Donn's Shadow

by Caryn Larrinaga

  I wished we had more time to prepare, that we could schedule it at our leisure and I could pull together a dream team of top psychics to help ensure our success. But every day we waited was another potential opportunity for Richard Franklin to hurt someone. Given the ghost’s track record, Connor Miles was lucky he’d gotten out of there alive. Franklin wouldn’t let that kind of luck ride. Next time, someone would die. Their blood would be on my hands.

  Kit took us back toward the highway, and as the woods thinned around us, I broadcast a message to the spirit who lurked in the trees. I allowed my guilt and my hatred for Richard Franklin to amplify the strength of my thoughts, pushing them outward in all directions.

  Enjoy your last few days in this place, Richard. Because when I come back, I’ll banish you for good.

  My mental words didn’t seem to intimidate our surroundings. I should’ve known I was the only one with anything to fear.

  Chapter Two

  In a way, Kit was right to be surprised I’d accepted Penelope Bishop’s invitation to tour the new inn. I had been hesitant, but not because of the woman who’d invited me.

  It was the place that put me off.

  Sure, Penelope had tried to bully me into leaving Donn’s Hill with my tail between my legs six months before, but that’d been a case of mistaken identity. I’d later found out she thought I was her late husband’s illegitimate child, here to cash in on his passing. I couldn’t blame her for disliking the person she assumed was living proof of her husband’s much-rumored infidelity. Once she realized I was no relation, she’d shed her prickly exterior and started encouraging me to become more involved in the community. I sensed her invitation to tour the newly renovated building was part of her attempt to make amends, so I’d accepted, despite not feeling ready to step foot back into this building.

  I fought to keep my expression neutral as I examined the freshly painted walls of the converted attic, hating them for being different than the way they’d been the last time I was here.

  “What’s wrong?” Penelope asked from beside me. “Is it the color?”

  I glanced at her and forced myself to smile, shaking my head. “No, it looks great,” I lied.

  She beamed at me. “You really think so?”

  “Yeah, it’s really… great.” Oh, come on, brain. Be a thesaurus for five seconds.

  Penelope didn’t seem to notice anything suspicious about my repetitive responses. She folded her arms across the chest of her Christian Dior floral-print blouse and nodded at the surrounding space. “It really came together once I realized I needed to use bright colors. Don’t you just love that headboard?”

  I didn’t, but I could see that she did. Penelope smiled at the furnishings in the newly renovated “King Suite” like she’d just conquered the room in battle. Everything from the oversized striped fabric headboard to the boldly patterned trifold screen by the wardrobe was perfectly in line with her modern, expensive tastes. And truth be told, if this were just an ordinary hotel room, I probably would’ve liked it. But all I could see when I looked around the space was the furniture that used to be there and the woman who’d originally decorated it.

  There’d been a privacy screen in this room before, but it’d been older, made of ornately carved wood with hand-painted maps of Spain between the frames. My friend and mentor, Gabrielle Suntador, had disappeared behind it once and returned with photos of my parents I’d never seen before. Those pictures were the most precious gift I’d ever received.

  In the middle of the room, where a chic pair of couches stood atop a faux bearskin rug, there’d been a large, round table. I’d attended my first séance there. I’d accidentally summoned a poltergeist and kind of ruined the evening, but still, it didn’t feel right that tourists and business travelers should do paperwork or read magazines on the spot where I’d first seen a full-bodied apparition float through a table and argue with his dad.

  “This attic was remarkably livable already,” Penelope said. “Apart from installing the bathroom at the far end, we didn’t have to do anything but paint the walls and replace the furniture.” She tapped the hardwood beneath us with the toe of her sleek black pump. “Can you believe the floor didn’t even have to be refinished?”

  My tortoiseshell cat, Striker, sniffed the long, braided cord that hung from one of the paisley-patterned curtains adorning the wide dormer windows. She turned to look at me, her eyes narrowed into squints and her mouth open to display her fangs. It was the same face she made when she smelled something stinky.

