I turned to bite the bullet and get Stony’s ticket, but Gomer—I couldn’t recall his real name either—strolled up. “Here, Miss Cesca,” he drawled, passing two tickets to me. “That’s all of us.”
“
Non! Beaucoup trop.
We are too many,” Yolette said, elbowing Gomer out of the way to plant herself in front of me.
“He—” She flapped a hand at Stony. “—should not be allowed to go. He is
dangereux.
”
Shalimar Millie glared at Yolette with a look that could maim if not kill. Objecting to her manners? Who knew? Much as I agreed and sympathized with Yolette on this one, I couldn’t ban Stony.
“Did you file a police report?” I ask calmly.
“
Non
, I did not.”
I spread my hands, my reticule dangling from my right wrist. “Then I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do except see that you get your money back if you want to skip the tour tonight.”
“And let this pig run me off?” Yolette tossed her head again. “
Non
, I will stay.”
Uh-oh. If Stony was grouchy before, he was livid now. Fists clenched and red-faced, he was growling under his breath. I plastered on a smile and launched the tour.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we were supposed to go into two haunted buildings. However, I was informed that the buildings will be locked this evening.”
A blatant lie, but walking around shadowed streets with this crew would be bad enough. I wasn’t about to take them into dimly lit buildings.
“If you signed up for this tour specifically to see the inside of those buildings, I apologize for the inconvenience. We will see the outside of the same buildings where there are also ghosts. If that ’s not acceptable, I’ll take your names and see that the tour company gives you another tour for free.”
I paused to see if anyone—namely the writers—would take me up on a tour voucher, but no one did. With a small shrug, I opened the substation storage locker and grabbed a new lantern off the shelf. I could smack Stony with it if he gave me any trouble. That is, if Shalimar Millie didn’t pull a gun on him first.
With that happy thought, I started my spiel.
“Our first stop tonight will be the Huguenot Cemetery,” I said as I led my group across Orange Street. “This cemetery is a Protestant burial ground, as opposed to the Catholic Tolomato Cemetery, which we’ll see later. It was opened in 1821, shortly after Florida became a territory of the United States, and the same year a yellow fever epidemic swept through the town. The most famous ghostly resident is Judge John B. Stickney. The judge was a widower with three children, who came to St. Augustine after the Civil War and became a prominent citizen. He died of typhoid fever after a business trip to Washington, D.C., in 1882.”
I went on to finish the story of the judge and mentioned some of the other ghosts who reside in that particular cemetery before herding my group to the next stop. The oldest pharmacy, one of the buildings we were supposed to have gone into, took only a few minutes to highlight before we moved on to the Tolomato Cemetery and beyond. I kept a sharp eye out for any trouble, but once I’d put a bug in Etienne’s ear to back off, the groups seemed to have arranged themselves into camps. The writers followed me in a clump, three of them furiously taking notes, while the two with digital recorders added their comments to my running dialogue or fired questions as fast as I could answer them. Etienne strolled with Shalimar Millie and her friends and ignored Yolette, who flounced along ahead of him, pointedly out of his reach. Yolette tossed her hair and generally looked down her nose at all of us. Not even a hint of honeymoon pheromones in the air tonight, though I thought there was the lightest scent of blood. One of the writers had a Band -Aid on her thumb. Paper cut, perhaps?
Stony was busy at the back of the pack answering Gomer’s questions about fishing. When I tuned in to eavesdrop once, Stony’s gravelly voice answered one of Gomer’s questions. Something about trips to go deep sea fishing was all I bothered to catch.
Ahhh, wouldn’t it be nice if Stony had a hobby that kept him off my back?
Compared to the night before, I darn near double-timed my group through the tour. I knew it, and I didn’t care. The ghosts are traditionally more active during the summer and during stormy weather, but tonight they were in a frenzy. My opinion of the activity level? The group tension transmitted itself to the ghosts. Every tourist saw and felt multiple phenomena—
apparitions, orbs, and cold spots. Even old Stony looked distracted and pale a few times, though he didn’t say a word. When we arrived back at the tour starting point, I was exhausted and praying—yes praying, I can do that—that everyone would leave quickly.
