Feta Attraction (8 page)

“Hi, Georgie.”

I turned but the hand stayed put, giving my shoulder a little caress in the process.

“Oh, hi, Keith.”

“Sorry if I startled you. I saw you leave the Bean and I thought I'd come up and see how you're doing. Oh, you spilled some coffee—was that my fault?”

“Don't worry about it. I'm fine.”

“I have some extra napkins.” He sat down next to me and pulled some out of his pocket. Briefly I wondered whether he would attempt some dabbing at the coffee in my lap, but he merely handed the wad to me.

I accepted the napkins and proceeded to blot.

“So, are you okay? It was sure a shock to find Big Dom. I'm so sorry you had to see him like that.”

“Do the police know what happened yet?”

“Word on the street is that he was murdered.”

“Murdered?” I had wanted to believe it was an accident. I couldn't recall a murder, ever, in all the time I'd lived here. Well, there was that time that Louise Brodie brained her husband, Duane, with a slow cooker full of butternut squash because he blew off her mother's Thanksgiving dinner to go deer hunting. But murder changed everything.

“Why would anyone want to murder Big Dom?” He was no doubt involved in some kind of shady dealings, but I'd never heard anything worse than that he was skimming money off the business, which I think everybody did. Except me.

“The rumor is that it's the Watertown mob, but that's always the first assumption when there's an Italian guy involved. For once, Rick seems to be keeping the investigation confidential.”

“How did you find out?”

“I saw Sherry this morning at the diner and she told me the coroner is calling it murder.” Sherry Harper was a nurse and had probably been called in to assist the medical examiner before he took the body back to Watertown for the autopsy. Our little hospital wasn't equipped for forensics. “The ME told her that his initial impression was that Dom was hit over the head with a blunt instrument, then died of a gunshot wound before he was dumped in the water. That's why he was floating when we found him—he didn't take water into his lungs because he wasn't breathing.”

I shivered as the picture of his floating corpse, that ugly welt impressed on his head, popped back into my brain. Keith put his arm around me. “It's gonna be okay, honey.”

I looked up at him and he smiled down at me, our faces close. The breeze was lifting his blond hair and I could see that, unlike Big Dom and his Trumpish comb-over, Keith was genetically blessed with the hairline of a boy. A little stubble on his chin and jaw showed he either hadn't shaved yet this morning or had a fast-growing beard. His eyes were soft and his lips were slightly parted.

He's going to kiss me,
I thought, momentarily panicked but a bit thrilled at the same time. It had been a long time since anyone had kissed me. Why not Keith? He was my friend. I could trust him. He was a great-looking guy.
If he wants to kiss me, I'll let him,
I decided.
I could do a whole lot worse.
A laker glided by in the distance, and let out a blast of its horn.
What if you can do better?
a little voice in my mind piped up. According to Liza, Keith was in love with me. We were sitting on a park bench in full view of anybody who happened to walk or boat by. In light of recent rumors about us, somehow this didn't seem like a good idea. I might have a crumbling, sham marriage and be about to be thrown out of my home and job, but I wasn't ready for this. I wriggled out of his embrace and stood up, walking over to the nearby trash can to dispose of the damp handful of napkins and empty coffee cup I was still holding.

“I should be getting back to the restaurant,” I said.

“Bye, Georgie.” He was smiling but it seemed a bit forced. Was he disappointed about the thwarted smooch?

“Bye, Keith.” I started toward the pavilion, then turned back as I remembered something I'd wanted to ask him before being distracted.

“Keith, any idea why the Coast Guard would be investigating Big Dom's murder?”

“The Coast Guard?” His face clouded. “That's the state police's jurisdiction.”

“Some Coast Guard guy came around earlier asking me some questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Just about what we saw, that sort of thing. He wasn't there long. He didn't call you?”

“No.”

“Well, I imagine he will.”

“What was his name? I know quite a few of the guys at the station.”

“Jack, uh . . . Captain Jack somebody, you know, like the Billy Joel song? Or those Johnny Depp movies? I have his card back at the restaurant somewhere.”

“I don't think I know any Jack stationed here. Do me a favor and look for that card, will you? I'm interested to find out what this is all about.”

“I'll call you if I find it. Bye again, Keith.”

“Bye again, honey.” He grinned.

*   *   *

The restaurant was bustling when I returned. Sophie was in her usual cushioned chair, feet outstretched on a footstool, right by the cash register. Dolly chopped away at a mound of carrots destined for either the salad or tonight's vegetable side. Russ, the long tail of his dark hair swinging across the AC/DC logo on his T-shirt, emerged from the walk-in cooler carrying a box of lettuce to be cleaned and shredded.

