Ghost Memories (3 page)

Beckett was incensed.

“Liar! You are the worst, most sniveling bastard of a bloody liar,” Beckett said. “Bartholomew Miller could not have committed the crime as you say, and I know it well, for Bartholomew Miller was with me when the crime took place.”

“No, that's not true,” Eli Smith cried out, but he was so taken by surprise that his words tumbled out oddly. Then he found his voice. “No, no, this is not true. You—defend him falsely. And it is too late—he is dead. Hanged by the neck, and dead as a pirate should be dead.”

Craig Beckett stood straight and slowly smiled a smile that was not a smile at all.

“There were others with me, Smith. Other good men of this town. Honest men, who know that you killed the people aboard the
Annabelle Lee
, you killed Victoria Wyeth because
you
could not have her—she truly loved another. And you brought about the execution of a good man who caused no ill to any other in a heinous manner. You, sir, deserve to die! But it will be just and right—you will be condemned by a jury of your peers.”

Eli Smith fought. He fought wildly. He screamed, he cried out, and he was finally subdued and caught between the two burly men who had taken him. He was dragged down the street—dragged, for he fell limp between his attackers—and continued to scream and cry and protest.

Bartholomew, with Victoria's hand in his, followed.

Eli Smith was actually given a trial. But he had no witnesses in his defense—his crew were rounded up by the squadron and brought in for trial, as well. Desperate to save their own lives, his own men spoke against him. Bartholomew was glad to see that even the justice of Commodore David Porter was not so harsh as to have the young cook's helper charged with murder, but most of the other men, no matter how they maligned their captain, would not be spared the rope.

The trial came to a conclusion, with Beckett and many another good man speaking in defense of Bartholomew.

The time and date for the execution were set, and it came about.

Eli Smith was dragged to the hanging tree.

The man did not want to die.

As all others, he was given his chance to speak.

Craig Beckett was there, and Eli Smith pointed at him. “I curse you, Beckett! I curse you, and all your heirs! Time will come and time will tell, and by all that is holy and unholy, I swear that you will know the pain I suffer now! I curse you. I curse you. I curse you! May all the demons of hell curse you and all your issue, and their issue, until time is no more!”

Beckett stood watching him. “It is you who are cursed, man. It is you who murdered an innocent young woman, and all aboard her ship. You brought about the death of an innocent man. The death of Victor Wyatt also weighs on your soul, for he died of the pain you caused. You, sir, will rot in hell.”

“I punished those who sinned! I did no more!” Eli Smith called out. “You are cursed, sir! Whatever time it may take, I will see that you and yours rot in hell! Cursed—”

The hangman had tired of the tirade.

He kicked out the platform upon which the condemned man stood, and Eli Smith's words were cut off cleanly.

Bartholomew listened to the sound of the rope scraping against the tree, and he heard the sound of the dead man swinging to and fro, to and fro.

Then, they saw Eli Smith drop, in spectral form, from the swaying body. He stared at himself. And he began to curse again, damning Beckett—and damning him.

He turned, and he saw Bartholomew, and Victoria holding his hand.

He pointed at Bartholomew. “Bastard, you both deserved to die!” he shouted out.

Bartholomew just stared at him, praying that he was not about to spend eternity roaming the streets of Key West with this man.

But then, there seemed to be an eruption from the ground. None of the living saw it, but Victoria did, as did Eli Smith. He frowned, staring.

Bartholomew grasped Victoria's hand, and pulled her back, and they saw a dark, oozing blackness arise out of the ground. It was like a sea of swirling, spiraling tar, thick and viscous. It rose as if it sought to find a form to take, as if it had eyes, as if it searched for something—or someone—and found what it sought.

It started toward Eli Smith.

“No!” he raged in terror. “No!”

He tried to run from the oily, stygian ooze, but the thing formed fingers and arms and reached out for him.

“No!” he cried again. He began to scream and gurgle as the stuff surrounded his spectral being. He cried out horribly, as if the black ooze were a burning tar, and it seemed long agonizing minutes before it all ended with the ooze receding into the floor, along with the ghost of Eli Smith.

And all was silent. Except for the living, who went about the business of cutting down the body, unaware of the drama that had taken place in another sphere of existence.

“It's not good,” someone muttered. “Not good, being cursed by the dead.”

Craig Beckett was not disturbed. “I don't believe in curses, man. I believe in the good and evil in a man's soul, and a curse from one evil man can only be a curse when another comes along. Let's put an end to this business.”

