Mystic Memories
Authors: Gillian Doyle,Susan Leslie Liepitz
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal, #Time Travel, #Psychics
MYSTIC M
EMORIES
Gillian Doyle
writing as
Susan Leslie Liepitz
Sweetbriar Creek Publishing Company
LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA
© 1998 by
Susan Leslie Liepitz
©
2014 by Revised Version by
Gillian Doyle
All rights reserved. The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. This includes reprints, excerpts, photocopying, recording, or any future means of reproducing text. If you would like to do any of the above, please seek permission first by contacting copyright holder at [email protected].
Sweetbriar Creek Publishing Company
PO Box 8352
Long Beach, CA 90808
www.GillianDoyle.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Cover Design © 2014 HotDamnDesigns.com
Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove Edition, Berkley Publishing Company / April 1998
Sweetbriar Creek Publishing Company / Kindle version January 2014
Mystic Memories
/ Gillian Doyle
– Revised Edition
ISBN
978-0-9910248-1-0
To my daughter
Adrienne Fisher
and
my son
Wes Phillips
. . . for tolerating all the crazy field trips, eclectic family vacations (Remember the Excelsior Hotel in NYC?), and dubious dinners (“Will she or won’t she cook tonight?”). I can only hope that this eccentric mother of yours has inspired you to seek your own creative paths through life. As corny as it still may sound, I have to say it . . .
Follow Your Hearts
And
Dare to Dream.
I love you,
Mom
Special thank-you to:
Deanne Acuña
, friend and private investigator with the intuitive skills—for being the inspiration behind the character of Cara Edwards.
Mindy Neff
, dearest friend and critique partner—for the years of encouragement, support and wonderfully helpful critiques. Find Mindy at www.MindyNeff.com
Amy J. Fetzer, Colleen Fliedner, and Linda MacLaughlin
—for the brainstorming sessions.
Captain Ian McIntyre
, former owner of the Hawaiian Chieftain, a replica of the 1800s hide-trading ship depicted in this story—for your dedication to nautical history, which made a significant contribution to the realism of this story.
Gail Fortune
—my editor at Berkley Jove for the original 1998 publication of Mystic Memories—for your unbridled enthusiasm, as well as invaluable expertise. There will never be another editor like you! I wish you continued success as a literary agent and co-owner of the Talbot Fortune Agency.
Cover models
Harvey Stables
and
Melanie Anne
for giving us the perfect images of Captain Blake Masters and Cara Edwards
Kim Killion
of Hot Damn Designs—for the beautiful cover design!
We must come down from our heights, and leave our straight paths for the byways and low places of life, if we would learn truths by strong contrasts; and in hovels, in forecastles, and among our own outcasts in foreign lands, see what has been wrought among our fellow-creatures by accident, hardship, or vice.
— RICHARD HENRY DANA
Two Years Before the Mast
CONTENTS
SPRING, 1815
CONNECTICUT SHORES
T
ake whatever can be hauled by cargo wagon to my shipyard. I want it there at midnight Monday. No earlier—you understand?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Do you swear on God’s good name that no one else knows of this?” His lantern cast a flickering shadow across the deserted beach, illuminating the bow of the shipwrecked brig.
“Not a one, sir. She blowed up here last night during the storm. Full sails and all, sir. Thar weren’t a soul aboard. Gone, all of them. The ship is cursed, she is. I heard old salts spinnin’ yarns about her for years—mysterious deaths and vanishings of shipmates. But never the whole crew before, sir.”
“Enough! Do you think I haven’t heard the rumors as well? Why in the devil’s name do you think I want your work kept secret? I intend to use her piece by piece to repair other damaged vessels. Now that the blockade has been lifted, the demand for materials to build new ships has exceeded beyond my grasp. I cannot compete with the half-dozen other builders on the
Mystic
who have the means to meet the costs. Salvaging her is the answer to my prayers.”
“Prayers, sir?”
“Indeed—I have needed a turn-of-the-luck for some time now. It appears to have happened.”
