by Gigi Pandian
My room was pitch black. Not even numbers on the clock shone through the darkness. The power must have still been out. I felt along the bedside table for my flashlight. Instead I found my phone. Even though I’d plugged it in, the screen was dark. In the darkness, I listened to see if the sound that had woken me would come again. It didn’t. All I heard was the sound of the storm walloping the windowpane. That must have been what had startled me awake.
I snuggled back under the lumpy quilt, trying to get comfortable. I wasn’t supposed to be here. My brother had scheduled a belated Thanksgiving dinner in San Francisco so I could be there, but with the storm getting worse, as time passed it seemed more and more certain I was going to miss Thanksgiving for a second time this week. I was feeling a little sorry for myself—when a man’s scream pierced the cool air.
I found the flashlight by accident as I stepped on it jumping out of bed. I pulled a sweater over my camisole and leggings and rushed downstairs in my bare feet. I found Rosalyn and Dot standing outside the closed library door in their pajamas. For Dot that meant silver yoga clothes that matched her hair. Rosalyn looked as if she’d stepped out of another century, with the edges of a lacy white gown poking out beneath a silk robe, and her long black hair wrapped in a braid around her head.
“What was that sound?” I asked.
“That’s what we were trying to figure out,” Dot said.
“The library door is bolted from the inside,” Rosalyn said. “This isn’t good.”
“I’d say it’s very well done,” Dot said. “This is a much more dramatic publicity stunt than your telling of the ghost story. Your heart wasn’t in it earlier tonight. I didn’t believe in the ghost. But now—”
“This isn’t a stunt,” Rosalyn snapped. “But I know how to find out what’s going on.” She disappeared down the hallway.
“Where’s she going?” Kenny asked, appearing on the stairs from the floor above.
“Hopefully to get a key,” Dot said, rattling the locked library door.
Ivy and Tamarind were behind Kenny. The three of them had taken time to get dressed, but Kenny was barefoot like me. Rosalyn returned holding both a key and a screwdriver. We were all there except for Simon.
“My father didn’t believe in ghosts,” Rosalyn said, “in spite of the publicity for our hotel. When he bought this place, he replaced the hinges and locks of this door. That way we could always get inside. Even if something blocked the door again, we could easily remove the hinges and open it in the opposite direction. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
The key unlocked the door. She pushed it open. The library was dark except for the harsh beam of a lone flashlight lying on the floor, casting a narrow swath of light across the room. And across the feet of a fallen man.
Tamarind, Dot, and Kenny rushed forward toward the prone form of Simon Quinn.
I remained in the doorway. Not because I was paralyzed with fear, but because I wanted to take in the room. Something was off about this room. Not only because Simon was lying still on the floor.
Kenny, in the lead, jerked to a stop a few feet from his boss and cried out. Dot and Tamarind crashed into him. Dot’s flashlight went flying.
“Oh God,” Tamarind said. “What happened? Why did you stop?”
“Glass,” Kenny said through gritted teeth, plucking a piece of glass from the ball of his foot. The erratic beam of his flashlight showed fragments of glass strewn across the floor. “Please. Someone who has shoes on and can walk through this mess, please help Simon.”
Tamarind reached Simon first. Ivy was close behind. Simon was fully dressed in the clothes he’d worn that evening. Tamarind’s flashlight beam illuminated Simon’s face, showing his hazel eyes wide open and a twisted expression of horror on his lips. With pale skin and wild eyes caught in a frozen gaze, he looked even more vampiric in death. There was no helping Simon Quinn.
Kenny ran from the room as the two women felt Simon’s wrist and neck for a pulse. I looked away as I felt myself shaking but forced myself to look back. Was there a chance I was wrong?
“He’s dead,” Dot whispered. Her bun came loose and her white hair tumbled over her shoulders. She hadn’t secured her bun with knitting needles as she’d done before.
“We need to call an ambulance,” I said, and offered to call before remembering my cell phone was dead.
