Chapter 8
Abby parked her Jeep outside Dottie’s shop. Meg was already there.
“Are you ready, Nancy?” Meg asked.
“Bet your butt I am, Sherlock.”
They both laughed. Abby knew it was unlikely they’d truly solve the mystery, but a couple of ladies with no jobs or families to take care of had the time to waste.
Dottie looked up from behind the counter, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. A slow smile spread across her face.
"Well, well," she said. "The dynamic duo. What brings you two in this morning?"
"Just browsing," Abby said, trying to sound casual.
“We wanted to ask you about the ghost,” Meg said.
Abby scowled at her. That wasn’t exactly smooth or subtle.
Dottie's smile widened. She looked positively delighted. "And what would you like to know?"
Abby wandered toward a display of hand-painted tiles, running her fingers along their edges. "You got wind chimes, right? A few years ago?"
"I did. Beautiful things. Copper tubes with sea glass accents. They're hanging on my back porch right now."
"Do you remember when exactly?" Meg asked.
"September.” Dottie came around the counter, arms crossed. "Why do you ask?"
"We're trying to figure out if there's a pattern," Meg said. "Times of year, types of gifts, that sort of thing."
"Sounds like detective work."
"More like curiosity," Abby said.
Dottie walked to the window display and began rearranging a collection of seashell candles. She was pretending to be busy.
"The ghost has been around longer than most people realize," she said finally. "Before the wind chimes, before the gifts everyone talks about now. It started as folklore. Most people assumed it wasn’t real. I think the ghost might have taken a little hiatus, but he’s back."
Abby exchanged a glance with Meg. "Really? A hiatus? When? How long?"
Dottie laughed. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“Someone who’s been around a while,” Meg said thoughtfully.
"Does it matter who?" Dottie asked. "Isn't the gift enough?"
Dottie clearly knew something. The way she was smiling, the careful way she was speaking. She wasn’t going to give anything away.
"It matters to me," Abby said. "I want to say thank you."
“I’m sure the ghost knows you appreciate the gift,” Dottie said.
"But there has to be a person," Abby pressed. "Someone who chooses the gifts, who knows where to leave them."
"Of course, there's a person. Maybe more than one." Dottie picked up a planter and examined it, then set it back down. "But if they wanted you to know who they were, they'd tell you. Don't you think?"
The logic was sound. Annoying, but sound.
"Have you ever tried to figure it out?" Meg asked.
“No. I like the mystery. The ghost is part of this island. You can study it and try to understand it, but some things are meant to stay mysterious."
Abby walked to a display of wind chimes near the back.
"These are beautiful," she said.
"They're on sale," Dottie said. "Twenty percent off if you buy two."
Meg joined her at the display. "Are you seriously shopping right now?"
"I need wind chimes." Abby lifted one down, testing its weight. The sound was clear and sweet. "For the patio."
"We came here to investigate."
"We can do both."
Dottie was smiling again. Whatever she knew, she was keeping it locked tight.
Abby selected two wind chimes. One was copper, and one was made from driftwood and shells. She carried them to the counter.
"Good choices," Dottie said, wrapping them in tissue paper. "The driftwood one will sound lovely in the evening breeze."
"Dottie, if you were the ghost, what would you want people to know?"
Dottie paused. "I'd want people to know they were seen. Important. Special.”
She finished wrapping the chimes and handed them across the counter.
"Enjoy your wind chimes, Abby. And good luck with your investigation."
"She knows," Meg said once they were outside.
"She absolutely knows."
"But she's not going to tell us."
"Not a chance," Abby said, setting the wind chimes on the back seat. "Did you see her face when I asked that last question?"
"She looked almost sad."
"Or wistful." Abby closed the car door and leaned against it.
A truck drove past, its bed loaded with bunting in red, white, and blue. The island was transforming, with American flags appearing on every porch and businesses hanging banners across their storefronts.
"I don’t think it can be one person,” Abby said. “Not the whole time."
Meg's eyes widened. "You think it's multiple people? Like a tradition that gets passed down?"
"Maybe. Or maybe there are different ghosts for different parts of the island or different times." Abby watched another truck pass, this one with a trailer full of folding chairs.
"That actually makes sense," Meg said. "It would explain why no one's ever caught them. You can't catch something that's everywhere."
"And it would explain the variety of gifts. Different people with different skills."
"The tile you got was hand-painted. Professional quality."
"Someone who knows plants,” Abby said.
Abby felt the pieces clicking together. Not a complete picture, but a clearer understanding. People taking turns, or maybe all participating at once.
"We need to talk to more people," Abby said. "Get more gift stories. See if we can find patterns in the types of items."
"And then what?"
"I don't know yet. But I feel like we're onto something."
Meg grinned. "This is fun. I haven't felt this excited about something in months."
They planned to meet the next day again and continue their investigation. As Abby drove home, she noticed more preparations for the Fourth of July. A group of volunteers was setting up a stage in Causeway Islands Park.
She carried the wind chimes to the backyard to hang them. She couldn’t stop thinking about the ghost and what it might mean to uncover who it was. She would keep it a secret, but she’d like to ask if she could be involved. She wanted to be a ghost.