Moon Dance (11 page)

"Good morning," he call
ed to her as she rounded the corn
er of the open porch.

"Well, good morning to you, sir." Georgia smiled and climbed the steps, happy to greet the very gentleman who had been the object of her unsuccessful search the night before. "Now, would you happen to be Mr. Chandler, the same Mr. Chandler who holds the record for Most Games of Candyland Lost to a Five-year-old in One Week?"

"Ah, news travels quickly in a snail town, doesn't it?" He laughed good-naturedly. "And might you be the Aunt Georgia who managed somehow to beat this same five-year-old twice in one night?"

"By luck, not by skill." Georgia grinned and took the outstretched hand he offered to her. "I'm Georgia Enright."

"Gordon Chandler," he told her, "and I am in your debt."

"How is that?"

"If not for you, I might not have found this wonderful inn."

"Well, it's pretty hard to miss. It's the only inn in Bishop's Cove."

"True. But if I hadn't stopped for coffee the morning I met you on the beach, I might not have decided to move from Ocean City, where I'd been staying in a motel, to this much more amenable, infinitely more convenient lodging, with its nightly entertainment of board games and tales told by the locals. And, I might add, the food is superb."

"Well, then, I'm glad we ran into each other on the beach. Have you been back to watch the sunrise?"

"On several mornings," he replied, nodding.
"Though I have to admit that I enjoy it a great deal more without that arctic blast that was blowing for a few days last week."

"I
couldn't agree more." Georgia shivered, recalling her first morning seated on the beach in the dark, so stark a comparison to the peace of that morning's more gentle dawn. "By the way, I saw you on CNN a few months ago. The debate with the archaeologist and the congressmen
…"

"Ah, yes. And a lively debate it was." Gordon Chandler's eyes began to twinkle.

"I'm afraid I missed much of it, so I didn't fully understand the issues."

"Oh, it's a complicated mess, that's for certain." He leaned back against the nearest porch column. "There's been a battle brewing for years between the salvagers—commercial treasure hunters—and the marine archaeologists."

"I'm not sure I understand the difference." Georgia frowned.

"As a general rule, a salvager seeks to recover sunken ships to sell off the artifacts he or she recovers for profit, whereas a marine archaeologist might want to recover that same vessel and its cargo intact to preserve it."

"And you are which?"

"Actually, I am a salvager, but I do like to think that I am a bit of a preservationist, as well. I have, in the past, sold off a limited amount of the artifacts I've found, but I've also donated a goodly portion of the bounty to interested historical groups."

"It must be hard to recover your expenses if you're giving away your loot."

Chandler laughed. "This isn't a business one enters solely to make money. Maybe at one time there might have been fortunes to be made. My grandfather and father both are perfect examples of that. But in nineteen eighty-seven the government enacted the Abandoned Shipwreck Act, which gives the coastal states the right to claim title to any ship found up to three miles offshore. These days, if you are lucky enough to locate a wreck with cargo worth pursuing, you can spend as much time negotiating to keep a portion of the artifacts as you do trying to bring it up."

"Then why do it?"

"Why breathe?" He grinned boyishly. "Why eat? Why sleep?"

Smiling, she caught his drift.

"I see," she said.

"Besides, it isn't totally without financial benefit," he explained. "I negotiated the rights to the ship I'm searching for now when I helped the state of Maryland recover several Civil War cannons from the Chesapeake a few years back. So whatever I find out there"—he nodded toward the beach—"I get to keep. Plus, I get the movie and book rights."

"My mother would be fascinated by this," Georgia told him. "She's a writer, and is always looking for interesting things to slip into her latest novel."

"Oh? Would I know her books?"

"Delia Enright."

"Of course. You did say your name was Enright. I know your mother's work well. As a matter of fact, I met her all too briefly, a few years ago, at a booksellers convention in Boston. A lovely, lovely woman, I recall," he said thoughtfully.

