by J L Bryan
“Based on what?” I asked.
“Well, think about it. Let's say Dorian—or no, the one who died, Hugh—let's say Hugh and Beverly had been, you know, romantic with each other back home. Growing up. So Beverly's husband...Otto....he and Hugh get into a fight, one guy kills another, and then sets the fire to hide the murder.”
“And kills the whole family?” I asked. “A mass murder-suicide? It sounds like exactly how Clay died, killing his lover and her family and himself.”
“Which explains why Clay was attracted to this place!” Stacey said. “It's a mass murder he can really relate to, you know?”
“Maybe.”
“Or, option two,” Stacey said. “The fire was an accident. Maybe Hugh and Otto get into a fight, a candle or something gets knocked over, you got a wooden building...everybody dies. The fire spreads throughout town.”
“The newspaper said the fire began at the stables. A bunch of horses burned to death.”
“Don't make me think about the poor horses.” Stacey winced. “Anyway, maybe fire investigation wasn't so great in nineteenth-century frontier towns.”
“Jacob, any thoughts about what caused the fire?” I asked. “Was one guy trying to murder the other one? Maybe out of jealousy?”
He closed his eyes, and after a minute, he shrugged. “I'll try to talk to them again tonight. They're pretty out of reach during the day.”
“I didn't see any deaths at the hotel related to the 1915 fire when a train car full of gasoline blew up and took out half the town,” I said. “And the most recent death in the hotel was Josette McClaskey Gifford—”
“Wife of Willmore Gifford!” Stacey said. “I have a copy of her death certificate. Looks like she died of...kidney disease. Diabetes-linked.”
“Could that be the mysterious ghost in the hall?” I asked Jacob, who gave a somewhat exaggerated palms-up shrug to make it clear how unsure he was.
“Another thing for me to check tonight,” Jacob said.
“It kills me that we're staying here again,” Michael said. “Melissa could be anywhere by tomorrow. And we're stuck dealing with these old ghosts that have nothing to do with it.”
“Clay thought they were important,” I said. “Believe me, I'd rather be on the road, too, chasing them down.”
“Want to see her death certificate?” Stacey asked, waving it around.
“I found her obituary. You should study it.” I handed it over.
“Why me?”
“Because you're going to ask Willmore for details about her.”
“Me?”
“You're better at chitchatting than I am.”
“Seriously?” Stacey frowned as she looked over the printout of Josette's obit. “She died at the age of 54, survived by her husband Willmore, 43, and a son from a previous marriage, Randall, age 22. I wonder what happened to Randy? And husband number one?”
“So now you have an idea where to steer the conversation. And find out all you can about her death.”
“It says she succumbed after a long struggle with diabetes,” Stacey said. “Oh, that's sad. When should we go talk to him?”
“I'm available now, conveniently enough,” I said.
She frowned, then checked her hair in the mirror before we headed down, leaving Michael and Jacob upstairs.
Chapter Eighteen
“You all have any luck finding the girl?” Willmore asked. “I figured you'd be checked out and moved on by today.”
“Not so far, I'm afraid.” Stacey wandered close to the counter, acting bored, looking at the old pictures on the wall beside it.
I stayed a little farther away, browsing through a rack of pamphlets for local tourist attractions, which were a couple of auto-racing spots and a couple of casinos. Dust coated many of them, as if few hotel guests had found much interest in the spots of local interest, or maybe there hadn't been many guests in recent years.
Since we wanted Willmore to talk about personal, emotional topics, I figured he'd be more willing to open up to us without the guys around.
“I like all the horse pictures,” Stacey said, looking at the oldest photographs of faded cowboys. “I grew up around horses. My grandparents have a bunch.”
“That must have been nice,” Willmore said. “All girls like horses.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She made a bored blowing sound with her lips. “Guess there was a lot of oil around here, too?”
“Yes, ma'am. Of course, this here town is older than the state of Oklahoma. Back then, this whole region was just called Indian Territory.
