Читать книгу Ghost Shadow - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 8

Now

“Personally, I think you’ve taken on way too much,” Clarinda said, voicing her opinion in a loud whisper next to Katie’s ear. She had to come down to Katie’s ear to be heard so close to the sound system. A drunken frat boy from Omaha was in the midst of a soulful Alice Cooper song, the bar was full and the noise level was high.

Katie shrugged and grinned, looking up at her friend. Maybe she was taking on too much, but an opportunity had come up, and she hadn’t been able to resist.

“It will be wonderful, it will work out—and it will be good for Key West,” Katie said in return.

Clarinda arched a doubtful brow, set down a glass of water with lime on the small table at Katie’s side and shook her head. “I’ll help you, of course,” she said. “And, you know, Danny Zigler will be delighted to come and work for you. He was heartbroken when the place shut down years ago. People say that it’s haunted, of course. You know that, right?”

“So I’ve heard,” Katie said.

“Sweetie, can we get another round over here?” a man shouted above the din.

“Just don’t call me sweetie,” Clarinda said, exhaling a sigh of exasperation. “What is this tonight? We usually get the locals who actually know how to hold their liquor.”

“Gee. We’re in Key West and we’ve been discovered by tourists. Go figure,” Katie said.

“Yeah, well, I wish I were the karaoke hostess and not the waitress,” Clarinda said.

“Hey, I’ve told you that you can work for me—”

“And when the place is slow and the hostess is supposed to sing, I assure you that I’ll clean out not just the bar, but the entire street. No—eventually, I’ll make my fortune doing caricatures on Mallory Square, but until that day, I’ll be your support by helping drunks get drunker and therefore hand out big tips. Okay, that helps both of us.”

“Sweetie!” the man called again. “Another round!”

“He’s going to get the round on top of his head,” Clarinda promised and strode toward the bar.

The Alice Cooper tune was winding down. Next up was a fellow who wanted to do Sinatra. Katie applauded both the man returning to his seat and the one walking up to the microphone.

Stumbling up to the microphone. What was it with tonight? It was true—the strange and totally inebriated seemed to be coming out of the woodwork. Well, it was Key West. Home to some, but mainly a tourist town where the primary activity was drinking too much.

Key West has much more to offer, she thought, defending her native territory. The fishing was excellent, diving was spectacular and many visitors came for the water sports. But it was true as well that young and old flocked from far and wide to Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville for the sheer pleasure of a bachelor party, or just wild nights along Duval. Duval was the hub of nightlife, and it was the main place for cheap hotel rooms.

Her place—or her uncle Jamie’s place, O’Hara’s, where she ran Katie-oke—was off the southern end of Duval while most of the more popular watering holes were at the northern end. She did tend to draw a lot of the locals. Many of the entertainers who worked at the festivals—Fantasy Fest, Pirates in Paradise, art fests, music fests, Hemingway Days and more—came in to practice their newest songs with Katie. She operated Katie-oke four nights a week. She also worked at O’Hara’s when she wasn’t doing karaoke, helping set the sound and stage for performers working on their own music, or doing easy acoustic and vocal numbers on Monday and Tuesday nights.

She had received a degree from Juilliard and taken work with a prestigious theater company in New England, and she had loved New England, but it hadn’t been home. She’d eventually discovered that she couldn’t take snow and sleet, and wanted to make her living in Key West.

She realized that she was good at the heat, good at sweating. She just never learned to layer properly.

And the water! How she missed the water when she was away. Her own home, a small Victorian—one of more than three thousand houses in the area on the state’s historic roster—wasn’t on the water, but on Elizabeth Street. She was in Old Town, and surrounded by tourism. She got her fill of water, however, because one of her best friends, an old high-school mate, Jonas Weston, now dating Clarinda, owned and operated the Salvage Inn, a place on the Gulf side with its own little stretch of manmade beach. She was welcome there, whenever she wanted to go.

“Those fellows are being quite obnoxious. Want me to take one of them out?”

