Tallulah appears next to me, sad and resigned. Her earlier anger has vanished. “Mine.”
“Your what?”
“My sin.” She glances at me, then away. “Now you know why I can’t ever leave.”
12
Frosty goosebumps race up and down my arms. “Tell me what happened.”
Tallulah's spectral form is shedding icy waves of energy, and it’s all I can do to keep my teeth from chattering.
“I did something bad,” she says forlornly. “I’m doomed to go to hell.”
My gaze travels to a rosary hanging on the back of the bassinet. Until now, I haven’t paid attention to the scattered relics of religion in the personal wing. There are crosses on the walls here and there, more artsy than pious, and there’s a family Bible in the parents’ bedroom on the nightstand between the beds.
Earthbound spirits sometimes fear karma so much they attach themselves to this world like a tick on a dog. Fear is a compelling motivator and can give them the strength they need to stay anchored here.
“The other side isn’t like that,” I attempt to reassure her. “There’s really not a hell, per se. Once you pass over, from what I understand, you go through a review of this lifetime and the lessons and challenges you experienced here.”
She stares at me with deep-set, dark eyes, just like those in the family portrait. “I don’t understand.”
“Like in school when you got to the end of the year and took a test to review what you learned?”
Her face remains blank.
“In essence, you’re given a deeper understanding of why you were here, and the opportunity to evaluate what you may have gotten wrong. The thing is, they’re all lessons. Life isn’t really about right and wrong, but learning and doing better when you know how. That way, the next time you incarnate, you hopefully fix any bad karma you built up and grow into a better human being.”
“Karma? Reincarnation?”
“Surely you’ve heard of both.”
“Of course I have, but that’s not what Papa said.”
I’m walking on eggshells now. “Look, I don’t have all the answers, but I do know you don’t have to fear crossing over. Have you seen a light by chance?”
She stares at me as if I’ve turned into Satan right in front of her eyes. “You’re lying.”
I raise a hand. “I swear on my Mama’s manners—which are the best in the south—that I’m telling the truth.”
“How is it you can see me?”
“I have a gift.” I try not to cough or choke on the word. “I see spirits, and can interact with them sometimes.”
“You’ve seen the other side? Heaven?”
Not exactly. “I’ve survived two near-death experiences. It gives me insight most folks don’t have.”
“Heaven is a real place?”
There’s so much hope in her voice, I form my next words carefully. “It’s a concept, and if you believe in it, it exists for you.”
She narrows her eyes. “Then hell is real.”
I shrug. “For some, I suppose. Most create their own version of that here on earth.”
Floating to the bassinet, she turns her back on me. “The innocent should go to heaven, even if they were never baptized, don’t you think? He was only a baby.”
Fear and grief are two of the strongest emotional anchors for spirits. Luckily, love tops them all.
The clothes in the dresser are neutral colors and handmade with love. “You had a boy?”
Her hand flows through the fabric covered side of the bassinet, enough energy exuding from her fingers to make the rosary swing. “Papa was so angry. He said I couldn’t tell anyone. We had to keep it a secret.”
Dozens of questions fill my head. I wonder if I’m up for this—learning what I’ve wanted to know. Shifting my weight, I mentally reach for my guardian angel. For Sherlock. Even Aunt Willa. Heck, I’d take anyone who could give me courage at the moment.
No help comes and I take a deep breaths to steel myself. I ask the one question I fear the most. “What happened to the baby?”
She lifts her head as if she hears something far away. I strain my ears, but I don’t pick up on anything. She slowly turns to me, face contorting with unshed tears and pent up grief. “Don’t ever set foot in here again.”
Poof, she’s gone. I heave a sigh of frustration, but also relief. I hope her father isn’t hanging around because I don’t want to meet him. My words to him will not be as gentle.
Half-heartedly, I call out to her, ask another question, but a noiseless hush fills my ears.
