House of Ashes Read online

  HOUSE OF ASHES

  A Haunted Bluffs Mystery

  Loretta Marion

  For Geoffrey, the curmudgeonly but loveable bibliophile who shares my world

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve always been fascinated by old cemeteries, as ancient tombstones have some interesting tales to tell. How fitting, then, that I became neighbor to a three-centuries-old cemetery when we moved to a home in Connecticut. I was not, however, prepared for one of its residents—a certain Oswin Dickinson—to stir up some mischief in our house.

  Inscribed on Oswin’s tombstone was the pledge: “He shall rise again.” Apparently, he did just that. I was not a believer in unearthly visitors until we experienced a series of inexplicable events, bizarre appearances, and occurrences also witnessed by equally baffled family and guests. Even our dogs responded to the presence of our ghostly lodger. As a result, I’ve now become much more observant to mysterious forces that surround us.

  I must admit, Oswin was a pleasant ghost to have around—even if he was behind some strange goings-on from time to time. And just like Cassie took comfort in the spirits of her great-grandparents, I find that I’ve missed Oswin’s presence since moving from our Connecticut home. Without him, who knows how this story might have been different or whether it would have been written at all?

  Though writing is a solitary endeavor, the hands and hearts of many people touch a manuscript on the long path to becoming a published novel. There are so many people to whom I am deeply indebted for their contribution and assistance in bringing House of Ashes to the world.

  My amazing agent, Jill Grosjean, years ago recognized potential in an inexperienced writer filled with self-doubt. I lack the words to express my gratitude for her tireless and persistent efforts on my behalf and her unwavering belief in my writing.

  I had the immediate sense Shannon Jamieson Vazquez was the perfect editor for my novel, not only by the way she connected with the characters and the story but also because of her genuine desire to make it the best book possible. She put me through my paces, and for that I am truly grateful. Because of Shannon’s magical touches, House of Ashes became a much better book.

  Many thanks to all the behind-the-scene folks at Crooked Lane Books who worked hard to bring the book to publication: Jenny Chen, who is as efficient as she is organized and always pleasant and eager to help; marketing and publicity specialists, Sarah Poppe and Ashley Di Dio; the copy-editing team who patiently combed through the manuscript; and Erin Seaward-Hiatt, who designed a cover that perfectly evokes the atmosphere of The Bluffs.

  A writer can become too close to the story and needs other readers to point out her blind spots. My early readers were extremely helpful in working out the kinks, often reading several revisions as the book evolved. Cia Marion, Beverly Larson, Evelyn Monea, Debbie Busch, Deb Chused, Barbara Singhaus, Meredith Huse, and Geoff Marion—your constructive assistance was invaluable.

  My critique partner, Rosemary DiBattista, has been fabulously helpful and is always available whenever I need her. How lucky am I that our paths crossed a decade ago at the Algonkian New York Pitch Conference, and from there such a special friendship evolved.

  I could not ask for a more supportive group of friends, many of whom have been part of my world since childhood; others I’ve had the good fortune to meet along life’s journey. All have offered endless encouragement. I can only hope to give back to them what I receive on a daily (sometimes hourly) basis.

  I am grateful to the Russo family for introducing me to Cape Cod and for offering their tranquil beach cottage as a favorite writing retreat. The Cape, I’ve learned, is as much an attitude as it is a place, and hopefully I was able to capture its unique spirit. Though existing Cape Cod towns are mentioned in the book, Whale Rock is a completely fictional village, inspired by many visits to the area, but with a look and feel of its own. I love it when a fictional town becomes a place where readers would like to live, and hopefully that was achieved with the creation of Whale Rock. I’ve taken some artistic license with the topography of the area to suit the story, and I hope all the native Cape Codders will forgive any changes I’ve made to their idyllic home turf. Also, a fond farewell to Liam’s Clam Shack’s long tradition at Nauset Beach.

  There are those, sadly no longer with us, who have left special imprints upon our beings. A line in the book was written with my mother in mind: I’d felt Granny Fi’s firm steering hand at my back countless times as I lost my way after her death. My mother’s essence endures, through ethereal whispers of encouragement and guiding, gentle nudges, letting me know she is still with me. I miss you, Mom.

