by D. L. Wood
“And that’s what people think Lily’s ghost is looking for?”
“So the story goes, although my bet’s on pipes and the shifting of an old structure.”
“I agree, but I have to admit the fact that the sound stopped when I made a noise was unsettling. It is a great story, though. Quite a draw for the resort.”
“This exhibit was designed to play that up, take guests through the whole history from Harold Stone’s meager beginnings until the end. But”—she waved a hand across the space—“as you can see, it’s still a mess. There’s actually a plan for it all, and we’ve got the display cases and frames here and ready, but the woman curating the exhibit quit three days ago, and so now…” She threw her hands up, her brow furrowing. “I don’t know. We don’t have time to bring someone else in. I’ll probably have to just curtain it off until we can hire someone. I had hoped we could unveil it during our New Year’s Eve Ball.”
“Why’d she quit?”
Deidre sighed. “Just another chapter in the saga of disasters we’ve been dealing with. She’s eight months pregnant and somehow fell down one of the back staircases last week. She’s fine,” Deidre added quickly, obviously spying the look of shock Chloe felt blossoming on her face, though Deidre couldn’t sense the wave of sick rolling through her too. “And so is the baby,” Deidre added. “But she’s on bed rest now.”
A notion buzzed in Chloe’s mind as her gaze fell across the materials piled on the table. She’d been captivated by the story. In fact, she had so many more questions. Rags to riches. A tragic death. Missing jewels and tales of a ghost that couldn’t rest until they were found. She wanted to know more. And right now she could use a bit of distraction in her life.
“I could do it,” she said, hearing more excitement in her tone than she had intended.
“What?”
“The exhibit. I could finish it for you. I’ve got nothing else to do, and I love history. And this story is so enthralling. And these photographs”—she gestured at the vintage shots—“I’m a photographer by trade. A photojournalist. I write—well, wrote—for a travel magazine until just recently. If you’d be open to it, I’d love to take this on. Jack’s going to be busy writing all day, and, well…”
I’m talking too much. She’s going to think I’m crazy.
But instead Deidre grinned. “You’d want to do that?”
“Absolutely.”
Deidre’s eyes crinkled as a shadow of doubt crossed her face. “I don’t know. Mr. Bartholomew—Jack’s father—was pretty clear that this was supposed to be a relaxing vacation for the two of you.”
“What Mr. Bartholomew doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And I promise to let you pamper me some of the time. But I would like to take a stab at this.”
Deidre exhaled with relief. “If you’re sure, that would be an incredible help. The plans are all in here,” she said, thumbing through a stack until finding a binder. She handed it to Chloe. “You can call Tara to get up to speed. And I don’t want you sitting at this table all day until you finish. Feel free to take items to your room or other parts of the house, although I wouldn’t remove them from the house with the weather and—”
“No, of course not. I’ll be more than careful. Thank you, Deidre. I think this is going to be great.”
“Before you start, I’ll need to show you a few more things and, oh, I still haven’t given you the full tour of the house and grounds. Maybe we should do that first, and then you’ll have a better sense of the property.” Deidre’s phone trilled, and she answered it. “Deidre Nolan.” As she listened, her face grew ashen. “I’ll be right down,” she mumbled before disconnecting. Her stare rose to meet Chloe’s, sending a nervous flutter rippling over Chloe’s skin.
“What’s wrong?” Chloe asked.
Deidre swallowed hard as if trying to keep something down, then sucked in a lungful of air. “There’s been a death on the property.”
8
Nate Lewis lay on his back inside the outbuilding that stored the backup generator he had been complaining to the police about the day before, his eyes wide and gaze empty. He was sprawled next to what looked to Chloe like a small tractor with a huge scoop attached to the front, apparently stored there along with other landscaping equipment and tools. He wore the same pea coat and gray hat, though now both were stained with something dark.
