Hearts & Haunts, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 3

by Nyx Halliwell

  She isn’t helping so much as simply hanging around. The lady I saw with him earlier when we arrived—Christine—is also flitting about, but the spirit helper is staring at me. As I remove a tiara from Penn’s hair, and hold her gaze, she vanishes.

  Older than Tallulah. Could it be her mother?

  What concerns me is how I didn’t know she was a ghost. That stops my hand in mid-air, still holding the elaborate accessory. I glance at the others in this backstage area, making sure I know who is in corporeal form and who’s not.

  Gah. There are so many of them, she could be anybody from the previous decades.

  I see a bride off to one side, who I believed to be a model waiting to go, but as though she feels my fixed look on her, she glances my way. As soon as we connect, her image goes fuzzy and she fades to nothing.

  I turn back toward the makeup table, a touch of dizziness coming over me.

  “Are you okay?” Gloria reaches for my arm. “You look very pale, cherie.”

  Has my ghost radar gone wonky? “It’s been a big day. I’m just tired.”

  Persephone appears behind her. “You need to find Tallulah. Now.”

  Meaning, I assume, the ghost is about to do something to ruin the party. “Why don’t you all go catch the rest of the show? I’m going to run to the restroom and splash water on my face.”

  Rosie offers to accompany me, but I tell her I’m fine. I just need a moment to breathe. Leaving behind the thumping music, I follow Persephone through a maze of hallways and up several flight of stairs. Sherlock—a ghost I picked up back at Christmas and thought had moved on—joins us.

  “You’re back,” I say quietly.

  He grins. “The game’s afoot! Seph said you might need my genius expertise.”

  “I said no such thing,” she denies.

  Half the light switches don’t work, and I shun the dark hallways. A storm is brewing in the distance, lightning flashing here and there.

  Following the two spirits, I find myself on the third floor, my guardian angel bopping in and out of several rooms. “Can’t you find her?”

  She sniffs. “She was here.”

  Most of the doors to the rooms are unlocked, and I do a visual scan of a few, but I am tired, the adrenaline of the day wearing off and leaving me drained. The fact there are so many ghosts in this hotel doesn’t help. They keep flashing unexpectedly in front of me and winking out like old lights. They chill me to the bone and I feel more drained every time one passes by.

  “Are the guests safe tonight?” I ask.

  Sherlock looks skeptical. “Most likely.”

  Persephone and I come to a set of rooms that are locked. “These were the family’s personal residences. A good place to search.”

  I make a shooing motion. “Well, go in and see.”

  She disappears through the wall, then reappears so quickly it startles me and I jump back, knocking into an antique table. The large vase on it tumbles to the side and I barely catch it before it hits the floor. “Nope. She’s not in there, either,” Persephone says.

  I check my watch and notice it’s almost time for the show to be over. “I’ve got to get back. Tallulah will have to wait.”

  As I head downstairs, trying not to freak out with all the dark shadows and the constant ghostly figures coming and going, I rub my arms and the goose flesh there.

  Persephone and Sherlock bicker down the two flights, and I hear Baldwin wrapping things up once we reach the first floor. As I enter the area behind the stage, Darinda is looking around. “Have you seen Sal? He was here a minute ago.”

  “No, but when I do see him I have a few words for him. He’s got a chip on his shoulder when it comes to me, and I don’t know why. If I find out he had anything to do with damaging my dress or stealing my shoes—”

  A woman screams, cutting me off.

  I dart past my former boss and run in the direction of a set of decorative screens shoved in the shadowy corner. Sal’s young assistant, in her street clothes once more, has a hand over her mouth as she stares at a spot behind one.

  When I reach her, I suck in a breath at the sight. Sal, in his expensive suit and bow tie, is lying on the ground, unseeing eyes staring up. The tie is askew and a white bridal shoe sticks out of his throat, the heel soaked in blood

  “Oh dear,” I say.

  Darinda rushes up behind me as blood pools on the floor. “What is it?”

  “I’ve found Sal,” I tell her.