  And mostly, I wish to thank my husband, Geoffrey, to whom this book has been dedicated and whose support has surpassed all hopes and expectations. Being an author was never part of the original plan. Writing is what brings me peace, and I am aware of the privilege it is to spend great portions of my days doing what I love.

  Light is the lighterman’s toil,

  As his delicate vessel he rows

  And where Battersea’s blue billows boil

  To his port at fair Wapping he goes;

  Yet deem not the lighterman’s heart is as light

  As the shallop he steers o’er the severn so bright.

  For love he has kindled his torch,

  And lighted the lighterman’s heart,

  And he owns to the rapturous scorch

  And he owns to the exquisite smart;

  And the Thames Tunnel echoes the lighterman’s sigh,

  And he glides mid the islands of soft Eelpie.

  Curiosity is lying in wait for every secret.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  Eighty years ago ~ Whale Rock, Massachusetts ~ Cape Cod Bay

  Friday, December 13th

  Percival Mitchell balled up the telegram and threw it into the blazing tavern fire. It had arrived that morning, but he’d yet to share the devastating news with his wife. He needed some Dutch courage before he found the words to tell Celeste that now the last of their three boys had been killed.

  “A shot of Old Crow, Lloyd,” he said to the barkeep, then downed it, glad for the punishing burn in his throat. He’d loved all his sons, but the youngest, Ambrose, had been most like him, with a love of the sea and a desire to see the world. They’d struck a deal: Ambrose would enlist in the Navy, but after three years’ time he would return to Whale Rock and assume his rightful place at the helm of the family business. Yet only weeks later, while Ambrose was stationed in China on the USS Panay, there’d been a surprise attack by the Japanese on his ship. The attack was allegedly a mistake, and the USS Panay just an unfortunate target—but what consolation would that be to Celeste, who had already lost her other two sons?

  Lloyd poured Percy a second shot, but before the glass was touched, a commotion broke out in the main street of Whale Rock. The fire bell was ringing, and someone yelled in through the tavern door, “There’s a fire up on the north end! Battersea Bluffs. We need all the hands we can get!”

  “No, it can’t be,” Percy whispered. The Bluffs was his home. He leapt from the barstool and ran for the street, bumping into a stranger as he passed through the tavern door. The man’s eyes were ominously familiar to him, but with more pressing concerns, there was no time to bring to memory why. He had to get home to Celeste.

  It sickened him to see the flames as his Ford pickup rounded the top of Lavender Hill. How hard he and Celeste had worked to build this house, a grand Victorian with a widow’s walk and a proud front porch facing out to sea. Fire trucks were already there, and men he’d known these many years were working hard to contain the blaze to the southwest corner—Celeste’s beloved kitchen and keeping room. Others had the presence of mind to remove some treasured pos
sessions, which he saw scattered on the lawn.

  As he ran toward the house, it came to him who the stranger in the tavern had been, and later one of the firefighters would recount that Percy had screamed: “Damn that lighterman’s curse. Damn you to hell, Robert Toomey!”

  Nobody was quick enough to keep Percy Mitchell from entering the inferno. Moments later he emerged, his clothing and hair afire, carrying a charred human form. Any man would have been delirious from the pain, but as the firefighters looked on in shocked disbelief, Percy walked with a purposeful bearing and a swift gait toward the bluffs. A few men chased after their friend, but before anyone could stop him, Percy reached the ledge and cried out, “I am not finished!”

  And then, with his already dead wife in his arms, he hurled them both into Cape Cod Bay.

  1

  Present day ~ Whale Rock, Massachusetts ~ Cape Cod

  September ~ three days since the disappearance

  “I warned you months ago about taking those strangers into your home, Cassie.” It wasn’t the first time Whale Rock’s police chief had made his feelings on the subject known, nor was Brooks Kincaid the only one to scorn my decision to take in the young couple who had fortuitously appeared at The Bluffs nearly four months ago, on a day I’d found myself in a rather desperate place. But nobody understood what a godsend they’d been. Vince and Ashley Jacobson had been my lifeline in saving The Bluffs. More than that, they’d rescued me from a very bleak place. But my descent into darkness was a well-guarded secret. Only Vince and Ashley knew.

