Boshears hisses under her breath and pushes her plate away. I’m used to nonbelievers and I never waste time trying to convert them, but I don’t indulge their attitudes either. I’m about to tell her what I think of her attitude when she looks at me with tears in her eyes. She dabs them with her napkin then shakes herself and sits up straighter.
“I can be discrete, but I have no intention of providing you with proof of a spook-free hotel unless or until it really is.”
She nods her head, but I don’t think she’s really listening. She’s got this her way or the highway thing going on in her head. Even though her publicity plans may change, where I’m concerned, she isn’t going to get everything her way. The highway suits me just fine.
“I was in the hotel yesterday when I heard you tell Aubrey that you didn’t want me snooping around. You want to explain what you meant by that?”
“I… I wasn’t talking about you.”
“I think you were. If you want to deny it, that’s up to you. Aubrey lied to me about why I wasn’t allowed to stay on the thirteenth floor last night. From what you just explained, there was no reason not to give me a room on that floor. Why don’t you cut the crap and tell me what is going on because I’m not going to humor your lies. Tears or no tears.”
I didn’t so much as blink in glaring at the woman while I spoke. Now she’s twitching and turning in her seat. Her face is blood red and her pupils look painfully dilated. She flings her napkin across the table.
“How dare you. I hired you to work for me not insult me with your complaints about where you stay. By the looks of you, this isn’t a place you could even afford to stay.” She pauses to stare me down.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but for your information my attorney advised me to close off the thirteenth floor until his accident reconstructionist does his investigation. He will be here later this afternoon. Once my attorney gives me his approval, then and only then, will you have a room on the thirteenth floor.” Boshears’ face is flaming and she’s on the verge of tears as well as breaking her jaw bone.
I stand up, push the chair in, and lean forward. “Don’t bother turning down the sheets for me. You’re right. I don’t give refunds, but you’re wrong in thinking I put up with rude, insulting, and lying clients. Good luck with your reopening and your lawsuit. And good luck making this hotel a success because with your attitude, you’re going to need all the luck you can get.”
“I’ll sue you if you leave.”
“You better have your attorney read my contract before you invest the money in a lawsuit against me. You also better plan on getting more publicity from that lawsuit then you ever thought humanly possible.”
I’m a few feet in the direction of the door when Boshears yells for me to wait. When I turn around she’s up and moving in my direction.
“I’m sorry.” Her mouth barely moves when she says the words. “Please, come back to the table. Can’t you see that I’m upset? Everything is falling apart. Everything I do here only seems to make matters worse. I think the hotel is cursed.” A nervous chuckle escapes her tight lips.
“You don’t think it’s just your stellar personality that’s influencing things?” For some reason this question actually relaxes the woman and she laughs.
“I have my good moments too.”
“You’re not having one today where I’m concerned.”
“It’s still early,” she says. This time I laugh.
“Please. Let’s discuss the next step in your process. If we can work together on a plan, I think we will both be satisfied. If not, I’ll wish you a safe trip home and accept your comment about wishing me good luck as genuine.”
“Fine,” I say. We walk back to the table, and I pour more coffee before leaning back in my chair.
“Let me start by telling you about the three lights I saw from the back of the hotel, and about the man who told me someone checks on the rooms for the ladies each night. Then there was what I think was an apparition on the twelfth floor that I watched take the elevator to the thirteenth floor. I can also confirm for you that the thirteenth floor does have an icy chill, and it has nothing to do with the air conditioning.”
Boshears’ mouth is open then she snaps it shut and almost smiles. “Funny, that’s what the electrician told me about the temperature. But just for the record, Ms. Raven, I still don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Just for the record, Ms. Boshears, ghosts couldn’t care less what you believe.”
Chapter Thirteen
§
I’m on the way to the hotel’s basement to review old hotel records. Boshears did her best to talk me out of going down there. She insisted I let Aubrey copy records pertaining to the murders, and I insisted I review all the records. So far, I trust neither of the women. Boshears has already proven full disclosure is not on her to-do list where I’m concerned.
Despite the sparring match in the dining room, I’m excited. I like researching the past of those who haunt almost as much as I like releasing them to the light. What causes a spirit to stay earthbound is ultimately the most intriguing event of their entire life, though rarely anywhere near the most pleasant.
As with most basements, the hotel’s is dark, cold, and damp and smells a little of death itself. Luckily, the records are stored in a metal cabinet. Aubrey said the wiring had to be replaced, but that there was a lantern I could use. She was thrilled not to have to go down there again, and warned me to let someone know whenever I was there– just in case. I’d started to ask just in case what, but she was already scurrying away. I did catch the glint of that dagger in her eye again.
Mojo runs down the stairs and is already sniffing for mice when I get there. Boshears spoke with her attorney and said I would be allowed on the thirteenth floor by five today. That gives me all afternoon to learn what I can about the Herman Hotel Butcher, and hopefully the three women who were killed that night.
