Dark Dreamer (7 page)

She made herself a cup of tea and sat down at the table. The dogs stared at her from the hall, their agitation obvious. “Jessie,” she called. “Come on, baby. Come here.”

The yellow Lab promptly sank down where she was, her wise brown eyes mournful. It would take more than honeyed words to persuade her to enter the Bad Zone. The day they’d moved in, Jessie had walked into the kitchen, and the hair along her spine rose instantly. Emitting a low, fearful growl, she slunk out into the hall where Zoe, who never tried anything unless Jessie first proved it was safe, lay on her belly, whining softly. Since that day, neither dog had ventured beyond the threshold.

What could they sense? Was it a smell? Rowe got up and paced around the room, opening the cupboards. With the exception of some basics and her favorite dinner set, she hadn’t bothered to unpack her kitchen gear into them. Every surface seemed grimy, despite the efforts of the cleaning company she’d engaged. There was no point getting worked up about it. She intended to have the cabinets ripped out soon anyway.

She stared at the door frame and recalled Phoebe standing there the day she had fainted. Her eyes had been riveted to the opposite wall, as if she saw something. Then she’d looked down at the floor and passed out. Rowe crossed the room and stood in the same position, scanning the walls and the floor. Other than the hideous paint job and ancient linoleum, she could see nothing scary.

Something terrible has happened in your house
. Evidently Phoebe truly believed she could “see” things and perceived this supposed sixth sense as an unwanted gift, not a sign of illness. Because she didn’t think she had a problem, she hadn’t spoken to a psychologist about her delusions.

Rowe wondered what it would take to make her see the truth and get some professional help. Perhaps if there was proof that nothing terrible had ever happened in the cottage, Phoebe would accept that she needed to discuss her condition with someone other than her sister and this Vernell individual.

Rowe switched off the lights and padded down the hall to the front parlor. Impulsively, she rifled through some papers on her desk and found the grubby business card she’d dropped there the other day. If she was going to investigate the history of the cottage, the local ghostbusters seemed like a good place to start.

*

Dwayne Schottenheimer and Earl Atherton were eager to help. They met Rowe at the Time Out Bar in Rockland to discuss the situation. Again, they’d been heavy-handed with the Brut cologne.

“What can you tell me about the cottage?” Rowe asked once her companions were done bemoaning the closure of the Sea Dog and marveling that they had to show ID to get a beer in this joint.

Dwayne removed his plaid hat and set it down on the table. “You bought yourself
the
most haunted house in the Midcoast,” he assured her. “Don’t you worry about that.”

“Oh, yeah!” Earl enthused. “We are talking mondo infestation. The Disappointed Dancer is only the start. I’m thinking there’s gotta be a more—” He shot a sideways glance at his colleague.

“Malevolent entity.” Dwayne supplied. “Uh…which is why we made ourselves known to you. The last occupant was driven out.”

“He hired a priest,” Earl explained.

“Like talking about the Holy Ghost makes
them
an authority on the paranormal.” Dwayne shook his head in somber resignation.

“I see.” Rowe wondered how much of this supernatural saga the realtor had known and “forgotten” to tell her. “So what do you guys know about the history of the place? Who is this Disappointed Dancer, anyway?”

“She’s your typical revenant.” Earl lifted a steel briefcase onto the seat next to him and opened the combination lock. Glancing furtively over his shoulder, he fished around inside and produced a folder marked
DHC Entities
. Written in red felt pen below this entry was
Do Not Allow to Fall Into MPRA Hands.
He pulled out a photo and slid it across to her. “Juliet Baker. Daughter of Thomas Hardcastle Baker, a rich guy who bought the house from the Widow of Dark Harbor.”

“It’s believed the Widow also haunts the cottage,” Dwayne said. “She’s been sighted on the widow’s walk. They reckon she looks out the window of that turret room waiting for her husband’s boat. He drowned in a shipwreck.”

