Yep, creepy.
In the kitchen, we find several modern-day appliances. A microwave, a decent refrigerator, and a matching stove reveal that Tallulah at least updated a few things in her later years. The old wallpaper and cabinets stand in stark contrast.
A second smaller bedroom holds a young girl’s mementos and more heavy furniture. Mama begins stripping the bed of its quilted comforter and sneezes. “It’s so dusty. I feel like I’ve gone back in time.”
My heavy limbs slow me as I help her put fresh sheets on. Once we complete that task, we discover Logan in the living room, checking the flue. “I’d try to get a fire going,” he says, brushing his hands together, “but this hasn’t been used in years. I’m afraid it might set the whole place ablaze.”
I’m slightly disappointed. I hadn’t thought about a fire, but one might warm me up, and the idea of it seems comforting.
There are oil lamps, and he does manage to find matches and light those, so we have an easier time moving about. Mama points at a stack of linens she placed on the couch and sets her gaze on him. “I assume you’re taking that tonight?”
Logan and I exchange a glance, and he nods. “Of course, Mrs. Fantome.” Always the gentleman.
Rosie, Penn, and Jenn arrive, Rosie looking like death warmed over, while the sisters seem totally jazzed about sleeping here. I direct Rosie into the master, and Mama offers to help her sheet one of the beds. Penn and Jenn will take a room farther down the hall and leave the connecting one for Mama, Queenie, and Gloria.
Queenie shows up and motions us to help her find the dumbwaiter she says must be in the kitchen. Sure enough, we discover a door to the hidden elevator, and Logan hauls up the food Queenie loaded onto it.
Gathering around one of the oil lamps at the kitchen table Penn has scrubbed clean, we dig into sandwiches and soup. All but Rosie, who screws up her face and dashes for the bathroom at the scent of food. Tabby is happy to eat the turkey slice from her sandwich.
Gloria’s cell rings and she leaves to take the call.
“I remember my mother talking about this place when I was a kid,” Mama says.
Queenie nods. “This old hotel is full of history. Some of it not so good.”
The two older women recite a few bits and pieces of stories they’ve heard. Mama mentions that one of her uncles stayed here after he came home from World War II.
“Why?” I ask.
“Shell shock.” She finishes off her soup and pushes the bowl away. “They call it PTSD now, but this place was used for soldiers suffering from that and other ailments for a time. They promised the fresh air and quiet would restore their good health.”
“A psych ward?” Penn looks intrigued.
“No, not like that.” Queenie refills her glass at the sink. “They were here of their own free will and received a minimum of medical care. It was more to recuperate, and Lord knows, they needed it. Poor men.”
When we’re done, we’re all too tired to do the dishes, and simply load them in the sink. Mama tells us she’ll wash them in the morning.
As everyone adjourns to their various rooms, Logan gives me a parting kiss. “Have you seen Salvatore’s ghost?” he whispers. “He could tell you who killed him.”
That’s the one I haven’t seen. I shrug. “No dice yet. He didn’t much like me in life, he probably doesn’t even realize I’m a medium in death. Even if he did, knowing him, he’s still a diva. Right now, I don’t care if he does appear. I’m going to bed.”
In Tallulah's bedroom, I put the flashlight on the nightstand and look around. There’s another armoire here. More shoes lined up next to it.
Definitely a Type A personality.
An open book rests on a small table near the window, a chair next to it. Under the binding is part of a puzzle that was never finished. The nightstand holds a lamp, a pair of spectacles, and a bottle of perfume.
Curiosity gets the best of me, and I check the drawer. Inside I find a picture frame. I pull it out and see a sepia-toned photo of a man in uniform.
Was this Tallulah's boyfriend? Persephone said she never married, but maybe she was still sweet on one of the guys who returned from the war.
As I crawl under the covers, I think about Sal again. Death by stiletto seems like an odd way to go, but also ironically fitting. He was totally immersed in bridal wear and the business.
Christine pops into my head. He was so hard on her, and she definitely had the means to surprise him with an attack. She also had opportunity.