Persephone appears in the rocking chair, seated. She’s wearing a gauzy dress with rhinestone earrings dangling from her lobes. Her hair is styled with finger waves and is contained with a headband matching her jewelry. “Sad, isn’t it?”
“Your timing needs work. Where have you been?”
“Listening.”
“You didn’t hear me mentally begging for your help?”
She studies me with a frown. “You don’t need it. You need confidence.”
Fine. Whatever. “Do you know what happened with the child?”
Her gaze on me is steady. “Do you?”
My brain cells are shutting down and I’m freezing. Ghosts are divas sometimes, but I can’t blame Tallulah for her mood swings. My guardian angel, on the other hand, is a complete pain in my backside, and I don’t feel sympathy for her. “Come on, Seph, do you know or not?”
She rocks, the vintage chair making squeaking noises. “You’re making good progress. Keep at it. And make sure your friend, Gloria, doesn’t return.”
“Why?”
“You know I can’t tell you everything. I can only guide.”
I feel like throwing the flashlight at her, but I need to talk to someone about this. “Tallulah fell in love with a guest, didn’t she? They had an affair, she became pregnant, and because it was out of wedlock, her father didn’t like it. Something happened to the child.”
Persephone waggles her hand in a fifty-fifty gesture. “Close, but it’s her story to tell. She’s never disclosed it to anyone. Once she works through it with you, she’ll be ready to move on. This is part of the process for some of them, and it serves you, too. You’re going to encounter this in the future, so pay attention. If Tallulah divulges her past to you, you’ll understand far more of what’s going on here.”
I’m not sure I want to. “Cryptic, thanks. If that’s all you’ve got, I’m going to bed.”
It feels somewhat satisfying to slam the door on her.
13
Saturday morning arrives with the smell of brewing coffee, and Rosie’s grandmother hovering over me as I wake up.
“Geez!” I startle, clutching the blanket to my chest.
“Ysela is a perfectly proper name for the baby,” she insists, her face only inches from mine as she levitates. “I predicted this, you know!”
Ghosts have little concept of time or personal space. Best to play along with abuela or she’ll add to my already too-full plate. “You did?”
“I told her she would have a girl. It was in the last reading I did.”
Ysela Gomez-Estrada—Sela, to her friends—dropped dead of a heart attack at her psychic table at the Thorny Toad shortly after Thanksgiving. She’d had a bad ticker for years, according to Rosie, but the family was still shocked. Rosie always claimed she was too stubborn to do so and would probably outlive all of them.
I need caffeine in the worst way. “I’ll give her your message.” I sit up, rub my eyes, and swing my feet around to the floor. “Now, can I have some privacy?”
After I clean up, I softly call for Tallulah. Then I try Monroe. I even reach out to the baby, but no dice. In fact, the ghosts are all eerily quiet, as the sisters and I head downstairs to start the biggest day of the fair.
We grab breakfast from the buffet in the dining room. Rosie and Gloria greet us at the booth when we’re stuffed full.
Great. I need to deliver the message to Ros
ie, and Persephone told me to keep Gloria away.
“There’s a long line outside already.” Rosie bustles around, putting on her name tag and setting up the table for consultations.
I inquire how both she and Gloria feel this morning, and express that I’m a bit surprised my seamstress has returned after her experience.
Rosie waves me off, claiming she’s fine, and Gloria pats my hand. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Doc declared I’m healthy as can be.”
As Rosie and the sisters re-drape fabric over our arches and adjust the potted plants, Victoria breezes by.
“Victoria?” Rosie calls. “Can we have a few more chairs?”
She barely glances our way, gives a nod, and keeps going.
Gloria scans the pillars in the room and some of the artwork with a smile on her face. “I just love the architectural details. I dreamed about this place last night.” She squeezes my arm. “Plus, you’re up to six dress orders. I bet today you get even more. I can’t wait to swing into production!” A red and white tape measure hangs around her neck. “If I’m here, I can take the brides’ measurements, and that will help speed up production.”
I’m sure to Darinda, or any of the other bridal suppliers, that seems paltry. To me, it’s everything.
