THE GHOST SHIP Read online

  “Since when?”

  She let a smile spread on her closed lips. “Long time ago.”

  “Hmmm, sounds very mysterious.”

  “I guess.” She glanced at him. “Any schooners around here?”

  “Sure. But this time of year, they're dry-docked. Wish I could take you out on one.”

  She wanted to laugh at the absurd idea of being a tourist on a small sailing ship after sailing of the Carroll A. Deering.

  Spence went on, “In summer we got a fleet of three-masted gaff topsails. They're Class C tall ships modeled along the lines of old coastal trading schooners. Tourists love taking a turn at the wheel or trimming the sails.”

  She reached down, scaring off the gulls, and touched the ship's bow. A spark of ruthless energy zapped her hand and she drew it back. “Not the same as our unfortunate artifact here, eh?”

  “Different times. You go sailing much?”

  The touch on her arm, the familiar pressure of strength came from Lawrence's fine hand. “Not in a long time now. A J-24 on the lake.” She looked down wanting to see a faint depression in her jacket sleeve, but it was not there.

  “Fun times, though, huh?”

  “Yes.” But so long ago. Boyd, with his silvering black hair, rose like an indistinct specter in the front of her mind. Those times on his J-24 – named Good News – had been fun, but nothing like being with Lawrence on the Deering.

  “It's high noon,” Spence said. “How about you take a break from the beach and have some lunch? I'm buying. Get me before I sit down at the card table.”

  Suddenly the invisible hand on her arm withdrew. She reached out to it, but then she saw Spence react as if something had punched his jaw.

  “What's the matter?” she said.

  “A nerve in my cheek.” He rubbed the cheek with the heel of his hand. “Damned annoying. What do you say to lunch?”

  She touched her mid-section. “I hadn't thought of lunch.” m

  “Time to.”

  “I'm not really hungry.”

  “Then don't eat much. The Lightship has wonderful lobster bisque.”

  The word lightship stung for a minute before she realized he was speaking of a restaurant by that name. What did Lawrence's signal mean?

  She looked at Spence, at his hopeful hazel eyes. “I have so much to do.”

  “Have you seen much of our island?”

  “Not a lot, no.”

  “Lunch doesn't have to take long, and I'm a pretty good guide.”

  She felt awkward standing with a pleasant – if flirtatious – man who'd invited her to have a bite to eat – even if he probably wanted to extend the invitation into other areas. Making up her mind, she laughed. “All right, you've twisted my arm long enough.”

  They sat in the trendy bistro overlooking Hatteras Inlet, and she watched the ferry pull out into the sound. She'd opted for the butternut squash and spinach salad. Spence ordered lobster bisque and a crab rollup.

  “What do you do in Atlanta?” Spence asked, after the waiter served his soup.

  “You mean my job?”

  He smiled. “I guess that's what I mean?”

  “I'm a magazine editor.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Hey, I'm impressed. Beauty and brains.”

  She shrugged and thought men who flirt needed to get new lines. She could say that to some of her men friends, but not Spence. He wasn’t a friend and never would be. That he was full of himself was obvious; that there was something that didn’t ring true about him was obvious, too.

  He held the soup spoon like he was giving her the key to his cottage. “You write stuff?”

  “Not much. I edit stuff others write.”

  He bobbed his head, and then stirred the bisque. “So you got to know how to write.”

  “The elements of a good story or article, yes.”

  “We get reporters down here all the time. We moved the lighthouse a few years back. Had to deal with all kinds. Some nice, some snotty.”

  “I'd say that about covers most professions.”

  “Can't deny it. We got some sh – snots in the Service, too.” He sipped the warm creamy soup, and then looked at her through slightly lowered eyelashes. “I write bulletins. Maybe you can give me a few hints, make my stuff sizzle.”

  “Bulletins should sizzle?”

  “Shouldn't they?” He gave her a long assessing stare. “I saw a pair of piping plovers this morning. He was singing a love song. Put that in a bulletin with some sizzle and maybe people would get interested in saving the little buggers.”

