“Who knows? Whatever fever was in season at the time. Six months later, Ariel disappears without a trace from the front yard of this inn during a terrible storm, probably much like the one we are having today. Well, Gilbert inherits the place. But he doesn’t stay around. Distraught about losing his wife and step-daughter and claiming that the inn was a curse to him, Gilbert sells the hotel and its property to my great, great grandparents. People say that Gilbert moved back to his ancestral turf in Massachusetts. Great Barrington, I think it was, or so the story goes.”
“And Ariel’s ghost?”
Hograve’s tone lightened up. “Well, according to family lore, the ghost was first seen just before Thanksgiving time in the very year that my great, great grandparents took over the inn. My grandmother told me that my great, great grandmother was making pickled beet salad in the old kitchen for the holiday, when little Ariel’s ghost surprised her. So frightened, was my dear old great granny that she screamed and slopped beet juice on herself. My great, great granddad then came rushing in to find his wife crying hysterically and dripping with beet juice. He thinks that the woman had cut her hand off, and he has a mild heart attack on the spot.”
“Really.”
“That’s what they say. And ever since that time, my family never has beet salad at Thanksgiving. Yes, Ariel has been seen haunting our halls for years, ever since. Her last visit was last week, in the cellar, below the old kitchen area, where she and my great ancestor first met.”
“The old kitchen?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s where the dining room is now, where you had breakfast. It seems that our little Ariel mostly prefers that end of the house. It was in that room, in fact, that my great granny found the Eddy's family bible with a lock of Ariel’s hair in it.”
I’m sure the chill, which suddenly scampered up my back must have been from a newly opened door or window somewhere in the building.
My momentary discomfort must have been observed, because of the way Mr. Hograve asked me, “Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. MacKenzie?”
“Ah, yes, there’s this. Mrs. Prosper asked me to ask you to have housekeeping go to her room before ten o’clock.” Then it came to me. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know her room number. I forgot to ask her what it was.”
“Don’t worry. I know where she is. Mrs. Prosper is almost always in room 247 in our north wing. But there is a good chance that I may have to move her to the central part of the building. The storm has knocked out our electricity, which powers the oil burner. And if we don't go back online, we’ll be forced to use our backup generator. And if we do that, to conserve fuel, we’ll have to close part of the inn and relocate people to rooms in the main part of the building.”
From behind me, I heard the din of incessant chatter approaching.
“ . . . My Fred always watched how much salt he ate. When we drove to North Carolina one summer, I think it was in 1978, or maybe it was 1979 . . No, it was 1978 because Fred and I purchased our new blue car, and our trip was a test run, so to speak. Anyway, we ordered some local ham at a roadside restaurant. It was the saltiest ham I have ever eaten. I said to Fred, ‘Do you think the ham is salty?’ Fred said something to the effect, if I remember correctly . . . he said it tasted a little salty to him too. The ham, he said, reminded him of something he had eaten while he was overseas, when he was in the army. During the war, people didn’t worrying about salt like people do nowadays. So, when the young waitress who suggested that we order the ham returned to refill our coffees, I said to her, ‘This ham is very salty —’”
“Good morning, Dr. MacKenzie,” acknowledged Hograve. “It’s a bad day to do laundry, wouldn’t you say Mrs. Prosper?”
“Very much so,” the old woman replied. “I’ve never seen it rain so hard.”
“Richard, Mrs. Prosper and I were wondering where you were.”
I turned around to Morgana, who then rolled her eyes and slightly twitch her head in Prosper’s direction. I smiled back at the two women with one of those smiles that could be interpreted in a myriad of ways. “I was just talking to Mr. Hograve here.”
“This must be the worst storm in decades,” continued Mrs. Prosper without skipping a beat from her enlightening discourse about the excessive use of salts in cured meats. “Mr. MacKenzie, have you mentioned to Simon about sending housekeeping to my room?”
Always sensitive to my easily bruised ego, as she puts it, Morgana diplomatically interrupted her garrulous escort and added, “And has Dr. MacKenzie also mentioned that our breakfast was superb, Mr. Hograve. My husband, Dr. Mackenzie, has a real thing for western omelets.”
