True Believer (11 page)

He’s not what you imagine him to be.

And what might that be? A big-city type? A ladies’ man? Someone in search of a quick fling? Someone who would make fun of the town the moment he left? Someone out for a story and willing to find one any way he could, even if it ended up hurting someone in the process?

And why on earth did she even care? He was here for a few days, and then he’d be gone and everything would return to normal again. Thank goodness.

Oh, she’d already heard the gossip this morning. At the bakery, where she’d stopped in for a muffin, she’d heard a couple of women talking about him. How he was going to make the town famous, how things might get a little better around here business-wise. The moment they saw her, they peppered her with questions about him and offered their own opinions as to whether he’d find the source of the mysterious lights.

Some people here, after all, actually believed they were caused by ghosts. But others clearly didn’t. Mayor Gherkin, for instance. No, he had a different angle, one that regarded Jeremy’s investigation as a wager of sorts. If Jeremy Marsh couldn’t find the cause, it would be good for the town’s economy, and that’s what the mayor was betting on. After all, Mayor Gherkin knew something that only a few others knew.

People had been studying the mystery for years. Not just the students from Duke. Aside from the local historian—who seemed to have fathomed a plausible explanation, in Lexie’s opinion—at least two other outside groups or individuals had investigated the claim in the past without success. Mayor Gherkin had actually invited the students from Duke to pay the cemetery a visit, in the hope that they wouldn’t figure it out, either. And sure enough, tourist traffic had been picking up ever since.

She supposed she could have mentioned that to Mr. Marsh yesterday. But since he hadn’t asked, she hadn’t offered. She was too busy trying to ward off his advances and make it clear she wasn’t interested in him. Oh, he’d tried to be charming . . . well, okay, he was sort of charming in his own way, but that didn’t change the fact that she had no intention of letting her emotions get the better of her. She’d even been sort of relieved when he left last night.

And then Doris made that ridiculous comment, which essentially meant that she thought Lexie should get to know him better. But what really burned her was that she knew Doris wouldn’t have said anything unless she was certain. For whatever reason, she saw something special in Jeremy.

Sometimes she hated Doris’s premonitions.

Of course, she didn’t have to listen to Doris. After all, she’d already done the “visiting stranger” thing, and she wasn’t about to go down that road again. Despite her resolution, she had to admit that the whole thing left her feeling a little off-balance. As she pondered it, she heard her office door open with a squeak.

“Good morning,” Jeremy said, poking his head in. “I thought I saw a light on in here.”

Swiveling in her chair, she noticed he’d draped his jacket over his shoulder.

“Hey there.” She nodded politely. “I was just trying to get caught up on some work.”

He held up his jacket. “Do you have a place I can put this? There’s not much room at the desk in the rare-book room.”

“Here, I’ll take it. The coat hanger’s behind the door.”

Entering the office, he handed Lexie the jacket. She hung it next to hers on the rack behind the door. Jeremy looked around the office.

“So this is mission control, huh? Where it all happens?”

“This is it,” she confirmed. “It’s not too roomy, but it’s enough to get the job done.”

“I like your filing system,” he said, gesturing at the piles of paperwork on the desk. “I’ve got one just like it at home.”

A smile escaped her lips as he took a step toward her desk and peeked out the window.

“Nice view, too. Why, you can see all the way to the next house. And the parking lot, too.”

“Well, you seem to be in a spunky mood this morning.”

“How can I not be? I slept in a freezing room filled with dead animals. Or rather, barely slept at all. I kept hearing all these strange noises coming from the woods.”

“I wondered how you’d like Greenleaf. I hear it’s rustic.”

“The word ‘rustic’ doesn’t quite do the place justice. And then this morning. Half the town was at breakfast.”

“I take it you went to Herbs,” she remarked.

“I did,” he said. “I noticed you weren’t there.”

“No. It’s too busy. I like a little quiet time to start the day.”

“You should have warned me.”

She smiled. “You should have asked.”

He laughed, and Lexie motioned toward the door with her hand.

Walking to the rare-book room with him, she sensed he was in a good mood despite his exhaustion, but it still wasn’t enough to make her trust him.

“Would you happen to know a Deputy Hopper?” he asked.

She looked over in surprise. “Rodney?”

