“I guess Wilson could have faked the picture.” She addressed the dog, who’d positioned himself so that his eyes and nose stuck out from his hidey-hole. “Putting an old-time barroom piano player in front of a piano can’t be much more difficult than sticking some fries beside a fish fillet.” Finn gave a soft “woof” of agreement.
“But that would mean that Conrad Wilson himself was a fake. That he never did capture any pictures of ghosts with his camera. That the Wilson cousins and the Morgans and the book agent are all barking up the wrong tree.”
“Woof?” Finn asked.
“Not that kind of barking.” She fed the poster-sized layout into the printer and waited while the colorful sheets processed. “Not bad,” she said, holding one up at arm’s length. “Is the print big enough?” Finn didn’t reply. She pulled a small plastic container of pushpins from the top drawer of the desk, carried the poster to the closed bedroom door, securing it with pins at all four corners, then viewed it from across the room. “Good enough,” she proclaimed, and began printing out the same information on one hundred letter-sized flyers.
“Did it just get cold in here?” Maureen rubbed her arms, much the way Ted had when they’d held the planning session in this room. “All of a sudden I’m freezing.”
Finn whined, pulling his head back under the kneehole, hiding eyes and nose from view. Maureen looked back at the poster on the bedroom door. “I swear, Finn, as soon as I touched that door, the temperature in here began to drop. “How can that be?”
She didn’t wait for, or expect, an answer. Jake had asked about changes in the temperature when they’d been talking about ghosts. She hadn’t wanted to consider it then, and she still didn’t. Hurriedly gathering up the posters and flyers, she pulled the door to the corridor open and left the office. The golden was way ahead of her. She hit the UP button on the elevator, where again, the dog hurried inside, seemingly anxious to get away from suite twenty-seven. She unlocked the penthouse door, let Finn inside, put one of the posters and a few flyers on the coffee table, and, promising the animals she’d be back soon, returned to the elevator. It stopped on the second floor, where Maureen was pleased to share the gracious brass-and-wood and etched-glass confines with the inn’s newest guests, Trent and Pierre.
“Going down to dinner?” she asked.
“We’ve already enjoyed dinner. We’re going back for a nice Irish coffee,” Trent said. “The pot roast was marvelous.”
She handed him a flyer from the top of the pile. “Good. Here’s tomorrow’s special. Maybe you’ll be tempted to spend another night with us.”
“Maybe we will,” Pierre said. “Will you join us now for an Irish coffee, Ms. Doherty?”
“Maybe later,” she said, lifting the stack of papers higher. “First I have to get these into the right hands.” The men headed into the dining room while Maureen opened the green door and stepped out onto the porch. The evening was pleasant, with a scent of night-blooming jasmine in the air. The tinkle of the player piano drifted from tall windows. Maureen was pleased to see that Sam and George were each in their usual chairs. So were Molly and Gert.
“Good evening, all,” she said. “Here are the advertisements for tomorrow’s dinner. Can you gents get them spread around town by tomorrow morning? You’ll be on the clock of course.”
“Sure. We’ll all do it,” Molly said. “Many hands make light the work. Come on, it’s a nice night for stroll around town, and we’ll get these in the right places tonight when there’s plenty of foot traffic.”
Maureen realized that Molly’s suggestion meant that all four of them would be “on the clock” and this would add to the already-stretched-thin advertising budget, but she didn’t object. Molly was right about the evening foot traffic.
“Everybody loved it,” Gert said. “I’ll bet we’ll get repeat visitors tomorrow.” Maureen was sure that Gert was probably right about that, and decided on the spot that she’d take the decorators up on that Irish coffee if they offered again. Stopping in the lobby long enough to remove the pot roast poster from the easel, she replaced it with the blackened grouper advertisement. Carrying a few of the remaining flyers, she pushed open the louvred doors to the dining room. Shelly offered her a menu, which she declined. Elizabeth was nowhere in sight. Maureen was delighted to see, though, that the vintage Halloween decorations had already been placed on each table and that little battery-powered tea lights twinkled in each one. The effect was even better than Maureen had anticipated. She’d be sure to thank the woman for the special effort.
Pierre and Trent had apparently made friends with the Flannagans, and now the four shared a table. There were only a few customers seated at the bar, and Maureen chose a seat at the far end, hoping there’d be time to talk with Ted. As they’d agreed earlier, there was still a lot of planning to do.
Ted’s smile said that he was happy to see her. “You came back. Good. Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’ve been thinking all evening about a nice hot Irish coffee. Can do?”
“One of my specialties. Had a little run on them tonight. That table over there.” He gestured toward the Flannagans and friends.
“I know.” She watched as he preheated a handled mug with hot water. “That’s where I got the idea.” Almost in one smooth motion, he poured steaming hot coffee, stirred in brown sugar, added a healthy slug of Irish whiskey, and topped it with a swirl of whipped cream.
“Here you go,” he said. “Sláinte.”
“Sláinte agatsa!” she replied, lifting the mug, pleased that he’d used the ancient Irish toast she’d so often heard from her own grandfather. “Watching you mix this is as much fun as drinking it. You make it look like some kind of sleight-of-hand magic trick.”
