The Haunted Beach (Tropical Breeze Cozy Mystery Book 4) (5 page)

Claire Ford heard the jogger’s footsteps coming down Santorini Drive. She sat up in her balcony chair, suddenly tense. She wasn’t going to look at him. Still, wondering the whole time why she was torturing herself like this, she went to stand at the balcony railing.

At first, she didn’t look down, but as he mounted the wooden steps of the walkover her eyes disobeyed and she gazed at the man below her. The sun was touching her skin with gentle heat; the seagulls were crying; somewhere out on the beach a volleyball game got exciting and loud; the sea breeze brushed her hair back and fluttered her eyelashes. None of these things registered with Claire.

She lifted her chin and closed her eyes. Jerry would’ve loved living in this house. He’d always wanted to live in St. Augustine, ever since he was a child and was allowed to drink from the Fountain of Youth. He’d told her about it a thousand times. It had been years ago, but it had still been fresh in his memory. He’d been an excited little boy, reaching for the small cup of the magic water and swallowing it eagerly, feeling it all the way down. Feeling immortal.

That’s why they had reacted so quickly when they had learned about this house. And now she was living in it alone.

She shook her head. She couldn’t think about Jerry now. She just couldn’t. She gripped the railing and the coastal breeze rose up around her.

“All those years I was a good wife to him, through thick and thin. Do I have to go on feeling like this forever? Is it a sin to want to be happy again? Please help me to know what to do.”

She whispered this little prayer, then opened her eyes.

Dan Ryder had become an indistinguishable dot on the beach, traveling south at an easy jog over the hard-packed sand of Crescent Beach.

She realized she’d been holding her breath and exhaled before turning around and going back inside.

Directly across the street, Willa saw what Claire hadn’t: her across-the-street neighbor gazing tensely at Dan Ryder.

So, it really was like that with her. At first Willa had thought she’d only imagined it; with Claire, you couldn’t always tell. But the way she was looking at Dan, there was no mistaking it. Claire was attracted to him. Who was Willa kidding? Every woman was attracted to Dan Ryder. Oh, God, she thought, even me. The thought made her laugh.

Never a confident woman, Willa felt a lowering of her soul at the sight of the lovely blond on the other balcony. Claire was younger, more attractive, and she had a grace and calm that naturally drew men to her. Next to her, Willa always felt like a basket of dirty laundry.

She had thought her life would change when she’d been released from Frieda’s bondage. Instead, everything was just the same, only strangely, now she missed Frieda. The daily trips to the old woman’s house to feed and clean her, sort her prescriptions and keep patience as Frieda scolded her, had at least given her life a purpose. Losing that overpowering purpose should have been a relief, but instead it had cut Willa loose in a world in which she had nothing to do.

And now she was afraid of the house itself; afraid of what she saw and felt there. She still had a key to Frieda’s house, like Dolores, but she never went in alone, and tried hard not to go in at all. Was it guilt? Was it her imagination? Or was it real after all? That beautiful, beautiful house, empty, useless. She’d always dreamed of having the place to herself. Now that she could go there any time and have the place to herself, she was afraid.

“I won’t think about this,” she said out loud softly.

Turning her head, she realized she’d lost sight of Dan. He’d headed south today, and Willa had stepped out on her north balcony when she’d heard the twins coming down the drive. She’d meant to call to them to come in, but the sight of Dan Ryder jogging along had taken the voice from her throat.

She looked back at Claire’s balcony to give a friendly wave, but the other woman had gone back into her house without noticing her. Of course she had. People never noticed Willa.

She remembered how she and Dolores had agonized over Claire’s situation when she’d moved in a few weeks ago. They’d made a habit of having a welcome-neighbor party for newcomers. They had designed an e-mail especially for such occasions, the “Santorini Martini Party” e-mail. Graphics and everything. But what if the newcomer had just been widowed? In the end, they had decided to invite Claire for a simple dinner party at the Brinker house, with Willa being the only other guest. They made up their minds they’d shepherd Claire up and down the block and get her introduced, and then somehow the idea had petered out.

