Authors: Judy Griffith; Gill
There were also footprints in the dust. No ghosts he’d ever heard of left footprints.
He set the flashlight down, wrapped his hands over two floor joists and hauled himself through the hole.
Halfway up, he realized why his mystery woman had needed a boost. The sloping roof got in his way, forcing him to crawl, scraping his belly on the rough joists.
Then, he was up, sitting on a rafter, his upper body bent sideways to accommodate the slope of the roof. With difficulty, he got his feet under him and crouched, duck-walking toward the dangling electrical cord, then following it to its end. There, surprise, surprise, he found a power bar into which were plugged a CD player and three timers. One, set for one-thirty, had already ticked on by. He’d heard the result. Another, set for two-fourteen, only moments from now, sat slowly clicking, and a third one, set for three-forty-eight, just enough time for a guy to settle down and try to get to sleep before the disk began to spin again.
He manually advanced the two-fourteen timer. With a click and a whir, the attic and presumably the room below—his room—filled with the sounds of moaning, sobbing and sighing. There was silence for several minutes, then a faint and ghostly laugh began, rising and falling, before fading away to nothing. Finally there was a sobbing wail that gradually died down.
Carefully, he removed the CD, then set the clock back to the correct time. A cursory glance would show the apparatus still in full working condition. Remaining in his uncomfortable crouch, he waddled back to where he could stand erect. At one end of the floored area, footprints in the dust led to a narrow flight of stairs. He descended, reaching a landing and a door. It opened without a sound and he found himself in an alcove off a living area, furnished with more of those antiques his mother would covet.
The view, looking out over the marina, was the same as the one from his bedroom, so the two rooms must be right next to each other, he concluded.
Farther into the room, he found what he was looking for. No attempt had been made to hide the ingenious, complicated setup of springs, wires and more timers, with neat little holes drilled through the wall, holes he knew accessed the back of the dresser in his new room. He couldn’t help laughing. It was, he had to admit, very well done. Now he knew how and why his dresser drawers could open apparently on their own. Leaving the equipment as he found it, he explored further, finding a kitchenette, a small dining room and a door that accessed the corridor near the head of the stairs.
Okay, so someone had gone to a lot of trouble to persuade him there was a ghost in the Madrona Inn. But why? Maybe this was done to every guest who inhabited the top floor? Somehow, though, he didn’t think so. Nope. The little piles of sawdust from the drill smelled fresh, and probably had been created within the last few days. This prank was aimed directly at him, and he meant to get to the bottom of it.
Mounting the narrow stairs again, he tiptoed across the attic to the hole and slithered back through. He replaced the dresser, entered the bathroom and locked the door from the inside.
He lay on his bed, thinking. What the hell was it all about? Why his room? Why him?
Because someone had it in for him? And not just one person. Too many had made a point of telling him about the “ghost.” It was as if there was a conspiracy against him, something personal. Did it tie in with Rosa’s inexplicable remark about making nice, not making love? How could it? How could scaring a guest qualify as making nice? It couldn’t, so there could be no connection there. Yet, Lissa’s stricken face had suggested there was.
Dammit, it didn’t make any sense. But, then, he decided, turning out the light and trying to compose himself for some much-needed sleep, nor did it make sense to worry about it. Nothing in the Madrona Inn was going to hurt him. One thing he’d learned aboard ship was the best retaliation for a practical joke was never to let on you’d been trapped by it, or even become aware of it. The most fun was yet to come, and the last laugh would be his. He lay back and chuckled about the frustration the perpetrators would suffer when he spent every night happily in this room, always denying, when asked, that anything disturbing had happened. Nobody pushed Steve Jackson around. He laughed again. Well, except maybe a logger with a protective attitude toward his lady, and that was something Steve could easily relate to. If the shoe had been on the other foot, would he have acted any differently?
He didn’t think so.
And speaking of shoes …
Returning from Tofino, Lissa blinked in astonishment when she saw the first sign as she drove through the outskirts of Campbell River. Maybe she hadn’t read it right. It was raining, the windshield was smeary and she was tired from two days nonstop talking and shopping with her mother, who thought both were excellent ways to entertain her daughter and take her mind off her troubles. Hence, she’d whisked Lissa aboard a chartered seaplane down to Victoria and entertained her royally.