Yolette was the first to grant my prayer. She sashayed off toward Orange Street when Etienne seized my hand and placed a kiss on it again. Ick and double ick, because his lips left a faint smell of blood behind. Had she belted him one in the kisser and I missed it? Darned shame if I did, but I let the thought slide away as Etienne strolled off after Yolette. Stony stabbed me with a look that could stake and followed Etienne. I might ’ve been alarmed for the couple, but I was sick of all three of them. Doesn’t make me a good person, but it does make me human. Gomer was the next to leave with a drawling “Bye, ma’am” and a wave. I did feel better when he strolled off in the same direction the newlyweds and Stony had taken, sure that he’d report it if Stony got violent. See? I’m not totally heartless. Shalimar Millie looked tired and troubled as she and her friends left, and I hoped the fast pace I’d set tonight hadn’t done her any harm. They headed in the same direction as the rest, toward the tourist center parking garage. When just the writers remained, I chatted with them for a while. I learned two of them were published —the two with the recorders—and three were aspiring. After getting their names and titles of their books, I offered to get them passes for another tour that would take them into the haunted buildings. Since they were all visiting from Texas and on a limited budget, they accepted and thanked me.
I stowed the lantern in the locker and headed back to Maggie’s, dialing the tour office as I went. No time like the present to mention those free passes. I’d e-mail a full report and another request for the writers’ passes later. If the tour company refused, I’d pay for them myself. Maybe I’d get an extra three for Shalimar Millie and her friends. If I ever saw the ladies again, I’d have the tickets handy.
Two problem tours on my first two nights as a guide. Gee, I could hardly wait for Thursday. I almost wished the tour company
would
fire me. Or at least give me hazardous duty pay.
Exhausted as I was, I decided to walk back along the seawall. Seeing the sailboats at anchor and breathing the cool air would calm me before I studied.
I cut through to Castillo Drive, passing the Mill Top Tavern, where music still pulsed in the night. Just as I reached the sidewalk running past the Castillo de San Marcos—the old fort—someone shouted my name. Gomer, I saw when I turned, loping up to join me. There went my time to unwind.
“Hey, Miss Cesca.”
“Hey, Gom—” I stopped so short, I gave my tongue whiplash. “I’m sorry, I’ve, um, forgotten your name.”
“It’s Holland, ma’am,” he drawled, a hint of a grin curving his lips as if he knew what I’d almost said. “Holland Peters, but everybody calls me Holland.”
Holland. Unusual, and now that he said it, I remembered it from Monday’s witness list. “Good name,” I said, smiling.
“Yes’m. It runs in my family.”
I suppressed a chuckle. “Where are you from, Holland?”
“Well, I was born—” He pronounced it bore-un. “—in North Carolina, but I’ve traveled all over the South.”
“Oh? Doing what?”
“You know, this and that. Fixin’ cars, loadin’ trucks, deliverin’ furniture.” He shrugged. “Mind if a walk with you a ways?”
Evasive about where he’s from and what he does. Noted. Was I in danger? Doubtful. I glanced at the gently rocking boats in the bay. The curse of good manners is that it ’s hard to say no to polite requests. And, hey, I could have worse company. I wrapped my shawl a bit tighter.
“Let’s walk, Holland.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
He was quiet as we headed south on the waterfront sidewalk toward the Bridge of Lions. To my left, the seawall was lined with posts called bollards, each bollard connected by nautical-sized chain. The chains weren’t enough of a barrier to keep someone from ending up in the Matanzas Bay, but Holland wasn’t crowding me. If anything, he straddled his side of the walkway.
“Um, Miss Cesca,” he finally said, “I thought you’d want to know, that French couple got off all right. I mean, the weird man followed them, but the house they’re rentin’ is in some fancy neighborhood, so they should be safe.”
I blinked. “How do you know?”
“They told me,” he said simply. “People tell me things, and I pay attention.”
Uh-huh.
“That was nice of you. I’m glad to know they’ll be safe.”
“Yes’m. But I wanted to make sure you were safe, too.”
I slanted a glance at him. “I thought you said Stony—I mean, the weird guy—left.”
Holland nodded eagerly. “He did, ma’am, but he could have friends watchin’ you. Or he could come back.” He shrugged again. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
Why did that sound like a veiled threat? Hmmm. Paranoia? I walked just a little faster and asked, “Why would you care if Stony or one of his friends got me?”
He stopped trotting at my side, mouth open in shock. “Because you’re a nice lady.”
“You think I’m a lady?”