  Time to change the subject. She said, “The Park Service seems to own a lot of the Outer Banks.”

  “Down in these lower islands, it does. The land's in an entity called the Cape Hatteras National Seashore. That means we control the lighthouses and ferry boats, too.”

  She looked at the ferry boat coming in. Behind it, a square building appeared to jut from a tip of land. “What's that building over there?”

  “The Coast Guard Station.”

  “Didn't they used to be called Lifesaving Stations.”

  He wiped his mouth. “Sure. A hundred years ago. Before the Cutter Service, the Lighthouse Service and the Lifesaving stations merged.”

  She played with the spinach in the clam shell bowl. “I was at the museum this morning.”

  “Thought I saw you walk in.”

  She considered asking him if he followed her everywhere. “Your friend Rod came in, too.”

  “Rod's there frequently.”

  “He had a piece of pottery.”

  “Rod's the ultimate beachcomber. We pay him, too, with our tax dollars.”

  “Isn't he a biologist?”

  “A damned good one, but anyone from around these parts keeps a constant eye on the sea and the shore, on the lookout for artifacts from the sea.”

  “I guess like any scientist, he deals in hard facts, not imagination.”

  “I wouldn't say that,” he said, wiping his mouth and drinking Coke. “He's a pretty creative guy when it comes to reasoning out marine preservation techniques.”

  “No small task when you've got the ocean to deal with.”

  “You hit the nail, Annie. The ocean's a mean master.”

  “It took his great-grandfather, I learned.”

  “That's true. He was on some board investigating The Ghost Ship when the vessel he was on went down.”

  “Has it affected Rod?”

  Spence put his sandwich down, and considered her as if he'd just had cause to wonder why she was interrogating him about Rod. “I don't think I've ever heard him talk about his great-grandfather, except he has a photo of him hanging over the fireplace in his cottage.”

  “He does?” She'd sounded skeptical, although her heart beat a little faster.

  “Does that strike you odd?”

  “I have photos of my great-grandparents, but they don't hang over the fireplace.”

  “The cottage is special. It was built from the timbers of the Deering when they washed ashore. You should see it.”

  “I'd like to, but …”

  “Come back next year, he’ll be over Carmen. Let’s hope so anyway.”

  “I understand losing someone.”

  “Who did you lose?”

  She shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “Sure.”

  “How long have you and Rod been friends?”

  “Since kids. I was best man at his wedding. He was at mine. Unfortunately, my marriage didn't last as long as his. Now we're both single again. I hate to think of weddings. And Carmen’s funeral. She was …” he sighed, “a special gal.”

  A cloud passed over the bright sun, leaving Spence's sad face in shadow. Sadness she knew well. Looking out at the boats moored on inlet waters, she spied a Coast Guard vessel slowing for the no wake zone. Spence, too, turned to watch the craft haul up alongside the pier.

  All at once, Ann's neck hairs stood on end. Although she didn't see him, she knew that Rod was
in the boat. She saw two men climb onto the pier, and then Rod emerged from the superstructure and jumped onto the dock.

  “Speak of the devil,” Spence said and grinned.

  The devil. My nemesis.

  The men walked into the restaurant. Rod grinned and raised his hand when he saw Spence, and then, when he saw her, the grin turned into a grimace.

  Spence leaned into her. “You've heard of it being a small world. On Hatteras Island, it's a small planet.”

  “I'm finding that out.”

  “Atlanta, it ain't.”

  She turned away, looking over the waters of Hatteras Inlet. Atlanta. It seemed so far away. So crowded, so overwhelming. I belong here. She shook herself. No you don't, you silly ass.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  --

  Ann insisted on leaving alone. “No, really,” she told Spence, “I'd just like to wander around a bit. Everything's in walking distance.”

  He grinned at her. “By the way, I heard you picked up a piece of scrimshaw on the beach yesterday.”

  Her head jerked so quickly she felt a pop in her neck. “Who told you that?” She looked at Rod, who scrupulously ignored them, but instinct said he took in every gesture.

