The Prophet (12 page)

“I wasn’t just investigating him,” Fremont said. “I was trying to stop him.”

“From drug smuggling?”

He paused. “Yes.”

Something in his voice drew another shiver. “Were you working with Devlin?”

He murmured something so low I couldn’t make it out. I had the troubling notion it was a chant or incantation.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why is everyone afraid of Darius Goodwine?” I demanded. “He can’t possibly be a threat to you now.”

The ghost didn’t reply. He was already starting to fade and in another moment, he was gone. I stood at the railing alone and trembling as a cold gust cut through me. My foreboding grew with the wind. The harbor sparkled with sunlight but somewhere in the distance, darkness gathered.

Chapter Thirteen

N
ormally, I would have continued along the Battery to Murray Boulevard and then up Rutledge Avenue past Colonial Lake Park to my house. This morning, however, I cut through White Point Gardens, striding past the Civil War monuments and cannons and giving a wide berth to the lovely white gazebo where a sunrise wedding had just taken place.

Casting a longing glance at the happy couple, I stopped briefly to admire a bed of purple asters, then headed up King Street where the restaurants and bakeries were just starting to come alive. The smell of fresh coffee and pastries wafted on the cool breeze, and I was sorely tempted to stop at one of the outdoor eateries and treat myself to a leisurely breakfast. The streets were filling up, too, and I could sit there and people watch while I nibbled on vanilla French toast or a peach almond muffin and reflect on my conversation with Fremont’s ghost. But I’d done enough dwelling and obsessing over the past two days. What I needed was a diversion.

So I continued on past the trendy cafes and gourmet coffee shops and didn’t break stride until I reached Cumberland. Then I slowed, searching for The Secret Garden. I spotted it just ahead on my right, a quaint little shop with a metal awning over the front door and, as I remembered, a walled garden and fountain in the back where one could sit with a book and a cup of tea.

I was disappointed to find the shop closed, though I could have hardly expected otherwise at this early hour. Still, a cup of exotic brew and a pleasant chat with Clementine Perilloux would have been just the thing to take the chill off my meeting with Robert Fremont. I had to admit that, despite the circumstances, I’d enjoyed my visit with her. And I was glad that I’d felt that way even before I discovered that she was the sister and not, in fact, Devlin’s brunette.

I supposed my impromptu trip to the shop so early in the morning was a testament to my loneliness. I’d had so few close friends over the years. There really was no one I could call on the spur of the moment to have coffee or lunch. No one I could talk to about books or movies or Devlin.

Devlin.
No matter how much time or distance I tried to put between us, my thoughts always came back to him.

I didn’t believe for a moment that he’d had anything to do with Fremont’s murder, but he was somehow connected. Everything was connected. I was more certain of that now than ever. Shani’s drowning, Devlin’s disappearance after the accident, Ethan’s alibi to the police.

I could only imagine how Devlin must have been suffering that night. Out of his mind with grief, he’d said. It would have been understandable if he’d turned to drugs to numb the pain. But gray dust wasn’t a tranquilizer or a sedative. It was a powerful psychedelic. How could something like that help him cope with his loss?

But according to Devlin, gray dust wasn’t just any hallucinogen. It stopped the heart and people died. And some of the ones who came back suffered terrible side effects.
Eyes frosted like a corpse, shuffling around all slumped over as if they’d dragged something back from hell with them.

The images conjured by that piece of the conversation were disturbing and way too macabre for a sunny morning. I tried to shove the grimness aside as I peered into the shop window. A cup of tea really would have hit the spot.

I don’t know how long I’d been standing there when it came to me that I was being watched. Not by a ghost this time. I felt no frigid breath at my collar, no icy fingers skimming along my spine. No, this was the sensation that anyone might experience when being secretly observed.

Turning, I surreptitiously scanned the sidewalk as I pretended to check the time on my phone. From my periphery, I took note of a man across the street. I couldn’t tell much about his appearance, only that he was white, a little shorter and wider than Devlin. He wore khakis with a madras blazer and a straw fedora pulled low over his face. Typical attire for Charleston. The nondescript appearance would blend seamlessly with tourists and locals alike. But the sidewalks here were still sparse, and so he stood out.

