Pieces of Hate (A Wendover House Mystery Book 4) by Melanie Jackson Page A

 

Chapter 8

 
    Never before
did I believe that the dead would truly ryse up in
judgment if not layd to rest in consecrated ground.
But I have seen with myne own eyes, those drowned
faces and barnacled bones walking out of the surf. They stay on the shore for
now, waiting, demanding I return what is theyrs . Horror
dwells upon me day and nyght . I must find some way to
do what they want. My wyfe who is wyth child must not be allowed to see them lest it harm the babe resting in her
womb.
    —from the unbound journal of Halfbeard

 
    Ben reappeared
that afternoon. There were circles under his eyes which were an unattractive
shade of red in whites that looked a little jaundiced.
    I had expected
him to plead once more for the box to stay with his friend, but after he set it
on my counter, he went immediately to wash his hands. I thought that, perhaps
once the excitement of discovery had worn off, he was beginning to find the box
as repellant as I did and to maybe question the wisdom of possessing it. At
least I hoped that was what he was thinking and not plotting how he could
convince me to keep it, or to let him have it. All other considerations aside,
I didn’t think that the box was good for Ben.
    Or
anyone.
    Even if you
didn’t believe in psychic contagion, the damn thing might somehow still be
carrying some corporeal disease.
    My offer of
tea was accepted and we sat down on the kitchen bench with our cups and some
muffins and ate in silence. It wasn’t an angry quiet, but one filled with unusual
tension. Ben was troubled.
    “I don’t
believe in curses and ghosts,” he said at last. “I just don’t. It isn’t
rational.”
    “ Don’t be an idiot ,” I said mildly. “Think about where you
live. Everyone here believes in curses and they are all quite sane.”
    “I don’t mean that . I’m talking about this box and
those coins … it’s just a legend that ignorant seamen believed in. Treasures
can be cursed, of course, but it doesn’t mean the crazy people who mumble their
spells over it really have any real power,” he insisted but looked uneasily at
the box on the counter. It wasn’t actually still wet but it gave the impression
of being damp and slimy. It wouldn’t have surprised me if something squishy and tentacled had come wiggling out of it.
    “Have you
found any of Halfbeard’s papers yet? Does he talk
about the box?” Ben asked.
    “I’ve
excavated to the right layer, I think, but am still sifting,” I lied. I had
picked all the papers up and locked them in the desk. I wanted to get a fire
box for them. All the papers should be stored more carefully, but I figured
rubber totes would do fine for most of them. “I should have something by this
weekend. Right now I just want to get through this Founders Day speech.”
    Ben grunted.
    “What a
confoundedly stupid time to have a celebration,” he complained, though it was
actually the perfect time for this sort of thing if one wanted tourist dollars
and the islands most emphatically did. That meant getting in your licks between
the mainland blueberry and cranberry harvests. “Is your speech ready?”
    “Yes. More or less. It just needs a tweak or two. What I need to
do is practice it out loud. I hate public speaking.”
    “Do you want
me to read it over? Maybe punch it up a little?”
    He didn’t mean
that to be insulting about my writing abilities. It was a nice offer, an olive
branch even. After all, Ben was a great writer. He probably could punch up the
speech and make it something for the history books. But that would mean
spending more time with him and I didn’t want to have to keep lying about
stuff, not even by omission.
    “That’s okay.
I need this to sound like me. To sound sincere and homegrown. You know, not too slick. Or good.”
    Ben grinned
briefly and got to his feet. He rubbed at his face. He looked absolutely
haggard.
    “I need to get
home and start writing. I’ve been away a lot this week and haven’t