Spirits, Pies, and Alibis Read online

  To my disappointment, I entered the cabin to discover the snack bar and tables were gone, replaced by two rows of wide seats covered in heavy, green vinyl upholstery and separated by a narrow aisle. The space looked remarkably similar to a 1950s’ school bus and exuded about the same level of comfort, though thankfully it had a slightly better smell. I grabbed a seat near the window, second row from the back, and though the cabin was nearly full, I was lucky enough to find a spot where both seats were empty so I could stretch out. It would have been nicer if the view of the water wasn’t mostly obscured by a thick layer of salt from the constant sea spray, but the last rays of evening sunshine that filtered through the grit were warm and soothing on my face as I rested my head against the glass.

  Behind me sat two elderly women who, if their wire pushcarts overloaded with plastic bags were any indication, had spent a day shopping on the mainland. They sported nearly identical hairstyles, that permed helmet shape that results from visiting the hair salon once a week for a wash and set. They may have been sisters, or perhaps best friends. The only discernible difference between the two of them was that one had snow-white hair while the other’s was a surprising shade of lavender. I wondered if it was an intentional choice or the result of a salon-day calamity.

  Exhaustion overtaking me once more, my breathing slowed, and my eyelids drifted shut. As if on cue, the two ladies chose that moment to start chatting. Based on their volume, I’d guess at least one of them was a little hard of hearing, but there was definitely nothing wrong with their lungs.

  “Can you believe all these folks on the ferry today, Ellie?” one of them asked.

  “I’ll tell you, June, it seems to get more crowded every summer,” the other replied. “It’s those darned condos Doug Strong keeps building. Brings in the riffraff. It’s no wonder Sheriff Grady’s looking so haggard.”

  “Now, you know Joe Grady don’t look so rough ’cause of workin’. He’s been up all hours of the night having dinner, and going out dancing, and who knows what else with Sheila Briggs.”

  “You don’t say! How’d you hear that?”

  I stifled a laugh. There was no mistaking how jealous Ellie sounded that June had scooped her on the gossip. I had little doubt there was a constant battle between them to see who could get her nose deepest into other people’s business. Of course, from what I recalled, the island was rife with gossips and snoops, as small towns often are.

  “Oh, I have my sources. As for the condos, I don’t think they’re so bad. I mean, they’re ugly as sin, but you can’t deny they bring in good money,” June argued. “Deirdre’s shop was just about to close a few years back, and now she’s hired two new workers just to keep up.”

  “Maybe so, but does that make up for how Doug treated Minnie?” I had no idea who Minnie was, nor Doug, but this sounded like it had the makings of a soap opera, and I’ll admit, since it looked like I wasn’t going to get that nap I’d been hoping for, I wouldn’t have minded hearing more. Sadly, it seemed June already knew the details, as she responded with a disapproving grunt, and Ellie didn’t elaborate.

  “You seen Dr. Caldwell for that pain in your knee yet?”

  I think it was June who asked this, although their island accents were equally thick, and I found it hard to distinguish one from the other.

  “I’ve got a follow-up appointment on Monday.”

  “Oh, a follow-up?” The way she said it, I definitely detected teasing. “Since when do you spend money on follow-ups?”

  “You can’t be too careful with your joints!” Whether it was June or Ellie, she was definitely getting defensive.

  “No, not when your doctor looks like a young George Clooney.”

  I snorted loudly over this observation then tried to cover the sound by pretending to cough. I remembered Dr. Caldwell, and he wasn’t exactly what I would describe as young and handsome. I mean, he might be what you’d call distinguished looking, but he’d already been graying at the temples fifteen years back. Then again, Ellie and June were probably close to eighty, so perhaps their perception of youth was relative.

