Seth laughed. “Time ’a year, Jessica. All those ghosts and goblins blowin’ cold breath on you. Seen this?”
He slid that day’s copy of the
Bangor Times
across the table. The headline on page three immediately caught my eye.
PARANORMAL INVESTIGATOR TARGETS CABOT COVE
“I hate to read things like that,” I said.
“You haven’t read the story yet,” he said, pouring sugar into his coffee. “Let me see the sports page when you’re finished.”
I took a break from my pancakes to read the lead story on ghost hunters, and to look at a photo that accompanied it. “I just saw him,” I said.
“Just saw who?”
“This man, this so-called paranormal investigator. He was on the tour this morning.”
“That so?”
As I read, I became increasingly dismayed.
“This is so irresponsible,” I said.
Seth chuckled. “Come on now, Jess, you know the media will do anything for a story. This piece of nonsense probably sold lots of newspapers.”
“But it isn’t true.”
“True enough,” he said, sitting back, wiping his mouth with a napkin, then dropping it on the table and folding his hands contentedly over his corpulent stomach. “Can’t argue that we got this nut Tremaine livin’ in our midst now. Nobody likes havin’ him around, but you can’t keep a man from openin’ an office. Wouldn’t be constitutional.”
“Yes, I know,” I said, “but just because someone is claiming that a ghost called the Legend of Cabot Cove will wreak vengeance on the town unless its unhappy spirit is mollified, that shouldn’t be the basis for a story that a newspaper treats as fact.”
“Jess, you’ve dealt with the media enough to know that all it takes is a kernel of an idea, one rumor, and they’re off and running. Did you read in the story how Tremaine claims Cabot Cove is the center of the spirit world in New England?”
“Of course I did,” I said, unable to keep the annoyance from my voice. I slapped the newspaper down on the table and shook my head. “Seth, Lucas Tremaine is already preying on certain individuals in this town. Oh, he’s clever, I’ll give him that. I’ve heard he charges ‘dues’ for his society and then swears its members to secrecy so no one is quite sure what he’s getting away with. On top of the dues, members pay extra, a lot extra as I hear it, to make contact with their departed loved ones. The man has no shame. Richard Koser told me Tremaine has at least a dozen followers at that center of his out on the old quarry road.”
“If that’s all he’s got, he won’t be in business very long. If you can call ghost hunting a business.”
“He’s bilking these people out of their hard-earned money.”
“Can’t tell people what to spend their money on, Jess. Chances are, when they find they aren’t really talkin’ to dead relatives, or come to learn after talkin’ to them why they never liked ’em in the first place, they’ll desert him and that will put an end to his nonsense. That buildin’ he’s in was practically condemned ten years ago, and it’s been sittin’ empty ever since. Drew Muscoot tells me it’s rotten through and through. He wanted to tear it down to keep from havin’ some kids end up in there someday and havin’ the ceiling fall on them, but the town board wouldn’t go along with him. You’d think they’d listen to the best highway superintendent we’ve ever had, but you can’t always figure how elected officials will think. Go on, finish your pancakes before they get cold.”
I ate in silence, but my mind was working overtime.
Lucas Tremaine had arrived in Cabot Cove two months before, claiming to be a scientific investigator, although he was never specific about what degree he held or where he had studied. His organization, the Society for Paranormal Investigation, or S.P.I., was housed in a building that had once been a notorious roadhouse. His “headquarters,” if that’s what you could call it, had been in Cabot Cove’s inventory of untaxed property ever since the owner skipped town owing everyone, and our civic leaders were evidently happy to rent it to anyone foolish enough to want it.
Shortly after his arrival, Tremaine took a series of small ads in our local newspaper, inviting people to join his allegedly scientific society. People laughed when they heard that Tremaine actually believed in the Legend of Cabot Cove and wanted to make contact with the spirit world. They thought that no one in town would respond to the ads. But a dozen people did, perhaps looking for something new in their lives, or seeking the companionship of like thinkers, or maybe even believing in ghosts the way Tremaine claimed to. No matter what the reason for reasonable people to respond to what was clearly a scam, Tremaine’s presence in Cabot Cove had become unsettling. His hints that people in power might be hiding information had caused a few otherwise rational townspeople to begin questioning whether some of our leading citizens were covering up the existence of spirits in Cabot Cove—spirits which, if not appeased, would take their revenge in fearsome ways. That anyone would put even a modicum of credence in Tremaine’s maniacal rantings and ravings boggled my mind.