Victoria looked at Bartholomew, her eyes wide. “There is justice. We don't always see it, but there is justice.”

He nodded. He had no real body, and yet he felt that he swallowed hard, for he wanted to be strong and sure, but he didn't know what any of it meant.

The body was cut down; the spectators meandered away, and soon, they were alone. Bartholomew held both Victoria's hands, looked down at her, and tried to smile.

“I have you,” he began to say. He had been about to tell her that he could face heaven or hell with her by his side.

But then the light came.

Like the ooze that came from the ground, the light seemed powerful and living. It burst out around them, filling the air.

He lifted a hand to shield his eyes against it. There were people walking from it. Some hovered in the distance, but two, hand in hand came closer.

He saw who had come. Victor Wyeth, and his beautiful wife—so like Victoria, just Victoria in another twenty years. Still lovely, tall, sweet and proud.

At his side, Victoria cried out.

“My daughter!” her mother said.

“Victoria!” her father cried, and there was a sob in his voice.

Bartholomew felt her hand slip away from his; she raced to her mother, who enveloped her in a gentle hug. Victor Wyeth set his arms around his wife and his daughter, and the threesome held together for many long minutes.

Victor Wyeth looked over at Bartholomew then. “I was wrong—my apologies come too late.”

“Not too late, sir. I am…I am…I am so sorry for us all.”

Victor nodded, looking at him. Then he turned to his daughter. “It's time—your murder is avenged, and I must seek forgiveness for all my actions. It's time.”

Time? Time for what?
Bartholomew wondered.

He saw that the light streamed from a path.

“We must go,” Victor said.

Victoria reached out for Bartholomew.

Victor caught her hand. “No,” he said gently. “It's not time for Bartholomew,” he said.

Victoria frowned. “Father, Bartholomew must come. You know that he was guilty of no evil, that his heart was pure, his intentions good.”

Victor shook his head sadly. “It is not for me to say.” He looked at Bartholomew. “You are charged to remain.”

Victoria ran to him. He took her into his arms. But then she pulled away, troubled as she looked at him. “I must go. I feel the light, and I must go. I am avenged, and with those who love me, and I know that there is a greater love…forgive me.”

She was to go, and he was to stay.

But he saw the radiance in her face, and he knew, yes, she must go.

For a moment, his arms tightened around her. He held her close, and he wondered if he would know only loss, and he wondered why the light was coming for Victoria, and not for him.

But he loved her.

And he let her go.

He kissed her spectral lips one last time. She stepped backward, until she reached her parents. She looked at him, and he smiled.

Know only pure happiness and the great warmth and light of love that surrounds you,
he thought. And she heard his thoughts.

They turned, and walked into the light.

And then the light was gone, and he remained.

 

Bartholomew mourned for a decade, but it seemed that he was to remain, though for what reason, he did not know.

Eli Smith had been duly hanged. His death had been avenged.

He followed Craig Beckett around at times, but Beckett never noted him, though now and then he would pause and look around, puzzled.

He watched as David Porter brought down the pirates—not an easy task, and there was many a tragedy at sea. As he had feared, Dona Isabella was beset at sea and murdered by the love of Mad Miller's life, his bar wench, finally his consort. Ah, jealousy!

The Mosquito Squadron moved north, and the salvage trade made Key West one of the richest cities in the country, and the world.

War broke out. Civil War—terrible in the extreme. Florida seceded from the Union, but the Union held the fort, and the streets were filled with tension and sadness.

There were good years, and there were bad years.

Boring times and intriguing times.

He was saddened when war came again, when the bodies of sailors who died on the
Maine
came to Key West and were buried.

He met other ghosts now and then, and some were bitter, and some were lost. Some stayed in the cemetery—now in the center of the island, after a horrible storm sent bodies floating down Duval Street. He haunted those who read, and learned to keep pace with them, since it was awkward and difficult to turn pages.

He saw fine people throughout the years, but none of them seemed to notice him. They would pause and sometimes shiver, but they didn't notice him.

Time came, and time went.

He was fascinated by the grouchy old bearded writer—Ernest Hemingway—and he enjoyed hanging out at the bars with him, and laughing over his foibles with his wife.

Key West, infuriated by a blockade, seceded from the Union and became the Conch Republic—only for a few hours, though the title would remain forever. The blockade—strangling the islands and ruining Key West's business, the tourist trade—was lifted. Their point was made.

And still, he haunted the island. He had loved life, and he had loved Victoria, but she was long gone. He found himself pining after another ghost, a beautiful young woman in white who was often in the cemetery. But she was shy, and they had yet to formally meet. He knew that Victoria was long gone, and that she was happy, loved, and at peace.

