The Haunting at Morgan's Rock Read online

  Servants were pouring into the room now. They removed the china and silver serving trays and began tidying up the place. In half an hour, nobody would know there had even been a party here. It was like we were all ghosts. I tapped at my neck and realized that my scarab was missing. Oh no! I immediately began to search around me. A few servants joined me in my quest, but there was no sign of either the golden chain or the lapis lazuli scarab. I wanted to cry, but I would never give up searching for it.

  Let’s see. I had it on the balcony with Father…

  Father!

  I had kept an eye on the balcony entrance as best I could between thanking my guests, but I had not seen him step back inside. I tugged his jacket around me tighter as I ventured back out to the balcony. Besides a few potted trees and a sitting bench, I saw nothing and no one at all. I glanced around in hopes of finding my treasure, but there wasn’t a trace. Perhaps Father had collected it and planned to force me to confess the loss. That must be it! He must have it in his possession!

  “Father?” I called as I stepped out a bit further. Could I have missed his return? There was no trace of him out here.

  Except his shoe. Where would he have gone with one shoe? I picked it up and clutched the leather protectively. Yes, this was certainly his shoe.

  I walked to the edge of the stone balcony and looked across the forested area toward Rockville. Strangely enough, the fog had lifted, disappearing as if it had never arrived. Never covered the town. Had an ocean breeze blown it away? Had I dreamed the fog? That could not be true; I wore my father’s jacket, and this was his shoe. That was no dream.

  That’s when I heard a scream—a long and terrible blood-curdling scream rose up from the driveway below. A woman by the sound of it. I peered over the side of the balcony and, to my horror, saw my father’s broken body sprawled on the ground. His head was turned around backward, and his eyes stared up at me. His legs and arms were akimbo, flung out wildly like a marionette cut from his strings from a very great height. A scream of my own erupted from my lips and seemed to last forever. I cannot say how long I leaned there, over the side of the balcony staring and screaming at the sight below, but it seemed like forever.

  A horrible forever that threatened to never end.

  It did end, but how? I could not say. My breath escaped me, and I thought I might never breathe again. I woke up in my bed to beams of sunlight filling my room. For one brief, happy minute, I believed that I had dreamed the whole thing. But if I go and find him, I will know. I will know this has all been a dream. A very bad dream. A nightmare. I have had nightmares before, and I did sip champagne last night. Stolen sips that caused me to dream. That had to be it!

  Sitting outside my door was Vivian. Her dark eyes were swollen and puffy from crying. Vivian never cried.

  “Joanna, wait. You should rest. Please, I’ll get you some tea.”

  “I don’t want tea. I want to see him! Let me pass, Vivian.” She hugged me and held me, but I would not allow myself to believe that he was gone. It was a dream. A horrible dream!

  She whispered in my ear, “He’s gone, Jo. It was nobody’s fault. Do not blame yourself.” Her words were like daggers to my heart. I shoved her away and refused to believe what I knew in my soul.

  Until I slipped down the hall and heard Mother sobbing.

  Until I saw the servants, each dressed in black from head to toe, all huddled together in the parlor, all of them whispering until I walked in. And then I did know. This had not been a dream but a real, living nightmare. I knew that I should never have left him—that he needed me to stay and keep watch for the fog. Father was gone, and I was somehow to blame because I knew on the balcony that he needed me. I should never have left him. The signs had been obvious. That faraway look in his eyes, the abject sadness.

  Punchanella!

  Vivian was there again with tears streaming down her beautiful face. She was talking to me, but I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t hear anything except the pounding of my own heart and my own breathing. Like when I swam in the pool back in Cairo. I would go under the water and hold my breath and listen to the beating of my heart, the blood pumping in my ears. That’s what this sounded like. Everything sounded muted but that beating. Heart pumping. I staggered back to my room, reeling like a drunkard, and I did not leave it for many days. When I did emerge, I was not the same.

  Nothing would ever be the same.