Katie heard the question, but she didn’t even look over at the speaker. Bartholomew knew that he irritated her when he decided to converse in the company of others.

Unaware of Bartholomew casually and handsomely draped upon a bar stool near Katie, Marty Jenkins, local pirate entertainer, came to her side. “Will you play a seashanty disc for me, Katie?”

“Of course, Marty,” she said.

He handed her his disc and she slid it into her system. “No words can come up on the screen, Marty. But you don’t need them, right?”

He grinned. “Gearing up for the next pirate show, my sweet. No words needed. Thanks.”

“I’m sure everyone will love it, Marty.”

“Hey, I heard you bought the old wax museum, Katie,” Marty said.

“Marty, it’s not a wax museum. It’s full of robotics.”

“Isn’t that supposed to mean that they all move?” Marty asked.

“I believe that they all can move. They’re just not operating right now.”

“Actually, none of them work, from what I understand.” Marty wagged a finger at her. “That place has been closed down for five years now. Craig Beckett tried to keep it going after that girl’s body was found, but he threw in the towel. If you can get your money back, young lady, you ought to do it.”

“I want to open it, Marty. I loved the place when I was a little kid,” she told him.

He shook his head. “They say it’s haunted, and not haunted by good. You know what happened there. Murder!”

“It was very sad, and a long time ago, Marty. What happened was tragic—some idiot making use of someone else’s dream for a dramatic effect, but it’s all in the past now. I’ll be all right, Marty.”

“They never caught the killer, missy,” he reminded her.

“And I’m thinking that the killer moved on, Marty. Nothing like it has happened again.”

Still shaking his head, Marty left her.

“I think he must be right. It doesn’t sound like a good place to be,” Bartholomew informed her, leaning near and whispering, though why he whispered, she didn’t know. “Hey! That man is still behaving in a rude and disrespectful way toward Clarinda. Should I do something about it?”

Katie grated her teeth and looked toward the bar and the revenant of the man who stood next to her. She was sure that to the rest of the people present, there was nothing to be seen.

Or heard.

She lowered her head and spoke in an intense whisper. “Bartholomew, if you wish to maintain a mortal friend, I entreat you to cease and desist—shut up! You make me appear unbalanced, talking to myself all the time.”

“That chap is an utter ass,” Bartholomew protested. “Oh, and there she goes again, out on the street.”

Katie looked up. She couldn’t help herself.

It was true. A woman in white was walking along the sidewalk, staring straight ahead. She was in a Victorian white dress, and she knotted a handkerchief in her hands. She looked so sad that Katie felt a pang in her heart, and she bit her lower lip to remind herself that it was a curse seeing ghosts, that she couldn’t become involved with all of them—there were simply too many in Key West—and that the woman was long dead and needed only to discover some kind of inner peace to move on.

“She haunts me so,” Bartholomew said. He grimaced. “No pun intended.”

Katie looked around as Bartholomew chuckled. His long-dead state did not seem to dampen his good spirits. He’d been an adventurer in life—and a privateer, not a pirate!—and his sense of curiosity and longing for new experiences had not deserted him in death. He stared at Katie. “You really don’t know who she is? And she won’t talk to you?”

“She never has,” Katie said.

“Watch it,” Bartholomew warned.

She realized Clarinda was staring at her with concern in her eyes.

Katie knew that thus far in her life, only she seemed to be blessed by Bartholomew’s presence.

He was quite the dandy. His shoes were buckled and bore heels, his hose didn’t display a single knot and his breeches were impeccable. He wore a ruffled shirt, red vest and black jacket. His hair was jet-black and neatly queued beneath his tricornered hat. She knew he was especially fond of the Pirates in Paradise festival himself, and he insisted that they spend their time watching the musicians and joining in with the festivities because he loved to comment on the modern-day pirates roaming Key West.

“Are you all right?” Clarinda asked, coming back up to Katie’s equipment stand and sidling around to stand next to her chair. “You’re talking to yourself again,” she warned. “One of the fellows over there wanted to buy you a drink. He thought you were already well on the way.”

