THE GHOST SHIP Read online

  “I will examine it for authenticity of the materials. There are a few tests we can make, but I could not tell you when it was carved. Not many can.”

  She took it from him. “I'd appreciate it. Can I come tomorrow and look over all you have about the Deering?”

  “I will personally guide you through our treasures,” Poblo said.

  Ann glanced at the women, who rolled their eyes. She said, “Thank you, but that's not necessary. I like to dawdle over things.”

  There was an awkward silence, and then Ann turned to leave. “Good evening. I'll see you tomorrow then.”

  She felt their eyes on her back as she walked through the sand, up the beach, and across the highway.

  Inside the inn, she rushed past Mrs. MacGregor's desk. Thankfully, the gregarious Scotswoman spoke into a telephone. Ann couldn't bear to talk to anyone. In her suite, she looked in the mirror, expecting to see a face she didn't recognize, one ravaged and aged. Oddly, she appeared younger and fresh. Fresh. How could she possibly look so rosy-cheeked and fresh? She looked at the bed which Mrs. MacGregor had tucked to perfection. The furniture, the nick-nacks, the starched doilies, stood out in sharp relief. She breathed deeply and went to uncap the bottle of gin on a marble table. She knew she wouldn't be going to sleep any time soon without its comfort and assistance.

  CHAPTER TWO

  --

  The shipwreck was the talk of the bar by the time Rod got there.

  Spence listened to Poblo's pleas as he ran his fingernail along an ancient split in the pine board bar. The bar had been constructed from the wood of a shipwreck fifty years ago. Its high shine owed to several applications of polyurethane, applied to keep the wood from deteriorating further from liquor spills and detergents.

  When Spence saw Rod, he raised two fingers to salute. Rod raised his hand and then wedged his lean body between Poblo and Spence and ordered a Heineken.

  Spence said, “Thought you weren't going to show.”

  “Wasn't,” Rod said.

  “Good thing you did. Hear the news?”

  “You mean the shipwreck?”

  “Yep.”

  Poblo said, “We've been discussing what to do about it.”

  Rod said, “We'll do what we always do. Talk endlessly and then let nature take its course.”

  Poblo argued, “There are fewer and fewer good wrecks that get uncovered.”

  “How long you been on Hatteras Island?” Rod asked.

  “Two years, two months.”

  “You'll learn.”

  “But, man, this one is in good shape. I have not seen one better. The ribs are still attached to the keel and the bow. And who knows what lies beneath the sands still.”

  Rod wriggled his nose. “What you're saying is, it needs to be hauled up to the museum.”

  “It is the best example of an early twentieth-century coastal schooner that will ever wash up.”

  Spence grinned at Rod. “He's been after me for an hour. Your turn.”

  Poblo spread his hands, beer in one, cigarette in another. “It is important to preserve it, and quickly before the sea claims it again.”

  “At what cost?” Spence asked. “We're talking taxpayer money, and that thing weighs tons.”

  Rod had heard these sentences before, every time a wreck got uncovered. He brought the beer to his lips, and listened as Spence went on, “It's a lot cheaper to save sea turtles and piping plovers than it is to save a wreck.”

  “I want to save the turtles and the birds,” Poblo insisted. “But this ship, I think it is important.”

  Rod said, “Bulldoze it up the beach. Let the museum handle the salvage.”

  Spence looked at Rod. “Since when are you for letting bulldozers on the beach?”

  Rod knew that Spence understood what he'd been saying to Poblo. Shut up. I'm tired of the talk.

  But Poblo pressed on. “We have little time. It will be covered with water and sand very soon.”

  Spence laughed. “Hey, my man, we'll take a look tomorrow. Maybe we can get you a few artifacts from her for your exhibit. But, you know, you've got enough unnamed ship pieces as it is.”

  “We store for the future,” Poblo said. “Some day, by some means, we may be able to determine who she is.”

  “By some means,” Rod said. “Does that mean a new type of DNA that identifies where her wood was grown, and which shop she came from, and whose genius designed her?”

  “Something like that,” Poblo answered, then sucked on his cigarette.

