Free A Spirited Gift by Joyce Lavene Page A

collapsed housing many times. There was no real mystery to it.
    I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the bronze bust of one of our Duck forefathers. I was exhausted. The events of the previous night kept whirling around my head, like the storm had never left. I knew there was no point in going over it again and again. If Sandi was killed by Matthew, the medical examiner would pick up on it. We’d know soon enough.
    In the meantime, I helped scoop water out of one of the rooms that housed a collection of clothes worn by generations of Duck families. There were dresses and suits—even baby clothes, some laid out on chairs and others on mannequins. I swept sand that had come in from a broken window on the ground floor. A few of the men were hammering wood slats—from pallets or whatever else they could find—over the broken windows to keep the weather out.
    The museum was housed in one of the oldest buildings in Duck—the home of Wild Johnny Simpson. It had been donated for the purpose of holding the ever-growing collection of artifacts that was the museum. People of Duck loved their history, and they were proud of it.
    I walked through the rooms filled with paintings, photos, pirate maps, and old letters, seeing all those things I had heard stories about growing up here. I loved the tales of the old Bankers, the pirates and the scallywags. I mourned the hundreds of ships that had gone down in the Graveyard of the Atlantic. They were all a part of me.
    I had that strange, fluttering feeling again as I walked by an old mirror. It was a little corroded on the sides, but the gilt edging was still beautiful. The tag said it had once belonged to Bridget Patrick, a Banker woman who raised twenty-three children here after her husband’s death.
    Floating along the edge of my vision was that strange pinpoint of light again. Seeing it raised the hairs on the back of my neck, and I thought about the strange voice I’d heard when I found Sandi’s body.
    I hastened to remind myself that the voice must have come from the wild, crashing Atlantic and the call of the misplaced seagulls. But only part of me believed that.
    I needed to see Shayla and talk to her about the things I’d seen. I wasn’t sure exactly what spirit balls were, but one seemed to have followed me from the séance. And I had a feeling it wasn’t my mother.

Chapter 10

    I said my good-byes to Mrs. Stanley quickly so I could get back out into the sunlight and fresh air. Usually the stale air of the museum suited me perfectly—but not today. I had my gifts and they had nothing to do with seeing ghosts or spirit balls. True, I had invited my mother’s spirit to be with me. That didn’t mean I wanted some strange spectral presence to come by for tea.
    I couldn’t say why I didn’t think the pinpoint of light was my mother—just a feeling. If that strange voice at the shed was any indication, it most definitely was not my mother or anyone else I knew.
    As I walked out of the museum, I passed one of the treasures we’d managed to find through the years—a portrait of the pirate Rafe Masterson.
    He was the last pirate hanged in Duck. He was said to have cursed the area after being tricked into the custody of the local people he’d pillaged and raided. Three hundred years later, people who were born here still saw his malevolent designs in any unfortunate occurrences. Fires that seemed to start on their own, sometimes even storms, were blamed on him and his curse.
    I’d seen this portrait dozens of times, but I never really noticed how lifelike his dark eyes were. They seemed to be looking out at the world around him. His pencil-thin mustache above full lips had obviously been added for drama. He wore a black tricorn hat and a red coat, with heavy black boots on his feet. The cutlass at his side looked deadly.
    It was said he was one of the most evil pirates to sail in the