  Dr. Caldwell had a son, Noah. He’d been a couple years older than me, a soulful, angsty teen with a tragically geeky haircut and thick glasses. When I was thirteen, he wrote me a poem and tried to slip it into my pocket while waiting in line for ice cream, only some other boy had grabbed it and read it out loud so everyone could hear. The poem had described my hair as the color of carrots and then rhymed it with something about parrots, and long story short, I was instantly renamed Polly the Parrot Girl for the rest of the summer. If anyone ever wondered why I never wanted to move to the island, that story pretty much sums it up. I doubted Noah had stuck around long, either. I pictured him now with a hipster beard and flannel shirt, reading poetry on open mic night in one of those coffee shops where Greg tried to sell his paintings.

  At this point, the ladies launched into a comparison of their assorted aches and pains, and I couldn’t help noticing that my own bottom was still sore from so much sitting, so I stood and wandered outside to the observation deck. The wind was fierce, but after the intense heat I’d experienced for most of the trip, I was grateful to finally feel cool. Directly below me was the car deck, and my eye was immediately drawn front and center to a 1920s’ roadster whose chrome trim glistened in the sun. I wasn’t an expert on cars, but what I did know was that one was a beauty. Its body was painted a deep shade of green, and its soft convertible top was a rich dove gray. Why hadn’t my father’s taste in old cars run a little closer to that?

  I could count about fifteen vehicles from where I stood, plus one full-sized parcel delivery truck. Until that moment, it had never occurred to me to question how deliveries were made to the island. Whatever I might have imagined, it would definitely not have been sticking a delivery truck on a boat; that’s for sure. I watched, fascinated, as the driver wandered around the deck in his distinctive tan uniform, delivering packages from car to car. Each time he stopped, he would chat with the person inside for a while, and though they were too far down for me to hear, it was obvious they were all well acquainted.

  Sometimes he would get to a car that was empty, the driver having left as I had to ride on one of the decks above. When that happened, the delivery man would place the package inside the vehicle before moving on, clearly confident that he knew the vehicle’s owner. It drove home just how small and close-knit the island community was and made me wonder, with a slight stab of panic, exactly how I was going to fit in and if anyone would remember me. I might be a full-grown adult now, but if anyone called me Polly and asked if I wanted a cracker, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a good chance I would melt with embarrassment on the spot.

  The sun hung low in the sky as the ferry approached the Summerhaven dock. It was one of the island’s quirks that the sun set over the ocean, which is a real rarity on the East Coast. I watched it from the observation deck, a spot of glowing orange on the horizon giving way to peaceful shades of purple and gray overhead. It was dusk as I maneuvered Miss Josephine up the ramp, the last car to leave the ferry. When I’d crossed onto solid land, I pulled over and tried once more to boot up my phone, but it was no use. My early arrival would come as a complete surprise to Aunt Gwen. I hoped she wasn’t already in bed.

  As I drove along Main Street through Summerhaven’s nineteenth-century downtown, it looked unchanged from how I’d last seen it, yet somehow nicer, too. The vaudeville-era theater had a newly-restored neon billboard twinkling out front, the carousel horse outside the old-fashioned soda fountain had been freshly painted, and dozens of quaint shops and cafés had opened where, on my last visit, there had been only empty storefronts. People walked dogs across the lush green grass that carpeted the town square, and inside a whitewashed gazebo, a jazz band was setting up for a summer concert in the park. My busybody seat mates from the ferry had been right about one thing: quiet old Summerhaven appeared to be enjoying a significant renaissance.

  The road forked j
ust beyond the main drag. To the right, I saw a whole section of cookie-cutter buildings I’d never seen before. The street was packed with young people and families. Banners sponsored by beer companies that announced trivia nights and wet T-shirt contests rippled in the evening breeze. This was party central, for sure. I saw a large sign for the Strong Corporation, announcing new condos and vacation units for sale and lease. A scrawl of rude graffiti covered the logo, which was jarring. It seemed out of place on an island that in every other way looked like a picture-perfect movie set.

  I made a note to come back another time to explore this new section of town before heading off in the opposite direction. My aunt’s place was to the left. The crowds of vacationers thinned rapidly as the winding road hugged the edge of a jagged cliff overlooking the sea. It was the path that led to the exclusive neighborhood of Pinecroft Cove, where the money lived.