  “I've had enough fantasy for one day,” Rod said.

  Spence's eyebrows rose. “Fantasy. Who's spinning fantasies?”

  “Never mind,” Rod answered, and signaled for another beer.

  Rod felt Spence's eyes on his profile. “Where did this fantasy take place?”

  Rod looked at him. “What have we been talking about?”

  “The shipwreck?” Then Spence clicked his fingers. “That's right, it's near your nests. What happened in your fantasy?”

  Rod studied Spence's perceptive expression and knew that Spence had seen him follow Ann to the shore. He shrugged and upended his green bottle, recalling the stunning physical shock he'd felt when Ann Gavrion turned from the shipwreck at her feet to look up at him. Her clear gray eyes had been wide and exultant, like a child who'd taken her first steps. After that, she'd spewed that outrageous story.

  Spence gave Rod the elbow. “Come, Roddy, give. You make amends with her?”

  Shrugging, Rod said, “I apologized for my rude behavior. She wasn't buying. End of story.”

  Poblo asked, “Who is she?”

  Rod had no intention of saying more about her.

  Spence said, “She's Ann Gavrion, and she's staying here.”

  Poblo said, “I met her today. Not very long ago. She came up to the shipwreck when my colleagues and I were observing the bow in the tides.”

  Spence said, “It seems Miss Gavrion spent the entire day at the beach. I ran across her near the Frisco Pier, sitting in the sand, looking like little-girl-lost.” He turned to Rod. “She even mentioned that you seemed to have taken a dislike to her.”

  Rod aimed his eyes at Spence, meaning say no more. He finished off his beer and signaled for another.

  But Spence being Spence, never took a hint. “Hey, buddy, I just said you had things on your mind.”

  Rod felt his hackles flare. “You told her the whole story.”

  “I don't know the whole story.”

  Poblo butted in, “The lady, Ann, was very nice, but confused.” He looked at Rod. “She wanted to know about a man named Lawrence. I just learned that it is one of your given names. And one by which your father was called.”

  Rod managed to control of his quickening temper. “The woman is – doesn't make sense.”

  “How not?” Spence asked.

  “Trust me.”

  Poblo said, “She has an abiding interest in the Carroll A. Deering. She is coming to the museum tomorrow to research it.”

  “Great,” Rod muttered. “Just don't put any credence in her tall tale.”

  Spence asked, “What tale are you talking about?”

  “Forget it,” Rod said, standing. “I'm calling it a night.”

  Poblo said, “She showed me a nice piece of scrimshaw. She sought my help to have it authenticated.”

  “Where did she get the scrimshaw?” Spence asked. “Not much real bone or tooth in private hands anymore.”

  “It felt very real,” Poblo insisted.

  “Did she say where she got it?” Spence asked again.

  “From a sailor in Barbados,” Poblo answered.

  Rod had had enough. “Don't be surprised if it's plastic.” He left, hearing Spence say, “Boy, if it's real, I'd like to get my hands on that piece …”

  --

  Some time during the night, or early morning, the dream woke her.

  It was so real, her body was tight as a bow string. She'd been scrunched beneath the schooner's winch. A
man she didn't recognize was next to her. A familiar voice said, “Don't be bothered by the evil deeds men do.”

  She said, “I've seen evil deeds before.”

  He said, “Look at the wheel.”

  The wheel was as big as the ship. A man loomed over her and her companion as they crouched under the winch. He spun the wheel crazily. She turned to the man at her side. She couldn't see his face, but she knew it wasn't Lawrence. “Who are you? You're not Lawrence.”

  Coolly, he said, “I'm Rod.”

  “I want Lawrence here, now.”

  “You can't have him.”

  She pushed him. “Go away.”

  “Lawrence is dead,” he said, laughing.

  She pushed again. “Go away.”

  He grabbed her hand. “You'll go away with me, if I go away.”

  He dragged her past the giant man rotating the wheel. The giant spied them and scooped his hand down to grab them. Just then water rose and swept them into the sea. They swam in the coral and Rod said, “Your body is rich.”