Mara came to the table, a coffeepot in each hand. “How’s breakfast, folks? More coffee, Seth, Jessica?”
“Excellent as usual,” Seth said, pushing his cup in her direction.
“No more for me, thanks,” I said, taking a deep breath to cool my pique.
Mara leaned over the table and filled Seth’s cup halfway with decaf, then switched pots and filled it the rest of the way with regular coffee. She looked down the row of booths along the front window overlooking the harbor, and lowered her voice. “She’s been coming in regular since she moved here,” Mara said, nodding at a table in a far corner where a woman sat alone.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“That woman who rented a cottage on Paul Marshall’s estate. She’s real strange like. She looks at you with those eyes like she’s boring a hole right through you.”
“Where did she move from?” Seth asked.
“Somewhere down south.”
“Down south?” I said. “Florida? Georgia?”
“Don’t know for sure. Massachusetts, I think. Salem, Massachusetts,” Mara said.
I laughed. “I’d hardly call that ‘down south.’ ”
“Well, it’s south of here,” Mara said, chuckling.
“Ayuh, it certainly is south of here. The whole country almost is south of here,” Seth said.
“You didn’t like the pancakes this morning, Jess?” Mara asked, pointing to the few scraps I’d left on my plate.
“They were wonderful, Mara, as always, but I’ve been on a diet and fill up faster than I used to.”
Mollified, she wandered off with her coffee-pots and stopped two tables away where Mayor Jim Shevlin and his wife were having breakfast with Joe Turco, a young lawyer. Mara’s Luncheonette enjoys the advantage of having the best view in Cabot Cove—it’s right on the Town Dock—as well as being the gathering place of choice for our village officials. If you want to know what’s happening in Cabot Cove, take your meals at Mara’s. The reporters from the local newspaper and radio station do. That’s how they get most of their leads on breaking news.
I’m willing to bet the reporter from the Bangor paper stops in at Mara’s and hears talk about S.P.I. Or, if not here, he could pick it up, along with a bag of doughnuts, at Sassi’s Bakery. In small towns like Cabot Cove, the news gets around the old-fashioned way—by mouth. Of course, there’s a lot of salting and flouring that gets done to the news when so many cooks are handling the recipe, and sometimes you have to search out the truth, like plucking a bone from the fish chowder. I thought about Lucas Tremaine. What was the truth behind his move to Cabot Cove?
“Ready, Jess?” Seth took a last sip of coffee.
“Yes, I believe so.”
Seth moved to the cash register at the counter, where two uniformed telephone repairmen, one tall and broad, the other short and wiry, were seated on stools, debating the merits of a new fishing lure. Seth clapped one on the shoulder, interrupting the friendly argument.
“You boys find out yet what’s causin’ the problems with the phones?” he asked. “My patients say they’re still havin’ trouble getting through.”
“Sorry, Doc. There’s complaints all over town,” the smaller man said. “We’re working on it. Maybe by tomorrow. How do, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“We’ll figure it out eventually. We always do,” his colleague added, nodding at me. “Say, ma’am, Doc, what do you think of this spinner? It’s a beauty, ain’t it?” He winked at his friend and held out his palm to show us the red-and-silver striped lure with a wicked-looking hook dangling from its end.
“What I see is another office visit if you’re not careful with that hook,” Seth said sternly.
“Aw, Doc, you know me and Pete always take the barbs off, give the fish a fair fight.”
Seth grunted, paid, and we stepped outside. It was a splendid October day. I treasure every month in Cabot Cove. It doesn’t matter to me if snow is falling and the temperature is below zero, or if midsummer heat and humidity have set in. But there’s no doubt about it, October is my favorite month of the year in the town I love so much. We have spectacular fall foliage. The sun shines brightly, but there’s a bracing nip in the air that sends me into a frenzy of activity. If I had my way, October would last for six months.
