Chapter 3

Ramona took the eight o'clock flight out of Kennedy Airport for Boston and easily made the ten-thirty Trailways bus for Portsmouth. She was thrilled at the thought of seeing New Hampshire and its coastline for the first time, knowing that there was an island waiting there for her-if, indeed, she did have a long-lost uncle-and that it was her property alone.

Oh, dear God, she prayed, please don't make me have to sell it to pay his funeral expenses! Can't I have something, even this small piece of property, to call my own? It would be so grand to have something of value, no matter how insignificant, that was all mine.

Ahead of her, the bus driver smiled, realizing she was a stranger to the area as she pressed herself to the window, trying to get a look at all the famous sights of Old Boston. He was a young man and decided to try to impress her, since she was the only youthful and attractive woman in the sparsely filled bus he was swinging through the narrow streets.

"Picked a bad time to travel," he ventured in husky voice, glancing over his shoulder.

"Hmmmm?" Ramona returned, looking up in surprise at his unexpected attention to her.

"Lousy time to travel," he told her. "Spring's the worst time of yeah around heah. Why you think there are so few people heading nohth?" He jabbed a thumb back toward the other passengers.

Ramona had barely had a chance to count the tops of the heads scattered through the bus when he called out, "Quick, on youh left! You'ah missing the Commons."

She looked out in time to get a glimpse of a long gray stretch of trees and walkways.

"Now, if you were to come back in the summah," he hurried on in that curious New England accent, "that'd be nice and green, not barren gray. And the swanboats! You shouldn't miss them, eithah. Damn!" he cursed, and thumped the steering wheel. "Talk too much. We just passed the old Nohth Church. You know, '. . . one if by land, two if by sea' and all that Longfellow stuff."

Ramona was busy trying to take in the blur of old grey edifices and black wrought-iron fences. She could have sworn she'd seen cobblestones in the narrow side streets leading up from the main avenue. Avenue? Hadn't some sign back there said Boylston Street? Oh, well, maybe she was remembering from a tour guide book.

"Speaking of Longfellow," the young man in front of her was saying, "You know Mothah Goose, don't you? The nuhsery rhymes, I mean? Well, they say she's buried in one of those little cemeteries back theah."

Here we are back at death and burial again, Ramona moaned to herself. Bad enough that I think of it. Now some helpful stranger. . . well, this is an old city, and everyone who's made it famous is gone, even Kennedy.

"Had a great auhnt who loved history," the driver was telling her. "Used to take me to all the historic sites, even the old graveyahds. Couldn't get anyone else to keep her company. Since I was her brothah's only grandson and less skittish than my sistahs, the folks figuhed I was a safe bet to keep the old lady humohed. Wouldn't have minded so much, but she used to really go wild ovah those original epitaphs. Kept a notebook of 'em. Lived in Glouscestah and it was only a shoht hop to Salem. Did she love to take the bus ovah theah to read the gravestones! You do know about the witches and all, don't you?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him craning his head to look at her briefly to see how interested she really was. Her skin was crawling by this time. The Boston traffic was as bad as New York's, and she could already imagine ending up in a crash like her parents-oh, God, what a thought! Cars careened out of side streets and taunted each other with "dare you" techniques that left her heart jumping. She closed her eyes for a moment and prayed, God, please make him talk about something else. Please! And please make him watch the road carefully. Do grant us a safe and pleasant trip!

"Hey, you feel okay?" he asked with concern.

"Of course," she said, trying to smile enough to reassure him so he'd return to his driving. "A little tired, that's all. I was up at five this morning to get ready for the plane."

"Oh," he said as he returned his attention to the wheel and the action of the traffic before him.

She sighed in relief, feeling more secure as he edged the huge silver bus around the evil-looking, madly honking cars below her window.

Feeling as though she owed him some token of her appreciation for having resumed his proper duty of careful driving, she explained, "I came up from New York this morning to check on an island my uncle left me in his will."

"An island?" the young man repeated incredulously. "I've heard of being left castles on the moors, swamplands in hurricane territory, even treasure maps to pirates' gold. But your uncle must have been some eccentric. Who ever hears of owning an island any more? It's like owning the Brooklyn Bridge."

Ramona withdrew her feeling of appreciation for the tactless driver.

