Ghost Night

And no way out of it—it was awkward. Disconcerting. And he was starting to look as if he walked around talking to himself. So much for an intelligent and manly image, Sean thought dryly.

“Bartholomew, please, stop talking to me. You’re well aware that I look crazy as all hell when people see me talking to you, right?” Sean demanded.

“I keep telling you, you’re an artist. And a true conch,” Bartholomew said. “Born and bred on the island. Tall, with that great red hair, good and bronzed—hey, fellow, a man’s man as they say,” Bartholomew told him, waving a ringed hand in the air. “Trust me—you’re masculine, virile, beloved and—an artist. You’re allowed to be crazy. And, good God, man—this is Key West!”

“Right. Then the tourists will have me arrested,” Sean said.

They’d reached O’Hara’s, toward the southern end of Duval. Sean cast Bartholomew a warning glare. Bartholomew shrugged and followed Sean in.

Sean walked straight up to the bar. Jamie O’Hara himself was working his taps that day.

“Hey, what’s up?” Sean asked, setting his hands on the bar and looking at Jamie, who was busy drying a beer glass.

It was early in the day—by Key West bar standards. Just after eleven. Jamie, when he was in town, usually opened the place around eleven-thirty, and whoever of his old friends, locals, or even tourists who wandered in for lunch early were served by Jamie himself. He cooked, bussed and made his drinks, poured his own Guinnesses—seven minutes to properly fill a Guinness glass—and he did so because he liked being a pub owner and he was the kind of employer who liked people, his employees and his establishment. He could handle the place in the early hour—unless there was a festival in town. Which, quite often, there was. Starting at the end of this week, he’d have double shifts going on—Pirates in Paradise was coming to town.

At this moment, though, O’Hara’s was quiet. Just Jamie, behind the bar.

Jamie was the perfect Irish barkeep—though he had been born in Key West. He, like Sean’s dad, had spent a great deal of time in the “old country” visiting their mother’s family—O’Casey folk—and he and Sean’s dad had both gone to college in Dublin. Jamie could put on a great brogue when he chose, but he could also slip into a laid-back Keys Southern drawl. Sean had always thought he should have been an actor. Jamie said that owning a pub was nearly the same thing. He had a rich head full of gray hair, a weather-worn but distinguished face, bright blue eyes and a fine-trimmed beard and mustache, both in that steel-gray that seemed to make him appear to be some kind of clan chieftain, or an old ard-ri, high king, of Ireland. He was well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a seaman’s muscles.

Jamie indicated the last booth in the bar area of the pub, which was now cast in shadow.

He realized that someone was sitting in the booth.

He couldn’t help but grin at his uncle. “You’re harboring a spy? A double agent? Someone from the CIA working the Keys connection?”

Sean knew that bad things—very bad things—could happen, even in Key West, Florida, “island paradise” though it might be. He’d seen them. But someone hiding in the shadows seemed a bit out of the ordinary.

Jamie shrugged and spoke softly. “Who knows why she’s sitting in the dark? She’s a nice kid. Came in here, I guess, ’cause the world seems to consider it neutral ground or something. She heard about you and David and the documentary you two are going to film together.”

Sean frowned. “We’ve had ads in the papers for crews for the boats and the filming. David and I have been setting up for interviews at his place.”

“What do you want from me, son, eh? She came in here, knowing I was related to the O’Hara looking to film about Key West and her mysteries. I said yes, and she asked if there was any way she could speak to you alone.”

“She’s applying for a job? Then she should go about it just like all the others and ask for an interview,” Sean said, annoyed. He couldn’t really see the woman in the corner, but he thought she seemed young. Maybe she was trying to secure a position by coming through the back door, flirting, drawing on his uncle’s sympathies.

“I don’t think that it’s work she’s looking for, but I don’t know. She’s pretty tense. She wanted to know about the recent business down here—you know, all the nasty stuff with the murders—and she was mainly wanting to know, so it seemed, how you all coped with the bad things going on. Like, frankly, were you a pack of cowards, was it really all solved by the police, did I think that you were capable people—and did you really know the area.”