“I’m calling,” Rosalyn said. But her hands were shaking so badly she dropped her phone. It landed on a large segment of glass.
“I’ll do it,” Kenny said, limping back into the room. He was now wearing untied sneakers and stepped through the glass toward Simon. “Is he—?”
“I’m sorry, dear,” Dot said, giving his shoulder a squeeze.
As Kenny called 911, Rosalyn placed two battery-operated lamps on the table, illuminating the room and allowing me to see Simon more clearly. The shattered glass wasn’t spread across the entire floor, but rather encircled Simon’s upper body like a devilish halo. Two of the larger chunks of glass were affixed to hinges, and one to a pewter lock. It was the glass case that had once held the early edition of Murder on the Orient Express. The hardback book lay on the floor next to Simon.
“Yes,” Kenny said into his phone. “We’re certain he’s dead.” He clutched his flashlight so tightly in his other hand I was afraid it would crack.
I stepped closer, getting a better look but careful to avoid the glass. There was no question Simon was dead. Unlike the first strange death that had taken place in the library, I didn’t see any obvious signs of violence—aside from the contorted look of fear on his face. Had the library ghost frightened Simon Quinn to death? It certainly looked like he’d died of fright.
“I understand,” Kenny was saying to the 911 operator. He clicked off, tucked the phone into his pocket, and took a deep breath. “It’s impossible for anyone to reach us until morning,” he said, his gaze falling to Simon.
“That can’t be right,” Tamarind said. “Isn’t that what snow plows are for?”
“They’re not going to plow in the middle of the night during a fierce storm,” Rosalyn said, “especially since Simon’s beyond needing medical help.”
“I’ll get a sheet to cover him,” Ivy said.
“Nobody goes near his body,” Kenny said.
Ivy gaped at him. “I don’t know where you’re from, but it’s more respectful to—”
“Not when there’s something far more important at stake,” Kenny said. “Simon was murdered.”
We all stared at him in silence. Even the wind outside calmed for a moment.
“He was in here alone, Kenny,” Rosalyn said softly, breaking the silence. “I know it’s upsetting, but—”
“Simon was in perfect health,” Kenny insisted. “He didn’t have a heart condition. He wasn’t frightened to death by a ghost. Someone did this to him. I mean, I know we don’t know what killed him yet—”
“If you’re right,” I said, “then that part is easy.”
“It is?”
“There are no visible markings on his body,” I said. “He was poisoned.”
Tamarind gasped.
“But he cried out twice over several minutes,” Kenny said, “and he didn’t leave the library for help. He kept himself locked inside the library. If nobody was in here with him forcing him to stay in the library, he would have left. How is that possible?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shivering as I thought of the locked room from the ghost story. “But what I do know is that we’re on our own at Tanglewood Inn—and there’s a good chance one of us killed Simon Quinn.”
v.
“That’s ridiculous,” Rosalyn said. “This is the twenty-first century. The idea of a murder here at my inn is no more real than the vigilante library ghost. The medical examiner will figure out whatever natural cause killed your friend.”
“Simon w
as murdered,” Kenny insisted. “And I know who did it.” He pointed the beam of his flashlight at Tamarind. “The librarian.”
“That’s absurd,” I said.
“Your friend hated him.”
“So did half of the people who’d heard of him. Probably most of the people in this room.”
“Hardly,” Kenny said. “Dot, for one, said it must have been an honor for me to work with Simon. She thinks he was a great man.”
“It’s called sarcasm, dear,” Dot said. “Young people are so earnest, aren’t they? It was always a challenge to teach students critical thinking. Simon did get away with murder, Kenneth. I thought it would be fascinating to see what he was really like, so I said I was a fan and accepted his offer for a lift to a warm hotel. Rather than waiting on my gom son-in-law. But of course I didn’t kill Simon.”
“He didn’t kill his girlfriend,” Kenny seethed. “But there’s a lot more evidence that points to Tamarind being a killer. She’s the one who rushed right to Simon.”