"I didn't really know this uncle," she said icily, "and one takes what one is given. I didn't choose the island, he did . . .probably with good reason. New Hampshire is supposed to be a beautiful state and I understand the coastline's a real tourist attraction. The lawyers assured me it was quite legitimate-my uncle's claim to the island, I mean."

"Sorry," he apologized. "Didn't mean to upset you, especially with youah just losing a relative and all. Just seems rathah fantastic. Imagine, a real island! You must be really excited. Bet it's bettah than having a castle, like in my kid sistah's romantic novels-a place to be stranded with the right man. Ha, ha!"

She didn't join in his laughter. He obviously found it all too amusing, comparing it to adolescent reading material. Like his sister, Ramona had once had faith in the magic quality of romance and happy endings. Then she'd learned the bitter lessons of death and competition in the employment and social realms. Never having been much of a fighter at heart, she was easily pushed around by people with more aggressive personalities. It was one of the things both Ray and Danny had chided her about, but she'd just smiled it off. What did it matter? She was just one insignificant person in a world of billions. There were thousands worse off than she. That's why she'd put up with that despicable character, the cafe boss' son who posed as an intelligent college student. He wouldn't have anything to do with her socially, but he used his position at the diner to have his fun with her and the other waitresses. Damn him! He'd thought of her only as a female, not as a person. He'd been interested in her for sex and nothing more!

When she didn't join the driver's laughter, he grew quiet. It was clear to him she didn't intend to give him the opportunity to show her he might be that "right man" to be stranded with on her island.

As they crossed the Mystic River Bridge he tried once more calling her attention to Bunker Hill. When she couldn't spot it, he said in exasperation, "Ovah theah to the right. That gray towah is the monument."

"Oh," Ramona returned in a faint voice as she spotted it through the windshield. "I'd expected a hill of sorts, not just a little cement spire to commemorate such an historical moment as the beginning of the Revolution."

"Yeah, most of the tourists are usually disappointed," he agreed. Then he fell into a long silence.

The afternoon was dark. Only a few rays of sunlight filtered through the gathering cloud banks in an already leaden sky. Having looked forward to seeing the seashore, Ramona was distressed to see the beaches so bleak and forbidding. Old dried seaweed and grayed weather-beaten driftwood were strewn over the grimy winter sands. The tide was just coming in, so there was several yards of mud on the shore. Ramona could almost smell the powerful fishy odor as she remembered it from the shores where she'd played during her childhood summers. Then she became aware of a draft, and the realization that someone had opened a window on the chill April air of New England made her nostrils flare, actually sucking in the rank odor of the mud flats. For a moment she felt the welling of nausea in her throat, but then, to her relief, it passed.

"Peeeyyyeeewww!" the driver exclaimed. Then he turned slightly to whisper, "Theah'll be days like this you won't fohget if you stay on youah island, unless you'ah fah enough out so the tide doesn't go out on you."

"You're the third person who's tried to talk me out of keeping my island," she said resentfully.

"No offense meant. Just can't figyah out what a pretty young girl like you wants with an island, especially in springtime. The only time of yeah it'll be nice is summah and early fall, and unless you've got a husband to enjoy it with and pay the taxes on it, why hide youah self? Unless you plan to open a resort, and that'll take lots of money and time."

He certainly doesn't know how to impress a woman, she thought. No wonder he's out here driving a bus for days on end. I'd chase him out of my house if he were married to me. She wanted to ask him why he didn't take one of those Dale Carnegie courses on "how to win friends and influence people," but it was too much against her nature to say anything so pointed.

One by one, people got off at Seabrook, Hampton and Rye-a businessman, a middle-aged woman who looked as if she might be returning home from visiting her grandchildren, and a withered little old woman with rimless glasses and an armload of library books. Maybe she's a librarian, Ramona thought. Poor thing! Probably the only life she has is in books.

There was one elderly couple left at the back of the bus and a pimply-faced, sullen adolescent who got on at Hampton. He stared at her briefly as he took the seat across from her and then apparently found the bleak seascape out his window more in keeping with his mood.

Ramona hoped the lawyer would be more cheerful than these silent companions, she hadn't seen any of them smile even once. Glancing upward into the driver's mirror, she found his sober face intent on the road ahead of him. Looking at him prompted her to wish the lawyer would also turn out to be a little more tactful!