She “discovered” the body.
I send out an SOS to Persephone, but she doesn’t appear, and I decide it’s up to me to investigate the woman further.
Tomorrow, I promise myself as I drift off to sleep.
6
The next morning, the storm has passed. Baldwin has the electricity working, and, after a quick breakfast, we begin moving the vendors to a smaller ballroom near the atrium and courtyard.
Wandering the halls, I’m once again amazed at the architecture and details. It’s truly a historic establishment, if a bit run down. The number of ghosts that still linger is also amazing, and not in a good way.
I send Logan to Thornhollow to pick up clean clothes and a few essentials for me. Queenie leaves as well, heading for her restaurant to get what she’s prepared for tonight’s tasting event. Caterers and bakeries will be offering samples of reception items and wedding cakes, and as Queenie likes to say, “Food always brings folks in.”
Logan texts to let me know the main road is still barricaded, and the route around it will take longer than expected.
Rosie is gleeful, although still wan. She’s nearly as pale as the ghosts. Overnight, we’ve received three dress orders and two brides want to schedule consults. It’s good to see her perkier, and she’s quite proud of the fact she hasn’t tossed her meager breakfast of toast and tea.
By mid-morning, Logan reports in to tell us the main road to town has a huge tree down, thanks to the storm, and that’s why it’s closed. The county road commissioner has sent a crew to clear it, but attendance that day at the fair may be lower than expected, since it will be more challenging for people to get here from the south.
Mama jumps to attention at this news and hustles off to call the commissioner.
Several dozen brides with their mothers and bridesmaids stayed the night, and as we resume our booth, they filter in. Folks from other areas begin arriving as well.
Some are curiosity seekers, who’ve heard about Sal’s murder. Others already purchased tickets for the day, and if it’s one thing I know about brides, they’re undaunted.
The afternoon is a whirl of women of all ages looking for dresses, accessories, party planning, and more. Victoria comes to tell us the tasting is sold out.
Photographers, trip advisors, gift suppliers, and even an ordained minister not affiliated with a church offer their products and services. While this space is still big enough to fit half a football field in it, the booths are crammed together.
Detective Jones stops in and pulls me aside. After several minutes of another interrogation, I’m fed up with his attitude. Logan arrives in time to rescue me and brings a late lunch, along with fresh clothes and makeup bags Queenie has supplied.
Knowing the fair would be filled with long days, I asked Brax and Rhys, my next-door neighbors, to take care of my cats, Arthur and Lancelot. Throughout the afternoon, Tabby makes appearances, but I don’t worry too much about her. She receives more than enough attention from the visitors, and seems to keep an eye on Christine and Darinda.
Logan and I find a private spot in the atrium to chat and share a sandwich. While there are a few meandering among the roses and greenery, it’s fairly quiet.
“Jones doesn’t have anyone else who looks good for the murder,” Logan tells me. “You’re one of the few people who doesn’t have an alibi for the time of the death.”
I swallow a mouthful of Queenie’s chicken salad and sip iced tea. “We can’t be sure Sal was
murdered. Maybe he realized my gowns would be a huge success and couldn’t stand it. He picked up a stiletto and plunged it into his own throat.”
Logan offers a forced smile at my attempt at poor humor. “Good to see you have your sarcastic wit today. I was kind of worried about you last night.”
“I thought long and hard on what happened. I have a suspect.”
“Who?”
“Sal’s assistant, Christine. She had means, motive, and opportunity. I’m not sure what her alibi is during that stretch of ten minutes when Sal was killed, but I plan to keep an eye on her.”
“Well, watch your back. I’ll see if I can get anything out of Jones about her, and I’ll look into her background.” He wads up his paper napkin and crumples the bag the food came in. “I have an afternoon appointment, but I can cancel if you want me to stay.”
“I’ll be fine.” I finish off my sandwich. “Keep it and see what you can get out of Jones. We’ll connect again later, okay?”
