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

by Nyx Halliwell

  Reassured, they hustle off to get everyone back into a festive mood. Brax pats my shoulder. “Was there something supernatural about what happened to Gloria?”

  He also knows about and encourages my gift. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it one of these days.”

  He nods and returns to his mother’s table. I head to the elevator, and end up with Jenn and Penn grabbing my arms.

  “I thought this tasting event would be more fun,” Jenn says.

  “Is Gloria okay?” Penn asks. “We were in the courtyard, but heard she choked on a sample.”

  “Logan’s taking her to see Doc, but I think she’ll be fine.” Especially if she’s not here with Tallulah, the angry ghost.

  “Kalina gave us a deck of cards and two board games.” Jenn grins from ear to ear. “We thought we’d have a girl party. Like a true sleepover.”

  Penn punches the button, and the doors open right up. The two of them haul me inside.

  “We’ve got microwave popcorn, too,” Penn adds, selecting the third floor and showing me a stack of the plastic wrapped bags.

  Great, just what I need. They’re determined to get their girly party, and it looks like I won’t be alone tonight again.

  I only hope the ghosts give me a break.

  9

  After a game of gin rummy, two of Clue, and one of Operation, the three of us fall asleep on the couch watching a vintage James Cagney movie.

  I wake up with arms and legs entangled with mine, the smell of popcorn lingering in the air. Logan called during the second round of Clue—of which I won both games—and told me that Gloria is fine, although confused about her episode.

  Tiredness makes my brain slow, and I blink and yawn. After a moment, I hear a scratching noise and realize that’s what woke me up.

  Tabby.

  Embarrassed I’ve somehow forgotten about her, but reminding myself that she is quite capable of handling herself, I untangle myself and quietly go to the door to let her in.

  Only deep dark shadows greet me in the hall, a smudge of a moon outside sending pale light through the window. The eerie family portrait across the way unnerves me, the eyes of a young Tallulah and her parents seem to watch me as I step onto the worn carpet. “Tabby,” I call softly. “Is that you?”

  Dead silence greets my ears, heavy enough to make my skin tingle with prickles of dread. I try the hall light switch, but the chandeliers overhead flicker and die.

  This cat. She’s as bad as my guardian angel.

  Leaving the sisters asleep, I take a flashlight and search out the door at the other end of the hallway. It’s unlocked, and a weak beam comes on when I push the tiny button on the old fashioned light switch inside.

  The odor of old books and dried leather fill the air. It smells like this place hasn’t been opened in decades. Dust coats every surface.

  The room is as Kalina described, filled with bookshelves, a long wooden table reminiscent of a library, leather chairs, and three green-hooded banker’s lamps. There are also several elegant ones with stained glass shades in various spots, and bronze statues on end tables and the mantel.

  “Hi, Ava.” Sherlock sits in a leather chair, reading a book.

  The main conference table is stacked with newspapers and magazines. I turn on a banker’s lamp and see a newspaper from the seventies on top of one stack. Others go back years before that. “Find anything interesting?” I ask the ghost.

  “Tons! I wish I could take half the collection back to the library. Paris would love it.”

  Sherlock latched onto me at Christmas when I visited another town several miles away for a few witchy supplies. I ended up at the library next to the metaphysical shop, and Paris, the librarian, supplied me with some valuable information. She and her sister run an entire magical library underneath the mundane one, and Sherlock made that his home.

  Fortunately, he decided to “take my case” at Christmas and hitched a ride home with me.

  The papers are yellowed and brittle, fine motes rising from them as I browse through the dates. The dust coats my nose and makes me sneeze. “Excuse me.” I sniffle and back away from the table. “Is Persephone your Dr. Watson now?” I tease him.

  “If only.” He looks a tad forlorn. “She’s a difficult one, that guardian angel of yours.”

  “Tell me about it.” I admire the handiwork of the fireplace. “You’re sweet on her, aren’t you?”

  “You think I’d hang around and tolerate her bullying otherwise?”