  As the sun sank below the horizon, my view of the road rapidly became obscured in inky darkness. Pinecroft Cove was one of those neighborhoods where an overzealous residents association, made up mostly of women with strong opinions and too much time on their hands, had for decades been passing ordinances against anything they considered an eyesore. This included streetlights. They claimed the darkness added historical ambience, but if you asked me, it just made things unnecessarily hard to see. Fortunately, the turnoff for my aunt’s driveway was relatively easy to find. Since converting the old house to a bed and breakfast, she’d installed a tastefully carved wooden sign with gold lettering, illuminated by a single, no doubt committee-approved, low-wattage bulb.

  As I made the turn, I heard the familiar crunch of the crushed-shell driveway beneath my tires. I slowed the car to a crawl as I rounded the sharp turns, then hit the brakes abruptly as a black shadow darted in front of the car. I couldn’t tell for certain, but I thought I saw a flash of cat eyes before it was out of range of my headlights. What was it with me and cats all of a sudden?

  Hands shaking on the steering wheel, I eased Miss Josephine the last few yards until the house came into view. Confusion washed over me. Beyond the tall trees at the end of the drive stood the same house I remembered from my childhood summers, with its gray cedar shingles, wide gambrel roof, and that wraparound porch where I had spent many a lazy afternoon curled up in a rocking chair with a good book. But in the middle of the expansive front lawn stood at least a dozen figures dancing around a roaring bonfire.

  The women were clad in flowing white garments so sheer that the glow from the leaping flames revealed much more of the bodies underneath than perhaps the dancers had intended, giving the jarring impression that they wore nothing at all. Floral wreaths encircled their heads like crowns. Though none were young, they chanted and swayed with an almost childlike abandon.

  One woman stood apart from the rest, beating a steady rhythm on a drum that hung around her neck. She was short in stature, her figure plump with rounded hips and belly. Her faded red hair was loose around her shoulders, framing her age-creased face in a frizzy haze. I touched a hand to my own head and knew mine looked the same. That family resemblance alone was enough to confirm it. Whoever these women were, my great-aunt Gwen was leading them.

  Chapter Three

  “Tamsyn, is that you?” Aunt Gwen froze mid-drumbeat and squinted into the night as the slamming of the car door alerted her to my presence.

  “Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry I didn’t call to tell you I’d be early,” I replied. “I had a phone issue.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” Aunt Gwen hurried over to my car and welcomed me with a warm hug, which I returned in stunned silence. If she had a good explanation for why she was dancing around in front of the house like a crazy lady, wearing nothing but a flimsy cotton nightgown, she wasn’t quick to share it.

  “Walter at the ferry dock was able to squeeze me on at the last minute,” I explained as I wrestled a suitcase from the back seat of the car.

  “How very kind of him. I’ll be sure to send him a pie in the morning.”

  “As a matter of fact, I kinda promised him one. Blueberry.” I shot her a suspicious glance once I finally I caught up, and the space between my shoulder blades tingled. “Did you read my mind?”

  She took one of my lighter bags and, ignoring my protests, carried it right past the congregation of women, who were milling around and apparently not at all concerned that the lawn was on fire, all without her so much as acknowledging they were there. My aunt was much more sprightly than I’d expected, and I had to quicken my pace as she led me up the porch steps and through the front door.

  Instead of answering my question about the mind reading, she remarked on the unpleasantly warm air that evening and inquired as to whether I’d encountered much traffic between Cleveland and here. She didn’t seem to expect a response to her steady stream of chatter, which was good because I was in too much shock to give one. What bizarre ritual had I just witnessed? Just the word made the skin on the back of my neck prickle, conjuring up images of every horror movie I’d ever seen. If I’d arrived a few minutes later, would they have been sacrificing a goat? On the one hand, the thought seemed crazy, but on the other hand, it’s not like I’d stumbled into the middle of a knitting circle. Whatever they’d been up to, odds were it was something creepy.