It may seem petty, but I had my doctorate several years before Morgana claimed hers. It’s a peeve I have, and she knows it. It usually manifests itself in the company of her friends and colleagues who seem to regard me as Morgana’s good-natured, but not too bright husband. A person who couldn’t do more for himself than to teach high school for thirty something years.
“And, about housekeeping to my room?” asked Mrs. Prosper.
“Yes, I have told Mr. Hograve about your housekeeping request, Mrs. Prosper. And no, Love, not yet,” I turned to Hograve. “Breakfast was delicious; my western was tastiest one that I’ve had in years. There was something familiar yet exotic about it.”
I again turned to face Mrs. Prosper and Morgana. “But Mr. Hograve and I were talking about the power outage, and if it is prolonged, Mr. Hograve fears that Mrs. Prosper may have to move into the central part of the hotel.”
“That would be absolutely horrid, Simon,” sparked Mrs. Prosper.
“I assure you, Mrs. Prosper, that we will move you only if necessary. And if we do move you, it will be for your safety and comfort. The Whyte Post Inn couldn’t have one of its most treasured guests go wandering around its halls in the dark or sleep in an unheated room. If we do move you, would you like that we put you in the V.I.P. suite right next door to the MacKenzies, at no extra cost?”
“Well, if I must switch rooms, that would be very good of you. Thank you, Simon. But only if you must, you understand.”
Hearing Hograve’s emergency plan fell on me like a prison sentence. A sudden flash of lightning and crash of thunder overhead served to underscore my feelings of dread.
“Thunder in October?” Morgana uttered bemusedly — just loud enough to be heard. “That’s a little odd.”
“The clash of two air masses that have widely variant temperatures,” I said. “This would explain the harsh winds too.”
“So, you are a doctor of meteorology?” asked Mrs. Prosper.
“No, I’m afraid I’m not. I have my degrees in literature, specifically in — ”
“Mr. Hograve, come quickly!”
A middle-aged olive skinned woman from the housekeeping staff stood at the top of the inn’s grand wooden staircase. She yelled down in a boarding school accent. “Come quickly. It’s Mr. Foley in room 245 . . . He’s hurt very badly. He’s choking . . . dying. Hurry!”
“What happened, Arezoo?” asked Hograve, who was by this time on my side of the desk and running to the stairway. “Is anyone with him?”
“Consuelo is with him. Oh, please, come quickly.”
In that confusing moment, the three gentlemen that I spotted earlier suddenly emerged from the breakfast area into the lobby, and the taller of the bunch asked, “Room 245?”
“Room 245 is next door to my room,” added Mrs. Prosper.
Halfway up the stairs, Hograve shouted, “What happened?”
“I think Mr. Foley tried to hang himself,” replied Arezoo. “Hurry, please. Consuelo is with Mr.Foley by herself.”
At times, human behavior can be exemplary. Morgana flashed out her cell phone in the vain hope to catch a signal and call for outside assistance. Mrs. Prosper blathered on by asking no one in particular if she could offer any assistance. Without thinking, I dashed upstairs, closely trailed by the rest of the men folk in the lobby. We all followed Hograve, who was first up
the staircase, and headed down the north wing hallway to Foley's room.
My first glimpse of room 245 was of a fairly tall, hefty Latino woman. Her arms, like two elongated eye-rounds roasts wearing welder gloves, that were wrapped around the midriff of a naked late-middle-aged man who slumped over and entangled in a morass rope netting by his neck. The decorative trawler net hung down from the rafter and lashed to the vertical support from where it flowed to the floor as if it were a drape or curtain. It was in the netting that was gathered and tied to the room’s support beam that Mr. Foley had somehow lodged his head.
“Thank the Lord, Mr Hograve that you are here. Mr Foley is heavy,” said Consuelo now sharing her heavy burden with her boss.
I fished my pocket knife out from my pants pocket, and with my two and a half inches of steel, I slashed at the offending network of ropes which were twisted tightly around Mr. Hograve’s dangling guest’s throat. In a matter of seconds, Mr. Foley was free from the seafaring noose. Hograve, Consuelo, and one guy of the three men from the lobby set Foley gently down on the floor. Hograve removed the last remnants of the netting from Foley’s and checked for breathing. Consuelo quickly grabbed the blanket from the bed and covered the poor guy’s nakedness.