“We’re doing it,” I say to Gloria, and secretly to my Aunt Willa, who I owe all of this to. The grin on my face can’t be denied.
A young man with a camera bustles about, snapping pictures, and I see Victoria giving him instructions. He stops at our booth and asks if he can take a few to distribute to the local papers and online.
“Are you a wedding photographer?” I ask.
He nods. “I do freelance work.”
I gather everyone near the sign with our business name, and Rosie slides a mannequin next to me. “Make sure to get the gown.”
As he departs, Baldwin arrives with metal chairs. “Victoria said you needed these.” He begins unfolding them, and Penn and Jenn arrange them near our table. “Sleep okay?”
He seems to brace himself, as if fearing I’ll say no. I didn’t rest much at all, but the poor fellow pulls at my heartstrings. It can’t be easy to run a successful business that’s haunted when you don’t want it to be. He and his wife have been so gracious, and I appreciate that they tried to save the hotel. “Just fine, thank you. We enjoyed the popcorn.”
Across the way, I notice Victoria, Darinda, and Christine huddled in conversation. They stare in our direction and seem to be zeroed in on me.
Detective Jones arrives, Kalina handing him a cup of coffee as she greets him and whizzes on by. She shoots a glance at Baldwin that seems like a warning, and he hastily leaves with a, “Have a good day” to us.
He hustles out after his wife. The group of women converge on Jones. He stands a head taller than all of them, and I receive scrutiny from him.
Victoria checks her watch and breaks away. It must be time to open. Darinda and Christine return to man their booth.
I casually arrange a floral pot next to my sign. “What’s up?” I ask Darinda.
“Good morning to you, too.”
I grab one of the seats and slide it around so we can get at least four people at the table. Some of the groups coming in have that and more. “Excuse my poor manners. Good morning.”
“I was getting an update on Sal’s murder.” She motions at Christine to bring their business sign out front and center. “The detective told us there’s bruising on the back of Sal’s head that suggests he was knocked out by something hard.” She motions to the base of her skull, lowering her voice. “He also had a jagged cut here. Not deep, but Detective Jones is looking for another weapon.”
Something besides the shoe? That’s interesting. Must be why Sal didn’t have defensive wounds. Somebody bonked him, knocking him down. Then they used the heel to stab him. “Is it possible the killer was wearing the shoe?”
She shrugs.
It would make sense. They could’ve stomped on Sal’s neck, driving the stiletto into it.
I scan my memory, trying to recall any item backstage that night that was both hard enough to render him unconscious, and that might have a sharp edge to cause the wound.
I come up blank. Darinda is working on a jewelry display, and I have to move closer to her booth. “Did they get DNA from the shoe?”
People begin to file in, conversation and laughter ringing through the room. She doesn’t look at me, glancing toward the rush instead. “He didn’t say. Sorry, Ava, but we must get busy.”
The wave of brides descends on us. I’ll have to continue my investigation later.
14
I take orders for five more gowns, and Gloria measures and sizes each woman as we go.
Rosie only has to dash off once for the restroom, and as we come up for air a few hours later, she grabs her water bottle and a bag of crackers from her purse. “We’re nearly booked with consultations and events through fall. Can you believe it?”
Victoria has undoubtedly put on a successful fair for us, and I’m guessing for many of the other vendors as well. The management company she works for creates and runs these throughout the south. I imagine they’re only going to get bigger and better every year.
It’s been a good day, and it’s not over yet. I see a text from Logan, and I call to tell him the good news. He offers congratulations and invites me to dinner.
I can tell by his voice and the fact he’s hedging about where he’s taking me that he has something up his sleeve. Since it’s Valentine’s, I presume it’s a swanky venue. I agree to be ready for him to pick me up at seven, giving Rosie and me the chance to close and prep for our final day.
The enormity of that fact hits me all over again. I’m running out of time to help Tallulah, as well as figure out who killed Sal.
Using my phone, I do a search for her name. Her obituary is the first thing that pops up.