"She is, yes." Georgia drained the last bit of coffee from her cup. "If you're around in two weeks, you'll probably run into her. She's coming down to see Ally's school play."

"Ally?" He seemed puzzled by the connection. "Oh, of course. Laura's daughter would be—"

"Mother's granddaughter." Georgia nodded. "We're all planning on attending. The Bishop's Cove Kindergarten Spring Production is quite the thing, they tell me."

"Well, then, I'll just have to see if I can beg a ticket."

"We'd be delighted to have you join us. And I'm sure Mother will be delighted to see you again." Georgia smiled.
And if she isn't, we
'
ll take her somewhere and have her head examined.
"Well, I think I'll go in and see if there's anything I can help Laura with this morning. It was fun talking with you. I'm sure we'll run into each other again."

"We will if you're planning on staying at the inn for a while. Or do you live here with Ally and Laura?"

"Oh, no. No. I'm just here for a visit."

"I hope it's been a pleasant one."

"It has been. Thank you," Georgia said as she opened the big front door and slipped through it.

She strolled across the oriental rug in the lobby and poked her head into the kitchen. Laura was biting her lip and tapping her fingers on the counter.

"Oh, Georgia," her face brightened. "You were going out to Pumpkin Hill today anyway for preserves. Would you mind going through the house to make certain that there was no break-in there as well? I really don't want to postpone the meeting with my mother's doctor. Matt said he'd try to reschedule some appointments if he could, but he couldn't make any promises, and Chief Monroe wanted us to check out the house as soon as possible to see if anything's been disturbed. You were there just yesterday, so you'd know right away if anyone's been in there."

"I don't mind at all." Georgia leaned on the wide wooden molding that framed the kitchen door. "As a matter of fact, I'm on my way up to shower. I'll leave as soon as I'm dressed."

"Wonderful. I'll tell the Chief that you'll meet him out there. Thank you."

"I'm happy to help." Georgia took the steps two at a time, grateful to be able to do this small thing for Laura, who had so much on her own plate: the running of the inn, an ill mother, and the full-time job of being a single parent.

Georgia wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to Laura's husband. Whenever she had inquired, Laura changed the subject without acknowledgment. As Georgia climbed the steps she reflected on the fact that there were no photos of the man anywhere, as far as she had seen, nor had Ally ever mentioned her father.
I
don't even know what his name is,
she pondered as she closed her bedroom door behind her and stripped off her running clothes. Not his first name anyway.
Harmon
is his last name. Georgia had seen Ally's kindergarten report with the name Allison Hope Bishop-Harmon across the top.

Maybe this Harmon fellow had abandoned them;
slipped away and disappeared so that he wouldn't have to pay alimony and child support.
Or maybe,
Georgia thought more charitably,
he had died.
An accident, perhaps, or an illness. Curious though she was, Georgia could not bring herself to press for information concerning a subject that her sister obviously did not care to discuss. She'd asked Zoey, who had no more information but as much curiosity as Georgia herself had. She'd asked Delia, who'd been quite vague on the subject, making a comment to the effect that if and when Laura wanted to talk about it, she would, but for the life of her, Georgia couldn't understand Laura's reluctance. It appeared that Laura's husband—Ally's father—would just have to remain a mystery until such time as Laura felt inclined to enlighten her.

At the very least, it would have to wait until Georgia returned from her trip to Pumpkin Hill.

It was a relatively short, and definitely easy drive to the s
mall country town of O'Hearn
, really just two turns once you left Bishop's Cove, Georgia realized. It was less than thirty minutes from the inn to the farmhouse that sat just outside the town limits, and she turned slowly into the drive and parked alongside the house, near the fenced-in garden. Chief Monroe must not have arrived, she surmised, there being no patrol car in sight. Jiggling the keys, she swung out of the Jeep and headed for the back door, then turned back to the garden fence. Something looked different this morning. What was it?