Chloe had followed Deidre to the scene. She had expected Deidre to warn her off, but in racing to deal with the crisis, she must not have thought about it. So now Chloe, Deidre, and the groundskeeper who found Nate Lewis’s body stood inside the building, as close to the corpse as they dared. It was clear he was long gone.
Chloe glanced around the room. There were shelves stocking fertilizer, bags of soil, and a variety of supplies and sprays. A couple of electrical panels were affixed to one wall. She heard sirens in the distance, sounding as if they were nearing.
Paramedics and police, probably.
But Nate Lewis was far beyond a paramedic’s help now. Her gut curdled as her eyes raked over him.
She’d had enough of dead bodies for a lifetime.
And this poor man! Just yesterday he’d been boiling, railing at the injustices befalling the resort and his work, and now…
“Greg, what happened?” Deidre asked, her chest heaving as she drew heavy breaths. Running there in heels had taken its toll.
“I don’t know,” said the groundskeeper, dressed in jeans and a thick barn jacket, a plaid shirt peeking out at the collar. He looked to be in his mid-thirties with dark brown hair brushed up in a careless way. He sported a roughly-trimmed beard and mustache, the kind of rugged you might expect on an ad with lumberjacks in it. He ran a hand through his hair and blinked several times. “I told him I’d meet him over here this morning, help him with the last-minute things he felt needed to be done. I have a pretty good handle on the landscaping, so I thought I could help out, given all the problems we’ve been having.” He expelled a sigh. “I found him like this.” He pointed to the body. “I called 9-1-1 right off, but…” His voice faded, and Chloe suspected the pointlessness of an ambulance was apparent to everyone. “I checked for a pulse and there wasn’t one.” His eyes narrowed, as he seemed to register Chloe for the first time. “Who’s this?”
“Chloe Bartholomew. She’s an early guest,” Deidre said, her voice hollow. “Chloe, this is Greg Prater. He and his wife Vanessa are the head groundskeeper and stable manager.”
Greg took a step back. “Bartholomew, as in, Bartholomew Hotels?”
“My husband is Jack Bartholomew, and his father owns the company, yes, but Jack doesn’t work for it. We’re just here for”—it seemed ridiculous saying this now, standing over Nate Lewis’s corpse—“an anniversary trip.”
“Uh, Deidre,” Greg said, “maybe we should have Ms. Bartholomew head back to the house? She doesn’t need to be here for this.”
“You’re right, oh, good grief,” Deidre said, turning toward Chloe. “I don’t know what I was thinking. She was helping me with the gallery exhibit, and I was explaining the legend and the treasure—”
The wail of the sirens grew louder until their blaring and the sound of gravel crunching made it clear help had arrived. Seconds later, two paramedics rushed in and dropped beside the body, followed by two sheriff’s deputies. Chloe recognized one of the deputies, the tall male, from the day before. The other, another male, was new.
“Who found the body?” The deputy from yesterday asked. His name tag read, “P. Collier.”
“I did,” Greg volunteered, his voice low and gruff as he raised a solitary finger.
The paramedic who had been searching for a pulse looked up. He shook his head, signaling the worst.
“You have any idea what happened?” Deputy Collier asked Greg.
“I know exactly what happened,” Greg said, fire in his words. “Look at this wheel loader bucket.” He pointed to the huge metal scoop attached to the tractor-like vehicle, where a dark brown stain a few inch
es in length crusted its edge, dried drip marks stretching down from it. “Right there’s the murder weapon. And your murderer’s Patrick Kingsford.”
“Dead, Jack.” Chloe leaned against the desk in the study in the east wing of the house where Jack had been holed up since breakfast, working on his novel.
He reclined in the old-fashioned wooden desk chair, and it creaked with his weight as he tilted back to get a better look at her. Behind him, built-in cabinets held decades-old leather-bound tomes as well as random pieces, like plaster busts, a stuffed owl, a collection of knives, and an arrangement of dried flowers. The deep red-brown of the wood paneling lent a masculine feel to the room, and Chloe was sure that in its day it had been reserved for the men of the house to do business, relax, or both.