  Chapter Two

  Present Day

  “Interesting title, but I’m looking for something nonfiction. Local history,” I said with a friendly smile. The librarian was nice enough, but I wasn’t sure she could hear too well. I clearly asked for a book on local history the first time. She’d given me a slim paperback titled The Ghosts of Coastal Florida. I slid the book back to her. “I’m a bit of a history buff; being new to the area, I thought I’d study up on it. I’m also a travel writer and an author.”

  She leaned forward as if to tell me the biggest secret in the world. “I know who you are; you’re Megan Pressfield. I recognize your face from your book jacket. We have all your books right here on Row 11. This book is nonfiction, every single chapter. Nothing was embellished, nothing added. We stuck to the history. I mean, you can do all the legwork if you want, you probably know all the ins and outs of research, but my partner and I did quite a bit already. Like I said, we didn’t add a thing. Didn’t need to. That book took us three years to finish. It’s definitely nonfiction. I’d swear by it.”

  I smiled at the woman behind the counter. She had thick brown hair and wore heavy eye makeup but no lipstick. I couldn’t guess her age; she had one of those faces that didn’t reveal much. And as always, I was slightly nervous about being “recognized.” I’d been writing books since high school and had over a dozen published now, but up until recently nobody cared to know me. Unlike many of my peers, I didn’t have a single breakout book…until I wrote The Robin’s Song. Now everyone knew my name. The past six months had been surreal. At first it was kind of neat, having folks recognize you in restaurants and ask for your autograph, but it quickly escalated to something much more uncomfortable. Not neat at all. I gained a fortune, then lost half of it and my best friend, but that was in the rearview mirror now.

  The first package came just a month after my television interview. I still trembled at the memory of opening it, seeing the vial of blood, the necklace. But it was the note that sickened me, with its reference to my novel’s victim and her killer.

  Blood for Beauty. Love, Robin.

  And now I was here, hoping to get lost in a sea of Floridians, but anonymity hadn’t lasted a day. I planned on hiring a housekeeper, but there was nothing I couldn’t do myself. If I remembered to go to the grocery store. I had my priorities.

  Stock up on journals. Check.

  Buy a new pack of Micro Max Pens. Check.

  But then I’d seen the green Library sign, and it was like going home. You can tell a lot about a town by the love and care the citizens show their library. And unlike the other tasks that I intended to pass off to the housekeeper, there was nothing like going to the library yourself. Exploring the stacks and finding hidden gems. Even that simple joy had been stolen from me.

  “So, this is you?” I pointed to one of the names on the cover. “You’re Loretta Bradley?”

  “Well, yes. Now I’m embarrassed. You’re a real writer, and I’m just an amateur. Imagine you being here in Rockville! I follow all your work. I guess that’s why I want you to read my book. It would be a hoot to get a real author’s opinion.”

  My heart sank. I hated doing any kind of critique for anyone. Ever. Say the wrong thing, give your honest opinion, and you’ll hear what people really think about you. I used to get loads of unsolicited books, but thankfully my editor, Kathy, took care of all that now. And she was the one who convinced my agent, Alex, that he should find me some inspirational place to get cracking on my sequel. I was surprised at how quickly Alex had gotten me here. No pressure, Megan. No pressure at
all. Just go and write the next bestseller.

  And now here I was, trying unsuccessfully to be anonymous in a small town on the Florida panhandle. But I put on a happy face. I had a lot to be thankful for, and since I would be here for at least six months and Loretta worked in the library… Maybe she would be more accepting of any criticism that I gave her. But then again, maybe it would be a wonderful book. “Sure! I’ll take the book and anything else you have on the history of the town. I guess I better get a library card. But do me a favor, Ms. Bradley.”

  “Please, call me Loretta.”

  “Okay, Loretta. Please call me Megan. I don’t know how to say this, but…I’ve had some problems in the past, and…well, I don’t like giving out my address. So please keep it to yourself.”