“No magic,” he said. “Like anything else. Just takes years of practice. Did you get all your work done?”
She tapped the pile of flyers, offering him one. “I did. I brought a few for you to hand out. Like it?”
“I do. Good work.”
“I haven’t seen Officer Hubbard lately. Did he finally go away?” She glanced around the room. “Or is he still lurking around?”
“He’s out of my kitchen, finally,” Ted said. “Last time I saw him he was having a conversation with the ghost hunter lady. Mrs. Morgan.”
“I ran into her earlier in the guest laundry. She was quite weepy. Maybe he upset her.”
“Could be. I saw her crying the night Wilson died, after Elizabeth waylaid her and her husband after they got Wilson’s autograph.”
“Elizabeth did that?” Maureen was surprised. “Must have happened after I went outside.”
“Oh yeah. She lit right into the two of them. Elizabeth doesn’t like anyone bothering the guests. They’d almost made it to the door when she got right up in their faces. Looked from here like a little shoving match was going on. Mrs. Morgan was swinging that big gold bag and Elizabeth was swatting back at her with a rolled-up menu and Mr. Morgan was trying to get between them.” He chucked softly. “Most everyone else was looking at the sparkler in Wilson’s drink, but from where I stood it was like watching a Three Stooges routine. Elizabeth finally laid off when Mrs. Morgan started crying. Oh, excuse me. Gotta work.” Ted moved away, putting coasters on the bar, drawing two draft beers for a pair of new customers with the same kind of graceful, fluid motion he’d used in preparing Maureen’s coffee.
The barstools began to fill up after that, and there was little time for more conversation between the two. Maureen had finished her Irish coffee when Trent appeared at her side. “Won’t you come over and join us, Ms. Doherty? Pierre and I have just about fallen in love with this place and we’d love to talk to you about some decorating ideas we have—if you won’t be offended.”
“I wouldn’t be offended one bit, Trent,” she said. “I’d love to hear your suggestions. But I’m afraid that right now, my budget for improvements is zip. Nada.”
“There’s always tomorrow to look forward to,” he said. “Come have c
offee with us anyway, won’t you?”
“I’d love to,” she said, and followed Trent to the table. Free decorating advice from a couple of professionals? Why not?
Ethel and Dick Flannagan had left for home, so Maureen had Trent and Pierre to herself, and looked forward to hearing about any ideas for the Haven House Inn they might offer—even if it might be months, years, before she could put them into practice.
The two had already ordered another Irish coffee for her and Shelly delivered it just as soon as she sat down. “Thank you both so much,” she said.
“Our pleasure.” The men spoke in unison.
“First of all,” Pierre began, “we have to admit that we have a teensy favor to ask.”
“Okay.” Maureen spoke hesitantly. “What can I do for you?”
Trent reached into his pocket. “It has to do with this,” he said, and placed a key on the table. Maureen recognized the brown plastic fob, exactly like the one on her own key. At first, she thought it was one of the souvenirs Elizabeth sold at the reception desk. But this one was different. It was heavier, a darker brown, a little more worn looking, than the new ones. She reached for it. Touched it. “This is old,” she said. “It’s one of the keys they used here years ago. Where in the world did you get it?”
“It’s the reason we came here,” Pierre said. “At first we were going to stay at the airport Hilton as usual, but then Trent’s mother died.” He looked at his friend.
“I’m so sorry,” Maureen murmured, turning the key over. Taking a closer look. The lettering said HAVEN HOUSE INN. The address and phone number followed. What held her attention was the suite number the key bore. “Suite twenty-seven.” She gave Trent a questioning look.
“This was in my mom’s things,” he said. “When we planned this trip, I looked up the inn online, not expecting it to be here after so many years. We knew right away we’d stay here.”
“Of course,” Maureen said. “A little sentimental journey side trip.”
“More than that,” Pierre said.
Chapter 31
“We told you we were going to ask for a teensy favor,” Trent said, “and we are, but first I think I need to tell you exactly why we came to stay here in the first place.”
“Yes,” Maureen said. “Go ahead.”
“This key.” He held it up, holding it by the fob so that the key itself turned slightly, reflecting the tea-light candle in the papier-mâché pumpkin centerpiece
“This little key,” Trent said again, “was important to my mother. Mom never married. She was, as they say these days, ‘an unwed mother.’ She never denied it. I don’t believe she was ever ashamed of the fact. All she ever told me about my parentage was that I was conceived in love in a beautiful little town in Florida. That my father was a soldier. That his first name was Trent. That he had died in Vietnam before I was born.” Trent paused, wiped his eyes.
Pierre took up the story. “Martha died several months ago,” he said. “She’d been ill for almost a year. She knew her time was nearly over. We were both with her the night before she went. She gave this key to Trent, told him this was all she had of his father. She said she had seen the light—that she would be going to the light soon—and that she knew the love of her life would be waiting for her there.”
Maureen reached for Trent’s hand. “That’s a beautiful story, Trent, and I’m glad you’re here. Tell me what the favor is. If it’s something I can do for you, I’ll certainly do it.”