“How did these guys end up here?” Stacey gestured at a photograph of Hugh and Dorian McClaskey. Shorter, sour-looking Hugh was the one who'd died in the hotel fire, along with the Schroeder family.
“They came out west for the same reasons everyone did, I'd reckon,” Willmore said. “Seek their fortune.”
“A lot of people went west to get out of trouble, too,” Stacey said. “Get a fresh start.”
“Are you calling my wife's ancestors criminals?” he asked, his tone getting just a little sharp.
“Oh, no. Just fishing for...anything interesting.” She turned to another photograph, much more recent and in color. Willmore stood in the picture, younger but not a whole lot leaner, in a powder-blue suit fronted with ruffles, a dark mustache enveloping most of his mouth. A graying woman stood beside him, not quite as wide as Willmore, her form draped in a rhinestone-studded green gown. “Is that your wife?” Stacey asked, casually sliding up to the point.
“That was my Josette, yes, ma'am.” Willmore's voice became quieter. “Hard to believe she's been gone so long.”
“She seems so young,” Stacey said. “Did she die in an accident or something?”
“Oh, no. She was sick for years. Diabetes. Doctor Rubenelli was always after her to clean up her diet, but I guess she just wanted to enjoy life while she was alive. What's the point of living if all you can eat is cauliflower and lettuce?”
“Ha! Good point,” Stacey said. “And it's so true. My mom makes this peanut butter pie on holidays. It's just ridiculous, calorie-wise. It's basically like jamming a funnel down your throat and pouring in a whole barrel of sugar. But it's soooooooooo good. What am I going to do, not eat any? Life's too short, right?”
“That's exactly what my wife used to say,” Willmore said. “And she was right, too.”
“What were her favorite foods?”
“Oh, she could bake up a storm,” Willmore said. “Cakes and pies and rhubarb muffins. But her real specialty was homemade raisin bread.”
“That sounds good!” Stacey said.
“It was bread right from heaven,” Willmore said. “I'm pretty sure it's what they serve on the buffet bar right after you cross through the pearly gates. Take you a big hunk of Josie's fresh-baked raisin bread, slap a big spoonful of cream cheese on top...heck, that don't just taste like heaven, that really is heaven.” His gaze seemed to drift off, his lips upturned in blissful reverie at the memory of his late wife's bread. “When she'd bake in our kitchen—right back here—” he gestured at a door behind the desk, the one that presumably led to his apartment, “I tell you, the whole lobby would smell like cinnamon and brown sugar. The whole hotel. Everybody'd want a piece, and then they'd want the recipe—but she never gave it out. Not even to me. Just kept it up in her head. Took it to her grave.” His blissful smile faltered.
“It sounds like you really loved her,” she said.
“I did. Her getting sick was about the worst thing that ever happened to me. Without her...” He shrugged, reached under his desk, and began ripping open a cellophane-wrapped treat. It looked like a small Christmas tree with green icing and brightly colored candies as decorations. “Would you like a Festive Fircake?”
“No, thank you,” Stacey said. “So it must have been a real shock when she died.”
“She was pretty sick the last couple years there,” Willmore said. “She could barely make biscuits, let alone raisin bread.”
“Took care of everything. Even this place. To tell you the truth, I've looked into selling it a couple of times, but it just never felt right. So here I am. Till the bitter end, I guess.” He licked green icing from his fingers and frowned.
“Then what happens to the hotel? Do you have any kids?” Stacey asked. Good work, Stacey.
“No, ma'am. Josette had a boy, Randy, but he went to live with his daddy. Josie's ex-husband. Randy never even bothered calling his momma, let alone visiting, not even after he was grown up. It ain't like Louisiana is another country, he could have come up anytime. So she took him out of her will.”
“She left the hotel to you instead of her son?” Stacey asked.
“He wasn't much of a son. It was a real shame. I'm surprised he even turned up for the funeral, to tell you the truth. Then he complained about her not leaving him anything.” Willmore let out an exasperated snort. “I guess his daddy and stepmom gave him everything he wanted.”
“Is there a picture of him?” Stacey looked among the photos.