  She laughed. “Yours is strange.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  --

  Spence walked with Rod along the shore of Hatteras Inlet, at the very tip of Hatteras Island, where he, as the Park Service official, had closed that part of the beach to protect shore birds and nesting turtles from being squashed by off-road-vehicles.

  Rod took off his cap and scratched his brow with it. The wind whipped his auburn hair and he put the cap back on. He said, “Only lost one nest – and that to raccoons looks like. We should have an elevated winter count once migration is complete.”

  Spence grunted and watched a pair of piping plovers feed. The small, stocky, sandy-colored birds had yellow-orange legs, black bands across their foreheads, and a black feather necklace. Spence always got a kick out of watching the birds run in fits and starts. A male bird stopped picking small insects out of the sand, raised his head and whistled. Its mournful bell-like call caused a female's head to pop up.

  “Don't those horny little buggers ever give it a rest?” Spence asked.

  Rod looked at Spence. “Look who's talking.”

  Spence laughed. “I'm giving it a rest. Tourist season's over, pickin's are slim.”

  Rod shook his head and walked toward the birds. They fluttered up.

  Following him, Spence said, “I'd think they'd be used to you by now.”

  “It'd be nice if they knew who their real friends were.”

  Spence grinned. “A fine example of bird brains.”

  “That's why we've got to protect them.”

  Spence knew what was coming.

  Rod wasn't one to hesitate when he spoke his mind. “I've put in my formal request that the Park Service permanently close this area to ORVs.”

  “I saw the memo. The National Audubon Society agrees with you. I've got their memo, too.”

  “So?”

  Spence looked away. Up the shoreline, the ferry came into view. Yearly, it carried half a million townspeople and tourists back and forth between the islands. It was the townspeople who plagued him. The Park Service wars were ramping up. He looked back at Rod. “People will stand for short beach closures to up the shorebird population, but they won't stand for a permanent moratorium against their beloved ORVs.”

  “There hasn't always been off-roaders,” Rod said, staring him in the eyes. “Once people get used to the ban, they'll appreciate walking the beach again.”

  Spence frowned at the stubborn set of Rod's jaw. “You know I'm doing all I can.”

  Rod bobbed his head, then Spence saw his head jerk toward the inn, just over the rise. Rod's eyes narrowed as if he'd heard an unfamiliar sound and was listening for all he was worth. Spence had a sneaking feeling it didn't have anything to do with birds, or off-roaders. Ann Gavrion's face popped into Spence's mind. He'd seen Rod and Ann on the beach yesterday morning early. Though he was too far away to hear the antagonistic words, he saw their body language. But as much as Spence subtly pried, he couldn't get much out of Rod. He was a quiet man, patient as all get-out, which made him an excellent biologist. Rod had never been one to share personal confidences. Odd, Spence thought, that boyhood friends like they'd been didn't confide more.

  Spence said, “I'll be getting over to the Coast Guard Station now. You coming later?”

  Rod looked up at the sky, which was reflected in his dark blue eyes. “Yeah, but I don't know when. Got some things I need to take care of.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  The faraway look stretched to a place Spence couldn't see, and Rod gave a negative shake of his head.

  --

  She tormented him. And in such a short time. The thought of her name, the image of her face, and his entire body became a stinging, burning ache, flaming into desire, something he hadn't felt for months. And it made him angry. Talk about the thin line between love and hate. God, the more he tried to keep her out of his mind, the more she stayed, a pressure bearing down until he couldn't think straight. Three times today his belly jumped when he saw a feminine form walking up the beach, followed by the crashing disappointment when it wasn't her.

  He watched Spence go up the shoreline while his mind dwelled on snatches of her: when she walked into The Pub's dining room, the way she'd looked at him, challenged him, when he'd raised his head and saw the woman who'd reminded him of Carmen's death, spouting off in the bar, the look of incomprehension on her face, her dash to the car, throwing the cape over her shoulders, that ridiculous hat, nothing like Carmen would wear.

  Carmen.

  Dear God, it had been six months, but how long would the cruel doubts linger. She was gone, never to come back to him, but why? Why did she go onto the sound that day with a storm coming? She didn’t really like boating. It played hell with her hair, she said. But she had gone, and she'd been – died.

