The Sense of Reckoning (9 page)

The symmetry of the exterior of the house was continued in the interior, which, to Ann’s eye, appeared to have been well cared for and largely unmodernized. The center hall was dark, the only light coming from the open front door and from a wrought-iron chandelier. The stairs to the second floor were on the left side of the hall, with a bench of the same era as the house on the right wall. The wall above the bench held a series of framed, handwritten, antique-looking documents. Near the door was a row of pegs, on one of which hung a long black coat. The door to the left was closed. Garrick waved her through to the room on the right.
 

On the wall opposite the door was a brick fireplace flanked by two narrow windows. Two windows on the right-hand wall overlooked the front yard. Wall space not occupied by windows, fireplace, or doors was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the higher shelves of which were accessible via a wheeled ladder attached to a brass rail at the top of the bookcase. Ann had always coveted such a setup but had never lived in a house with ceilings high enough to justify it.

To the right, facing toward the center of the room, was a large desk, with two well-worn leather wing chairs facing it. Garrick waved her toward the chairs and took a seat behind the desk. Ann shrugged out of her parka and deposited it on one of the chairs and sat in the other.

Garrick rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepled his fingers, and peered at her over them, his eyes continuing to flicker around her. Ann sighed and settled in for the examination.

After a minute or so, Garrick said, “Well.”

Ann raised her eyebrows expectantly.

Garrick rose from behind the desk and circled behind her chair, then sat down again. “There might be something.”

“What is it?” she asked, startled. She somehow hadn’t expected Garrick to perform his assessment so quickly.

“It’s hard to tell. Whatever it is, it’s very faint.”

“A spirit?”

“Perhaps. It came in with you.”

Ann glanced around nervously. “Where is it?”

“Behind you. It’s a bit amorphous.”

Ann felt the hair on her neck stir. She had never been on this side of a sensing before. She turned in her chair and looked behind her, but saw nothing.

“Is it Biden Firth?”

“I have no idea, I can’t even tell if it’s human.” Garrick resumed his examination of Ann and her immediate surroundings. When it became clear he was going to do this without any accompanying conversation, Ann passed the time trying to read the titles of the books on the shelves, none of which looked familiar and many of which appeared to be in foreign languages. Ann, a book lover herself, had the library of an inveterate reader, but Garrick Masser had the library of a scholar.

Finally Garrick sat back in his chair. “So, tell me about what you’re experiencing.”

Ann recapped the series of injuries to her hands and described the connection Joe had made to Biden Firth’s intentionally inflicted injuries.

“Have you had any incidents since you left Pennsylvania?”

Ann thought back over her uneventful trip up to Maine. “No, nothing.”

“Have you sensed anything?”

Ann shook her head.

“Not at all? How about when you were in the hospital?”

“There were spirits at the hospital, but I didn’t have a sense that any of them were especially interested in me. And I don’t recall hurting my hands while I was there.”

Garrick nodded thoughtfully. “It’s possible, if it is Biden Firth, that it took him some time to rally his forces, or that he drew some strength from being in the location where he died once you returned home.”

“But is it him?”

“I told you, it’s not clear. For me, a spirit usually appears either much as he or she was in life or not at all. But this whatever-it-is surrounding you could be a weak spirit having difficulty manifesting itself or a strong spirit largely but not completely hiding itself from me. You met Mr. Firth—which would be your guess?”

Ann considered. “Weak, I suppose. He seemed indecisive. Ineffectual. I understand from the detective who investigated the murder that it seems likely he killed his wife after his father chewed him out about an unsuccessful investment, and it may be that his wife also made some insulting comment that made him snap.”

“Well, weak isn’t necessarily less dangerous than strong. A child playing with matches can burn down a house as quickly as a professional arsonist.”

Ann shifted nervously in her chair, resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder. “What can I do about it?”

“I don’t know. It’s a bit difficult to formulate a plan of attack if one is not even sure who the enemy is. Or what.” He gazed thoughtfully at her. “You could go back to the scene of his wife’s murder. See if you could leave him there. Like removing muck from one’s shoes on a boot scraper,” he said, clearly enjoying this rhetorical flourish.

“Do you think that would work?”

After a moment Garrick said, “No. How long are you staying in Maine?”

“As long as I need to.”

“I can’t imagine an extended stay will be required—within another day or two I should be able to tell you whether it’s possible to assist in this matter. However, it might be informative to see you at various times of the day. You killed him in the evening, correct?”

“Jeez, Garrick.”

“He died in the evening, correct?” he amended.

“Yes.”

“And I believe that he also killed his wife in the evening, yes?”

“Yes, that seemed most likely.”

“Very inconvenient, in view of my other engagement.”

“Ah, the mysterious ‘other engagement.’”

“It’s highly confidential.”

“So you said.”

Garrick raised an eyebrow at her crossly, then took a sip from a mug on his desk. “I can tell you that it involves a woman seeking information from her deceased brother. He appears for only a brief period around midnight and insists on discussing other topics, so it is taking some time to obtain the desired information. There is some urgency to obtaining the information, however, which is why I can’t reschedule the engagement.”

“What is the information she’s looking for?” asked Ann.

Garrick examined her speculatively for some time, then said, “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty—”

“Of course.”

Garrick tapped his fingers together. “This evening is not possible. Why don’t you come back tomorrow at, say, ten o’clock in the morning and we will see if this whatever-it-is around you has become more clear. If not, and depending on how my engagement goes tonight, perhaps tomorrow evening would be a possibility.”

Ann, recognizing her dismissal, stood and retrieved her parka. Garrick followed her to the front door, opened it for her, and shut it behind her without a word.

