Adelaide Confused Page 15

  He reminded me of Bernini’s David. I loved that sculpture almost as much as I loved Bernini himself. Rumor had it that he used his own facial features as inspiration. He would had to have been good-looking then, like Reed. They looked similar, sharp and almost harshly handsome.

  Reed caught me staring and gave my arm a shake. “Stop,” he snapped, hauling me up the wooden ramp and into the pavilion.

  I was ashamed that the charm had taken hold. Why else would I be comparing Reed to a piece of artwork? And what was worse, he was the one that pulled me out of my dazed reverie. “Hands off!” I said, trying to salvage a little dignity.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Graves,” he said smoothly while his hands slipped away. “I was under the impression that you wished to speak with me.”

  “How do you know that?” I demanded.

  “A group of teenage boys went to the police, reporting that they’d seen a pretty young red-headed woman,” he lifted a strand of my hair and flicked it free, “held at knife point. Apparently it happened just around the corner from where Theodore Dunn was recently stabbed to death.”

  “You have an informant at the Brunswick Police Department,” I said dryly. “Of course you do.” The accusation had Reed glancing about to make sure that no one was listening.

  Circular blue and white tanks sat on either side of the raised walkway. They looked like tall kiddy pools, and housed sickly turtles. Humming machinery and bubbling water drowned out all sound. On the opposite end of the pavilion a father strolled slowly, his daughter seated atop his shoulders where she excitedly patted his forehead. Below them was a pair of employees. They bustled about labeling and fussing over a grid of tiny containers where infant turtles ceaselessly flapped.

  Reed watched a behemoth leatherback float listlessly. Its shell was a patchwork job, covered in tape or bandages of some sort. “I don’t suppose you would believe that I meant to see you yesterday, but you weren’t at home.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I would,” I replied. “It sounds a bit contrived. Contrived like trying to waylay me in a public place where I can’t yell at you properly. Were you afraid I’d make a scene at your precious picnic?”

  “You do have a temper.”

  “Everything you say is bullshit.” Bullshit came out just as the father and daughter walked past, heading for the door. I made amends by lowering my voice, though we were now the only visitors present. “You led me to believe that a simple phone call was the solution, that Lars would rein in Beagban. But that wasn’t true, so what did you really do?” When he didn’t immediately turn around I grabbed a fistful of his Harvard T-shirt, pulling him to face me, demanding, “What did you do?”

  He was unmoved by my antagonism, but answered all the same. “The night we escaped from the barn I sent a few men back. They were to keep him there, to watch him.” He looked into my eyes, the expression daring me to disbelieve. “That’s all, they were only meant to keep him out of the way until the book was found. If he could be tied to a crime in any significant way then I would turn him over to the police when this business was concluded.”

  I stared at him, trying to gauge the truth by his emotions. It was impossible. All liars were dishonest, and dishonest people didn’t usually suffer from a guilty conscience. I had believed his explanation before, hadn’t thought to question it. That was a mistake I wouldn’t make twice. I didn’t for a second believe that he only intended to detain Beagban, the man that had killed his friend. And the longer I stared into his apathetic eyes, the more certain I became that he was lying. Reed Wallace was not above revenge. And his reprisal would not involve the police.

  Reed must have sensed my skepticism, discerning the distrust from my silence. “I don’t understand the complication here,” he said impatiently. “After all, you were the one to insinuate that he should die.”

  “I wasn’t foolish enough to think that I could, or even would, be capable of doing it. And you called me bloodthirsty for suggesting that it would be a convenient turn of events, you hypocrite!” A man wearing a bright orange baseball cap came in through the swinging door. I waited for him to pass before whispering, “And now we’ve got more dead men and one very unhinged murderer running loose.”

  Reed started to speak, but I cut him off. “I swear, if the words ‘I’ll take care of it’ come out of your mouth, I’ll kick you straight in the balls.”