"Pohtsmouth!" called the driver as he swung into the parking lot of the bus station.

"Oh, dear, already?" she said, mouthing the words frantically under her breath.

She saw the hostile youth across the aisle eyeing her suspiciously, as if to say she was too young to be talking to herself and too old to be afraid of a strange place.

She gathered her purse and shopping bag full of curlers and cosmetics, and half-stumbled into the aisle. While he watched she tried primly to compose herself. Walking down the steep steps and off the bus, she caught a side glimpse of his slow, mocking grin.

He's glad someone else is as unhappy as he is, she told herself. Now why should I be unhappy? That little brat tried to unnerve me!

She wanted to say the word to his face-brat!-but she knew she couldn't. Instead, she began looking around for whomever might be waiting to meet her. There was no one, not even any cars parked on the street. There was only the bus. The driver handed her the battered old blue suitcase from the side luggage compartment and disappeared into the station office.

In a few moments he came out.

"Youah auhnt meeting you?" he asked in passing.

She shook her head. "I don't have any relatives now. A lawyer's supposed to meet me."

"No friends heah?"

"Just the lawyer."

"Good luck," he told her, swinging up into the driver's seat.

As he backed the silver cruiser out of the parking lot, he called out the window, "Bye! Hope you like youah island!"

Then he was gone as the bus became a disappearing speck in the distance. He was the closest she'd come to finding a friend, and now he was gone, leaving her with mixed feelings of regret at being alone and suspicion that his last two words might have been his idea of a wisecrack.

She began to wonder where the lawyer could be. Her watch said five past four, and it seemed much later due to the threatening cloud cover. She hoped it wouldn't storm her first time out. Gathering her bags, she made her way into the terminal office to ask if the lawyer had perhaps left a message for her. She found he hadn't.

Yves had promised to wire or phone and tell him the exact time of her arrival. She began to think he hadn't done it. In any case, it seemed the attorneys would have checked the bus schedules. There couldn't be that many Boston-Portsmouth busses.

She paced the floor, looking out the window at intervals to see if anyone had driven up. It was getting colder and she was thankful she'd worn her winter coat instead of the trench coat Deanna thought more sexy-looking. Ramona preferred being protected against the weather elements rather than playing femme fatale to any males she might meet.

"But, darling!" Deanna had protested. "Better to be attractive and helpleth. Then the men will protect your!"

Deanna had a one track mind. Not that the idea didn't appeal to Ramona, but she'd heard how cold-blooded and unfriendly New Englanders were. She wasn't taking her chances of freezing to death in the meantime.

She'd just about decided to go into the depot restaurant to warm up over a cup of hot coffee when a new Mustang arrived. It didn't look like the type of car a professional man would drive on business, but the tall, handsome man who emerged from it in a smart, dark, well-tailored suit made her hope he was Richardson.

He was a half-hour late or more, but she didn't care any more when he smiled down at her and said, "Hi! Would you be Miss Jahn? Ramona Jahn of New York City?"

His enunciation was clear and he didn't drop his r's the way the bus driver had. It was a deep masculine voice, and he was much younger than she'd expected, in his early thirties, she guessed.

"Yes," was all she could manage to say, trying to compose herself after the long trip with its frustrations and disappointments.

"I'm Carl Richardson, your uncle's attorney," he said, offering her his hand. "Sorry to be late."

"Perfectly all right," she answered accepting his handshake. "It was thoughtful of you to take time to come for me."

"Not at all. I'm paid to be of service to my clients, though I must say I'm not always this lucky. Most of them thus far have been over fifty and preparing wills. Nice to have someone young who's looking forward to life."

Deciding not to take it as the compliment it was intended to be, she asked, "Shouldn't we be getting started? It's late."

"If you want to," he told her. "However, I think it would save you some time if you knew there'd been an offer made for the property you've inherited."

"Oh?" she returned. "But I haven't stated that I wish to sell it."

"You probably won't like it, particularly at this moment," he explained. "It's a bad time of year and the place really looks desolate. I'm sure a young and attractive girl like you wouldn't want to leave such a lively and interesting city as New York for the loneliness of an island off cold New England. The little town closest to it goes to bed at six p.m., so you'd have nothing much to do. But with the money you could get for the property, you could travel and get quite an education and gather memories that would stay with you a lifetime. And you wouldn't have to worry about the taxes and upkeep on this place."