And he was lonely.

He was still intrigued, however, with the people and places around him. It was Key West. The bizarre happened. As in the case of that Carl Tanzler fellow—who fell in love with a young Cuban girl, tried to cure her tuberculosis, then dug her up and repaired her body constantly so that he could marry her—and sleep with her corpse for years and years.

It could be entertaining. At least he was in Key West.

But still wondering why he remained.

Then came the day that he was hanging around O'Hara's.

The day he met Katie O'Hara.

He was absolutely astounded. She didn't pause and shiver and feel as if a goose had walked over her grave. She saw him—she really saw him. And she spoke to him.

Katie was gifted. He loved to tease her—she had been told, of course, never to let on that she saw ghosts.

People would think that she was crazy.

So he loved to tease her. Say things in public that would demand a response.

But it was amazing. He had gone so many years, being lonely.

And now…

Of course, he had gone so many years wondering why he remained, as well.

But then, Katie was trying to buy the old Beckett museum, so…

And David Beckett, who had left town years ago, accused of the bizarre murder of his fiancée, was returning.

Things might just start to get interesting.

He might have finally found the reason why he remained on earth….

Ever waiting for the light.

New York Times
bestselling author Heather Graham brings readers a tantalizing tale of dark deeds and mysterious omens, set amid the fascinating history of the Florida Keys.

There are those who walk among us who are no longer alive, but not yet crossed over. They seek retribution…vengeance…to warn. Among the living, few intuit their presence.

Read more about Bartholomew, the Becketts, and the O'Haras in the Bone Island Trilogy by Heather Graham:

Ghost Shadow

(July 2010)

Ghost Night

(August 2010)

Ghost Moon

(September 2010)

Read on for an excerpt from
Ghost Shadow
….

There are those who walk among us who are no longer alive, but not yet crossed over. They seek retribution…vengeance…to warn. Among the living, few intuit their presence.

Katie O'Hara is one who can.

As she's drawn deeper and deeper into a gruesome years-old murder, whispered warnings from a spectral friend become more and more insistent. But Katie must uncover the truth: could David Beckett really be guilty of his fiancée's murder?

Worse—the body count's rising on the Island of Bones, and the dead seem to be reenacting some macabre tableaux from history. The danger is increasing by the moment—especially as Katie finds herself irresistibly drawn to David, who may be responsible for more than just one killing….

At 3:00 a.m., Duval Street was far from closed down. She wondered with a quirk of humor what DuVal—the first governor of territorial Florida—would have thought of the street named in his honor.

Certainly, it kept the name from being forgotten.

Key West was filled with history that shouldn't be forgotten. The name itself was a bastardization of Cayo Hueso, Island of Bones, and came from the fact that
hueso
had sounded like
west
to the English-speaking British who had claimed the state from the Spaniards. The name fit because it was the most western of the Islands of the Martyrs, which was what the chain of Florida “keys” had been known as to the Spanish. Actually, the Islands of the Dry Tortugas were farther west, but the name had been given, and it had stuck. Street names came from the early Americans—Simonton and his friends, colleagues and their families. Simonton had purchased Key West from a Spaniard named Salas when Florida had become an American territory. Salas had received the island as a gift—or back payment for a debt—from the Spanish governor who had ruled before the American governor. The island had seen British rule as well, and often, no matter who ruled, it wasn't ruled much at all.

The place was colorful, throughout history, and now.

“You do love this place,” Bartholomew noted as he walked alongside her.

She shrugged. “It's home. If you're used to the beautiful fall colors in Massachusetts, that's home. Down here, it's the water, and the craziness. Yes, I do love it.”

She stopped walking and stared across Simonton, frowning.

“What?” Bartholomew asked her. “I see nothing. Not even the beauty in white who frets so night after night.”

“Lights.”

“Lights? They're everywhere, and trust me, I can remember when they weren't,” Bartholomew told her.

“No! There are lights on in the entry at the old Beckett museum.
My
museum.”

“You don't officially own it until Saturday, or so you said.”

