The Sense of Reckoning (6 page)

“Tourists.”

“Well, where then?”

“Perhaps Southwest Harbor. Fewer tourists. Or at least fewer cruise-ship tourists.”

After a brief internet search, Ann located an appealing-looking inn and called to make a reservation.

“Is the inn haunted?” she asked, as she always did when making lodging reservations.

“No, I’m afraid not,” said the innkeeper despondently, anticipating a lost booking from someone obviously interested in ghosts.

“Perfect,” said Ann. “We’ll likely be staying two nights, maybe longer if the rooms are available.”

*****

One of the standing agenda items when Ann came to West Chester was for her and Mike to review her financial position. Ann counted herself lucky to have a brother who was a professional financial planner, and she was happy to let Mike take care of her bank account as well as her consulting engagements. Since Ann and Scott wouldn’t leave for Maine until the following morning, she and Mike decided to take advantage of the free morning for the review.

They walked from Mike and Scott’s townhouse to Mike’s West Chester office, located over an art gallery on High Street, on their way passing near the house where they had grown up. Once at Mike’s office, they settled behind his desk, sharing a 3 Musketeers bar from which Ann cut bite-sized slices with her Swiss Army knife while Mike tried to interest her in a series of graphs and charts he brought up on his monitor.

Their parents had left them with a considerable inheritance, the income from which Mike referred to as the “paying-the-rent” money while the income from Ann’s spirit-sensing engagements and his financial-planning business was the “having fun” money.

“The fun will have to be curtailed somewhat if we don’t start accepting some engagements,” said Mike, clicking through reports. “Considering how your abilities are expanding—especially you seeing Dan and Amita’s daughter like you did—we could raise our rates considerably.”

“I don’t think it will be that way for all of them.”

“Still, no way to know for sure unless you give it a try. I can keep charging the old rates for now if you want. Maybe that woman in Virginia who wants her horse barn checked out ...?”

Ann pushed her chair back from the desk. “I could just stop, right? I mean, maybe I’d have to cut back on some expenses, but we don’t really need the money.”

“You’ll need a chunk of money if you’re asking Garrick Masser for advice.”

She waved her had dismissively. “I said I’d take care of that.”

Mike swiveled his chair to face her. “No, we don’t need it. But why do you want to stop?”

“Why would I want to keep doing it?”

“A., you stopped a murderer—how many people can say that?”

“I didn’t stop him, I just gave him a new potential victim—me. If I hadn’t gotten involved, he probably would have spent the rest of his life harmlessly frittering away his family’s money.”

“You saved his daughter from growing up alongside the man who killed her mother.”

“She would never have known that, so what difference would it have made? Besides, her grandparents would have ended up raising her anyway.” Ann sat back, arms crossed, staring morosely at the monitor.
 

Mike reached over and snapped it off. “I feel so bad when you talk like this. You have an extraordinary gift, you can do so much good—”

“I’m doing no good!” Ann burst out. “I got Beau killed, I got myself shot, I got myself in a position where I had to kill someone, for God’s sake. I can find people once they’re dead, but can I find them when there’s still a possibility of helping them? No! If you hadn’t decided it would be a good idea to butt into the Firth business—”

“God, I know, I’m so sorry about that, I don’t know what I can do to—”

“—and now you want me to keep doing it? To keep putting myself through this? To keep having these pains in my hands? Maybe you’re the one who needs the extra money.”

She stopped, realizing she had gone a step too far.

Mike clamped his lips shut against his retort, his face flushing. A few moments ticked by, then he said tightly, “That wasn’t fair.”

“I know, I’m sorry—”

“If you feel like that, you should find someone else to manage the business.”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that—”

Mike stood and strode to the window overlooking High Street. Ann sat miserably at the desk, drilling a hole in the candy bar with the knife. After a moment, Mike turned, his color subsiding.

“I mean it. I never want you to think I’m in it for the money. I just wish you appreciated your skill as much as the people around you do—me, Scott, your clients, the spirits of the people you find. And I have no objection—none—to guaranteeing that I don’t benefit from your work financially if you decide to keep doing it. You need to do what’s right for you and I will do my best to butt out of it.” He gave her a slight smile. “Even if it means curtailing the fun.”

Ann felt her throat get tight. He might be her baby brother, but even as children it was usually Mike who had defended her and rarely vice versa. She sliced a chunk off the candy bar, speared it with the knife, and held it out to Mike.
 

“Let’s see how it goes. But don’t be a pest about it, okay?”

“Me? A pest?” said Mike with mock effrontery.

“Yes, hard as that is to imagine,” replied Ann. “Can we do something else? This is boring.”

They decided on pork sandwiches at the Mexican restaurant.

Chapter 8

Early the next morning, Ann found Scott humming away in the kitchen, filling a cooler bag.

“I’ll bet we can find someone to sell us food along the way,” she said, getting a banana out of a basket on the counter.

“Rest-stop food—yuck,” said Scott.

“Humor him,” said Mike, seated at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, reading the BBC news on his iPad. He and Ann were accustomed to avoiding news about events that might turn into consulting engagements, so on the theory that the UK was farther than they were likely to go for business, they generally used the BBC to keep current on world events. “He’s so excited. It almost—
almost
—makes me want to go along, even if it meant putting up with The Count.”

“You’re missing out on a road trip because you can’t contain your snarkiness around Mr. Masser,” said Scott happily.

Scott and Ann were about to start loading up Scott’s Prius when Mike appeared with his keychain.

“Why don’t you take Audrey, it’ll be more comfortable,” he said, handing the keys to Scott.