Claire had been so nice that evening. After dinner, while they had coffee on the balcony and Ben had counted off the shrimp boats on the horizon, Claire had been almost chummy with Willa, drawing her out about herself and the other neighbors. She remembered telling Claire about the mysterious single man living down the block, and laughing when she realized Claire thought she was talking about Ed. No, she’d told her, not the ghost hunter. She’d given her a thumbnail sketch of Ed and his little quirks, then switched back to the other man. His name was Dan. Dan Ryder. Across the street from Ed. Claire probably hadn’t seen him yet; he kept to himself, but he liked to run on the beach.

And so it had gone. Girl talk. Fun talk. Talking about herself, a little self-conscious about her boring life, but feeling flattered that Claire was so interested.

Now she looked back and felt a little uncomfortable about that conversation. Gazing at the walkover and out to the ocean, she wondered if she had said too much? The way Claire had shown so much interest, she had thought they were going to be friends and had opened up in a way she rarely did. But afterwards, Claire had gone back to her cool blond ways and they hadn’t in fact become very friendly at all. In fact, Claire seemed to be avoiding her. God, what a bore she’d been that night! Claire, she realized, had just been being kind.

Well, Willa thought with a little shake, the woman was still grieving for her husband. Of course she didn’t socialize much. And as for the night of the party, when you’re sitting right next to somebody you have to talk to them, right? It isn’t a sin to be a bore.

She frowned. Another memory had come back.

A week after the party she’d been standing in Santorini Drive with the morning copy of
The Record
in her hand, chatting with Ed, who was holding his own copy of the paper, when Claire had come out and Dan Ryder had come down the drive at the same time. Standing there, the four of them, she had felt something surging around them. Some power. Not from Ed; he tended to fade away when too many people were around. Claire and Dan were quietly polite. Willa tried to introduce them, but they said they’d already met on the beach. They were vague, awkward, strangely embarrassed.

Willa really didn’t know what she had sensed, but then Rod Johnson had come slapping down the driveway in flip flops, talking too loud and interrupting as if nobody had been talking before he got there, and the circuit was broken. Dan, seeming relieved, had nodded and headed toward the beach, and that surge of power had gone with him.

For the first time, she wondered why Rod wasn’t interested in Claire instead of herself. Because, strange but true, he was obviously interested in Willa. Maybe, she thought, catching her reflection in the patio door as she reached for the handle, I’m just more accessible. Not ugly, not overweight, not silly. And not recently widowed, like Claire. Rod was obviously lonely. Maybe she, Willa, seemed like somebody he could actually have.

She pushed her straggly, curly, graying hair back and thought about making a hair appointment. Everybody dyed their hair these days. A light brown, like her natural color, maybe with those apricot highlights that were so pretty on the check-out girl at the Publix.

The doorbell rang, and she turned and called out for the twins to come in, the door was open.

Then she went back inside, hoping they would be quick today. She didn’t really enjoy their gossip.

“What’s she depressed about?” Poppy said to Rosie as they got the lunch things and settled down to eat in the van.

They’d finished Willa’s house in record time, partly because they wanted to hurry and catch another glimpse of Dan, partly because Willa didn’t seem inclined to talk, even after they told her about the ghost hunt. After three or four non sequiturs from Willa, the twins gave up and just got on with the job.

“Who knows?” Rosie said.

It was time to clean Frieda’s house, and despite the prospect of their fantasy man coming back breathless and sweaty, they were on edge.

Waving a potato chip, Poppy said, “Whaddaya think – Mr. Renter or Mr. D-D?”

“Huh?”

“For Miss Willa.”

“Oh, right, right,” Rosie said pensively, like a biologist contemplating a particularly original coupling. “From the standpoint of the men, I’d have to vote for Mr. Renter. He’s lonely and uncool, and I can see him and Willa together. As for Mr. D-D, it’s a no-go. He’s got no business with a woman. He’d only notice her if she was a ghost.”

“You’re right about that.”

The idle chatter drifted to a halt. They were only trying to distract themselves from the job ahead, and they’d been over the imaginary love triangles of Santorini too many times to really get worked up about them. It was time. Rosie rolled up the potato chip bag and shoved it down in the empty sandwich bag, then faced her sister.