  Reed offered up a crooked grin, saying, “I believe you would.” He stepped closer, leaning his forearms against the wooden rail to my right. “Did you know that the group of boys who reported the incident I spoke of also admitted to being held at gunpoint by the same red-head only days before?”

  “No,” I said absently, “I hadn’t heard.” I watched the newcomer stare at us from under the brim of his hat.

  “Knowing the red-head’s identity would be useful, the perfect leverage really. All it would take is one anonymous phone call to have the police poking around with some very awkward questions.”

  Baseball Cap caught me watching him and turned away. It wasn’t his fault. Reed turned heads wherever he went, usually women’s, but gay men’s too. “Don’t bother with the threats. It couldn’t be me. My hair isn’t red, it’s strawberry-blonde.”

  “Of course,” Reed agreed in the most charming of ways.

  “I don’t know how you can patronize me at a time like this. Beagban promised to kill you too.”

  “What I said before is true. Without Lars’ permission, Beagban won’t kill either of us.”

  I pulled down my collar, revealing the fresh scratch marks on my neck. “Excuse me if I’m not convinced.”

  He eyed my neck while saying, “I didn’t think you would be. That’s why I brought you this.” He pulled a ring from his pocket, a bulky silver thing covered in lumps of turquoise and coral.

  Sourly I asked, “What does it do?” thinking I already had one ring too many.

  I watched as he pressed the stones down. They disappeared beneath the decorative silver plating which he then slid aside unhindered. Inside, wedged between two stones, was a small black button. It was tiny really, like the reset button on a watch. “Press this and it will alert my security. They’ll send someone to your location in a matter of minutes.” He slid the cover back into place, the stones snapped up, and it was a ring once more. A very large ring.

  “Couldn’t you find something less... obtrusive?”

  He brushed his fingers across my hand, gently touching the bead and wire wrapped around my index finger. “It’s not delicate like this.” I jerked away and he pretended not to notice. “It’s Tibetan, but with a panic button and tracking device hidden inside, what it truly is is useful.”

  I took it, sliding it onto my middle finger where it filled the space between my knuckles. It dwarfed the ghost ring which sat equally as cheap, but with much more decorum. At least the little ring knew its place, though it continued to do that creepy materializing trick. I couldn’t decide whether it held some sort of compulsion, so that when my mind was preoccupied I’d slip the ring back on without a thought, or if the moment I stopped thinking about it, it would appear on my forefinger all by itself like magic.

  “So that’s it?” I said, waving my hand around. “Hope I get to the button before he chops off my arms?”

  “Yes, that’s the idea.”

  “I Googled you at work, you know, and according to Wikipedia you have an abundance of money and influence.”

  He eased closer. “You Googled me?”

  I ignored the implication. “So why aren’t you doing anything with all that money and influence?”

  “I can’t go to the police and accuse Lars Hurst of sending Beagban to kill and kidnap for a demon diary, now can I? I believe proof is required to convict a man, and we’ve no evidence to tie Beagban to any of it.” He was growing frustrated, most likely at my obstreperous behavior. “Believe it or not I’m pulling my resources, the best I have be
ing a young woman who is not only destined to find the book, but can also discover who is leaking information to Lars.” He gave me a pointed look. “But it’s hard work getting her to cooperate, she’s... difficult.”

  “Well it’s not here,” I said, trying not to sound too sulky.

  “Yes, I’d reached the same conclusion,” he said, pushing off the railing to stand upright. “Now it would be best to return before your friends come to find us.”

  * * *

  Leaving was next to impossible. Francesca inserted herself between Reed and his car, unwilling to part until she was sure she had a reason to see him again. She was hoping for a date, but willing to settle for an invitation to the picnic this afternoon.