“Of course.” A stride brought him level with me again. “And my ma would tan my hide if I let a lady walk home by herself. Especially after someone threatened her.”
I gazed into apparently guileless gray eyes. Psychic shutdown or not, my BS meter was spiking like crazy. Half truths and secrets. That’s what I sensed from him. Then again, I still felt relatively safe, and I was curious enough to see what else Holland might tell me.
“Well, then, thank you for seeing me home.” I paced off again, trailing my hand on the thick ship’s chain strung along the seawall. “So, are you visiting in town or do you live here?”
“I live over in Palatka for now.”
“You take the ghost tours often?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I wanted to see you.”
I looked up sharply. “Why?”
“You lived history,” he said, sweeping his right arm to indicate the city. “You were here before Henry Flagler was even born, much less before he changed this place with the railroads and big fancy hotels and churches and all.”
Couldn’t argue that I predated Henry Flagler and the improvements he’d brought to St. Augustine, but I didn’t buy Holland as a big history buff.
“And you came back tonight just to see me again?”
He looked away. “No, ma’am. Not exactly.”
We’d reached the corner, and paused for the traffic light to change. He didn’t tower over me, but I had to look up. “Why don’t you just spill it, Holland?”
“The man you call Stony—good one, by the way.”
“Yes?” Pulling teeth here.
“Fact is, ma’am, he’s been in Palatka and Hastings talkin’ up this Covenant thing. Talkin’ about killin’ humans who have dealin’s with vampires, too.”
“Do the authorities know?”
“I don’t know, but I ain’t the one to report him.”
“Yet you’re warning me.”
“Seein’s how he came after you last night, yeah.”
The light changed, and we crossed in silence. I had no trouble believing that Stony was recruiting, but it didn’t ring true that Holland feared the man. Not from the way he acted during the tour tonight. So who was Holland, really?
I almost took a shot at reading him, but as we stood at the corner of Charlotte and Cathedral, a half block from home, I spotted Maggie on her hands and knees on the sidewalk. She cradled one arm as if it were broken. Cat —giant, brain-rattlingmeow Cat—sat next to her, rubbing its face on the gray sweats Maggie wore. I didn’t think about moving, I was just there in a flash, hunkered beside her.
“Maggie!”
She rose so fast, we bumped heads.
“Ouch. Maggie, are you hurt? Is your arm broken?”
She rubbed her forehead. “Just my dignity. Some damn big cat wouldn’t move away from the door while I unlocked it, then the darn door stuck, and I strained my wrist trying to keep from dropping everything.”
I looked around us. Two bundles of paint sample strips fanned out on the sidewalk along with bulky fabric samples bound together with O-rings. Rolled papers I recognized as architectural drawings stuck out of the mix. Cat was gone.
“At least you didn’t break anything,” I breathed with relief, snagging her keys from the sidewalk. I’d puzzle over Cat later.
“May I help?” a masculine voice over us asked. Holland. I’d forgotten about him. We both assisted Maggie to her feet, and I made quick introductions while he bent to pick up and pass Maggie the fabric swatches and rolled-up drawings. When he leaned over again to get the paint sample bundles, a wind gust from the bay caught his short shirttail and flipped it up over the waistband of his polyester pants.
Where a butt crack might have been, I saw something worse.
In the small of his back, a matte black metal grip stuck out of his waistband.
Holland “Gomer” Peters carried a gun.
SIX
Surprised? Shocked? Full-scale flipping out?
Bingo, I was flipping. Way out.
Irrational, maybe, but who expects Gomer to be packing heat? Okay, he’s not Gomer. And, okay, the Jag Queens toted, but that was different. They wouldn’t shoot me, or Maggie either.
Would Holland shoot us? I hadn’t feared him until I saw the gun. Now his half truths and secrets seemed sinister. He almost caught me staring as he straightened with the last of Maggie’s things, but I stretched my mouth into what I hoped was a bright smile.
“Here, I’ll take those.” I snagged the paint samples from him. “Don’t want Maggie to strain that wrist more, do we?”
“Uh, no, ma’am.”
“Well, thanks for the escort home, Holland.” I turned to my roomie and nudged her toward the tenants’ door. “Let’s dump this stuff and check your wrist, Maggie.” When he moved to open the door, I rushed on. “Thanks, again, and, uh, have a good night.”