Feta Attraction (3 page)

“But Spiro has. He said he heard noises, and got creepy feelings like he was being watched. I think I might have heard something the other day,” he added.

“We'll have to see what they find.”

Speaking of Spiro, the inconsiderate darling still hadn't shown up or bothered to call. Sophie and I had both tried to contact him several times, but his phone went straight to voice mail. I hoped he was having a good time, wherever he was, because when he got back he was going to have some 'splainin' to do. Whether he'd left me for good or was just off on an extra-long joyride, I was angry with him.

And angrier with myself for not having prepared an exit plan.

Adding to that, I now had to do the interviews with the
Ghost Squad
people myself. What I wanted to do was spend the whole evening relaxing at the spa on Valentine Island, where I'd begged my best girlfriend, Liza, to find me a room. This would be a rare treat in the height of the tourist season.

I headed upstairs and stopped at the door to Spiro's room. Could he have left a note? It seemed unlikely, but I put my key in the lock—couldn't remember the last time I'd done that, or wanted to! The door opened without my turning the key.
Strange
. Being moderately paranoid, Spiro always locked his door.

I surveyed the room. He'd decorated the twelve-by-fifteen-foot space tastefully, though it certainly wasn't to my taste. Chocolate brown walls complemented the original wide plank floorboards, sanded and polished to a glowing honey finish. A few scuffs in the wood over by one of the walls, but that was to be expected in a place this age. Pale blue drapes and some shiny chrome accessories, no fingerprints dulling the surfaces, gave the room a minimalist, modern feel. Nothing was out of place; nor had I expected it would be.

The blue and cream spread covering the king-sized bed was wrinkle free, and the graphic chocolate and vanilla throw pillows were arranged with precision. Hard to tell whether the bed had been slept in. He was such a neatnik, he never left his room without making the bed. I checked the closet—he wouldn't be embarrassed when the
Ghost
Squad
checked out his room—but his Louis Vuitton luggage was still there, and it didn't look as though he'd taken anything else with him.

The small table he used as a desk was clean and bare except for a lamp and an unlabeled manila file folder, which I opened. The top pages appeared to be photocopies of historical research about the Bonapartes, but I didn't go any farther. Spiro was convinced Napoleon was Greek, not Italian or French. He was fascinated by the Bonapartes and had been researching the house for years.

That knot of anger in my stomach twisted and re-formed in a different pattern. Why did I continue to allow him to blow off his responsibilities? And why did I continue to clean up the messes he left behind? Only a few months ago, the answer would have been simple—our daughter. But Cal was grown now, off on her own.

I took one last look around. He never, ever went anywhere, including the toilet, without his cell phone, yet there it was, lying on the night table. I picked it up and stuck it in my pocket, intending to look at his call records later on. He'd be ripped when he came back and found it missing. I smiled at the thought.

A commotion caused me to pull back a curtain and look outside. Three big black vans with “NYPI” emblazoned on the side were parked in front of the restaurant.
Ghost Squad
had arrived.

I descended the stairs and nearly tripped over a thick orange extension cord. During my short absence, Sophie had greeted the team from the New York Paranormal Institute, then left with Dolly, who would drive Sophie to her cousin's to spend the night. I'd seen the show on cable a few times and knew that for the two main investigators, the paranormal was their sideline—during the day they were electricians or contractors or something.
Hmm,
I thought.
Maybe I can get them to fix that broken light switch in the bathroom
.

“I'm Jerry, from NYPI.” A studly guy with a shiny bald head pumped my hand.

“Georgie. I'm one of the owners here.” Well, my name wasn't on the deed, never would be now, but it was way too complicated a situation to explain on camera.

“Where can we sit down and do the interview?”

I led him and Gary, the other investigator, out to a table in front of the fireplace in the main dining room, while the crew set up the video and audio equipment around us. I cleared off the napkin dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, and the small Neofitou vase filled with red carnations, moving everything to table six. I made a mental note to order more vases. The little black-and-gold beauties tended to disappear into coat pockets and oversized handbags as free souvenirs.