“Right, I have a meeting at the bank on Saturday—Liam is going to come and help me—and I sign the final papers, but…”

There shouldn't have been anyone in the museum. Craig Beckett had passed away at eighty-eight almost a year ago, a dear man, one who might have lived forever. His health had been excellent. But his life had existed around a true love affair. When Leandra, his wife of sixty-plus years had passed away, he had never quite recovered. He hadn't taken a pistol to his head or an overdose of prescription medication, he had simply lost his love for life. Liam Beckett, a friend of Katie's since she had come back—they hadn't been friends before, since Liam had graduated high school before she had started—had been the assumed executor of the estate, and he'd planned to tear the museum down rather than invest in repairing it. The place hadn't been open in years; Katie had loved it as a child, and she had long dreamed of reopening it. She had talked Liam into agreeing. David Beckett, Liam's cousin and co-executor of the estate, hadn't actually corresponded about the matter yet. He'd been working in Africa, Asia, Australia or somewhere far away for the past few years, and Liam was convinced that David wouldn't care one way or another what happened to the place. It was unlikely he would remain in the Keys if he actually returned at all. Since David had left, almost ten years ago, he had never wanted to come home.

His former fiancée, the great love of his life at the time, even though she had left him, had been murdered. Strangled. She was left there, in the family museum, posed in position as the legendary Elena Milagro de Hoyos.

He'd been under suspicion. He'd had an alibi—his grandparents. That alibi had made some people suspicious. After all, what would his grandparents say? But he hadn't run; he had waited through the beginning of the investigation, he had stayed in town until the case had gone cold and then he had left, never to return.

Katie knew that some people thought that he should have been further investigated. She remembered him, but just vaguely. He'd been a big high-school sports star down here. Sean, her brother, had also loved sports. He was older and knew David Beckett better.

Curious, Katie crossed the street. It was quiet; streetlamps illuminated the road itself, but here on Simonton the revelry taking place still on Duval was muted and seemed far away. She stared up at the building that housed the Beckett family museum.

Originally, she knew, it hadn't been chosen for any historical reason. The house was built in the late eighteen-fifties by Perry Shane. Shane had deserted it to fight for the Federals back in his native New Jersey. For years afterward, the house had just been one of many old places that needed work. The Beckett family had purchased it in the twenties because it had been cheap, a seventy-year-old fixer-upper. Now it was one of the grand dames of the street, mid-Victorian, boasting wraparound porches on both the first and second floors, and around the attic garret, a widow's walk. Kate didn't think anyone had ever really been able to see the water and incoming ships from the walk, but it had been a fashionable addition to the house at the time it had been built.

Once, it had offered six bedrooms on the second floor and two in the attic. Downstairs had been the parlor, library, dining room, office and pantry. The kitchen had been out back about twenty feet away. There was also a carriage house. Now, when you entered through the front door, the gate and turnstiles were positioned there. The tour began on the second floor and wound around through the rooms, brought visitors down the servants' stairway to the first floor and then around once again, back to the front.

“What are you doing?” Bartholomew demanded, following her.

“I want to know why there's a light on,” Katie said.

“Because someone is in there. And you don't own it yet. It could be someone dangerous.”

“It could be frat boys on a lark, and I'm getting them out of there before they do damage to the place. Craig Beckett might have closed it down a few years ago, but it still has all of the exhibits in place,” Katie said.

“What if it's not a frat boy?” Bartholomew protested.

“Katie, don't go in there.”

“You're with me. I'll be fine.”

“Katie! Awake and see the sunrise, lass! Me—ghost. I love to remember the days when I was strong and tough and could defend a girl with certainty and vigor. If you get into real trouble because the place is being pilfered or plundered by a criminal—”

“Bartholomew, what thief turns on the lights?” Katie demanded.

Bartholomew groaned. “A drunk one? Katie—!”

Bartholomew groaned. Katie had jumped the low white-picket gate that surrounded the place.

“Katie!”

“What?”

“Murder, murder most foul!” Bartholomew cried.

He'd always been fond of quoting and paraphrasing Shakespeare.

“Murderers do not turn the lights on!” she tossed over her shoulder in return.

“How do you know?” he demanded

She ignored him and walked up the limestone path that led to broad steps to the porch and the door.

She felt him close behind her.

Was she crazy? No! This was about to be her place, and she could speed-dial the police in two seconds. She wasn't going in with lights blazing; she would see what was going on by lurking in the darkness. She knew the place.

At the door she paused. She reached for the knob and as she did so, the door opened, creaking a bit, as if it had been pushed by a sudden wind.

“I did not do that!” Bartholomew whispered.

She shook her head impatiently and stepped in.

The once beautiful hardwood floors did need work, she noticed. Workmen had been in and out through the years, and their boots had done some damage. The gate area still boasted an old-fashioned cash register, but the mahogany desk, where an attendant sold tickets, was beautiful. It had been bought from an auctioneer and had once been the captain's desk in an old sailing ship. The swivel chair behind it was equally old, handsome and still comfortable. Katie was familiar with everything; she had walked through with Liam Beckett just a few days earlier.

