Look For Me By Moonlight (3 page)

Outside the wind continued to howl. A branch rapped the glass over and over again,
tappity tappity tappity.
Far away, an owl hooted once, twice, three times.

I reached for Ebony and drew him closer. He nestled into the curve of my body and began to purr. Despite the eerie creaks and groans of the old building, I fell asleep.

Todd woke me in the morning, leaping on the bed and shouting, “Cynda, Cynda, get up! Daddy made pancakes 'specially for you.”

I burrowed under the covers, but Todd refused to let me sleep. He continued to jump up and down, shouting about pancakes, bouncing so hard the bed shook. A blue blanket he'd tied around his shoulders ballooned like a cape. His face was flushed, his eyes shone. “You have to do what Captain Jupiter says!”

I glared at him, but it was hard not to laugh. “Leave me alone, you little pest!”

The noise brought Susan to the door. “Toddy, don't bother Cynda. Let her sleep if she wants to.”

By the time Susan hauled Todd off the bed, I was wide awake.

“Poor Cynda,” Susan said with a smile. “Now you know what it's like to have a little brother.”

When they were gone, I dressed quickly. My room was so cold the windowpanes were frosted with ice pictures—flowers, ferns, leaves, and stars so fragile a puff of warm breath could destroy them.

Shivering in the frigid air, I yanked a comb through my hair and ran down the hall to the kitchen. Sunshine poured through the windows and gave a scarlet glow to the potted geraniums on the sills. Beethoven's Sixth Symphony played on the stereo. The air smelled of fresh-brewed coffee, pancakes, and maple syrup. At the table, Dad, Susan, and Todd welcomed me with smiles.

Last night's spooky atmosphere was gone. So was my loneliness. Feeling like part of the family, I took a seat. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” I apologized. “You should have started without me.”

“That's just what I said,” Todd told me, “but Mommy and Daddy made me wait and wait.”

Dad looked up from the pile of pancakes he was flooding with syrup. “Don't talk with your mouth full, son. No one wants to see your half-chewed food.”

Todd swallowed and opened his mouth wide. “All gone.”

“That's better.” Dad passed the syrup to me. “Did you sleep well, Cynda?”

At the same time, Susan asked if I'd been warm enough and Todd wanted to know if I'd seen or heard any wolves.

It was Todd's question I answered. “I heard the wind and an owl, but not a single wolf came near the inn all night long.”

Todd looked at me solemnly, eyes wide, fork raised halfway to his mouth. “I heard one scratching at my door. He said, ‘Little boy, little boy, let me come in.'”

Dad leaned toward Todd. “And you said, ‘Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.'”

Todd scowled. “It's not funny Daddy.”

Dad laughed. “You've read too many fairy tales, son.” He opened the newspaper and began reading, but Todd wasn't ready to give up.

“If a big bad wolf knocked on our door, would you let him in?”

Without raising his head, Dad said, “In real life, a wolf wouldn't want to come into someone's house.”

“You can't be sure what wolves want,” Todd muttered. “They can be very tricky, Daddy.”

Dad rattled the paper and frowned as if he were tired of being interrupted. “Eat your pancakes, Todd. They're getting cold.”

I glanced at my brother. Still worried about the wolf, he poked at the pancakes on his plate, his joy in them gone. It seemed to me Dad should have put the paper down and listened to him. Asked more questions. Been more reassuring. Instead he'd scoffed at Todd's fears just as he'd scoffed at Gina's ghost.

I tapped Todd's hand to get his attention. “I bet Captain Jupiter would chase the wolf away,” I whispered.

Todd smiled and brandished his fork like a sword. “That's right,” he said. “Captain Jupiter would kill the wolf dead.”

 

After breakfast, Dad suggested a walk to the ocean, a ten-minute hike from the inn. Despite the cold, I was eager for another opportunity to talk to my father. Perhaps we'd finally find the words to make up for the years we'd lived apart. We'd be together again, truly a father and daughter.

The temperature was five above zero, not counting the wind chill. Dad set out across the snow, expecting me to follow. I stumbled after him, clumsy in high boots but determined to keep up with his long-legged stride. By the time we reached the cliff top, I was beginning to wish I'd stayed home. It was too cold to have the sort of deep conversation I'd planned.