“Well?”

“It’s gotta be done.”

“Right. Let’s go.”

They got out the artillery and soldiered up to the last house.

The house was always so quiet. It had the brooding aspect that all unoccupied houses have, no matter how they are cared for. Outside, the landscaping was tended every two weeks by a hired crew, inside the Double Quick Maids fought the dust and mold and kept the plumbing wet, but somehow the house slept. Even from the beach you could see that nobody was home, and not just because the blinds were closed.

Working in silence, the twins entered through the garage, punching in the code and bringing their gear inside. They closed the overhead door reluctantly. Leaving it open made them feel less trapped, but the little anole lizards were running around outside, and they were the devil to chase out once they were in.

The door went down with a kind of finality and they entered the house, went to the hallway and pushed the button for the elevator.

That was odd. They glanced at one another uneasily. The elevator should have been on the ground floor, where they’d left it the week before, but it wasn’t. From the time it was taking, it was up on the third floor. They shrugged it off and waited.

Keeping up a cheerful conversation while they cleaned Frieda’s house was too much of a strain, and they no longer bothered. They just hit the place hard and got out again.

Once in the elevator with their gear, they closed the gate, pushed the button for the second floor and went up. They never did much on the ground floor, which had the usual oddball rooms, and they saved it for last.

The first thing they did on the main floor was open all the blinds, run their eyes over the view for a few moments, then turn away. They didn’t have to speak. They were both thinking the same thing: Dan had taken a short run today. At midday it was too hot for a long one, and he had probably returned while they were in Willa’s house. They’d missed him.

Rosie attacked the kitchen counter while Poppy started on the floor.

Their eyes met and they nodded. Bathrooms. One and a half on this floor. Then on to the third floor. They split up and got busy.

When they were finished with the main floor, they went back to the elevator.

“Okay,” Rosie said in a very steady voice. “Let’s gitt’er done.”

“I’m ready.”

But on the third floor, as the small elevator opened, they found they weren’t ready after all.

There it was again: her scent, as if she’d just dressed for a party and misted herself with Youth Dew.

The woman was dead. She’d been gone for half a year, and yet her perfume was still in the room, a strong, spicy scent with deep undertones of incense.

It was particularly strong today, all around them, thick in the air. It knocked them back, and they couldn’t even see the bedroom yet. The elevator was screened from the rest of the room by an elaborately carved partition.

Resolutely, they went around it and entered the room, chins lifted, muscles bulging with the weight of their gear.

Frieda glared at them.

Even as a teenager, Frieda had been formidable, and in the portrait on the opposite wall, she stood in a garden with pastel flowers blooming all around her, looking like a fiery empress. She met the eyes of the viewer with an arrogance that the artist had not been able to soften, and those eyes followed you all over the room, pressing into you even when they were behind you.

A white sheath draped her angular body, and the artist had put the grace and melting color that should have been in her face into the folds of the fabric. Her bare shoulders glowed like polished metal, her dark hair seemed press-molded in finger waves, and her red, red lips seemed to hold angry words in check. Every detail of the painting was more beautiful than the subject, from the sinuous branches over her head to the glint on the gold of her sandals.

She glared at the twins. She had never allowed them in her bedroom when she was alive, and even though she was dead, she still seemed outraged that they were there.

The twins lifted identical chins and went forth into the fury of Frieda’s gaze.

“You get the bathroom,” Rosie said, staring straight into the portrait’s eyes. “I’ll get started on the carpet.”

“Right.”

Giving her sister the bathroom was an act of kindness. In the bathroom, you couldn’t see Frieda.

But you could smell her. “It’s even stronger in here,” Poppy said in a quavering voice.

“Well, scrub it on out of there,” Rosie said, and she looked at Frieda while she said it. For a defiant moment, she stood before the portrait pushing back, then she turned to grab the vac. But as soon as she started it, she stopped it. Then she stood stock still for a while, absolutely rigid.

Hearing the vacuum stop, Poppy froze in the bathroom. After a minute, she said, “Rosie?” in a tremulous voice.

No answer.

“Rosie? Are you there?”