Trent spoke again. “When we checked in, of course we asked for suite twenty-seven. The woman at the desk, Elizabeth, said that those rooms had been converted to office space and were not available to the public. We asked if we could just peek inside. She refused. Quite firmly.”
“When we learned that you’re the owner now,” Pierre said, “we thought we’d ask you. So here it is. Could you please let us look at the suite where Trent was conceived in love?”
“Absolutely.” Maureen spoke without hesitation. She spoke from her heart. She also spoke without thinking. There were reasons for making suite twenty-seven off-limits to the public for decades. There was something profoundly frightening, depressing, about those rooms. Was John Smith really in there, horrifying guests year after year? What if Trent, with all good intentions, found that his late mother had handed him the key to something evil? Even Finn disliked going into those rooms and Maureen herself had experienced the sudden drops in temperature that Jake had mentioned—that some say indicated the presence of a ghost.
The smiles on the two men’s faces indicated relief. Even joy. What could she do? She’d promised to admit them to suite twenty-seven. Perhaps just a peek was all they’d need. They’d see her attractive office space and be content with that.
“Could we do it now?” Trent asked softly. “I think I’m ready.”
With a sincere hope that she was ready, Maureen said, “Of course. Let’s go.”
The elevator ride to the second floor was a quiet one. When it stopped, Maureen stepped into the corridor, taking the key to suite twenty-seven from her purse. At the same time, Trent pulled the almost-duplicate key from his pocket. “Would you mind, Maureen, if I tried mine? I know of course that it’d hardly likely to work after all this time, but may I?”
“Sure. Go ahead.” Would Trent’s key work? Stranger things have happened around here, she thought. It would be kind of cool if it worked.
It worked.
The men looked at each other, smiling. “How about that?” Trent said. “Amazing. After almost fifty years.”
“I was pretty sure it would fit.” Pierre patted his friend on the shoulder. “Martha would be so pleased.”
“I know. Shall we go inside?” Trent pulled the door open. Maureen followed the two into her office.
“Oh, this is really nice!” Trent exclaimed. “Look at the big windows. You can see the lights on the boulevard from here. And that desk!” He ran his hand over the polished mahogany surface. “You have exquisite taste in office furnishings, Maureen.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But I can’t take credit for this. My predecessor—who left Haven House to me—was responsible for all of this. Her name was Penelope Josephine Gray.”
“She knew furniture,” Pierre put in. He pointed to the closed door with the pinned-up poster of blackened grouper affixed to it. “Is that the bedroom?”
“I’m afraid you’re in for a bit of a disappointment there,” Maureen apologized. “There’s no furniture at all. Just an empty room.”
“No problem. I’ll just use my imagination.”
“Okay, here we go.” She opened the door, with a silent prayer that there’d be no blast of cold air, no whispers of, “Mother,” no enveloping cloud of depression, no “essence” of the late John Smith.
It didn’t look too bad, she thought. It was, as she’d said, empty except for the plastic bins of Halloween decorations. But the newly carpeted floor, the freshly painted white walls, the neutral draperies were at least neat and clean looking.
Trent walked to the center of the room, then turned slowly. “Not exactly the love nest I’d imagined,” he said, “but yes, I can visualize the way it might have been.” He closed his eyes. “A big bed, a bureau, maybe a big chair. A television.” He opened his eyes. Color? Or black and white?”
“Color I think,” Pierre said. “And maybe one of those folding luggage racks over there where the plastic boxes are, and your mother would have hung their clothes in this closet.” He grasped the glass knob, pulling the door open. “Martha was always so neat. A place for everything and everything in its place.”
“You’re right,” Trent said, his eyes open again. “She was. Thank you so much for humoring me, Maureen. This has been a dream come true. Really. I can see it just as it might have been. Romantic and very fifties.”
“I’m glad you can see it that way.” Maureen felt the temperature beginning to drop.
“It’s my job,” Trent said. “Being able to look at a blank space
and see how it would look with the right furnishings.”
“A great talent. Shall we go along now?” She waved a hand toward the office.
“Sure.” The men followed her across the marble threshold. The chill in the air was becoming noticeable. She shut the bedroom door, hurried across the room, opened the door to the corridor. “After you,” she said, ushering the men out of the office and into the long hall. She pressed the lock down, stepped out of the room, and pulled the door shut behind her, trying hard to convince herself that the whispered word, “Mother?” she’d heard as she left suite twenty-seven was a trick of her imagination. “Wait for me!” she called, hurrying to keep up with the men on the way to the elevator.
“We’re going to have a little porch sit before we turn in,” Trent said. “I can’t thank you enough for your kindness, and in return, I’ve taken the liberty of making up a few sketches of some areas of Haven House that could use a little—well—a little updating. If you’re available tomorrow morning, perhaps we could go over them together.”
“I can hardly wait,” she said. “What time will be best for you two?”
“How about eight tomorrow morning, downstairs in the dining room?” Pierre suggested.
“Perfect. I guess I’ll leave you here then, and take the stairs up to my apartment. Good night. Looking forward to seeing you in the morning.”
Be My Ghost Page 18