  And at least one of my missing shoes.

  4

  A thunderstorm rages outside as Detective Jones interrogates everyone.

  He’s mostly concerned with those who had access to the backstage during the runway show, but he still takes down all of the attendees’ names and makes sure he has contact information for follow-up.

  He leaves me until last. I’m totally exhausted and running on fumes. Logan rubs my back in support, as Mama, Queenie, Gloria, Rosie, Penn, and Jenn all gather around me like a shield.

  Normally, I might think it silly. I can certainly take care of myself. But at the moment, having their strength and protection feels good.

  As Jones, with his slow Southern drawl and flat eyes, goes through his set of questions, what little patience I have drains away. “Several others mentioned you had an antagonistic attitude toward the deceased.” He holds a notepad but keeps his gaze pinned on me. “Would you care to fill me in on what that was all about?”

  I’m slightly surprised, considering I thought I did a good job hiding my true feelings about Sal. “He was the one who was antagonistic toward me. He kept criticizing my dresses and calling me amateurish.”

  “And that made you angry?”

  I see where this is going. “I’m too tired to play games. I didn’t kill the man. Happy?”

  He takes his pen and points to the body, covered with a hotel room sheet. Blood stains the ivory material, and I swallow and look away. “That is your shoe in his throat, correct?”

  “All of them went missing before the show started. I don’t know where they are, and I don’t know why someone would take them unless this was pre-meditated.”

  Jones lifts a bushy brow and makes a note. “I assume I’ll find your prints on the murder weapon then?”

  A string of curses fills my exhausted brain, but Mama squeezes my arm and I force myself to stay polite. She and Queenie stand over my shoulder, self-righteous indignation pouring off them. “I’m sure you will.”

  Another note and a long pause, his dark eyes searching my face, as if he can find my confession written on my forehead. “Now, where were you when this happened?”

  I can’t exactly tell him I was chasing a ghost, but for a minute, I consider doing so. A crack of thunder booms overhead, and we all flinch. Tabby makes a screeching noise and dives under the makeup table nearby. “I was chasing my cat,” I tell him, thankful for the sudden inspiration.

  It’s clear he doesn’t believe me in the way he tilts the corner of his lips down and writes on his pad.

  “My daughter wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Mama says. She tugs on her blazer’s hem, bristling with anger. Some of that is hiding fear, but I’m thankful for her adamant declaration.

  Jones does not. “I’d appreciate it if y’all would stay out of my interrogation.”

  He gives Logan a stern glance, and Logan acts slightly aghast. “I thought this was simply a friendly questioning,” he says to Jones. “Ava’s not under suspicion, now is she?”

  The detective and my boyfriend stare at each other in a showdown for a long minute. Jones puffs out his chest. “This would be a lot easier if I could speak to her alone.”

  Fat chance that. Logan’s hand grips mine. “So you can harass my client more?”

  Jones narrows his eyes. “Are you in need of an attorney, Miss Fantome?”

  This man worked with my father on the Thornhollow department for many years, and he knows my family well. We’ve done this dance before, a couple times recently, when he believed my mothe
r had a hand in the death of my aunt, and again when one of my father’s former friends turned up dead in my front yard.

  I have no love for the detective, and his attitude makes me come up off my seat. “While you’re standing here trying to pin the murder on me, the killer is running around.” I flap a hand in the general direction of the ballroom. “I know you have issues with me, but I had no reason to kill Sal, and I wouldn’t hurt a fly, as Mama said.”

  Not exactly true—I don’t like flies.

  “If that’s all, Detective Jones.” Logan projects total confidence that it is. “We’ll be going now.”

  Baldwin and Victoria are hovering across the way, trying to give us privacy while also not getting too close to the murder scene. Baldwin pipes up. “Detective Jones, can I get you a coffee?”

  Jones slowly pivots and engages the hotel manager. “My team will be here to investigate the scene within the hour. You’ll have to shut down this event.”