I had assumed it’s the women who are haunting the hotel, but I need to keep an open mind after last night. I’m not going to take the old man’s words too seriously since I expect this town has more than its share of rumors about the murders. Still, if the murderer is dead, I have to consider that his ghost continues to visit the women’s rooms.
In her continued ranting and raging about the cleaning women who fell down the stairs, Boshears had suggested that the murderer is doing the haunting. When I’d asked her why, she rolled her eyes and said something about wishful thinking. The board certified psychiatrist either needs therapy or she needs to see a ghost.
I asked Boshears about the housekeeper who found the first victim. She denied knowing anything about Dodd. Since I’ve already found who I think is the woman on Facebook, I need to track her down and see if I’m right. I also have to find out if there is a cold case file on the murders, and a detective who might be willing to talk to me. First, I have to come up with a good reason why one would.
I find the file cabinet in a corner with a card table and chair next to it. I check each drawer to figure out what I’m dealing with. The first is full of financial and employment documents. I find a few papers with Tollison’s signature. It’s very ornate, but mostly unreadable. I close my eyes and rest my fingers on his writing. The word elegant forms in my mind as does gracious and demanding. He was an intelligent man and charming, most of the time. I feel a slam in my mind, similar to what I felt with Boshears when she wasn’t interested in what I had to say. Like niece, like uncle. Power agendas? Or hidden ones?
I glance through the employment records and make a note to check more carefully later since I don’t find anything on Miriam Dodd or Butch Seggren. The second drawer is full of construction and maintenance records.
The next two drawers are packed with old registers. I flip through the dates that go from 1947, when the hotel opened to December 2002, when it was closed. Tollison bought the hotel in 1999.
I’m excited to learn the names of the three women who died, but the register of J
uly, 2002, is missing. I flip through the files again and still can’t find it. I’m hoping it’s just out of order and make a note to go through all the registers later. There’s a better chance that it’s in the police file than here. It occurs to me that the reopening is as good a reason as any to ask that I be allowed to review that file.
The bottom drawer is where I want to start. Miscellaneous and News. The news is old paper clippings of the murders. It appears that Abner Tollison saved every mention of the incident.
I pull a stack of files from the cabinet and spread them on the table. Each clipping is in a separate folder and each is macabrely labeled. Murders, Investigation, Arrest, and Trial. The last file is labeled The End. It’s just the article that I found on the website about the hotel’s closure.
What’s interesting and quite sad is that Tollison wrote notes in perfectly unreadable script about each mention of the event that destroyed his business. I can’t make out more than a few short words. By The End, his script was jagged and even more unreadable.
What’s really weird is that the arrest and trial occurred after the hotel had closed. I try to get a sense of the man who may have sat in this basement manically writing about Seggren. I feel another slam in my mind.
I put my fingers over his words and see someone with fine manners and a gentle laugh. I see him nearly gliding through his hotel and demanding perfection from his staff. I also see him wringing his hands and falling into a deep depression. I’m falling with him when his despair turns to rage.
Another slam and my eyes pop open. I press my hand to the table to steady myself. He was more than broken, he was very angry about his loss.
I feel nauseous and put his notes back in the file then I turn to the articles. There are just five on the murders. They’re tame in comparison to what would be written today. The article on the date of the murders only indicates that foul play was suspected, but that other causes for the women’s death were under consideration including a gas leak.
It seems reasonable that Tollison would have downplayed the grisly scene to the press that first day. It seems likely that the press would have figured things out sooner than later, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. It took a full eight days before the Herald reported that the police had confirmed the women were murdered in their beds. Tollison either had connections at the Herald or the police department or both, or he was paying people to keep their mouths shut. I can’t blame him for his efforts.
Despite the police department’s admission, the final two articles still don’t mention the brutality that the article of December, 2002, reported. Of course, that article was written about the hotel’s closure and Seggren had yet to be arrested.
I want to review the articles on the trial, but Mojo is restless and it’s past the lunch hour so I load up the files to take to Aubrey’s office. Boshears said Aubrey would itemize each document copied, and I would return each copy before I leave.
I didn’t bother to tell the woman that if I wanted to steal the documents, I could always make additional copies. I also didn’t tell her that I have better things to do with my time than steal a bunch of old records.
Before we go, I flip through the employees file again. I’m hungry and in serious need of fresh air. I still don’t find anything on Miriam Dodd or Butch Seggren.
I give up and take the files I want copied to Aubrey’s office. I’ve already recorded in my notepad each document I want. I’ll be curious to see if she leaves anything out. Two can play the itemization game.
We go to the back of the hotel and walk in the field behind it. It’s a field that looks like it was once a very large garden that the hotel may have used in preparing meals. Boshears said Butch Seggren was the groundskeeper. Since there isn’t much in the way of hotel grounds, I wonder if the man was really the gardener.
The thought has me thinking of the old man I met last night. He was dressed in overalls, just as a gardener might wear. I wonder if I met Butch Seggren who just happened to be beneath the hotel windows making up stories about the ladies and the lights. If the man got away with three murders that night, I shudder to think he was out here… reminiscing.