“Oh, great. She sounds like someone I really want to hire!” Sean said.

Jamie laughed. “She’s not that bad—she was dead honest in the questions she asked me. She didn’t use the word coward, that was mine. There’s something I like about her, Sean. Talk to her. She seems tense and nervous—and somehow, the real deal.” His uncle leaned closer to him. “There’s some mystery about this girl, and yet something real. Talk to her. Oh, and by the way, she is really something. She’s got every diving certificate, advanced, teacher, you name it. She’s gotten awards for her writing, and oh—hmm. She happens to have amazing blond hair, giant blue eyes and a shape to die for, nephew. Check it out. Go ahead. What’s the matter, boy, scared?”

Sean looked at his uncle in surprise and laughed. Scared? No. He was at least intrigued. Couldn’t hurt to talk to the woman. He and David were anxious to get started on their project because it was important to both of them—and it was also what they were best known for in their separate careers. But they were discussing just what bits and pieces and stories they would use for their documentary. Bartholomew’s situation was a must, Robert the Doll was a must, and the bizarre, true and fairly recent history of Elena and Count von Cosel was also a must. It wouldn’t be Key West if they didn’t touch on Hemingway and the writing connection. And there had to be pirates, wreckers, sponge divers and cigar makers, and how the Conch Republic became the Conch Republic. But as to exactly what they were using and what they were concentrating on, they were still open. They hadn’t made any hard-and-fast decisions yet, but since David was home and planning a wedding with Sean’s sister, they had decided that, at long last, they should work together. Friends in school who hadn’t seen each other in a decade, they had both gone the same route—film. Once the tension and terror of a murderer at work in Key West had died down, David had decided he was going to stay home awhile. That had a lot to do with the fact that he was in love with Sean’s sister, Katie O’Hara. But David was a conch, too—born and bred in Key West from nearly two generations of conchs. David belonged here.

Sean had stayed away from home a lot, too. But now he was excited about the idea of working with David—and working on a history about Key West and the surrounding area, bringing to light what truth they could discover that lay behind many of the legends. One thing had never been more true—fact was far stranger than fiction. But as he knew from living here, fact could become distorted. Tourists often asked which form of a story told by a tour guide was the true one. He and David meant to explore many of the legends regarding Key West—and, through historical documents, letters and newspapers of each era, get to the heart of the truth. Fascinating work. He loved his home. Key West was the tail end of Florida, an oddity in time and place. An island accessible only by boat for much of its history. Southern in the Civil War by state, Union by military presence.

Bartholomew suddenly let out a soft, low whistle, almost making Sean jump. He gritted his teeth and refused to look at the ghost.

“Pretty, pretty thing!” Bartholomew said. “I’d have been over there by now, not wondering if there was some secret agenda behind it all!”

Somehow, Sean refrained from replying. He even kept smiling and staring straight at his uncle.

“Are you going to stare at the shadows? Or are you at least going to let the girl have her say?” Jamie demanded. “I’ll bring coffee,” he added.

“I know where the coffee is, thanks, Uncle,” Sean said. He came behind the bar to pour himself a cup, trying to get a better look at the woman at the booth.

She was waiting for him. There was no looking at her surreptitiously—she was staring back at him. She was still in the shadows, but his uncle seemed to be right about one thing—she was stunning. She had the kind of cheekbones that were pure, classic beauty—at eighty, she’d still be attractive with that bone structure. Her hair was golden and pale and simply long, with slightly rakish and overgrown bangs. He didn’t think she spent a lot of money in a boutique salon; the shades of color had come from the sun and the overgrown, rakish look was probably because she didn’t spend much time getting it cut.

She was dressed more like a native than a tourist—light cotton dress with a little sweater over her shoulders. Down here, the days were often hot, tempered only by the ocean and gulf breezes that were usually present. But inside, it could be like the new ice age had come—because of the heat, businesses were often freezing. Jamie kept his swinging doors to the outside open sometimes—it was a Key thing. Trying to be somewhat conservative in the waste of energy, the air blasted in the back, not near the front.

