Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (15 page)

The general consensus was yes.

“Okay, then, if you're sure.” Man, she'd knotted that up good. “So, Garrett and I were waiting in the galley—”

“This is the point I'm unclear about,” Emily interrupted, squinting through her glasses as she threaded a needle. “Who is this Garrett character?”

“He's a reporter at the
Camden Crier.
” I stuck out my tongue, concentrating on undoing the knot.

“And why was he on the boat?”

“He lives there. With me,” I answered without thinking about it.

Emily's eyebrow shot up above her glasses.

“Not like that!” Major giggles. “You guys,
not
like that. Stop giggling! It's not like that. He's investigating the ghost, reporting, you know, writing a story. I'm just there to make sure he doesn't steal anything.”

“Like your heart?” someone suggested. Giggle, giggle, giggle.

“We are
just friends,
” I said firmly. I mean, um, gross. I couldn't even begin to imagine Garrett as anything other than just a friend. Hobbit feet and Trekkie talk don't exactly inspire romance.

“Suuure,” Robin said. “Miss Libby, you know the Jonas Brothers song ‘Just Friends'?”

“Can't say that I do.” Robin's knowledge of all things Jonas was encyclopedic. Mine, not so much.

“Well,” she began with great excitement, as she always did whenever anything Jonas related came up in conversation—which happened a lot more often than you would think in a place where it was technically always supposed to be 1791. “See, Nick Jonas keeps saying that it's cool, 'cause he's just friends with this girl, but everyone knows it's meant to be, and he's making lots of plans, like a picket fence and a rose garden, and thinking about how they're gonna say their vows, which means they get
married.
So even though Nick
said
they were just friends, really he was falling in love, till the end of time. It'll happen,” she finished smugly.

“Well, in this case, the Jonas Brothers are mistaken.”

Major protests.

“I'm sorry to have to say it—I know it's hard to hear—but just this once the Jonas Brothers are wrong. Garrett and I are friends.”

“Men and women can't be friends,” Emily said matter-of-factly. “The sex part always gets in the way.”

“Seriously.” I stared at her. “How old are you?”

“Eight!”

“Hmm.” I eyed her suspiciously. I was starting to think she might have been a thirty-five-year-old midget with great skin.

“Miss Libby, you need to resolve your feelings about this Garrett character if you intend to keep pursuing things with Cam. How's that going, by the way?” Emily took a sip of her lemonade. If it had been a cosmo, she would have been ready for
Sex and the City.
Or, more accurately,
Sex and the Harbor.

The grandfather clock in the parlor tolled two. Saved by the bell. Not that I had any feelings to resolve about Garrett. I knew exactly how I felt about him—he was tolerable. Barely.

“Okay, guys, as educational as this conversation probably is for most of you, we've gotta get you back to the Welcome Center! Darn!”

Emily fixed me with a look that said she knew exactly what I was doing and that I wouldn't be so lucky next time. “How's that going with Cam?” was just not a question I was prepared to answer at the moment. I hadn't seen him since our aborted sail date.

***

By the time I'd shepherded all the kids back to their parents, I was more than ready to collapse on the deck of the
Lettie Mae
and read the copy of
His Reluctant Mistress
that I'd liberated from the intern house library, which I was actually enjoying. It wasn't something I was proud of. My newfound appreciation for romance novels was definitely going to stay a secret shame.

Unfortunately, there was a crowd of strangers standing between me and the renowned rake, skilled seducer, and expert spy waiting between the pages of my Harlequin romance. All these unknown people were milling around the boat, blocking my way up the gangplank.

“Um, excuse me,” I said as I pushed through the crowd, looking for someone, anyone, I knew. “Excuse me, excuse me.”

I spotted Garrett at the front of the crowd.

“Who are all these people?” I asked him under the cover of crowd noise.

“Paranormal societies, mediums, and psychics,” he answered.

“Jesus.” I scanned the crowd. “Why are they here?”

“To get on the boat. Well, all except Madam Selena.” He indicated a woman with wild, curly hair, dressed like a gypsy. “She just wants to feel our energies.”