“I think that was his name. What’s his deal, anyway? He seemed a little perturbed by my presence here in town.”

“Oh, he’s harmless.”

“He didn’t seem harmless.”

She shrugged. “He probably heard that you’d be spending time at the library. He’s kind of protective when it comes to things like that. He’s been sweet on me for years.”

“Put in a good word for me, will you?”

“I suppose I could do that.”

Half expecting another witty comeback, he raised his eyebrow in pleasant surprise.

“Thanks,” he said.

“No problem. Just don’t do anything to make me take it back.”

They continued in silence to the rare-book room. She led the way inside, flicking on the light.

“I’ve been thinking about your project, and there’s something you should probably know.”

“What’s that?”

She told him about the two previous investigations into the cemetery before adding, “If you give me a few minutes, I can dig them up for you.”

“I’d appreciate that,” he said. “But why didn’t you mention them yesterday?”

She smiled without answering.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Because I didn’t ask?”

“I’m only a librarian, not a mind reader.”

“Like your grandmother? Oh, wait, she’s a diviner, right?”

“Actually, she is. And she can tell the sex of babies before they’re born, too.”

“So I’ve heard,” Jeremy said.

Her eyes flashed. “It’s true, Jeremy. Whether or not you want to believe it, she can do those things.”

He grinned at her. “Did you just call me Jeremy?”

“Yes. But don’t make a big deal out of it. You did ask me to, remember?”

“I remember,” he said, “Lexie.”

“Don’t push it,” she said, but even as she spoke, Jeremy noticed that she held his gaze just a little longer than usual, and he liked that.

He liked that a lot.

True Believer

Seven

Jeremy spent the rest of the morning hunched over a stack of books and the two articles Lexie had found. The first, written in 1958 by a folklore professor at the University of North Carolina and published in the Journal of the South, seemed to have been intended as a response to A. J. Morrison’s account of the legend. The article pulled a few quotes from Morrison’s work, summarized the legend, and recounted the professor’s stay in the cemetery over a one-week period. On four of those evenings, he witnessed the lights. He seemed to have made at least a preliminary attempt to find the cause: he counted the number of homes in the surrounding area (there were eighteen within one mile of the cemetery and, interestingly, none on Riker’s Hill), and also noted the number of cars that passed within two minutes of the lights’ appearance. In two instances, the span of time was less than a minute. In the other two instances, however, there were no passing cars at all, which seemed to eliminate the possibility that headlights were the source of the “ghosts.”

The second article was only a bit more informative. Published in a 1969 issue of Coastal Carolina, a small magazine that went belly-up in 1980, the article reported the fact that the cemetery was sinking and the damage that had been caused as a result. The author also mentioned the legend and the proximity of Riker’s Hill, and while he hadn’t seen the lights (he’d visited during the summer months), he drew heavily on eyewitness accounts before speculating on a number of possibilities, all of which Jeremy was already aware.

The first was rotting vegetation that sometimes bursts into flames, giving off vapors known as swamp gas. In a coastal area like this, Jeremy knew the idea couldn’t be completely discounted, though he did think it unlikely, since the lights occurred on cold and foggy nights. They could also be “earthquake lights,” which are electrical atmospheric charges generated by the shifting and grinding of rocks deep below the earth’s crust. The automobile headlights theory was again advanced, as was the idea of refracted starlight and fox fire, which is a phosphorescent glow emitted by certain fungi on rotting wood. Algae, it was noted, could also glow phosphorescently. The author even mentioned the possibility of the Novaya Zemlya effect, in which light beams are bent by adjacent layers of air at different temperatures, thus seeming to glow. And, in offering a final possibility, the author concluded that it might be St. Elmo’s fire, which is created by electrical discharges from sharp-pointed objects that occur during thunderstorms.

In other words, the author had said it could be anything.

However inconclusive, the articles did help Jeremy clarify his own thoughts. In his opinion, the lights had everything to do with geography. The hill behind the cemetery seemed to be the highest point in any direction, and the sinking cemetery made the fog more dense in that particular area. All of which meant refracted or reflected light.