Well, that explained why her writing still sucked, Rowe thought. She had a ghost reading over her shoulder. She picked up the photo and caught her breath. A beautiful young woman stared at her from a formal pose, dark hair piled on her head. She wore a pale ball gown with a wide, gathered sash and a modestly cut bodice. A simple black ribbon adorned her long, slender neck. From this hung a huge baroque pearl Rowe recognized instantly. The woman was Phoebe Temple.

“Could I get a copy of this?” she asked.

“You can have that one,” said Earl. “There’s plenty more. They sell it at the Camden Museum.”

Rowe turned the photograph over. The back bore a museum label on which was typed
Miss Juliet Baker on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday. Dark Harbor Cottage, 1912
. Frowning, she asked, “Are you saying the museum has the original of this photo?”

Her companions didn’t know for sure. They suggested she speak to Mrs. Chauncey of the Islesboro Historical Society, the brains behind various moneymaking schemes for the cultural preservation crowd. Rowe knew what she was destined to discover—that this enterprising lady had rustled up a few of the Midcoast’s more fetching young women to pose in costume for Victorian-style portraits. They did it in Disneyland, why not Camden?

“Have you seen the Dancer yet?” Dwayne flipped open a notebook. “Most people only hear footsteps.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure. What’s her story, anyway? How did she get the name?”

Color inched into Dwayne’s wan, freckled cheeks. “She was disappointed in love.”

“Hooked up with a loser that dumped her,” Earl said.

“They were meant to announce their engagement at her birthday ball,” Dwayne went on. “But he didn’t show.”

Earl jerked a thumb pointedly at the photo. “Pound for pound, the dumbest guy alive.”

“After she died they say servants used to see her dancing in the ballroom by herself some nights.” Gravely, Dwayne noted, “Girls aren’t like that anymore.”

Rowe kept her face straight. “You’re thinking she died of a broken heart?”

“Committed suicide, although they called it an accident back then.”

“That was one disappointed chick,” Earl contributed. “And ask yourself this—could she date any guy she wanted? I think so.”

No question about that. Rowe downed some beer while her companions lost themselves in their respective fantasies about the tragic young woman in the picture. “Tell you what,” she said, “if you don’t have anything else planned, how about you bring your equipment out to the cottage this weekend and take a look.”

Dwayne immediately broke into a visible sweat and had to remove his glasses to wipe the fogged lenses. “We were supposed to be collecting data at St. Mary’s, but—”

“Dude, it’s a cemetery,” his chubby colleague pointed out. “They’re not going anywhere.”

“Right.” Dwayne flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. “Can you report any paranormal anomalies so far? Maybe unusual lights or drop in temperature. Animals acting nervous in areas of the house?”

“My dogs won’t go in the kitchen,” Rowe said. “Kind of unusual for Labradors. That’s a food-focused breed.”

Dwayne and Earl exchanged meaningful looks.

“EMF Detector and IR thermal meter,” Earl said. “FujiFilm FinePix Digital and backup cameras. 800 speed film. Handycam with Nightshot. EVP seems like a strong possibility.”

For Rowe’s benefit, Dwayne translated, “Electronic Voice Phenomenon. Uh…maybe your dogs are hearing something you can’t hear.”

Earl nodded. “Hook up three external mics and run reel to reel.”

“Would it be okay if we monitored overnight?” Dwayne asked tentatively. “We’ll bring our own food.”

“Whatever it takes,” Rowe said.

*

Before the karaoke could get started upstairs, Rowe escaped the waterfront bar and wandered to her car listening to the dissonant clanks of the windjammers that crowded the harbor. In the grisly gray twilight, the schooners looked like a ghost fleet, their sleek hulls lapped by an indolent tide. Loons and ducks bobbed on the waters, seeking out the edible remains of another New England day.

She left the parking area and turned onto U.S. 1, taking her time so she could absorb the visual feast of her surroundings. This must be one of the most beautiful drives in Maine, she decided, the Camden Hills looming to the west, the rocky shoreline stretching like twisted fingers to the east. As she neared Lincolnville Beach, a long stretch of land took shape in the bay before her. Islesboro looked misty purple against a slate sea, its pale emerald beacon flickering from the Grindel Point lighthouse.