“You’re letting us take Audrey? Are you sure?” Audrey was an older model Audi, but so meticulously maintained by the car detailer, to whom Mike sent a bottle of good vodka every Christmas, that it could pass as new.

“Sure, why not. You’re a better driver than I am anyway.” Mike patted the hood of the car. “Take good care of my girl.”

Ann and Scott headed out at eight o’clock. The day was sunny and the weather continued to be unusually warm. Ann threw her down parka in the trunk only at Scott’s insistence.
 

Scott had a five-miles-over-the-speed-limit, both-hands-on-the-wheel, cruise-control-is-cheating driving style that Ann found preferable to Mike’s somewhat competitive approach. Scott chatted as they drove, commenting on the scenery or other drivers or whatever song was on the radio; Ann found it soothing because he seemed equally content whether or not she responded. As they navigated the area around New York City, she teased him about his tendency to make excuses for irresponsible driving: “Goodness, he must be late for an appointment,” or, “He probably couldn’t see me—he’s missing his side-view mirrors.”

At various stops throughout the trip, Scott produced from the cooler a mid-morning snack, lunch, and afternoon tea, complete with a thermos of Earl Grey. They consumed each picnic meal in as scenic a spot as Scott could find without venturing too far from the route.

It was dark when they passed through Trenton, Maine, and crossed the short bridge over Mount Desert Narrows that brought them onto Mount Desert Island. In the dark, only the lack of lights distinguished the water from the land. They passed through Somesville and continued on to Southwest Harbor.
 

The inn where they were staying was located on a residential side street. Theirs was the only car in the small parking lot, but the house was cheerfully lit. Scott got his small leather satchel from the trunk. Ann had a wheeled carry-on that Mike had loaned her—since she kept clothes at Mike and Scott’s house, she never had to bring luggage when she visited them. The temperature had dropped as they drove north, and Ann was glad to have the parka.

Scott held the door for her and they stepped into the lobby of the inn. It was charmingly furnished in a style that suggested Victorian without being cloying. The walls were hung with quite nice paintings of Maine coastal scenes, each with a discreet tag with the artist’s name and the painting’s price. Classical music played softly. A bowl of Hershey’s Kisses sat on the reception desk next to a small brass bell, which Scott rang.

The person who appeared could hardly have been less in tune with the surroundings: black hair so short it was almost a crew cut, pale skin made more pale-looking by the dark liner around the eyes, a row of rings along the edge of each ear, a nose ring, and a lip ring. A frayed denim jacket, fully buttoned up, hung loose on a thin frame.

“Welcome to the Clarks Point Inn,” said their greeter, whose light voice revealed it to be a girl. She managed to sound like a recording, except for the slight lisp caused by the post in her tongue.

“Good evening!” said Scott. “I’m Scott Pate and this is Ann Kinnear, and we have a reservation for the next several nights.”

“My mom had to go out so she asked me to show you to your rooms when you got here,” she said, striking a balance between following the script her mother had obviously given her while injecting a barely discernible level of sullenness to indicate that this was not how she would have preferred to spend her evening.

“Well, we certainly appreciate that. What’s your name?”

“Mace.”

“Mace?” asked Ann. “Like ... what you spray on muggers?”

“Uh huh,” said Mace.

“Pleased to meet you, Mace,” said Scott.

Mace nodded an acknowledgement. “Do you need help with your bags?”

“Oh no, I think we can manage—can’t we, Annie?”

Ann would have like to have asked the girl to carry the bags just to see how that would have gone—Ann guessed that, as light as they were traveling, their bags would have represented a good portion of the girl’s own weight. “Yup, we can manage,” she said.

“Right this way,” said Mace woodenly.

She led them to the second floor and showed them into adjoining rooms, both just as tastefully decorated as the first floor. Ann guessed Mace hated the decor. “Is there anything I can get you?” It was clear that the desired answer was “no.”

“Do you have any recommendations for where we could get dinner without driving too far?” asked Scott.

“I think Bloom’s Cafe is still open,” said Mace. “It’s right down the street.”

“Within walking distance?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect!” said Scott. “We may be here for a few days—is there anything you especially like to do on the island that you would recommend?”

“Uh ... hiking and stuff?”

“Where do you like to go hiking?”

“Well, not me, but tourists, you know ...” she mumbled. Mace was clearly not comfortable when the interaction with the guests went off script.

“But what do
you
like to do? It’s always much more interesting to try out things that people who live in a place enjoy doing.”

“Well,” said Mace, warming to the topic despite herself. “Bar Harbor is just a tourist trap during the day, but there’s stuff to do there at night.”

“Oh yes? And what do you do there?”

“Well ... they have live music.” Mace was working hard not to let her enthusiasm show.

“No kidding, what kind?”

“All kinds. Jazz sometimes.”

“I love jazz!” exclaimed Scott.

“Yeah, they get some pretty good people coming through.” Mace smiled shyly, and Ann could see that underneath all that metal and the black hair (that, based on the girl’s fair complexion, was probably naturally blonde) was a non-truculent person struggling to get out.

“Well, I’d very much like to see that,” said Scott. “Could you let me know how I can get more information?”

“Sure, I’ll print some stuff out for you.” Mace sidled past Ann and banged down the stairs, her heavy boots thudding on the treads.

Since it was late, Ann and Scott didn’t bother unpacking before walking the short distance into town for a late dinner. Bloom’s Cafe had a coffee bar near the door, a bar decorated with strings of white lights along the back wall, and fewer than a dozen tables with mismatched wooden chairs crowded into the remaining space. There was a small but boisterous group at the bar, but Ann and Scott were the only diners. They both ordered risotto, which Ann deemed to be too rich but Scott enjoyed, and Bar Harbor Real Ales.