  “Last night at the Public House, uh, Poblo said something about authenticating it.”

  “Poblo, yes,” she said, “I did ask him that favor.”

  “I'd like to see it.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Bring it down to the bar tonight.”

  “Where I had so much fun the first night I was here?”

  “I got a feeling Rod won't be there.”

  So did she. Not as long as she was staying under the MacGregors' roof.

  Lunch over, Spence seemed anxious to get up, join his Coast Guard buddies, and Rod. She followed Spence to their table, and, nodding at Rod, she said, “Hello again.”

  “Yes, again,” he answered, folding hands that were propped up on his elbows. He turned his head to look over the marina.

  She smiled at the Coastguardsmen, and said to Spence, “Thanks for lunch.”

  “See you around,” Spence said, pulling up a chair next to Rod.

  She felt their stares between her shoulder blades even after she left the room.

  --

  Spence waited for the hoots, and they came when a Coastguardsman said, “Wow. Where'd you pick her up?”

  “You’ve done it again, got the best-lookin’ female on the island,” the other said.

  Spence laughed and avoided looking at Rod. “She was wandering on the beach.”

  “Never seen anything like her on the beach this time of year,” the first said.

  “Come up from the sea like a mermaid?” the second asked.

  Rod's frown deepened.

  Spence said, “She got here day before yesterday. Staying at The Pub.”

  “Good idea coming down at a time when the competition's sparse. You got a date tonight?”

  “No,” Spence said. “I wish. She didn't come looking for me, that's for sure. She's got too much on her mind. She's escaping from something.”

  “What?”

  “Who knows? She's a magazine editor, she said. Your head must get awful heavy reading all the time, worrying about budgets and getting the latest scoops. My guess is she needed a rest.”

  Rod's glance was cynical. “My guess is an ulterior motive.”

  The Coast Guard men laughed. One said, “They all have ulterior motives. You just have to figure out what they are, if you care enough. Most times, who cares?”

  “I care,” Spence said. “I don't see her with an ulterior motive. I think she's going through a crisis.” He looked at Rod, who, after all, was going through his own crisis.

  --

  Back at the museum, Poblo was happy to show Ann to a small table in what he called The Ship's Common. She went about setting up her laptop here rather than The Pub because it didn't have internet access, although Mrs. MacGregor said that by Spring – when the tourists came again – she was going to “modernize.”

  The Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum website displayed documents and old newspaper articles on the wreck of the Carroll A. Deering. As Rod had said, as many as six federal agencies investigated the wreck and when the investigation closed, Herbert Hoover, then Secretary of Commerce, officially concluded that several things could have happened: the crew abandoned ship and drowned when it was evident the Deering was going to crash into the shoal; or rumrunners like modern day pirates attached her, killing the crew and officers; or that Russian submarines rose from the sea during World War I to pirate or attack her, killing all on board.

  She looked for Rod's great-grandfather's name in the investigation. She never found it, although there was a Lawrence Richey, assistant to Herbert Hoover, who was in charge of the matter. From the documents Richey collected, he speculated that some of the crew may have survived the wreck after a mutiny.

  She read on: Richey sent notices to ports and embassies around the world to watch for sailors resembling the crew of the Deering. Reports rolled into Richey's office, but none were ever substantiated. At the time, fingerprinting was a disbelieved science, and, certainly, fingerprints weren't banked in a central file somewhere in Washington. Photos were unreliable or unavailable.

  The unprincipled First Mate, Charles B. McLellan, became the lead suspect in a mutiny theory. Sometime after the wreck, a Cyril A. McLellan was issued a seaman's license in Oregon, but when investigators showed up to question him, he disappeared never to be heard from again. A man resembling McLellan, calling himself B. O. Raney appeared in Constantinople, Turkey. Despite his protests, and not wanting to return to the U. S., he was sent to America for questioning. A picture of Raney was sent with his thumb print.