  Victoria nearly faints on the spot. “We can’t do that, officer. I mean, no disrespect to the man who passed, but we have two hundred or more brides-to-be who’ve been waiting all year for this.”

  Baldwin has also paled considerably. A young woman with short blonde hair and big earrings emerges near his side and threads her fingers through his. This must be his wife. “The hotel’s a big place,” she says. “Surely, we can move the vendors into another wing and leave this area roped off for your investigators to work.”

  “Please,” Victoria begs, bringing her hands in a prayer gesture to her chest. It’s the first time I’ve seen her without her clipboard and overbearing attitude.

  Jones taps his pen against his leg and screws up his lips again.

  Mama, in all her affronted umbrage, is still mayor and knows many of her constituents in town are counting on this event bringing in the dollars. She steps around me and lowers her voice. “Landon, can’t we work something out? Like Kalina said, this building is huge, there’s plenty of space to move the event and the guests to. Besides, makes sense to keep everyone here, doesn’t it? I don’t know much about catching killers, but what if he or she is still here?”

  Jones knows he’s being played on some level, but he’s a smart man. He realizes Mama is correct. With a big sigh, he puts his notepad in a jacket pocket and looks over those of us crowded into the backstage area. “No one is to come through here tonight once y’all leave. I’ll post an officer to watch this area, but I want your word that all those vendor booths will be relocated, and no one will have access to this location until I give the okay.”

  I’m a little shocked he’d agree to their proposal, but on the other hand, I saw the way he slyly kept sending glances toward Victoria. He’s been divorced for at least five years or more. Maybe his bachelorhood is starting to get old.

  A glance at her left hand gives me hope. Maybe she’s not married either, and the good detective may find himself a little distracted during the next few days.

  The lights flicker, and everyone holds their breath for a moment. We can’t see the storm from here, but we can certainly hear the rain pelting down and the wind gusting.

  My bones feel frosty again, and my weariness is suffocating. I wonder if Tallulah could’ve committed the murder. Persephone has been AWOL, as is her annoying habit, so I can’t ask if she knows. I can’t even find Sherlock now, who is usually more than willing to tag along and try to help.

  It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve encountered a spirit who conjured enough energy to manipulate objects, lights, and even plumbing. But to shove a shoe heel into someone’s throat?

  My attention drifts to the sheeted body. Why Sal?

  If our killer is Tallulah, perhaps it was simply random, and he was convenient, but if it wasn’t…?

  Two men and one woman hustle in, long raincoats and hats dripping water. Kalina dashes out, saying she’ll get towels, and they speak to Jones and apologize for taking so long to arrive.

  “The weather out there is nasty,” a tall, thin man tells him. “The road from town is flooded. We had to drive a few miles out of the way to get here.”

  Jones instructs us to move from behind the curtain and onto the stage so the team can get to work. I overhear Baldwin talking anxiously to Victoria about the bad publicity. We stand in a group, waiting for Jones to join us and give us the official word we’re dismissed.

  I’m about to leave regardless. I see the ghosts from earlier reenacting their loops again in the giant ballroom. My head hurts and my feet ache from being on them all day. All I want is to get home and go to bed.

  “That doesn’t sound good about the roads,” Queenie says. Mama nods in agreement.

  “I’m so tired I could fall off the stage and not even care,” Rosie adds.

  Penn and Jenn sit below in the audience area, still crammed with chairs. Penn calls up to me, “Can we leave now?”

  Jones struts out, his stride as slow as his drawl. “May we,” he corrects her. “You can try, but it sounds like you’ll have a long drive to town. You’ll have to take the county road north of here since the main one is washed out.”

  “Oh dear.” Gloria wrings her hands. “I think I’ll stay here tonight. I don’t like driving in the dark, especially during a storm.”

  Logan nods. “That’s a good idea.” He checks his watch. “It’s after midnight. Who knows how long this will go on? And the county road isn’t a whole lot better than the main one.”

  Jenn jumps up. “A sleepover! We can make popcorn and watch an old movie.”

  Penn stands as well and stretches. “That sounds like fun.”

