Something in the Water... (3 page)

A
RIEL SPUN THE DIAL
of the Honda Accord’s radio. On the local station, the Beatles were crooning, “Love, love, love…” Was this a joke? The previous song on the local station had been “Moon River”, and the one before, “Every Breath You Take.”

She blew out a sigh, clutched the wheel with both hands and stared anxiously from Bliss Run Road to the spring, which she could glimpse between the trees, then to the distant hill. Her heart constricted. At the top, she could just make out bits of the house where she’d grown up—tips of turrets, flashes of mint-and-lemon trim. Despite the colors visible under the blazing sun, the shape of the place was foreboding.

Her gaze returned to the road. Tied between phone poles, a white banner flew overhead, announcing the Harvest Festival. “Now, that’s odd,” she murmured. The Bliss theater was showing only black-and-white romantic movies this week. Tonight,
Casablanca
was paired with
Bringing Up Baby.
Glancing upward, she glimpsed the teahouse again and punched the gas. She was running hours behind schedule, and God only knew what was going on at the proverbial ranch. She’d gotten a call from Great-gran this morning, saying that
someone had broken into the root cellar, opened the safe and stolen the book of Matilda Teasdale’s tea recipes. They’d had to call the sheriff, which meant Ariel was going to have to talk to Studs Underwood.

Feeling sure her blood pressure was skyrocketing, Ariel took a deep breath. The last person she wanted to see was Studs. Oh, she’d heard the rumors about all the sexual things she’d done for him. She’d given him tongue baths, made love to another woman in his presence and worn crotchless panties—when she’d bothered to wear any underwear at all. Oh, yeah. And what else? Allegedly she and Studs had been the hottest couple ever to hit Bliss.

That he was now married to Joanie Summers hardly helped matters. Ariel glanced into the rearview mirror. Thankfully, she looked great. The eleven years since she’d left Bliss hadn’t aged her a bit. She could still afford to go light on the makeup accentuating her blue eyes. Her straight, long, wild blond hair was pulled severely back, and turned neatly into a tight French roll, the pins of which were starting to give her a headache, if she was honest about it.

Not that she’d give in to temptation and let down her hair. She’d brought mostly suits, all of them more expensive than she could afford, and the one she wore now—a pale pink silk skirt and jacket, with a white silk blouse beneath—made her look impossibly demure. She couldn’t wait until tonight, since she planned to wear it into Jack’s Diner, and give the town something to buzz about. It was a far cry from the fishnets and miniskirt she’d worn the day she’d left Bliss. She’d been home in the many years since then, of course, but usu
ally, she’d kept out of sight, staying put in the teahouse. When she had ventured onto Bliss Run Road, she’d never sported a total makeover.

This outfit hit the right note, with matching pumps that gave just enough lift to accentuate her calves but not so much that she looked like she was inviting attention. Yes, she thought, her hands tightening around the wheel, her long-awaited plan to restore her good name was definitely going to work. Color flooded her cheeks as she thought of how she’d roared out of town eleven years ago, on the back of her flame-red Harley. No doubt about it, back then she’d been hell on wheels, with the world’s worst reputation to uphold. But once she’d gotten out of Bliss, she’d been able to start finding herself. Not Ariel Anderson, youngest of the four weird, witchy, widowed Andersons.

Now she was about to put Bliss on the map, nationally. And that would make people in town finally respect her. Her heart squeezed tightly. Her family, as well. Her mom, Gran and Great-gran weren’t nearly as strange as the young kids always made out. No stranger than Chicken Giblets, really. But the three women did keep to themselves, wear dark clothes, and keep mum about their mysterious family history, especially Ariel’s mother when it came to answering questions about the identity of Ariel’s father.

Her lips tightened. She couldn’t dwell on that right now. Nor on the fact that she was going to have to talk to Studs, since the recipe book had been stolen. “We’ve got to get it back before the festival,” she muttered. Not only was the book of deep sentimental value, but she’d hoped to include shots of it for the feature spot she was
putting together for WCBK. She’d considered mentioning the near buyout of the local land by Core Coal in the seventies, but the news director, Jack Hayes, had pushed the story in a more human-interest direction. Her more immediate boss, Ryan, had agreed.