The latchless gate, which Laura had closed the day before, had been pushed open, probably, Georgia thought, by the wind. She began to pull the gate
closed, then stopped and stared at the garden that lay within the old fence. Someone had obviously paid a visit between yesterday afternoon and this morning. Here and there plants were half pushed from the ground, and the tall stalks that
had stood dried and tall just the day before, now lay broken on the dirt. Fresh grooves cut into the earth at random angles, and the remains of last summer's root crop, halfeaten, were strewn messily about. The whole effect was that of hungry vandals having come through the night before to plunder. Georgia stood with her hands on her hips, wondering why someone would do such a thing.

She pulled the gate shut as tightly as she could, then toned to look at the house, wondering if perhaps the same intruders who had created such chaos in the garden and had broken into the ba
rn
had managed to get into the house, as well. Surely the police would have checked, but she decided that a cautious look around before going in was always a wise move.

The tall grass that grew around the foundation of the old farmhouse stood as upright this morning as it had the day before, showing no sign that it had been trampled flat by invading feet. Georgia strolled around the outside of the house, checking to see if all the windows and doors were intact. It appeared that the kids who had stopped by in the night had confined their pillage to t
he garden and a visit to the barn
. Satisfied that there were no unwelcome guests lingering about, Georgia went to the back door and unlocked it with the key Laura had given her. She
stepped into the kitchen, paused, then locked the door behind her. Just in case.

The early morning sun flooded through the windows to welcome her, and Georgia smiled without realizing she was doing so. The room was warm and pleasant and homey. She left her purse on the kitchen table and walked through the house to make certain that all was well. She passed through the dining room into the living room, then into the small sitting room beyond. Nothing was out of place, and she headed up the steps to check the bedrooms. The house was quiet but, oddly, did not feel vacant, as if the life that had filled this place lingered long after its occupants had departed. It was not, Georgia realized, at all disconcerting, but rather a pleasant suggestion of welcome. The feeling of ease followed her back down the steps to the
ki
tchen, where she unlocked the basement door and turned on the light. Laura had given her a list of things to bring from the jelly cupboard downstairs, and she pulled the small piece of paper out of her pocket as she descended into the basement.

Georgia found the ancient pine cupboard just as Laura had described it, and opened the double doors. Rows of jars were aligned precisely across each of the shelves. Stacking her arms with dusty jars of the requested peach, plum, and strawberry jam, she carried them carefully up the stairs to the kitchen, where she placed them on the counter. On the second trip down she moved several jars around, searching in the dim light for the peaches Jody had asked for, and found herself marveling at the contents of the
cupboard, of the jewel-like colors and the shapes that shone through the clear sides of the glass containers. There were small canning jars of deep amethyst-purple grape preserves, strawberry jam as dark and rich as garnets, and emerald green piccalilli. Larger jars of tomatoes gleamed as bright a ruby red as they had when Hope Carter had placed them there the year before. Jars of deep brown apple butter and golden peaches stood side by side on the top shelf. There was a beauty to the colors, an artistry to the arrangement, that Georgia could not define. She knew only that for some reason, it brought a anile to her face to look into those shelves and see the preserved bounty of Pumpkin Hill spread out before her. She found herself wishing that she had known the woman whose hands had created such a pattern of perfection from the fruits of the earth, and in that moment understood Laura's reluctance to empty the cupboard of its contents.

Georgia took down three large jars of peaches, two small jars of apple butter, and slipped in one of pumpkin butter as well. It would be a shame when the day finally came that these shelves stood empty, she found herself thinking as she closed the doors to the old cupboard. She went back up the steps and lined the jars up with the jams, then searched in the space under the sink for a dishcloth she could use to wipe dust from the jars. Once they were cleaned up and the cloth rinsed off, her small task complete, she was free to leave the house and could wait outside for Chief Monroe to arrive, but found herself not yet ready to lock the door behind her. What would it hurt
if she sat at that old round table and had a cup of tea while she waited for the police chief to arrive?