“Not since he was a boy,” Willmore said. “Josette took those down, too. I guess it hurt her too much, thinking of him. His daddy turned him against her, I guess.”
“That's sad to hear. Family is so important.”
“Uh-huh. So...did y'all need something from me?”
“Just, uh, bored. Oh, and the breakfast place you recommended was great, so we were hoping you could help us out again. As long as we seem to be stuck here another night. We definitely don't want to go to Daddy-Q's again.”
“Oh, no, that's no place for nice little girls like you,” Willmore said. “You want to go to Bar 115 on East Main. It's fancy, and you'll like it better.”
“Great. Thanks.” Stacey looked among the pictures again. “Wow. There's just so much history here.”
“Yes, ma'am.” He looked from her to me. “If y'all are history buffs, we got the Gene Autry Museum here in town...brochures are right there...and y'all ladies might enjoy the doll museum at the library, too.”
“That sounds fun!” Stacey said, while I envisioned rows of creepy porcelain dolls in Victorian dresses, staring at me with unblinking eyes.
“Maybe we'll check it out,” I replied, though I had no intention of doing so. I just felt like I had to say something since he was looking at me. “Thanks for the advice.”
“Well, I don't want y'all to feel unhappy,” he said. “There's more to this place than you might see at first. Maybe not too impressive for big city folks, but the town has its own little charms.”
“Yeah, I like it here,” I said, which was true enough. I didn't love or hate the town, but I did want very badly to get on the road, on the way to our final destination. Wherever that turned out to be.
Chapter Nineteen
That night, we repeated what had worked the previous night, waiting until close to midnight before we slipped across the hall to room 33. While Stacey stood guard at the stairs, Jacob and I slipped into the cold room and set up the thermal camera again.
“How's it looking tonight?” I whispered.
“Haunted,” he whispered back.
“Any chance you want to be more specific?”
“One of the men is talking in German, which is not one of my languages,” Jacob said.
“What are your languages?” It wasn't relevant to the case, but I was curious.
“English, Latin, Hebrew, some French,” he said. “Not that much French, though.”
“If we encounter the ghost of an ancient Roman rabbi, we'll know who to call.”
“It could happen. Anyway, sometimes the language doesn't matter when you communicate with ghosts, but this guy really, really identifies with his Germanity. Germanness. Whatever. He's not much help.” Jacob closed his eyes and listened. “The mother is just completely distraught over the loss of her daughter, because her daughter's ghost is still missing. Maybe that's what the German guy's ranting about, too. We may never know for sure. Anyway, the disappearance of the little girl ghost really has them stirred up.”
“What about Hugh McClaskey?” I asked. “The other guy?”
“Yeah, he definitely responds to that name.” Jacob looked into the cold, dark corners of the hotel room. It was hard to imagine any guest wanting to stay here, other than those in search of a scary supernatural encounter.
“I want to know whether Hugh had any special relationship with the lady ghost. Beverly.”
Jacob turned to an empty spot near the fireplace. “Did you—oh.”
“What?” I asked, after an overly long pause where Jacob just stared into the darkness.
“That...sounds like a yes. The German guy—Otto, right?—is roaring and ranting in the background, while the lady ghost—Beverly—she's agitated and whirling around with emotion, kind of losing focus and form.”
“What does Hugh say?”
“He's sending me images, little flicks of memory. I'm seeing him and Beverly...as teenagers, I think...walking through snowy woods. They're holding hands. Then they're kissing, he's unbuttoning her coat while pressing her up against a tree trunk—she's reaching her hand into his—”
“I think I see where this is going,” I said. “Just tell me how it ends. But, uh, not in too much detail, maybe.”
“It ends with her father riding past on a horse and breaking them up. Then pounding Hugh with his fists.”
“Oh. That's not exactly the happy ending I was expecting.”
“Yeah...pretty soon after, Hugh and Dorian are moving out of town. Apparently her father had a lot of influence, a big guy in town, I'm thinking maybe a judge...so this incident led to the brothers moving away.”
“And they eventually ended up here in Ardmore,” I said.