He just had to pinpoint the source, and for that, he needed to find the first time the lights had ever been noted. Not something general, but an actual date, so he could then determine what was happening in the town at that time. If the town was undergoing a dramatic change around then—a new construction project, a new factory, or something along those lines—he just might find the cause. Or if he did see the lights—and he wasn’t counting on it—his job would be even simpler. If they occurred at midnight, for instance, and he saw no passing cars, he could then survey the area, noting the location of occupied houses with lamps blazing in the window, the proximity of the highway, or possibly even river traffic. Boats, he suspected, were a possibility, if they were large enough.

Going through the stack of books a second time, he made additional notes regarding the changes in the town over the years, with special emphasis on changes around the turn of the century.

As the hours rolled on, the list grew. In the early twentieth century, there was a mini–housing boom that lasted from 1907 to 1914, during which the north side of the town grew. The small port was widened in 1910, again in 1916, and once more in 1922; combined with the quarries and phosphorous mines, excavation was extensive. The railroad was started in 1898, and spurs continued to be built in various areas of the county until 1912. A trestle over the river was completed in 1904, and from 1908 to 1915 three major factories were constructed: a textile mill, a phosphorous mine, and a paper mill. Of the three, only the paper mill was still in operation—the textile mill had closed four years ago, the mine in 1987—so that seemed to eliminate the other two as possibilities.

He checked his facts again, made sure they were correct, and restacked the books so Lexie could shelve them. He leaned back in his chair, stretched the stiffness from his body, and glanced at the clock. Already, it was coming up on noon. All in all, he thought it was a few hours well spent, and he glanced over his shoulder at the open door behind him.

Lexie hadn’t returned to check on him. He sort of liked the fact that he couldn’t read her, and for a moment, he wished she lived in the city, or even someplace near the city. It would have been interesting to see the way things might have developed between them. A moment later, she pushed through the door.

“Hey there,” Lexie greeted him. “How’s it going?”

Jeremy turned. “Good. Thanks.”

She slipped into her jacket. “Listen, I was thinking about running out to grab lunch, and I was wondering if you wanted me to bring you something back.”

“Are you going to Herbs?” he asked.

“No. If you thought breakfast was busy, you should see the place at lunch. But I’d be happy to pick up a to-go order on my way back.”

He hesitated for only an instant.

“Well, would it be all right if I came with you to wherever it is you’re going? I should probably stretch my legs. I’ve been sitting here all morning, and I’d love to see someplace new. Maybe you could even show me around a bit.” He paused. “If that’s okay, I mean.”

She almost said no, but again, she heard Doris’s words, and her thoughts became muddled. Should I or shouldn’t I? Despite her better judgment—thank you very much for that, Doris—she said, “Sure. But I’ve only got an hour or so before I have to get back, so I don’t know how much help I can be.”

He seemed almost as surprised as she did, and he stood, then followed her out the door. “Anything at all is fine,” he said. “Helps me fill in the blanks, you know. It’s important to know what goes on in a place like this.”

“In our little hick town, you mean?”

“I didn’t say it was a hick town. Those are your words.”

“Yeah. But they’re your thoughts, not mine. I love this place.”

“I’m sure,” he agreed. “Why else would you live here?”

“Because it’s not New York City, for one thing.”

“You’ve been there?”

“I used to live in Manhattan. On West Sixty-ninth.”

He almost stumbled in midstep. “That’s just a few blocks from where I live.”

She smiled. “Small world, isn’t it?”

Walking quickly, Jeremy struggled to keep up with her as she approached the stairs. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope,” she said. “Lived there with my boyfriend for almost a year. He worked for Morgan Stanley while I interned in the NYU library.”

“I can’t believe this . . .”

“What? That I lived in New York and left? Or that I lived near you? Or that I lived with my boyfriend?”

“All of it,” he said. “Or none of it. I’m not sure.” He was trying to fathom the thought of this small-town librarian living in his neighborhood. Noticing his expression, she had to laugh. “You’re all alike, you know that?” she said.

“Who?”

“People who live in the city. You live your life thinking that there’s no place in the world as special as New York and that no place else has anything to offer.”

“You’re right,” Jeremy admitted. “But that’s only because the rest of the world pales in comparison.”

Glancing over at him, she made a face that clearly telegraphed, You didn’t just say what I think you said, did you?