  “She’s a pickle for sure, but don’t give up. I think she gives you so much grief because she likes you.”

  His face brightens. “Truly?”

  “Truly. Say, I never thanked you for helping with Sean O’Reilly. I appreciate what you did at the ball.”

  He straightens a bit. “No need for gratitude. That spirit was a mean one. I was happy to come to your aid.”

  “Any idea who killed Sal?”

  “None, I’m afraid, but you’ll figure it out. The players in this ruse are not all that clever, I assure you.”

  I’d like to believe him. At least he seems to want to help. “Were you alive during the twenties?”

  “Ah, yes. I’m older than you think perhaps.”

  From what I’ve learned of him, he seems to believe he’s Sherlock Holmes. “Of course. I forgot. You lived your heyday in the 1800s, correct?”

  He tips his hat to me.

  “Your favorite case, Mr. Holmes?”

  His face turns pensive once more. “The lady asks a tough question. A Scandal in Bohemia, if you must know.”

  “THE woman, then?”

  “You know my adventures?”

  This game seems to bring him pleasure. Or maybe he’s as unstable as some of the other ghosts I’ve encountered, and really does believe the illusion. Either way, he’s charming and smart. “Doesn’t everyone? Even those who haven’t read them have heard of Irene Adler.”

  “A difficult woman, indeed.”

  “Seems you like the challenging ones.”

  He laughs. “They are always fun. They challenge my mind.”

  A cursory inventory of the shelved volumes leads me to a section of ledgers three rows back from where I stand. This corner of the room is dark, so I turn on my flashlight to read the gold lettering on the bindings.

  Accounts dating back to the thirties, and below them, a row of guest registries. I grab those that correspond directly with the end of World War II and return to find Sherlock is gone. In his place, Tabby is seated on the table watching me.

  Her golden eyes flash in the illumination. I click it off. “Where did you come from?”

  She blinks and hops off a pile of faded magazines, sending the stacked issues to the floor.

  “Nice.” I set the registries on the seat of a chair and bend to pick them up. “Thanks a lot.”

  I flick on the beam again to see under the table better where several have slid to. It glances off a pale piece of wood.

  At first, I think it’s simply a chair leg, but these are all built from dark planks.

  I re-stack the magazines and shine the light across the carpet once more, moving from my end to the far one. My breath catches.

  The beam slides along curved handles, spindles, rails, and a seat. Hidden underneath the table is a child’s rocking chair.

  What is that doing here?

  Even stranger is that there is another item concealed there, too.

  Lying haphazardly on its side is the last thing I expect to see.

  Discolored in the light, is the matching bridal shoe to Sal’s murder weapon.

  10

  “You shouldn’t be in here!”

  Tallulah's voice rings out and makes me jump, bonking my head on the tabletop. “Ouch!”

  Coming out of my crouch, I rub the injured spot and the shadowy room blurs. Blinking to clear my vision, I see her spectral body fly past, leaving a trail of ghostly cold in her wake.

  The chill rolls over me like a wave. I
grit my teeth and breathe deeply, attempting to slow my poor, skipping pulse.

  “Is this yours?” I bend down and tug the rocking chair out, having to shift one of the bulky wooden seats aside in order to do it.

  She whizzes past me again, disappearing amongst the rows of shelves. “Get out!”

  She’s so adamant, it makes me pause. “An unusual place to hide a child’s rocking chair, isn’t it?”

  The voice comes from behind a bookshelf. “None of your business.”

  I stand still, mind searching for a subject to make a connection with her. I’m no mind reader, but I’ve found that establishing a relationship, even if it’s brief, often helps me discover more about the spirit and, in turn, they feel more willing to trust me with their secrets. “Did you like to read?”

  I don’t know what happened in this hotel or why it’s keeping her anchored here, but this is what I do. I try to help the ghosts in whatever way I can.

