The Ghost Shrimp

By Emily Blake Vail

Beautiful Lucia Winstone escapes distressing telephone calls and her mothers twilight world when she runs away to Boris Point, an imaginary, semi-wild island of the coast of Georgia. There, in a stormy garden, she encounters the Ghost of the island, hints of unexpected treasure, and a devastatingly attractive Pete Dulaney, who calls himself a beach bum. Amid strange occurrences, attempts to persuade her to go home, and threats of violence to her person, she discovers an important family secret and explores the dimensions of deep and sensual love.
Introducing
Emily Blake Vail
The newest in a long line of prolific romance novelist in the southern tradition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483647029

Emily Blake Vail

Emily Blake Vail enjoys writing in many genres: novels, children’s fiction, non-fiction, short stories, and poems. ”POEMS from TIME PAST: Cross-Roads, Byways, Destinations” is her second published poetry book, following the 2008 publication of “POEMS … this fragile earth” (both Xlibris publications). In both volumes she comments on and confirms her experiences of life in the twentieth century. Ms. Vail’s published books include: The Ghost Shrimp, The Burlap Bag, Dark Night on Mimosa Trail, The Grey Ghost of the Pharaoh, Carla and the Con Men (Wright Books); The Lost Equation Game, The Spindleburne Spectre, Mist in the Heart, The Search for Ole Ben’s Treasure, Sue and Charley, Jonah & the Edge ( Xlibris). Short stories appeared in a collection by Pen and Pica Writers entitled “ The Night The Animals Screamed “. Ms. Vail’s occupations over time have included editing, teaching (high school and college), church choir director and soloist, volunteer coordinator, boutique manager, mother, and college administrator wife. With degrees from Birmingham-Southern College (A.B); Georgia State University ( M.A. in Medieval English literature), and the University of Georgia (Med in counseling) she has assumed many roles and participated in varying activities---some leading to the writing of novels and poems. A member of several writers’ groups, she is presently active in the Atlanta Branch, National League of American Pen Women. In 1997-99 she served as President of the Georgia Poetry Society. She continues to be an active member of St. Augustine of Canterbury Episcopal Church and sings in the choir.

Book preview

The Ghost Shrimp

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EMILY BLAKE VAIL

Copyright © 2013 by Emily Blake Vail.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 08/19/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

For all poets and lovers.

Like a cannonball, she thought. The boat’s coming after us like a single shot made with careful aim and precision. If she kept to her present course, a direct hit mid-ship seemed certain, she twisted the wheel and felt the Heron buck the resulting waves as it spun like an out-of-control toy. Sean’s wail was high-pitched as he clung to her and the seat. He was scared. He might be swept overboard!

The two boats missed ramming each other only by inches. With blood pounding in her head and spray nearly blinding her, Lucia managed to catch a quick glimpse of the threatening craft careening in the backwash; but no way did she get a good view of the boat or its sailor. Yet the figure seemed familiar, square and hunched, a hat pulled low on the forehead, maybe a man, maybe a woman. What could any person have against two innocents out for a sail on the sound?

It couldn’t have been planned. She’d only had possession of the Heron a short time. And, within moments of the failed encounter, the unidentified craft had whipped around and was far away, disappearing mysteriously.

CHAPTER 1

Howling ocean winds jolted Lucia Winstone awake. She was here alone, and nobody knew where she was. She glanced at the lighted clock face. After one A.M.! She groaned. I don’t need this!

Filmy curtains hanging at the open second-floor windows ballooned into the room. She shivered as gales mimicked sirens and pellet-like raindrops hit her flesh. She leaped from bed and struggled to lower the three old-fashioned panes of glass; one facing the beach and one at the side over the driveway caused no problem, but the back one stuck.

This window looked out on the garden belonging to the big house next door. As she paused in the darkness, her attention was caught by a beam of light moving slowly from bush to bush. The next moment it vanished, only to reappear… in a regular pattern.

Imagination, she told herself at first, and almost turned away. During that moment of hesitation she glimpsed the light flickering now and almost invisible in clotted shrubbery.

See, it was nothing, she muttered to the darkness while her arms strained to lower the glass pane past peeling paint and swollen wood.

In the distance thunder rumbled… came closer. Then a bolt of lightning veined the entire sky above the island, creating the pale light of an early dawn. Lucia froze. Below she saw a woman on the garden path, frantic arms fighting air, her long hair caught by the wind so that strands skittered in all directions.