“What if the curse she carried goes with these boards and timbers to the other ships? What then?”
“Nonsense. It is all nothing but superstition, my boy. I don’t believe a bit of it. Mark my words—as long as no one knows that she’s been used for repair, those fanciful rumors will stop. Not one of the ships to leave my dock will be haunted by the history of this ill-fated brig.”
“No one will learn the truth from me, sir.”
“Keep it that way and you will not need to be looking over your shoulder the rest of your life.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Monday, then. Midnight.”
“Aye, sir. Have a safe ride back to Mystic, sir.”
“I intend to.” Extinguishing the lantern light, he turned to leave, then paused. “On the off chance anyone should happen by while you are working on her, it might be wise to destroy any evidence of her name.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
MARCH 1998
LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA
I
need your help. My ten-year-old son is missing.”
Cara Edwards studied the father of the young boy, her heart going out to Victor Charles in his desperate situation. He looked like a man on the brink of collapse, his emotions held only by a fine thread of control.
She already knew of the bizarre disappearance, as did anyone with a radio or television living anywhere on the continent during the past three months.
Fourth grader Andrew Charles of Huntington Beach had been with his class during an educational overnight experience aboard a nineteenth-century sailing ship, the
Mystic
. The following morning he was reported missing. No one, not even his fellow classmates, saw or heard anything unusual during the night. Nor had his body been washed ashore.
“I agreed to meet with you, Mr. Charles, but only to explain that I—” Her stomach tightened into a painful knot that she tried to ignore. It was extremely difficult to keep her objectivity in cases that were so gut-wrenching, such as this lost child. “I don’t think I’m the person to solve this case. My brother never should have given you my phone number.”
“You are a private investigator, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“And you are also psychic, right?”
She held up her palm to stop his interrogation. “I’m afraid you may have the wrong impression about me, sir. My brother has a tendency to misrepresent my. . . talents in that area. I don’t deny I have a seemingly unique ability to be led in the right direction by a sixth sense. But I prefer not to advertise myself as a—”
“Psychic detective?”
She winced. “Is that how Frank put it?”
The man nodded with a bittersweet smile. She couldn’t blame him for grasping at the last bit of hope Frank had thrown at him. If only Mr. Charles knew it was nothing more than a cruel joke by her older brother—a maneuver to get even with Cara. Frank had tried to humiliate her at their parents’ anniversary party over the weekend, taunting her to offer her unique services to find the missing boy. She had sidestepped his barbs and he’d ended up looking like the fool. Now he’d paid her back by putting her in this awkward situation with Mr. Charles.
“Please don’t turn me down.” His blue eyes beseeched her. He reached inside his silk suit coat and withdrew a checkbook and pen. “Name your price.”
She gently touched the sleeve of his jacket. “It isn’t about the money. I simply don’t believe I can do any more than the rest of your people have been doing for the last several weeks. I’ve seen the news reports. I know you’ve had at least one well-known psychic on this hunt.”
“She didn’t come up with any useful information.”
“Nothing at all?”
He shook his head.
“Then what makes you think I can do any better?”
“Your brother said—”
“Frank had no business making claims that he himself doesn’t believe. You see, Mr. Charles, my brother—in fact, my entire family—has never been able to conceptualize this phenomenon. Even I don’t quite understand how or why I was born with an acute intuitive sense of knowing things, seeing things through my mind’s eye. Once in a while it works in my favor to help a client. But I don’t guarantee success.”
“All I ask is for you to give it a chance.”
Cara shook her head, turning away from the man to escape the desperation and anguish in his eyes. From press coverage, she knew he was in his mid-forties, but he looked ten years younger and closer to her own age of thirty-four. He had the boyish-blond good looks of a surfer who had made it big in the boardroom. He was also married to an equally attractive woman who looked more like his sister than his spouse. The small, tight-knit family lived in Huntington Harbour with a moderate-size yacht tied to their private dock. Cara had caught a glimpse of the elegant waterfront home on the evening news. She had also seen the security force protecting the property from the reporters and cameramen camped outside on the doorstep—as well as anchored in the canal.