The line for the last ferry was long, at least by local standards, which meant there were more than ten cars, and it took a while to board. Rowe made it to the passenger deck among a throng of locals griping over the new Homeland Security requirements. The price of tickets had gone up to pay for security cameras that were unstaffed anyway, and vehicle screening held everyone up while the line attendant yammered on to buddies he noticed in the queue.

Rowe got herself a cup of coffee and found a seat by the window. Thankfully, it would take only twenty minutes to reach the island. The sea was dark and getting choppy, promising a queasy passage. That didn’t deter locals from making the crossing to Gilkey Harbor in their own small boats. Even with a squall imminent, at least six or seven craft were crawling across the bay. Lunatics, Rowe thought. But of course being eccentric was almost mandatory in these parts.

She sipped the hot, weak coffee and convinced herself that the conditions were safe. Maggie, as they called the ferry here, only operated weather permitting, and sailings were cancelled fairly regularly once winter took hold. None of her fellow passengers seemed alarmed by the gathering winds, and these people knew the changeable Maine weather. The tourist season was over and the visitors and summer people had returned to their city rabbit holes, taking their it’s-all-about-me attitudes with them. Once more the ferry was the domain of the diehards who lived here all year-round.

Rowe exchanged a smile with an older woman sitting across from her and realized she had become part of an unspoken conspiracy just by being here in November. She was a local now, even if she wasn’t a native Mainer.

“You from away?” The woman poked a few wispy gray hairs into the bun at her nape.

“Yes ma’am. Moved here from New York City a few weeks ago.” Rowe introduced herself properly and they shook hands.

“I’m Dotty Prescott.” Pointing out a man playing cards with several others a few yards away, she added, “And that’s my husband, Maurice.”

“Which part of the island are you from?” Rowe asked.

“Ames Cove.” Dotty’s eyes gleamed all of a sudden. “Oh, my word. Are you the author who bought Dark Harbor Cottage?”

“That would be me.” Rowe immediately resigned herself to having to answer silly questions about her books for the rest of the journey.

But this was Maine, where people knew how to mind their own business. Dotty simply nodded and said, “Well now, you’ll be wanting to get your firewood covered. It’s brewing up a storm. You got snowshoes?”

Rowe peered out at the menacing sky. “Not yet.”

“Ever been through a New England winter?” her companion inquired with cautious unease.

Rowe had noticed the same troubled air in other locals when she admitted moving here only recently. “No ma’am. Gets pretty bad, huh?”

“You better hire a man for your roof. You don’t want ice dams.” Dotty waved at her husband and raised her voice. “Maurie, this is the author. She needs a man for her roof.”

Heads turned. A female voice a few seats over drawled softly, “You can share ours,” and Rowe found herself staring at Phoebe Temple yet again. Only this time she had short, gelled hair and was wearing designer jeans and a sleek leather jacket.

“Cara!” Dotty beamed as the babe got to her feet. “Have you been away again?”

Phoebe’s sister slouched over and kissed the older woman on her cheek. “Yep. Sucking butt at another L.A. phonyfest.” Bold gray eyes swept Rowe. “Hi. I’m your neighbor, Cara Temple. You’ve met my sister, I think.”

Met her, been smacked in the face by her, watched her take a bath. “Yes.” Rowe summoned a casual smile. “Good to meet you at last.”

“Likewise.” Cara sounded unenthusiastic. She did not extend her hand.

Aware that her own hand was hovering a few inches from her body, Rowe withdrew it.

“Have my seat.” Dotty got up. “I’ve got Sewing Circle business to discuss with Ethel Wallace. I see her over there.”

For a second, it looked like Cara would take a pass, then she perched on the edge of the seat, making it plain she had no intention of settling in for the trip. “The roof guy is Ian Crocker,” she told Rowe. “He has a place in Ryders Cove, so he’s not far away. I’ll ask him to call on you.”

“What exactly for?” Rowe felt like a slow learner. “Dotty said something about ice dams, but I have no idea what she’s talking about.”