“She ran to him at your request,” I said, “since you were barefoot and just happened to accidentally contaminate the scene with your blood—”
“Tamarind was the first to reach the body,” Kenny said. “I didn’t get near him. But she could have messed with his body. Tampered with evidence—”
“Not that he deserved it, but I was trying to help the jerk,” Tamarind said, not helping herself.
“And I saw you messing with his coffee earlier,” Kenny said. “I know about poison from my research for Simon. Coffee is a good drink to use since it’s bitter. How do I know you didn’t slip him a roofie so you could kill him later? Or that you had a time-delay poison—”
“I did no such thing,” Tamarind said, crossing her arms. “And you picked the wrong person to mess with. Don’t you realize who I’m here with? This is Jaya Jones.”
Everyone stared blankly at me.
“Jaya. Jones.” Tamarind said again. “The Jaya Jones. Seriously, people? Do you all live under rocks?”
Kenny tapped on his phone and looked surprised. “Oh. You’re that treasure-hunting historian. You’re a lot shorter than I imagined you’d be.” He looked me up and down, from my tangled bob of black hair and oversized sweater to my black leggings and bare feet. “But you’re good at solving puzzles. Good. Important evidence might be gone by the time the police reach us in the morning.”
“You’re suggesting I investigate?” I said.
“Don’t you want to clear your friend?”
“There’s nothing to clear her from,” I hissed. This was getting out of hand. And I felt rather ill. Apparently I wasn’t the only one.
“You’re shivering,” Ivy said to Dot. “Rosalyn, could we light the fire?”
“Of course.” Snapped out of her daze, Rosalyn went to the hearth.
Tamarind pulled me aside. “You need to investigate,” she whispered.
“Why would I—”
“You don’t understand, Jaya. I did put something in his coffee after dinner.”
“What?”
“Nothing dangerous,” she whispered. “I found a laxative in the kitchen’s medicine cabinet when I was looking for honey for my dry throat. He wasn’t a good guy, Jaya. I wanted to make his night a miserable one. But I thought better of it as soon as I’d put it in his coffee. That’s why I took it away from him and got him a fresh cup. Kenny must have been watching me.”
I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples for a few moments.
“I suppose,” I said loudly to the group, “it won’t hurt to see what I can come up with.”
“But you can’t touch his body,” Ivy said. “Kenny was right. That’ll mess with the evidence.”
Kenny nodded. “You can put me to work, Jaya. I’ll be Watson.”
“Hey,” Tamarind said. “That’s my job. I’m Watsina.”
“It shouldn’t be anyone’s job,” Rosalyn said. “Nobody should touch anything. Not just the body. It’s all evidence.”
“We won’t touch anything,” Kenny said. “We’ll just observe.”
“Right,” I said, wondering where on earth I’d begin. It was true I’d solved several mysteries, but that was because they involved my historical expertise. How was I supposed to solve the impossible murder of infamous author Simon Quinn?
I stepped closer to the newly lit fire. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that the library door had been bolted from the inside, yet Simon hadn’t tried to get out of the room. If he’d been alone, why hadn’t he left for help? Even if I was right that he’d been poisoned, he cried out twice over several minutes. That gave him plenty of time to get out.
I knew it wasn’t me or Tamarind, which left Simon’s assistant Kenny, retired teacher Dot, hotel owner Rosalyn, and driver Ivy. Four suspects. A previous unsolved murder. A ghost story. And a dead man who might have deserved the fate of being killed by the vigilante ghost.
I looked up from the fire and saw everyone looking at me. I realized I should start with what I knew best. Those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it.
“We start with history,” I said. “Starting with the first death in this room.”
“Right,” Kenny said. “To find the connection.”
“Tell me more about the man who died in this room in the 1930s,” I said to Rosalyn.
“I’ve already told you most of what I know,” she said. “What else can help?”
