A Spirited Gift

I tried to concentrate, but instead, I looked at Rafe. He stood beside me with his fists on his wide hips—large, booted feet never touching the wet ground. He had a perpetual scowl. Deep frown lines ran between his eyes in his darkly tanned skin. His lips pulled down at the corners—they would forever. Various scars across his cheek, near his eye, and a long one near his ear, gave the impression that he was not a friendly man. Curiously, there was no sign of the noose, as he’d said.

“What happened when you were caught and hanged?” I asked, trying to cut to the heart of his problem. I didn’t need a ghost in my life any longer than necessary.

“Caught?” He laughed in an egotistical manner. “I was never caught, girl. I gave up the pirate life for a comely young lass who proceeded to bear babes every time we scratched that itch. I made some deals, tried to become an honest merchant. But the magistrate kept at my heels like a rabid spaniel. He wouldn’t rest until he had me in the noose. Finally he made up a crime and convicted me of it. The result of which ye see before you—a murdered man.”

I didn’t mention that he’d lived more than three hundred years ago and would have been dead by now, no matter what. “How do you think I can clear your name at this late date?”

“The magistrate kept a journal. I have it on good account that he wrote all of his crimes in it. If we were to find it, my name would be cleared.”

“Can you ask him where it is?” I wasn’t sure where to look for something like that. I’d never heard of a magistrate in this area. “He must be dead too.”

“No doubt. But we aren’t all out here bobbing around like sailors after a wreck. I found you because you called. Yer friend was right—blood is the only thing that can call a spirit. You’ll have to find an ancestor of the magistrate and ask about his journal.”

“That sounds easy,” I muttered, looking carefully through the pieces of wood hastily thrown aside as we’d tried to pull Sandi from the wreckage. “You should be out of my life in about ten years.”

Chapter 20

I moved everything—even ripped my hand open on a nail. I crawled along the ground. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

I sat on the wet ground for a while, looking out at the now placid gray ocean. I let my mind wander along those gentle waves, but no brilliant revelations came to me. In a way, it was too bad that I couldn’t communicate with Sandi’s ghost. She could tell me what had happened. That would be easy.

My ghost told me stories about plundering rich merchant ships, drinking and spending time with prostitutes. Hardly conducive to helping with my search for a clue.

The wind was still running wild along the island. Nancy was right. The storm seemed to have brought in the cooler fall temperatures. I shivered, wet and dirty, deciding to go home. There was nothing else I could do here.

Rafe went with me like a friendly puppy—a puppy wearing pistols and a saber—still talking about his pirate exploits. He might have settled down at the end of his life, but it was obvious which life he preferred.

I kept hoping I’d run into someone coming out of the Blue Whale or walking up the street. No such luck. I didn’t want to violate our agreement—especially since I was going home to shower and change clothes. I wanted him gone for those events. I could imagine him comparing me to his pirate girlfriends. I didn’t think it would matter that we were related.

There was traffic on Duck Road, but it was slow even for this point after the season. Several people waved and yelled their greetings to me, but none of them walked over to save me from Rafe.

I noticed someone near the Duck Shoppes trash bin. It was in a sheltered area to the side of the ground floor. The out-of-the-way location was supposed to keep the area hidden from tourists and other visitors. We had some problems with people sleeping here, mostly over the summer. Tourists would come to Duck without making a reservation, expecting they’d be able to find a hotel room. As a result, some of them ended up on the street.

But there were also hardship cases—people who lost their money and credit cards, whose cars broke down or had other misfortunes. They needed help to get back home, maybe a few dollars or a place to stay for the night.

I walked over to the trash bin and peeked behind it, ready to smile and offer whatever help I could. The man I’d seen from the street looked up, fear in his familiar face.

“Danny?”

“Dae?” he said, surprised and clearly uncomfortable. “What are you doing here?”

I could have asked him the same thing, but his purpose was obvious. “You don’t have any place to stay.”

He shrugged. “My house is flooded. The bar is closed for repairs. I don’t even have the van to sleep in, you know?”

“No friends—relatives?”