“Isn't the view magnificent?” Dad swept his arm wide, taking in the shore below us, the small islands dotting the ocean, the cloudless blue sky over our heads.

I went as close to the edge as I dared and looked down at the waves pounding the rocks far below. I was horrified to see a body floating in the surf. White dress, pale face, long hair streaming. I clutched Dad's arm and pointed. “There's something in the water, a girl.”

“Where?”

The two of us studied the ocean. The body was gone. “She must have sunk,” I whispered.

Suddenly a log rose to the surface, trailing white rags and long brown strands of seaweed.

“There's your body,” Dad said as a wave carried the log shoreward and then sucked it back.

I watched the log sink and then resurface. “Yes,” I said with relief, “yes, that's it.”

Dad took my arm. “Come on,” he said. “A fall from here could be fatal.”

I followed him along a path that twisted and turned down to the shore. Out of the wind at last, we walked along a narrow strip of sand, threading our way between rocks and tidal pools rimmed with fragile ice. Overhead, gulls cried harshly. Waves rolled in, tumbling over each other in their haste to reach land, breaking with crashes like thunder.

I breathed the salty air deep into my lungs, loving the smell and taste of it. I wanted to run and jump and twirl round and round, but I was afraid of looking silly and clumsy, so I made myself walk beside Dad.

When we'd gone at least a couple of miles, we sat on a sun-warmed rock to rest. Dad struggled to light his pipe, and I poked at stones half buried in the sand, levering them out one by one with a stick. Every now and then, I glanced at Dad, hoping he might want to talk, but he was staring out to sea, puffing on his pipe, apparently content to say nothing.

Afraid to interrupt his thoughts, I added shells and driftwood to my pile of stones, thinking I'd take them back to my room and make a still life. They had an interesting Andrew Wyeth look, bleached and dry as artifacts from an ancient tomb.

Finally Dad turned to me. “We need to talk about your education, Cynda.”

I continued poking at a particularly interesting green rock, just the right size and shape to be a dinosaur egg. Education wasn't what I'd hoped to discuss. Without looking up, I said, “What about it?”

“Rockpoint High School is more than an hour's drive from here,” Dad said. “Considering winter road conditions, I set up a home-study program for you. If you apply yourself, you can finish your junior year ahead of time.” That sounded fine with me.

While Dad talked about the books he'd ordered, I watched the waves wash in and out, leaving messages from the sea—a scalloped fringe of seaweed studded with broken shells and bits of wood, an old bleach bottle, a soda can, a dead crab sprawled on its back and looking like the bones of a dead man's hand.

“Here's the schedule,” Dad was saying. “A study session from nine till twelve, an hour for lunch, another study session till three or so.”

“That takes care of most of the day,” I said.

“It takes discipline to work at home,” Dad went on, missing my sarcasm. “You have to be a tough boss if you hope to accomplish anything.”

With that, he stood up, brushed the sand off his pants, and said, “My stomach tells me it's lunchtime.”

I dropped my stones into my pocket and trudged along beside Dad. On the way back to the inn, he named the birds swooping and soaring over our heads. Black-backed gulls, ring-billed gulls, Iceland gulls, black-legged kittiwakes, Wilson's storm petrels—the great naturalist knew them all. I listened dutifully, but it seemed to me Dad was deliberately holding me at arm's length, leaving no openings for intimate conversation.

When we were halfway to the cliff path, I was disappointed to see Susan strolling toward us, her long hair streaming in the wind. Todd ran ahead, crying our names. I hung back, wishing Dad would slow down too. Once Todd and Susan joined us, I'd have to share my father again, no closer to him than I'd been before we left the inn.

“Cynda, Daddy, look at me, look at me!” Todd scrambled to the top of a boulder, his cape fluttering in the wind, and waved a wooden sword. When he was sure he had our attention, he cried, “Captain Jupiter to the rescue!” and jumped, landing with a thump on the hard sand.

Dad lifted Todd over his head and settled him on his shoulders. Susan reached for Dad's hand, uniting the three of them. I trudged along behind, picking up stones and dropping them into my pockets, deliberately letting a gap open between us. As it widened, their voices grew fainter. The cries of gulls and the roar of waves came between us.

It was childish but I wondered how long it would take them to notice how far away I was. When would they miss me, look back, call out to me?

