by Joanne Pence
“Apparently there was a fire last fall,” Moira said weakly, “that stripped the area of the trees and foliage that held the earth in place. The loss in value that fire caused was one of the reasons Finley was able to afford the property.”
“Well, that’s just bloody great!” Running Spirit leaned back in his seat, drumming his fingers rapidly on the seat. “He could afford the place because no one would be able to come here half the year! How am I supposed to run an ashram like that?”
“The trees will grow back,” Moira said softly.
Running Spirit sulked.
But soon they had a bigger problem. There was no room to turn the van around. Running Spirit would have to back out of there.
Paavo got out of the van to direct him. The rain was falling in heavy sheets now. Running Spirit put the stick shift in reverse and gave it some gas, easing off the clutch. The tires spun, but the van didn’t move.
Moira, Angie, and Chelsea also got out, and they all tried pushing. Angie stopped to spit out a mouthful of rainwater and mud that had splattered up from the spinning tires of the van. Could it get any worse than this?
It did, when they realized they’d have to push the van a long way up the narrow road before they could find a spot to turn it. The heavy rains made the danger of another mud slide even greater. They had no choice but to walk as fast as they could back to the inn.
“At least we learned one thing,” Angie said as they trudged along, Paavo holding her hand and helping her up the hill. “Even if Finley was out there somewhere and was trying to come back to Hill Haven Inn, there’s no way he could do it.”
Back at the inn, the phones still weren’t working. Angie vowed to get a cellular phone for her car the instant she got away from here. She never wanted to be stranded this way again.
Like the others, she spent the rest of the day watching the rain and wishing she were anywhere else but here. Paavo, Reginald Vane, Moira, and Running Spirit decided to go out in the rain to look around some more for Finley. While Moira told them he’d probably left the hilltop and was somewhere else alive and well, there was enough of a nagging doubt in all their minds that searching a bit would help put them at ease. Moira went along to show them some of Finley’s favorite nature walk areas.
Angie decided not to go. She’d had enough of walking around in the rain on the trek back from the van to last her all the way to next winter. Instead, she went into the kitchen and made a list of all the ingredients that were already there and the quantities, so that she could figure out what kinds of meals she could cook with them.
There were so many sacks of soybeans that if they ever got wet and the beans began to swell, they’d all be in danger of smothering—if the house didn’t explode first.
Patsy Jeffers stepped into the kitchen. Her face was pale, her hands shook, and her eyes were red-rimmed.
“Are you all right?” Angie asked.
She nodded, her eyes darting nervously. “Have you seen Greg? I mean, Running Spirit?”
“He’s gone off to look for Finley, in case Finley’s out there hurt or something. I’m not sure which direction he went in.”
“I suppose Moira Tay’s out there, too.” She tugged at her lower lip as she gazed out the window to the forest.
“I believe so,” Angie replied. Running Spirit’s interest in Moira hadn’t been lost on any of them, and particularly not on his wife. “Have you and the Tays been friends for long?”
“Greg—I mean, Running Spirit—apparently met them years ago while they were all living in San Francisco, in the Haight-Ashbury. He’s been friends with…with Finley…ever since.”
“Oh, how nice.” Angie needed to change the subject. “How long have you two been married?” She found herself more and more interested in the concept of marriage with every passing day, despite the last twenty-four hours’ slight reversal.
“Six months.”
“Really? You’re practically newlyweds.”
“I still can’t believe he’s my husband.” Patsy chewed on her thumbnail as she spoke. “I’d do anything at all for him. I think that’s what love is all about. Do you agree, Angie?”
“It’s nice the two of you share an interest in this inn. Sometimes it’s hard to find something to be in agreement about, no matter how attracted you might be to each other.” Just like me and Paavo, she felt like adding.
“This is the only place in the world where everything is natural and fresh and alive,” Patsy said.
Tell that to Miss Greer, Angie thought. “I didn’t realize how special this inn is,” she said.
