Grave Phantoms
Page 53
And maybe she didn’t.
“You’re in luck. Mr. Haig’s free now,” the secretary said, and moved aside.
Bo held out a hand. “After you.”
Astrid’s eyes flicked down his body. Back up. Her gaze met his and it was a searing jumble of indignation and rage. Rage . . . and a flicker of something he’d never, ever seen so baldly from her: raw lust. He knew it when he saw it. In no more than a single heartbeat, he felt the flame leap from her and catch him on fire. But just as quickly as it sparked, anger snuffed it out.
His head spun. Why was she mad at him?
What had Sylvia told her?
The door shut behind them, and Bo tried to quell his rising panic as he glanced around at the small, dark room. The walls were stuffed to bursting with large pieces of electrical equipment—amplifiers and switchboards, dials and wires. A small window looked out into the adjoining brightly lit room, which appeared to be the main studio; a small orchestra was playing in front of a live audience of twenty or so people crammed into folding chairs.
But here in this room, standing up on a cane from where he’d been sitting at a narrow desk, was a silver-haired man in his fifties wearing an ill-fitting navy suit. His eye twitched as he looked over Astrid, and then Bo. He was quite obviously confused as to why they were here.
Bo was wondering the same thing.
“Mr. Haig,” Astrid said, extending a gloved hand. Mr. Haig leaned on his cane and accepted the handshake with trepidation. “My name is Miss Magnusson, and this is my associate, Mr. Yeung.”
Associate. That was quite a demotion from last night’s erotic petting session in the front seat of his car. Was she punishing him for something she’d learned at Sylvia’s or merely being professional? He couldn’t tell.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to talk,” she said. “I know you’re a busy man, but we are investigating a minor incident and were hoping you might be able to help us.”
“Investigating? Like detectives?”
“Why, yes,” she said brightly. “Quite like that.”
Oh, this was straight out of her brother Lowe’s playbook. This was . . . so very Magnusson. But she didn’t have Lowe’s keen ability to lie with a straight face. The man would never believe—
“A young lady detective?” Mr. Haig said with the look of a man smitten. “I’ll be. That’s remarkable. Please sit and let me know how I can help.”
Bo rearranged two folding chairs in front of the man and waited until Astrid sat before he settled next to her. Then he crossed his arms and waited for what she’d say next. This was ten times more interesting than the show behind the window.
“It takes all of this to make those broadcasts come out of my radio, huh?” she said, glancing around. “How fascinating. Have you been doing this long?”
“About six months,” he answered. “Not as fascinating as it looks, I’m afraid. I’m good with machines. I used to repair ship radios—used to sail. But since this,” he said, tapping his cane against his stiff leg, “I’m better on dry land.”
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We are investigating the reappearance of a yacht that was lost at sea, and we understand that you once captained it.”
Now Bo understood. He snapped his head toward Astrid and stared at her, feeling just as awed as the engineer. How in the world had she tracked the captain down? With everything that had happened, Bo hadn’t even thought to do that. He now remembered talking to that pig Officer Barlow about a captain coming ashore last year.
He tried to give Astrid a pointed look but was distracted by the pallor that had fallen over Mr. Haig’s wrinkled face. The man was upset.
“I don’t want to talk about that,” he said. “Please leave. I have work to do.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Who sent you? Was it her? The widow? She said she’d leave me alone if I kept my mouth shut!”
“Mrs. Cushing?” Astrid shook her head. “Absolutely not. We’re not here on her account. In fact, we suspect she’s not a very nice woman.”
That was one way of putting it. And after assuring Mr. Haig several times that Mrs. Cushing didn’t know about this “investigation” or that they were even here, the old captain finally stopped trying to push them out the door. Astrid’s pretty smile certainly didn’t hurt. Neither did her confession.
“You have my word that no one will know about this conversation,” she told him. “But I fear that there is something dastardly going on with Mrs. Cushing. I am going to tell you something very private, Mr. Haig. I boarded the Plumed Serpent when she came ashore last week, and I experienced a very strange vision. It was so bizarre and chilling, I can’t get it out of my head. But I think something terrible happened on that ship, and I fear several people who boarded it a year ago did not come back.”
Mr. Haig stared at Astrid with a haunted look, and after a long silence said, “No one believed me.”
“I believe you,” Astrid said, reaching to put a hand on the man’s knee.
He flinched a little and looked down at her brown leather glove. She withdrew it and gave him an encouraging smile.
Bo spoke up for the first time. “We both believe you, sir. And we’d like to prevent it from ever happening again. But we need to know what happened.”
Mr. Haig’s eyes watered. He swallowed hard and crossed his arms over his chest, knobby fingers still clutching his cane in one hand. “It all started the summer of ’27. I used to run a charter service to Marin County, carrying private parties across the Bay. But during a storm, I tore the hull on some rocks and couldn’t afford to get it repaired. I was out of work for several weeks and a friend took me out to a club to cheer me up.”