  Overhead the sun climbed high, a reminder that summer was upon us. I waved my hand back and forth trying to fan away the heat and humidity. Unlike Stephen I was not titillated by their flirtatious exchange, and I did my best to space-out. Through the trees and shrubs I could just make out the island’s Club Hotel, the old building sprawling over itself and topped off with a turret. Once upon a time it was a playground getaway for the rich, made more famous for its romantic role, starring as the location used for the creation of the Federal Reserve. But after today it would forever be ingrained in my brain as only one thing—haunted.

  Chapter 27

  Ghosts peppered the historic district in smears of white, moving over the grounds each in their own way. Between two cars a column of mist shivered, trying to press itself into shape. Further down the sidewalk a young girl blinked in and out, transparent in her late Victorian gown as she followed the visitors. It was unnerving to see so many, having only found a few on St. Simons. A curtain of fog, out of place on such a sunny day, drifted out from behind the Turtle Center, a building that had once been the club’s power plant. I did my best to ignore them, all the while keeping watch with my peripheral vision.

  The words “She can be a bit off-putting at times” snapped me to attention. Francesca continued, saying, “I’d be more than happy to tag along, make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.” I considered being offended, but didn’t bother, reminding myself that it was the charm’s effect talking.

  Reed said something like, “Adelaide’s work requires discretion, and a stunning woman like you would attract far too much attention.” But I couldn’t be sure that was exactly what he said because a gust of wind pushed at my back, distracting me.

  The palm trees that fringed the lot to my left swayed restlessly. Odd, apart from that corner of the parking lot everything was still. I turned to find a filmy white presence pushing the palm fronds, and me.

  It slunk about, sliding in from behind like a lazy puddle. It pressed against everything in its path, acting the part of an errant breeze. I focused my eyes on whoever was speaking, but my attention remained fixed to the snowy smudge.

  It hovered for a moment, but then moved away. I exhaled in relief, having worried it knew I was watching.

  My relief came too soon. At about fifteen paces away it stopped drifting. I went equally still. Twitching with agitation it circled around my body slowly from afar, then it was barreling towards me, picking up speed and rolling fast like a freight train. I automatically cringed, my muscles tightening as I braced myself, but the impact never came. Whether it went through me, I wasn’t sure. I opened my eyes to find the ghost flourishing back and forth. I got the feeling that I was being watched, maybe studied and tested.

  I would have taken the ring off then if I thought it would do me any good. But the damn thing had a mind of its own, and removing it had proven futile. I settled for pretending, forcing myself to ignore the specter and interact with the living. Reed was giving Stephen money, paying him in advance for covering my shift. Francesca was unhappy, knowing her time was nearly up and she hadn’t yet made much progress with Reed. In a last ditch effort she said, “I’m hungry, how about we go to the wharf and get some seafood.”

  Reed checked his ridiculously expensive watch. “Not enough time, I’m afraid.”

  Francesca used the watch as an excuse to touch him, gripping his wrist and turning it gently. She clicked her tongue regretfully, admitting, “You’re right, it’s nearing noon. Another time then?”

  I looked to Stephen with no small curiosity, wondering how he wasn’t jealous watching Francesca throw herself at Reed. He studied them with interest, eyeing Francesca as if she was a rare and exotic creature. It wasn’t the first time I realized how wise he was. But it never failed to impress me how he used every occasion, every situation, to learn something. No doubt he was discovering what Francesca looked for in a man, and how Reed fit the bill. No doubt when he shed the acne and filled out a bit he’d be tragically handsome and completely appealing.

  It was as if the troublesome ghost could see his potential. It had been hanging around, taunting me, and now it was sidling closer to Stephen. The mist coalesced, thickening into a writhing white mass.

  She appeared, filling in from the smoke, a woman who had clearly lost her life in the seventies. She wore tight, high-waisted flaring pants, and tucked beneath were chunky cork wedge shoes. Her hair was feathered in the Farrah Fawcett flip. With a wide face, eyes set too far apart, and a dimpled chin, she wasn’t pretty, but she had a vital look about her, even dead.

  I watched without watching as her hands moved over his shoulders and up his neck. He didn’t seem to notice, that was, until she pinched him. He winced, slapping at his neck as if there was a mosquito.

