She walked back to the seventh slot and assembled her bow. The ends of a recurved bent away from the archer in a gentle S shape, making it easy to string. The shape also gave extra spring to power the arrows.
A deep breath helped calm her mind. That was what she loved about archery—you had to concentrate so fully on the target, you couldn’t allow daily worries to intrude.
She took her stance, drew the bow, and let the arrow fly. It was a good shot, perhaps even a bull’s eye. Emily smiled, thinking that maybe she
should
try out again for the Olympic team.
The ring of her cell phone broke her thoughts. Emily cursed and, for a moment, considered not answering. She checked the number—it was Ross Devine. “Hey, boss,” she said into the phone, “you can’t possibly be ready for my voice-over yet.”
“I’m not. I have another assignment for you.”
“What? No, no, I just got home.”
“Sorry. This can’t wait,” Ross said. “There have been disappearances. I want you to follow up while they’re still fresh.”
“Recent? That means I won’t have any police support. They’ll think I’m mucking up their turf.”
“They might not mind so much. Rumor has it there is sorcery involved.”
“We’ve already done a piece on Wiccans.” She shook her head. “We should leave them alone for a while.”
“This isn’t Wiccan. It’s haunted houses, devil worship, and something called Satan’s Mirror. You need to get down there.”
“Where?”
“Saint Augustine, Florida.”
She groaned. Florida in September would be stifling. “Set me up for tomorrow morning.”
“Today.”
“I’m not going today. I have plans that can’t be broken.”
“All right, then. In the morning. Good hunting, Em.”
Emily hung up the phone thinking about what her daughter said in the cab—
don’t go when Uncle Ross calls.
FOUR
Emily drove the rented van down Avenida Menendez beside the Saint Augustine Municipal Marina. The Intracoastal Waterway shone bright blue in the morning sun, decorated with white sails and masts. She, Dan, and his camera equipment had arrived at Daytona Beach International Airport an hour before. The drive north gave her a chance to acquaint herself with the area.
“It’s beautiful here,” she said with more of a sigh than she’d intended.
“Hot.” Dan scowled, adjusting the air conditioning vents. His hair blew with the force of the fan.
She smirked, shaking her head. “I think I’ll stop here for gas.”
“We have plenty.”
“I know.”
She pulled onto a cracked driveway and parked the van beside a pump with a
Pay Inside First
sign. Moist air and birdsong flooded the van as she opened the door. With a groan, Dan followed her out.
Lotto posters dotted the windows of the small building. On either corner, wilted impatiens in barrels begged for water. Bells clanged as she pushed open the heavy door and entered a cramped room. A paunchy man in stained overalls looked up from his crossword puzzle.
Emily smiled. “I’d like five dollars on pump number three, please.”
His eyes darted from her to Dan, who stood at a display of brochures. “Regular or premium?”
“Regular.”
“Five dollars won’t get you far, nowadays.”
She leaned forward. “What we’d really like is information. The secrets of Saint Augustine.”
“Oh.” He brightened. “You want the St. John’s County Visitor Center, sure as can be. Head east on State Road Sixteen to Ponce De Leon Boulevard then turn right and go to Castillo Drive, the second traffic light—”
“Thank you, but we’re not tourists. We’re investigators. We’re here about the recent disappearances.”
“That senator’s kid and his girlfriend.” He sniffed, taking the five-dollar bill from the counter and putting it in an old-fashioned cash register. “Probably took his party down to Key West is all, lapping up them margaritas. People disappear around here all the time, only to show themselves elsewhere. It’s a tourist town, after all.” He stared at her as if to say the subject was closed. “Pump three is ready.”
“One last question. I heard Saint Augustine has a haunted house.”
“Ghosts. You can’t spit but hit one. Half the residents hereabouts will swear to one sighting or another.”
“You ever see anything?”
He shrugged. “Never tried to.”
“Thanks.” Emily stepped outside into the stagnant humidity. She could almost feel her hair curl and frizz. “Strange he didn’t recognize me,” she said when they were away from the building.
Dan laughed. “Do you expect everyone to know who you are?”
“I just mean—”
“When you think about it, our show might not be popular around here. A lot of these people make their living exploiting the paranormal. They wouldn’t be quick to support a program that debunks their bread and butter.” Dan circled to the back of the van.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“You paid for gas.” He took the hose from the pump.