“One of them white envelopes got shoved under the kitchen door a while ago,” Dolly said. “I looked out the window but whoever left it was gone by the time I got there. It's on your desk.”

My heart rose up in my throat. Sophie perked up and turned toward me expectantly. “Just an invoice from one of the suppliers,” I offered. This seemed to satisfy Sophie, but she continued to watch me. Damn, but she could make me uncomfortable, and I hadn't even done anything to deserve it. Except almost kiss somebody, and that didn't count.

I passed through the hallway and into my office. There was the white envelope glaring up at me. I decided to avoid it for now by listening to the answering machine, which was flashing red. A couple of people had called in for reservations and the ghost hunters were asking when they could meet with me to film the “reveal” of their findings. I called them back first and told them to come in anytime. I'd pull the pocket doors on one of the dining rooms and they could do the filming there without being too disruptive to business in the other two rooms. Although, now that I considered it, the customers would flock in if they knew that a television show was being filmed only a few yards away. Well, after the filming, I'd open the doors so everybody could get a peek at the cast and crew.

I booted up my laptop and opened my e-mail. No surprises here, thank goodness, just the promised note from Cal saying that today was her day off and she was going boating with Sakis, the boy she'd been seeing, and then going back to his family's home for dinner. I sent her back a quick reply again telling her to be careful and that I hoped she'd had fun, since with the time delay her day's activities had already happened.

I pulled up Sophie's bank account information on the screen, and printed it off. Sophie had given me access to the accounts when Spiro proved to have no aptitude for monitoring them. I reviewed the statement again. Yes, twenty-three thousand dollars had been withdrawn from Spiro and Sophie's joint money market account late last week.

I steeled myself and opened the white envelope. Inside was a sheet of the same yellowed paper with the blocky letters. What was it with this guy? Or girl, I amended, just to be PC. One e-mail or one letter would have been sufficient.

I STILL HAVE HIM. FIND IT AND BRING IT TOMOROW NITE TO THE DEVIL'S OVEN. PUT IT IN THE BASKIT HANGING INSIDE THE DOOR. COME ALONE. DON'T TELL ANYONE OR I WILL KILL HIM.

My stomach clenched. Kill him? Suddenly, my theory that this was a joke seemed naïve and stupid. And what was “it”? If he, whoever he was, had Spiro, then he must have the money already, so it couldn't be that. And the writer of these notes had never actually said he was holding Spiro, as opposed to someone else. The only other thing I could think of was the so-called treasure that Spiro had supposedly found. How the hell was I supposed to bring it when I didn't even know what it was, not to mention where? And I didn't have a boat, so how would I get to an island out in the middle of the river if I couldn't tell anybody? The Bay was no longer insulated from murder—Big Dom had been killed just a couple of days ago. A lump of panic rose up and choked me. Could there be a connection?

I looked through the piles one more time and found the card after a minute or two. Underneath a raised seal, “Jack Conway, Cpt” was embossed in blue letters. “United States Coast Guard” and a phone number completed the information. Looked legitimate enough. But according to Keith, the Coast Guard wouldn't have any reason or jurisdiction to be investigating Big Dom. Now that I thought about it, the guy hadn't been wearing a uniform, either. Anybody could get business cards printed up, or make them at home on the computer. I fingered the edge of the card and thought.

The intercom buzzed. It was Sophie. “Those ghost guys are here.”

I took another deep breath. “I'm on my way.”

I led the crew in through the kitchen door. They followed me with their sound equipment, some large portable lighting fixtures, and several cameras. I directed them to the front dining room, which was empty because we'd seated all the customers in the other two rooms. I didn't think anybody would mind waiting for a seat tonight. We moved a table in front of the fireplace. Napoleon stared down at us from his portrait, hand stuck in the front of his coat. The crew set up a laptop and some microphones on the table underneath the emperor and attached all kinds of cords and wires.

In a surprisingly short time, they had finished. A woman came toward me wielding a hairbrush and a makeup tray. I hoped I looked presentable.

We sat down, Jerry and Gary on one side of the table and me on the other. I willed my racing heart to slow down.

“We're on in five, four, three, two, and action!”

SEVEN

“We've finished our investigation here at the Bonaparte House in Bonaparte Bay, New York,” Jerry said, turning toward me. “Now, your husband claims that he has lived here every spring and summer for his whole life and that he has had many instances of hearing noises that seem to come from behind walls. He has also felt like he was being watched. And there are reports of staff people here at the restaurant having similar experiences.”

Gary continued. “We set up our equipment and spent most of the night to see if we could document any paranormal activity. You yourself have never had any experiences, right?”

“Right.”