A ghost? No! She loomed grey in that moment and distinctly substantial. Was she drunk, or did fear cause her jerking, almost palsied pace? There was something else, too, like a lump. It swayed back and forth behind a bush. A man, wearing a hat with a limp, dipping brim, squatted behind an azalea bush. Was he waiting for his prey?

Suddenly a burst of thunder rocked the cottage as darkness once more claimed the land. It was then she heard the scream, not wind, not rain, not waves blundering onto the shore… a human scream.

As the fury quieted, Lucia told herself that senses could err. It was long past midnight, she had been asleep for several hours, her vision must be somewhat blurred and her brain far from alert. She had traveled all day… from her white brick home in Middleton to the shores of this remote island. Having no telephone should be wonderful, but along with no crank calls it meant no police and no 911.

She stumbled to the closet and fumbled for her windbreaker. A metal hanger fell, clanking as it struck the uncarpeted floor. The sound shook her. She had to pause until her heart stopped its fierce beating and her nerves calmed. What she might find outside was uncertain, but she refused to cower in what Tim Harrold, dear old family friend, often called his refuge from the world… this cottage. He came here often. Her stepfather Quincy did, too.

She went down the stairs and into the living room before she switched on lamps. On her way to the door she made an unsettling discovery: there were sand tracks all over the shabby carpet, not there when she went upstairs to bed. She had inspected the house carefully before she locked up for the night. Was the door still locked? Yes, it was.

She was trembling as she stepped outside into a dense moisture-laden darkness. Although it was no longer raining, drops fell from leaf and bough; all surfaces leaked. The gutters sloshed as water plunged from the roof to the ground. Lucia yearned to go back inside the house, run upstairs, plunge her shivering limbs under those delicious covers, and just forget the whole business of the ghostly woman in the night. But… she didn’t. She edged around the corner of the Cape Cod cottage and passed the driveway where her white Camaro sat like a docile cat, sleeping out the inclement weather. She pushed forward beyond shrubbery and a small wire gate. Then she was in the garden where—drip… drip… drip—unpruned leaves and vines assaulted her. With the storm passing over, creature-sounds again invaded night silences. Lucia sensed as well as heard unidentified movements among ivy tendrils.

Now suddenly light gleamed… a rapid flash. She knelt behind a camellia bush to peer through wet foliage. A shadow pattern developed along the fence which separated the cottage from the big house next door. Then a hand grabbed her shoulder and another hand covered her mouth. Shhh! whispered a deep male voice.

She jerked her head free. Let go of me!

Excuse me! I’m harmless. Don’t panic, urged a masculine voice, while the grip tightened on her arm. I swat only mosquitoes. Promise not to pass out and not to run away. He flicked on a flashlight. See! I’m a friend, not a foe. One hand partially shielding the glow of the lamp, he was grinning innocently as though he had with her help just pulled off some coup. One never knows how many beauties flower in a garden, he intoned under his breath.

She stepped away. You scared me silly! Her heart thundered; she was not yet certain of safety. Go away!

But we just met.

We haven’t met.

Come on now. I apologized.

You didn’t—

I said, excuse me. I’ll say it again. Will you excuse me?

She heard a pleading note in his voice. Who are you then? she asked.

Friends call me Pete… sometimes Dulaney. I’m Peter Dulaney.

Past her angry, initial reaction she took a moment to size him up. He was tall and dangerously attractive, with high cheekbones and a devastating cleft in his chin. Under the sloping brim of his sou’wester, his strong face was pleasant. He leaned down toward her. Suddenly her pulses responded while her knees threatened instability. Surely, they were buckling from relief. Yes, it must be that the adrenalin had stopped flowing and she was totally weak from relief. In some strange poetic unreality of the night she felt fluid as the drops of water seeking sanctuary in this uncultivated earth. What was happening to her? Maybe her responses were occasioned by the time, the unusual circumstances, the magnetism of his dark eyes exploring her mouth. Oh, God! Surely he wasn’t thinking about kissing her!

With great effort she drew herself up to her full five-six height. His presence, his virility threatened her. But she could cope.

Voice strong and shaking only minimally, she asked: Did you see that light?

What light? Can you be more specific?

She listened to the voice whose deep, resonating tones seemed designed to reassure her she had nothing to fear. But nevertheless, his manner implied, he had trouble taking her seriously.

She answered him resolutely. I saw light… down here.

Where were you?

In the cottage. At that upstairs window.

Yeah! It’s a crazy night for spooks. Maybe somebody was out looking for island loot.

Why do you say that?

Some people have the notion Boris Point Island has a mysterious treasure. It’s a strong enough rumor to be called a story.

