I sat at my chair and dallied a few seconds so Myrna's attention would be back on her phone list before I scrutinized the picture. She was also in the dallying mood as she busied herself with straightening her desk drawer, splashing on some perfume and then organizing her pens by color in the cup on her desk. With a harrumph, meant solely for me, she picked up her phone again and began dialing.
I scooted closer, lowered my face and held up the magnifying glass. The brick facade and roof on the inn looked far less shabby in the old photo, which made sense. The house would not have been all that old. The picture was of course, black and white, and most of it had faded to various shades of gray. The woman on the porch was dressed in a cumbersome hoop skirt and embroidered bodice. Short round bangs curled over her forehead. Most people in Victorian photos looked stiff and serious but this happened to be more impromptu, less staged than the usual grave and gloomy portraits of that time period. The photographer captured a moment in time at the Cider Ridge Inn which tugged at my heart strings some. The second picture was the same front view of the house but only two small children sat on the bottom step, a step I'd trod down many times. I moved the magnifying glass back to the first picture. The woman on the porch was watching her family play croquet. The entire scene in front of her was charming and serene yet her curly bangs couldn't hide the fretful crease of her brow. The photo seemed to be smeared right past the image of the woman, as if the photographer had accidentally grabbed it while it was still wet. I hovered the magnifying glass over the smear and a pair of familiar eyes stared back at me from the smudge.
I gasped in shock and dropped the glass.
Myrna was on the phone as she raised a curious brow my direction. I smiled sheepishly and picked up the glass. It took me a second to gather my courage, and then I looked at the image once more. Sure enough, Edward Beckett in waistcoat, open cravat and finely polished boots was standing on the front porch watching the children play. The woman in the picture was Mary Richards. The Richards family purchased the home from Cleveland Ross. Edward told me he'd revealed himself to Mary. Now her irritated expression made sense.
Without another thought, I pushed the buy button. A box came up that let me ask questions or make comments about the purchase. I shifted the keyboard in front of me and typed.
"Dear Lola's Antiques, I found these photos on your store's site and I'm thrilled. I am the current owner of the Cider Ridge Inn. Thank you so much for finding them. It says I can add ten dollars for overnight shipping. I will do that as I'm very anxious to see these in person. Thank you, Sunni Taylor."
A chat message popped right back. "Hello, Sunni. Thank you for your purchase. I'll get these in the mail right away. I'm excited that the pictures have found their proper home. Be sure to look them over closely. I think you'll find them very interesting. Sincerely, Lola Button."
I sat back with a smile. Maybe my secret wasn't so secret after all. It seemed Lola Button in Port Danby had seen Edward too. Of course he was far more astonishing in person than in a photo. Or could his presence be called in person? So many unanswered questions still, including the big one—why was Edward stuck in this world? Maybe the experts would be able to shed some light on the mystery.
Chapter 10
After running out of things to research on the computer, I'd needed to stretch my legs and get out of the newspaper office. Myrna's sour mood had helped me along with that idea. I decided to get a head start on the article by checking out the second inn on the group's list. Playing in numerous sports growing up had left me naturally competitive, and I found myself curious about Dandelion Inn. I'd hoped to find a dingy, out of date inn with little to offer other than the story of a ghost but was slightly disappointed. I parked the jeep in front of a pale yellow two story Victorian with a wrap-around porch and large rooster weathervane topping off one of two turrets. The windows and decorative trim were painted in a gray-blue color that contrasted perfectly with the yellow facade. Feathery yellow and green shrubs lined the front porch and white roses climbed along the white columns framing the front entrance.
Kitty Bloomfield, the owner of Dandelion Inn, had been gracious and charming on the phone when I called and introduced myself. I should have guessed that her inn would be lovely. Suddenly, my ramshackle monstrosity with the flickering lights and broken windows seemed impossibly far from ever becoming a welcoming bed and breakfast.
I climbed the steps to the front door, painted in the same charming blue as the trim. A large wreath of green ivy and white roses hung on the tall paneled door. Two sidelights contained intricate stained glass windows depicting dandelions and butterflies. I rang the doorbell. Even the chime was adorable. APPS was certainly going to enjoy their stay here after a night in Cider Ridge.