  I knew then that it was a test, that she was looking for my reaction. I wasn’t keen to please her. She made me nervous. I didn’t need another ghost following me around. I already had one, one and a half if you counted the dog. I’d like to see Percival do better.

  I’d been ignoring ghosts all morning, but she proved to be a challenge. She moved on to Francesca, circling around in a predatory sort of way. Insubstantial fingers whispered over my friend’s body, through her hair. The ghost smiled at me and leaned in as if she’d talk into Francesca’s ear, but instead she blew. Francesca shivered, that was all. I, on the other hand, was totally freaked out.

  I tried not to think about the ick factor, pretending instead to be a bit bored and impatient, not hard as it was partially true. But Stephen must have seen through it because I caught him staring at me with a worried expression. And then he said, “Can we go? I need to get ready before I cover Adelaide’s shift.”

  I’d never been so grateful to Stephen in all my life. And though Reed would never know it, he was grateful too, because the ghost had been stroking his thigh when we parted ways. Apparently he could charm even the dead.

  * * *

  My fingers shook as I rifled through the closet looking for my slate gray shorts. I impatiently dropped a handful of clothes before crossing the loft to continue my search in the armoire. My movements were sharp and precise, channeling my frustration.

  Earlier, during the ride back from Jekyll, Francesca had lost it. As Reed’s charm withdrew so did her buoyant personality, leaving behind a bitter crust. Throughout the car ride I felt her stinging from what she perceived as yet another Reed rejection. And like Karen, she chose to blame me.

  The ghost dog hopped around my ankles, moving like a wriggling sausage. Even its perk couldn’t lighten my mood. I stepped through it to kick a squeaky toy across the floor. “Go fetch,” I ordered, wanting it to go away. Obligingly it scrambled with haste, pouncing on its quarry.

  I then noticed a scrap of gray poking out from beneath my bed. I stalked over and snatched it up. Sure enough, it was my missing pair of shorts. I knew I hadn’t stowed them there, and wondered if the ghost had dragged them under. It didn’t seem likely. He had been turning solid more frequently, but only in spurts that lasted no longer than a wink.

  I hauled them on with a bit more force than necessary. They weren’t khakis, but they would do. Plus they matched the shirt Francesca had
loaned me. Admittedly it wasn’t polo, but it had the same stuck-up summer feel.

  I knew she wouldn’t want me to continue wearing her shirt, not while we were fighting. She’d probably tell me to take it off, stuff it down my throat and choke. Fighting with Francesca wasn’t something I was familiar with, neither was it something I particularly enjoyed.

  She had glared at me through the rearview mirror, demanding, “What do the two of you do when you’re alone together?”

  “Usually we argue,” I’d admitted easily.

  “What do you have to argue about? You hardly know each other.”

  “I know him well enough to know he’s an asshole.”

  Her anger had swelled. “You don’t care do you?” Her eyes had narrowed in the mirror’s reflection. “You don’t care that I’m your friend, that I’ve put up with your moody, antisocial bullshit. That I stayed with you all those times you broke down and cried for no reason, you don’t even care!”

  I’d been trying to fight off the anger, separate myself. But then she had to start humiliating me by throwing all the things we never spoke of in my face. I struggled for a response, something to say, but she hadn’t finished ranting. “All you had to do was put in a good word or invite me along. But you don’t, you don’t want me with Reed. You want him for yourself!”

  Stephen, who’d happily called ‘shot gun’ just a few minutes before was so uncomfortable in the passenger seat that I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d clawed at the glass to escape. And I, I had been angry. I was willing to excuse a lot—I knew the charm’s effect—but I couldn’t stand how selfish she’d become, subjecting Stephen to her pity party. “Enough!” I had blurted sharply. “He’s not interested in you. You said it yourself that he’s involved with someone else. So stop hitting on him, and stop blaming me when he rejects you.”