“Yep.”
“Next question: when Beverly arrived here, with her husband and kid...did any of that old spark come back between Beverly and Hugh?”
“So, did the two of you—?” Jacob began, then he recoiled as if someone had slapped him, or maybe spit in his face.
The room seemed to grow colder, and the air thicker. Even I could tell that question had stirred up the ghosts even more.
“They're all shouting now,” Jacob said. “Wow. That sure made them upset. The German is so loud, I can't really understand much...oh.”
“What was the 'oh'?” I said, after another long pause.
“The guy, Hugh, is sending me some very clear memories. Very, uh, explicit. He and Beverly, right here in this room, not a stitch on...man, Hugh must work out...um...anyway, this was the room. I guess Beverly and Otto and Greta were staying in a different room. But Hugh and Beverly forgot to lock the door during their little tryst, it looks like, because the door opened while they were still—”
Jacob shouted, covered his ears with his hands, and stumbled backward like he'd been shoved hard.
I darted over to catch him. It turned out to be less of a catch, though, and more of a collision where I was knocked back off my feet. Either Jacob had put on a vast amount of weight, or the ghost had hit him with a lot of force.
We crashed onto the bed in a tangle of arms and legs. I reached for my flashlight, ready to blast the attacking ghost, but Jacob's leg pinned the light against my hip.
“Everything okay?” Michael opened the door. He'd been waiting in the hall, listening in case of trouble, and I suppose the shouting and crashing had drawn him over.
“Great,” I grunted. “Jacob?”
“Yeah.” Jacob rolled over and took a deep breath.
“What's going on?” Michael asked, looking puzzled, as boyfriends tend to do when they find you on a hotel bed wrapped around another guy.
“The lady attacked me,” Jacob said. “I think she doesn't want us to hear more about her and Hugh hooking up. She's still screaming. It's deafening. I can't believe y'all don't hear it.”
“I don't hear a thing,” Michael said. “Except the squeaking bedsprings.”
“They're almos
t done bouncing now, I think.” I sat up, shaking my head. “Jacob, what happened after they were caught?”
“She's shouting the others down,” Jacob said. “Telling them not to talk to me anymore.”
“I just need to know what Otto did after catching them,” I said. “It's really important.”
“What happened when Otto found you?” Jacob said, very loud, as if trying to shout over a whirlwind that only he could hear. He sat up beside me and winced, as though something had hurt him. “Fire,” Jacob finally said, his voice low this time, not yelling at all. “Fire everywhere. Fire fueled by hate...then shouting, yelling...pain...and finally, silence.” He closed his eyes. “They're gone. She's convinced them both to go silent. They're all pretty angry at me, anyway. For asking these questions. Bringing this all up.”
“It's just like we suspected,” I said. “Jealous lovers. A fiery murder-suicide.”
“It adds up. Otto catches his wife in bed with another guy, ends up burning the place to the ground. Hugh's an owner of the place, so burning it down is just an extra act of revenge.”
“I don't see how this helps us find Melissa,” Michael said. “We already knew how these people died. We already know Clay took Greta's ghost with him. That's what the animal sacrifice was about, right?”
“He's coming!” Stacey dashed into the room. “Willmore. I can hear him on the stairs!”
All of us scrambled to get out of there, while I urged the guys to move quietly—a bunch of heavy footsteps clattering across the hall would be a little bit of a tip-off for Willmore that something was happening.
I left room 33 last, my heart pounding in my ears as I eased the door shut behind me so it wouldn't slam into place. I had to force myself to move slowly.
Stacey held the door open to the suite while Jacob and Michael tiptoed inside.
Willmore's footsteps thudded not far away, the stairs creaking under him. It sounded like he was coming up the last flight. Any moment, he would turn the corner and see me.
I moved into the open door to the suite, and Stacey eased it shut behind me just as Willmore reached the top stair.
Had Willmore glimpsed me running back inside? I held my breath, as though that would make a difference. There wasn't such an urgent need to be quiet now that we were back where we were supposed to be.