Gary switched on a microphone. “Your husband called us saying he's been hearing noises at night—knocking, shuffling, voices, that sort of thing?”

“Yes, he has mentioned that to me and to other people here at the restaurant.”

“How about you? Have you ever heard or seen anything strange?”

“This is an old house. Who knows what's in the walls? I'm not sure I want to know, to tell the truth. I've heard noises at night, but nothing that scared me.”

This was so not my thing.

“I see Napoleon's portrait here over the fireplace.” Jerry nodded toward the huge oil painting that presided over the room, and the camera operator panned upward. “We understand that this house was built for him.”

“That's the legend. A group of French exiles built it hoping to rescue him from Elba, hide him here, and plan out his return to power in France.”

“Has there ever been any activity associated with the portrait? We sometimes find that to be the case.”

“Again, I don't have personal knowledge of any ‘activity.' My husband would be the one to ask, but he . . . was called away unexpectedly.”

“Napoleon never lived here.”

I guessed this had to be dumbed down for television. “That's right.”

“Do you know if anyone ever died in this house?”

Not yet,
I thought darkly. “Not to my knowledge, no, but as I said, it's a two-hundred-year-old house and it's certainly possible.”

“We're going to set up our equipment and see if we can help you out here.”

I wasn't aware we needed help. But they seemed like decent guys and free advertising was nothing to be sneezed at. It was all over town that we were being investigated. We were booked solid with reservations through the next three weekends.

“Here's my cell number in case you need to reach me.” I handed him a business card.

On a whim, I returned to Spiro's room and grabbed the manila folder. I shoved it into the outer pocket of my overnight bag—a Target special. I did not share my husband's designer tastes. There might be nothing interesting to read over at Liza's. Maybe Spiro had left a clue as to where he'd gone.

I walked the half block down to the Theresa Street docks and called the water taxi to take me to Valentine Island. Twenty minutes later, the afternoon sun was dipping lower on the horizon, and I was still waiting. I opened the folder and read the headline of the top newspaper article. “Joseph Bonaparte, Once King of Spain, Was North Country Resident.”
Before I could read further, a friendly toot-toot of a small boat horn made me look up.

“Waiting for me?”

I smiled down into the soft gray eyes of my friend Keith Morgan.

“My whole life.” I batted my eyes at him, then felt ridiculous. I was no good at flirting. And I shouldn't be flirting with Keith anyway.

He grinned and put a hand to his chest. “Be still my heart.”

“The water taxi hasn't shown up, and I'm supposed to spend the night pampering myself at Liza's.”

“Want a lift? I'm just out for a little cruise. It's such a nice day. I can even offer you a drink.”

“You are the absolute best.”

He looked up at me, his face serious, the sun behind him turning his hair into a golden halo.

Hello!
I thought, wishing I could take it back. He was a great-looking guy, and if my situation weren't so complicated, we might have made some sense together. As it was, something was missing and I didn't know what it was. I was pretty sure the problem was me. I had no idea how normal couples acted in real relationships.

“You'd better mean that.” He tied off his boat, a gleaming teak and mahogany antique with the words “Chris-Craft” stenciled on the hull, then reached up onto the dock and grabbed my bag. He stowed it down by his feet, not that that would keep it dry if we got sprayed by something bigger—or faster—than us. A laker blew its horn off in the distance. The football-field-length freight boats that sailed the Great Lakes and made their way out to sea via the main shipping channel of the St. Lawrence Seaway could capsize a small boat if the drivers weren't careful.

Keith took my hand and bent his head to kiss it lightly. Why'd he have to do that?

“You're looking lovely tonight, Georgiana.”

Yes, I thought, I'd worn my most glamorous “I Heart Thousand Islands” sweatshirt just for the occasion. And scrunchied my unstyled hair into an elegant ponytail to boot. If he was trying to win me over, calling me by my god-awful given name was not the way to go about it.