Just the thought of Ryan made her lips go dry, so she reached for a bottled water and took a sip. He’d been asking her out, and if the story went well, and she got a transfer to another department, and without the taint of her adolescent reputation still hanging over her head…

She’d start to loosen up. Feel more free, sexually. Ryan was everything she wanted. Which meant the opposite of every man she’d ever met in Bliss. Of average build, with sandy-brown hair and brown eyes, he was the type to open doors and pay for his date…inclined to wear suits even when he didn’t need to for an occasion. Still, it was hard to imagine introducing such a normal guy to her family. But she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. She hadn’t even dated him yet, much less slept with him.

Her gaze narrowed, and she did a double take. Something was different about Jack’s Diner. “New curtains,” she decided. From a distance, it looked as if the fabric was printed with hearts. That was very strange, since Jack’s tastes ran to keg parties, hunting up in the mountains with his buddies and decorating with American flags.

His sister, she suddenly thought, solving the mystery. She was a seamstress. Probably, she’d taken it upon herself to spruce the place up. Which would make the town eatery even more photogenic for her piece, Ariel realized.

She wished she’d been able to bring her own cameraman from Pittsburgh. Instead, Jack Hayes and Ryan
had arranged for a stringer to come down to Bliss from nearby Charleston. This way, she could spend the week vacationing and refining the text of the spot by considering possible camera shots and interviews. She’d have the man shoot a day’s worth of tape, and when she returned to Pittsburgh, she’d edit it herself.

No matter what happened—whether locals teased her or Studs referenced all that past business—she’d hold her head high. No one in town was going to see so much as a hair out of place. Her story might get picked up nationally, too. That was her biggest hope. She’d taken great care to create just the sort of piece—a small-town festival—with which the networks always ended their evening newscasts.

“What the—” She didn’t finish, but wrenched her head around. “What’s Great-gran doing in town?” She never left the house. Ariel slowed, intending to stop and offer her great grandmother a lift, but she was standing in front of the hardware store, having a heated debate with Eli Saltwell; no one ever talked to Eli, especially not Great-gran. She’d been feuding with him ever since Ariel could remember. As far as Great-gran was concerned, Eli was responsible for everything from rising taxes to bad weather. The source of the conflict had remained a mystery. Her great-gran spit and crossed the street whenever she saw Eli, and on the rare occasions she’d gone to town, she’d always refused to enter any local store when Eli had been inside.

She was still considering whether to pull over when Joanie Summers—now Underwood—exited the hardware store, raised a hand and waved. Stunned, Ariel turned toward the windshield again, half expecting to
see someone else. Surely, Joanie wasn’t waving at her, not when Ariel and Joanie’s husband, Studs, used to be the talk of Bliss! But no, Joanie really was waving at her, and Great-gran really was deeply immersed in a conversation with Eli. Realizing someone had stepped in front of her car, Ariel gasped once more, then simultaneously pressed the horn and depressed the brakes.

A hand came down hard on the hood. And Ariel, her heart now beating out of control, clamped a hand to her chest. It was Chicken Giblets.

Elsinore Gibbet swiftly circled the car, at least as quickly as an octogenarian in a floral-print housedress and blue-rinsed hair could, so Ariel began powering down the passenger-side window, but it was too late. Already, Giblets had wrenched open the door, lunged inside and slammed the door shut, while saying ominously, “I’m so glad you’re here, Ariel.”

Realizing Jack was behind her in the diner’s truck, Ariel had no choice but to depress the gas pedal again. As she drove, she fought the feeling that her well-planned trip to Bliss had just nosedived and was heading in a southerly direction. Doing another double take, she saw a man she didn’t recognize and who didn’t look like one of the summer visitors. He was deeply tanned, with long silver hair tied back in a ponytail and a silver beard.

Not that she had time for more than a glimpse. “Uh…Miss Gibbet,” she began, since she’d never known what to call people who’d been in positions of authority when she’d been younger, such as teachers or librarians.

“It’s okay, honey,” she said, as if reading Ariel’s
mind. “You’re old enough to call me Elsinore now. Head on up to your place, and I’ll fill you in on all the details.”

Details? “Fill me in?” Ariel echoed.

“You’re a reporter, right?”

“I’m here working on a story, yes.”

Fighting a sense of foreboding, she turned off Bliss Run Road onto Mountain Drive, a narrow two-lane stretch of incline. She cast a glance into the rearview mirror, still unable to believe her great-gran had been speaking with Eli Saltwell.

“Your great-gran and Eli aren’t the half of it,” assured Elsinore, as if reading her mind once more. “The Bliss theater is only showing romance movies, you can only get romance songs on the local radio, and Jack’s introduced an early-bird breakfast special for two. But don’t worry. I called the CDC.”