  And now they were missing.

  Three days earlier, my young tenants had packed a picnic lunch and set off on their bikes for a day trip to Provincetown—and never returned. This morning I’d been summoned to a long-forsaken barn down at Kinsey Cove to identify two abandoned bicycles. The sight of the familiar picnic basket sent quivering fingers of dread up my spine, and I knew in that instant something bad had happened to them.

  “There are no answers here.” Brooks was trying to persuade me to go home. “It’s very possible they’ll still just show up at your place. You should be there in case they do.”

  “I can’t just wait around. You need to let me help look for them,” I pleaded with my old friend.

  “You’ve already done all you can.”

  I shook my head. It hadn’t been enough. When Ashley and Vince didn’t come home, I’d set out to find them myself, driving all the way to Provincetown in case they were stranded on the roadside. When there was no sign of them in P-town, I’d checked Wizards, their favorite local hangout, but nobody there had seen them either. I’d sorted through their personal items for some type of clue or contact information. But all my sleuthing had dead-ended.

  Brooks placed a calming hand on my shoulder and nodded toward the team of police who had assembled and were busy securing the scene and collecting evidence. “Leave this to the experts.”

  “Yeah? Tell me, where were the experts when I first reported my friends missing?” The police had refused to get involved until my tenants had been missing for twenty-four hours.

  “Your friends hadn’t been gone long enough to be considered officially missing at that point.” He swept the dark blond hair from his forehead in a lifelong habit. “Give us a break. We’ve been doing all we can, with essentially no clues to follow.”

  “Something’s very wrong.” I held a fist to my knotted-up stomach. “I can feel it.”

  “There are countless explanations for where they could be.”

  “Without calling me? Or checking on their dog? How do you explain the bicycles? Ashley and Vince were always careful with their bikes. They never would’ve left them unlocked.” Their bikes had instead been left simply tied together by a knotted rope that had also been used to secure the picnic basket to the back fender of one of the bikes. I flipped it open to peer inside. Empty.

  “This was my grandmother’s picnic basket. They knew it was special to me, and there’s no way they would’ve left it behind. Something is amiss, Chuckles.”

  I watched the police chief’s ears and cheeks flush pink as his first patrolman stifled a snicker. I mumbled an apology for using his detested childhood nickname in front of his subordinates. He’d earned the name in grammar school because of an uncontrollable deep chuckle that erupted whenever he was nervous or excited. Everyone had openly called him Chuckles Kincaid until his sophomore year of high school, when he’d returned after summer break with a hulking form from a summer job with a moving company. He became a star defensive tackle for the Whale Rock High football team, and since then all he need do was glare at anyone who dared to resurrect the old nickname, and they were silenced. A select group of close friends could still get away with it in private—I was grandfathered in, since Brooks was my sister Zoe’s first boyfriend—but I’d crossed the line today.

  “Maybe they’d taken all they needed from the Mitchell gravy train and moved on,” he snarled as he untied the knotted rope and thrust the basket into my grasp. “We’ve already gotten what we need from this.”

  “Touché.” I looked down at the basket, feelings of hurt and anger at battle.

  He pulled me aside. “Did you ever ask for references, like I advised?”

  “No. Feel better now?” I snapped.

  “Actually, I was hoping to be wrong because then we’d at least have a starting point for tracking them down.” He glanced around the scene, his lips a tight line, before he asked, keeping his voice intentionally low, “Is anything missing from your house?”

  “They didn’t steal anything.” I self-consciously tucked my bare right hand into the pocket of my jeans. I had absolutely no reason to believe Ashley or Vince had anything to do with my grandmother’s missing ring. So I deflected by posing a different argument. “In fact, they left behind everything they owned, including their dog. Don’t you think that’s a bit suspicious?”

  “You’re correct, Ms. Mitchell. It is suspicious.”

