“Would you really get wet?” she asked. “I mean, do ghosts get wet?”
“It’s the thought and the memory,” he said, and shuddered. “You swim when your boat sinks, when you’re under attack, when it’s your only recourse. Not for the pleasure of it!”
“Wow. How dirty and icky were you?” Katie asked.
“I bathed!” he protested. “When possible. I wasn’t repulsive in the least. I had amazing hygiene habits for my day and you are getting completely off the subject here. Katie, you must stop being so hypnotized by this ghost!”
“You don’t understand. It’s a true pity that you don’t go into water for the pleasure of it, and you didn’t follow David and me down on that dive. Then you’d understand. The ghost is Tanya. She’s trying to communicate with me-she just doesn’t know how. It’s very bizarre, really. She’s trying so hard to reach out. But…I understand her a bit because…there’s something in her eyes. She can materialize, but she fades so quickly. I can see her try to whisper, but she’s so hard to hear. Maybe she hasn’t been a ghost long enough-”
“Ten years,” Bartholomew noted.
“And the lady in white, the one who fascinates you? She doesn’t know how to communicate and she’s been a ghost for nearly two hundred years, I’d reckon.”
Bartholomew plopped down on the sofa in the parlor. “You be careful, or they will lock you up. I don’t enjoy jails-modern or otherwise-and I know that I wouldn’t at all enjoy a mental hospital.”
“Oh, that’s just great-coming from you. Bartholomew, Tanya was in my bed this morning.”
“Very rude,” he said. “I would never dream of disturbing the sanctity of your private quarters!”
Katie ignored his words. She hurried on. “And then in the water. Bartholomew, I told you, you had to have been there. She appeared slowly in the sea dust, as if she gained her image from the particles of plankton and microscopic debris… She formed right behind him, and she looked so, so sad, and she touched his shoulder and his cheek. I could have sworn that there were tears in her eyes.”
“In the water?” Bartholomew mocked.
“She looked sad, as if she was crying-yes, in the water! She wants me to know, even if she can’t tell me who did do it, that he didn’t.”
“That’s ridiculous. She was murdered. If she knows who did do it, she needs to tell you.”
“Maybe she doesn’t know. Her attacker might have struck from the back.”
“Then if she doesn’t know who did do it, how does she know that it wasn’t David Beckett?” Bartholomew demanded.
“She might have known where he was at the time of her death-and if he was nowhere near her, it couldn’t have been him.”
“Well, you do need to stop running about in a trance. He will think that you’re as daft as a loon!”
“I will. I have it under control. Now.”
“I certainly hope so,” he said. He looked at his pocket watch. “Time’s a-wasting, my dear.”
She spun on him and started up the stairs.
David washed down his equipment, rinsed himself off and headed back to the house for a real shower. After that, he went out to find Danny Zigler.
He was serving ice cream. He grinned at David. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Ice cream?”
“You know what, I’ll take a shake. Vanilla.”
“Cool.”
David paid him, adding a handsome tip.
“Hey, thanks, David, you don’t have to go overboard. I’m not a charity case, you know. I keep working.”
“Yeah, I see that. I was so surprised to see you at O’Hara’s last night. I thought you were doing the ghost tours. And, hell, the crowds on weekends are huge. Didn’t think you could take time off like that.”
“Yeah, I miss doing the weekend tours. Thing is, all the companies out there have hired on too many people. Most can work weekends, around their other jobs, you know? I can work weeknights, and to be honest, I don’t like an overcrowded tour. I like to be able to tell the stories good, you know? And when there are too many people, half of ’em don’t hear you, and when you repeat all kinds of stuff, you lose the whole effect,” Danny said.
“I know what you mean. Too many in a group, and you just don’t get the effect,” David agreed. “Well, thanks. See ya, Danny. Oh-you working at O’Hara’s tonight?”
“I start at ten there. I am taking out an eight-o’clock tour tonight.”
“Cool.”
David waved, and headed down the street. He walked toward La Concha Hotel, and around to the stand where ghost-tour tickets were sold. A young girl was selling tickets. He asked her about Danny Zigler. “Oh, yeah, he’s working tonight. Eight o’clock. He’s a good guide.”
“Yeah. It surprises me that you all don’t use him all the time,” David said.