Page 48

REN

Siren Song, Maine

“ G inny, what the hell are you doing?” Ren shouted from the base of a leaning pine tree as his eighty-year-old neighbor teetered at the top of a ladder.

She was tying some sort of ornament to a branch.

She reached to the far end of a limb and affixed a small pouch.

Ren stood beneath her like a circus worker spotting a tightrope walker.

“Oh, pish. I’ve put Christmas lights on this tree for forty years. I know how to climb a damn ladder.”

Ren scanned the few trees that edged the property along the cliff, noting the dangling decorations. “Those aren’t Christmas lights.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Ginny climbed down the ladder, pulled a bandana from her pocket, and wiped the sap from her hands. “They’re talismans. I’m smudging the place.”

Guiding her to firmer ground, Ren asked, “Smudging?”

“Purging negative energy.” She held up a hand. “I don’t put much stock in that sort of thing. If Franklin is haunting this bluff, he’s welcome to do it. He can chase away the rock climbers and the hikers. Hand me the last one, would ya?”

Ren picked up the fabric pouch at the base of the ladder. It smelled of peppermint and eucalyptus. “Smells nice. I can’t imagine any evil spirits finding this offensive.”

“Ellie made ‘em for me. She thinks there’s toxic vibrations up here. I’ve been hanging them on the trees for years. They haven’t done much for my negative energy, I can tell you.”

“Ellie?”

“Sellers,” Ginny clarified.

“The police deputy.”

“That’s her. She’s my niece. Lives just up the road. She’s very spiritual—into all that mumbo jumbo. Not that she gets her butt into a pew on Sundays, but I don’t judge. She’s a good cop, so if she wants to burn sage and play bongos, what do I care?”

Ginny led Ren into her house and put a kettle on. The place was neat as a pin and frozen in time. Ren felt like he had walked onto a movie set from the 1980s.

He inhaled the heavenly scent of baked goods and eyed the platter on the kitchen table.

“Those are for the cranberry festival. You may have one .” Ginny held up a finger to emphasize her point.

Ren didn’t need to be told twice. He snatched a frosted scone from the tray and took a huge bite. “Wow.”

Ginny beamed. “I know. It’s my granny’s recipe. Top secret.”

Ren finished the treat in two bites. “I don’t want to make them. I just want to eat them. That’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He almost couldn’t believe it, but Ginny blushed at the compliment. Ren sat gingerly on the spindle-backed kitchen chair, hoping it would hold his weight. “I met her in town the other day.”

“Who?”

“Ellie Sellers. She told me you were having a party the night Franklin died.”

“That’s true—my annual Fourth of July party. I invite the folks from town who haven’t pissed me off to watch the fireworks from the yard.”

Ginny gathered two mugs, popped a tea bag in each, and filled them with boiling water.

“Oh, no tea for me. I don’t drink the stuff.”

She continued her preparations. “Try this. It’s clove, a natural anesthetic. You looked pretty beaten up when you arrived.” When Ren opened his mouth, Ginny held up a hand. “I don’t need the details. I’m just talking about tea.”

“So what happened that night?” Ren asked.

She placed the tea on the table and handed Ren another scone, which he accepted with pleasure.

Sitting across from him, she said, “It was a strange evening all around. Gary Bonapart, the local realtor, got into a shouting match with his business partner Patsy McMurtry. She stormed off, but Gary stayed and got drunker than a sailor on shore leave. No offense.”

“None taken.” Ren narrowed his gaze. “How’d you know I was in the Navy?”

Ginny sipped her tea. “Franklin.” She tipped her head to the house next door. “He was proud as hell of you. He often said he wished Iggy had your ambition.”

Ren thought of his free-spirited friend. Although Iggy had landed on his feet, Ren had worried for years that he would end up in some cult or homeless.

Ginny continued, “So, Gary Bonapart was making a scene. At one point, he fell and hit his knee on a rock. Bled all over my kitchen. Then Joanna Baker arrives and announces she kicked her husband out.”

“Joanna Baker?”

“She owns The Loaf and Muffin.”

“So the local baker’s name is baker?” Ren asked.

“Funny how that works sometimes.”

Ren said, “Nominative determinism. There was a guy in our platoon whose last name was Battle.”

“Anyway, Gary got in a tussle with Barnett Gates, a three-hundred-pound lobster fisherman, so that wasn’t going to end well. Ellie hauled Gary away and took him home. By the time she got back, the fireworks were just starting. That’s when we saw him.”

“Who.”

“Franklin. A big burst lit the sky, and someone—I think it was Nora Meyers—pointed to the cliffs. Franklin was walking along the bluff path away from us, heading for Siren Ridge. I didn’t think much of it.

Franklin was always out wandering around.

Hell, he installed a bench over there where he scattered his wife’s ashes and would sit and listen to the cliff music and watch the waves for hours. ”

“But not this time.”

“We couldn’t see much, but every time a firework went off, Franklin was getting closer to the far ridge.

” Ginny cradled her mug. “Something about it felt strange. I told Ellie to check on him, but by the time she got to the path, Franklin was already standing on the edge. The show was at the finale, and boom, boom, boom, all these fireworks were going off, and Franklin, well, he just fell forward.”

Ginny took both their empty mugs and placed them in the sink. “It was gruesome, I’ll tell you that. His body hit every crag and jutting rock on that cliff face before he landed. By the time they got to him, he was a mess.”

Ren took the aluminum foil from Ginny and covered the scones, sneaking another one in the process. “I’m sure people always say this, but he didn’t seem like the type.”

“Maybe not when you were young, but he changed after his wife died. I’m sure you know he and Ignatius had what could generously be called a strained relationship.”

“I knew Iggy moved out to California. I didn’t think it had anything to do with his dad.”

“Maybe it didn’t, but I’m sure it was a perk. Franklin was hard on the boy—didn’t approve of his free-spirited lifestyle. He was always going on about how he was cutting the kid off. Said he wouldn’t contribute a dime to Ignatius’s partying.”

“Iggy was successful. He owned his own business, had a girlfriend and a kid.”

“I didn’t say it was justified; I said Franklin disapproved. You need a license to catch lobsters, but any jackass can be a parent.”

Ren knew first-hand the truth of her statement.

“Well, I better get what’s left of these scones down to the church. You bringing your gal to the fair?”

“Maybe.”

“You should. Good food, there’s music, and if you’re thinking of selling the place, I know there are folks who are interested and would like to meet you.”

“All right. Maybe we’ll see you there.”

“Good. Now get out. I’ve got things to do.”