Katie looked over to the group where her would-be admirer was sitting. She frowned, recognizing the man, but not knowing why. “I don’t want a drink—thank him for me. I was singing under my breath to the song, that’s all. Clarinda, who is that guy?”

Clarinda turned and waved a hand. The fellow shrugged. He had tawny-blond hair, a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and appeared to be in his midthirties. He was so familiar, and not anyone she saw on a daily basis.

“He does look—like we should know him, huh?”

“But I don’t think he’s a local,” Katie said.

“Maybe he’s on the news—or a fishing show, or something like that,” Clarinda suggested.

“Well, let’s not make enemies. Tell him thanks for me but no thanks, and that I don’t drink when I work. I was just humming and halfway singing along with the music,” Katie said.

“Of course. And don’t worry. I already told him that you didn’t drink while you were working. He said all karaoke hosts drank. I said you didn’t.”

“Thanks. Just be pleasant to him. I can always take care of myself, honestly,” Katie assured her.

“Indeed! Because I’m at your side,” Bartholomew said. “And I can take my cutlass to any rat bastard’s throat.”

Katie glared at him.

“All right, all right, so I can’t master a sword anymore. I can trip the bastard,” Bartholomew assured her. “I’m quite an accomplished trip artist for a ghost, if I do say so myself.”

“Lovely,” Katie said.

“What’s lovely?” Clarinda asked.

“That it’s finally near closing time. Marty is about to come up. Oh, and it’s thinning out, so…ah! I know what we’ll do.”

“Katie, I do not sing—”

“It will be fine,” Katie assured her. As she walked back to check on the state of her customers, Katie turned to Bartholomew. “Hush until I’m done here tonight, do you hear me? What fun will you have if they lock me up for insanity?”

“Here? In modern-day Key West? Oh, posh. I’ve yet to see an even semisane person living in or visiting the place,” Bartholomew protested.

“Shut up now, and I mean it!” Katie warned.

Of course, what she could possibly do to him—how to really threaten a ghost—she didn’t know herself. She’d been plagued for years and years by…whatever it was that allowed her to see those who had “crossed the veil into the light,” as many seemed to term it.

Bartholomew sniffed indignantly and went to lean against the bar, his sense of humor returning as he crossed his arms over his chest and indulged in eavesdropping on everyone around him.

Soon after, Marty went up to do his new song, the crowd, a mix of locals and tourists, went wild and he invited everyone down for Fantasy Fest. Someone asked him about Fantasy Fest and Marty explained that it was kind of like Mardi Gras—a king and queen were elected—and kind of like Halloween, and kind of like the biggest, wildest party anyone could think of. Costumes, parties and special events all around the city. There was a parade with dressed up pets—and undressed people in body paint. It was fabulous, a feast and pure fantasy for the heart and the imagination.

He was proud of himself for his explanation. The next person asked about Pirates in Paradise, and Marty looked troubled. After thinking he said that it was kind of like Fantasy Fest but not—there were pirate parties, pirate encampments, historical demonstrations—and heck, a lot of swaggering and grog drinking, but people were welcome to wear costumes. They could see a mock trial of Anne Bonny, they could learn so much—and run around, saying arrgh, avast and ahoy all day if they liked.

When the crowd finally began to thin around 3:00 a.m., Katie and Clarinda did a song together from Jekyll and Hyde, despite Clarinda’s objections. Her friend had a lovely, strong voice but didn’t believe it; she would only go up late at night and when it was fairly quiet, and only with Katie.

The bar didn’t close up until 4:00 a.m., but Katie ended her karaoke at three, giving folks time to finish up and pay their bar tabs. After she had secured her equipment for the night—she only had to see that the karaoke computer and all her amps were covered and that her good microphones were locked away—she was ready to head home and to sleep. Clarinda stopped her at the door. “Hey, Jonas is coming by for me in an hour or so. We’ll walk you home. Hang around.”

Katie shook her head. “I’m fine, honestly. I grew up here, remember? I know how to avoid drunks and—”

“We actually get gangs down here now, you know,” Clarinda said firmly.