  She peeks around the corner, and I mentally check myself so I don’t startle. “Look, I’m not trying to invade your space, but you can’t stay here for eternity. Your spirit needs to move on. I know it can be scary to cross to the afterlife, but—”

  She zooms out from her hiding place to hover in front of me, her face bearing down close to mine. “You know nothing.”

  I explain that I actually do know a thing or two about the spirit world. “In fact, I’ve crossed over more than a few ghosts, and I can help you, too.”

  The silence of the old books and the dust on the lamps mocks me.

  “Persephone? I could use some help here. Sherlock?”

  I’m talking to thin air.

  Tabby sits near the cracked open door, staring at me as though she’s bored. I grab the registers—no sense in wasting my breath. Maybe if I can figure out who the man in the photo is, I’ll have a better chance of securing the connection I need to encourage Tallulah to move on.

  As I take a step toward the exit, the ghost appears again, and her face is contorted with rage. This time I do startle and step back— if she could get a hold of Gloria, she can do the same to me. “Jeez. Don’t do that.”

  I’ve tangled with death a couple times already in my almost thirty years. I certainly don’t plan to go out because of her, and Logan isn’t here to bring me back from any near-death experience, as he has previously.

  Twice.

  I really should keep him around when dealing with ghosts.

  The problem is, she’s between me and my escape. “I’ve heard a baby’s laughter and cooing, seen a lot of other ghosts as well.” Maybe a distraction will work. “Why is that? There are so many spirits still tied to this place.”

  She seethes, but says nothing, continuing to float. Her fists flex and she looks like she’s about to explode.

  I shouldn’t keep pushing, but I can’t help it. She obviously needs to talk to someone, and since I’m the only ghost whisperer in the area, it seems I get to be her therapist as well. “What happened, Tallulah? Did the chair belong to someone else? The child I keep hearing, perhaps?”

  She makes a noise in her throat that sounds like a dog growl. “It was mine. Now leave.”

  “Why did you attack my friend?”

  She races away, turning toward the table. “She deserves to die. She should have never been born.”

  Tabby meows loudly and paws at the door. It’s open enough for her to pass through it, so I ignore her. “Why would you say that? You don’t even know Gloria.”

  “I know enough. It’s not fair!”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “What’s not, Tallulah? If you tell me what’s going on, I might be able set things straight.”

  A sob echoes through the room. “Why won’t everyone leave me alone?”

  “Are the ghosts bothering you?”

  “Not them, the people!”

  “They make me batty, too, but honestly, I can help you—”

  “Ava?” The door opens fully, and Tabby darts out as Penn pops her head in. “Who are you talking to?”

  I glance around. Tallulah is gone.

  From the corner of my eye, I still see the shoe under the table. Who put it there? And why?

  I decide to leave it for now. If the murderer believes they’ve gotten away with something, I’ll let them continue with that assumption.

  “The cat,” I reply, handing her the flashlight. The registers are growing heavier by the minute. “Come on, let’s go back to the suite. You and Jenn better stay with me tonight.”

  And hopefully, Tallulah doesn’t.

  11

  “What’s going on?” Jenn asks, sleepy-eyed when we return. Tabby jumps on the back of the couch and stretches out. Jenn lazily strokes her fur.

  “Nothing important.” I wish I had some of Helen’s peach wine as I rub my sore head. “You two take the twin beds in the master room.”

  In the kitchen, I set the registers on the table, and reach for the cold coffee. There’s enough to fill a cup and I pop it into the microwave.

  Penn enters and points at the stack of books. “Light reading before bed?”

  I’m typically asleep way before midnight. “I’m looking for a connection between the previous owner and a man she may have had a crush on.” I play it off like it’s no big deal. “I’m a sucker for a good romance, and I believe their relationship might have been a secret. Fun to think about, anyway. A clandestine love affair is good inspiration for a new line of gowns.”

  “Ooh,” Jenn says, pulling a chair from the table and plopping into it. Both look intrigued. “We can help.”