Ann pulled her cellphone from her knapsack and pushed the speed dial for Scott.

“That was fast,” he answered.

“Yes. He saw something but he can’t tell what. I’m supposed to come back tomorrow.”

“Well, that sounds promising—at least he can see something.”

“Yeah.” Ann felt unaccountably discouraged, although she realized she shouldn’t have expected instant results. “What are you up to?”

“I’m just down the road at that cute building, want to meet me here? Then we could go for a walk, there are lots of hiking trails. I hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes.”

“When have you known me to wear anything other than comfortable shoes?” said Ann. “I’ll see you in a minute.” She slipped the phone back in the knapsack, slung the knapsack onto her back, and descended the steps to the walk. She didn’t notice Garrick watching her from the window, his hands clasped behind his back, a worried look on his gaunt face.

Chapter 12

Mount Desert Island reminded her of home.

The hulking masses of the mountains were gentler here on the Maine coast, and the hundreds of jewel-like ponds and lakes of the Adirondacks were replaced with quiet coves and the magnificent stretch of bays and ocean beyond, but the pine trees and boulders lining the well-worn roads, the mix of almost-hidden opulence and tourist kitsch and hard-scrabble living, that sense that the place had not changed much in a hundred years, gave her a pleasant feeling of familiarity with the surroundings.

The warm weather in Pennsylvania had lulled her into a false sense of complacency about her travel wardrobe, and other than the parka that Scott had insisted she bring, she had no other cold-weather accessories. She and Scott drove into Bar Harbor to remedy the situation.

They parked near the village green and strolled down Main Street. The season was winding down, with a few shops already closed. In one that was still doing a brisk business, Ann bought a knit cap and gloves, while Scott found a pair of red flannel pajamas decorated with a pattern of small black moose for Mike.

“From a distance you can’t even tell it’s moose,” said Scott. “I think it’s pretty classy, as moose-themed clothing goes.” He also insisted on getting Ann a moose-decorated nightshirt, and Ann retaliated by getting him moose-decorated boxer shorts.

After their clothing needs were met, they continued down Main Street toward the water. The old wooden buildings, their second stories painted a jaunty mixture of creams and blues and raspberries, stepped down toward the channel that separated Bar Harbor from Bar Island. Couples and families wandered the sidewalks, gazing in store windows or huddling on the sidewalk benches licking ice cream cones. Cars waited with varying degrees of patience for pedestrians in the crosswalks. At the end of the street, another small park—Agamont Park, according to Scott’s map—offered a view of the pleasingly named Sheep Porcupine Island. On the point stood the Bar Harbor Inn, its glass-enclosed dining room jutting prow-like toward the water, its white trim sparkling against the silver of the shingle siding. They stopped at the seawall to take in the view, watching a cruise ship make its way through the narrows assisted by a barge boat, dwarfing the sailboats and lobster boats that dotted the water.

“I wonder if cruise ships are ever haunted,” said Ann.

“Not if no one died on it, right?” said Scott.

“Right. I wonder what a cruise line would think if I called up and asked them if anyone had died on a particular ship.”

Scott became aware that a couple standing next to them at the seaway had glanced over. He smiled at them and wiggled his fingers at the little boy with them. He turned back to Ann. “Are you thinking of going on a cruise?”

Ann shrugged. “Maybe. Not on one of those giant ships, but maybe one of the small ones.”

“Mike and I took that cruise to Bermuda in a smallish one. It was nice. Good food.”

“With my luck I’d book a cruise on a clean ship and then someone would die during the cruise.”

The couple turned and moved away, herding the little boy ahead of them. Scott sighed and turned back to Ann. “Well, a cruise sounds nice. If you wanted company, maybe Mike could go along.”

“What about you?”

“I think I’ve used up my vacation time for this year.”

Ann looked back out at the ship, which was now disappearing behind one of the islands. “Because you’re babysitting me.”

“Don’t be silly, this is fun. What next? Look, there’s a place that does whale-watching tours.” And Scott and Ann headed down to the pier to see what Bar Harbor had to offer two people with a free afternoon.

Chapter 13

That evening at the hotel, Loring arrived later than usual. He appeared to be slightly inebriated, although Garrick couldn’t recall ever encountering a drunk spirit before. Garrick thought back to the young man he had first met at Lynam’s Point so many years ago—doggedly working to keep the hotel afloat, old beyond his years with responsibility. But during the off-seasons when the hotel was closed and his only responsibility was to keep it from falling down over the winter, Loring Lynam had had a reputation as a hard drinker. And in the last few years of his life, it wasn’t only during off-season that he had overindulged. When they had found his body, there had been an empty bottle of bourbon in the room.

It appeared that Loring was once again in a storytelling mood.

“So now you know how much Dad loved his mother.”

“Yes,” said Garrick cautiously.

“What did he say?” asked Ellen.

“Ellen, please don’t be a distraction,” Garrick said to her and turned back to Loring.

“It’s probably helpful for you to know how Dad felt about his father.”

“Helpful to whom?” glowered Garrick.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be able to pick up some gems of wisdom from the story,” said Loring. He stood, with that slight over-carefulness of the drunk, and walked to the window overlooking the lawn. “I never had the pleasure of meeting my grandfather—he had a heart attack on a dock in Bernard where he had gone to buy lobsters back when the dining room was open. Forty-nine years old. Forty-nine’s a bad age for the Lynam men. Or maybe I should say fifty’s a bad age for the Lynam men, since we never get to see it. Anyhow, from some of the stories Dad told—and Dad did love to tell stories—it sounds like Granddad was no treat to live with ...”