Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (14 page)

“Wow, did the infallible Garrett McCaffrey just admit he was
wrong
about something?” I teased.

“Hardly. I admitted to a miscalculation, not an error.” He sounded like his smug old self, but there was a little something in his voice that made think that if I could have seen him, he would have been smiling.

God, it was dark and creepy in there. I really, really didn't like it. The boat rocked very gently from side to side, causing the ropes and lanterns that swung from the ceiling to cast shifting shadows along the sloping walls. The camping lantern could barely keep the oppressive blackness at bay. I couldn't imagine how Garrett did this all alone night after night. I would have peed myself or something. “Here we are.”

The galley itself was a tiny room crammed with kitchen supplies that opened into the biggest room I'd seen so far on the
Lettie Mae.
It had a long wooden table flanked by wooden benches, all nailed to the floor. Tin mugs and plates were set all the way down it, and barrels lined the walls.

“Every time there's been a sighting, the ghost has been spotted at the other end of the dining area,” Garrett continued. “So I've been hunkering down in the galley, sort of hiding behind these fake sacks of cornmeal.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I stepped into the galley and over a few sacks. “Is there any way we could maybe construct a slightly larger, harder-to-penetrate barrier using more sacks?”

“Libby, the sacks aren't for protection; they're so we remain unobserved,” he said, joining me in the galley. “You're not . . . afraid of the ghost, are you?” he asked curiously.

“What! Um, no! Obviously not!” I denied it a little too vehemently. Now that Garrett had finally admitted he'd underestimated me, I didn't want to lose my newfound cred. “I don't know what you're talking about. I am not scared at all. At all. Not at all. Nope. No sirree, Bob.” I shook my head.

“I'll get you an extra sack of cornmeal.” He dragged one over and added it to the pile.

“Danger is my middle name,” I was still babbling. “Libby Danger Kelting. So bring it on. Bring it on, ghostie. Ghostie ghostie ghost ghost. Ghostface. Ghostface Killah.”

“Um, what is going on? Do you have a crack problem I don't know about?” He flicked off both of our lamps, plunging us into complete darkness.

“High on life, Garrett. High on life.”

More like high on crazy-adrenaline-fear-rush. Why was I being such a baby? There was no such thing as ghosts. I mean I knew that, obviously. But way down there in the darkness, trapped in the depths of the ship with no easy way out, it was really, really scary. I scooted a little closer to Garrett and hoped he didn't notice. Not that it was going to help, because I seriously doubted Garrett could save me from anything. Except from, maybe, I don't know, losing a
Battlestar Galactica
trivia contest. Or from a cyborg. As long as it was on a computer screen, that is.

“And now we wait,” he whispered.

“Do we have to wait in the dark?” I whispered back nervously. “Can we turn the light back on?”

“No,” he said. “I'm sorry, Libby, but we can't. The paranormal societies I contacted said most spirits prefer the darkness, and you should make yourself as unobtrusive as possible. Like you're not even there. That way the ghost feels more comfortable with appearing in the environment.”

“You contacted paranormal societies?” I was somewhat taken aback. It didn't seem like the kind of thing he'd believe in. But maybe it was part of the whole sci-fi thing.

“Yeah. For research.”

“So you're into all that ‘the truth is out there'
X-Files
stuff too?” I asked. “You think the ghost is real?”

“I don't.” He snorted. “Of course it's not real. It's completely ridiculous. The existence of paranormal phenomena has been repudiated time and time again. And I enjoy science fiction that takes place in an alternate reality, either far into the future or a separate galaxy, so that there's no blurring of reality, like there is in a series such as the
X-Files
or
Supernatural.
The mind can more easily accept the impossible than the implausible—”

“Oh God, spare me,” I interrupted. “Let's get it back on track.”

“There's no ghost on this ship, Libby,” he continued. “That's one of the reasons I wanted to write this story—to figure out what's really going on here. Because even though I know there's no ghost, the eyewitness accounts line up enough to confirm that someone certainly wants us to think so. Now I just have to find out why. But I contacted the paranormal societies, anyway, because a good reporter gets all angles of the story. Even if they don't always line up with his personal convictions.”