Coffee in hand, he walked back to the booth at last. “Hi. I’m Sean O’Hara. We’re doing interviews tomorrow and the next day at the old Beckett house, because, I’m assuming you know, it’s a joint project between David Beckett and myself.” He offered her his hand.

She accepted it. Her grip was firm. Her palms were slightly callused, but they were nice, tanned. Her fingers were long and she had neat nails, clipped at a reasonable length rather than grown out long.

Her eyes were steady on his.

“I’m Vanessa Loren,” she said. “I have real experience and sound credentials, but that’s not exactly why I’m here, or why I wanted to meet with you here.”

He shrugged, taking a seat opposite her in the booth.

“All right.”

She suddenly lifted both hands and let them fall. “I’ve actually practiced this many times, but I’m not sure where to begin.”

“You’ve—practiced?” Sean asked. “Practiced an interview for a job?”

She nodded. “I’ve practiced trying to explain. This is really important to me.”

“All right. Start anywhere,” Sean said.

She lowered her head, breathing in deeply. Then she looked at him again. “Unless you’ve been under a rock, you must have heard about the Haunt Island murders.”

He blinked and tried to remember. He’d been filming in the Black Sea two years ago, but he had heard about the bizarre murders. Members of a film crew had been gruesomely slain on an island just southwest of South Bimini. Though uninhabited, the island belonged to the Bahamas.

He hadn’t moved into the booth and hadn’t left room for Bartholomew. However, the ghost had followed him to the booth, and leaned against the wall just across from them.

“Yes, I heard something about the murders,” he said carefully.

“I was with the film crew,” she said. “One of my best childhood friends was the director, and I was the scriptwriter. We both put money into the venture, and we were doing double duty. When I say low budget, I mean low budget. But we had it together—we knew what we were doing, and we worked incredibly hard. The film wasn’t going to win an Oscar, but we had hopes of having it picked up by a national distributor.”

“Don’t know much about that,” Bartholomew said sorrowfully, as if he were part of the conversation.

“You were making a film, and people were brutally killed,” Sean said, ignoring Bartholomew. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for her. Sadly, there were a number of unsolved mysteries that had little chance of being solved. He vaguely remembered some of the newspaper articles his sister had e-mailed him at the time—a lot of people were chalking the tragedy up to the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle. “What are you trying to tell me, or ask me?”

She took a deep breath. “It’s really all the same area—the same area you’re doing a documentary on. Do you know how many boaters go from the Intracoastal, South Florida, say Fort Lauderdale and Miami, out to Bimini and then on to Key West?” she asked. “Or vice versa. We’re all connected here.”

“I know that,” he said, feeling oddly irritated. “We always intended to do a documentary on the area.”

“This is a story that shouldn’t just be included, it should be the main focus,” she said somberly.

“Why?”

“Because it’s an unsolved mystery. And there’s a killer or killers out there.”

“Sadly, there are many killers on the loose at any given time. I’m not sure what we can do for you. David and I are not law enforcement,” Sean said. “And if we were, Haunt Island is still the Bahamas.”

“It doesn’t sound as if law enforcement has had much luck yet,” Bartholomew interjected.

“I was there when it happened,” she said quietly. “The truth must be discovered.”

“But we’re just doing a documentary,” Sean protested.

“You’re doing a documentary on history—and oddities and mysteries. You’ll never find a better mystery,” she said flatly. “I admit, the script was written for what would basically be a teenage-slasher-type flick,” she said. “But it was based on history. Key West and Bahamian history.”

He shook his head. “All right, I’m still getting lost here. You were filming a movie based on history, but it was a slasher film? Low budget? A historical slasher film? You’re talking big money there.”

She shook her head. “Not with the people we had working with us. The new digital age has helped a hell of a lot. And we had easy access to costumes—we bought most of them here, some from the shop on Front Street, and some at Pirates in Paradise. We refitted one of our boats, and with a little digital finesse, we had a pirate ship, which could become pirate ships. We knew what we were doing—I’m talking about people with real degrees in film and real experience—and more. It was our project.”

“I’m listening. Tell me more.”

“You’re from here and you’re working on history,” she said. “You must have heard of the Santa Geneva—and Mad Miller and his consort, Kitty Cutlass, and the murder of Dona Isabella.”