“Charles . . . what happened? . . . Don’t move. We’ll get help.” One of the gentleman who followed me, went to Foley’s and knelt by his balding head. With the aplomb of a CEO, the stranger assumed command of the situation. “Somebody, please call for medical help,” he shouted.
There were a series of unexpected flashes of light. Was somebody actually taking photos, I wondered?
“Sorry. It's a new phone new. And there is still no signal up here,” said someone unseen from the hall.
“The land lines are dead too,” Hograve followed.
People had by then gathered by the doorway, some of the staff, the other two gentlemen in suits and Morgana. Standing next to her was a somewhat frail middle age woman from the inn’s housekeeping staff who reminded me of a frightened Irish Setter. She appeared to be more distressed than the rest of the uniformed staffers that were present. Her lips were pulled tight across her teeth. Her right hand, clenched into a fist, banged against her thigh in hard rhythms.
“The little one loved her mother.” Foley gasped sharply; all eyes about the room were focused on him. “She’s here.”
Lying on his back, Foley slowly raised his right hand with considerable effort and pointed at the doorway. “The little girl . . . that little girl. She knows. She knows everything, nnn . . . now. She wants revenge. She is our ruin. She has . . . .” That is all Foley said. With one harsh throated gurgling sound, his eyes rolled back and became quite still.
Everyone’s eyes turned to where Morgana and the nervous woman stood and then back to Foley’s lifeless body. No little girl was to be seen. The male stranger who was obviously acquainted with Mr.Foley was oblivious that his friend’s spirit had vacated the premises. Insistently and aggressively, he asked, “What little girl? What do you mean?”
A familiar and irritating voice penetrated the susurrous sounds of the room. “He meant Ariel Eddy.”
Mrs. Prosper entered the room whose addition to the scene made a busy elevator look spacious. “I heard Ariel crying outside this room sometime before dawn this morning.”
The stranger raised his gaze from his dead friend to the faces gathering around him. “Who is this Ariel? Where is she?” The fellow looked down again at Foley. “Why would she want to harm Charles?”
It’s astonishing at times how much deference society gives to old folks for no other reason than that they are old. With cell phone in hand, Mrs. Prosper had effortlessly melted through the knot of people and stopped by the body at my feet.
“As Mr. Hograve knows, Ariel comes and goes as she pleases.” Mrs. Prosper asserted without a trace of doubt in her assessment of the situation as if she were the visiting Sibyl from Delphi. “You see, Ariel has been dead for over a century. And for some reason, Ariel’s ghost must have wanted your friend to be with her.”
Whether it was out of politeness, or out of pure dumbfoundedness the room became quiet upon hearing Mrs. Prosper’s hypothesis of paranormal malfeasance. Only the howling wind and crashing rain could be heard.
But the deferential silence quickly burnt itself out as Foley’s acquaintance’s face turned red. He had the look that he was about to say something very unpleasant, but before he could get a syllable out of his mouth, fate played another prank on me.
“Oh my, ghosts! That doesn’t bode well.” That alto voice from the hallway was all too familiar to me and sent a shudder deep into my soul. The spell cast by Foley’s demise was broken. All eyes wheeled in the direction of the approaching figure. A reaction, I’m sure that tickled the ego of the new arrival.
As Bo came into Foley’s room, our eyes locked. We had crossed paths before in another time, in another place — usually hers. Her habit of a dramatic entrance hadn’t diminished after all these years. If anything, her familiar ploy had become even more refined. With her gun-metal gray, pixie cut hair, this fifty, eh . . . plus-year-old had come back into my life with all the impact of a returning cancer. Walking between Morgana and the nervous Irish Setter looking woman, my old acquaintance had the effect to make the timorous woman appear even more skittish and insignificant than she was. And I dare say, she made Morgana look a bit chunky and unkept.
With every step, Bo’s open, long black coat flashed glimpses of her trim figure beneath. Wearing form fitting dress-jeans, black leather boots, with a practical heel, and a tailored taupe blouse, Bo deftly captured the attention of the room away from the fallen Foley on the floor. Her smug self-confidence oozed out of her from every pore.