“Gotcha.” I nodded. “Objectivity and all that. Good deal.” Even a moment of silence was intolerable. It made me feel like the blackness was pressing in on my eyelids, smothering me. “But I'm going to tell you right now, it'll be the creepy old lighthouse keeper in a ghost mask. You mark my words.”

“Thanks for the tip, Scoobs.”

“Oh my God, I am
not
Scooby in this metaphor!” I contested hotly. “Obviously, I'm Daphne!”

“Libby?”

“Yeah?”

“Be quiet.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

“Garrett, do I have to?”

“Libby, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but shut up.”

Slightly longer silence.

“Why?” I whispered so quietly it was barely audible.

“Because I want to be as unobtrusive as possible so that if someone's running around in a ghost suit, he won't know we're here. Or if you want to think about it paranormally, so that the ghost feels comfortable in the environment,” he whispered back.

“But what if we
made
the ghost feel comfortable.” Brilliant idea! “We could whisper, ‘Welcome, spirit,' or something. Or we could sing!” Even more brilliant idea! “Consider yourself at home!” I sang softly. “Consider yourself one of the family.”

“Libby,” he cut me off.

“Yeah?”

“Even
live
people avoid
Oliver!
My sister was in that, and I wanted to slit my wrists by intermission. Let's steer clear of musical theater, okay?”

“Okay.”

Silence.

I sang, “You don't realize how much I need you. Love you all the time and never leave you. Please come on back to me—”

“That's not what I meant,” Garrett interrupted again.

“But everybody likes the Beatles.”

“Libby,” he warned.

“Okay. Quiet. Got it.”

We sat, silent, still, in the darkness, as I inched ever closer to Garrett, hoping it would make me feel less scared. It didn't. A lifetime later I had closed my eyes and was almost drifting off to sleep, when I felt a hand cover my mouth.

“Libby,” Garrett whispered very, very quietly, “don't move. Don't say anything. Open your eyes very slowly, and don't freak out. Whatever you do, don't scream. I'll take my hand off your mouth if you promise not to scream. Nod if you promise.”

I nodded, and he removed his hand as I opened my eyes. My mouth froze in a rictus of horror, hanging open in a silent scream. No sound would have come out even if I'd wanted it to—I was so scared, I couldn't make any noise. There, at the end of the table, was the exact figure I'd heard about. He was much too far away to make out any details, but it was definitely the figure of a man, all in white. I clutched Garrett's right forearm and dug my nails in so fiercely, it was a miracle I didn't draw blood. Luckily, Garrett was a lefty, so he used his free hand to slowly pick up the video camera. Immediately, the ghost retreated into the blackness.

“I'm going to go after it.” Garrett got up.

“Don't leave me!” I said, but no sound came out, just air. Garrett vaulted over the cornmeal sacks and chased the figure down the hallway. I immediately flipped the camping lantern on and clung to it like a totem, shaking. Oh God, why was I here? Why didn't I just stay in that awful house? Even Ashling wasn't as bad as a ghost! I mean, yes, maybe she would have killed me eventually, but right now that was a chance I was willing to take.

Moments later Garrett returned.

“You okay?” he asked, bending over to pick up his lantern and flip it on.

I nodded, silent, mouth still frozen in a scream.

“Libby, are you sure?” he asked concernedly. “Here.” He shut my jaw for me. “That looks better. Come on, let's go to bed.”

“Wh-wha-what about the ghost?” I asked shakily. Words! I'd made words! Progress.

“It disappeared.” He kicked a coil of rope with more violence than was necessary. “Whatever it was, a guy in costume or, I don't know, a projection or a hologram or something, it disappeared by the time I got into the hallway.”

“Okay.”

Garrett led me into the fo'c's'le, closed the door, and bolted it shut. He then helped me up to my bunk. It was like I had lost control of my limbs.

“Libby, are you sure you're okay?” he asked again. “Come on, Proud Mary, you've got this.”

“Right.” I nodded. “Right, right, I'm fine.”

“Sing it with me,” he started. “Big wheels keep on turning,” he sang tunelessly, totally off-key. “Proud Mary keep on burning.”

