Murder in the Paperback Parlor (26 page)

“I like ghost stories,” Olivia said, her gaze sliding to the
lighthouse keeper's cottage. Once, its rooms were haunted by Olivia's child self. A quiet, lonely girl with long legs, freckles, and sun-bleached hair.

I'm not alone anymore
, Olivia thought and smiled at Rawlings.

Haviland returned and sat on his haunches next to Olivia. His eyes seemed tuned to the shimmering path on the water created by the lighthouse beacon. Rawlings looked at it too. As if to himself, he whispered,

So from the world of spirits there descends

A bridge of light, connecting it with this,

O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,

Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

Olivia squeezed his hand until he turned away from the sea and met her gaze. “We can save both the ghost stories and unsettling poetry for our trip,” she said, feeling a sudden chill. “Let's go in.”

“All right. No more Longfellow.” Rawlings stood up, collected the wineglasses, and went into the house. After casting a final glance at the water, Olivia called for Haviland and then shut the door. The sound of the waves was diminished, but not gone.

As Olivia lay in bed, they lulled her to sleep. She dreamed of shipwrecks. Of wooden carcasses. Large black smudges in a black sea. In her dreams, the sails were raised. And they rippled as if still being filled by a ghostly wind.

*   *   *

Two days later,
Olivia parked her Range Rover in the ferry terminal lot.

Rawlings jerked his thumb at the back of the car. “I'm going to track down a luggage cart. There's no way we can haul all of this gear onboard by ourselves.”

Olivia shot him a wry grin. “It's just a few staples.”

“A pair of suitcases, grocery bags, a packed cooler, and a waterproof bin filled with books, flashlights, and jigsaw puzzles. Staples, eh?”

Olivia shrugged. “The electricity's out across the island. Just because we're without modern conveniences, doesn't mean we can't be comfortable. And well fed. Michel packed us a special honeymoon hamper.” She shook her head in distaste. “I feel stupid using that word. It should be relegated to greeting cards or travel brochures.”

Rawlings laughed. “From henceforth, I shall refer to this time together as a marital retreat. Better?”

Olivia tossed a balled-up napkin at him. “No! We'd better hurry. Our ride leaves in fifteen minutes.”

Later, Olivia stood on the ferry's lower deck, holding the end of Haviland's leash tightly as the crew cast off. Rawlings was nowhere in sight. He'd left to explore the rest of the boat the moment the ferry eased away from the dock, his eyes gleaming like a boy's.

When the ferry entered the channel, Olivia noticed a concrete platform sitting squarely in the busy waterway. The potentially dangerous obstacle seemed overtly out of place. Curious, Olivia approached a deckhand and pointed at the platform. “Excuse me. What is that?”

“Quarantine pad, ma'am,” the man answered. “From the old days. Ships had to dock at the quarantine station before they could continue to any port. Folks were terrified of catchin' diseases like yellow fever or smallpox. They had no way to fight 'em, so they did their best to keep 'em out. That platform has been there since the late 1800s and probably saved thousands of lives. There were buildings at the station too, but they burned. Every one. All that's left is the pad.”

“Isn't that hunk of concrete a hazard for ships? Especially at night?”

The man issued a noncommittal grunt. “It's on all the nautical charts. Has a light on it now too. The Coast Guard added it after a lady was killed in a boating accident. Sad business, that.” He swept his arm in a wide arc, incorporating the surrounding waters. “There's all kinds of hazards here, ma'am. Everywhere you look. Shallows, sandbars, shoals. Hidden bits of reef that'll tear your hull in two—you don't take to these waters without a healthy dose of fear. Even the
most seasoned captains say a prayer before they head out for Cape Fear.”

“I grew up with fishermen and learned that it's unwise not to respect the ocean.” Olivia glanced around the ferry deck. She guessed there were fewer occupants on board than usual. “Did Rose make a big mess?”

The man followed her gaze. “Nothin' serious. Trees down. Power outages. Some of the roads flooded, but in a day or two, we'll have forgotten about Rose.” He grinned, displaying a row of tobacco-stained teeth. “A storm has to work much harder than that to impress us.” He lifted his chin to indicate a fellow crewmember coiling a length of rope on the port side. The man's face was weathered by years of working outdoors and his thick hands and forearms were scarred by rope burns.

“What brings you to Palmetto Island?” the crewman asked. “The crime festival?”

Olivia nodded. “Yes. My husband grew up hearing tales of buried treasure from his grandfather and he's trying to turn those stories into a book.”

“Silas Black sure made a bundle off our history,” the crewman grumbled and then instantly brightened. “But they say he might film episodes of his show on the island. Even hire some local folks as extras. I'd sure get the ladies' attention if I was on TV. They're not real impressed when I say that I work on the ferry, but if I said I was a pirate on Black's show? I'd be like a rooster in the hen house.”

He laughed and Olivia joined in. Raising her head, she saw Rawlings leaning over the rail of the upper deck, waiting to catch her eye. He waved for her to join him.

“I think you'd make a fine pirate. Good luck,” Olivia told the friendly crewman and whistled at Haviland to heel.

On the top deck, Olivia and Rawlings watched brown pelicans dive bomb into the water. A particular swift bird off the port side captured a fish, and it glinted like a silver coin in his bill, and then, in a flash, it was gone, disappearing down the bird's throat. Out in the open, Olivia shivered. The air had a crisp edge to it. It was ocean air. Air that swirled around the humped backs of whales. Air sliced by freighter bows and
shark fins. It spoke of the end of tourists and the beginning of gray skies and deserted beaches.