Nevertheless, tired as she might be, she knew the next sign was no chimera.
MADRONA MADNESS
A FESTIVAL TO REMEMBER JULY 16 & 17
MADRONA COVE, QUADRA ISLAND
She saw three more signs along the highway before she reached the ferry. What the heck? Where had they come from? Vivid, eye-catching and professionally prepared, they were well beyond the budget the committee had set for advertising. The last one, right at the ferry terminal, read:
MADRONA MADNESS FEATURING THE CINDERELLA SEARCH!
IF THE SHOE FITS … YOU COULD BE THE GRAND PRIZE WINNER!
TICKETS $2.00 EACH OR 3 FOR $5.00
Oh, lord Nelly! He was going to do it! Who the hell had given him a booth? Right on the bulletin board on the ferry’s lounge-deck, another huge sign shouted:
A FISHPOND WITH A DIFFERENCE!
BAIT YOUR HOOK FOR PRINCE CHARMING
WIN BIG, WIN OFTEN
EVERY TICKET WINS SOMETHING!
EACH TICKET BUYS THREE TRIES
A fishpond? She envisioned women from far and wide lining up to buy their tickets to catch a shoe. Unknown to the poor suckers, time after time after time, he’d try the same shoe on each woman, hoping like mad to finally find the one it fit and solve the puzzle of who had fallen through his ceiling.
It was not only a crazy scheme, it was doomed to failure. Rosa would never buy a ticket, never try on that sandal, not even to get her precious Birkenstock back.
But … what if someone else had exactly the same size foot as Rosa? One of the women visitors, for instance? Someone from one of the Vancouver Island towns, or Heriot Bay or Quathiaski Cove? Even a tourist off a boat at the marina?
He wouldn’t care whose foot he had in his hands, whose foot fit that sandal. He was simply looking for someone to offer that wonderful “grand prize” to. She hadn’t forgotten their conversation the first night they’d met. She’d considered the suggestion a joke, but clearly, he had not, and what he was going to offer was—himself!
THE CINDERELLA SEARCH IS ON! PRIZES GALORE
Prizes? Plural? Suddenly it struck her. He had one shoe. How were there going to be multiple winners? What did he mean, “every ticket wins” and “three tries per ticket”? What was he going to do, share himself around? The closer she got to Madrona Cove, the thicker the signs became, and the deeper her irritation.
NOW’S YOUR CHANCE TO PLAY CINDERELLA
COME AND MEET THE TRUE PRINCE CHARMING
ALL PROCEEDS TO THE MADRONA COVE COMMUNITY FUND
Hah!
The True Prince Charming, indeed! Was there no end to the man’s ego? She tried to forget how easily he had charmed her, how she had fallen like a ripe plum off the tree, right into his hands. Her two-day absence and her mother’s wise advice had fortunately given Lissa a better perspective on the whole issue. She remembered now why she had sworn to avoid Steve Jackson in the first place. He was a charmer, and charmers were bad news. Even her mother agreed with that.
“Steer clear of the man,” she’d counseled. “Keep out of his reach. You’ll be better off without him. He’s obviously looking for a vacation fling. Let him have it with someone else. How about your friend Ginny? Seems to me she’s constantly on the prowl and would be exactly his type.”
At that, she’d informed her mother tartly that if anyone deserved a vacation fling, it was she, herself. “So, what’s your problem?” her mother had asked. “Enjoy it, then.”
What kind of a mother would say that to her daughter? She’d clamped her mouth shut on the question. Whatever. It didn’t matter to her. She’d been away two days, and here he was with his stupid Cinderella search well under way, which just proved how fickle he was.
As she stepped off the float onto her boat, she found a brochure slipped into the crack of her doorjamb, detailing his fishpond plan pretty much as she’d already figured it out. She stood there in the thickening, foggy drizzle, reading it.
Every lady who tried on a shoe that didn’t fit also got a consolation prize—a kiss from him.
What?
Completely outraged, she crumpled the brochure and flung it toward the rain-pocked water. It bounced off the rail and rolled back to her along the deck. She stared down at it, then stomped on it.