When I lifted my head to casually view the traffic, he turned away quickly and strode through the open gateway of a private alley.

I didn’t panic. For all I knew, he might have been nothing more than an admirer. I didn’t attract attention the way a woman like Mariama would have. I was hardly the type to inspire such passion. But I was young and blond and in good shape from the physical labor of my profession. I caught a male eye now and then.

Still, I couldn’t shake the notion that he hadn’t just been staring at me, but watching me.

Turning back to the bookstore window, I pretended to peer inside the store. Another face appeared in the glass, that of a handsome black man. He stood right behind me, but when I turned, no one was there.

Palmettos rustled in the rising wind and a paper cup rolled along the sidewalk in front of me. I had the notion once again that a storm brewed on the horizon even though the sky was clear. I lifted my face as something dark scuttled across the sun. A bird, I told myself. Nothing more ominous than a raven or a sparrow.

Across the street, the man in the hat emerged from the alley and I could have sworn I saw him cast his gaze in my direction. His lips were moving, but there was no phone to his ear and no one else was around. No one that I could see.

Fear blossomed, but was I just being paranoid? I’d yet to pose a single question about Fremont’s murder to any living person. No one could possibly know of our investigation and I was certain the man outside Devlin’s house last night hadn’t seen me. So why would I be under surveillance?

I started walking, slowly at first, pretending to window-shop so that I could keep track of him. But either he soon realized I was on to him or he really was just some innocent pedestrian because he turned on Market Street, losing himself in the traffic, and I didn’t see him again.

Stopping at an open-air market, I purchased a bundle of fresh flowers and some sage and headed straight home. Angus, as always, was excited to see me. I put him on his leash and gave him a quick stroll around the block, and then we had breakfast together in the garden.

For the rest of the day, I puttered around the house, cleaning out summer closets, working on
Digging Graves,
chatting with my mother and my aunt Lynrose on the phone. The busywork distracted me for a few hours, but by mid-afternoon, I was starting to get antsy. After a phone call or two, I made sure Angus was settled in the house and then I drove over to the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies to meet with Rupert Shaw.

* * *

The Institute was located on the ground floor of a beautifully renovated antebellum on the fringes of the historic district. It was a plantation-style house with long, graceful columns and fern baskets swaying from three stories of shady piazzas. I parked in the back, and as I came around to the side entrance, I noticed as I always did the house across the street with the neon hand hanging from the porch. Madam Know-it-all’s.

I’d always been curious about the place and secretly amused by its proximity to the loftier Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies. Now that I knew the palmist had a connection to Devlin, I was even more fascinted. Clementine had said Devlin and Isabel were very close friends, but I’d seen the way he’d held her in the twilight. I’d heard the intimacy of their soft murmurs. They were more than friends. But how much more?

As I stood gazing over at the house, a blue Buick pulled up to the curb and sat there for a moment, idling. The driver wore aviator glasses that covered the upper portion of his face. That and the angle of the sun made his features nearly indistinguishable, but a glimmer of familiarity had me wondering if he was the man I’d seen earlier.

He didn’t get out of the car but sat there gazing up at one of the balconies. I didn’t think he spotted me. I was concealed by a thick rhododendron bush. My heart accelerated as I watched him.
Was
I being followed?

“Amelia?”

Years of living with ghosts had schooled my nerves, and I turned casually at the sound of my name. Ethan Shaw had come up behind me, so stealthily I hadn’t heard his footfalls.

“I thought that was you.” He smiled then, his eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure as he closed the distance between us. He was a tall man, well-dressed and well-spoken, with an easygoing demeanor that I’d always found attractive. But I’d glimpsed another side of him last night at Devlin’s house. As the overheard conversation reared its ugly head, I felt a disquieting ripple along my spine. Had he really been in love with Devlin’s wife? Had he really been willing to do her bidding?

“Ethan, hi. I didn’t hear you come up.”