She wondered about the steeliness of his voice, the set lips, his suddenly cold eyes. But then his attitude changed, she thought. She shifted uncomfortably under some intense scrutiny. His eyes shifted from her cheeks to her straight nose, to her wide-open green eyes, and then especially to her mouth.

Suddenly… unintentionally, she shivered. Her tongue flicked over full lips.

Where did you come from? he asked, his voice husky, as though he, too, was caught in the moment’s magic.

I might ask the same thing about you. Were you hiding behind a bush? A hat with a limp, dipping brim did not resemble a sou’wester, she noted, and he was no lump!

Pete’s answer hit hard. Me? Hide behind a bush? No more than you were!

Truth! He had indeed found her behind a bush. She trembled a little. Could she believe him? She wanted to, wanted to so much she was almost sick.

I don’t mean to sound suspicious, she said, but I was standing at that window up there and I thought I saw a woman in this garden. She appeared to be in danger. And I thought I saw…

You thought you saw! he interrupted her mockingly. Who could see anything in this jungle? What gives you the right to come on like a citizen sheriff?

I’m a paying customer.

Really! Going to pay. That means you have money, and people who have money think they can get by with any strange accusation.

She felt her temper rising. I wasn’t accusing anyone! He had scrambled her thought processes, and she suffered the uneasy notion he intended doing just that. And what are you doing here?

Where?

On Boris Point.

I’m one of the island’s beach bums. I have nothing to hide. He stared. "Name?

Lucia Winstone. A reluctant smile played about her mouth. He was impossible, but he had said excuse me, more than once. Okay! I could use some instructions in beach bumming.

Beach bum together, we will.

They gazed deeply at each other and then, without meaning to, Lucia found she was laughing. And he was relieved she was not angry, she could tell. She smiled and when he smiled back she forgot rain, discomfort, responsibility… even the woman in the garden.

You must be Rold’s friend, he said. I should have known.

Tim? Tim Harrold. She knew her stepfather called him Rold. Yes. He’s a family friend.

He said that if you should come… you’d need a bookcase.

If I should happen to come… The conversation was a little incoherent, she realized, but in the middle of the night who can be a total with-it genius?

A bookcase? he repeated.

Oh, yes! I brought some stuff from home. Then you’ve heard from him?

Oh, yeah! Something about your parents.

She relaxed as normality reigned. If he knew Rold and knew about her parents, she might trust him not to be a dangerous villain.

She confided, I’m feeling a lot safer now. I was almost afraid to go back inside. I found sand tracks all over the carpet.

Not exactly unusual at the beach.

But I swept just before I went up to bed.

We can have a look.

They entered the cottage through the back door. Lucia switched on the kitchen light and sat down at the table while Pete went into the rest of the house. In five minutes he returned reassuring her that she had nothing to fear. He had searched every room, he had inspected all the closets, he had peeped under both beds. And what’s this about sand tracks? I didn’t find a single one.

Lucia walked into the living room, protesting they must be there, but the mysterious tracks were gone.

Pete grinned, his face alive with an unspoken I told you so. And what was all this bosh about some woman in the garden?

I saw her. And the tracks, too!

Come on now! He was laughing in a maddening way, his eyes crinkling at the corners where deep lines like quotation marks made him look dangerous.

She gazed at him steadily, not certain what he might be hiding since he seemed to have two faces, one full of darkness and one ready to laugh. You’re saying I imagined the whole thing! Fury tugged at her throat.

Yeah!

So… you don’t believe me?

They stood staring at each other… enemies.

Pete offered a conciliatory smile. Don’t be so uptight, ma’am. Boris Point gets its share of strangers, most of them out for girl watching, walks on the beach, and swimming; but then there might be a rapist or a psycho out for the kill. If you’ll stay away from the monster house, you’ll survive… okay?

What do you mean… survive?

He shrugged. Survive… whatever you find here.

And the monster house? It’s the big plantation place… next door. Right?

Right, said Pete Dulaney.

*     *     *

Later, alone in her bed again, Lucia reflected that the island was no more restful so far than her spaces at home in Middleton. And she wasn’t sure whether storms and screaming women were not as bad as the obscene calls she’d been getting. She groaned and covered up her head with a pillow.

Even now, during long moments when she was unable to get back to sleep she remembered the strange voice replaying, mechanical, totally unfamiliar to her, sounding put-on countrified. At first she had hoped the telephone messages might be just funny, student spring antics and nothing more.

Ernest Dwyer, the department chairman, had warned her at the beginning of the year that she might have trouble.