“Rolling,” I sang with him, “rolling. Rolling on the river.”

Just like I always told Dev. Sing till you find your happy place. Weird that Garrett knew I did that.

“There you go.” Garrett grinned in the glow of his camp light. “That's the Libby Kelting I know.”

“Good night, Garrett.”

“Good night, Kitty.”

I went to bed immediately, but I didn't sleep for a long time.

“And as I slooowly opened my eyes, one millimeter at a time, I saw it appear at the end of the long hallway.”

Ten little mouths formed perfectly round
O
's in a ring around the kitchen table.

“A ghostly figure, all in white,” I continued, leaning my elbows into the flour, “and silent as the grave.”

“Oooooh,” the girls chorused.

“But before we could address the spirit, as mysteriously as it had come, it vanished!” I flourished my rolling pin for emphasis, as they shrieked and clutched each other.

I'd told them this story about five times, but they still clamored for more. And they weren't the only ones who wanted to hear it. I'd become something of a local celebrity since our ghostly sighting.

Practically the moment Garrett's article in the
Camden Crier
hit newsstands, the story was all over Maine and who knew where else. It spread like wildfire. Literally, it was all anyone talked about. I found I enjoyed the ghost a lot more in the daylight—it wasn't scary and I was sort of famous! Even though Garrett's article hadn't mentioned my name to preserve my anonymity, everybody knew I'd been on the boat. Camden Harbor was a small town, and people talked. I was stopped about fifteen times a day on my way in and out of the Bromleigh Homestead and on and off of the
Lettie Mae.

The best part of all this ghost fuss was that the museum was more crowded than I'd ever seen it. There was even a line outside the fudge shop. A line! There were so many people in the museum they were
waiting
for fudge. The entire staff was running around with huge, dopey grins on their faces. Maddie, who was sporting the standard-issue dopey staff grin, said the museum was reaching attendance levels it hadn't seen since the '70s.

What all this meant, of course, was that we were expecting record numbers for the Fourth of July, which was already traditionally the museum's busiest day. And since yours truly was in charge of the pie table, the pressure was on both in quality and quantity. I mean think about it: pie on the Fourth of July. Ever heard of a little phrase called “American as apple pie”? Yeah. Only like the seminal American dessert on the seminal American holiday. Who wasn't going to want pie? Everyone likes pie.

So after a minor freak-out, I'd decided to use the resources available to me. Upon Miss Libby's Official Decree, this week was “Pie Week” at Girls of Long Ago Camp, and we were cranking out pastry like you would not believe. I'd turned the girls into my personal pie factory. It was a little sweet-shop sweatshop of my very own.

“Guys, don't eat the dough,” I said for the millionth time. “It's got lard in it, and that's gross, and I'll get in big trouble if you get salmonella.”

“Salmonella?” Emily wrinkled her nose. “There's no fish in this.”

“Very funny, miss.” She giggled at her own joke.

“Whath thamonella?” Amanda asked.

“Something bad that Lysol kills, as it disinfects to protect, along with ninety-nine percent of other germs,” Robin answered her. “Duh. Don't you watch TV?”

“Well, since we're a couple hundred years early for Lysol—as well as TV, for that matter—let's just stay out of the pie crust, okay?”

“Oooookay.”

They didn't. Not really. But at least they were eating less of it, minimizing the potential salmonella intake. By the end of cooking time, we'd finished all the lattice-topped and double-crust pies, which meant all we had left to do the rest of the week was crumb-top pies. Not too shabby. This could be the beginning of my very own domestic empire. Martha would be so proud. Except that the whole child-labor aspect might be a problem.

Later that afternoon during craft time, I set up an actual sweatshop in the homestead, as the girls and I sewed flag bunting. Everything everyone did at Camden Harbor that week was in preparation for the Fourth.

“Can you tell uth about the ghotht again, Mith Libby?” Amanda asked, handing me a scrap of fabric into which she'd sewn a truly impressive knot.

“Are you guys sure you want to hear it again?” I attacked the knot. “I've already told it a lot.”