Castle Walk (A Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud Mystery Book 9)

by Melissa Bowersock

  “Would we stay there?” Sam asked. “In the castle?”

  “Yeah, that’s the plan.” Lacey had a thought. “Will that work for you? I don’t think you’ve ever spent days at a haunted location, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t. I’m not sure how that would be. I guess it depends on the ghosts, the proximity. We’ll have to see.”

  “So,” Lacey continued, “they’ll pay our air fare and put us up in the castle, feed us and write us a nice check when we’ve cleared the ghosts.”

  Sam munched on his bite of chicken thoughtfully. “How many ghosts? Do they know?”

  “At least two. Could be more. It’s got a lot of history behind it.”

  He nodded. Lacey recognized the quiet workings of his brain, turning it all over in his mind. He was nothing if not thorough.

  “Well,” he started finally, “do you think they would mind waiting two weeks?”

  Lacey tipped her head. “Two weeks? Why?”

  “We’ve been talking about me making the switch from construction to pottery. This seems like a good time to give my two weeks’ notice. Then I wouldn’t have to think about how long we were gone, if it ran longer than we thought. And when we get back, I can start setting up my workshop.”

  Lacey’s look of puzzlement eased into a broad smile. “Hey, I like that. I think that’s a great idea.”

  “You don’t think they would mind the wait?”

  “They’ve had these ghosts for a few hundred years. I don’t think two more weeks will make a difference.”

  “Okay,” Sam said. “Let’s do it.”

  ~~~

  FOUR

  For Lacey, the two weeks seemed to crawl by. She knew it was just because she was antsy to go. She set herself several projects to keep her busy in the interim.

  The first was to call her parents in Tampa and find out if they knew anything about the Fitzpatricks in Ireland.

  They didn’t.

  “All I know is that my dad was born in New York state just a year or two after his parents immigrated,” her father, Steven, said. “I don’t know where exactly they came from.”

  “Your father’s name was Reece, right? And your mother’s?”

  “Penny. I don’t even know her maiden name. They were both gone by the time I was seventeen. I guess I was too busy figuring out how to make a life for myself to ever dig into it.”

  “That’s understandable,” Lacey said. She’d known her father was orphaned young, but had never thought how that separated him from his family history. “I’ve got a genealogy website I use sometimes for research,” she told him. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Before she delved into that, however, she did some research on the castle. Harley had told her that there was also a Fitzpatrick Castle Hotel—not affiliated at all—that was south of Dublin. Because the hotel was already a going concern, her searches kept defaulting to that. There was less on the castle they were going to, although she did find some images.

  The castle was imposing. Not huge like some of the sprawling European castles, it was a single stone rectangle with round towers at each corner. Even without ramparts or a moat, it looked pretty impregnable. The stone walls were dark gray, and not softened with ivy or climbing vines of any kind. Lacey guessed the restoration effort had focused on the interior more than the exterior, although gardens would certainly add to the appeal.

  Harley had sent her some photos of a few of the restored rooms, which was good because she found none online. The rooms looked properly regal with canopied beds, Victorian furniture and bear skin rugs on the gray stone floors. The views from the windows were either across the estuary to the coast, or toward the interior and out over pastoral farmland dotted with sheep or horses.

  She found just a few short articles about the castle online; obviously it had not garnered a large presence in its “down time.” Owned by the Fitzpatrick family since its origin in 1564, it had seen fat times and thin, rejoicing when lords and ladies married, a small rebellion in the 1800s, then a gradual decline. After the Industrial Revolution, it seemed to slumber as no more than a forgotten monument to times gone by.

  Until now.

  The more she read, the more Lacey got into it, excitement welling up inside her for the chance to help this old gray lady recapture her youth. The fact that it bore her name was an added bonus, and it gave her a distinct feeling of pride to think she and Sam could help bring honor and respect to the name.

  The third task she set for herself was searching for a workshop for Sam. There was no way their apartment could accommodate a pottery studio. She had a feeling their immediate neighbors would object to Sam firing pots in a goat-dung bonfire on the back patio. Sam would need room to work, room to store supplies and creations in progress, and a storefront to sell his wares. A tall order.

  She searched on artist’s studios. The results went from dingy little one-room bungalows to high-ceilinged lofts with sky-high rents to go with them. Lacey quickly realized they were going to have to get “creative” in their search, and she knew Sam had to be in on it. Only he would know what would suit him best.

  Almost a week after finalizing plans with Harley, the e-tickets showed up in her email inbox. They would fly British Airways, LA to New York, New York to Dublin, a total of 15 hours including the two-hour layover in New York.

  Shit was about to get real.

  Packing was a nightmare. Even in late May, Lacey knew Ireland could be cold, especially on the coast. LA had its humidity, but she guessed it was going to seem dry compared to the Irish coast. Her suitcase bulged with sweaters and the parka she’d worn out on the reservation in mid-winter, making her fear the latches might not hold. She repacked over and over, weeding out the bulkiest items, reminding herself to think in layers. Many layers.

  Sam didn’t seem to have a problem, but with his metabolism, he usually ran warm. A turtleneck and a windbreaker would work for him.

  By the time the day came for them to leave, Lacey was already exhausted. She was grateful for the overnight flight; they’d leave LAX in the afternoon and, with the time change, arrive in the afternoon of the next day. She planned to spend a lot of those hours sleeping.

  But until wheels up, her mind still raced. As they drove to LAX and parked in long-term parking, she was still double- and triple-checking her mental list, hoping she hadn’t forgotten anything.

  It’s not like we’re going to the ends of the earth, she told herself. They had stores there for anything she really did forget. It was Ireland, for Pete’s sake, not Siberia.

  Wondering just what this adventure had in store for them, they wheeled their bags into the international terminal.