Emily climbed behind the wheel. If he was right, the locals might make their job that much more difficult. She gazed out the windshield and noticed the gas station attendant watching them from the window. He dialed the phone and spoke, still watching. Emily was no longer certain she hadn’t been recognized.
“Where to now?” Dan slid into his seat.
Emily started the van. “We have a couple of suites at the
Please and Plenty Inn.
It’s the bed and breakfast where Mickey Raynes and his girlfriend were staying. Might as well check in.”
“
Please and Plenty.
I have something on that.” He pulled a packet of brochures from his pocket. “It’s on Cedar Street. Supposed to be one-hundred and ten years old.”
She laughed. “What are you doing with all those? I don’t think we’ll find what we need in tourist propaganda.”
“Don’t be so sure.” He slapped pamphlets on the dashboard. “We’ve got sightseeing trains, trolley tours, and horse drawn carriage walkabouts.” He raised his voice over Emily’s scoffs. “We’ve also got
Ghost Tours of Saint Augustine
, voted the number one tour in Florida, horse drawn
Ghost Rides
, the
Trolley of the Doomed
—”
“I see what you mean about people making a living out of this sort of thing. Any haunted houses?”
“Everywhere. There’s a haunted bed and breakfast, a haunted lighthouse, the Old Drug Store, and the Old Jail complete with gallows. And look at this, the Spanish Military Hospital was certified as actively haunted by the Northeast Paranormal Association.”
“Sounds like we’re not the first myth busters in town.”
She merged into traffic and continued driving along the Intracoastal. Ahead, she recognized the Bridge of Lions. Emily had studied a map on the plane. When they reached the bridge, she knew to turn the opposite way.
Dan tossed the pamphlets into the glove compartment. “What I don’t understand is, with all the ghostly sightings, why weren’t we sent here before now?”
“I never knew Saint Augustine was haunted. But I did a piece on Cassadaga once. That’s a spiritualists’ camp not far from here. I think that’s what landed me this job.” She turned onto Cathedral Place. “What a pretty park. Oh, it has a gazebo. Maybe we can have lunch there.”
Dan chuckled. “I thought we weren’t tourists.”
A flashing light behind them quelled Emily’s reply. She pulled the van to the side, watching the squad car in her rearview mirror. After several moments, a policeman stepped out and approached the driver’s side.
She rolled down the window. “Is there a problem, Officer?”
“Driver’s license and registration, please. I notice you have a brake light out.”
“I’m sorry, sir. This is a rental, and—”
“That’s not an excuse.” He glanced at the camera equipment on the floor of the back seat. His eyes were dark and his skin tanned. Curly, black hair showed around his hat. “Emily Goodman? I thought I recognized you. I’ve never seen your show myself, of course, but my kids watch from time to time. They’re five and seven.”
“Oh.” Emily recognized the veiled insult. “I’m glad they enjoy it.”
“You aren’t here about our missing Virginia College students, are you?”
“Mickey Raynes and Renee Lambert. Yes, sir. Would you care to comment?”
“It’s an ongoing investigation. One that doesn’t involve you.”
“And yet, aren’t there rumors that devil worship and haunted houses are involved?”
“Sensationalism. Tabloid reporting.” He handed back her license and registration. “Have that brake light repaired. This is a warning.”
Emily watched him walk away in the mirror.
“I’ll bet it’s a warning,” Dan said. “We’ll have to be discreet.”
“I have a bad feeling,” Emily said, pulling from the curb. “This assignment is going to be trouble.”
She drove slowly along Cathedral Place. Such a beautiful city, she thought. Who would expect ghost lore to be a mainstay of this community? And Dan was right—why hadn’t she heard of it before now?
Dan let out a low whistle, motioning ahead at an ornate, domed building. “Look at that.”
“Cathedral-Basilica.” She ducked to read the sign. “Established in fifteen sixty-five.”
“There must be a heavy Catholic presence here. So why Satan worshippers?”
“One doesn’t necessarily preclude the other.”
“Just seems strange.”
“These streets are strange. Half of them are one way. Check the map, please, navigator.”