  She smiled broadly; she had a nice smile. “Of course. I won’t share your information with anyone. Just fill out this card. On second thought, I’ll put all the information in the computer myself, and that way we won’t have your information lying around where people can pick it up. What’s the address?”

  “662 Emerald Coast Lane. It’s Morgan’s Rock.”

  All the color left her face, and she licked her lips nervously. “You’re staying at Morgan’s Rock?”

  “Yes, but only for a short time. Just a few months, long enough to finish my latest book, The Robin’s Cry. It’s the sequel to The Robin’s Song.” Why did I feel the need to apologize? I felt awkward now, as if I had committed some horrible crime, offended Loretta Bradley some kind of way. Any friendly chitchat between us vanished as Loretta tapped on her keyboard. She asked me for my driver’s license and posed a few other questions, but all the warmth had vanished from her smile. A few minutes later, she handed me a newly minted library card. I liked the smell of a freshly laminated identification card. I had a collection of them now. Should I give her the book back?

  “You’ve got two weeks, Miss Pressfield. If you need any other reference materials, you will find them on Row Three.”

  Geesh, what happened to calling me Megan?

  “Okay. Thanks.” I tucked her book in my “Poe Me a Cup” tote bag and headed for the exit. Forget the library. I’d do my research online, if I had time. I really needed to get started on this book project anyway. My deadline was quickly approaching. What in the hell just happened in there? What could have possibly been the reason for that woman turning icy cold on me? I was dying to find out.

  Dying to find out. Another one of the clichés my editor wanted me to “kill” in my writing. Couldn’t she see her own cliché in that email? If I had gone to the trouble of pointing it out to her, I know how she would have responded. “I’m not the author, Megan. You are. Readers hold their favorite authors to higher standards than clichés. Stay original. You have something to say.”

  Yeah, thanks a lot, Kathy.

  As I reached for the door handle, the door swung open. And there was no one there. Was that the wind? I turned my head to say something to Loretta, but she had disappeared into her office. I could see her on the phone; clearly, she was a hand talker. I decided to head back to my new home. Time to investigate the antiquated time capsule that Alex had sent me to.

  You’ll love Morgan’s Rock, Megan. I’m sure you will find so much inspiration there. You’ve heard of Joanna Storm, haven’t you? One of Hollywood’s first stars? That was her family home. I stayed there last summer and will never forget it. You should go. I’ll make all the arrangements.

  And that had been that. I was on a plane a few days later, ready for some sun, spray and inspiration. I don’t know why, but I didn’t fall in love with the place at first glance. I had a different feeling about it. Like I didn’t want to be here. Get it together, Megan. You’re being paranoid.

  Librarians who switched personalities on a dime, doors blowing open on their own. This was too much. I got in my car and drove back to Morgan’s Rock.

  Chapter Three

  To my surprise, a young woman with dark hair was standing in my driveway. A white minivan was parked off to the side, but I didn’t see anyone else. Interesting. Did neighborhoods have Welcome Wagons anymore? I didn’t see a basket of jams and jellies in her hand.

  “Hannah?” she asked me when I pulled into the circular driveway.

  “No. My name is Megan Pressfield. How may I help you?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said as she read the yellow sticky note that she had in her hands. “That’s right. Sorry, I must have written your name down wrong.” She extended her hand to me, and I shook it through the open window. “Hi, Miss Pressfield. My name is Aimee Finch. I’m the new housekeeper. Or at least I hope to be, anyway. I think you’ve been expecting me.”

  I got out of the car and hoisted my tote bag up on my shoulder. “Hi, Miss Finch. I have only just started the hiring process. Have we emailed? I can’t remember who all I’ve talked to. I’ve talked to so many people.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but I had received a few emails.

  “No, you haven’t spoken to me. Not yet. I’m a referral. Oh, that reminds me. Here is my resume if you would like to see it.” I accepted a neat blue folder and promptly stuck it in my bag.