The light that she had seen from the street had come from the entry. It was the muted light of the foyer's chandelier, and it cast a gentle glow over the place.

Katie opened her mouth, about to call out, but she didn't. She chose not to twist the turnstile—the noise here would be like an explosion. She sat atop the old mahogany desk and swung her legs around, then stepped to the other side.

Looking up was eerie. Figures of Papa Hemingway and his second wife, Pauline, were posed coming down the stairway. They had always been a big hit at the museum, with eighty percent of those going through the place having their pictures taken with the pair.

“Don't you dare go up those stairs,” Bartholomew commanded sternly.

Katie almost smiled, grinning at him. “Bartholomew, you're scared. A ghost can't be scared. My God, Bartholomew. You were a pirate.”

“Privateer. My boat was authorized by the government,” Bartholomew corrected irritably. “And don't be ridiculous, I'm not frightened. Yes, wait, I am frightened for you, foolish girl. What is the matter with you? I know your family taught you better. Innocent young ladies do not wander into dark alleys.”

“This isn't a dark alley.”

“No, it's worse. You can get trapped in here.”

“I'm not going upstairs,” she assured him.

She walked to the side, realizing that she was going in the wrong historical order. She wasn't going up the stairs; she just wanted to see what was going on.

“Katie,” Bartholomew warned, following her.

She turned and stared at him. “What? I'm going to be scared silly? I'm going to see ghosts?”

“Ghosts will seldom hurt you. Living people, bad people, criminals, rapists, murderers and thieves—they will hurt you,” Bartholomew said sternly.

“Just one more minute… We'll check out the downstairs, and I'll call the cops. Or Liam. Liam is a cop. All right? I just don't want to cry wolf.”

“What?”

“I don't want to create an alarm when there's no need. Maybe Liam was here earlier and left the light on.”

“And the door open?” Bartholomew said doubtfully.

Katie shrugged.

She walked to the left, where the tour began once visitors reached the first floor. The first room offered one of Key West's most dramatic tales—the doll story. As a little boy, Robert Eugene Otto had been given a very creepy doll, supposedly cursed by an angry family servant who knew something about voodoo. Robert Eugene Otto became obsessed with the doll, even naming it Robert, after himself. Robert the Doll moved about the house and played pranks. In later years he drove the real Robert's wife quite crazy.

From the somewhat psychotic, the history in the museum became sad and grimly real with a memorial to the sailors who had died aboard the battleship
Maine
when it had exploded in Havana Harbor in 1898. The museum's exhibit showed sailors working on the ship. From there, curtains segued into an area where dancers moved about at the Silver Slipper. World War I came and went. Prohibition arrived, and bootleg alcohol made its way in an easy flow from Havana to Key West.

A pathway through the pantry in back led around to the other side of the house. It was dark, with little light from the glow in the foyer seeping through. Papa Hemingway made another appearance as 1931 rolled in and Pauline's uncle bought them the house on Whitehead Street as a wedding present.

Katie knew what she was coming up to—the exhibit on Count von Cosel and Elena de Hoyos. Just a small piece of the museum, really, in a curtained sector through an archway. It had always been a popular exhibit. Until, of course, the re-created figure of poor Elena had been replaced by the strangled body of a young Conch woman. The beginning of the end.

People liked the bizarre, the romance and even the tragedy of history, but with this event fear had suddenly come too close. It was one thing to be eccentric in the Keys.

Real violence was not welcome.

There was more, she thought, so much more, to the museum. It was sad, really, that the story got so much attention.

There was fun history. Sloppy Joe moving his entire bar across the street in the middle of the night, angry over a hike in his rent. Tennessee Williams, working away at La Concha Hotel, penning the words of his play
A Streetcar Named Desire.
Another war, soldiers and sailors, the roadblocks that caused Key West to secede and become, if only for hours, the Conch Republic.

The rest of history paled beside the story of von Cosel and Elena. So it had always been.

Morbid curiosity. Had he really slept with the corpse? Ooh, Lord, disgusting! How?

Katie knew the story, of course. She'd heard it all her life. She'd retold it at college a dozen times, with friends denying the truth of it until they looked it up on the Internet. It was tragic, it was sad, it was sick, but it always drew people.

As it had tonight. She put her hand out to draw back the curtain leading to the exhibit.