“Oh, yes,” Patsy exclaimed. “Finley explained it to me and Running Spirit before we invested. Growing their own food is part of Finley’s food philosophy, you know, along with the value of the soya bean.” Patsy took an apple from the refrigerator and picked up a paring knife. Angie watched the knife in Patsy’s shaking hands with apprehension.
“No. I had no idea.”
Patsy hacked the apple in two. “He told us he used to have two milk cows and gave them all the best care and the best food, but despite that, they became sick and died. He figured if his cows could get diseased, any cow could, so he won’t use milk or butter.” She cut the apple halves into fourths. “He also used to raise chickens, but then they became diseased, so he stopped using eggs. After he learned that some fish get worms, he stopped eating fish or having anything to do with products from the ocean.” She cut the apple into even smaller pieces. “Everything he prepares here is absolutely fresh, clean and natural.”
As much as Angie enjoyed cooking, she couldn’t imagine being that preoccupied with the state of her food. “How does he keep birds from flying over his garden?”
“How does he what?”
“Nothing.”
“There’s only one thing that would make this place even better,” Patsy said. The apple was quickly approaching apple sauce.
“What’s that?” Angie asked.
Patsy scooped up the apple pieces and threw them in the trash. “If it belonged to Running Spirit. Then, along with physical cleanliness, he could lead all the guests to a spiritual cleanliness as well.”
“Maybe he could add a lesson called Waste Not, Want Not.”
Patsy Jeffers wandered off and soon Moira came into the kitchen to prepare dinner. Angie stood to the side and watched. It gave her something to do, took her mind off Finley and Miss Greer, and let her see what Finley’s cooking style was all about. No matter what the investors wanted, she knew Finley wouldn’t back off completely from his food philosophy, and she needed to know as much about it as possible so that she could incorporate it into food that was tasty.
After a few minutes, she decided she knew enough. Moira whipped up what should have been a delicious barley casserole baked with almonds, mushrooms, and onions, and then covered it with a layer of soy cottage cheese. She also cooked cabbage and bread crumbs covered with soy milk and made to resemble, but not taste like, scalloped potatoes; soy patties; cream of eggplant soup (made with soy milk, what else?); and a spinach salad with an oil-free dressing. If Finley insisted on sticking very closely to this style of cooking, the investors should demand their money back.
Moira had Angie follow, on her own, the recipe for soy patties:
one pound soybean pulp
one pound of cooked natural brown rice
three tablespoons canola oil
one minced onion
two tablespoons soy sauce
sage to taste (Whose taste? Angie wondered)
Mix the ingredients, form them into patties, roll in whole-wheat bread crumbs, and bake at 325° until browned.
Angie would add it to her recipes-to-never-use file.
They talked as they cooked. Angie found it bizarre that Moira seemed so sure Finley would show up at the inn once the road was open again, as if nothing had happened to him.
From all she’d learned of Finley Tay, and after her one day with him, she believed Tay to be a man obsessed with
his own importance and power. He wasn’t the type to walk away from a place he’d planned for so long, or the type to go riding off with a bunch of hot tub installers, no matter what Running Spirit said.
Something must have happened to Finley right on this property. As far as Angie was concerned, the chances of his still being alive dwindled with each passing hour. She was pretty sure Paavo would feel the same way—if she could have the time with him to discuss it.
On the other hand, she also realized that Finley had to be angry at the investors’ challenge to his mastery of the kitchen when they insisted he hire her to make his menu more palatable.
Maybe his disappearance had, in fact, been based on no more than a mammoth-sized snit.
Someone in the inn probably knew. But no one was saying.
Angie stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in the big terry cloth towel, then stepped into the dressing room to figure out what to wear to dinner. The door to the bedroom was open and she saw Paavo in there unbuttoning his shirt.
His gaze slowly drifted over her. She need not have bothered drying herself earlier; she could feel steam rising off her skin like it was dry ice.