  ~~~

  FIVE

  The flight to New York was uneventful, always a good thing when flying. Lacey had the window seat and watched as the Grand Canyon and the checkered farmland of the Midwest slid by, followed, finally, by the wall-to-wall urbanity of New York. Sam immersed himself in sketches of pottery designs he was already formulating, and only glanced up when Lacey insisted he look at something out the window.

  They grabbed a quick dinner at JFK, then prepared for the longer flight over the Atlantic. Lacey had her tablet for reading or listening to music; Sam was content with his notebook. They each had a squishy neck pillow for sleeping, and luckily Lacey found herself sliding gratefully into sleep after the two weeks of anticipation.

  When she awoke, it was daylight, but there was nothing but water below. In the distance ahead of them, she could see a bank of clouds. Ireland? She fervently hoped so. Sam slept beside her, so she tried to keep her movements to a minimum, and stretched compactly within the confines of her seat. She pulled out her tablet to read, but kept an eye on that cloud bank.

  She’d been right. As they neared, the rolling gray ocean thrust up against a solid barrier, flinging white foam over a rocky headland. Above the shoreline, green stretched away beneath the scattered clouds, the emerald green of wind and rain, the enchanted isle
of magic… and ghosts.

  At the airport in Dublin, they were funneled through customs, shunted through cattle chute after cattle chute, checkpoint after checkpoint, until finally they were dumped out into a broad corridor and herded to baggage claim. They retrieved their large duffels and milled along with a hundred other people toward the exit.

  “Look,” Lacey said to Sam, pointing.

  A small man in a brown tweed jacket held up a sign: Fitzpatrick & Firecloud. They veered toward him.

  “Hallo, hallo,” he called as they neared. He tucked the sign under his arm and shook their hands enthusiastically. “Harley O’Neill. So very pleased to meet you. How was your flight?”

  “Fine,” Lacey said. “Long.”

  Harley had an abundance of brown hair that tended to wave across his head, although it looked like he went to great pains to comb it down flat. He had sparkling green eyes behind round spectacles, and a small brown mustache.

