A Spirited Gift

The publicity from the storm and the murders resulted in a nice buildup of tourists. It wasn’t exactly the kind of attention Duck needed—but I didn’t hear anyone complain. The boardwalk was full of shoppers every day, and they spent a lot of money, even in Missing Pieces. August Grandin gave me a thumbs-up every time I saw him, and Cody from Wild Stallions occasionally threw a free lunch my way. Not that I’d had a hand in bringing the tourists—but I wouldn’t argue that point either.

I was at Kevin’s early Thursday morning eating homemade blackberry jam and corn muffins for breakfast. Marissa was going to her grandfather’s arraignment hearing that morning. She didn’t speak, giving me a diamond-hard look as she passed me in the doorway on the way out.

“She’s trying to get him out on bail since he’s old and not in good health,” Kevin told me. “He’s her only living relative and not exactly a threat or flight risk. I think the DA will work with her. She’s got Joe’s house to use as collateral for a bond.”

“Mrs. Stanley told me that Marissa is suing the museum to get the diary back.” I shrugged. “I’m glad I signed it over to them so it’s their property when the evidence from the trial is released. I can always look at it over there. Joe said Marissa wasn’t interested in it. That must count for something.”

“I don’t know. She could argue that she didn’t mean that you could keep it—much less sign it over to the museum.” He poured both of us more coffee. “I guess we’ll see. In the meantime, I’m glad she stayed here. I know she needs the job, and I need her. I don’t know how I got along without her.”

“Oh? That makes me feel a little insecure.”

“You look insecure.” He reached across the table and wiped jam from my cheek. “But I’m glad you could come over for a few hours since she has to be away. Everything came together at one time—food delivery, ballroom repair and upstairs carpet cleaning. Being an innkeeper has its drawbacks.”

“I don’t mind helping. You’re always helping me.”

“Even though I’m taking you away from what might be your last big money-making day this fall?”

I smiled and held his hand. “What’s a few hundred dollars? You’re paying me for this, right?”

“Yeah. Right. I got up early and made you corn muffins since I know how much you love them.”

“Mmm.” I chomped, mouth full of the delicious muffins. “And lunch? You mentioned lunch, right?”

We both heard the food delivery truck pull up to the back service area.

“Gotta run. Food waits for no man.” He picked up his supply list. “Call me if you need me. Thanks, Dae.” He kissed me and was gone.

I finished eating and put the dishes in the sink. “Time to explore!”

I figured I could walk between the downstairs ballroom and the upstairs rug cleaning—still managing to peek into a few nooks and crannies. The Blue Whale had such a rich—and sometimes tragic—history that it made me want to touch everything from doorknobs to ceiling fixtures.

I was careful what I touched and limited myself to only a few items each time. So far there hadn’t been anything emotionally overwhelming—like the diary—but I didn’t want to have any problems either.

Mostly, my visions showed elegant parties with guests eating smoked salmon canapés in glittery dresses and old-fashioned tuxedos. Other objects revealed only how they were made and delivered to the Blue Whale. But a few of the items I touched had been smuggled in—that was interesting too.

I could hear the rug-cleaning people getting started on the third floor. I left the crew replacing the ballroom window that had been destroyed during the storm and went upstairs to make sure the right rugs were being cleaned.

I hurried past the small room where Wild Johnny had been killed by Joe Endy so long ago. I’d already seen too much of that history, though I had to admit that old Bunk Whitley appeared to have told the truth about not killing Johnny.

A cold breeze swept down the hall and rattled the light fixtures in the ceiling. I looked around, but saw no sign of Rafe. I hoped he was resting in peace by now—and worried a little that I might become a ghost magnet. I had a lot of dead family members to consider.

It was a little eerie—especially when the door opened across the hall from that little room. It happened so slowly, I could almost convince myself that a strong breeze had nudged it ajar. The movement could be rationally explained. It was cold outside, and all the windows hadn’t been repaired as yet.

“There is more of gravy than of grave about you,” I quoted Dickens’s A Christmas Carol to reassure myself.

The door hadn’t swung open all the way. Somehow that comforted me enough to look in the room. The bed had been stripped down, and a huge bucket of cleaning supplies sat on the floor, waiting to be used.

I stepped in—another breeze making the crystals in the old chandelier chime together. I saw at once that my rational self had been right. The window had been broken during the storm, and the ocean breeze was coming in.