“I’m going straight home. I’ll take Simonton, I won’t walk on Duval. I’ll be fine.”

Clarinda remained unhappy, but Katie had no intention of being swayed. Her uncle was up in St. Augustine, and Jon Merrillo was managing the bar, so she intended to slip out without being stopped by anyone. On Saturday, she would officially take ownership of the Beckett family’s myth-and-legends museum, and she was tense and wanted to be anywhere but at work. “You watch yourself with those drunks!” she warned.

“Oh, honey, if there’s one thing I learned while you were away at school, it’s how to handle drunks. Oh, wait! We both knew how to manage that before you left. Go. I’ll be fine. And Jonas will be here soon.”

Waving and clutching her carryall, Katie left the bar.

At 3:00 a.m., Duval Street was far from closed down. She wondered with a quirk of humor what DuVal—the first governor of territorial Florida—would have thought of the street named in his honor.

Certainly, it kept the name from being forgotten.

Key West was filled with history that shouldn’t be forgotten. The name itself was a bastardization of Cayo Hueso, Island of Bones, and came from the fact that hueso had sounded like west to the English-speaking British who had claimed the state from the Spaniards. The name fit because it was the most western of the Islands of the Martyrs, which was what the chain of Florida “keys” had been known as to the Spanish. Actually, the Islands of the Dry Tortugas were farther west, but the name had been given, and it had stuck. Street names came from the early Americans—Simonton and his friends, colleagues and their families. Simonton had purchased Key West from a Spaniard named Salas when Florida had become an American territory. Salas had received the island as a gift—or back payment for a debt—from the Spanish governor who had ruled before the American governor. The island had seen British rule as well, and often, no matter who ruled, it wasn’t ruled much at all.

The place was colorful, throughout history, and now.

“You do love this place,” Bartholomew noted as he walked alongside her.

She shrugged. “It’s home. If you’re used to the beautiful fall colors in Massachusetts, that’s home. Down here, it’s the water, and the craziness. Yes, I do love it.”

She stopped walking and stared across Simonton, frowning.

“What?” Bartholomew asked her. “I see nothing. Not even the beauty in white who frets so night after night.”

“Lights.”

“Lights? They’re everywhere, and trust me, I can remember when they weren’t,” Bartholomew told her.

“No! There are lights on in the entry at the old Beckett museum. My museum.”

“You don’t officially own it until Saturday, or so you said.”

“Right, I have a meeting at the bank on Saturday—Liam is going to come and help me—and I sign the final papers, but…”

There shouldn’t have been anyone in the museum. Craig Beckett had passed away at eighty-eight almost a year ago, a dear man, one who might have lived forever. His health had been excellent. But his life had existed around a true love affair. When Leandra, his wife of sixty-plus years had passed away, he had never quite recovered. He hadn’t taken a pistol to his head or an overdose of prescription medication, he had simply lost his love for life. Liam Beckett, a friend of Katie’s since she had come back—they hadn’t been friends before, since Liam had graduated high school before she had started—had been the assumed executor of the estate, and he’d planned to tear the museum down rather than invest in repairing it. The place hadn’t been open in years; Katie had loved it as a child, and she had long dreamed of reopening it. She had talked Liam into agreeing. David Beckett, Liam’s cousin and coexecutor of the estate, hadn’t actually corresponded about the matter yet. He’d been working in Africa, Asia, Australia or somewhere far away for the past few years, and Liam was convinced that David wouldn’t care one way or another what happened to the place. It was unlikely he would remain in the Keys if he actually returned at all. Since David had left, almost ten years ago, he had never wanted to come home.

His former fiancée, the great love of his life at the time, even though she had left him, had been murdered. Strangled. She was left there, in the family museum, posed in position as the legendary Elena Milagro de Hoyos.

He’d been under suspicion. He’d had an alibi—his grandparents. That alibi had made some people suspicious. After all, what would his grandparents say? But he hadn’t run; he had waited through the beginning of the investigation, he had stayed in town until the case had gone cold and then he had left, never to return.