“How about the book. It fits into both murders. Where did the antique Agatha Christie novel come from? Was it Underhill’s copy?”
“Remember, the book wasn’t antique at the time.” Rosalyn walked to the window, opened the curtains, and stood looking out at the flurries of snow falling in the darkness. The sound of the thunderous wind made the room feel physically colder. “That was the 1930s, so Murder on the Orient Express had only recently been published. But it was already a bestseller, so it’s not surprising it would have been in such a big library.”
“So it came from the shelves here?”
“I really don’t know.” Rosalyn turned from the window. “I’m sorry, but I was only a kid when my father bought this place. I don’t know what’s fact and what’s fiction. Maybe I can see if there’s anything in my father’s records—”
“None of us goes anywhere on our own,” Kenny said.
I gasped as my gaze fell to Simon’s body. Where the Agatha Christie book had lain, now only shards of glass remained.
The book was gone.
vi.
“The book was right there.” I rushed forward but stopped myself before I got too close. I was still in bare feet. “I’m not imagining it.”
“But where could it have—” Kenny began.
“The fire,” Tamarind shrieked, lunging toward the hearth.
I grabbed a hefty iron poker and pulled the burning book from the fire. Rosalyn ran for a fire extinguisher, but it was too late. The remains of the book crumbled into ash. The pages were gone. All that remained was the shell of the green spine.
“Looks like the ghost doesn’t want its secret to be discovered,” Tamarind said.
“You did this,” Kenny shouted at her.
“None of us did this,” she countered. “None of us had a chance. Only an invisible ghost could have moved it.” Tamarind’s eyes darted around the room, which looked alive with the flickering light of the fire. “There must really be an avenging library ghost. Because we’re all right here. Together.”
“Sort of,” I said. “We were all in the library, but we were distracted. We were all turned away from Simon and the fire as Rosalyn spoke. Any of us could have picked up the book.”
Kenny crossed his arms but spoke without raising his voice. “Seems awfully risky.”
“I agree,” I said. “There must have been a good reason. We need to find out what that was. I need my
shoes. Which means you’re all coming with me.”
As we crept up the stairs, I considered the faint sound of our footfalls. Could there be someone hiding in this house? I paused and gripped the railing as I thought back to the curtain I’d seen fluttering in my room.
“You’re freaking me out, Jaya,” Tamarind said softly. “It’s like you’re in a trance or something.”
“Just thinking…”
We reached my room, and I found my heels at the foot of the bed. Instead of leaving, I turned my flashlight toward the window. I saw what I expected I might find. I climbed onto the wide sill and looked up.
“Don’t jump!” Tamarind cried. “The ghost has gotten to your head, Jaya. Someone stop her.”
Kenny reached me first. He pulled me over his shoulder.
I squirmed, but he was strong. “I’ll kick you if you don’t put me down.”
He set me down harder than was necessary, muttering, “That’s what I get for trying to help.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” I said. I pointed toward the ceiling. “Wires. That’s our ghost.”
“You think Rosalyn made a manifestation to frighten Simon to death, and then used wires to swing the book into the fire?” Kenny shone his own flashlight over the wires. “It’s true Simon wasn’t as brave as he looked, but I don’t know...”
“Hold on,” Rosalyn said. “I admit there are hidden wires. Those wires are how I keep up the act of a haunted hotel. Look at how obvious they are. They’re not to kill anyone or elaborate enough to pick up random objects. They’re just to make the curtains flutter. That sort of thing. It’s fun, like a haunted house. People love being scared. This doesn’t have anything to do with what happened to Simon Quinn.”
“It’s freezing in here,” Dot said. “Shall we resume in the library?”
We trekked silently down the stairs. When we reached the library, none of us seemed certain what to do. Dot resumed her knitting by the fire, and Ivy joined her on the couch. Kenny sat at the séance table and lifted his injured foot onto a second chair. Rosalyn checked the light switches again. Tamarind ran her hands over the spines of the hardback books near the door.