Jack rocked forward and took her hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over her skin as she related the events. “They said Nate Lewis had likely been dead for hours. The deputies interviewed all of us, even though I’d only gone down with Deidre because I was with her when she got the call. The deputies let me leave pretty quickly, but by that time the New York State Police had shown up. I think their detectives are going to be handling the case. They’ve cordoned the area off. There’s yellow tape around the outbuilding and markers inside. Their crime scene unit showed up too, dusting and taking photographs of everything. I don’t know how Deidre’s going to keep this from affecting the opening. Even if they remove all signs of the investigation, it’s all anybody will be talking about.”
“Do they have any suspects?”
“The groundskeeper, Greg, is one hundred percent positive that Patrick Kingsford did it.”
“That’s the guy building the resort across the river, right? That seems far-fetched.”
“Just like Nate, Greg’s pretty sure Kingsford has been behind all the mishaps that have plagued Stonehall. And Greg says that last night Nate told him he was going to have it out with Kingsford one way or another.”
Jack pulled Chloe into his lap, lifted a hand to her cheek, and kissed her. “How are you doing? Are you okay?” His tone was loaded with concern. “That had to be awful. Seeing him like that.” He brushed a hair from her forehead.
Chloe shrugged. “I’m fine.” The truth was, it had been awful. “It’s not the first dead body I’ve seen.”
Jack groaned. “No. But I’d hoped you’d seen the last of those for a lifetime.” He watched her carefully. “You know, we could leave. We don’t have to stay. This isn’t what we bargained for. We can book something in the city—”
“No. I don’t want to go.” She was surprised to find that she meant it. Nate’s death was a horrible thing. She had already inquired about his family and how they might be able to help. She committed herself to praying for them. But she didn’t feel she and Jack should leave. It wouldn’t change anything, and they needed this time away. Moving somewhere else would only complicate things and eat up their time. Besides, she had been sucked in by the estate’s legend and its century-old mystery, not to mention the gallery exhibit, which she was genuinely looking forward to working on. She needed something to dig into, and her gut told her this was it.
“You’re sure?” he pressed, his eyebrows rising.
“I’m sure. You’re settled in, already writing—”
“Trying to write. But I’m not getting very far. I’m just missing that, I don’t know, bit of inspiration, I guess.”
At that, Chloe almost smiled, but fought it back. She had a surprise planned for Jack and somehow had managed to keep it a secret. If she was right, it would do a lot to help him on his way to making his book exactly what he wanted it to be. “If we stay, I know you’ll find the inspiration you need,” she said, injecting confidence into her words and squeezing his arm while resting her head on his shoulder. “Just give it time. And now, with the exhibit, I’ve got something to keep me busy too.”
Apprehension clouded Jack’s features, drawing his brows together. His arms stiffened around her. “I thought we were avoiding busy? I thought you needed some down time. You’re not planning on getting involved in this thing, are you? They don’t need your help solving Nate Lewis’s murder. Not that you could help anyway, and it seems they’ve got it well under control given that Deidre said all is moving forward as planned. The grand opening is still on for New Year’s Eve, right? They’re still having the ball?”
“So she said. And, no. I’m not planning on getting involved in solving a murder.”
Jack kissed the top of her head. “Good.”
“At least”—she leaned the full weight of her body against him—“not that murder.”
9
I’m running out of time. There’s no time.
The thought reverberated inside like a tuning fork struck against metal, driving rage and alarm equally deep into the bones, nerves firing mercilessly.
Lewis had been a disaster. His death gave credence to what had previously been mere suspicion. Now, the pressure would mount to undermine things without drawing attention in the wrong direction.
On top of that, there weren’t simply guests at the resort now. There were guests that were prying. Chloe Bartholomew was another set of eyes where none were welcome. Watchful and in the way.
What’s more, even after Nate Lewis’s death, the grand opening was still on. If that happened, then it would all be over. Unless…
Unless history repeated itself.