  “Yes, I expect so,” he said jovially. “Well, let’s get on with the herd and out the door. The car’s not far, although I suspect you could use a bit of a walk-around.”

  It did feel good to be upright, to ease cramped muscles. Harley insisted on taking Lacey’s duffel, leaving her with just her carry-on.

  “How far is it to the castle?” she asked.

  “Not far, less than an hour. I daresay, we’re all quite excited to have you here. It’s quite an honor. American ghostbusters and all.”

  Lacey chuckled. “I hope you’re not expecting us to shoot slime all over everything. We don’t work like that.”

  Harley grinned. “No, of course not. We’ve actually seen your work on The Restless Dead. Quite amazing. This way.”

  They exited the terminal and Harley led them over a bridge across a busy access road to a multi-level parking structure. From what Lacey could see, the Dublin airport was large, clean and modern.

  “Here we are,” Harley said, motioning them toward a beige Land Rover. They tossed their bags in the back and Harley held the left front door for Lacey. She gulped in surprise. Her, drive? But then she remembered: drivers on the right, driving the lane on the left. She was suddenly very glad Harley had insisted on meeting them instead of leaving them to get a rental.

  He exited the airport and pulled onto a six-lane divided highway. It wasn’t too many minutes before the urban landscape gave way to farmland.

  “I noticed when I was looking up the castle on the map,” Lacey said, “that a lot of place names start with K-I-L. What does that mean?”

  “Ah,” Harley said, “very astute. That actually means church. As you can imagine, every little town had its own church, so consequently there are a lot of ‘kil’ words.”

  “I see.” She had another question in her mind, but hesitated. She didn’t want to sound like a blundering American. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you seem to sound more British than Irish.”

  Harley grinned at her. “Oh, full marks. Yes, although I am Irish by birth, I grew up near London. Came back home a handful of years ago. Missed the countryside, as it were. Which reminds me, were you able to find out where your family originated from?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Lacey said. “I was able to trace back to my second great-grandmother, but not beyond that. I don’t know why.”

  “Well,” Harley said, “perhaps while you’re here, we can help with that.”

  “Thank you,” Lacey said, but she had a feeling they were going to be spending more time researching their ghosts than her family.

  By the time Harley turned off the highway onto a smaller two-lane road, the estuary was visible out the right hand window. Lacey looked for the castle, but couldn’t pick it out.

  “There is a series of low hills,” Harley said. “They offer a little bit of protection from the winds, plus keep the castle hidden from a distance. You’ll see it shortly.”

  As they neared, Harley gave them more background. “The current owner is Peter Ellsworth, a Fitzpatrick on his grandmother’s side. He and his wife, Mavis, are spearheading the restoration effort. They’ve put quite a bit of capital into it, along with some helpful grants from some philanthropic historical organizations. It would be devastating if these ghosts quelled the whole project. Heartbreaking, really.”

  “We’ll do all we can,” Sam said from the back seat.

  Harley smiled at him in the rearview mirror. “I know you will. Your work is really quite extraordinary. I so enjoyed watching you on the TV show.” He paused. “Do you think it would be possible for me to watch you here? I wouldn’t want to interfere, of course, but…”

  “I think we can manage that,” Sam said.

  Harley grinned. “Lovely. Now, here we are…”

  The “driveway” was easily a half mile long, arrowing directly toward the dark three-story castle. Either side of the drive was dark green vegetation, not Bermuda grass like Lacey saw in LA, but probably a tougher, sturdier relation. The low hills around the castle were treeless, but carpeted with a similar ground cover. It made for a rather stark landscape.

  The castle loomed over them as Harley parked in front of it. The tall, narrow windows gave it a gothic look, the double wooden doors with decorative iron hinges adding a touch of medieval feeling.

  “Are they planning to do any sort of gardens?” Lacey asked as they pulled their bags from the back.

  “Oh, yes. Roses here in the front around a fountain; a tea garden in the back. All in good time, eh?”

