Jill Elizabeth - Shake Down

There was a silvered mirror in the dilapidated bathroom, a toothbrush in her suitcase and jugs of water in the kitchen to take care of her liquid ablutions until the water was restored whenever the plumber came today. Provided the plumbing still worked after all this time, she’d be able to take a shower. Until then, she would have to be downright eighteenth century in caring for her personal needs.

The notion had been in the category of minor inconvenience until her accidents of yesterday. Now the simplest activities could be a challenge, but she’d manage. She had to. Staying at a public place and answering well-meant questions from strangers was out of the question when she’d come here for privacy and anonymity.

Finally, steeling herself against the aches and pains, Janice eased upright and gingerly stretched—with one arm anyway—then stuffed her feet into a pair of mule slippers. Yawning, she shuffled to the kitchen where her food, toaster, hot plate and cleaning supplies waited.

Yesterday when she and Shane returned from the hospital, the electricity was on—thankfully. And thank goodness for electric baseboard heat. At least the cottage was nicely warm this morning. Janice had a haunting reason to dread a cold environment. Not something she was going to allow herself to think about this morning. She pushed away the memory as she reached for a fresh bottle of water from the vintage 1950s refrigerator that went nicely with the scuffed and chipped burnt-orange countertops.

Shane had given up on urging her to seek out the comfort of a hotel and insisted on carrying everything from her trunk into the cottage. He’d made several trips to the tune of her warning about that faulty porch board. He’d even blown up her mattress with the help of the electronic air pump, calling the gadget “pretty slick,” then helped unpack and put away all her kitchen items.

“You’ve got enough here to see you through a brief famine.” He’d laughed as he stowed boxes and cans. He had a nice laugh.

Bathed in early morning sunrays that reached her through the kitchen window, Janice’s spirits took an upturn. Her unexpected helper was turning out to be equal parts amusing and exasperating. Shane had been a total mother hen about leaving her here alone last night, but she’d been firm, and at last he’d taken Atlas and headed out with a final admonishment to get a landline phone installed ASAP.

Yes, Sergeant Gillum, she’d thought and nearly saluted. After what they’d been through, he’d probably felt as though he had a stake in her well-being. What would she have done without him? Matters would probably have gone quite differently yesterday without his help.

Janice sobered. Was Shane Gillum among God’s ways of assisting her through this rough patch or were things coming together too easily? Not that her injuries equated to easy, but her replacement worker had popped up effortlessly, seemingly out of nowhere. Should she be suspicious?

Suspicion and paranoia were family traits—the guilty were naturally suspicious of others. Since she had no guilty reasons for coming here to dispose of this property, she’d like to choose a different reaction. Shane had showed up when she’d needed someone and then gone above and beyond to be helpful.

He appeared to be a private sort, as she was herself. In all other respects, he’d proved compassionate and helpful. Just a guy looking for some peace of mind through a change of scenery. Again, they had a lot in common. Hopefully, they would work together well—he’d work and she’d supervise, that is.

If he was starting a new antiquing hobby, she’d been told the storage unit in Edgartown held quite a few pieces. She’d yet to check out the contents and would need help when she started sorting through things. Shane would come in more than handy. Some items she might use to stage the cottage for sale. Others she could sell outright. Maybe Shane would be interested in some of the pieces in exchange for his work. Then her budget wouldn’t be so strained. Who knew? Maybe she’d find a few things to keep for herself.

What was she thinking? Janice shook her head as she capped the bottle of water. She wanted nothing that bore the Moran stain. Whatever she couldn’t sell or exchange for labor would go into the nearest trash bin.

An hour later she’d washed, dressed with a bit of an awkward struggle in a sweatshirt and jeans, and brushed her teeth and hair. After numerous one-handed attempts, she’d finally managed to gather her heavy locks away from her face and into a loose ponytail bound with a large hair clip.

Tired before the day had any traction under it she leaned against the kitchen counter while her bagel toasted. Her breakfast popped up just as the porch boards squealed and a knock sounded on the door. Glancing from the steaming, golden-brown goodness to the front door and back again, she sighed and headed to answer the knock. If Shane’s early-bird habits were going to cause her a cold meal, she’d dock his pay. Well, at least she’d razz him a little.

Janice opened the door, a quip on her tongue, but the words froze behind her teeth. The most unusual person she’d ever seen in her life—and she’d seen a few—gazed at her with bright hazel eyes rimmed in a virtual rainbow of eye shadow. The woman was about a head and a half shorter than Janice but nearly as wide as the doorway. She wore a floral print, muumuu-style dress under a crisp white apron edged in eyelet lace. A knitted shawl hugged sturdy shoulders, and a silver-white, beehive hairdo rose to a height that a more slender neck might find difficult to support. She hugged a small paper sack to her ample bosom.

“Hi, there,” the woman said with a beaming smile framed in vivid red lipstick. The word there came out “they-ah.” Definitely a native New Englander.

“Hello.” Janice tried a return smile, but it probably didn’t succeed as much more than a puzzled grimace.

“When I heard someone was out at the old Moran place, I could scarcely believe my ears. But here you are, pretty as a picture.” The woman bobbed her several chins.

“I take it the rumor mill is alive and well on Martha’s Vineyard.” So much for a low profile.

“You got that right, lambkin, and second to none.” The woman grinned and rocked on pudgy feet overflowing serviceable brown clogs. “I apologize that it’s taken a while for me to find a spare minute to drop by. I knew someone was here a couple of days ago when some fishermen at sea reported spotting lights up at the old Moran place. Scared their hair frizzy. They were talkin’ all crazy-like about ghosts and long-dead pirates, but I told ’em in no uncertain terms to stow their imaginations. There’s always a sensible explanation, and I’m lookin’ at her. I—”

“That’s impossible.” Janice burst into the woman’s chatter.

“What’s impossible?” The rainbow eyes blinked at her.

“Lights. Here. Days ago. I didn’t arrive on the island until yesterday morning, and the electricity wasn’t turned on until yesterday afternoon.”

“Well, what do you know about that?” Her guest frowned. “I’m thinkin’ some jackdaws bored of a poor night’s fishin’ got a snoot full and started tellin’ each other stories about bootleggers and pirates. Imagined the lights out of the reflection of the moon on the water.”

Janice inhaled a deep breath. Pirates? Bootleggers? Typical activities of her ancestors. But no peg-legged, eye-patched ghost was behind the strange clump of accidents she’d encountered since reaching Martha’s Vineyard. If those things were sabotage, they’d been carried out by flesh and blood.

“Sorry to see you’ve met with difficulties.” Her guest nodded toward Janice’s sling. “Please tell me you didn’t get hurt on our island.”