Katie knew that some people thought that he should have been further investigated. She remembered him, but just vaguely. He’d been a big high-school sports star down here. Sean, her brother, had also loved sports. He was older and knew David Beckett better.

Curious, Katie crossed the street. It was quiet; streetlamps illuminated the road itself, but here on Simonton the revelry taking place still on Duval was muted and seemed far away. She stared up at the building that housed the Beckett family museum.

Originally, she knew, it hadn’t been chosen for any historical reason. The house was built in the late eighteen-fifties by Perry Shane. Shane had deserted it to fight for the Federals back in his native New Jersey. For years afterward, the house had just been one of many old places that needed work. The Beckett family had purchased it in the twenties because it had been cheap, a seventy-year-old fixer-upper. Now it was one of the grand dames of the street, mid-Victorian, boasting wraparound porches on both the first and second floors, and around the attic garret, a widow’s walk. Kate didn’t think anyone had ever really been able to see the water and incoming ships from the walk, but it had been a fashionable addition to the house at the time it had been built.

Once, it had offered six bedrooms on the second floor and two in the attic. Downstairs had been the parlor, library, dining room, office and pantry. The kitchen had been out back about twenty feet away. There was also a carriage house. Now, when you entered through the front door, the gate and turnstiles were positioned there. The tour began on the second floor and wound around through the rooms, brought visitors down the servants’ stairway to the first floor and then around once again, back to the front.

“What are you doing?” Bartholomew demanded, following her.

“I want to know why there’s a light on,” Katie said.

“Because someone is in there. And you don’t own it yet. It could be someone dangerous.”

“It could be frat boys on a lark, and I’m getting them out of there before they do damage to the place. Craig Beckett might have closed it down a few years ago, but it still has all of the exhibits in place,” Katie said.

“What if it’s not a frat boy?” Bartholomew protested. “Katie, don’t go in there.”

“You’re with me. I’ll be fine.”

“Katie! Awake and see the sunrise, lass! Me—ghost. I love to remember the days when I was strong and tough and could defend a girl with certainty and vigor. If you get into real trouble because the place is being pilfered or plundered by a criminal—”

“Bartholomew, what thief turns on the lights?” Katie demanded.

Bartholomew groaned. “A drunk one? Katie—!”

Bartholomew groaned. Katie had jumped the low white-picket gate that surrounded the place.

“Katie!”

“What?”

“Murder, murder most foul!” Bartholomew cried.

He’d always been fond of quoting and paraphrasing Shakespeare.

“Murderers do not turn the lights on!” she tossed over her shoulder in return.

“How do you know?” he demanded

She ignored him and walked up the limestone path that led to broad steps to the porch and the door.

She felt him close behind her.

Was she crazy? No! This was about to be her place, and she could speed-dial the police in two seconds. She wasn’t going in with lights blazing; she would see what was going on by lurking in the darkness. She knew the place.

At the door she paused. She reached for the knob and as she did so, the door opened, creaking a bit, as if it had been pushed by a sudden wind.

“I did not do that!” Bartholomew whispered.

She shook her head impatiently and stepped in.

The once beautiful hardwood floors did need work, she noticed. Workmen had been in and out through the years, and their boots had done some damage. The gate area still boasted an old-fashioned cash register, but the mahogany desk, where an attendant sold tickets, was beautiful. It had been bought from an auctioneer and had once been the captain’s desk in an old sailing ship. The swivel chair behind it was equally old, handsome and still comfortable. Katie was familiar with everything; she had walked through with Liam Beckett just a few days earlier.

The light that she had seen from the street had come from the entry. It was the muted light of the foyer’s chandelier, and it cast a gentle glow over the place.

Katie opened her mouth, about to call out, but she didn’t. She chose not to twist the turnstile—the noise here would be like an explosion. She sat atop the old mahogany desk and swung her legs around, then stepped to the other side.

Looking up was eerie. Figures of Papa Hemingway and his second wife, Pauline, were posed coming down the stairway. They had always been a big hit at the museum, with eighty percent of those going through the place having their pictures taken with the pair.