"Perhaps you'll be kind enough to let me decide for myself, sir," Ramona said firmly, gathering her things once more. "Thank you for the advice, but I always like to know exactly what I'm doing and I can't sell my uncle's estate without having seen it."

"As you wish. It will be a pleasure to take you there."

"You're sure it's no inconvenience?"

"Positive," he said with a smile. He took her suitcase to the car, guiding her with his free hand at her elbow.

He was cheerful and conversation during the long drive that took them down bumpy unpaved roads off the main highway to the little fishing village of Allentown. It was a town of five hundred people who made their living by catching lobsters and fishing. It was one of the few places that still managed to make tourists unwelcome and preserve its sanctity, as the locals liked to term it.

Ramona was flattered by Richardson's personal attention, for he was being more friendly than professional in his approach with her. He was a tall, lean man with Nordic features, pale skin and bright blue eyes that had a charming twinkle. Her spirits were much higher now in spite of the dreary day and pot-holed roads.

They arrived at Allentown just before five-thirty. Its one main street, along the waterfront, sported a general store/post office, a shop with boating equipment and fishing gear in the window, a doctor's office, a deserted-looking mortician's parlor, and a few other shops and offices. A small inn stood on a hill behind the village and there were houses beyond that disappeared into the woods surrounding the area. Ramona's eyes turned to the fishing skiffs huddled together in the bay down at the docks. The town's one gas station was there to service both cars and motor-driven boats.

Richardson drove into the little station, where a man sat on a bench outside the door methodically smoking a pipe. The lawyer got out of the car and walked around to greet him.

"How do you do, Mister Perkins," he said, shaking hands with the man. "Remember me? Carl Richardson of Billings and Richardson, Attorneys at Law, in Portsmouth? I was out to see about Blood Island last week."

Blood Island? Ramona's mouth went dry. That couldn't be her island!

"Well, now," the old man on the bench responded slowly, "lot o' people come through these paths. Can't say ah do and can't say ah don't."

"Surely, Mister Perkins, you remember that we spoke about the death of Rolf Hecht and I told you he'd bequeathed his estate to his niece in New York. Perhaps the young lady would like to see his grave, too."

"Well," the old man began again, "ah laid him out myself. Ouah undahtakah left these pahts, yah know. But whahr ah laid 'im . . . cai'nt rightly recall. Twas on the island, ah know."

"But it was only five months ago!" protested the young man.

"Lot o' things happen in five months, sonny. Lots o' old folks heah-abouts. More'n young'uns."

"Look, I know you're a busy man, Mister Perkins," the lawyer persisted, "but, perhaps you might at least know someone who could ferry us out to the island."

"Nobody ain't gonna take no cah," the old man said, looking benignly at the little Mustang.

"All we ask is transportation out there so the young lady can sec the place she's inherited."

"Tain't wohth it. Pretty young girl, out theah alone. Best she sell it," rasped the man.

"Agreed, Mr. Perkins. And she already has an offer which I think she may take after she sees the place, so if you'll be so kind as to direct us . . ."

Ramona couldn't see much of the little man in his denim overalls and plaid winter jacket, because a limp, worn, brimmed hat drooped around his face, hiding all but his pipe between clenched teeth. But she was beginning to feel somewhat impatient. At this point, the man lazily stretched an arm out toward the wharf, using his pipe as a pointer.

"Young Owen Hansen always has a boat ready foh making repaihs, rescues and the like in case he's called out."

"Thanks," Richardson returned. "And could you direct us to a restaurant? We might like to have dinner after she's seen everything."

"At the inn," said the man. "But befoh scven-thihty. Moll doesn't take to strangahs wantin' suppah aftah that."

"Let's stop at the store and pick up some groceries, then," Ramona suggested. "I don't know how long I'll want to stay."

"You'll have to wait a bit," Perkins told them, rising slowly. "I'm tendin' store while Moll cooks suppah up at the house."

"You're the gas station attendant, the undertaker, general store manager . . . what else?" asked the young woman.