  Before I could ask which friend sent her, she was scooping up my bag and chattering about her experience at LaModge, a four-star hotel in Pensacola. According to her, she could cook French, American and even some Creole cuisine. I had to admit that sounded nice, if that was an accurate representation of her skills. I was so untrusting these days. “And Morgan’s Rock is such a beautiful home. I came here once before in middle school. My history teacher was the best at getting kids excited about local history. I guess you know all about this place, right?”

  I shoved the key in the door and paused before opening it. She was smiling up at me from the bottom step. Surely crazy people weren’t this put together. Not in real life.

  “The phone is ringing!” she warned me. “Would you like me to get it?”

  “Sure, I’m not even sure where it is.”

  She hurried past me to answer it. Okay, so the phone was in the kitchen. The old-fashioned kind on the wall. “Pressfield residence. May I help you? Uh huh. Okay. All right. Someone will meet you at the back door. Thank you.” She hung up the phone and put my bag on the counter.

  “Who was that?”

  “Your grocery delivery service. The guy says he will be here in less than an hour. Do you have a check for him, or should I give him a credit card? In the future, I like to do all the shopping myself. There’s something about shopping for the freshest greens that I really enjoy. Got to keep you healthy. But never fear—my creamed spinach is a thing of beauty.”

  “Spinach, huh? Not a fan, Aimee,” I warned her as I dumped the tote bag contents on the counter and fiddled with her resume.

  “That’s because you haven’t had good spinach. People don’t prepare it correctly. You’re probably thinking of Popeye and that horrible canned stuff. You know, I’d forgotten how big this place was. But come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing this room during our school tour.”

  “The friend, Aimee. You said someone referred you?”

  She slapped her forehead. “Oh, sorry! Your agent, Alex. The way he talked about you, I thought you two were the best of friends. He didn’t tell you I was on the way here?”

  “No.” I laughed at that description. I guess in Alex’s mind, the two of us were closer than I would have described. Once upon a time I believe he had a crush on me, but nothing ever came of it. We’d shared an awkward hug once but nothing beyond that. Alex was attractive, if a little too much of a know-it-all for me, but there was no chemistry there. Just the standard working relationship. No sense in embarrassing him about it. “Fine, let’s find you a room. There are about twenty here. Maybe more. I’m not sure. This house is impossibly large. I can’t believe the impracticality of it all. Why couldn’t he have sent me to a condo or a time-share?”

  Aimee twisted her lips in a curious expression. “I think this place has a certain ambience to it. Isn’t that
important to writers?”

  I shook my head. “Not this much ambience. What about this room?” I might as well have been talking to myself. Aimee was climbing up the stairs and whistling at all the space.

  “They didn’t let us up here either.” Knowing that made me feel a little better about it. We were two strangers in this very old-fashioned strange home. “I can even hear my own echo up here.”

  “It might be more practical for you to stay downstairs with me, Aimee. You sure you want to do this?”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll take this room. It is a few doors down from the master, so I’ll be right here if you need me. Look at that big four-poster bed, Miss Pressfield. I adore the canopy, the dresser and the ridiculously oversized mirror over there. And let me guess, it probably has a private bath. Once upon a time, this was the height of luxury. Too bad musty red carpet and peeling wallpaper isn’t currently in vogue. Do you plan on fixing this place up?”

  “No, I haven’t even thought of that. This is temporary for me, just a rental. I’m not one for fixer-uppers. My husband…I mean my ex-husband was the handyman.” I had plenty of money now. If I wanted to buy a place like this, I certainly could. How come I hadn’t thought of that? This place was like a fortress. It had massive stone walls, plenty of space and lots of rooms. I could have multiple writing nooks if I took a notion to do that. And it had a clock tower. Who has a clock tower in their house? I guess I would if this place were mine. What a ridiculous idea, Megan Pressfield. I’d read somewhere that the clock wasn’t working, but then again, I hadn’t been up there to investigate for myself. Maybe it could be fixed?

  Where had this line of thought come from? I wasn’t usually this romantic about anything except words.