  “It’s late. You should get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.” For me as well, I don’t add. “I’m only going through these briefly for a name that might be associated with him. That’s all.”

  Penn returns to the living area and picks up the almost empty popcorn bowl. “I’m in.”

  “Me, too,” Jenn agrees. She wiggles her fingers for the snack. “Where do we start?”

  I guess it can’t hurt. Once Penn’s grabbed drinks for them, I hand each a registry. “I believe he was a war veteran, so we’ll start with these. We’re looking for the last name Monroe.”

  The leather binding of my ledger creaks as I open it. The slight odor of mold drifts up. It’s dated 1946.

  The penmanship of the scant handful of guests varies between elaborate flourishes and scrolls to impossible-to-decipher scribbles. It looks like a war between accomplished artists and three-year-olds.

  The girls’ enthusiasm wanes after an hour, and my frustration builds. We find no mention of anyone with that name, and there are another six volumes to search.

  Jenn sits back and stretches. “My eyes are crossing. Maybe I do need some sleep.”

  Penn agrees, rubbing her eyes. “Me, too, I’m afraid.”

  “If I have time tomorrow, I’ll keep looking,” I stack the registers we’ve finished to one side. “Thanks for your help.”

  Jenn rises and glances around, stifling a yawn. “Did you guys find any secret rooms in this suite?”

  Even with the coffee, my brain cells are fried and I give her a blank look, not comprehending. “Sorry, what?”

  Penn hitches a thumb over her shoulder towards the connecting suites. “We found one in ours. Kind of disturbing, if you ask me.”

  I’m certainly curious and I wonder if Sherlock has already discovered it. Old buildings like this are known for such things, so it’s not entirely surprising.

  From what I know about many of the south’s plantations and farmhouses, people often hid heirlooms, gold, and other valuables from invading armies and criminals in them. Probably half the homes in this area were once a part of the Underground Railroad. “Why is it disturbing?”

  Jenn places a hand on her belly, as if protecting her unborn child. “Do you want to see it? I think it’s sad more than anything.”

  I follow the girls to the end suite. Faded rose wallpaper, honey oak furniture, and ivory lace curtains offer a more feminine and modest deco
r than in the main one.

  Passing through the living area and into the bedroom, Tabby dashes between our feet. Penn presses the button on the wall switch, and two sconces cast pale, yellowy light onto a twin bed, sparse bookshelf, and a large trunk.

  “They need air fresheners,” she comments, waving a hand under her nose.

  Jenn guides the trunk to one side. “I was trying to sleep last night, but the storm kept waking me up. It was so dark in here with no window, so I kept playing with the flashlight. That’s when I saw the way the wallpaper had peeled away from this spot.”

  She touches an edge, lifting the frail paper near the trim board. Her fingers slide under it, gently peeling it back. “There’s a metal latch here.”

  With a soft grunt, she gives a tug, and a section shifts and disappears.

  A pocket door.

  Jenn moves aside and motions me to step in. Penn hands me a flashlight from the dresser. “There are no lights in there.”

  As the thin illumination slides over the sparse furniture and hidden remnants of Tallulah's life, a shiver slides down my spine. “I’m with you, Penn. This is full-on creepy.”

  It’s indeed a hidden room, but not one full of valuables. At least not in the strictest sense. My mind tries to understand what it was used for and why.

  Jenn yawns audibly and I retreat from the space, leaving it open. “Let’s get you two to bed.”

  After the sisters are in the master bedroom asleep, and I’ve stopped my pulse from racing, I take a deep breath and sneak back to the secret room and its contents.

  They create more questions than answers, and yet, I sense I’m getting closer to the latter. A bassinet, an adult-size rocking chair, and a chest of drawers add to the growing picture I have of Tallulah’s past.

  Steeling myself, I open the top drawer and find handmade baby clothes neatly folded. They appear unused. For a few minutes, I finger them, studying the items and trying to put some of the pieces together.

  “What is this?” I murmur in the flat silence.