That thought took a good dose of steam out of my engine. I was close to turning around and trudging dejectedly back to my jeep when the front door opened. A peppery aroma swirled out from the house, followed quickly by lavender perfume.
"You must be Sunni," the woman cheered. "I'm Kitty. Welcome, welcome." Kitty Bloomfield looked to be in her mid sixties. She was a petite woman with a pile of pinkish-blonde curls on top of her head. Her white angora sweater was held together on the top by a silver clip that was shaped like a dragonfly. As she led me through the wallpaper-lined foyer, she discretely brushed her fingers along an entry table to check for dust. She paused just long enough to adjust one of the yellow sunflowers sitting in the crystal vase.
"I put on a pot of tea," Kitty half sang as I followed her through the hallway past a flight of stairs that was lined with an ornately carved oak banister. The stairwell and adjacent room, a sitting room filled with plump cozy chairs and sitting nooks were decorated in pink and blue wallpaper and ornate brass light fixtures. White curtains as thin as gossamer hung over a set of three windows that looked out over a neatly groomed backyard.
"Your inn is beautiful," I said as I followed her to the dining room where an antique silver tea service was laid out on a white lace tablecloth. "It's like a picture."
Kitty's smile caused her cheeks to pile up in soft, wrinkly layers. "Aren't you sweet. I did it all myself. If you need any help at all with your inn, just ask. I've got plenty of connections in the interior design world." She winked and then ran her hand along the top of the mahogany dining room chair. It was polished to a high gloss and I could just about see myself in it, but she checked her fingers for dust. It seemed she was overly attentive to cleanliness and the inn showed it. I was going to have to work on that. I tended to linger on the opposite end of the cleanliness spectrum.
I sat on the side of the dining room table that afforded me an unobstructed view of the richly carved stone mantel. A masterfully painted portrait of a woman with an ornate gilt frame was centered over the hearth. The subject of the oil painting was a beautiful woman in a long, white dress. Her long golden tresses seemed to glow and her blue eyes sparkled with life. It had to be the portrait Nick mentioned.
Kitty noticed me admiring the painting as she poured the tea. "That is the lady of the house," she said cheerily. "Miss Lauren Grace was the belle of the neighborhood. Her father had large investments in railroads, and he was excessively wealthy." She laughed. "If one can be too rich, that is. He built her this house when her first husband, Charles, died after a fall from his horse. They had only been married two months, and Lauren was very in love with him." She clucked her tongue as if the tragedy had just taken place this week. Then a smile popped up. "Sugar?" She lifted the silver dish of sugar cubes.
"No, thank you." I took the cup of tea. "So it's Lauren's spirit that haunts the inn?"
Kitty dropped two sugars into her cup. "Yes, indeed. Poor woman fell to her death right on the stairs we passed on the way to the dining room. It has been rumored that she didn't fall accidentally."
Murder mystery nerd that I was, I sat immediately forward. "So it was murder?"
Kitty drew her face long. "Well, I'm not sure about that, but supposedly there were sever
al men vying for her attention. Jealousy can be a strong motive, especially back in those days. I'm sure you know all about that considering the Cider Ridge ghost died in a duel with a jealous husband."
"Oh, you know about my ghost?" I cleared my throat. "About the Cider Ridge ghost?"
Her smile broadened and she touched my hand. "It's all right, dear, I'm rather proprietary about my ghost as well."
A door opened and the room filled with the peppery fragrance that’d greeted me at the door. A forty something woman with short auburn hair and a yellow checked apron hurried into the room carrying a large spoon in one hand while using her free hand to hold a dish towel to keep the contents of the spoon from falling onto the rug.
Kitty coughed over her cup of tea. "Goodness, Lucy, be careful with that. I just had these rugs cleaned."
"That's why I'm carrying the towel. I wanted you to taste this gravy for the roast beef. I think it's my best yet. That bunch of ghost groupies will love it."