“Let’s get this under wraps,” announced my ex-girlfriend. She reached into an inner coat pocket, and, with a minimum of tussle, produced an official ID for all in the room to see. “I am Special Agent Serena Boswell. I am from the Office of Criminal Investigations of the FDA.”
#
CHAPTER 2
By force of her personality, aided by the authority of her badge, and the presence of a gun on her hip, Bo took charge of the situation. I watched and listened as she went on questioning the people in the room with her signature mix of charm, sarcasm, and intimidation in her voice. Yep, she hadn’t changed a bit; she was the same old Bo — always making an impression, always wanting things done her way, and always getting what she wanted . . . well, almost always.
From what I could see, time had been more than kind to Bo. In fact, it had been downright magnanimous. My old college paramour appeared be in the peak of health. Her baby blues were as bright and alluring as I remember them, and her skin was as youthful as a forty-year-old’s. If she gained a couple of pounds over the years, I couldn’t see where she hid them. Bo was something to behold; it was almost scary. I even toyed with the idea that must be an ugly portrait of her hidden away in an attic somewhere.
Bo wasted no time. She removed her coat, nonchalantly handed it to Consuelo, and went to examine Foley. As she went about her business, it was impossible for me, or, for that matter, I think any other male in the room, not to notice Bo’s clinging blouse. The damp, temporarily translucent shirt revealed a form beneath it that would make any fashion model proud, make any man enraptured and make any woman envious.
Ignoring me and acting quite officiously, Bo did what she did best; she took control. Ordering everyone to stand clear of the body, she first inspected the ropes from which Foley hung. When she finished, Bo dropped down to the floor. Moving about on her hands knees, she used a mechanical pencil as a probe to examine Foley’s body — first his neck, then his eyes and face, and, finally, everything below his waist.
“He is definitely dead,” Bo sarcastically commented loud enough for all in the room to hear and continued her investigation.
It was then that I began to feel . . . well, not quite right — troubled. With all the propriety of a drunken circus clown at a Presbyterian elder’s
wake, a whirlwind of inappropriate memories and embarrassing fantasies began to awaken in me. I desperately needed a mental diversion, and I needed it fast. My diversion sprang from a shared philosophical position that my ex and I had. Neither Bo nor I have ever subscribed to the convenience of coincidence. So, the question to ponder was — why was she here?
As I considered possible answers, Morgana came to me and took my hand. “Richard, are you okay? Maybe we should leave.”
At the time, my wife had no idea about Agent Boswell’s connection with me; otherwise, she would have bombarded me with questions that would not be about my health.
“You, don’t look well. You had a shock,” Morgana said as she cuddled my arm.
I said that I was just fine and added, “I think I should stay. I may be of some help.”
“You? You want to help?” said Morgana with more disbelief in her voice than surprise.
“If the Agent Boswell needs some assistance, I won’t mind helping out,” I said as matter-of-factly as I could.
Morgana gave me a curious look.
Something inside me prevented me from blurting that I really wanted to stay so I could find out why my ex-girlfriend was here at the inn. I couldn’t let go of the idea that Bo’s presence wasn’t just happenstance. Something was up, and I needed to know what.
“You, actually want to help?” asked Morgana.
I nodded and watched Bo slink about the floor on all fours. What she was looking for, God only knew.
“If I can,” I said, innocently.
I don’t think Morgana bought my sudden burst of volunteerism, but she didn’t challenge me directly. Instead, she tried a different tact; she played on my good nature. “Richard, this is no place for Mrs. Prosper. She ought to be looked after. Mr. Foley's death must be upsetting to her.”
“Well, I think it is upsetting to everyone here. Look at Hograve,” I said pointing in his direction, “if he gets any more rattled, I believe he’ll lose all the hair on his head. And look at Foley's, friends, why they must be — ” My thoughts went off track. What I suddenly saw in the faces of the dead man’s associates wasn’t grief or sadness. It wasn’t even shock. It was something else.
FATED TO THE PURPOSE (Richard and Morgana MacKenzie Mysteries Book 2) Page 3