He nodded slowly. He knew the legend. All Key West kids knew the stories about pirates in the area. They made great tales at campfires. “A piece of pirate lore,” he said.

“Yes, and if you’re following pirate lore, you should be following that story. It was past the Golden Age of Piracy. It was after David Porter came here to clear out the pirates. There were still Spaniards living here, naturally. Dona Isabella was a wealthy woman, with homes in Madrid and Key West. She was married to Diego, a very wealthy Spanish merchant. She was kidnapped off a Spanish ship, the Santa Geneva. They say she was never ransomed because Mad Miller, the pirate, fell in love with her—and because of that, she wound up dead. Some say that Mad Miller murdered her in a frenzy, because she loathed him. Some say that Kitty Cutlass, furious over her lover’s adoration for another woman, was the one to kill her. At any rate, she supposedly wound up dead in the company of the pirates. It’s thought that she survived until the pirates reached Haunt Island, where they might have drawn in for ship repairs. Some of Mad Miller’s men then massacred the remaining crew members of the Santa Geneva, and members of their own crew who were in revolt over what had happened. Thus the name, obviously, Haunt Island, and the legend.”

“I still don’t see—” Sean began.

“Dona Isabella lived in Key West. Her ship, a Spanish ship, left from Key West. The pirates raided her in American waters. Off of Key West. Mad Miller came from Key West. Let’s see—Kitty Cutlass began as a prostitute in a shack on Duval. Mr. O’Hara, this is an amazing story that has everything to do with the documentary you want to film. You’re a fool if you haven’t already thought of using the legend—and the truth of what happened to the members of our film crew,” she said.

All right—that was aggravating. But there was something desperate in her voice that kept him from entirely losing his temper.

“Okay, Miss Loren. You have a good story. What, exactly, is it that you want? I’ve told you, we’re not any form of law enforcement. I can’t go over to the Bahamas and just solve your mystery for you.”

She inhaled again, staring at him. She let out a long breath of air. She seemed to physically square her shoulders, as if seeking strength and resolve.

“I know that, and…” She paused, wincing. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just passionate about my feelings on this. First, I need you to hire me. I’m good—really good. I swear. You can check all my references,” she said.

“I would definitely do so, no matter what,” he said.

“I’d bet good money that she has excellent references,” Bartholomew said.

Sean locked his jaw, determined not to turn, or respond to the ghost in any way.

“No one is hired unless David and I agree,” he said to Vanessa.

“That is certainly understandable,” she said. Again, she paused. “I know all about David Beckett, as well. I know that he was once accused of murder, and I know how desperate he was to find the truth. And the truth was discovered. I can’t believe that he wouldn’t understand how I feel, or be sympathetic to my cause.”

Sean felt tension steal through his body. The Effigy Murders had been bad, very bad. He still felt they were all recovering from the terrible things that had happened. He still had scars beneath his hairline.

David would be sympathetic, he knew.

“Go on,” he said quietly.

“Then—I think you need to make me your assistant. I’m excellent at managing a schedule, and I can write a scene, narrative, interview questions, anything you need, at the drop of a hat. I know you do a lot of your own scheduling and writing. That’s why I say assistant. I went to film school. When needed, I can handle any kind of a camera. I’m fit so I can tote and carry. The filmmaker in you must see what there is here—a legend that remains a mystery, historical and contemporary. You can look for the Santa Geneva, you can really follow the path of those who came before you. And if you leave out piracy, and the stamping out of the pirates, and the supposed massacre on Haunt Island, you’re doing a disservice to everyone.”

He leaned back. “If this is such a great documentary, why don’t you do it yourself?” he demanded.

She leaned back, biting her lower lip. “Well, for one, I don’t have the kind of money you need for a docu mentary. And…”

“And?”

She leaned forward. “Look, I’ll work cheap. I’ll work harder than anyone you ever imagined.”

He leaned back, shaking his head. “I’d like to help you, I’d really like to help you. But it seems as if you’re chasing something, and I’m not—I’m not what you’re looking for. If these murders haven’t been solved, you need a private investigator. You need—”

“Have you ever tried to look for a private investigator who specializes in water, legends and boats?” she asked irritably.