  “Mac, I swear to God, if she scratches those—”

  “She won’t.” To ensure I was telling the truth, I rushed forward and scooped Striker up into my arms. I’d never seen her scratch anything other than her cat tower and cardboard scratching pads, but her feline sense of humor had a way of getting me into trouble.

  “Good. Our first guests arrive tomorrow, so I don’t have time to replace anything.” She reached out to scratch Striker under her chin, an act that still surprised me whenever I saw it. “Do you want to see the rest of the rooms?”

  “Uh…” I hesitated. Seeing the attic like this was painful, but only because of the memories there. I hadn’t ever seen most of the other parts of the house, so hopefully… “Sure.”

  As Penelope led Striker and me around the second floor, pointing out where she’d had to knock out walls to make rooms bigger or add an entire extra bathroom, I marveled at how much she’d gotten done in a few short months.

  “This is nothing. We finished The Enclave two weeks early, and that was thirteen buildings. But none of them were this exciting. Here, look at this.” She pulled a flat metal oval out of her pocket. A symbol had been carved into it, like a cross with a teardrop for a top.

  “Cool, an ankh.” I took it from her. Its edges were smooth, and the silver was darker in some places than others. The metal was cool to the touch.

  “I thought you’d recognize it. You and Graham always seem to know about these things.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “That’s the interesting thing. My contractor found dozens of hidden compartments all over the original bedrooms. We left the ones we could in place, like this.”

  She led me into a guest room papered with intricately patterned fleur-de-lis of varying sizes. She pushed gently on a section of wall above the dresser, and a small invisible door popped open. I gasped, and Penelope chuckled.

  “That’s the reaction I was hoping for. We couldn’t save all the compartments, and some of them are in places too inconvenient to access, but we created one of these little surprises in all the standard guest rooms floor. We think it’ll amuse the guests. Returning visitors might request a different room than the one they had before so they can discover a new ‘Secret Stash.’”

  On the other side of the tiny rectangular door, a brass plate explained the provenance of the compartment. Inside, little mints with the inn’s logo waited on a paper doily.

  “Cute,” I told her. “This is where you found the ankh?”

  “No, I think this one was packed with sage bundles.”

  I tried to hand the oval back to her, but she closed my fingers around it.

  “Keep it. I have more in my office, and I’m sure Gabrielle would like you to have one.” She smiled and shut the door to the hidden cubby. “She told me it’d be best if I left the protective items in place, but we’ll be installing more modern precautions.”

  “You talked to Gabrielle?”

  Penelope nodded. “I wrote to her when we first found the compartments. I wanted to be sure we located them all. We couldn’t have some hidden place for a guest to hide something that leaves us liable.”

  “And she wrote back?”

  “Yes, she was very helpful. She gave my contractor a list to work from.”

  I stared at her in stunned silence. Penelope had written a letter to Gabrielle Suntador—the woman currently awaiting trial for killing Penelope’s husband—to ask for help? And what’s mor
e, Gabrielle had written back with tips to help Penelope make massive changes to her former home? The home she’d been so terrified of losing that she’d gotten mixed up in Penelope’s husband’s criminal enterprises in the first place? My mind struggled to process the information.

  Unfazed by my sudden silence, Penelope led me into the bathroom to show off the faux-granite countertop. “Of course, our website doesn’t explicitly say if it’s real or not,” she said with a wink. “But who can tell from a photo?”

  Between the remodeled rooms and designer furniture, the old Victorian felt completely new. Penelope wasn’t the first person in town to convert one of the historic mansions into a bed-and-breakfast, but I suspected the rest didn’t come close to this level of luxury. It seemed like she was gunning for the top spot on the town’s tourism website, which, I remembered, she oversaw.

  “I have a feeling you’re going to slay the competition,” I told her.

  She shook her head. “Not with the plans I have for this town. There won’t be any vacancy in any inn, any weekend of the year once I’m through.”