“I’m okay,” Rosie said, in a voice so watery her sister dropped the bottle of granite cleaner and ran into the bedroom. She stopped suddenly when she saw Rosie immobilized.

Slowly, Rosie took her hand away from the vacuum and very calmly said, “She’s on the stairs. I heard her. And saw her. Out of the corner of my eye, just as I started up the vacuum.”

“Oh, Rosie!”

They stared at one another for a moment, then turned their heads slowly toward the stairs as, two floors below them, there was a muffled bump.

“Yes,” Rosie said, strained but calm. “Well, this is what we’re going to do now, Sister. We’re going to clean this damn room, because it
stinks
,” she spat, looking at the portrait, “and then we are going to go report in.”

“Okay.”

Poppy turned back to the bathroom and with a calm face, a shaking hand and a thumping heart, wiped down the granite sink top. Frightened as they were, it never occurred to either one of them to simply forget about cleaning the house and collect the money on their contract anyway. No one would have known except for the two of them, but that’s not the kind of women they were.

When Poppy was finished in the bathroom, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror for a moment, looked back toward the bedroom, went across the room and flushed the damn toilet. Hard.

Ed sat behind his desk and played with his glasses, maddening the twins with his lack of reaction.

“Well?” Rosie demanded at last.

“Well what?” he asked, noticing them and blinking.

“What are you going to do about it? She’s
there
. We heard her. And we smelled her.”

“Anybody could be spraying her perfume around,” he said. “I assume her toilette is still as it was when she was alive?”

“Her toilet?”

“Her cosmetics, her toiletries, her – whatever ladies have on their vanities.”

“Oh. Yes, it’s all there,” Rosie said. “We have to dust it every week. Nothing is missing. But who the heck would be sneaking into the house and spraying her perfume?”

“It may very well be Dolores,” he mused.

“Dolores?”
they said simultaneously.

Ed became pedantic. “Her mother was an overwhelming presence in her life. Now that she is gone, handling her things, smelling her perfume, spending time in her house, imagining she is still present, may be comforting to Dolores. No, perhaps I don’t mean comforting. Steadying. Well, thank you for the information, ladies.”

It was obviously a dismissal, and the twins stared at him without getting up from their seats.

“So what does that mean?” Rosie demanded.

“It means,” he told them, replacing his glasses and giving each of them a direct look, “that I am finished with the preliminaries and am launching a formal investigation as of now. I am convinced that Dolores is in real danger. I’ll be covertly monitoring the beach at night, and if it seems warranted, I am going into that house.”

“You can’t get in without Ben’s permission,” Poppy said quickly. “And you can’t tell Ben what you’re doing. You promised.”

“I’m going in, with or without Ben’s permission. Dolores’s life or sanity may be at stake.”

“How are you going to get in? You don’t know the code.”

“Oh, ladies, ladies, ladies. Do you think you’re dealing with a child? It’s 1-2-3-4, right? If her keypad is like mine, you put in the code and simply press Enter, and voila. Up she rises.”

Startled, Rosie demanded, “How did you know?
I
would have told you anyway,” she added, glaring at her sister, “but how
did
you know?”

“Elementary, my dear Rosie,” he said, covertly glancing at her nametag. “If Dolores can’t remember any other gate code, she wouldn’t remember any other garage code either, and for years she’s been going in to take care of her mother. So as long as Ben hasn’t changed the code for the sake of trying to keep her out of the house –“

“He hasn’t.”

“It’s still the same.”

“I don’t think you should go in there,” Poppy said.

“Really? Why not? You’re the ones who asked for my help in the first place.”

“Yeah, but that was mostly Rosie’s idea. I think it’s too dangerous. I don’t even like being in there during the day, and no amount of money could get me in there at night. No offense, Mr. D-D, but Miss Frieda is more powerful than you are, even dead. If something happened to you, I’d feel like it was our fault.”

“And if something happened to Dolores?”

“Yeah,” her sister said. “Isn’t that why we told him in the first place?”

Poppy glared at both of them. “Oh, well, all
right!
I can’t stop you. I’ve said my piece. You be careful, Mr. D-D, that’s all.”

“I shall,” Edson said, rising. “The investigation begins.”