The Shadow and the Night: Glenncailty Castle, Book 3

by Lila Dubois

  “It’s better to find them by accident,” she assured the other woman, hoping to ease her frown. “It’s worse when you’re looking for a body you can’t find.”

  “Of course,” Sorcha agreed, so readily that Melissa was sure she only said it to humor her. “I have several options for accommodation—”

  “I’m not worried about that.” Melissa set her heavy black case on the registration desk to give her right arm a break. “Where are the bones?”

  “Detective Sergeant Oren called. He’s busy at the moment but said he’ll stop by at the end of his shift, which will be about six o’clock. Until then I’m afraid I can’t show you to the…” Sorcha’s pleasant smile faded, and for a moment there was terrible sadness on her face. She licked her lips, before finishing, “…the bones.”

  From the way Sorcha spoke, Melissa was sure she’d seen them. Most people found dead bodies gruesome but fascinating until they got up close to one or touched one. There was always a moment when their intellect wasn’t able to shield them from the reality that what they were looking at had once been a person no different from them. Once that intellectual filter came down, curiosity was usually replaced by horror.

  She needed to get started. “But I’m here now.” She stared at Sorcha. Experience and experimentation had taught her that steady, unwavering eye contact made people uncomfortable and usually resulted in Melissa getting exactly what she wanted.

  “I’m aware of that.” Sorcha stared back at her, her face once more a calm mask.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “I have to wait to see the bones, don’t I?” Melissa said, disgruntled that her plan hadn’t worked.

  “Yes, Dr. Heavey, you do.”

  She sighed. “Very well. I’ll research between now and then. Can I have that map you mentioned?” She’d read through everything she could find online about the castle and the area, but details would mean more now that she was actually here.

  “First let me check you in.” Sorcha went around behind the desk and pulled out a key. “The only available room is in our west wing. We’ve relocated other guests due to those rooms’ proximity to the remains. If you’re uncomfortable with the idea of being so close, I can recommend someplace in Cailtytown, the village at the other end of the glen.”

  So they’d had to close down part of the hotel and move people, which cost money. No wonder they’d decided to pay her to be here rather than wait. “I’d rather be by the bones.” Sleeping in a hotel room near a few old bones couldn’t be worse than sleeping in a tent only feet from a mass grave in Africa.

  “Very well.” They went through some paperwork before Melissa was given a key. “The room is not available at this time, but I can show you to either our library or—”

  “Is there someplace quiet I could get a bite to eat while I read?” She’d been researching and hunting down equipment for the past day and had only stopped to eat when her grandmother put food in front of her, and even then she usually got distracted.

  “Our pub is open but is not known for being quiet. Our award-winning restaurant doesn’t open until five, but I could show you to a table, and perhaps you could order from the pub.”

  “That will work.” She hefted the case, tucking the key into the Nepalese butterfly pants she was wearing. “I’m ready.”

  Sorcha led her to a doorway on the right side of the foyer, which opened onto a long hall. Midway down the hall was a beautiful wood and glass door. Gold script on the door said only The Restaurant. Sorcha had to speak to someone through her radio before the doors were unlocked from the inside.

  The suit-clad maître d’ spoke with Sorcha for a moment before leading Melissa to a secluded table in a front corner of the beautiful high-ceilinged restaurant. It was a little dim, and cold radiated off the stone wall at her back, but she was well away from the other tables, the only thing near her a small server’s station.

  The maître d’ approached. “Mademoiselle, welcome to The Restaurant at Glenncailty. I regret that at this time the kitchen isn’t open. Perhaps I could offer you a complementary apéritif until it does.” He had a slight French accent, and everything about him said tasteful elegance.

  The last thing she needed was a drink. “I thought the woman who showed me here mentioned that you had a pub. Would it be possible for me to see the pub menu? I promise that after that I won’t be any trouble. I was only hoping to get a little supper and some quiet before I…” She trailed off, not sure who knew about what had been found in the building. “Before I get to work.”

  “Oui, mademoiselle.”

  The maître d’ left, and Melissa pushed aside the napkin, glass and silverware, unfolding the Glenncailty Castle brochure.

  Chapter Two

  Out of the corner of his eye Tristan saw Kris slide down one of the busy kitchen aisles. The maître d’s mouth was pursed, which was as close as the elegant man came to having a tantrum.

  He turned away from the salmon fillets en papillote they were preparing for that night’s special.

  “Kris,” he called out, and the other man turned. “What’s wrong?” he asked in French.

  Kris shrugged. That wasn’t a good sign. With a curse, Tristan put a piece of plastic wrap and a damp towel over the dough he was working with, heading to a quieter corner of the kitchen where Kris met him.

  “There’s a woman in the restaurant,” Kris said.

  “We’re not open. Throw her out.”

  “I cannot. Sorcha brought her here, and the woman, she says she needed a quiet place to work.”

  “Then she can go to the library.” Tristan liked and respected the guest relations manager, but the restaurant and the kitchen were his domain.

  “I think she came about the bones.”