She glanced nervously toward the closed gate, expecting any one of those media maniacs to leap over the fence of the historic Rancho Los Cerritos, where she’d arranged this private meeting during the early-morning hours. Mr. Charles had managed to elude the news-hungry field reporters, but for how long?
As the two of them stood between their cars in the enclosed compound, Cara heard a sorrowful mourning dove. It seemed to echo the sentiments of the distraught father with a sad poignancy that tugged at her conscience.
Walking a few steps away, she ran her fingers through her close-cropped curls and released a sigh of frustration, her back to the man. “The last thing I want is to have my face flashed into every household in America, identifying me as a psychic investigator. I can forget about working undercover if I become known as ‘that California Quack on TV.’ ” She hooked quotes in the air. “Without anonymity, I may as well kiss my business good-bye.”
Mr. Charles came over and paused at her side, following her gaze toward the single gray bird perched high in the winter-bare branches of a sycamore. She noticed he’d put away the checkbook and pen. His hands were stuffed into the pocket of his slacks. Earlier his face had been in shadow, but now, caught in the morning sunlight, it showed the ravages of this three-month nightmare.
“Do you have children, Ms. Edwards?”
“No.”
“A husband?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t do a thorough background check on me, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I don’t. And I did.”
“Then you already know the answers to these questions. Make your point.”
“Your husband died six years ago on a hike in the mountains. You weren’t with him. It was reported as an accident. But somehow you managed to dig up the truth and bring his murderer to trial. . .”
Cara tensed, feeling her fingernails dig into the palms of her clenched hands as her mind flashed images of those horrendous days following Mark’s death. After seeing his killer brought to justice, she had been commended by one of the detectives, who had called her a “natural” at investigative work. Abandoning her well-planned future that had included Mark, she’d considered the police academy but chose to go it alone as a private investigator. Hiking and kayaking with Mark had given her not only physical endurance but also a sense of self-reliance, self-determination. She had also learned that an ordinary woman didn’t attract attention. People didn’t suspect a woman to be a down and dirty detective. They believed what they saw, whether she portrayed a homeless bag lady or an overzealous real estate agent. She was good at her line of work. Damn good. And proud of it. She liked to think Mark would’ve been proud of her too.
“. . . And with the exception of your brother,” Mr. Charles solemnly concluded, “your family is somewhat embarrassed by your unusual abilities.”
“
Somewhat
embarrassed? My mother is mortified. My father barely tolerant. And my kid sister wishes I would just act normal. What does normal look like anyway? I’ve never met a normal human being.”
“In your line of work, I don’t suppose you would.”
“Not just in my line of work. Scratch the surface of anyone you know and you’ll find secrets and neuroses no matter how well they are hidden.”
“Yours being . . .?” He lifted one brow, pinning her with a knowing gaze, then answered his own question. “You’re not comfortable in your own skin. Your special talent is a gift but also a curse. You went after your husband’s murderer out of misplaced guilt because you didn’t sense the danger before he was killed.”
Cara felt her anger leap from the depths of a secret hell that had been sealed shut for nearly four years. “Is that your opinion or did you hire someone to dig it out of my shrink’s private files?”
“In my business, I make a point of knowing who I’m dealing with. This is no different. My source tells me you keep a low profile but have an exceptional track record.”
Flattery didn’t take the sting out of his violation of her privacy. “You should have put your ‘source’ to better use—such as finding your son.”
“Already done. He was the first man on it, Ms. Edwards. The news reports didn’t exaggerate when they said Andrew vanished without a trace. Everyone on that ship on December twenty-second has passed every conceivable interrogation, including lie detector tests.”
Cara watched as he walked to the trunk of his Mercedes sedan, opened it, and pulled out a baseball cap. He came back with it in his hands, worrying the bill.
“If you won’t take the case, will you at least see if you can pick up something from his Anaheim Angels hat?”