Another ten minutes passed before Olivia spotted the island's lighthouse. It wasn't as tall as Oyster Bay's, but there was something profoundly comforting about the solid pillar of white standing guard over the harbor. Olivia kept her eyes on the old structure until the ferry docked.

As she, Rawlings, and Haviland disembarked, Olivia noticed that signs advertising the crime fest had been stapled to every pylon. Each poster featured a skull and crossbones motif and a list of festival highlights. At the end of the dock, a black banner flapped in the wind.

“Has the arrival area changed much since you were here last?” Olivia asked Rawlings.

“That was a million years ago, so yes.” He pointed at a large building at the end of the pier. “This marina wasn't here. That hotel had a different name, and the houses surrounding the docks were small and modest. The boats were mostly fishing vessels or skiffs, not these luxury powerboats or yachts. And there were no slips. Just a long dock for loading and unloading.” He shrugged. “It's the same as Oyster Bay, I guess. When you and I were young, our town was as yet still undiscovered. Palmetto Island was meant to attract tourists from much earlier on than Oyster Bay, but it wasn't nearly as developed as it is now.” He gestured at the hotel. “It's all marshland behind there. No good for building, but the perfect habitat for alligators. If I didn't see at least one gator while visiting my grandparents, I was crushed.”

Olivia glanced down at Haviland. “Did you hear that, Captain? Alligators. You have to wear this collar all the time.”

Haviland sniffed the air, his black nose quivering. His eyes darted wildly around and he pranced on the pads of his feet in anticipation.

“I think he's picked up a scent coming from that seafood restaurant,” Rawlings said.

Olivia gave the poodle's head an affectionate pat. “We'll check out the eateries later, Captain. We need to rent a golf cart first.”

Rawlings told Olivia to join the queue in front of the rental shack while he tracked down their luggage.

Just as Olivia and Haviland got in line behind a couple in their early twenties, the young woman let out a dramatic gasp and tugged on her boyfriend's arm. “OMG, there's Leigh Whitlow! See? She's in that golf cart behind the hotel. I can't believe she's really
here
!”

The boyfriend cast a disinterested glance at a slim woman with tanning-bed skin and glossy brown hair. “Who?”

“Seriously? Do you live under a rock?” The woman nudged her boyfriend. “That's Silas Black's girlfriend.
Everyone
knows who she is.”

The boyfriend shrugged. “If she was a tavern wench on
No Quarter
, then I'd recognize her. That woman looks kind of used up. You sure Black is banging
her
?”

What a gem
, Olivia thought, glaring daggers at the back of the young man's skull.

“Hello? I know my celebrities.” The woman pretended to be offended, but she was too fascinated by Leigh Whitlow to maintain the act. “She is
so
thin. I think she looks great for someone in her forties. Shoot, she might even be
fifty
.”

The boyfriend pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead and focused on the dark-haired woman in the golf cart. “She has to work hard to hold on to her man,” he said. “He could probably have his pick of a hundred babes, so keeping him interested must be a full-time job.”

Olivia would have loved nothing more than to push the jackass boyfriend right off the dock, but she knew she'd be stuck listening to him for at least another ten minutes. The line was moving at a snail's pace and there was no sign of Rawlings.

“There are rumors that Black is fooling around behind Leigh's back,” the young woman said. “Some woman on his staff. A history geek. Can you imagine? Cheating on Leigh Whitlow with a nerd? Everyone knows that Leigh is one hundred percent psych-ward crazy. That's why Silas won't leave her. She'd kill any woman who dared to get between them. Oh, man, I am
so
glad we decided to come to this festival for extra credit, aren't you?”

The boyfriend was no longer listening. A trio of giggling high school girls had caught his attention and he was eying them appreciatively.

“If that nerd girl is on the island, there's going to be a bloodbath,” the young woman gleefully predicted as the line finally moved forward. Having turned to the right in order to keep the large man standing in front of her from blocking her view of Leigh Whitlow, the young woman was completely unaware of the flirtatious glances being exchanged between her boyfriend and the three girls. “I mean it, Rob. If you came here hoping to learn about crime and violence for your creative writing paper, you might just get your wish. Leigh Whitlow's thrown jealous rages before. She drove Silas's convertible car into a lake this summer and threatened a cute fan who got too cozy with him at some book event in Chicago.”

The line moved again, but the young woman didn't budge. Leigh Whitlow's slightest movement had her riveted. By every impatient flick of the famous woman's dark brown tresses, how she splayed her nails or adjusted the rings on her fingers, and by the way she stared straight ahead, her jaw set in a hard line.

“When will you finally lose it?” the young woman murmured, clearly reveling in Leigh's discontent. “When will your jealousy finally push you over the edge?”

At that moment, Rawlings came up alongside Olivia. Noticing her pinched expression, he whispered, “Is anything wrong?”

Before she could answer, a man hopped into Leigh's golf cart and shooed her into the passenger seat. Scowling fiercely, Leigh complied, and the pair drove off in a cloud of sand-colored dust.

“Not yet,” Olivia said in answer to Rawlings's question. “But the day is still
young.”