"Well, now," he said again, rubbing his chin and eyeing her suspiciously, "could be I'm a lot of things. But right now I don't cotton to chattah with furrinahs."

"Forget about the groceries," Richardson intervened impatiently. "We won't be that long, I'm sure."

He returned to the car and swung it down toward the docking area where they'd seen a man working on a small motor launch. He had appeared to be the object of Perkins' gesturing.

Ramona wanted to protest but checked herself. She was lucky that the lawyer had been good enough to meet her at the bus and bring her out here. In another few moments he had parked the car and they were beside the launch, talking to the boatman.

"I don't know," the man responded to their request, surveying them critically. "Gettin' late, and a sou-eastah's been threatnin' all day."

"Surely you could take us out for just a half-hour and bring us back," the lawyer insisted. "We won't be long. After all, it's money in your pocket."

The boatman was a short, husky man whose loose blue jeans and whispering oilskin poncho made him look small and clumsy. There was a shadow of black bristle on his square jaws and his large dark eyes were thoughtful, with an almost lazy air. His unkempt dark hair was covered by a wool cap.

"Money isn't as impohtant to us as it is to you city people," he told them.

"Please, sir," Ramona pleaded stepping forward. "My uncle left me this island and I do want to see it."

He scrutinized her for a moment before answering, "Rolf Hecht's niece? You shouldn't want to be going out theah. But if you do, I'll take you."

When they were settled in the skiff and heading out over the water toward the fog-shadowed gray mound Hansen said was the island, she turned to the young man at the back of the boat and called over the rushing wind, "Why shouldn't I come out here, Mister Hansen?"

He pretended not to hear her so she pressed the question again.

"I wouldn't want to know so much at once if I were you," the lawyer called into her ear, one hand on her shoulder.

His eyes were gentle when she looked into them and demanded, "Why? Is that the reason you didn't tell me much about the island, even when I insisted on seeing it?"

"Later." He smiled kindly as he spoke the word with finality.

The young man at the back of the launch eyed them silently. Was he really as hostile as he looked? Ramona wondered. They slowed as they approached the rocky shore of the island, most of it rough cliffs reaching ten to twenty feet above the shore. Through the mist she could see the stark, gnarled fingers of stripped trees reaching skyward. Half the land seemed obscured by the Gothic spires of black pines, but off to the right rose the monstrous shadow of a large old house crested with a lonely turret she knew in an instant was a widow's walk.

Hansen's voice behind her summoned her attention, but she couldn't turn her head from what she had come to claim-this strange, gaunt, mist-shrouded land and house.

"He should have told you. It's no place for a woman to live alone. Even youah uncle learned the truth of the curse."

"Curse?" she breathed the word.

"This was a beautiful, peaceful island when the Indians hunted and fished heah," Hansen continued. "When they welcomed the white man, they didn't know he'd murdah and take these lands from them. There was a brutal massacre that wiped out a little Indian village heah. The last words of the chief's wife, her infant son dead in her arms, were to curse all white men who set foot on this island, condemning them to a bloody and painful death."

"This is hardly necessary!" protested the lawyer.

"I . . . it can't have anything to do with my uncle's death," she said in a hushed voice as the boat bumped the dock.

"That's not all," the man behind her continued relentlessly. "Foh all who came heah, disease and violent death threatened. During the Civil War it was used as a foht to protect the shore. Many Confederate soldiahs were held heah, spies were questioned and executed right up theah in front of the house. One spy had a devoted wife who followed him and swore to wreak vengeance on anyone who hahmed him. She stabbed six guahds before they caught her and hung her, but she'd been too late to help her husband, anyway. They say she walks that roof all night long, looking foh him, still hoping, her skirts whipping in the wind. Clubs and fraternities from nearby schools often use this island as their initiation grounds. No one has ever lasted long heah. Everyone who's evah been heah after dahk has seen her, even youah uncle. He lasted longah than most of the othah doubting owners. Five months, to be exact." "How did he die?"

"That's quite enough!" ordered the lawyer, who had leaped to the dock and caught the ropes of the launch.

The other man continued as if he hadn't heard. "Stabbed in the neck, right in the jugulah vein."

"I told you to shut up!" shouted Richardson.

"Blood Island," Ramona murmured. "Blood Island!"