After kissing me, he leaves, and I return to the booth. There’s another of Queenie’s white paper bags, and inside are heart-shaped sugar cookies with thick frosting. Of course, every time I start to take a bite, another bride steps up to the table, surrounded by her mother and bridesmaids.
Mama is busy gossiping with a group of local gals and Penn and Jenn have yet to make an appearance.
Eventually, Rosie and I decide we’ll have to take shifts. She can’t eat much anyway and ends up flying solo while I down my cookie. Gloria is flushed when she returns from a walk to the horse stables and back, and talks nonstop about the sweeping staircases, decorative finials, and moldings.
“I have so many ideas!” She pulls out a sketchbook. With that and one of the treats in hand, she disappears once more, claiming she’s off to the hotel’s immense library.
I text Brax to thank him again for taking care of my cats, and he replies to tell me he plans to attend the tasting.
Darinda rushes past, and after making sure Rosie’s okay with the number in line to talk to us, I sneak off to grab her.
Christine is behind the Southern Bride table, looking harried from all of the potential clients lining up there as well. When Darinda sees me, I ask if I can speak to her in private. While Christine frowns, she breaks away and motions me toward the rear of the tent.
Christine stands to show a bride a display of headpieces, and sends me a glare. Darinda and I slip through the tent flaps.
I lower my voice and gesture to Christine. “How well do you know her?”
Darinda frowns. “Why?”
“I heard Sal putting her down a lot yesterday. Did they get along?”
Darinda laughs self-consciously. “You can’t be serious. Are you insinuating what I think you are?”
“She doesn’t seem too upset about him being dead.”
My former boss puts a hand on her hip in a gesture I’m well acquainted with. “Ava, what has gotten into you?”
Her tone reminds me of Mama’s when I’m annoying her with too many questions. “We could have a murderer in our midst, and I don’t feel comfortable about that.”
Her gaze slides to Christine, who we can see through the flap.
Now, she lowers her voice, too, and I can barely hear her over the noise. “Sal was a bit of a prima donna. You know that. But he knew how to close sales, and he was good at his job. Maybe not quite as good as you, but I wouldn’t say he had enemies, and certainly not Christine.”
Before I can respond, I swear I hear Sal’s voice. “What’s going on here?”
I pivot, scanning the area but don’t see anything except the living and the backside of the tents. I start to call his name then think better of it. Darinda doesn’t know I can see and speak to ghosts. I’d rather keep it that way.
“Detective Jones believes I’m the most likely suspect at the moment, and I’d like to rid him of that idea if possible. I’m not trying to place blame on an innocent woman, but again, we all need to be careful because the culprit is still on the loose.”
She gives me a long, thoughtful look and slips back inside.
I walk slowly along the rear of the booths. “Sal?” I stage whisper. “Can you hear me? Are you here?”
The din of the crowd covers up my voice, but I know spirits can hear me, no matter how softly I speak.
“I don’t understand…”
It’s him again. I can’t see him, but he must be nearby. Occasionally this happens when ghosts can’t materialize, and there’s still enough energy coming through that I can hear their voice. “You’re dead,” I say quietly. “You need to tell me who killed you.”
“Dead?”
It’s a screech, half-shocked and half-you’re-pulling-my-leg.
“I know that must be upsetting, but please try hard to think about what happened. Who was the last person you remember seeing?”
I feel a breeze flutter around my face, and then it disappears. So does his voice. I stand there waiting, my chest tight, but he doesn’t answer.
I try to sense if he’s still here, but it’s just empty air, the sounds of the brides and the vendors echoing off the high ceilings and the wallpaper.
Deflated, I put out another SOS to Persephone.
Crickets, in response.
I move to the front of the tents, scanning the area. Apparitions of men with haunted expressions fade in and out. Nurses in white uniforms do as well.
Returning to the Enchanted booth, I see Rosie unpacking another mannequin from a storage box while there’s a break in the rush. “Help me get this together so we can put the Ariel on it. Potential clients want to see the gowns, touch them. I think it’ll be a big day for us.”
“I’ll do it. You grab the dress.”