“Our as in yours and mine?”

“Our as in yours and mine,” he confirmed.

“I think I'll have a better understanding of the spirit's situation if I can get a better feel for the energies he chose to reveal himself around.” Madam Selena poked her headscarf in between us, heavy gold hoops clattering like clunky wind chimes.

“You don't mind, do you?” Garrett whispered. “She's the only one who's been nice. The rest of them are really pushy.”

“No, that's fine,” I agreed. “Please, Madam Selena,” I said at a normal volume. “I'd love it if you, um, read my energy.”

“Ah, blessed be.” She smiled beatifically. Madam Selena closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and held up her hennaed hand in front of my face, about three inches from my nose. Two minutes of silence later, she smiled and opened her eyes.

“What a lovely, romantic, watery glow coming off of this one.” She waved her hand around my head, bangles clattering up and down her arm.

“Watery?” I asked.

“Yes, yes. You must be a water sign. Am I right?” I nodded. She was pretty good. “I'm feeling . . . Pisces. Pisces?” Again, I nodded. Actually, she was really good.

“And you.” She turned to Garrett and repeated the process. Only this time, her smile was even wider. “Scorpio,” she said definitively. “Determined Scorpio. The natural investigators of the zodiac!”

“Actually, yeah.” Garrett looked stunned. No surprise, given his complete dismissal of everything supernatural and paranormal. “I am. That's amazing. I can't believe it. How did you—”

“Hey, Libs.” Cam worked his way into the circle and kissed me on the cheek, like he'd never been gone. Like he hadn't avoided me all week. Like we'd just seen each other. “You look . . . busy,” he said, eyeing Madam Selena skeptically, and she returned the look.

“Are you a fire sign, young man?” Madam Selena asked him imperiously.

“I'm not a sign of anything. What the fuck is she talking about?” he muttered into my ear, just loud enough for Madam Selena to overhear.

“On what day were you born?” she said with a sigh.

“April fifth,” he answered suspiciously. “Why?”

“Aries.” She nodded. “The ram.”

“Yeah.” Cam looked Madam Selena up and down, like she was a total loon and he couldn't be bothered to deal with her. “I've gotta go. I'll see you later, Libs.” He swaggered off, presumably to his own boat. Madam Selena watched him go, a worried look on her face.

“My lovely, romantic Pisces,” Madam Selena said, beckoning me away from the circle. I followed her as she crooked a finger at me.

“Yes?”

“Be careful, little fish.” She grabbed my wrist. “Fiery Aries is quick to temper, and their selfish, hot-blooded passions often lead them to promiscuity. More so than any other sign. The ram has not the fierce loyalty and emotional depth that draws the fish to its natural mate, the scorpion, whose union is blessed by lifelong passion as a true joining of souls. Guard your heart.” She leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Blessed be.”

“Um, you too.”

Madam Selena's jewelry tinkled as she walked off into the ether. Fish and scorpions? It was hard to take any advice seriously when it concerned various disparate members of the animal kingdom. But even though she was a little strange, she was nice, and she smelled like patchouli. I liked her. I made my way back into the circle and stood at Garrett's side.

“Okay, now who are the rest of these people?” I asked.

“BAGS, ma'am,” a guy with a close-shaved beard and a baseball hat answered for Garrett, shaking my hand vigorously.

“Bags? Like under your eyes?” I patted my under-eye area for emphasis. “Or like shopping!”

“No, actually, neither.” Garrett swallowed something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “BAGS. The Bureau of Accredited Ghost Slayers.”

“We're not all BAGS!” a housewife-looking woman contradicted shrilly, joining Beardy at the front. “Paranormal Enthusiasts of Maine. Pleased to meet you.”

“BAGS,” Beardy began, “is the nation's premier paranormal investigative society. We promise to bring professionalism, personality, and confidentiality to each case we investigate. You ever heard of
Ghost Slayers
?”

“What, like on the Syfy channel?” I asked, not that I'd ever watched the Syfy channel, but their ads were all over every magazine I'd ever read. They were impossible to miss.

“Exactly.” Beardy grinned.