Kitty flicked her gaze my direction. "This is Miss Acevado, the Dandelion Inn chef. Lucy, this is Miss Taylor, a journalist from the Junction Times and the owner of the Cider Ridge Inn."
Lucy’s brown eyes rounded. "Wow, the Cider Ridge Inn. I'm friends with Ursula Rice. She told me she and Henry are restoring the entire house for you."
I nodded. "Yes, slowly but surely." I motioned to the spoon. "Please, don't let me get in the way of a gravy taste test."
Kitty took a tiny lady-like sip of the gravy. "Hmm, very good. Delicious."
Lucy looked at her expectantly. "Delicious but . . ."
"Needs a touch more salt," Kitty added.
"There it is." Lucy winked at me. "It's never perfect until Kitty's had the last word." The chef rustled out with her apron and spoon. Just as the chef exited through one door, another door opened.
A woman about my age with her hair covered by a red bandana and wearing large rubber gloves walked into the dining room, whistling and seemingly unaware the room was occupied. She took two faltering steps. "Oh, excuse me, I didn't realize you were having tea."
Kitty looked more than a little miffed. "That's all right, Wilma. I noticed there was some dust on the rocking chairs in the library. If you could make sure to give them an extra polish today."
Wilma nodded. "Yes, right away. Just as soon as I'm done with the bedroom suites. I just needed to get a cup of coffee from the kitchen." She smiled politely and continued on through the kitchen door.
Kitty leaned forward and I found myself inside her lavender perfume cloud. "Once you open your inn, you'll find that a good staff is the number one requirement."
"I've no doubt of that."
"Your tea is getting cold." She picked up the silver pot.
"Oh, no thank you. It's fine." I sipped it and discovered she was right, but I hadn't really come for tea. In truth, I wasn't too sure of my true motives for visiting the inn, except for the obvious ones. I tended to get fidgety sitting at my computer when I didn't have anything to write. Cold calling had made Myrna grumpy and after my own morning dalliance with a sour mood, I wanted to stay clear of her. Then there was the curiosity about my competition in the hospitality business. On that front, I was both impressed and somewhat depressed. The Cider Ridge Inn had such a long way to go.
Kitty patted her mouth with a napkin. "I understand you'll be hosting the Applegate group tonight."
"Yes, and now that I see your wonderful inn, I'm thankful they're coming to mine first. They would be sorely disappointed if it were the other way around. I'm not even sure why they want to stay at Cider Ridge. In its present state, it is just one step above a rustic campsite."
"They are in search of supernatural ambience not luxury." There was just enough twist of her lips to amplify the sarcasm in her tone. Her thin, narrow shoulders lifted and fell. "I do wish ghost hunters would leave those of us who live with troubled spirits alone. It's hard enough having a disquieted soul lingering about without them coming in to stir things up."
I was speechless for an awkward moment, not sure how far to go with the conversation. "So, you do see Lauren Grace floating around the inn?" I asked, cautiously. I wasn't about to start commiserating with Kitty about Edward, but I was extremely curious if Kitty was also dealing with a very real ghost.
Kitty sat back with her cup of tea. "Oh yes, she occasionally shows up as a shadow on the stairs or a cold breeze through the dining room. Sometimes the things on my vanity have been moved around."
"Do you talk to her?"
"Constantly telling her to knock it off and go away. Just yesterday Lucy was waving her big metal spoon in the air telling Lauren to leave her pot of stew alone. Apparently Lauren turned the burner up on the stove and the stew nearly burned."
"So she shows herself to more than one person?" I asked.
My question puzzled her. "Sure. If she's feeling extra cheeky, she shows herself to the guests."
"Shows herself?"
"Well, she doesn't so much show herself as she moves curtains around or makes the bedroom floors creak."
"I see." My posture crumpled. I had a hundred questions, but it seemed the Dandelion Inn ghost had more to do with easily explained disturbances than actual sightings. I moved forward with one more question. "You mentioned you talk to Lauren Grace. Does she talk back to you?"
"Indeed." She grinned with satisfaction. My back straightened again. "Not in words, of course," she continued. "But in the usual ways that spirits communicate."