  Harley pulled open both large front doors and motioned them in. The great room was expansive, two stories high and more than double that in length. The outer walls were the same dressed gray stone, and the inner walls were paneled four feet high with dark wood wainscoting, the walls a dusty rose above. Overstuffed chairs and couches were arranged in inviting conversation areas, the fabric either a deep rose or a creamy ivory.

  “Wow,” Lacey whispered. She stared around her as she walked, her flats tapping lightly on the flagstone floor.

  “It’s quite lovely, isn’t it?” Harley asked. “The front counter here is solid walnut.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Lacey said. The far left wall was expertly fitted stonework all the way up to the ceiling. A wide fireplace lay ready to light. Some of the firewood looked more like small tree trunks than cut limbs.

  “This way,” Harley said. He herded them into an elevator that looked like hammered pewter. “I’ll show you to your room and give you a spot of time to get settled. I’ve no doubt you’re tired from the flight, but the Ellsworths are hoping you’ll join them for dinner.”

  Lacey glanced at Sam and he nodded. “Sure,” she said. Her stomach bottomed out as the elevator whisked them to the top floor.

  “I dare say you’ll want to be fresh to meet the other, uh, tenants in the morning, don’t you think?”

  “That’s fine,” Lacey said. There was certainly no rush.

  Harley led them to a door with a pewter number five on it. Before he could turn the knob, Sam touched his hand.

  “Is this room… clean?” he asked.

  For a second, Harley looked shocked, as if Sam were questioning their housekeeping abilities. Then comprehension set in, and he smiled.

  “Oh, no ghosts?” He chuckled. “Yes, this room is clean, as you say. We’ve had no record of activity in here.”

  He pushed the door open and waved them in.

  “All our rooms are two-bedroom suites,” he said. “We have twelve so far, two on the ground floor, five on each of the upper floors.”

  Lacey stepped in and gawked. The outer wall was the perennial gray stone, but the inner walls enclosing the central sitting room were dark wainscoting below, a soft ivory above. The furniture was a medium sky blue, gathered into a conversation grouping around the fireplace set in the outer wall.

  Off either side of the sitting room was a bedroom; Lacey could glimpse floor-to-ceiling blue drapes and scattered area rugs across the flagstone floor.

  “Each bedroom has a king be
d and a private bath, so you may choose whichever you like,” Harley said.

  Lacey glanced at Sam; he shrugged and headed for the right-hand room. She followed.

  “Oh,” she breathed. The canopy bed was gracefully draped with sheer blue fabric, artfully wrapped around the four posters. The bedspread was a satin coverlet, quilted in a star and circle design. Blue and ivory area rugs carpeted the way to the private bath. Late afternoon light slanted in through the tall windows, casting a warm golden glow over all.

  “Will this be satisfactory?” Harley asked with a knowing smile.

  “Uh, yes,” Lacey managed. “Yes. It’s … beautiful.”

  “Lovely,” he said. “Well, then, I will leave you to settle in.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s half past six; dinner will be at eight. I’ll come to collect you at a quarter before the hour. If you need anything, though, please just call. All right?”

  “Yes, fine,” Lacey said. “Thank you.”

  Harley made a slight bow and turned to go, his mustache twitching.

  Lacey and Sam stood quietly for a moment, until they heard the soft click of the door closing behind him.

  Lacey dropped her bags and flung herself on the bed.

  “Holy cow!” she said. She felt the softness of the coverlet, looked around at the lavish furnishings. “Can you believe this?”

  Sam set his bags down as well. “Some digs, huh?” he asked.

  Lacey scrunched the pillow under her head. “Feel this! Feel how soft it is!”

  Sam chuckled. “Nothing’s too good for Lady Lacey Fitzpatrick,” he joked. “The prodigal daughter comes home.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” she said. “And don’t forget, this is for Sir Sam, too.”

  He made a face. “That doesn’t quite have the same ring to it,” he said. He tossed his bag up on the bed. “Let’s unpack. I want to grab a shower before dinner.”