“You’re in luck. Mr. Haig’s free now,” the secretary said, and moved aside.
Bo held out a hand. “After you.”
Astrid’s eyes flicked down his body. Back up. Her gaze met his and it was a searing jumble of indignation and rage. Rage . . . and a flicker of something he’d never, ever seen so baldly from her: raw lust. He knew it when he saw it. In no more than a single heartbeat, he felt the flame leap from her and catch him on fire. But just as quickly as it sparked, anger snuffed it out.
His head spun. Why was she mad at him?
What had Sylvia told her?
The door shut behind them, and Bo tried to quell his rising panic as he glanced around at the small, dark room. The walls were stuffed to bursting with large pieces of electrical equipment—amplifiers and switchboards, dials and wires. A small window looked out into the adjoining brightly lit room, which appeared to be the main studio; a small orchestra was playing in front of a live audience of twenty or so people crammed into folding chairs.
But here in this room, standing up on a cane from where he’d been sitting at a narrow desk, was a silver-haired man in his fifties wearing an ill-fitting navy suit. His eye twitched as he looked over Astrid, and then Bo. He was quite obviously confused as to why they were here.
Bo was wondering the same thing.
“Mr. Haig,” Astrid said, extending a gloved hand. Mr. Haig leaned on his cane and accepted the handshake with trepidation. “My name is Miss Magnusson, and this is my associate, Mr. Yeung.”
Associate. That was quite a demotion from last night’s erotic petting session in the front seat of his car. Was she punishing him for something she’d learned at Sylvia’s or merely being professional? He couldn’t tell.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to talk,” she said. “I know you’re a busy man, but we are investigating a minor incident and were hoping you might be able to help us.”
“Investigating? Like detectives?”
“Why, yes,” she said brightly. “Quite like that.”
Oh, this was straight out of her brother Lowe’s playbook. This was . . . so very Magnusson. But she didn’t have Lowe’s keen ability to lie with a straight face. The man would never believe—
“A young lady detective?” Mr. Haig said with the look of a man smitten. “I’ll be. That’s remarkable. Please sit and let me know how I can help.”
Bo rearranged two folding chairs in front of the man and waited until Astrid sat before he settled next to her. Then he crossed his arms and waited for what she’d say next. This was ten times more interesting than the show behind the window.
“It takes all of this to make those broadcasts come out of my radio, huh?” she said, glancing around. “How fascinating. Have you been doing this long?”
“About six months,” he answered. “Not as fascinating as it looks, I’m afraid. I’m good with machines. I used to repair ship radios—used to sail. But since this,” he said, tapping his cane against his stiff leg, “I’m better on dry land.”
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We are investigating the reappearance of a yacht that was lost at sea, and we understand that you once captained it.”
Now Bo understood. He snapped his head toward Astrid and stared at her, feeling just as awed as the engineer. How in the world had she tracked the captain down? With everything that had happened, Bo hadn’t even thought to do that. He now remembered talking to that pig Officer Barlow about a captain coming ashore last year.
He tried to give Astrid a pointed look but was distracted by the pallor that had fallen over Mr. Haig’s wrinkled face. The man was upset.
“I don’t want to talk about that,” he said. “Please leave. I have work to do.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Who sent you? Was it her? The widow? She said she’d leave me alone if I kept my mouth shut!”
“Mrs. Cushing?” Astrid shook her head. “Absolutely not. We’re not here on her account. In fact, we suspect she’s not a very nice woman.”
That was one way of putting it. And after assuring Mr. Haig several times that Mrs. Cushing didn’t know about this “investigation” or that they were even here, the old captain finally stopped trying to push them out the door. Astrid’s pretty smile certainly didn’t hurt. Neither did her confession.
“You have my word that no one will know about this conversation,” she told him. “But I fear that there is something dastardly going on with Mrs. Cushing. I am going to tell you something very private, Mr. Haig. I boarded the Plumed Serpent when she came ashore last week, and I experienced a very strange vision. It was so bizarre and chilling, I can’t get it out of my head. But I think something terrible happened on that ship, and I fear several people who boarded it a year ago did not come back.”
Mr. Haig stared at Astrid with a haunted look, and after a long silence said, “No one believed me.”
“I believe you,” Astrid said, reaching to put a hand on the man’s knee.
He flinched a little and looked down at her brown leather glove. She withdrew it and gave him an encouraging smile.
Bo spoke up for the first time. “We both believe you, sir. And we’d like to prevent it from ever happening again. But we need to know what happened.”
Mr. Haig’s eyes watered. He swallowed hard and crossed his arms over his chest, knobby fingers still clutching his cane in one hand. “It all started the summer of ’27. I used to run a charter service to Marin County, carrying private parties across the Bay. But during a storm, I tore the hull on some rocks and couldn’t afford to get it repaired. I was out of work for several weeks and a friend took me out to a club to cheer me up.”