She retrieves the garment bag and unzips it, as I screw the head on. Penn and Jenn stroll in and tell us they’ve been sitting in the courtyard, discussing ideas for Jenn’s wedding in June.
“Ava, look at this.”
Rosie lifts the skirt, and in the dim light, I squint as I examine the hem. “It looks like it’s been dragged through the mud.”
I reach out and touch the satin, disbelief making me question what I’m seeing. Sure enough, fine particles crumble under my fingers, leaving behind dirty stains. “How did this happen? It was just worn in the show last night and it was fine.”
“Jenn wore it,” she confirms, and the younger sister nods.
“I took it off afterward, and we hung it up. I swear it was okay then.”
We glance at each other, baffled. I pull it into a better light. “The material doesn’t look as if it was ever wet. How did it end up with mud on it?”
Penn moves closer and runs her fingers along the soiled hem. “It’s just like the other one with the stain on the bodice. Who’s doing this?”
I suspected Sal of that. Was it possible he committed this act, too, before he was killed?
And if not him, who? One of the vendors? Would anyone stoop so low to sabotage me?
I shake my head, wondering about the timeline, and how Sal or anyone else could have accomplished this. “Has anyone seen the missing shoes?”
The others shake their heads.
I’m dumbfounded. “Maybe if we could find those, I could discover a clue pointing to whoever did this. Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can wash the worst of this off.”
Penn and Jenn offer to stay with Rosie. I take the gown inside the garment bag to the nearest restroom, along with stain remover Rosie was smart enough to pack. There was no time to use it last night, but I put a generous amount along the hem of this one and let it soak.
Even the restrooms here are stunning. There’s a sitting area with a wall of mirrors and a makeup table, a separate lavatory with stalls.
Lost in thought, I startle when Tallulah appears in front of me. “You don’t belong here! Leave my stuff alone!”
I check to make sure I’m truly alone. Seems the coast is clear. “Tallulah, dear, you’re the one who doesn’t belong here. You died in 2004,
and you need to cross over and stay there.”
She makes a face and glides away, mumbling. Then she jets back. “This place is mine. I don’t want all these people here, and especially not you!”
I’m affronted. “Why not me?”
She vanishes. Sometimes I think it must be nice to be a ghost—you can simply disappear if you want to have the final say in a conversation.
“Did you kill Sal?” I call after her.
There’s no answer, and she doesn’t return. Eventually, I wash off the hem. The stain remover has done a pretty good job, and I doubt anyone will notice.
I run it under the blow dryer and return to the booth. Penn assists me in clothing the mannequin and we relieve Rosie with the next group who come by to see the catalog and talk about an upcoming Roaring Twenties-themed wedding.
“The Bellamy is what I want,” the petite brunette bride states to her mother.
“But I’ve always dreamed of you in a ballgown like the Ella,” her mother replies.
This is a conundrum Rosie and I seem to encounter often. “The best thing to do,” I suggest, “is to come to The Wedding Chapel and try on both. See which you fall in love with.”
While I make an appointment for the bride to do that, Gloria returns and sinks into a chair nearby. Her sketchpad is open and she mocks up a series of gowns over the next few minutes that have me feeling a bit motivated to draw myself. As I continue to make appointments and show off my designs, Gloria and I brainstorm new ideas.
Eventually, I decide to take a break and go upstairs to the suite. I freshen my makeup, brush my teeth, and make a pot of coffee. Filling a travel mug I find in a cabinet, I take it with me downstairs.
I meet Kalina coming from the outdoor courtyard when I near the ballroom.
She eyes the mug. “You know, the kitchen is down that hallway on the left. There’s almost always some brewing. You don’t have to go upstairs for a cup.”
“Oh, thank you. That would be a lot handier.”
She smiles and leans in as if sharing a secret. “If you need something a touch stronger later, the bar is off the lobby, past the check-in desk. We don’t have a full-time bartender, but I can pour you a stiff one if you need it.”
Hearts & Haunts, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 3 Page 4