He hesitated for a moment. “Look, from what I understand, every agency possible was involved in that case. If there are no clues, there are no clues.”

“No one wanted to follow through on the legend—or the history,” she said, exasperated.

He felt his fingers tense around his coffee cup and he stared at her. “You’re trying to tell me that pirates returned to massacre your friends?” he asked.

Something about the tightening in her lips and the way that she stared at him caused him to feel as if he should be ashamed—as if he had spoken out of turn.

But he hadn’t. And he couldn’t explain to her that he knew what ghosts were capable of doing, and what they weren’t. As a matter of fact, he knew a few of them.…

“That’s not what I’m suggesting at all,” she said.

“Then?”

“I—don’t know, exactly,” she said, looking away. “Here’s the thing. We’ve had this movie stowed since it happened. But…people know about it. I’m afraid we’ll get an offer from a major distributor. My partner would gladly sell. I don’t want to sell—not unless I can get some justice for those who were involved. I don’t want to make money on sensationalism, on something…something unsolved. I’ve gotten Jay to agree that I can try one more time to discover the truth.”

“I—”

“Please. Please just tell me that you’ll consider doing it?” she asked.

He stared at her, not knowing what to say.

No. A flat-out no would be a great answer. He and David hadn’t set anything in stone as yet, but…no. This one had to be a no. They both had their individual exemplary careers, they knew what they were doing. They could write themselves.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t think my partner will agree,” Sean said.

“Will you ask David Beckett?” she queried stubbornly.

He smiled. “Will you quit asking if I talk to him and he says no?”

She smiled. “You’re—Look, I know I’m asking a lot without much to offer. But I am really good at what I do, and if you give me a few weeks, I promise, I’ll help to make anything you want to do come out as brilliantly as possible. I’ll be slave labor, I swear.”

“I don’t want slave labor.”

“I’ll be the best damned assistant you’ve ever had,” she swore.

“Take her up on it!” Bartholomew said. “Hell, my boy! Take her up on it just for the pleasure of having her upon your wretched little boat.”

“I’ll talk to David,” he said.

“You really will. And…and if he’s hesitant, if there’s any chance, will you let me try to persuade him, as well?” she asked.

He forced an even smile. No, just say no!

He asked himself if he would be so torn, so tempted, if the person asking him wasn’t this young woman, not just beautiful, but…strong. So confident in her ability that she would swear she could make his work the best ever.

Ability.

The way she looked.

The sound of her voice.

The mystery involved. Yes, he knew the damned legend. And hell yes, he was curious.

“Look,” he began.

But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at the door. She let out a little cry of surprise and gladness.

Sean swung around. His sister had just come in the door.

He looked at Vanessa Loren.

Ah, hell.

Hell.

The young woman knew Katie. He should have figured.

He stared back at her, irritated, and suddenly certain that it was all over.

“You know my sister,” he said.

She glanced at him while rising. “Yes, I know Katie. I’ve been on a few dive boats with her, and of course, I bring friends in here for Katie-okie when I’m down.…”

She started to head out to see Katie. He set his fingers around her wrist, drawing her back.

She didn’t jerk away, but then his hold was pretty firm. Those huge, cornflower-blue eyes of hers lit on him.

He smiled coldly. “You know my uncle, too, don’t you? And my uncle knew just who you were and what you wanted.”

“I’ve met Jamie before, yes,” she admitted. “Katie can explain it all to David, if you don’t want to, but I know that she’ll convince him that I’m right. I came to you first, because Katie told me that David had said all the major decisions were going to be yours, so if you just agree—”

He stood, releasing her wrist.

“I don’t like being played,” he said flatly. “Good day, Miss Loren.”

She didn’t call after him.

Bartholomew did.

“Sean! Oh, come on, Sean. I can help you with this, I was around when it all happened,” the dapper buccaneer cried to him. “Sean, oh, do come on! If I were flesh and blood, I’d be on this like a mosquito at a topless bar! Sean!”