. “Who is the ‘young woman’?”

“Her name is Vanessa Loren. And, yes—I see you’re starting to frown. If you were following the newspapers when members of the film crew were killed on Haunt Island, you heard the name. She was one of the survivors.”

“Whoa—wow!” Ted said. “Man—perfect. Why, you have an excellent story going there. Hey—what is she like? How did she wind up here?”

“My God, I can’t even imagine how horrible that must have been—not that we haven’t had our share of our own absurdities around here lately,” Jaden said. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Did she come to see you on purpose?”

“Yes,” Sean said.

“Can’t wait to meet her!” Ted told Jaden.

“Now, wait—” Sean said, frowning.

“Oh, come on. We’re not going to say anything to her. We won’t embarrass you!” Jaden protested.

“It’s not that—I just can’t imagine she really likes being quizzed constantly on what happened. It must have been pretty—horrifying.”

“Ah, but you two have something in common. You were almost killed by a madman,” Ted pointed out.

“But Sean’s madman was caught—and no one knows
what happened to the other,” Jaden said. “Oh, it is a mystery! I’d love to know what happened on that island. Most people, of course, think it was that fellow who was supposed to take the actress home…. Rodriquez… Rod…”

“Roca. Carlos Roca,” Sean said.

“What does she think?” Ted asked.

“I’m dying to see what she looks like!” Jaden said.

“Just be nice when you meet her,” Sean said.
He was defending her. Well, these were his friends, but they were professing some intrusive curiosity.

“And you might have found a relic. Like Ted said, wow, cool!” Jaden said happily.

“You know what some people think?” Ted asked, nodding sagely.

“What?”

“It’s the Bermuda Triangle,” Ted said, as if it were fact.

“Ted, ships get lost, planes go down, and many so-called victims of the so-called Bermuda Triangle have been found. Ships have sunk.”

“Aha! But throughout the years, they’ve found ghost ships out there, too. Ships with absolutely nothing wrong with them—but no one aboard. Hey, come on! You can order DVDs from the educational channels on the Bermuda Triangle,” Ted argued.