  I turned in the direction of the unfamiliar voice and found a man sporting a navy windbreaker. It took a minute for the FBI emblem to register.

  “Agent Daniel Benjamin, ma’am.” His smile was measured, official, meant not to detract from the seriousness of the situation.

  I took the FBI agent’s proffered hand and managed, “Glad to meet you.”

  “You’re in charge here?” Agent Benjamin asked Brooks.

  “Yes. Chief Kincaid.” The two men shook hands, but Brooks looked peeved. “Who contacted your office?”

  Agent Benjamin turned his eyes toward me and ever so slightly cocked his brows. It was a subtle gesture, passing the ball to my court.

  “That might have been me,” I answered meekly. Then, feeling somewhat emboldened by the presence of a federal agent, I added, “I didn’t feel you were taking me seriously.”

  “I can assure you, the Whale Rock PD takes every case seriously.” Brooks addressed the agent, then glared at me.

  While Daniel Benjamin consulted his notebook, I held my hands up innocently and mouthed, What?, which Brooks dismissed with a disgusted shake of his head before directing his attention to the FBI agent. “I didn’t realize this was a federal matter.”

  “It’s a nice day. I like the Cape. When the call came in, I decided to take a ride out and see if I might be able to help.” His response was ambiguous, his demeanor cavalier. “Bring me up to speed?”

  “Sure.” Brooks gave a reluctant nod.

  Agent Benjamin then said to me, “Could I stop by your house after I speak with the team here? It might help if I take a look at the Jacobsons’ belongings.” He turned to Brooks and added, “That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “We haven’t been out to the house yet.” Brooks’s tensed jaw told of his displeasure. Then to me, but maybe for the agent’s benefit, “We’ll be out shortly, so please leave everything as it is.”

  “Of course.” I’d ’fess up later about already muddling up practically everything in their room in my search for clues.

/>   The agent checked his notes and lifted a brow. “Battersea Bluffs at Lavender Hill?”

  “My ancestors were British,” I answered, as if that alone explained the name. “Now most everyone calls it just The Bluffs. I’m heading back there now. Chief Kincaid can give you directions.”

  When I left, Brooks was filling the FBI agent in on plans for gathering special teams and bloodhounds to explore woodland areas and rocky shorelines. My stomach lurched as I heard one of the officers call out, “Hey, Chief! Found a couple of phones ditched in the barn.”

  * * *

  Back at home, I took a good look at my beloved Battersea Bluffs, with its towering widow’s walk and double chimneys, several large bay windows, and impressive wrap-around porch. It had become part of Whale Rock’s lore that the majestic Victorian sitting high above the cliffs on the craggy northern end of town was possessed by the spirits of my great-grandparents, Percy and Celeste Mitchell, its original owners. The legend evolved from a rumor initiated by my father when he was trying to take back his rightful home. It had been a successful strategy, but he could never have guessed how prophetic his fable would become—or maybe he’d already sensed the mysterious aspects of the old house. To be fair, Papa and I had never discussed the lurking scents and sounds presented by the spirits sharing our home.

  I unlatched the gate, to a warm greeting of soft whimpers and an exuberant tail.

  “You’re missing them too, aren’t ya, buddy?” I reached down to stroke the German shepherd’s glossy black fur, those usually erect ears momentarily relaxed. I widened the gate. “Let’s go, Whistler.”

  I followed the dog to the ledge of Percy’s Bluffs, so named after my great-grandfather’s dramatic leap from the cliffs overlooking Cape Cod Bay. I stared down to where the waves were crashing against the rocks below. Through the years, this spot had become my refuge, where I’d come to contemplate decisions or brood over troubles. Exhausted and numb, I sank to the ground and idly fingered an abandoned champagne cork, probably left here the night Vince and Ashley moved in with me. We’d brought a bottle down to the cliffs to toast our new alliance and the home they were going to help me save. I closed my eyes to bring to memory the feel of the fizzy liquid against my tongue, the first I’d tasted in years. There’d not been much to celebrate in recent times. But that night, a sense of hope had returned to me.