"Like drapes fluttering and floors creaking?" I asked.
"Yes. Like that."
I nodded and forced myself to finish the cold tea. For a brief moment, I hadn't felt quite so alone. I was certain I'd found a confidante, a comrade, someone to exchange stories with about living with an unsettled spirit. But it seemed Kitty Bloomfield's experiences were far less astonishing than mine. While it was entirely possible that the ghost of Lauren Grace was causing stove burners to turn higher and hairbrushes to be moved around, it seemed she kept herself quite hidden from view.
"Well, it's been lovely chatting with you, Kitty. And I'm so glad I have an expert I can consult when the time comes to open Cider Ridge Inn."
She walked me to the door. I took one long glance up the staircase. No sign of any woman in a white dress.
"Stop by anytime, dear. And good luck with your visitors tonight."
Chapter 11
Lana's truck was parked in front of the inn when I pulled up. If I knew my sister, she'd been working all day to create stunning accommodations for the Applegate group. Newman and Redford did not bound to the front door to greet me, which meant Lana was probably arranging food in the kitchen. The delicious mix of aromas wafting through the house assured me my guess was right.
I stopped by the dining room to see if it was ready for the guests. I hardly recognized it as the same room. Lana had covered windows with lacy fabric, and Raine had set up air mattresses with piles of sumptuous pillows and decorative quilts. Three tables had been set with elegant linens and table settings fit for a queen. Candle and floral centerpieces sat at each table. Lana had brought in some of her party chairs, and each chair had been set with a cushion and a large sash that said "Welcome APPS". I don't know why I fretted about the group being disappointed with their stay at Cider Ridge. Lana would make sure it was memorable.
Newman and Redford sat obediently in the kitchen waiting for my sister to take notice of their hungry, pleading gazes. Lana was just setting out glass mugs on the counter in front of a drink dispenser labeled apple cider. She had covered my scarred pine work table with an orange checked table cloth and every inch of the gingham fabric was covered with trays of goodies. "Glad you're home. I just received a text from Angela Applegate. They'll be here within the hour."
"That soon? I expected them tonight, after dark. Closer to the witching hour perhaps."
"Funny little sister. Here, try some goodies. That'll put you in a good mood." Lana handed me a muffin shaped tart that smelled like onion. "I
t's a mashed potato puff." She continued along the table. "We've got grilled squash topped with herbed ricotta, turkey and cranberry quiche bites, black bean and corn salad, Emi's hand pies, walnut cake—" She stopped at the glass bowl shaped like a pumpkin. "And of course my fall party mix. I added some dried apple this time and it's delicious. And Raine found a recipe for toasted marshmallow milk shakes, which we'll make later when we serve the pumpkin-pecan cupcakes."
The potato puff melted in my mouth like creamy butter. I held it up. "You had me at potato puff. I guess this is a really big deal getting this account, huh?"
"Yes and I know I owe you big time." Lana skirted around the table and adjusted the napkins into a fan shaped display.
"No, you don't owe me, Lana. You do plenty for me. I'm glad to help out. And I don't think Dandelion Inn has anything on the Lana Taylor transformed Cider Ridge Inn. I just hope they won't be too disappointed by the lack of paranormal activity." As if on cue, Edward materialized on the hearth. He looked frazzled and not terrible happy. After my chat with Kitty, I made a promise to myself to start helping Edward find his way out of his stuck in the middle eternity.
"Are you kidding?" Lana pulled my attention from my somber looking ghost. "This place practically vibrates with the supernatural. Raine had to finally take a break because she was feeling on edge from all of it."
"Is that right?" I shot a questioning brow Edward's direction. He shook his head weakly in response.
Newman and Redford bolted to their feet and went racing to the front door.
"Oh my gosh, Lana, is that the group already?"
She scooted to the kitchen window. "Oh good, this way the food won't get too cold and flat. I guess my directions were clear."
I held out my arms and stared down at my black pants and sweater. "I was hoping I had time to shower and change. Do I look all right?"
Murder at the Inn Page 5