  In the last few guest rooms, her staff was putting the finishing touches everywhere: hanging curtains, making up beds, and counting out the complimentary toiletries. The workers wore sedate black pants and white button-down shirts, but they seemed full of energy as they tossed things to each other and sang along with the pop station on the radio.

  We followed Penelope down the stairs to the main floor. At the bottom, she gestured toward the coffee counter at the far end of the lobby. “And now, what I’m sure you’ve been waiting for most of all: our little French café. Would you care for a latte?”

  I glanced toward the espresso machine. Its copper fittings gleamed, and rows of snow white, oversized mugs filled the wall behind it. A college-aged employee was brewing up something that smelled delicious, but the scent triggered a pang of grief that squeezed my heart. An involuntary coo escaped my throat.

  It was quiet, but Penelope caught it. “Are you all right?”

  What could I tell her? That I missed the smell of nag champa and old bindings that used to fill this room when it was the Nine Lives Bookstore? That I’d give anything to see Gabrielle smiling at me from behind the counter by the window? A fresh-faced kid stood there now, typing something into a computer that sat atop the registration desk. Antique witching supplies should have been on display beneath a sheet of glass; now it was a smooth, modern block of wood with the name of the inn, The Oracle, burned into the front in thick letters.

  There was only one thing I liked about the room. Beside the desk, white shelves lined the wall, filled with sculptures by my favorite local artist. Graham Thomas specialized in ancient deities, and busts of Bastet and Hephaestus stared down at me from beside the wide front window. Outside, the trees were shedding tons of multi-colored leaves every day in preparation for the oncoming winter.

  My eyes threatened to do some shedding of their own, but I fought to gain control of myself. I’d almost succeeded when Striker reached up a paw and touched my cheek, triggering one traitorous tear to roll down my face and splash onto her fur.

  “Oh, Mac. I’m so sorry—I didn’t even think.” Penelope squeezed my arm. “This is the first time you’ve been back here since they arrested Gabrielle, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, blinking the liquid out of my eyes. “It’s okay. Really.”

  “You know, you can be honest with me. I understand better than you think. There’s a reason I’m remodeling this place instead of the old motel.”

  She walked over to one of the sturdy, square tables that filled this half of the lobby and held up two fingers to the barista as she sat down. I took a seat across from her, holding Striker on my lap.

  “What about the diner?” I asked.

  Penelope’s late husband, Tom, had run three major businesses in Donn’s Hill. I’d heard through the rumor mill that he’d only owned one of them on paper, a shipping and delivery company he’d been using to transport stolen goods—things he’d burgled on his many trips out of town.

  His other two businesses—a run-down motel called the E-Z Sleep and a diner with arguably the worst coffee I’d ever encountered—had been in Penelope’s name. Whether that was for his own protection or because he’d foreseen his fate was anybody’s guess. He’d been murdered earlier that year and, though his spirit had lingered long enough to see his killer apprehended, he hadn’t been able to answer any questions.

  “The diner will open again in a few weeks. We’re keeping it simple and calling it Café on Main.”

  “I like it,” I said.

  “Thank you. It’ll be a good, family restaurant. I’m just a silent partner though.” She lifted her narrow chin and smiled up at the ceiling. “This place is my passion project.”

  The barista delivered the coffees to our table. Penelope took hers black, but I added some creamer and several heaping spoonfuls of sugar. She raised an eyebrow at me.

  “You know I only buy the best beans.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Force of habit. I’m used to Graham’s.”

  She smiled. “Ah, yes. I’m familiar with his preference for high-octane brews.”

  We sipped in silence for a moment. The coffee was good, but it would’ve been better with a donut. Or some pie.

  “Speaking of new businesses in town,” Penelope said, “they’re tearing down the E-Z Sleep. The council has approved construction of a newer motel, one of the larger chains. There’ll be a swimming pool and triple the number of rooms.”

  I frowned. “Won’t that be bad for your business?”

  She shook her head. “It won’t be open for at least another year. By then, I expect tourism here to triple.”