“Did he wear it much?”
“Sometimes.”
She’d have preferred a ring or watch, something solid that wasn’t washed frequently and that the boy wore most of the time. But she was willing to give it a try. She reached for the cap and held it for several moments in silence.
“Do you recall the last time you saw him wearing this?” she asked, unable to pick up anything but a feeling of contentedness. If nothing else, she sensed that Andrew Charles was a happy kid.
“I can’t really remember. I’ve been rather distracted with my work the last several months . . .” His words trailed off with a tone of regret.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Charles. I wish I could help you.” Her stomach clenched as she handed back the cap. She flinched.
“Are you ill?” The man leaned toward her as if she might need assistance.
“No, not really. Just a little reaction to something.”
“I should have known you had a good reason to turn me down. I understand if you aren’t feeling well.”
“I only wish my brother would have consulted me before he called you. It could’ve saved us both a trip out here.”
“I’m grateful for his desire to help.”
She held out her hand. “Good-bye, Mr. Charles. I hope you find Andrew soon.”
As the man accepted her handshake, Cara experienced a flash of images in her mind’s eye. Unlike the posed head-shot of Andrew released to the media, these were snippets of the young boy through his father’s eyes. Looking down on him, she saw his youthful face turned up in adoration.
No—I don’t need this! I don't want to see him! Don’t show me his face!
Cara yanked her hand away, holding it protectively against her as if she’d been burned by a hot flame.
“Ms. Edwards? What’s wrong?”
“I—” She cleared her throat, struggling to make her voice sound calmer than she felt. Why did she have to see the boy through his father’s eyes? It was so much easier to turn down the case when the victim was only a black and white photo in a press release. Now . . . those youthful blue eyes would forever haunt her. “I saw your son.”
“Where?!”
She shook her head. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t see him lying in a ditch. I saw your memories of him.”
The man’s shoulders sagged. “I guess I should be relieved you didn’t see him dead.”
“I’m sorry—” She cut off her words, realizing how much she seemed to repeat her apology. The knot in her stomach was tighter than ever. “You know, Mr. Charles, it’s usually just plain old everyday investigative procedures that solve the case, not a paranormal camera lens in my head.”
“I understand.” He reached into his jacket again and brought out a small business card. “If you change your mind when you’re feeling better, please call me. Anytime. Day or night.”
Cara took the card, holding it in both hands as he drove away. She turned and walked into the restored adobe building where her Aunt Gaby worked in the visitors’ information office. Her great-aunt had unlocked the gates to allow Cara and Mr. Charles the clandestine visit. Eighty-three-year-old Gabriella Salazar was a docent of the rancho during a retirement filled with activity. The small, white-haired woman was a sharp-minded historian with the strength and agility of most fifty-year-olds.
Aunt Gaby looked up from a pile of research books, pushing her glasses up from the end of her nose. “You look like you could use a sip of this. Here . . .”
Cara blindly accepted her aunt’s personal cup of Yerba Santa. The holy herb was blended with mint and chamomile flowers to create a distinctively sweet flavor that soothed the senses before it even reached her upset stomach. Holding the stoneware mug in one hand and the silver-gray business card in the other, she propped one hip over the corner of the massive desk.
“I turned him down,” she said, then grimaced at the sharp twinge in her abdomen. She sucked in a short breath and held it, waiting for the spasm to subside. Her own body badgered her as if, on a deep-down level, it knew the right answer and would not let up on her until she made the proper decision. But she had made the proper decision. Hadn’t she?
“Perhaps you should have accepted.”
“I don’t need the notoriety.”
“You will handle it with the utmost grace.”
“You make it sound like I’m going to change my mind and take the case. I’m not.”
“You will if you want to get rid of that bellyache.”
“It’s just a little indigestion.”
Her aunt softly clicked her tongue in admonition. “This is your Aunt Gaby you’re talking to, Cara—not your mother or father. When will you learn that I understand how these things work? Listen to your body. It’s trying to tell you that something isn’t right.”