He dropped my hand and reached into the cooler sitting next to him, pulling out two icy Canadian beers and opening each with a deft twist. He wiped the condensation off one with the tail of his shirt and handed it to me.

“Have time to go for a ride with me before I drop you off? I was just going to tool around for a while, then head home.”

I considered his offer. “I guess I've got time for that.” Liza lived at the spa and wouldn't care what time I got there, and since she owned the place, the Jacuzzi, kitchen, and wine cellar were always open.

Keith set down his beer and pulled back on the throttle, expertly maneuvering away from the dock and out into the water. The drone of the motor rumbled through me and dissipated the tension of the day as we glided down the river coast, past beautifully landscaped Victorian mansions neighbored by small cottages. As we passed Yale's Skull and Bones society retreat, which was, inexplicably, rather dilapidated, I asked whether Keith had seen Spiro around town lately.

“I've been working over at Liza's all day.” Keith was one of the few locals who worked year-round. He had a small business on the east end of town where he restored antique boats and provided storage services in the off-season. Last winter he'd gone to Vermont and taken a two-week class from a master woodworker to learn how to make furniture using only hand tools. He had a talent for it and had sold several pieces to summer residents, with many more on order.

Keith waited for me to go on.

“He left the house and didn't take his cell phone with him, and we haven't heard from him.”

“That's not so unusual, is it?”

Everybody knew about Spiro and his little . . . indiscretions.

“No, of course not.” We were nearing the Devil's Oven, a cave on the edge of an island where a locally famous river pirate once hid out during the War of 1812. Next weekend the town would celebrate Pirate Days, and I had an enormous amount of work to do to prepare for the influx of tourists. “It feels off to me, you know? He's been gone longer than he ever has before. Maybe I'm just angry about him ditching me when the TV crew got here.”

He didn't say anything, but maneuvered around an object bobbing just ahead. I was surprised as we passed it. It was a half-full bottle of Ouzo, the same brand we carried at the Bonaparte House. It drifted toward the island, then floated into the mouth of the cave, where it disappeared.

I glanced over at the Oven and could feel my forehead furrowing. “What's that?” I squinted at the sun-dappled water. Something didn't look right.

“What?” Keith cut the motor.

I pointed. “Over there.” I stared as we drifted closer. “That's a person!”

Protruding from the cave entrance and floating on the surface of the water was an arm.

Keith turned the motor back on and throttled up slowly toward the floating form, which undulated gently.

“Get closer,” I ordered. “Whoever that is could still be alive.” I stood up on the deck and prepared to dive into the water.

Keith put a hand on my shoulder to restrain me. “Let me do it,” he said.

I considered my swimming skills—surprisingly poor considering I'd lived my entire life on the water. “I'll call nine-one-one.” The call would summon either the local police, who owned a speedboat, or the Coast Guard, which maintained a small station a short way upstream. I took a deep breath to calm myself.

We were near the body now and Keith stepped over the side into water up to his knees, his back toward me.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” The voice was scratchy and kept cutting in and out. Cell phone service could be unreliable in this area.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” the dispatcher repeated, less patiently this time. I recognized the voice of Cindy Dumont.

“Cindy, it's Georgie from the Bonaparte House. I'm calling from a boat.” Best not to say it was Keith's boat. It would be all over the Bay before she even called in the emergency personnel that I was out with him—not that people wouldn't find out soon enough anyway. “There's a body floating at the mouth of the Devil's Oven.”

This got her attention. “Really?” I could practically see her sitting up straighter. “Who is it?” Cindy asked, her voice almost gleeful.

“I don't know. The body's facedown. It's wearing a suit coat so it must be a guy.”

“Well, roll him over and find out. It'll be easy since he's in the water.”

Sensitivity had never been her strong suit. “Cindy, just call this in to Rick over at the police station.”