Gloria sits in a chair off to the side, looking as happy and tired as I am. She releases a big sigh. “Now I know why I’ve never attended one of these. That was an intense morning.”
The obit doesn’t mention any child, only her parents. I didn’t expect it to. It does, however, mention the famous hotel.
I fall down the rabbit hole, searching for info on Emanuele. More about the hotel surfaces, including the history surrounding it. There are articles spanning a timeframe from the opening to Tallulah’s death, and I’ll have to save most to read later.
Of course, there are seasonal Halloween write-ups about the hauntings. The owners before Baldwin and Kalina made quite a big deal about it, claiming that’s why they went bankrupt.
Gloria leans forward to read over my shoulder. “This place is a marvel. We should do a photoshoot here.” She claps her hands. “It’s perfect for your new line of flapper gowns.”
“I guess so,” I murmur, inwardly cringing at the idea of hanging out with the ghosts.
She stands, her focus a million miles away. “Have you walked through the courtyard? It’s so upscale, and the grand stairs—we could showcase all the dresses at once on the various steps, then do individual pictures.”
I chuckle at her enthusiasm. I’m not sure the reputation of a haunted hotel is what I want attached to my designs, but she’s right about the building also having an unmistakable nostalgic atmosphere. “I’ll speak to Baldwin and see if we can work something out. Outside of its reputation for being haunted, it actually could be a great destination wedding spot when you think about it. The Cross Vineyard is only five miles north, historic Thornhollow is within easy driving distance, and it’s only a few hours to Atlanta.”
Rosie nods. “That’s actually a great idea for an investor who has the money. Unfortunately, I don’t think Baldwin and Kalina do.”
“I’d get married here,” Jenn says. “I like the idea that it’s haunted. I think they should do ghost tours and deck it out at Halloween.”
“My father always told me to respect history and learn from it,” Gloria says, suggest
ing ghost tours are ridiculous. “I credit him for my love of old buildings. He sure would have gawked at the ornamentation here. Always had an eye for details when it came to architecture.”
Persephone pops in behind Gloria and points to her as the seamstress resumes her seat. I fumble around for a couple seconds, trying to understand my guardian angel’s antics and then my mind clicks. “Is your dad still alive?”
“I’m sorry to say he’s not. He passed some years ago. He was wounded in the Second World War, and the doctors couldn’t get all the shrapnel from his chest. I guess it finally moved the wrong way. I miss him every day.”
We offer condolences, and she looks wistfully at the nearby mannequin wearing the Ella dress. “That’s how he met my mother. She was a nurse in France and secretly part of the Resistance. They fell in love, but he was an American spy. Can you believe it? She didn’t know that about him, and he didn’t know her activities either. What a pair, all those secrets.” She tsks. “He couldn’t tell anyone his real name, and he was ordered home as soon as he was able to walk after his injuries healed. He thought he’d return to Paris once the war was over and find her, but when it ended, he had…issues. You know?” She makes a whirling motion with one finger at her temple. “I think he figured she was better off without him, so he didn’t contact her.”
“You mean… What did your mom call it?” Jenn asks me. “Shell shock?”
All kinds of connections are forming in my head. “Yes. PTSD.”
Penn and Jenn are fascinated, listening intently. “How did they end up together then?” Penn asks.
“She didn’t have his actual name, but she hunted him down.” Gloria laughs. “It took her nearly two years, but she did it. That’s my mother for you. Tenacious.”
Sounds like mine. “Did your dad ever visit this place to recover? Mama said there were men who did.”
Her brow furrows. “He never talked about the war or any of his life before he married ma mere. He kept it bottled up. Mama always said he suffered from the memories. Had nightmares. Things like fireworks could send him into a terrible state. My brother and I would sometimes hear him roaming the house at night, unable to sleep, but we weren’t allowed to talk about it. Not a word! He needed help, but I don’t believe he ever got any.”
Hearts & Haunts, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 3 Page 7