I’m ready to go find a place to get lunch when Mojo starts digging in the garden. The wolfdog isn’t a digger, but on my last job in Eton Bluff, Minnesota, he was. I don’t need a repeat performance of something that would give Boshears a heart attack, so I tell him to stop. He gives me the evil eye and goes back to the fountain.
We walk through town to find a place for lunch and hopefully some locals who are willing to talk about the Herman Hotel. Two blocks from the place, there’s a tavern. The building looks old enough to know all the town’s secrets. I just hope someone inside knows them too.
The Dirty Dog is as dark and smelly as the basement, but not nearly as cold. I draw the attention of a dozen or so patrons who are drinking beer and shooting pool. The bartender’s eyes are on Mojo, but he doesn’t say a word about me bringing him in. I sit at the bar a full minute before he approaches.
“Beer and the special,” I say.
He fills a mug and disappears to the back then returns with a basket of fish and chips. Beer is the last thing I want right now, but it may help me get what I need. The bartender looks old enough to know all the town’s gossip. I’m hoping he likes to talk to his out-of-town customers.
He gives me my change and I push it across the counter. Bar speak for can I ask you some questions. He nods politely and hangs around. I have no intention of being coy.
“I’m staying at the Herman Hotel. I just found out that it has a notorious past. I was wondering if you think it’s a safe place to stay.”
He keeps his eyes lowered but his lips are upturned. “Safe as anywhere.”
“What do you know about its history?”
“You a cop?”
“No. From what I’ve heard about the place, it’s a little late for a police investigation.”
He laughs. “You a reporter?”
“Not a reporter either. I’m a curious out-of-towner who just found out I’m staying in a hotel where there was a triple murder.”
He wipes the counter. “It was a long time ago. I think you’re safe there.”
“I’m still curious.”
He shrugs. “Three women stayed on the top floor and were stabbed to death one night. The murderer got away.”
“The police never found the killer?”
“Found him, put him on trial, and the jury let him go.”
“Why’s that?”
“Good lawyer. Bad jury. Who knows?”
“Maybe he was innocent and the real murderer likes to drink beer and shoot pool.”
He gives me a sour glare and I smile. “Soil said otherwise.”
The man has a rich Southern accent and I thought he said oil.
“No, dirt. He drug dirt from one room to the next. The man was a farmer. He worked as the hotel’s gardener.”
“So after he was found innocent, I hope he also left town. Tell me I’m correct.”
“Can’t say you are. But for an out-of-towner, you seem a little too interested in a man you would forever regret meeting.”
Chapter Fourteen
§
You can fool a lot of people, but bartenders aren’t usually one of them. Before I got to ask the man anything else, thirsty customers got his attention. He did his best to stay away from my end of the bar.
After I finish lunch, a dozen eyeballs follow me to the door. I head to the Starbucks for coffee to clear my head. The place is packed and I find a place to sit outside in the ninety degree heat. Mojo isn’t happy about that. I take out my laptop and search for Butch Seggren. I find nothing. If he’s the old man I met the other night, I doubt he’s active on the internet.
On the other hand, Miriam Dodd is very active online, and I don’t need the bartender to tell me anything about what the woman’s up to these days. Her Facebook page tells me everything I want to know and more.
D
odd has announced to friends and strangers alike that she’s got a new job at a shop in town, so she won’t be posting much during the day. I search for The Play Box and find that it’s at the other end of town. Mojo has had it with the heat and humidity, so I take him back to the hotel.
As soon as I walk into the building, I feel dizzy. I’m looking around for whatever is causing my head to spin and see a look of horror on the face of the guy at the front desk. I keep walking to the elevator. Before the car arrives, Aubrey is beside me asking that I come to her office. She’s got her clipboard pressed to her chest and she’s not blinking.
I follow and she closes the door behind us. “There’s something in your room.” As soon as she shouts this fact, she glows red.
“Okay?” I’m absorbing the cool air. Mojo looks passed out on the floor.
“It’s not okay. But we haven’t called the police. Yet.”
“On what?” I’m just trying to irritate her since she’s irritating me.
“The housekeeper heard something in the closet. She called me and I went up. Do you have someone staying with you?”
Rita. I forgot all about her. Nice to know she’s keeping watch over my things. “Seriously?” I say. “A person that I’m keeping in a closet? Perhaps the hotel has rats.” I stifle a laugh.
“There are certainly no rodents in the Herman Hotel. That I can assure you.” Aubrey is talking so fast, her words are garbled together.
As far as one dead rat is concerned, she can assure me of nothing. “I’ll check it out.” I say.
“Please do.” She crosses her arms and taps her foot.
“Did you have a chance to copy the records I left you?” Now proves not the time to make that inquiry.
Aubrey opens her office door for me, tells me she’ll let me know when they’re ready, and watches me go. I’m having a flashback of high school and the principal’s office.
As soon as I unlock the door, I hear thumping in the closet. Rita is restless. Mojo heads to the bed. I remove the plastic box from the closet and open it slowly. The rat girl is sitting up in her paper bag, looking at me.
The Taw Ridge Haunting Page 7