He shrugged, acting innocent. “I mean, come on . . . Greenleaf Cottages can’t exactly compare to the Four Seasons or the Plaza, can it? I mean, even you’ve got to admit that.”

She bristled at his smug attitude and began to walk even faster. She decided then and there that Doris didn’t know what she was talking about.

Jeremy, however, wouldn’t let it go. “Come on . . . admit it. You know I’m right, don’t you?”

By that point, they’d reached the front door of the library, and he held it open for her. Behind them, the elderly woman who worked in the lobby was watching them intently. Lexie held her tongue until she was just outside the door, then she turned on him.

“People don’t live in hotels,” she snapped. “They live in communities. And that’s what we have here. A community. Where people know and care about each other. Where kids can play at night and not worry about strangers.”

He raised his hands. “Hey,” he said, “don’t get me wrong. I love communities. I lived in one growing up. I knew every family in my neighborhood by name, because they’d lived there for years. Some of them still do, so believe me, I know exactly how important it is to get to know your neighbors, and how important it is for parents to know what their kids are doing and who they’re hanging out with. That’s the way it was for me. Even when I was off and about, neighbors would keep tabs on us. My point is that New York City has that, too, depending on where you live. Sure, if you live in my neighborhood, it’s filled with a lot of young career people on the move. But visit Park Slope in Brooklyn or Astoria in Queens, and you’ll see kids hanging out in the parks, playing basketball and soccer, and pretty much doing the same thing that kids are doing here.”

“Like you’ve ever thought about things like that.”

She regretted the sharpness in her tone the moment she lashed out at Jeremy. He, however, seemed unfazed.

“I have,” he said. “And believe me, if I had kids, I wouldn’t live where I do. I have a ton of nephews and nieces who live in the city, and every one of them lives in a neighborhood with lots of other kids and people watching out for them. In many ways, it’s a lot like this place.”

She said nothing, wondering if he was telling the truth.

“Look,” he offered, “I’m not trying to pick a fight here. My point is simply that kids turn out okay as long as the parents are involved, no matter where they live. It’s not like small towns have a monopoly on values. I mean, I’m sure if I did some digging, I’d find lots of kids that were in trouble here, too. Kids are kids, no matter where they live.” He smiled, trying to signal that he didn’t take what she’d said personally. “And besides, I’m not exactly sure how we got on the subject of kids, anyway. From this point on, I promise not to mention it again. All I was trying to say was that I was surprised that you lived in New York and only a couple of blocks from me.” He paused. “Truce?”

She stared at him before finally releasing her breath. Maybe he was right. No, she knew he was right. And, she admitted, she’d been the one who escalated the whole thing. Muddled thoughts can do that to a person. What on earth was she getting herself into here?

“Truce,” she finally agreed. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to do the driving. I didn’t bring a car.”

He looked relieved. “Let me find my keys.”

Neither was particularly hungry, so Lexie directed Jeremy to a small grocery store, and they emerged a few minutes later with a box of crackers, some fresh fruit, various kinds of cheese, and two bottles of Snapple.

In the car, Lexie set the food at her feet. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?” Lexie asked.

“Riker’s Hill. Is there a road that leads to the top?”

She nodded. “It’s not much of a road. It was originally used for logging, but now it’s mainly deer hunters. It’s rough, though—I don’t know if you want to bring your car up there.”

“No big deal. It’s a rental. And besides, I’m getting used to bad roads around here.”

“Okay,” she said, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Neither said much as they headed out of town, past Cedar Creek Cemetery and over a small bridge. The road was soon lined with ever-thickening groves of trees on both sides. The blue sky had given way to an expanse of gray, reminding Jeremy of winter afternoons much farther north. Occasionally, flocks of starlings broke into flight as the car passed, moving in unison as if tethered together by string.

Lexie was uneasy in the silence, and so she began describing the area: real estate projects that had never come to fruition, the names of trees, Cedar Creek when it could be seen through the thicket. Riker’s Hill loomed off to the left, looking gloomy and forbidding in the muted light.

Jeremy had driven this way after leaving the cemetery the first time and had turned around about here. It had been just a minute or so too soon, he learned, because she told him to turn at the next intersection, which seemed to loop around toward the rear of Riker’s Hill. Leaning forward in her seat, she peered out the windshield.