It is said she haunts her former home to this day, walking back and forth along the Harborview terrace waiting and watching for her lover to come to her by boat.
Quincy and I sat on the terrace drinking iced tea. We decided to bring the legend to life that very evening.
We enlisted the help of two of the Mocko Jumbies-gaily dressed dancing figures on stilts, a highlight of every St. Chris parade.
Shortly after midnight, Isabeya was again shuttered and silent, the quiet broken only by chirping crickets near the gazebo bandstand on the green between the fort and the library, the slap of waves against the boardwalk, and twanging boat lines. The Harborview ferry was docked for the night at Papaya Quay, the boat captain snoring in his bunk in the harbor-master’s quarters.
Maubi sat in his van facing the harbor, chatting with the last of his customers. He stopped in the middle of a story to stare wide-eyed at a wooden rowboat approaching the seaside boardwalk from the direction of Harborview. He began to shiver.
In the boat were a man and woman in eighteenth-century clothing. The man wore a Danish officer’s uniform, with the scarlet sash across his chest favored by the governor for formal occasions. The woman was dressed in a resplendent ball gown, a gossamer shawl covering her head and shoulders.
Maubi grabbed the salt.
The man extended his hand to help the woman alight from the boat. As they passed silently arm in arm in front of Maubi’s van, salt showered the couple like wedding rice.
The electric lights in front of Government House blinked once, then went out. Flickering candle flames were visible in the windows of the Government House ballroom. The couple passed through the locked iron gates separating the Government House driveway from Kongens Gade, up the broad set of outside stairs to the double doors at the formal entrance on the second floor. As they slipped through the doors, the strains of a minuet were heard from the candlelit ballroom. Once the couple was inside, the music ceased and the candles were extinguished one by one until Government House was again darkened. A woman laughed merrily. Then all was silent. The lights in front of Government House slowly brightened to normal.
Quincy and I bit our fingers to keep our guffaws in check. My luck stone dropped from my hand to rest on my chest like a pendant suspended from the leather thong around my neck.
As we were ready to leap from our hiding place to yell ‘‘Fooled you!’’ at Maubi, a second boat approached the boardwalk. A rogue wave caught the boat broadside, spilling the occupants into the sea. We heard familiar voices cursing as they thrashed about in the shallows, weighted down by their heavy clothing. Quincy and I ran to the boardwalk to help our sodden friends out of the water.
When we talk about that night, which isn’t often, we always have shakers of salt in our hands.
‘‘Maubi and the Jumbies’’ was originally published in the Fall 1999 issue of Murderous Intent magazine. In 2000 it was an Agatha nominee for Best Short Story and received a Best Short Story Macavity Award.
Estelle Is Dead by Medora Sale
Kate Brady tossed her keys on the table and began sorting rapidly through a week’s worth of mail. The brightly colored flyers landed in the basket in the hall; everything else, no matter how unpromising it looked, went into the dining room with her. Once she had trashed a check for eighteen hundred dollars because it had come in an envelope that looked like a begging letter. Now she opened everything.
Bills and financial statements went into a pile. Requests from charities and classier advertising glided into another wastepaper basket. The last envelope was from a university, probably raising funds. She slit it open impatiently, glanced at the single sheet of paper inside, and paused.
Her hand hovered over the basket, drew back, and set the letter down on top of the bills and statements, to be taken into her tidy little office.
She disposed of the bills and statements rapidly and efficiently, checking every item, prepared-if necessary- to spend the rest of the day disputing an interest charge or error. She had fended off poverty and evictionfor too long after leaving home to turn careless over money.
Only the letter remained. It demanded a decision. She was between books. Worse yet, between contracts. An irritating restless lethargy enveloped her, prodding her into useless activity and keeping her from sleep. And yesterday a set of royalty statements had arrived, confirming what she already knew. Sales of her type of fiction-the romantic-sadistic thriller-were falling. People were tired of bodice slashers. She lay awake at night thinking of a long old age and no new income. When that onetime windfall, the film rights to Death on a Double-Edged Blade, had come in twelve years before, her accountant had pointed out that she had better figure on living at least until eighty-five. Forty-seven more years, it was then. She had bought her house, paid cash for it, and started salting away her money. But it wasn’t going to be enough.
Why ask her-of all people-to come and speak at Sight and Sound: The Windsor Festival of the Arts, surrounded by poets, artists and scornful intellectuals. At least she wouldn’t run into any old friends, she thought grimly. If she went. No, she couldn’t. Still… She picked up the letter again. How much were they paying?
The hotel lobby was small and gleaming with polish on the brass and dark wood. The plump, pretty woman behind the desk greeted her with the enthusiasm of a long-lost friend and Kate wondered for a moment if she was. She looked at her again. Not a chance. When Kate had moved to Chicago, this bouncing creature hadn’t learned to ride a tricycle yet. She smiled and checked in.
‘‘I almost forgot, Ms. Brady,’’ said the desk clerk. ‘‘There’s a letter for you.’’
She walked into the dimly lit room, swung her suitcase up on the bed, and dropped her shoulder bag on the floor. She peered into the dimness for a light switch. ‘‘My God, Kate, you’re going blind,’’ she muttered and yanked back the heavy curtains covering one wall. Light flooded the room.
The window was the width of the room and overlooked the river. From where she stood, she could see all the way upriver to the bend in the east and down-river to the bridge and islands to the west. It was even better than the view from the tiny room in her grandmother’s attic. At that moment, as if it had timed its arrival for her benefit, a lake boat came into view, on its stately progress down from Lake Superior in the golden sunshine. During how many nights of her stormy childhood had the melancholy, reassuring sound of the lake boats’ foghorns lulled her to sleep? Her face softened. Maybe tonight there would be fog.
She turned and kicked her shoulder bag. ‘‘For chris-sake, Kate,’’ she muttered to herself. ‘‘You’re pathetic. In a minute you’ll be sobbing over this shitty town and all your shitty little friends. Friends. I bet they’re fat as pigs with six kids each, living on welfare.’’
Then she noticed that she was still clutching the letter.
‘‘Dear Estelle,’’ it began. She froze for a second, unable to think, hardly able to breathe. She took a deep breath and started reading again.
Welcome home! I was thrilled to discover that you had agreed to speak at Sight and Sound. I know you’ll be a great addition to the weekend’s entertainment. I’ve been following your career as closely as I could since we were all in school together. In those days, I admit, I worshipped you from afar. Alas, you’ve been even further from my grasp since then.
There is so much that I would like to talk to you about, and even more that I would like to tell the world about your varied talents.