“The CDC?”

“The Centers for Disease Control. In Atlanta.”

“I know what the CDC is,” Ariel managed to say.

“Then why did you ask?” returned Elsinore, looking miffed.

Ariel gaped at the librarian. It was bad enough that the recipe book, Ariel’s relatives’ pride and joy, not to mention a feature element in Ariel’s news story, had been stolen, but…“Why did you call the CDC?”

“Well, you know the stories about the spring….” Elsinore began.

Ariel had no idea where this was heading. “Uh huh.”

“Well, it’s rumored that Pappy Pass and his ex-wife, Maime, are getting back together. Then, there’s the fact that Eli and your great-gran are talking. Ever since Matilda—” Elsinore paused. “Nothing against your
family, Ariel,” she began again, “but ever since she came, there’s been nothing but trouble. First, the town went dead in 1790, then in 1806.”

Ariel’s heart was sinking as her childhood home came into view. What if the town really had…well, shut down in the past? “Those are just town legends, Elsinore,” she said uncertainly.

“There’s proof in the history books, and you know it.”

“Local history books, mostly,” Ariel pointed out. “And those are full of fanciful folktales.”

Elsinore pursed her lips primly and Ariel looked at the cars in the lot. Seeing her mother’s old black Cadillac, and Gran’s silver Eldorado, Ariel wondered how her great-gran had gotten to town. The rest of the cars—about ten—belonged to guests. There was one huge black RV that looked more like a military vehicle. Figuring she’d unload the Honda after she said hello, she pulled in front of the wraparound porch. “Let’s go inside. I’ll bet Mom’s got some iced tea made,” she said cordially, as she moved to get out of the car. “Don’t worry, Elsinore, we’ll get to the bottom of all this.”

“I’ve already gotten to the bottom of it,” Elsinore said, “and your family is responsible. It was Matilda who brought this on us, and now, it’s all happening again. I predict that, within a week, all industry in Bliss will shut down.”

“Uh-huh,” Ariel couldn’t help but say dryly. “And that would be…what? Jack’s Diner? Oh, right,” she added. “I forgot. The ice-cream truck.”

“And the canoe-and-bike rental stand,” Elsinore put in.

Taking a deep breath, Ariel shut her car door, winc
ing at the stifling heat, then she went up the porch stairs, with Elsinore on her heels. As she pushed through a door, foyer, and into the living room, she inhaled audibly. What was going on here? A shoulder duffel was near the door, as if no one had bothered to check in a guest. Next to it was a six-pack of bottled water and a thick manila file. Slowly, her eyes followed a trail of black clothes—shoes, stockings…

Feeling off balance, she quickly swiped them from the Chinese rug, terrified a guest might see them. It looked as if one of her relatives had started disrobing in the public rooms, while going toward the back of the house. Ariel scanned the terrain and saw another hint of black through some French doors.

“A slip,” she whispered, lifting it from the doorknob. Outside, the air was truly unbearable, making her miss the air-conditioning in the car. Through a thicket of trees, she could hear splashing in the pool to her left. It sounded as if most of the guests were swimming, but she had a suspicion that…

Her pulse ticked fast in her throat as her eyes trailed down the flight of steps carved into the mountain, to where a black dress flew on a pole near the dock, waving like a flag. Ariel shut her eyes. Counted to ten. Opened them again—only to find this was not her overactive imagination. Her mother was swimming in the spring, and judging by the trail of clothes, she was only wearing a bra and panties. As she heard Elsinore gasp, Ariel realized that there were no scents of dinner in the house, even though it was nearly two o’clock. Her relatives did the cooking, and often, because of the Southern fare they served, beans or stewed tomatoes would be on the stove by now.

All the fantastical stories she’d heard in her youth suddenly came racing back. Swiftly, she whirled, feeling panicked, thinking she’d better return to the porch.

She gasped. She’d run right into something hard and as dripping wet as the spring. Just as she glanced up, big sexy-feeling hands closed around the sleeves of her pale pink jacket; seemingly, the move was meant to steady her; instead, her hips locked with a male stranger’s, and her cheek hit a pectoral smelling of chlorinated water. Something else, too. Something more intriguing, less definable. Even though he felt cold from the water, he was hot, too. Yes, he was pure burning fire, sizzling out of control and searing every inch of her. Unbidden, her hands reached, landing naturally on his waist, and she could feel the skin alive beneath her fingertips.