  The bones. Tristan cursed. He was sick unto death of hearing about these bones. The Irish were so dramatic, getting upset over a few ghosts and bones. They should go to Paris—the whole city sat atop bones and the French weren’t thrown into a tizzy by it. But the police, the Gardaí, had closed the west wing until they were dealt with, and that risked the whole hotel and what Tristan was trying to build here.

  “Then let her stay, put her out of the way.”

  “I did, but she’s hungry.” Kris drew in a long breath through his nose. “She wants to see a menu from the pub.”

  “Non. If she wants to eat pub food, then she will go there.” Tristan suddenly understood Kris’s ire. No one seemed to understand that the ambiance of dining was as important as the food, and that meant a beautiful room with well-appointed tables, candlelight and the aroma of fine wine, truffles and fresh herbs—not the stench of chips and meaty stew.

  “Give that to me.” At his order, Kris handed over the pub menu, a laminated sheet of uninspired—though delicious, because if Tristan had to serve fish and chips, it was the best fish and chips ever cooked—pub fare.

  Tristan stormed out of the kitchen into the restaurant. He took only a moment to appreciate the crystal chandeliers, cozy private areas created by half-walls and high-backed chairs, and headed for the darkest corner, a lost space where Kris seated those who wanted the utmost privacy or who weren’t dressed nicely.

  Tristan’s brows rose in surprise when he saw who was seated there. A pretty blonde woman no older than thirty sat with her head bent over a castle map. She wore a tunic embroidered with geometric shapes in bold earth tones over a simple white turtleneck. A heavy brass medallion hung from a cord around her neck, and she toyed with it as she read. Her hair was straight, falling to just above her shoulder. She was lightly tanned, and when she looked up her eyes were a beautiful hazel rather than the blue he was so used to seeing.

  She studied him, her gaze lingering on his face, but he could tell it wasn’t sexual—it was almost clinical.

  “Hello,” she said, “I’m Dr. Melissa Heavey. You’re…” She did a second once-over. “…either the head chef or the poissonnier.” She was English and well-educated, from the sound of her accent.
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  Tristan stopped, taken by surprise. “I am the chef de cuisine.” He used the proper name for head chef.

  “And you’re French. That explains the western European Caucasian bone structure but Mediterranean coloring.”

  Tristan tilted his head to the side. “You’re a doctor?’

  “A Doctor of Philosophy, yes. I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

  “And you are here for the bones.”

  “So you do know about them. I wasn’t sure if the staff had been told.”

  “I am not staff. I am the chef.”

  “Of course, my apologies. I did a research project on the social stratification within kitchens while I was at university. It’s very structured, almost caste-like, but with huge potential for upward mobility.”

  “And that is how you know poissonnier.” Despite his irritation, Tristan smiled. The pretty English woman was intriguing.

  “The fish chef, yes. You have the air of command necessary for a head chef, but you smell a little like raw fish and there is something shiny on your apron, which I assume is scales.”

  Tristan’s gaze narrowed. “You are a detective.”

  “No, of course not. I’m a scientist.”

  Tristan shrugged. She sounded like a detective. “As you say.” Down to business. He held up the pub menu. “If you want to eat this food, you must go to the pub.”

  “I need quiet. I won’t be here long.”

  “Then you may stay, but you will not eat.”

  “But I’m hungry.”

  “Then go to the pub.” She was arguing with him. No one argued with him—no matter how beautiful they were. He wanted to shake her. Then kiss her.

  “I want to eat here.”

  “And I will not serve bangers and mash—” The inelegant words made his lips curl. “—in my beautiful restaurant.”

  She tilted her head, hair swinging. “You’re quite serious.”

  “Oui.”

  She sighed, folded the brochure she’d spread out on the table. She then carefully replaced the silverware, napkin and glasses back in their proper spots and grabbed an ugly black case off the floor. She brushed past him.

  Tristan nodded in satisfaction that he’d maintained the rules he’d set for his restaurant but was a little sad to see the interesting woman go. She wore loose pants that tied at the hips, and they were just tight enough across the derrière that he got the feeling that under the loose tunic top was a nice body. It had been a long time since he’d been drawn to a woman the way he was drawn to her. And it wasn’t just physical attraction—she was intelligent and strong.

  He was so distracted by her derrière and his unexpected reaction to her that it took him a moment to realize that she wasn’t headed for the front door, but deeper into the restaurant.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, jogging a few steps to keep up with her. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m hungry.” She stopped for a moment, looked around and then headed for the kitchen.

  Tristan darted ahead of her, positioning himself in front of the swinging doors. He folded his arms. Pretty or not, intriguing or not, she wasn’t going to interfere with his dinner prep.

  “This is my kitchen.”

  “I can tell. I’m excited to see it.”

  She tried to push past him, and he grabbed her upper arms. She made a little noise, and her eyes widened with pain. The case she carried fell from her hand.

  Tristan released her. He’d barely touched her, yet it seemed he’d caused her pain.

  “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

  “I…have a bruise there.”

  Tristan raised a brow. “From another chef whose kitchen you tried to disrupt?”