Not only was he running a fishpond with shoes as the catch, but a kissing booth as well? Who the hell did he think he was? And what made him think women would line up to try on his shoes and accept his kisses? Unless those prizes were pretty damned spectacular. She grabbed up the ball of paper, smoothed it out as best she could and read on with growing dismay. First prize was two weeks at Happy Valley Hot Springs, which she knew to be one of his father’s vacation resorts, “with the escort of the winner’s choice.” Naturally, he’d expect to be that escort.
Second prize was one week at the same destination, same terms, and third prize, a weekend.
The other prizes dropped by increments of fifty dollars from five hundred in cash to fifty, and there were four of those fifty-dollar prizes.
Oh, for sure he’d have no trouble at all selling tickets with prizes like that.
She wadded up the damp brochure and clenched it in her fist before flinging it again. This time it cleared the rail and bobbed in the water, drifting slowly away with the outgoing tide. He was exactly as she’d first pegged him, a philandering charmer who couldn’t be trusted not to dole out his kisses indiscriminately.
The entire thing was such an offensive idea! Women ran kissing booths. Men did not. He was as good as selling himself to the women who bought tickets. Women, she knew perfectly well, would be lining up for days to get as many chances as they could afford. Because of the prizes, of course, not the kisses. But still, he’d be happily dispensing those. Disgusting!
Well, she, for one, wasn’t going to play his game or buy even one of his tickets.
Inside the main cabin, the light on her answering machine blinked frenetically. The first two calls were from Steve. She closed her eyes and let his warm voice wash over her. “Lissa, I know you’re upset. I wish you’d stayed and talked to me before you ran off like that. We’ll sort it out when you get back. Nothing’s going to happen unless you want it to happen. That’s a promise. You can trust me. Okay?”
“No,” she said. “It is not okay. Nothing’s okay. And there is nothing to sort out.” Especially considering the person she couldn’t trust was herself, not Steve.
Probably, if she’d realized the next call was from him, too, she’d have rewound the tape right then, erasing everything on it without listening. But she didn’t know, and the minute his voice came drifting up around her, it was as if she were caught in some kind of immobilizing web. “I talked to your dad about putting in a booth. He and the rest of the committee agreed, the more the merrier, and since he got Larry Cranshaw to play Robin Hood to his Friar Tuck, I figure I can make more money for the fund with my Cinderella booth. What do you think? Isn’t it a great idea? How do you like the signs?”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “A great idea. I love the signs.” She ran both hands through her hair, shoving off the scrunchie that held it back. “I’m going to go and rip them out, one by one, break them into kindling and pitch them into the nearest incinerator!”
The rest of the calls were from her father and friends, filled with chuckling allusions to her “escapade.” Why had she spent even a second hoping Rosa would keep her mouth shut? Ginny’s message was the most irritating. “Can’t say I blame you. He really is a hunk. I only wish he’d turned his pretty blue eyes in my direction.”
“Yeah, well that makes two of us,” Lissa muttered, then listened to another message from her father. “How come you told Steve there were no more spaces for booths? His idea is fantastic. Of course, I didn’t tell him who the sandal belongs to, but I am helping him collect odd shoes from all over the island. The poetic justice of it tickles my fancy—Steve Jackson Junior helping Madrona Cove earn the money that will keep Steve Jackson Senior out of our hair! Talk to you later, honey. Give me a call the minute you get in, and I’ll update you on everything Steve and I have planned. I like your guy, Liss. I like him a lot.”
“He is not my guy!” she shouted, nearly loud enough for her father to have heard her in his trailer halfway up the hillside, almost a mile away. “I don’t want a guy,” she mumbled, unclenching her fists. “I don’t need a guy. I need … sleep.”
Quickly, she unplugged the phone, undressed, brushed her teeth and crawled into her walk-around queen-sized berth. Maybe if she slept, she’d stop thinking about Steve, about what had happened, and about what wasn’t going to happen in the future.
She had just dropped off, soothed by the gentle hiss of rain on the water, when something began bumping along the hull of the boat.
“Go away,” she told it, but it continued to bump and pound. It would stop for a few minutes, then start up again. Each time, it seemed to be just a little farther away, but it wasn’t going away fast enough to suit her. Obviously, a piece of driftwood caught by the tide had decided to snuggle up to her hull and it would stay there until she went out and got rid of it.