The Sense of Reckoning (13 page)

“No. She might see me.”

“Scott could drop me off, I could tell him I wanted to take a hike there.”

“That seems like a flimsy excuse.”

“Well, he might know something was up, but he wouldn’t know what it was.”

Garrick drew his eyebrows together and glared at her.
 

“If I see her, I’ll just tell her I’m a lost tourist. She won’t have any way of knowing who I am.”

“Your picture was in the news after the Firth incident.”

“I doubt very much that it showed up in Maine,” she said. Then, after a pause, she added, “Did it?”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Garrick brusquely. He considered for a moment, his eyebrows unknitting a bit. “I suppose it would be acceptable.” He sighed. “Very well. Do you have a map?”

She went to her knapsack and removed a map of Mount Desert Island she had picked up in Bar Harbor, and took it to Garrick’s desk.

“The hotel is here,” he said, making a neat X on the map on a finger of land on the west coast of the island. He traced a careful line on the map from Somesville, following Oak Hill Road and Indian Point Road to where one would leave the main road to follow the smaller road to the X. “You should have your driver drop you off here.” He drew a small arrow at the intersection. “You should leave soon, it gets dark early at this time of year.”

Garrick stood. Ann gathered up her parka and knapsack and they crossed the hall to the waiting room. When Garrick opened the door, Scott turned, his hands clasped behind his back, from where he was peering at a small book on a book stand. Its pages were held open with a weighted strip of leather.

“You have very interesting reading material in your waiting room, Mr. Masser. Much better than old copies of National Geographic.”

“Quite.” Garrick crossed to the book stand.

“And very appropriate for your business,” said Scott, gesturing to the page to which the book was open.

“‘I think a person who is terrified with the imagination of ghosts and spectres,’” quoted Garrick, looking out the window, “‘much more reasonable than one, who, contrary to the reports of all historians, sacred and profane, ancient and modern, and to the traditions of all nations, thinks the appearance of ghosts fabulous and groundless.’”

“Wow,” said Scott, raising his eyebrows. “Very impressive.”

Ann joined them. “You want me to help out with a sensing, tell me there’s no reason for me not to, and then you have a book in your waiting room talking about someone who is terrified by ghosts?”

“Steel your heart, Ms. Kinnear,” said Garrick tartly. He removed the strip of leather and flipped the book closed, revealing a gaudily marbled cover. “The author—a physician named John Alderson—is quoting Joseph Addison, but the purpose of the book is to refute that position. Alderson argued that the belief in apparitions arose from secondary physical causes.”

“Ah HA!” said Ann.

Garrick raised his eyebrows at her. “Ah ha?”

“Sounds like an explanation for a physical reaction to sensings.”

“You misunderstand the author’s intent, my dear. He believed the perception of apparitions to be the result of physical causes—injuries to the head, excessive alcohol consumption, chronic medical conditions—whereas you are arguing that the physical condition is the result of the appearance of the apparition.” He waved to the other books. “For any position you may care to take on the subject, I can provide a carefully researched position defending or debunking it.” He closed the book and placed it on the book stand. “You may borrow it if you wish to read further.”

Ann started to respond, but then realized that Garrick was talking to Scott.

“Really?” He picked it up from the book stand. “It looks quite old. Is it valuable? I’d be nervous borrowing it if it’s very valuable.”

Garrick waved his hand. “Not terribly old. 1823.”

“Why thank you, that’s very generous of you.”

At the front door, Ann turned to Garrick. “So how did Alderson solve the problems of the people who were seeing spirits?”

“Bleeding, leeches, and purgatives,” said Garrick briskly.

“Great,” said Ann, turning to leave.

Scott followed Ann to the car, then stepped ahead of her to open the door. When he had gotten in she said, “My, aren’t the two of you chummy. What would Mike think?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” said Scott with a grin. “Where to now?”

“I need you to drop me off somewhere, I’ll give you directions.”

“What are we going to do?” said Scott, starting the car.

“You are going to drop me off and I’m going to go for a walk.”

“Not with me?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm, very mysterious,” said Scott agreeably.

Chapter 17

A short while later, Scott dropped Ann off at the beginning of Lynam’s Point Road.

“Where are you going?” he asked, peering around. There were no buildings visible—just stands of pines all around before the road curved out of sight in front of and behind them. A small sign for Lynam’s Point Hotel was so faded that it blended into its wooded background.

“Top secret. If I told you I’d have to kill you,” said Ann.

“You’re no fun. When and where do you want me to pick you up?”

“Let’s say back here in an hour.”

“Right-o. Here, take a bottle of water.” Ann got out of the car. Scott, after consulting his map, drove off to the south.

The air, especially under the shade of the trees, was chilly, and Ann got her new hat from her knapsack and pulled it on. She followed Lynam’s Point Road for a short distance before it crossed the tiny spit of land that made the peninsula not quite an island. On her map, she saw that the peninsula ran north to south, paralleling the main island of Mount Desert and separated from it by a narrow inlet on the east. To her right, at the north end of the peninsula and only a few hundred yards away, Ann could see the roof of what she assumed was the hotel. Perhaps she needn’t have told Scott to stay away so long; it appeared she would reach the hotel in only a few minutes.

Once across the spit of land, however, the road turned left onto the short extension of the peninsula that lay to the south. Following the road, she soon left the pine woods and came out next to the water and saw that the road followed the shore of Lynam Narrows. The builder of the hotel, and the road, must have found the picturesque view to the west across the Narrows and on to the open water of the Western Bay to be a more appealing route than one following the inlet to the east. She considered backtracking and taking a shortcut along the eastern shore of the peninsula, but it would have meant scrambling across the rocks that lined the shore. In addition, although the area looked deserted, if she encountered anyone, her presence there would be harder to explain than if she stuck to the road. She put on her sunglasses—they not only provided protection from the glare of the sun on the water but also gave her a sense of traveling incognito (although she still doubted that anyone on Mount Desert Island would have followed the coverage of the Firth case closely enough to recognize her).