“First off, I can tell you that this is a very unusual house, from an architectural point of view,” Gary said. “As you know, and as our audience can see from our exterior shots, the house is octagonal with two stories, a basement, and a very large cupola on top, all connected by this magnificent circular staircase.” The camera panned over to the center of the building.

“Yes.” I nodded. “My understanding is that there were a lot of octagonal houses built in the nineteenth century. The design was supposed to give more usable space for the amount of building materials, though it made for some odd-shaped rooms. Because of improved air circulation, it was supposed to promote health and well-being.”

Jerry nodded. “We've done some research. You are correct about the Orson Fowler architectural movement. However, this house predates Orson Fowler by several decades. It might have been an unacknowledged inspiration to him, although there is no record that he ever ventured this far north into New York State. This was not one of his houses. The Fowler houses were built of wood or masonry.”

Gary took over. “The Bonaparte House is built of solid limestone blocks. We often find increased paranormal activity in areas where limestone is present, but we don't know why. The building materials, together with the odd interior construction and staircase, give this house some interesting acoustics, which might account for the noises. There was, however, a tradition of octagonal buildings in Europe at the time, and since this house was built by Europeans, that is likely the source of the architecture.”

If this was true, I was going to have to update the house's history on the menu inserts again. Come to think of it, I'd never verified any of that information.

“I'd like to show you what we found,” Jerry said.

“Okay, I guess I'm ready.” Was it possible they had found something? I wouldn't say I was a disbeliever, exactly, but any “proof” of paranormal activity would have to be pretty compelling to convince me.

“First, we set up cameras in various places all over the house and restaurant. Here is some of the footage we took.” Gary pointed to the laptop screen. “This is taken right here in the main dining room. If you'll watch, you'll see some orb movement, which takes place just about where we are sitting.”

“Orb movement?” I watched the screen and saw small white circles dancing around in front of the fireplace and around Napoleon's head.

“Orbs are balls of light that sometimes appear, either to the naked eye or just in photographs, in places with paranormal activity,” Jerry piped in. “They are spherical concentrations of energy, without any sort of consciousness or intent. They can also be dust illuminated by our lights and cameras.”

That theory would certainly get my vote. I wasn't crazy about the idea of orbs flying around my house at night, landing on me as I slept. Yikes.

“The next area we'd like you to look at is in the cupola area. The view from up there, by the way, is spectacular.”

“Yes. With eight windows facing in every direction, we can see for miles, well into the countryside and across the river into Canada,” I said.

A pair of what appeared to be junior investigators sat in the highest point of the house, one in an old midcentury-style armchair that Sophie had never been able to part with, it having belonged to her dead husband. The other guy sat in one of my dining room chairs that they must have dragged upstairs. The investigators got up and walked around, picking up some of the old books, theatrically blowing off the dust and looking at the covers. Some of Cal's old toys were up there too. An anorexically thin bespectacled guy picked up a stuffed purple dinosaur and dangled it over the edge of the railing.

“How much will you pay me to drop him?” he clowned around. If the toy fell, it would drop three full stories, maybe four if they could aim him just right for the basement and avoid him bouncing off the railings below. This didn't bother me much, as that talking critter was extremely annoying, but Cal had loved him and I felt defensive for her.

“I love you!” the toy said in its goofy cartoon voice as the dangler squeezed his tummy.

“I love you too!” The other guy cracked up. He picked up something from the table facing the upriver window and said, “I'll tell you what. I'll give you fifty bucks if you drop him down into the basement and then drop this on him.”

“Hey, man, what is that thing anyway?”

“Dude, I don't have any idea.” He fiddled with the round end, which spun around with an audible whizzing sound like the chamber of a gun being spun in a game of Russian roulette. “Looks like a telescope. Heavy. It's too dark to look through it, though.”

I supposed this was just an act they put on for the show, but it wasn't funny to me. I continued to stare at the screen, as Gary broke in. “Here's what we wanted you to see. Watch over in this corner here.”

I didn't see anything at first, but when the tape was replayed, an amorphous shadow drifted past the window.

“We don't know what that is, if anything. There haven't been any reports of apparitions here, have there?”

“No.”

“Despite many hours of tape shot all through this building, that is the only thing of interest we caught on video.”

Fine by me. Looked like a plain old shadow. Could have been cast by anything, and I'd be willing to bet it wasn't paranormal. I breathed a little sigh of relief. This interview needed to be over, and soon. I had way too many things to think about.

“Next we'll listen to the EVPs.”

“EVPs?”

“Electronic voice phenomena,” Gary explained. “Sometimes spirits communicate with us in ways that are not audible when they are happening, but they can be picked up by our recording equipment.”