“I’m next,” he said.
Her heart leaped, until she realized he was just talking about the shower. “Okay, let me get out of your way.” She found a simple blue dress and carried it into the bedroom, holding the dress with one hand and the towel closed with her other.
“Wait.” He caught her arm. “I’m sorry I was busy all last night. If the sheriff had shown up, things would have been different.”
“It’s all right,” she said, freeing her arm. “I understand.”
“Good.” He looked relieved.
“At least you had company to keep your vigil.”
His gaze followed her as she returned to the dressing room to find nylons and underwear, and stayed with her as she carried them back into the bedroom. “You little snoop,” he said finally.
“What’s the matter, Inspector, surprised that others around here know how to investigate?”
“So that’s what’s wrong.” He walked to her side and turned her around to face him. She spun away and walked to the vanity, picked up her hairbrush and brushed her wet hair back off her face.
He stepped up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. “You know there was nothing to Moira’s visit last night.” Her skin was creamy smooth. He loved the feel of it. He moved closer, bending over to kiss her neck, but she again walked away.
“I know. You explained to me how you needed to be alone. I didn’t understand that there’s alone, and alone-with-Moira. Silly me.”
He followed her. She stopped near the fireplace and looked at the dead embers. “I was asking her questions,” he said.
“I’m sure she had lots of answers.”
“She did.”
He stepped up behind her and cupped her elbow. When she didn’t run, he moved closer and ran his hand lightly along her arm, barely touching her, up to her wrist, to the hand that held the towel together above her breasts. He slid his hand to the edge of the towel, to her skin.
She could feel his breath against her ear. Heavier now, deeper, fuller as his finger began to dip under the terry cloth.
“Excuse me,” she said, walking away. “I’ve got to help Moira serve dinner.”
His bleak gaze followed her. “Fine,” he said finally. “She’ll appreciate it.”
To Angie’s surprise, Paavo waited for her to dress, then helped her and Moira put the dinner on the table and call the investors. A number of unlit candles had been placed around the room, on the table, the mantel and the side buffet. The lights had flickered a couple of times from the storm, and at any time the power might be lost.
“I wonder,” Chelsea said to no one in particular, “if the sheriff’s found out anything about Finley. I’ll bet Finley’s sitting in town right now, furious he can’t get here.”
“I doubt the sheriff’s even looking,” Martin Bayman said. “The townspeople aren’t too fond of an inn being here. They seem to think it’s strange, for some reason.”
“They’re afraid of the ghosts,” Patsy said. “Afraid of Susannah. This is her house, you know. Finley told me all about her and Jack and Elise. Susannah doesn’t want anyone else to live here. Not even us.”
“They don’t care about ghosts.” Bethel sniffed. “People are simply intolerant of things they don’t understand.”
“I believe,” Reginald Vane said, his bow tie bobbing as he swallowed, “we need to listen to what the sheriff has said about the townspeople. Maybe we should leave—as soon as we’re able—and forget this inn business.”
“That’s the first sensible statement I’ve heard all evening,” Bethel cried. “Allakaket has been warning you, but you won’t listen. None of you! Something is very wrong here.” She tilted her head heavenward, her arms raised outward, causing the long kimono-style sleeves of her tunic to dip into the barley casserole on her plate. “Will no prophet be honored in his or her own time?”
“Bethel,” Martin said, pulling out a whiskey flask and pouring some into his water glass. “Pipe down.”
Everyone turned to their dinners, took a few bites, then pushed the plates away.
“You can try to ignore it,” Vane said, giving a tug to his bow tie, “but he who mocks the spirit world always pays a terrible price. Almost as heavy a price as the fool who doesn’t listen to warnings.”
Bethel stood and in a hushed voice cried, “The spirits are uneasy.”
Just then a flash of lightning filled the window, followed by a loud booming roll of thunder.