  “The result of killing the last man who tried to come between me and my dinner.”

  Her expression was so deadly serious that Tristan had a moment of real worry. Then she smiled and laughed. It changed her whole face, making her seem less serious and disconnected—more warm and approachable.

  “You looked quite alarmed,” she said as her laugh faded.

  “I do not understand English humor.”

  “Too bad, I’m quite funny.” With a smile, she grabbed her case and slid past him into the kitchen.

  Cursing, Tristan followed her.

  “Hello everyone.”

  The busy sounds of the kitchen stopped as everyone looked up at the strange blonde woman standing in the doorway. “My name is Melissa Heavey and I’m hungry. Is there someone here who might be able to—”

  Tristan grabbed her around the waist and hauled her back out through the doors.

  “You are…crazy,” he said as he set her down. He was too surprised to be really angry.

  “You’re not the first to mention that.”

  Resigned, Tristan threw his hands in the air, then planted them on his hips. “Fine, I will bring you food. You will have stew, fresh bread, a salad.” That was as far as he was willing to relent.

  “That sounds lovely.” She stooped and picked up her case. “Thank you very much…?”

  “Tristan, Tristan Fontaine.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tristan.” She held out her hand. “As I said, I’m Melissa.”

  Rather than shaking, he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

  He was both surprised and pleased when she blushed. He’d expected her to laugh.

  “Enchanté, monsieur,” she replied.

  He held her hand for a moment longer than was casual. When she pulled back, he let her go, watching her walk to her table with a smile. Tristan was looking forward to learning more about Dr. Melissa Heavey.

  A very somber-looking Sorcha let Melissa and Detective Sergeant Oren into the west wing. They’d locked down the whole building, ensuring that no one disturbed the remains any more than they’d already been disturbed. Melissa rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off the lethargy the truly delicious food had brought on.

  “I’ll leave the door unlocked. Please let the front desk know when you’re done here, Dr. Heavey.” Sorcha finished unlocking the door at the entrance to the west wing. They were standing in the glass hallway that connected it to the castle, and though it was only just past six, clouds had gathered, hiding the evening light.

  “Thank you,” Melissa said absently. Sorcha nodded and closed the door, leaving Melissa alone with Detective Sergeant Oren. She took a moment to look around the nice if unremarkable hotel hallway. The only distinctive features on the first floor of the west wing were the exposed stone walls at either end. Other than that, it was a simple hallway of hotel doors.

  “It’s up here,” Oren told her.

  She followed him up. White dust had been tracked down the stairs, and in some places she could make out distinct boot prints.

  As they mounted the last few steps, she saw more hotel doors, as nondescript as what was below them, but once at the top it was clear that something was very wrong here.

  Midway down the hall, the debris started. There were chunks of plaster and splinters of wood leading up to a stone wall with an arched doorway in the middle. The door was half closed, and a pile of bricks was stacked to one side.

  “Tell me what happened here,” Melissa said. She pulled out a small camera and took pictures. For an archaeologist, pictures and diagrams were key, because it was all about the context around a find or body. In her field, there was rarely any context to work with—a pit full of jumbled bones had no context other than horror and war.

  But Melissa’s first love had been archaeology, and that was what her bachelor’s degree was in. In the ’70s and ’80s they’d discovered some truly amazing archaeological finds in Ireland. The bog bodies, as they were affectionately known, had taken the nation’s imagination by storm. By the time she was in university, the bodies had been studied and photographed, but she’d been lucky enough to be part of a team that took one of the bog people to be X-rayed and studied using new, more sensitive, equipment. After that, she’d be
en all about the bones and pursued her PhD in forensic anthropology rather than archaeology.

  There were times she wished she’d stuck with archaeology—all these years later she’d seen more human bones than she cared to think about.

  Though capturing the context of a body was not part of her field, based on what little she knew about what she was here to see, context was most likely important.

  “It seems this room was closed up, sealed off if you will. Those bricks there were covering the door. No one got in, no one got out.” Oren rocked back on his heels, his voice grim.

  “And no one has any idea how long ago that was done?” Melissa flexed her bad left arm out of habit, the familiar ache barely registering as she surveyed the destruction.

  “Glenncailty was ready to fall down around us until Seamus O’Muircheartaigh—that’s the owner—decided to turn it into this fancy hotel a few years ago. There are stories about the castle, legends even, and I’d maybe heard that there was a doorway that had been bricked it.”

  She’d read about the renovations on the website and had looked at the before pictures. “Why wasn’t this room opened when the castle was renovated?”

  “For that you’d have to ask Seamus. I could only speculate.” Oren rocked back and forth on his heels, as if he was having trouble keeping from saying more.

  “And what is your speculation?”

  “That Seamus knew he was tempting fate herself by letting people in here and didn’t want to make it worse.”

  Melissa frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Oren looked at her. “Glenncailty is haunted.”

  Melissa waited for the rest of the statement, or for him to laugh, but it appeared that he was quite serious.

  “It’s haunted?”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone saw a ghost?”

  “Not someone, many people, and not just one ghost.”