“I just came around from the back,” he said. “Father and I had a nice visit in the garden.”

“Oh, he’s in, then?”

“Yes.” Another puzzled stare. “Why are you in the bushes?”

“I’m not hiding, just observing.”

“What are you observing?”

“Do you know that blue car?” I asked anxiously.

His gaze moved beyond me to the street. I saw something flicker in his eyes, but he shrugged. “No, why?”

I paused. “I thought I might have been followed here.”

His brow lifted. “Why would you think that?”

I could hardly tell him about the Fremont investigation, so I muttered, “I don’t know, paranoid, I guess.”

His smile turned sympathetic. “That’s understandable after everything you’ve been through.”

“I suppose.”

He flicked another glance toward the street. “So what brings you to the Institute today?”

“I’m here to see Dr. Shaw. I don’t have an appointment so I hope he has time for me.”

“He always has time for you. As do I,” Ethan said politely, but the compliment sounded rote, as though his mind were occupied elsewhere.

I resisted the urge to glance over my shoulder. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve always been fascinated by the house across the street.”

“Bodine’s Tattoo Parlor?”

I laughed. “The house next to it. Madame Know-it-all’s. Do you know anything about her?”

“Her real name is Isabel Perilloux. She has an excellent reputation if you’re in need of a palm-reader.”

“I’m not. The last thing I want is to know about the future. I’m curious, is all.”

He gave me a look that made me wonder if he knew about Isabel and Devlin.

“Anyway…I don’t mean to keep you.”

“You’re not. I’m glad I ran into you. Temple is in town. We’re having dinner tomorrow night and we’d love to have you join us if you’re free.”

Temple Lee was my former employer. I’d worked for her for two years at the Office of the State Archeologist before moving to Charleston to open my own business. We kept in touch via email and texting, and I considered her my closest friend, which, considering how infrequently we saw each other face-to-face, was a little sad.

“I’d love to if you’re sure it wouldn’t be an intrusion.”

“It’s just a friendly dinner,” he said. “A chance to catch up since she hasn’t been down this way much lately. I’ll call you later with the details.”

“Thanks.”

I waved as I left him to go inside the Institute. I assumed he was headed for the parking area, but as I stepped through the side door into the foyer, I caught a glimpse of him through the front window that looked out on the street. He was peering in the Buick’s windshield. Then slowly he circled the now-empty car, his head lifting now and then to scan the area as if looking for the driver.

He seemed agitated, almost angry, which triggered my curiosity. I watched him for a moment longer, then turned away from the window.

Chapter Fourteen

T
he wooden floor creaked beneath my shoes as I stepped from the foyer into what had once been the front parlor. Now it was the reception area, and a new assistant had taken over the front desk and phones.

She looked up with a curious half smile as I walked in, her chocolate-brown eyes disdainfully sizing me up from ponytail to sneakers. She was dressed much more stylishly in a silky blue top that looked gorgeous with her dark skin tone.

“May I help you?” she asked, with a trace of an accent I couldn’t place.

“I’m Amelia Gray. I don’t have an appointment, but I’m hoping to see Dr. Shaw.”

“He’s very busy today.”

“Could you at least tell him I’m here? If he doesn’t have time to see me, I can come back later.”

She hesitated, not at all receptive to my request.

“We’re friends,” I added, which did not impress her.

“Wait here,” she coolly instructed as she rose from the Charleston-style desk and disappeared down the hallway. I heard a door open, the murmur of voices and then the brisk click of her heels on the wood floor as she returned.

“This way,” she said, her lips pursed in disapproval.

“Thanks.”

I’d been to the Institute many times before, so, of course, I knew where the office was located, but I followed her silently down the corridor to where she opened a set of pocket doors. She said nothing, merely stepped aside for me to enter, and then slid the doors closed behind me.

I stood glancing around at what appeared at first to be an empty office. It took me a moment to spot Dr. Shaw balancing precariously at the top of a ladder as he pulled a dusty volume from the highest shelf of an overflowing bookcase. I didn’t speak for fear of startling him, even though I’d already been announced and he’d undoubtedly heard the door.