  “How are you—”

  A shout from behind us cut off my question. “Penelope!”

  I twisted in my seat. Kit was marching across the lobby toward us so quickly that I swear her green hair was flying behind her in a streak. Her eyes narrowed in fury, and I cringed away from her. Kit didn’t get angry often, but when she did…

  She reached us and slammed her hand down on the table. “Raziel Santos? Are you kidding me?”

  She lifted her hand, revealing a small flyer. A man about my age with severe cheekbones glared up at me from the sheet. He was doing something Kit’s father Yuri often did, looking over the top of his glasses at the camera as though he didn’t even need prescription lenses. His cold, light eyes looked almost as angry as Kit’s. Below his photo, blue ink proclaimed RAZIEL SANTOS, FILMING LIVE FROM DONN’S HILL THIS OCTOBER!

  “Who is Raziel Santos?” I asked.

  “He’s that jerk magician I told you about,” Kit spat. “He’s gotten famous on the back of the occult community. Specifically, by being a prick to psychics and the people who ask for their help.”

  “He’s a world-renowned magician,” Penelope said, pointedly turning toward me as though to exclude Kit from the conversation.

  “And paranormal debunker.” Kit snatched up the flyer again and whipped it with the back of her hand. “Why would you invite him here? He’s the opposite of everything Donn’s Hill stands for.”

  Penelope shook her head. “That’s not true. The town has a long history of inviting skeptics to the Afterlife Festival. Houdini’s visit did wonders for our reputation.”

  “Raziel Santos is no Houdini,” Kit growled.

  “Your father seems to think so,” Penelope said. “It was his idea to invite him here.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “We got to talking one night and…” Penelope tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear and looked away from us. “And he recommended I reach out to Mr. Santos to invite him here.”

  Kit’s nostrils flared, and crimson heat crept up her face from her collar. “If that were true, he would have told me.”

  “He knows how you feel about Mr. Santos. He thought—”

  “Oh, so you two are talking about me now?” Kit threw her hands up into the air. “Great. That’s great.�
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  As they argued, I pulled out my phone and searched for Raziel Santos. The internet seemed to be as divided about him as Kit and Penelope. The top few results were fan pages that called him “mysterious and sexy,” but there were also news reports of defamation lawsuits being filed against him and lots of angry forum posts. I clicked the link to his official website and scanned the homepage.

  “Raziel Santos,” proclaimed the silver script across the black background. “The truth is right here.”

  Striker rubbed her jaw on the lower corner of my phone. I reached down with my free hand to scratch between her ears. If I didn’t pet her quickly enough, she’d bite my phone to get me to put it down.

  “Kit, please.” Penelope gestured to the empty chair beside her and held up a single finger to the barista. “Won’t you sit down and talk about this rationally?”

  “What is there to talk about? This guy is literally trying to destroy my father’s show and everything we’ve worked for. And you’re throwing him a freaking cocktail party?”

  I raised an eyebrow at Penelope. “Cocktail party?”

  She sighed and narrowed her gray eyes at Kit. “It’s a reception, the kind you throw an honored guest. Mr. Santos and his team graciously agreed to film their next special here. We can’t buy that kind of publicity.”

  Kit snorted and looked away, but I studied Penelope. Her cold eyes and pinched brow made her irritation clear, but she pulled her shoulders backward and kept her spine straight. She exuded confidence, same as she had in nearly every encounter I’d ever had with her. She was a smart woman. Or was shrewd the better word? Either way, I had a feeling she was right.

  Penelope turned toward me then. “Speaking of which, dear, I was planning to invite you before you left here. Light hors d'oeuvres and drinks, Friday night at The Enclave.”

  I glanced at Kit, who was shooting daggers out her eyes at me. “Oh, Friday? Uh… Kit and I were going to—”

  Penelope held up a hand. “No RSVP needed. Casual attire is fine if you attend.” She stood, cradling her coffee cup in one hand. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork left to do in my office here and then a monstrous pile of tasks waiting for me at City Hall.”