“Cardova takes us away from Cedar,” he told her, “but we can use it to swing around Flagler College and come back via Grenada Street.”
Emily grinned. “The old slingshot maneuver, eh?”
She wound around Victorian houses on narrow, brick-lined streets. Many yards were overgrown and bound by wrought iron fences and arched gates.
“This architecture is breathtaking.” She looked at a home with a wicker veranda. “What era do you think that’s from?”
“I read that Spanish colonists settled the city over four-hundred years ago, before the pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock.”
“I wonder how many of these buildings are original and how many are made to look old.”
“Thirty-six,” Dan said, “and forty reconstructed.” He looked at her and grinned. “You can learn a lot from a brochure.”
“Let’s hope we can put your trivia to good use.”
“There.” He pointed at a large, whitewashed home with overshadowing trees and a white fence. “I think that’s our Inn.”
Emily pulled into the drive and parked in a small lot. “This is lovely. How could a kid like Mickey Raynes afford a room in a place like this?”
“His father was a senator, remember?”
“Right.” She hopped down from the van. “Let’s get our stuff.”
She slid open the back door, and then grabbed her old denim duffle bag and her computer. She chuckled as she hefted them onto her shoulders—she’d gone through the trouble of finding the lightest laptop she could, and then packed it in a case that weighed twice as much.
She looked at Dan, who had camera cases dangling from his neck. “What can I help you with?”
“Here.” He slung the straps of his video camera and his digital backup over her head. “Can you take a tripod?”
“If you can tuck it under my elbow.”
“Thanks.” He closed the door, and then picked up his own duffle and three cases of lighting equipment. “Think they’ll recognize us now?”
“Who knows?” She shrugged, walking with him toward the house. “I’m sure lots of people come here toting cameras.”
They entered a large room with a sitting area. Doilies covered the arms of the chairs. The antique furniture seemed in keeping with the house’s ambiance.
A man in a Penn State T-shirt looked up from a desk. “Welcome to the Please and Plenty. I’m Craig.”
“Hello.” She smiled, setting down her load. “I’m Emily Goodman, and this is Dan Hart.”
“We’ve been expecting you,” Craig said, taking out a register. “We have two suites available—the Comity and the Affluence. I’m sure you’ll find them to your liking. All our suites feature four-poster beds, whirlpool baths, and electric fireplaces.”
Emily signed the book. “Can you see the ocean?”
“Not even from the roof.”
“That’s a shame.” She motioned at his T-shirt. “I see you are a Nittany Lion fan.”
“My alma mater.”
“Mine, too. Sometimes I miss it.”
Craig grinned. “I don’t miss the weather.”
“No. I imagine you don’t,” she said. “This is a beautiful house. Are you the owner?”
“My family.”
“I’m pleased and a bit surprised you had two suites available on such short notice.”
“Well, it’s not season yet. And we had two people leave unexpectedly.”
“Really?”
He gave a knowing smile. “I know who you are, Ms. Goodman, and I can assume your purpose. You want to find the missing students.”
“Not at all,” she said, raising her hands. “That is police business, and I have no intention of getting in their way. I’m covering a story about a haunted house and an object called Satan’s Mirror.”
“I’ve heard the term. Aren’t you supposed to be able to see into hell itself?”
“You tell me. You’re the one living in spook central.”
“Actually, I heard about it while I was in Pennsylvania.”
“You did?” she said, taken aback. “Then Mr. Raynes and Ms. Lambert never asked you about—”
“They asked me about normal things. The San Sebastian Winery. The Saint Augustine Alligator Farm. I got them discounted tickets to the Colonial Spanish Quarter. That’s a kind of living museum where people dress as eighteenth century settlers and show how they cooked, tended livestock, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds fascinating,” Emily said. “So you’re saying our missing students never asked you about the ghost trade around here? Haunted houses? Palm readers?”
“No,” Craig said. “Wait. Yes, they did. The girl, Miss Lambert, was interested in seeing a psychic. I told her the best were on San Marco Avenue.”
“Why did she want to see a psychic?”
“The most common reason is a person’s love life.”
“I see.” She picked up her duffle bag. “Perhaps the two of them were having relationship problems.”
“That train of thought might impinge on the police investigation.”