10
The horse whinnied as Chloe reached up to run a hand along the bridge of its chestnut nose. The curious animal hadn’t needed any coaxing when she had walked up to its stall, accompanied by Greg Prater, who was giving her a tour of the stable. The structure itself was impressive, with ten stalls on each side filled with pine shavings for the nearly twenty horses owned by the resort.
Greg explained that the renovation and expansion of the original stable had been completed within the last year. Light-stained wood walls brightened the space. The same material comprised the bottom half of each stall door. The top of each door was made of scrolled wrought iron to allow for a full view in and out, convenient for both caretakers and animals. The brass plaque on this stall read “Crocker.”
“Crocker’s a quarter horse, like the majority of the horses here,” Greg said. “Easiest to ride, the friendliest breed for strangers. We’ve got a couple of thoroughbreds, too, for the more experienced riders, and two ponies for any kids who come to stay.” Just then a little boy and girl appeared at the far end of the barn, running toward them, each carrying a single bunch of carrots.
“Mom told us we could feed the horses,” the girl blurted out as they drew close. She had long dirty-blond hair and hazel eyes. The boy had matching eyes and the same color hair, but a shorter mop of it. He grabbed the girl’s arm before she reached Chloe and Greg, dragging her to a stop.
“Shh, Molly. Dad’s with someone.” They stood about a dozen feet from Crocker’s stall now. The boy looked up at Greg from beneath long lashes.
The girl had adopted a sheepish expression.
Chloe felt the corner of her mouth twitch up. I’d bet a hundred dollars they’re twins.
“Come here, you two,” Greg called, squatting to the children’s level so that when they stepped up, he could put his arms around them.
“I told them to wait,” a voice called out, and for the first time Chloe noticed a woman, tall with auburn, almost red hair pulled high in a messy bun, wispy pieces escaping in all directions. She also wore a barn jacket, but hers was paired with a black turtleneck and khakis.
“Don’t worry about it,” Greg said as she drew near. “This is Chloe Bartholomew. Her family owns the estate. I was just showing her around.”
Chloe blinked, embarrassment tweaking her insides. My family owns the estate? It was technically true but somehow didn’t feel right. “My husband’s family owns it,” she corrected. “Well, their company does anyway. We’re just here for a little relaxation.”
Greg rose. “This is my wife, Vanessa, and our twins,
Molly and Ben.”
“Nice to meet you,” Chloe said, extending a hand to Vanessa, then directing herself to the children. “And you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” the children replied in unison.
Chloe chuckled, and the children’s faces widened in worry. “Oh no,” she said, bending down to them. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m a twin, too, and hearing you talk at the same time reminded me of my brother.” Their expressions eased. “You have very good manners. I’m sure your parents are very proud.”
“We are,” Vanessa said. “In fact, they’ve been so good today,” she explained, glancing at Chloe, “that I told them they could bring the carrots.”
“Get to it, then,” Greg said, patting the children on their backs. They ran off, each taking one side of the stable.
“They love the animals,” Vanessa said, “and they’re great incentives for securing good behavior and getting schoolwork done when we aren’t on a break. We homeschool them during the year,” she clarified.
“I know I would’ve done better in school if I’d had this kind of reward dangled in front of me,” Chloe replied. “So, I understand from Deidre that you two were here before Bartholomew Hotels bought the resort?”
“We were,” Greg said. “It was a run-down mess and the bank needed someone to maintain the property while they actively searched for a buyer. I don’t know if Deidre told you, but it’s got quite a history of being passed from owner to owner, in and out of various states of disrepair.”
“We haven’t gotten into that part of the estate’s history,” Chloe explained. “She was just filling me in on the Lily Stone legend when she got the call about Nate Lewis.”
Vanessa frowned. “I’m devastated about that. I really liked Nate. I know he was full of bluster and could lose his temper, but it wasn’t without cause. Especially with the things that have been happening here.”