“Oh.” I wished they'd hurry up. My foot started to jiggle, but I pressed my heel to the floor to stop it.

“Here we had our equipment set up in the staircase area,” Jerry went on. “We had several hours of audio to go through. We found something interesting.”

Gary pointed to the laptop screen, which was bisected by a white line. “Watch and listen.”

A crackly recording ensued and I could see the noise following the line on the screen. There was a spike and some kind of muffled sound. I couldn't make it out.

“Did you hear that? I'll play it again.”

I leaned forward and listened again. I shivered. The words were faint but audible.
Help me. Free.

My blood ran cold and I imagine I was white as the ghost that apparently lived in my house. I could only hope the footage had been doctored for television and they would let me in on the joke later.

“What do you think it's saying?” Jerry prompted.

I swallowed hard. “It sounds like, ‘Help me. Free.'” My voice was not much more than a whisper.

“That's what we heard too.”

“Based on the evidence we've been able to capture with our recording equipment,” Jerry said, “I honestly believe that you've got some paranormal activity going on here.”

Gary put a reassuring hand on my arm. “I know this is surprising, but we don't think there is any reason for you, your family, your staff, or your customers to be worried. We think that whatever is here is benign, simply a soul trapped for some reason and asking for help to be set free.”

Jerry said, “We asked the spirit to forget his trouble and to look toward the light and pass on from this world. Hopefully, we've been able to help him.”

I nodded. I wasn't quite sure what to say to this, so I just said, “Thank you.” I hoped I didn't look as dumb and inarticulate as I felt.

Jerry and Gary stood up and I shook their hands in turn.

“Thank you for letting us investigate the Bonaparte House,” Jerry said. “If anything else happens, or you feel uncomfortable in any way, just give us a call. We'd also like to talk to your husband about his experiences when he returns.”

I hesitated, only for a moment. “I'll ask him to call you when he comes back.”
If he comes back,
I thought.

“Again,” Gary concluded solicitously, “if we can do anything for you, just get in touch with us.” He handed me a DVD in a hard plastic case. “This is a video for you of parts of our investigation.”

“I have to say I'm surprised by what you've shown me,” I said, regaining some of my composure and recollecting that this was also a free advertising opportunity. “But I do hope you'll come back sometime and enjoy Bonaparte Bay with your families.” I smiled. Whether it looked sincere, I'd just have to wait and see. It didn't feel that way.

“We may just do that. Bye, now.”

“Cut!” one of the camera operators yelled from somewhere. Almost immediately cords were rolled up and equipment was moved out.

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Guys, feel free to pack up your things and then come back in for a meal, on the house, before you leave for downstate.” This would irritate Sophie to no end, but our customers would enjoy it. I opened up both sets of pocket doors to the other dining rooms and instructed the server filling in as hostess tonight to start seating the patrons lined up outside. News travels fast in a village this size, even among tourists.

I closed the door to the relative sanctuary of my office and sat down. I poured myself a glass of red wine even though I was technically still on duty. The delicious liquid coated my throat and moved down my esophagus and into my stomach, where it made a warm and comforting pool in my belly. Some brandy might have been nicer, but I would have had to go to the bar for that. I did not want to see anybody until I had had a chance to unwind a little.

A ghost in my house?
Sophie and Spiro's house,
I amended. I had to acknowledge the idea that this place had a secret life of its own, independent of the Nikolopatos family. It apparently harbored both a treasure and a ghost, like some creepy hulking edifice in a Victorian gothic novel. I was a bit older than the typical ingénue heroine, I thought ruefully, and I was more or less confident that a cloaked villain was not going to appear on the scene and whisk me away somewhere. Although the way things were headed, I couldn't rule that out.

The intercom buzzed and I started. “Georgie?” Sophie's voice was sharp and accusatory. “Georgie, are you in there?” She was no doubt going to chastise me about the free meals I'd given away. It wouldn't occur to her that the increase in business they had generated would more than make up for some gyros and a few orders of French fries. “Georgie!”

I ignored her.

The telephone rang and I looked at the caller ID.
Keith Morgan
. I took another sip of the wine and picked up the receiver. “Hi, Keith.”

“Hi,” he said. “Hope I caught you at a good time.”

“I've had better days.” That was an understatement. “It's good to hear from you,” I said, and regretted it. I shouldn't be encouraging him, but the friendly voice was a welcome relief.

“It's good to hear you too.” I could almost hear the smile in his voice. “Honey?” I wished he'd stop calling me that. “Have you found that business card? The one from the Coast Guard captain?”

I reached into my pocket and pulled it out, warm and a little wrinkled. I'd intended to call Keith about this earlier, but had been waylaid by the television people.