Anybody who looks like you… he said. And some of your students will be older… but we’d be pleased if you could teach a course or two. Community colleges try to offer a variety of subjects.

And they did use her for continuing education classes in English and American lit, in business English, and in flower arranging, which was a hobby of hers. Then, until she could decide what career she wanted, she was staying with Quincy and her mother, Myra.

Dr. Quincy was the only father she had ever known. Soon after his marriage to her mother, when Lucia was two, he had adopted her. Lucia had no memory of her birth father,named John. There had been an accident, Myra said vaguely. She didn’t like to be questioned. From her grandmother who now lived in Florida, Lucia learned the reason for her mother’s reaction. . . . a pilot. He was in a private plane where he never should have been. It was a fiery crash. Both were young!

Quincy spent long hours doing research… on Boris Point Island.

*     *     *

As Lucia opened her eyes to the brilliant daylight streaming through the second story bedroom, she recalled that Pete had raised the windows for her last night before he left to go home down the beach. And she was still smiling! That guy! The situation was ludicrous, she told herself as she stretched and sat up on the thin cotton mattress, which had left her a little stiff. Rold should have warned her about the meager comforts of the cottage.

A cool breeze was blowing through the room, smelling salty and fishy, and leaving no trace of a doubt. She had indeed crossed the new causeway in her Camaro yesterday, and this morning found her safe and secure, away from the terrors of telephones and crazy students.

Well, almost secure! The storm had seemed a threat, but it was long gone.

She arose from the bed and couldn’t resist a peek at the ocean. Now the white beach was alive with gulls, but no human early morning bathers; the pier, weather-eaten over time, creaked its age. She took a deep breath, felt absorbent as a sponge, ready to put aside worries and soak up all the excitement of a glorious day.

Pete! Was he real?

Of that she could be sure. The moments with him last night had been laden with magic. Oh, God! What if she never saw him again!

After a quick shower she put on her favorite black short shorts. The fit was perfect, she thought, comfortable while hugging her slim hips and showing off shapely legs, long for her height. Suddenly she glimpsed herself in the room’s full-length mirror, obviously a K-Mart special, because the reflection was imperfect, warping her countenance. It was a wild-eyed green-eyed gypsy creature staring back at her. Dark flyaway hair and winter-white skin. Thinking she needed to get some sun, she chose a green and gold halter. It tied in back and would be easy to slip off… if she had enough privacy. No make-up. She brushed her dusky dark hair until it framed her delicate face. Her pink tongue flicked over full lips.

Slipping on sandals, she walked down the stairs and out of the cottage by way of the kitchen. The garden glistened in morning light, the sun shone on lingering raindrops which decorated the leaves like diamonds and created shimmering rainbows and radiant mists. On the black earth, pink and white petals lay spent as though whipped and wasted by wind-pruned twigs. And a few large branches had fallen.

Here last night there had been fog and mystery, a woman in danger running along the path, while nearby someone sat hunched behind a bush… . And most mysterious of all, a devastating Pete Dulaney had tried with the twin powers of laughter and guile to persuade her she hadn’t seen any of it.

She walked on past the low azaleas of the garden, among blossoming pink japonicas and sloping mimosa branches, under a wisteria arbor heavy with purple blossoms clustering like grapes, down one seashell path, in a circle around a tree. There she climbed over a broken-down garden fence.

Now she was standing on the grounds of the plantation house. Quincy and Rold had mentioned this place often, implying with no explanation that it was important to the college. She hadn’t thought to question what they were discussing. Instead she had wondered about the professional relationship between Dr. Winstone and Dr. Harrold. Quincy seemed to believe Tim hankered to be more than an Associate Professor of Biology at Middleton College. Quincy liked teaching at a small school, but did Rold?

Lucia stared at the big house. Constructed of white painted brick, coquina, and frame, the old Boris dwelling had been rebuilt, added to, and altered until its shape was, as Pete had suggested, monstrous. A monster house. Lucia could see three floors and many windows, entrances, and porches, while turrets on the roof and ornamental balconies outside the upstairs rooms hinted of possible lavishness inside.

Yet she had overheard Rold once comment off-handedly; Oh, it ain’t much. It’s for total teardown, while Quincy responded with a heavy grunt and a sez who?

Now Lucia moved forward nearer the house, into the seemingly perpetual twilight of the grounds. Long festoons of Spanish moss grew like silvery old-man beards from the massive, gnarled branches of ancient live oaks. The sun was barred by small, waxy, oval leaves which, Quincy had once explained, clung to the parent tree even in dead of winter. Indeed, moss carpeted the ground because grass could not long survive in such sun-starved circumstances.