Housewife, looking worried, jumped in. “We are not a cheap thrill-seeking publicity stunt of a television show,” she sniffed. “We are not affiliated with any forms of media. Our society is an experienced group of professionals dedicated to the study and research of paranormal activity, using the latest in technology and scientific techniques to claim or disclaim the possible existence of paranormal phenomenon, not to raise Nielsen ratings.”

“
We
are not amateurs,” countered BAGS, as if to emphasize that the Mainers were. “We're one of the only nationally recognized paranormal societies, not a group of bored housewives and off-duty bus drivers.” Housewife's nostrils flared. “We've had extensive experience. The BAGS plan brings a levelheaded and comfortable atmosphere into your home, or, uh, ship, to listen to your experiences and concerns, to help you understand the nature of the problem by supplying you with the information you need to understand why this is happening. We then set up equipment and begin trying to recreate and debunk personal experiences in an attempt to find good evidence either for or against paranormal activity.”

“There is no ‘plan' at the Paranormal Enthusiasts of Maine,” Housewife said smugly. “We use professional clairvoyants and mediums to custom-tailor our investigation to your specific spirit's needs.”

“Come on, man.” Beardy tried out a new tactic: approaching Garrett from a “bro” angle. “We like to have fun. We are, after all,
normal people.
” He made a crazy sign at Housewife. “Heck, I don't think any of us even watch
Star Trek.
Heh, heh, heh.”

Ooh, bad move. Beardy had just insulted sci-fi in front of Garrett. He had no idea what he was in for. Garrett took a deep breath, about to go into lecture mode.

“Okay.” I headed him off at the pass before he could get going. “What is it you guys want?”

“To get on the boat!” Beardy and Housewife answered simultaneously.

“Like I said, I'm not authorized to do that.” Garrett shrugged. “You'll have to come back tomorrow and take it up with museum personnel. I'm more than happy to answer your questions, but I can't let you on the ship.”

“Dude, be cool,” Beardy tried again.

“Sorry, no,” Garrett said firmly. “Press conference over.” He placed his hand squarely on my back and steered me up to the deck of the
Lettie Mae,
securing the rope over the entrance to the ship that meant the
Lettie
was closed for the night. I peered apprehensively over the side, half afraid a mob of aggressive ghost hunters was going to rush the gangplank and storm the ship. The paranormal enthusiasts muttered discontentedly and milled about, but made no move to enter the ship by force.

“Sit-in at the president's office!” Housewife yelled suddenly. “Protest! Let's park ourselves outside his office! And we're not moving until we get on that boat!”

The half of the crowd from Maine roared its approval.

“What do we want?” she shouted. “Onto the boat! When do we want it? NOW!”

The rest of the Paranormal Enthusiasts of Maine took up the chant and followed their leader to the president's office. After deliberating for a moment, Beardy gathered his camera crew and left, hot on their trail, the boom-mike man bringing up the rear.

“Yikes,” I said as we watched them go off, “this is not good. President Harrow isn't going to be happy about this. The museum is not going to like this one bit. Not one little bit.”

“No?” Garrett watched them too.

“No.” I shook my head. “Well, Roger will be thrilled,” I corrected myself. “The Syfy channel? He'll be over the moon. But the rest of them . . .” I trailed off ominously.

“What's so bad about it?”

“Most of the staff were apprehensive at best about the whole ghost thing, if not openly hostile. This is exactly what they feared: turning the museum into some kind of media circus or exploiting the ghost as a publicity stunt. They want to avoid anything that has any potential to damage the museum's credibility. And I know the office is
technically
off the museum grounds, but people will still complain that a camp of clairvoyants and camera crews will shatter the illusion.”

“What illusion?” He adjusted his glasses.

“The illusion that in here, it's always 1791, obviously.”

“Libby, I hate to break it to you, but they sell Bud Light and chicken fingers in the Golden Plough Tavern. The illusion's been shattered.”

“You know what I mean.” I swatted his arm playfully. “But seriously, Garrett, this could be bad. I'm worried.”

“About what?”

“Well, what if they decide that this whole thing has gotten out of control and shut it down?”