  Baldwin hails us. “We’re happy to put your group on the third floor in connecting suites. They’re normally unused, but Kalina and I will give you a discount, and we’ll send up food.”

  How generous. Queenie says to Kalina, “I can prepare meals for everyone if you show me the way to the kitchen.”

  “That would be appreciated,” she responds.

  “If you give me clean sheets,” Mama offers, “I’ll fix up the beds.”

  Kalina motions for them to follow her and Baldwin claps his hands. “You’ll need flashlights—this storm will play havoc with the electricity. The Wi-Fi is free, btw.”

  I’m more concerned about the lights than using the internet, but I thank him. He and his wife seem genuinely happy to have more guests.

  “I’ll close up the booth,” Rosie tells me.

  Penn and Jenn help her down. “We’ll get the dresses in the garment bags,” Penn volunteers.

  I sink to the edge of the stage and am slightly surprised when Tabby rushes from the runway to stand in my lap. She rubs her head on my chest, and I scratch behind her ears. “I suppose you’re hungry.”

  No surprise, she meows loudly in reply.

  Baldwin returns with flashlights and keys to the suites. Logan takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. He leads me from the ballroom, past the expansive lobby, and to an elevator I wish I’d noticed earlier. He talks about Jones and the murder, but my ears are ringing, my limbs weak, and I can barely force any reply.

  I’ve never had such a drastic reaction to ghostly energy, but I’ve also never been surrounded by so many.

  On the third floor, we exit, and Logan flips on lights which flicker as though threatening to go out. Down the vast corridor, we pass multiple rooms. I was here earlier.

  There’s a large, arched window at the end, a portrait of the family across from a set of massive wooden double doors. As Logan slides the antique key into the lock, lightning flashes outside.

  On its heels, thunder rocks the hotel, the window pane rattles and the lights go out.

  Save a few flickering phantoms, we’re plunged into darkness.

  5

  There’s literally nothing better than spending a night in a haunted hotel, I tell myself, which is a total lie.

  A hard shove sends me sprawling into Logan. He drops the key, the metal clanking on the wooden floor. The flashlight sails out of my hand, careen
ing into the corner.

  Logan rights me, and I grab the flashlight once more. He retrieves the key, and I shine the beam around, seeing no one there but Tabby. The cat is watching the portrait on the wall across from us. The Nottingham family stares back.

  “Did you do that?” I snap at her, but she ignores me, remaining focused.

  Emanuele Nottingham sits in a brocade chair, one leg crossed over the other, a pipe in hand. Mary Mae stands slightly behind him, a hand on the winged back.

  In front of her, and on Emanuele’s left stands a solemn young girl, probably ten or eleven. At their feet, sits a beautifully groomed black and white spaniel.

  The perfect family.

  Logan unlocks the door. “Let me guess. There are ghosts?”

  At least I don’t have to keep my ‘gift’ a secret from him. Before I can confirm that there are, indeed, many still enjoying the hotel, a whisper of one glides through the wall near the portrait and disappears.

  Tabby turns and blinks at me.

  “The place is haunted,” I confirm. “But, like, on steroids. It’s creeping me out.”

  Footsteps echo from the other end, and a light at the steps dances over the wall as Mama arrives panting. “Oh, there you are. The elevator went out with the electricity, and there are so many stairs.” Her arms are filled with linens and blankets. Logan rushes to help her.

  Inside the main suite, it’s a museum. The living area greets us, with a large fireplace, built-in bookshelves, and an overabundance of furniture straight out of the twenties. There are more family portraits, and I see the strong resemblance between the ghost of Tallulah and her mother.

  There’s a wheelchair in one corner, cobwebs dripping from its frame. The various tables, as well as the mantle, have a thick coat of dust.

  As we meander through the other rooms, scads of dust particles reflect in the illumination from the flashlight. A main bedroom contains separate twin beds. Prudish, but I assume this room belonged to Tallulah's parents. A giant armoire and neat rows of shoes suggest she never got rid of her parent’s belongings.