She walked briskly. The sun, when it was not hidden by the building clouds, sparkled on the water. Small waves stirred by the chilly breeze slapped onto the narrow, stony beach that bordered the road. Yellow seaweed lay like hair across the rocks. Across the Narrows she could see a few small, widely spaced buildings dotting the opposite shore, their wooden sides polished to that silver-gray of oceanside structures. A black bird bobbed on the water, only its head and neck protruding like a periscope. It periodically disappeared under the waves and once emerged with a fish in its beak, which it juggled about until it could gulp it down head-first.

Eventually, the road turned away from the shore and back into the pine woods. Here evenly spaced, mature trees were surrounded by crowds of bright green, knee-high seedlings crowding at their bases like chicks around a hen. Shortly after she entered the woods, she passed between a pair of stone pillars with a sign reading “Lynam’s Point Hotel” affixed to one. A chain between the pillars blocked the entrance. The chain wasn’t locked, just looped over a hook on the back of the pillar—more a discouragement than a deterrent. She stepped over it.
 

A short distance beyond the pillars, Ann passed a cemetery on her left. She picked up her pace as she usually did when passing cemeteries, not wanting to be distracted by a spirit. Then the road left the pine woods again and opened out into a cleared area at the tip of the peninsula. In front of Ann was the hotel that Garrick had drawn. He had captured it quite accurately, although he had obviously had its in-season incarnation in mind. Now, in October, the shutters on the second- and third-story windows were closed, and the small parking area was empty. Ann could also see evidence of the financial difficulties Garrick had described—the paint was peeling, the landscaping was threadbare, and one of the posts on the veranda had been knocked loose and leaned outward, a slight dip noticeable in the roof above it. She was glad she was seeing it in the daylight since there were a number of obstacles that could have tripped her up—literally and figuratively—if she had arrived at night under the no-flashlight rule.

There was no sign of life, so Ann decided to make a circuit of the hotel. She followed the drive to the right, bringing into view a glorious vista across what her map told her was the Western Bay. Behind the hotel was a boathouse, as buttoned up as the hotel. Between the hotel and the boathouse, the lawn was oddly terraced—when she got to the back of the hotel, she saw that the ground had been leveled to accommodate a playing area of some kind. She guessed it had been a croquet court.

All the while, she kept her senses open to any spirit. What if she was able to return to Garrick from her scouting trip and tell him how to get in touch with the lady? It would be a satisfying rejoinder to his “apprenticeship” comment. However, she couldn’t perceive anything beyond what would be apparent to any visitor: a hotel in need of some TLC and a vista that would likely be hard to top anywhere on Mount Desert Island.

The west side of the hotel was obviously the service area, with a small loading dock and utilitarian doors that she guessed led to the hotel’s kitchen. An old Jeep was parked near the back entrance—so Ellen Lynam was likely inside after all.

Completing her circuit, she wondered how close she could safely get to the hotel’s veranda, where Garrick thought she might meet Loring Lynam, without attracting the attention of whoever was inside. Just then, the front door opened and a woman emerged, rummaging through a large purse. Ann glanced around quickly, searching for cover, but the woman was going to look up any moment and would certainly be suspicious if she saw someone scuttling away.

“Hello!” Ann called and, when the woman looked up, waved.

“Hello,” the woman called back as Ann crossed the lawn to where she stood on the veranda. “Can I help you? The hotel is closed for the season.”

“Yes, I know, I hope you don’t mind me coming out here—so pretty!” She sounded unnaturally perky to her own ears, and toned it down a bit. “Beautiful view,” she said, nodding toward the water.

The woman stepped off the veranda and turned in the direction Ann was looking. “Yes, it is,” she said, sounding wistful. “That’s one of the most lovely views on MDI. You should come back when we’re open, you could sit on the veranda and enjoy it when it’s a bit warmer.”

“When do you open for the season?”

After a pause, the woman said, “May.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely. My brother would love hosting a summer party on a veranda like that.” A thought popped into her head. “Actually, my fiancé and I are looking for a place for our reception. Do you do receptions?”

“Oh yes, we’ve done lots of receptions. When are you getting married?”

“Uh ... July.”

“It’s a busy time around here, best book early. I don’t quite know what our schedule is for July, but I can take your name and number and give you a call when we’re a little more settled on plans for next year.”

Ann was beginning to regret what had seemed like a clever cover story.

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble ...”

“No trouble.” The woman stuck out her hand. “Ellen Lynam. I own the hotel.”

Ann shook her hand. “Kay Near.” It was the name she used for the paintings she sold in the Adirondacks and in West Chester.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Near. Let’s go inside and I can get your information.”

Ann followed Ellen into the lobby, where Ellen went behind the antique registration desk and began shuffling through some drawers. “Everything gets all out of kilter in off-season ...”

Ann took the opportunity to glance around the lobby, opening her senses to what might be there, but the room seemed clean of spirits. However, her vision was somewhat impaired by the sunglasses she had kept on—incognito seemed like an especially good idea now that she was actually speaking with Garrick’s client.
 

“Ah, here we are,” said Ellen, producing the stub of a pencil and a pad of paper with the hotel’s name on it in an old-fashioned script. She removed her glasses and hooked them into the neck of her shirt. With the glasses off, her face took on the innocent prettiness of a younger woman. “K-a-y?”