  Stop. Stop thinking.

  He looked at his watch.

  Was she at the museum now? Was she telling her ridiculous story to anyone who would listen? To Poblo? That oaf – he ‘d swoon over any old tale she spun, because she spun it.

  His mind played that scene again, the one where she came from the water and grabbed his hand. She'd asked, “Where's Lawrence?” He'd thought she meant him – at first – before she'd launched herself into never-never land.

  While his mind raged at her impossible story, he saw her vulnerability. Why in God's name, he wondered, did she find it necessary to make up such a weird story? He had questions, but no answers. Who knew with people from different walks of life? Who knew what their needs were? Had she a need to sensationalize herself? But why had she chosen his heroic great-grandfather to glorify and make a case for the unknowable? Where had she learned about the man? Ah, yes, the internet – a rich source for scam artists to dredge for the sensational and make a buck.

  Balling his fists, he muttered, “She won't get away with it.”

  But then his heart melted when her face glowed in his mind. She was lovely.

  Cut it out. She's a witch.

  Walking the shoreline, checking the nests, trying as he might, he couldn't scrub the image of her. And then, curiously, Lawrence Curator's bearded face came to mind. He knew every line of that face because it had been photographed a year before he passed, and the portrait hung over the fireplace in his wooden cabin – the cabin that was built from the timbers of the Carroll A. Deering. He'd never known his great-grandfather, but his grandfather and father kept his celebrated past alive. Villagers, too, handed down the Curator legend. Living in the cabin, within the timbers of the fabulous ship that his great-grandfather had given his life investigating, kept Rod feeling close to the valiant man.

  Years ago he'd bought the cabin from an old gentleman who, in his youth, was with the Lifesaving Station back before it was called the Coast Guard. Having no relatives that he liked, the old gentleman sold Rod the house for a dollar, with the proviso that he stay in it until he died. Which he did at the age of a hundred-and-one. S
oon after, Rod took possession, and Carmen refused to have anything to do with the cabin. She hated its gloomy wooden interior. She hated its smallness. She preferred their big cedar house on stilts in Buxton.

  Carmen.

  Rod saw her at the Buxton house, flying from room to room, tossing pillows that didn't belong with the décor any longer. He saw her long legs folded under her as she looked into the fireplace that danced with flames like those in her eyes when she spoke of trading their little white boat in on a yacht. Oh yes, Carmen had big dreams and plans, and he'd wanted to fill every one of them. But then – she died. And he'd moved from the cedar house to the cabin, although he couldn't bring himself to sell the cedar house.

  He shook the blackness away, and Carmen's face became Ann's.

  He found himself staring at the museum. Scrimshaw. She had scrimshaw proof. Big deal. So easy to buy a piece of imitation resin off a scam web site. But what about the initials CM? What about them? Lots of CMs. What the hell was the point? And why was he letting her torment him?

  --

  The museum, built like a ship's skeleton, intrigued Ann. She walked across the concrete slab to the double doors. Entering the lobby, she swallowed the nervous knot at the back of her throat and secured the sunglasses into her hair.

  Poblo emerged like a flamenco dancer, looking all agog when he pressed his hand over hers. “Miss Gavrion, how lovely you look.”

  Feeling quite unlovely, she smiled and felt a stab of pain. The hangover played hell with her head and stomach. “Thank you.”

  “We are honored.” He almost twirled on the spot.

  “It is I who am honored, Mr. Quitano.”

  The blonde woman, Doris, hung behind Poblo, looking protectively at him, as if Ann would gulp him down like a raw oyster.

  Ann looked down at her feet, at the floor, and her pulse beat faster. “It's like the ocean floor.”

  “Yes,” Poblo said, strutting the word. “The floor here is constructed of latex and sand over wire mesh to look exactly like the floor of the sea. We do not mind if sand gets tracked in.”

  He led her to the main gallery and pointed to a glass configuration. “This is the original lens from the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse. We have a model of the original 1803 light, which used oil lamps.”