“Don’t you dare go up those stairs,” Bartholomew commanded sternly.

Katie almost smiled, grinning at him. “Bartholomew, you’re scared. A ghost can’t be scared. My God, Bartholomew. You were a pirate.”

“Privateer. My boat was authorized by the government,” Bartholomew corrected irritably. “And don’t be ridiculous, I’m not frightened. Yes, wait, I am frightened for you, foolish girl. What is the matter with you? I know your family taught you better. Innocent young ladies do not wander into dark alleys.”

“This isn’t a dark alley.”

“No, it’s worse. You can get trapped in here.”

“I’m not going upstairs,” she assured him.

She walked to the side, realizing that she was going in the wrong historical order. She wasn’t going up the stairs; she just wanted to see what was going on.

“Katie,” Bartholomew warned, following her.

She turned and stared at him. “What? I’m going to be scared silly? I’m going to see ghosts?”

“Ghosts will seldom hurt you. Living people, bad people, criminals, rapists, murderers and thieves—they will hurt you,” Bartholomew said sternly.

“Just one more minute…We’ll check out the downstairs, and I’ll call the cops. Or Liam. Liam is a cop. All right? I just don’t want to cry wolf.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to create an alarm when there’s no need. Maybe Liam was here earlier and left the light on.”

“And the door open?” Bartholomew said doubtfully.

Katie shrugged.

She walked to the left, where the tour began once visitors reached the first floor. The first room offered one of Key West’s most dramatic tales—the doll story. As a little boy, Robert Eugene Otto had been given a very creepy doll, supposedly cursed by an angry family servant who knew something about voodoo. Robert Eugene Otto became obsessed with the doll, even naming it Robert, after himself. Robert the Doll moved about the house and played pranks. In later years he drove the real Robert’s wife quite crazy.

From the somewhat psychotic, the history in the museum became sad and grimly real with a memorial to the sailors who had died aboard the battleship Maine when it had exploded in Havana Harbor in 1898. The museum’s exhibit showed sailors working on the ship. From there, curtains segued into an area where dancers moved about at the Silver Slipper. World War I came and went. Prohibition arrived, and bootleg alcohol made its way in an easy flow from Havana to Key West.

A pathway through the pantry in back led around to the other side of the house. It was dark, with little light from the glow in the foyer seeping through. Papa Hemingway made another appearance as 1931 rolled in and Pauline’s uncle bought them the house on Whitehead Street as a wedding present.

Katie knew what she was coming up to—the exhibit on Count von Cosel and Elena de Hoyos. Just a small piece of the museum, really, in a curtained sector through an archway. It had always been a popular exhibit. Until, of course, the re-created figure of poor Elena had been replaced by the strangled body of a young Conch woman. The beginning of the end.

People liked the bizarre, the romance and even the tragedy of history, but with this event fear had suddenly come too close. It was one thing to be eccentric in the Keys.

Real violence was not welcome.

There was more, she thought, so much more, to the museum. It was sad, really, that the story got so much attention.

There was fun history. Sloppy Joe moving his entire bar across the street in the middle of the night, angry over a hike in his rent. Tennessee Williams, working away at La Concha Hotel, penning the words of his play A Street-car Named Desire. Another war, soldiers and sailors, the roadblocks that caused Key West to secede and become, if only for hours, the Conch Republic.

The rest of history paled beside the story of von Cosel and Elena. So it had always been.

Morbid curiosity. Had he really slept with the corpse? Ooh, Lord, disgusting! How?

Katie knew the story, of course. She’d heard it all her life. She’d retold it at college a dozen times, with friends denying the truth of it until they looked it up on the Internet. It was tragic, it was sad, it was sick, but it always drew people.

As it had tonight. She put her hand out to draw back the curtain leading to the exhibit.

“Don’t, Katie, don’t!” Bartholomew whispered.

She closed her eyes for a moment.

She was suddenly terrified that she would draw back the curtain—and stumble upon a corpse herself.

And yet…

She had to draw back the curtain.

She did so, and screamed.