Lucia shuddered, with the sudden premonition that Pete’s monster house was not entirely without secrets, while her feet felt leaden, rooted to the moldering earth. Suddenly she scolded herself for being overly imaginative. She wanted to be back at the cottage near the beach where life glowed with sun, sea, and sand.

She lost no time escaping past the broken-down fence into the safety of the garden. Safety? After last night?

*     *     *

Back in the kitchen she discovered she had a visitor. Breakfast was being prepared by a grinning chef garbed in a voluminous red apron and a tall white hat. Pete welcomed her with a kiss on the cheek and two loud snaps of his fingers. She should sit there at the table.

As she lowered herself into the rough wooden chair, his exuberance overwhelmed her. She noted his strong bare brown feet and legs… She surmised he had on shorts under the apron, maybe bathing trunks. Lean and muscular arms with thick blond hairs along their length hypnotized her as his hands moved to set plates and silverware on the brown table—his tan matched the decor. She could imagine those arms streaking through water as he flung his head in the rhythms of the Australian crawl. How old was he? Who was he?

She groaned silently.

So uncommunicative, he muttered. Maybe I’m not welcome. You did leave the door open.

No. I’m glad you’re here.

Then smile, beautiful child. What will you have for breakfast? I’ve brought a few supplies. Bacon, eggs, grits, coffee, juice. Enough for two.

She recouped. Where’d you come from? Are you sure you went home last night? I couldn’t have been outside more than ten minutes!

He had no intention of playing it straight. I’m heaven-sent, angel. Can’t you tell? Listen for the roll of drums. You think that’s the surf… He dropped one pose and assumed another. Us lazy beachcombers triple duty as cooks, dishwashers, and mentors. His voice dropped an octave. Where in hell have you been?

She smiled enchantingly, determined not to be backed into a corner by a dominant male. Exploring the premises.

The big house is off limits to vacationers.

There’s no warning sign.

I’m telling you.

You have no right to tell me anything! She had to struggle to hold back temper. Damn him! She’d felt so good and now he’d managed to warp her enthusiasm. It wasn’t fair!

They glared at each other, his dark grey eyes blazing, her green eyes wide and questioning. He broke the silence.

The lady fights.

If necessary.

But now he grinned. Do you hate me too much to eat breakfast with me?

She didn’t want him to go away. His crazy talk might be exactly what she needed. You’ve persuaded me. I’m hungry, and the company’s not bad. Thanks, Pete.

And how did you get along last night after I left?

I finally got back to sleep. It took a little time, but I must have been exhausted.

And you forgot your fantasies?

That again! Tears crowded her eyes. Not really. I know what I saw.

Same as you saw the sand tracks. Coffee? He poured cups full for both.

You’re killing me with all this kindness, she said, swallowing coffee and tears at the same time.

Great. I have plans for the morning. First on the agenda is a visit to Perry’s Wharf. That’s the only place near enough to get supplies. Okay?

Was it okay? She didn’t know. Appropriate replies eluded her and she couldn’t come up with any intelligent questions. She felt numb—a dumb broad whose teary emotions needed to be hung out to dry.

Okay. Swell, she mumbled finally.

CHAPTER 2

I ’m going after the boat, Pete said. Wait for me down on the pier.

Lucia watched him disappearing through the garden. She wondered how far it was to his place and what path he took. And why hadn’t she asked him?

But relax, she told herself. She put the dishes in the sink. He was only a man and she could do without him. As she walked down the path toward the pier, an old imp of energy was hounding her. She wandered from the pier to the dunes, from the dunes down to hard-packed sands. The tide was out. She waded into the water and felt the ribbed ocean floor beneath soles of her feet. Under sandy shallow brine were signs of other tide times: shells and strands of seaweed, sea creatures waiting quietly for deep waves to cover them again, even debris from the island flora. When she reached a point where water lapped at her knees, she paused and knew she had to go back.

The sun was a glaring eye over the larger of two islands which floated on the green surface like furry buttons. Now, returning to the pier to wait, she sat down and dangled her feet over the water. The sound stretched like a shiny silver sheet out to merge with the sky. She wondered how far it was to those islands. She was a reasonably good swimmer, could probably reach the shores of the closest one, but she hoped she never had to try. Seen across distance, water expanses could be deceptive.

Fresh and vivid color enchanted wherever she looked: shiny blue sky, white-capped waves iridescent and aquamarine, the creamy sands