  I entered the house in a daze, but not without noticing as we passed through the living room that the antique cream-upholstered sofa and armchairs were still in the exact arrangement as they’d been fifteen years before. I recognized the lace tablecloth on the round coffee table as the one my grandmother had crocheted. It sat atop the crimson-and-blue Persian rug she and my grandfather had purchased on their honeymoon. The woodwork gleamed with a soft sheen, and the familiar smell of lemon and wax permeated the air. The overwhelming sense of returning home surprised me. I hadn’t thought of this house in that way for years.

  After climbing the wide curving staircase to the second floor, Aunt Gwen opened the door that concealed the much narrower stairs that led to a small bedroom that had been carved out of the third-floor attic. Like the rest of the house, this room, too, had been frozen in time. As I paused in the doorway to catch my breath, I took in the room’s familiar whitewashed dresser and nightstand, with their matching blue-and-white fringed scarves on top. The twin-size wrought iron bed, also painted white, where I had always slept as a little girl, occupied the same space I’d expected it to be, and the bright floral quilt my grandmother had stitched by hand still covered its top. For a second time that night, an unexpectedly sweet sense of nostalgia washed over me.

  The closest we got to discussing the strange gathering I’d witnessed in the yard came when, after wishing me goodnight, Aunt Gwen paused at the door and gave me a thoughtful look. “We’ll have a good, long talk in the morning,” she assured me. Oh yeah. She could count on it.

  A million questions ran through my mind, but I had no energy to process them. Instead, I washed up as quickly as I could in the small adjoining bathroom, then stripped off my rumpled clothing, threw on a clean T-shirt and a pair of lightweight cotton pajama bottoms with a drawstring waist, and crawled into bed. In a matter of seconds, I plunged into a deep, dark sleep, devoid of dreams.

  The next time I opened my eyes, I was immediately aware of two things. First, bright sunshine was streaming through the open window, along with a light morning breeze that brought with it a whiff of the wild roses that grew in the woods. Second, sometime during the night, a twenty-pound weight had been deposited on my chest as I slept. I cracked one eye open. A pair of green eyes stared back at me, unblinking, surrounded by a profusion of black fur. I struggled to sit up, but the enormous cat on my torso held me down.

  “Hey!” I groused as I shook my shoulders from side to side. “Go on, now.”

  The cat let out a mournful bawl, and as recognition washed over me, I stared in disbelief.

  “Wait. I know you.” There was no doubt in my mind that it was the same cat from the ferry, the one whose daredevil antics made me break my
phone. “You’re my aunt Gwen’s cat? How can that even be?”

  He cried out again, mocking me, and didn’t move an inch even as I gave the covers a jiggle.

  “Listen, cat,” I warned. He shook his head like a lion shaking its mane, and the fur billowed out wildly all around him. The twinkle of a brass name tag that hung from a collar around his neck caught my eye. I squinted at the letters engraved on it. “Gus. Is that your name?” He meowed loudly, which I took as a yes.

  I gathered all my strength and propelled myself upward. Gus rolled off my chest and landed at the foot of the bed. He promptly began licking his hind leg as if that was exactly what he’d had in mind to do at that precise moment all along. “Let’s get this straight,” I informed him as I rose and smoothed the covers back into place. “This may be your house, but it’s my bed, and I don’t like to share. Especially not with a flea-bitten thing like you.” The look he gave me as I left the room made it perfectly clear he had understood everything I said and simply had no intention of listening to a single word of it.

  As I wandered across the second-floor landing, all the bedroom doors were shut, with the exception of the one that belonged to Aunt Gwen. The mouthwatering scent of cinnamon that permeated the air, along with the clattering of pots and pans, told me I’d find her in the kitchen, so I headed directly there by way of the back stairs. By the time I hit the first floor, the smell of my aunt’s famous sweet-potato waffles was so thick in the air I could taste them when I breathed in.

  “Good morning, Tamsyn,” my aunt greeted me, turning from her spot at the stove. The whorl of red curls had been tamed into a bun, and a large apron covered her generous hips. She held something aloft in her right hand, and I had the oddest impression of sparkles emanating from it. For a moment, I could have sworn she was holding a magic wand, but it turned out to be an ordinary wooden spoon.