Nine pairs of wide, very round eyes glanced at each other. At that moment, Angie wouldn’t have been surprised if Boris Karloff walked into the room.
After dinner Angie helped Moira clean up the kitchen. They were discussing tomorrow’s breakfast—Angie felt obligated to try to convince her that they should make something besides the steady diet of cold granola cereal and oat bran muffins—when Patsy entered the room.
“Where’s Greg?” she demanded.
Angie and Moira exchanged glances. “I haven’t seen him,” Moira said.
“Yes, you have. I know you have. He’s here!” She opened a cabinet under the sink.
“Patsy.” Angie touched her arm. “He’s not hiding. He’s probably upstairs.”
“He’s here. No one believed Susannah either about Jack and Elise. But she knew. Just like I know!”
Angie swallowed hard. “Maybe I can get you some aspirin?” She wished she had something a lot stronger. Her second sister, Caterina, was a walking pharmacy, but not Angie.
“I don’t need aspirin. I need Greg!”
Moira stepped nose to nose with Patsy. “No one knows—or cares—where he is.”
Angie wondered if she’d brought her Midol. That was the strongest medicine she ever took. Her mother insisted she wouldn’t need it if she’d get married and have babies, but that seemed a pretty extreme way to avoid having to take a pill or two.
“I’ll find him!” Patsy ran out of the kitchen.
Angie took a deep breath of relief.
“That woman needs aromatherapy to soothe her nerves,” Moira said. “Maybe when Finley gets back.”
Angie looked at the teaspoon she’d been wiping when Patsy burst in on them. It was bent nearly in two. “Do you think the inn might have a place for a new Uri Geller?” she asked.
After finishing with the dishes, Angie went in search of Paavo. She found him standing just outside the French doors to the garden, under the porch roof. The rain had stopped for the moment. Angie paused. She’d rarely thought of how air smelled before, but now she smelled its cleanliness, free of exhaust and diesel fumes, free of the dirt, garbage, and even cooking smells that were part of life in the big city. Also free of the ever-present smell of decay of the old inn.
“All done?” Paavo asked.
“Yes.”
He held out his hand to her, his gaze questioning. Sh
e took it.
“Look.” Pointing at the sky, he drew her closer.
The full moon was high. Across the face of it dark rain clouds drifted, making the moon look eerie. Bewitched. “It looks like a werewolf moon,” she said.
Blue eyes caught hers, and she saw them crinkle into a smile. “Aren’t the Sempler ghosts enough for you?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. I could imagine Running Spirit turning into a werewolf. He’s big and hulking. Reginald Vane would make a great vampire, like Dracula, so stiff and proper, always wearing a suit. Actually, he’d make an even better Bela Lugosi. I can see him going around crying ‘Bevare! Bevare!’ in a Transylvanian accent.”
“What about Martin?” Paavo asked.
“Martin?” Angie thought a moment. “Martin couldn’t be anything but a ghost. He seems like no more than a faded image of the man that once was. I can’t help but think he drinks so much because of some deep unhappiness.”
“And me?” he asked.
He was so many things to her. Quiet, intense loner; warm, gentle lover. A man with integrity and responsibility enough to make her proud, yet who denied having a surfeit of either. A man who gave her everything he could, yet refused to accept anything in return. “You’re Dr. Van Helsing,” she said, “victor over Dracula. A brave man, always ready to fight the powers of darkness, no matter what the cost.”
“You’re such a romantic, Angie. Be careful. Romantics are easily hurt.”
“And you’re not?” she asked.
“Me?” He sounded truly shocked. “I’m as cynical as they come.”
You don’t know yourself well, Inspector, she wanted to say. Instead, she turned back to the moon. “Do you ever wish that there were things like ghosts?” she asked. “Something to latch onto when you want to believe that there’s more to life than just what we see here and now?”
He turned her toward him, taking her hands. “The best part of my life is very much alive.”
Angie’s heart flip-flopped.
