Free Monterey Bay by Lindsay Hatton

said.
    â€œMargot Fiske.”
    â€œI know. You couldn’t look more like your father if you tried,” he answered morosely, squinting at the scar on her forehead. “Plus, I can see the telltale damage. The sign of the beast.”
    She met his gaze evenly. “That’s not the proper usage of the phrase.”
    â€œMargot,” her father cautioned.
    Steinbeck turned away without a word. Anders and Margot followed him inside. She scanned the front room anxiously. It was quiet and bright. The contents were much the same as before—the cluttered desk, the overburdened bookcases, the ancient phonograph, the Coast Guard buoy with a fern planted inside of it, the file cabinet in which there sat a half-empty bag of flour, the same wooden beer crate that had served as Ricketts’s bedside chair. The only change was an odd and obvious one: a ring of unlit tallow candles in the middle of the floor.
    â€œTake my eye off him for one second . . .” Steinbeck grumbled, kicking a candle onto its side.
    â€œWe can wait.” Anders tapped a foot in impatience.
    â€œPlease do.”
    Steinbeck trudged out the rear door. Her father deposited his valise and hat onto the desk and surveyed the room, his upper lip wrinkled in distaste.
    â€œGood Lord,” he said. “He’s worse at housekeeping than we are.”
    And then a voice from behind.
    â€œThe Fiske family. A delightful surprise!”
    She paused before turning to face him, taking care to keep her expression neutral. He was wearing an ankle-length oilskin apron, a stained undershirt, and the sort of green visor favored by gamblers. Arthur was at his side again, as was a woman—below average height, above average looks—who seemed familiar, but in a way she couldn’t quite place.
    Ricketts walked briskly up to her father and extended a hand.
    â€œIt wasn’t meant to be a surprise,” her father said, completing the handshake, taking a small step back, and reexamining the candles’ broken circle. “I sent word we’d be here at ten past, but—”
    â€œYou did? To whom did you speak?”
    â€œI think he called himself . . . Bucky.”
    â€œAh yes! Bucky. Lives across the way in one of those big storage cylinders. Answers my phone sometimes, but he’s usually too drunk to write anything down. If I had known you were coming, I would have made things a bit more presentable. Or at least cleared away some of the evidence.”
    Her father lifted an eyebrow.
    â€œIn case you’re interested,” Ricketts continued, “tallow beats beeswax. Almost always.”
    â€œFor what purpose?” her father asked warily.
    â€œFor the purpose of the séance. I think we might have actually broken through for once, although I’m not sure it was worththe trouble. I always get so nervous in the presence of the supernatural.”
    At this, he looked directly at her for the first time since entering the room, his examination prolonged yet buoyant, as if the two of them were in on a joke the others were too slow to understand. She looked at his hands. They were nimble and callused and held a bucket each, just as they had that morning in the tide pools, and at the sight there was a surge of interest strong enough to make her stumble. Whose ghost had he summoned last night? And why?
    â€œCan I offer any of you a beer?” Ricketts asked. “Or a steak?”
    She tried to answer but couldn’t.
    â€œShe’s shy.” The woman smiled.
    â€œI can assure you she’s anything but,” her father replied.
    â€œWormy, Arthur.” Ricketts handed the buckets to his companions. “If you please.”
    â€œDoc, perhaps she’d like to—”
    â€œArthur. Downstairs.”
    â€œThey’re just
Styela
. I don’t have to—”
    â€œArthur!”
    Arthur scowled and followed Wormy through a small door at the far end of the