  When Raney's picture popped up on the computer screen, she studied it carefully. She whispered aloud, “B. O. Raney, you are not Charles McLellan. You did not kill Captain Wormell, or the bosun or the cook.”

  A voice behind her asked, “How can you be so sure?”

  She didn't realize that Poblo stood behind her. The creep heard what she said based on what she saw on the screen.

  She half-turned, and admonished, “Poblo, I like my privacy.”

  “So sorry, Miss Gavrion. But I say you can only be sure that he is not Charles B. McLellan unless you were there.”

  She stared up into his liquid brown eyes. “Did you understand me? I don't like people looking over my shoulder.”

  He spread his hands, palms up. “Again, my sincerest apologies. I did not mean to intrude. I am so very curious about your quest. A beautiful woman's quest will always capture my fancy.”

  Anger melted into forbearance. “Look here,” she said, turning back to the screen, “What was interesting is that the sightings of the crewmen, aside from McLellan, were all Scandinavians with different names or spellings of their names.”

  “Yessss?” he said. “But what about McLellan, the man who showed up in Portland and gave false information and was never heard from again?”

  “It was 1921. People weren't documented eighteen ways to Sunday. The whole theory of McLellan being the mutineer doesn't work. If McLellan instigated the mutiny, why wasn't he the one on the poop deck telling the lightship master that they'd lost their anchors? The description fits Johan Fredrickson, the red-haired Finn.”

  “McLellan was covering other crewmen at gunpoint.”

  “That's the theory that Richey likes, but I don't. Whoever's in charge of the ship would speak to the lightship, because he couldn't be sure that the alarm wouldn't be given by a man who'd joined the mutiny to save his own skin, and then sees a way to get help by alerting the lightship master that he was held prisoner.”

  “They were partners in the crime with McLellan..”

  “If there was a mutiny, no doubt there was more than one mutineer. A single man couldn't handle a big ship like the Deering, but here's the thing. No one liked McLellan. The Danes, in particular hated him. He was even meaner wh
en he drank.”

  “That is in the report,” Poblo said. “A lot of crewmen did not like the mates. They were supposed to be harsh to keep the seamen in line.”

  “Harsh is one thing, cruel is another. The Danes hated the captain, too. He was too overbearing. They liked Bates, the engineer, but he wouldn't go along with them in a mutiny over anything, much less rum. Fredrickson was the bosun and the leader of the mutiny. They killed Wormell, McLellan and Bates and the cook.”

  Poblo clapped his hands. “You were there.”

  She rolled the chair away from the computer and looked up at Pablo. She’d been too forthright, speaking more to herself than the enthusiastic Poblo. “In my dreams. But it has captured my fancy, and that is why I’m researching.”

  Poblo made the sign of the cross. He said, “Miss Gavrion, is that why Rod is so upset with you?”

  On hearing Rod's name, her voice went flat. “I don't know, Poblo. I’m here to find out what really happened to the Deering of my dreams.”

  “Dreams. I do not think so.”

  She shook her head. “Dreams is as good as anything else. I don't want to believe that I'm delusional or worse.”

  “Seeing ghosts is not delusional, Miss Gavrion. They are real beings.”

  She cocked her head. “You are a believer?”

  “Oh yes. There is too much evidence not to believe.”

  “Evidence?”

  “When people see the same ghost for centuries, what else are you to think?”

  “What ghost have people around here seen for centuries?”

  “Many, many. The Weeping Lady is one.”

  “That sounds like a legend.”

  “True. But it is historic also. The lady's betrothed was in the Navy fighting on the side of the Yankees in the War Between the States. He was stationed on the USS Monitor, which lies at the bottom of the sea. Or part of it. Part of it is right here in our museum, and we hope to get more when we expand our galleries.”

  She shifted in the chair. “Go on about the Weeping Lady.”

  “She followed her Navy lover in a horse-drawn carriage when the ironclad came South to fight the Virginian. The ships fought to a draw, but the Monitor was too top heavy for the sea. She sank when she was overcome by waves in a storm while she was under tow.”