At last, Todd turned and waved his sword. “Cynda,” he shouted. “Cynda, hurry up!”

Hands still clasped, Dad and Susan waited for me. I walked slowly toward them, my pockets heavy with stones.

Not long after lunch, someone rapped on the kitchen door. “That must be Mrs. Bigelow,” Susan said as Todd ran to let in a ruddy-faced little woman.

“Lord, it's cold,” she said, shedding her coat and scarf. “From the way it's clouding up, we're bound to have snow tonight.”

Turning to me with a smile, she introduced herself. “You must be Cynda. My friend Gina told me she met you last night at the diner.”

She gave my hand a friendly squeeze and turned back to Susan. “I'd best be about my work. I don't want Will fetching me after dark. If I'm right about the snow, the roads will be bad.”

After Mrs. Bigelow scurried upstairs to clean, I lingered at the table, sipping tea. I'd had little to say during lunch, but nobody noticed because Todd entertained us with endless knock-knock jokes, most of which he'd invented himself and made no sense to anyone but him. Susan and Dad laughed anyway which inspired him to even greater heights of silliness.

Long before I finished my tea, Susan excused herself and went to her sewing room. Todd tagged along with her. Dad disappeared into his den to write, leaving me with no one to talk to.

Bored, I went to the living room and picked up one of Dad's mysteries. I'd never read any of his books. Mom had given me the idea they were poorly written and plotted. Violent, too. Filled with bad language and sex. She said I'd be embarrassed to admit Dad was my father.

I made myself comfortable and opened
Dead but Not Forgotten,
an Inspector Marathon mystery by the author of
The Cruel Hereafter,
Dad's most popular book. Although it wasn't great literature, the novel was a lot better than Mom claimed.

After several chapters, I was distracted by the rumble of the vacuum cleaner. Remembering what Gina had said about Mrs. Bigelow, I laid Dad's book aside. I'd promised myself to ask her about the ghost when she came to clean the inn. She was upstairs right now. Maybe she'd stop working long enough to tell me exactly what she'd experienced.

I left the living room quietly and followed the sound of the vacuum cleaner to a guest room on the second floor. Mrs. Bigelow was by herself, hard at work. When she saw me in the doorway, she gasped and pressed her hand to her heart.

“My goodness, Cynda, you gave me a fright. I didn't hear you coming.” Switching off the vacuum cleaner, she laughed. “I get jumpy up here all by myself.”

“The inn's a spooky old place,” I agreed, “especially at night.”

Mrs. Bigelow fidgeted with the switch on the vacuum cleaner, as if she weren't sure whether to continue working or stop and talk. “Gina told me she spoke to you and your father about the ghost,” she began hesitantly. “I hope she didn't frighten you, Cynda.”

“I wasn't scared,” I said quickly, “just curious. I wanted to hear more, but Dad kept insisting it was all nonsense. He doesn't believe in things like that, you know, but I—well, I was hoping you'd tell me about the ghost. If that's what it is.”

“Oh, that's what it is, all right.” Mrs. Bigelow sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. I perched beside her. The room was gauzy with shadows, the air still and cold. I wished I'd worn a warmer sweater.

“I guess you ought to know,” Mrs. Bigelow went on. “After all, it's no secret, though I doubt the real estate agent told your father. Mr. Hunnicott was so anxious to get Underhill off his hands, he didn't want to say anything that might get in the way of the deal.”

Mrs. Bigelow paused as if she were searching for the right words. Trying hard to be patient, I waited while she gnawed her lip and thought. Finally she looked at me. “A girl was murdered near here sixty or seventy years ago. My father was one of the fishermen who found her at the bottom of the cliff. A terrible sight, he said. Remembered it till the day he died.”

She reached for my hand and squeezed it. “She'd been in the water so long there wasn't a drop of blood in her body, but it was clear someone had slashed her throat and thrown her into the sea. Like a snow maiden she was, washed pure by the salt water.”

I stared at Mrs. Bigelow, chilled through and through by the memory of what I thought I'd seen in the ocean. “Why would anybody do something like that?” I whispered.

She shook her head sadly. “No one knows, Cynda. The last time the girl was seen alive, she was walking on the cliffs with a man. The police searched for months, they questioned people for miles around, but it was as if the earth had swallowed him up. They never found him.”