“All set for Halloween?” I asked Seth as we stood outside and breathed in the pristine Maine air.
“The party, you mean?”
“Yes. Have you decided on a costume?”
“Thought I wouldn’t wear one,” Seth said.
“Everyone wears a costume to Paul Marshall’s annual party,” I said. “It’s one of the rules. You have to come in costume.”
“Seems like a foolish rule to me.”
“Silly rule or not, you don’t want to be a spoilsport. Do you want me to find a costume for you?”
“If I have to wear one, you might as well pick it out for me.”
“I’ll be happy to do that.”
“What costume are you wearing, Jess?”
“I’m going as The Legend.”
The sound of the door opening caused us to turn. The woman Mara had pointed out to us had left the restaurant and stood on the dock, staring at us. She wore a black duster that swept the ground; a large black pendant in the shape of a cat’s face, with glittering red stones of undetermined type for eyes, hung from a silver chain. Her long, flowing white hair gleamed in the sun, but her face was surprisingly youthful, her eyes a startling, piercing blue. Those eyes—something tickled my memory, but I couldn’t figure out why. She turned and walked slowly away.
“I see what Mara meant,” I said. “She has remarkable eyes, like . . . like laser beams.”
“Didn’t seem so unusual to me,” Seth said. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll walk off those pancakes.”
“Suit yourself.”
He started to leave, then stopped, turned and said, “Don’t be gettin’ me any silly kind ’a costume Jess. Keep it simple. Maybe somethin’ in the military vein.”
“Simple, huh? Okay, thanks for the tip. A military man you will be this Halloween.”
“Sure you want to go as The Legend? Lucas Tremaine might decide to hunt you down.”
“I don’t think I have to worry about that,” I said, smiling. “I’ll just scare him off.”
Chapter Two
I went home and resumed tasks I’d started a few days ago, filing, paying bills, checking my e-mail and catching up on correspondence. I’d finished my latest novel in mid-September. Writing always fatigues me; if I’m not drained after four or five hours at my word processor, chances are what I’ve written won’t be up to my standards. But this novel had taken a particularly heavy toll on me, and I was relieved when I finished it and shipped it off to Matt Miller in New York.
Whenever I’m closing in on the end of a novel, I invariably let daily chores slip, and once I’ve written “The End” on a manuscript, I tackle those things with energy and even pleasure, enjoying the feeling that my house, and my life, are being put back in order. This time, however, I’d opted to take a couple of weeks off, doing nothing except sleeping, enjoying long walks and spending pleasant social time with friends. But the growing piles of paperwork that needed to find a proper place in my files, and the e-mail messages and letters I was determined to answer, eventually put an end to my days of leisure.
By noon, I’d made a good-sized dent in the mountain of work. Then I remembered I’d taken on the responsibility of finding Seth a costume to wear to the Halloween party at Paul Marshall’s mansion. We don’t have a costume shop in Cabot Cove, and there wasn’t time for me to make the trek to Bangor or some other larger city in search of one.
I called my friend Peter Eder, who’d moved to Cabot Cove a year earlier to become the conductor of our flourishing symphony orchestra. Peter had not only quickly whipped the orchestra into fine shape, he’d become deeply involved with a regional theater that had sprung up in Cabot Cove and started to receive substantial notice and good reviews. I tried him at the theater first, but could barely hear the phone ring through the static on the line. I finally reached him at home.
“Hello, Peter, it’s Jessica.”
“Hello to you, Jessica. How are you on this splendid fall day?”
“Couldn’t be better, although the phone line to the theater could use some help. I tried you there first.”
“Oh, you’re getting all that static, too? I’ve been calling the phone company for weeks now trying to get it fixed. Sorry you had trouble reaching me.”
“Well, I’ve got you now. Peter, I wonder if you’d do me a favor.”
“If I can.”
“I promised Seth Hazlitt I’d find a costume for him to wear to Paul Marshall’s Halloween party. I thought there might be something in the theater’s wardrobe room.”
“There probably is. Marcia Davis has done an incredible job of building up that department. She’s a scrounger without peer. What kind of costume were you thinking of?”
“Seth said he wanted something military.”