Dead Roots

by Nancy J. Cohen

  The rich scent of cigar smoke drifted into her nostrils. A quick scan of the spacious room revealed sheet-covered furniture, dusty draperies, and portraits of men in Confederate uniforms on the walls. Their eyes seemed to follow her as she stepped inside the parlor, illuminated by sunlight streaming through the drapes. Windows made up two of the walls, the room occupying a corner space at the far end of the wing. She noticed a seating arrangement in front of a fireplace, and a lacquered cart that must have held cordials beside one of the armchairs. Not during Prohibition, she reminded herself.

  “Someone should write the history of this hotel,” Dr. Spector said, displaying a digital thermometer. “I heard that Andrew Marks sat in a thronelike chair in the lobby and examined each guest who registered. If he didn’t like their looks, he would demand their departure. This room is where he entertained his private visitors.”

  Marla glanced at a flotilla of dust motes suspended in the air. “I would have liked to meet him.” A sudden chill raised goose bumps on her arms.

  “I’m reading a temperature drop,” the ghost hunter said, panning the room with his handheld device.

  “What does that mean?”

  “An entity may be present. Inhuman spirits will siphon energy from any living source in a room.”

  “So it could be those two strangers who met with Andrew just before he died. Why would their ghosts linger at the resort?” she said without admitting her skepticism. “Did you ever learn what happened that night?”

  “They met Andrew, but no one saw them leave. Something is keeping them from moving on. I’ve told them they didn’t belong here, but they’re being stubborn.” He cocked his head. “Why don’t you tell them? They might listen to a member of Andrew’s family. Just be respectful, and don’t be frightened. Spirits feed off your negative emotions.”

  Marla detected a movement from the corner of her eye. When she turned to focus on it, nothing was there. Swinging her gaze past the mantelpiece, she stopped to stare at a pewter candlestick. Had she seen it slide sideways, or were her eyes deceiving her?

  “Hello,” she said hesitandy. “Is there a reason you’re still around? We want to fix up this place, but repairs can’t be done while you’re bothering people. You need to go to your final rest.” As though in response, strains of piano music reached her ears. “Where is that coming from?” she whispered, her lips dry.

  “Perhaps the music studio near the ballroom. I believe they held concerts there in the early days.” The portly fellow reached for his digital electromagnetic field meter.

  “What’s directly above us?” The music swelled, then faded until silence surrounded them.

  “The upper floors have guest suites.”

  “So how is it that we can hear someone playing the piano all the way over here?”

  Dr. Spector shrugged. “I’m not permitted to explore as fully as I’d like. Sometimes I think Mr. Butler…”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not sure he takes us seriously.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, these types of effects…they can be reproduced. Entities are not always so…obvious.”

  Hmm. The only way they could hear sounds from the other end of the hotel would be if there was a conduit of some sort—unless it was piped in to scare away unwanted curiosity-seekers. Even that would require wiring, most likely behind the walls. Was that why Butler didn’t want to see this wing torn down, because of what it might reveal? Why would he want to keep people away when he’d ostensibly hired Spector’s team to get rid of ghosts so restoration could proceed?

  “Have you been through this entire ground-floor level?” she asked Spector, who now busied himself taking instrument readings.

  “We’ve done some scans, but not much else is going on except in here,” he replied curtly, focusing his attention on his work. “I think something occurred in this room, besides Andrew’s encounter with his visitors. That would have been upsetting enough, from what I’ve heard, and the residue from his emotions may be playing a part in what’s keeping the anomalies close by, but I’m guessing there’s more to the story than we’ve been told.”

  “Andrew died that night.”

  “Yes, but he died in his penthouse suite.”

  “I’ve felt a presence in the tower elevator.”

  “Precisely. He’s guarding his domain. Or else he’s just so fond of the place that he doesn’t wish to leave.”

  Assuming ghosts existed, and Marla was willing to accept the likelihood in view of her recent experiences, what would be keeping the two foreigners from seeking their rest? Were they, like Alyssa’s ghost, seeking to relate what had happened to them?

  “I’m going to take a look down the hall.

  “Wandering into the corridor, she padded along while her heart thumped rapidly. She pried open a couple of unlocked doors and peeked inside rooms eerily decorated with covered furnishings. Their shapes rose like apparitions in the dim natural light. So far she hadn’t seen anything that would indicate termites or other hazards, but, then, she didn’t qualify as a building inspector, either.

  Her foot scraped against something slimy. Crying out in alarm, she leapt backward. Get a grip, girl. It’s only a bug.

  Gathering her wits, she took a closer look. That blob wasn’t an insect. It looked more like a mangled chicken wing. Something had been gnawing at it, true, but how did it get there? Was Spector’s crew this careless about their meals? A metallic glint drew her gaze to a candy wrapper in a corner.

  Angry at these signs of flagrant disrespect to the place, she marched back to the open parlor, where Spector was concentrating his efforts. As she entered, her glance flickered to the mantelpiece—and her eyes bulged. Unless she was hallucinating, now both candlesticks had moved. Stepping nearer, she squinted at the layer of dust that remained undisturbed. Instead of gracing the ends of die fireplace shelf where she had seen them originally, the candle holders now stood at the center.

  “Did you move these things?” she demanded.

  Dr. Spector, passing his measuring device slowly over the small round table set between two armchairs, peered at her. “Excuse me? I haven’t touched anything over there.”

  Crouching, she pushed aside the screen protecting the fireplace interior. Not even a speck of soot darkened its yawning cavity. Could this be similar to the fireplace in Polly’s room? Her pulse quickening, she slid her fingers around the stone archway rimming the hearth without applying any pressure. If this was an entrance to the secret passage, she didn’t want Spector to learn about it.

  This could be the means by which Andrew’s visitors had left, she realized, if indeed they had vanished after their meeting. Or if something more ominous had occurred to them, they could have been disposed of through this hidden exit. Seto Mulch would have known about it. He’d lived during those times and served Andrew loyally.

  Had the young busboy, by then promoted to steward, been so loyal that he’d eliminate a threat to his employer by any means possible? Had he kept the secret all these years because he admired Polly and didn’t want her to discover what a vile deed he’d committed? If Andrew had known, that could account for his stroke. He might’ve even helped Mulch get rid of the men. But Marla had no proof of her theories. Andrew could have just paid them off and shown them out through the discreet exit.

  Besides, what difference would it make to current events? Mulch must have been privy to something more relevant. Remember that phone call? He’d known the identity of the other speaker and had said he wouldn’t allow that individual to cause trouble. Brownie was spying for this person. Marla had assumed the groundskeeper spoke to Butler, but hadn’t she caught Brownie with Jeff Levine, her cousin’s husband? What if Mulch had been speaking to Jeffrey? Then again, why assume a man was on the other end of the line?

  Obviously someone who knew the resort layout was using the passages. Butler was the most likely suspect. Marla had seen someone in Polly’s room after her aunt’s death. What if that person
had escaped into the fireplace outlet? With a shiver she remembered how her evening bag had been moved. Maybe there was another entrance into her room that she and Vail hadn’t yet discovered.

  When Spector left briefly to pick up another piece of equipment from his hotel room, Marla set about examining the fireplace arch more thoroughly. Not a single stone could be moved, nor did any of the indentations produce the unlatching sound she’d heard in Polly’s room. Defeat left her breathless. Either she had been mistaken, or this entrance was somehow jammed or deactivated. She remembered the downward branch at the intersection she and Vail had taken. It possibly led to Oleander Hall. The only way to find out for sure would be to follow it through its entirety. Short of getting the blueprints from Butler’s office, she saw no alternative.

  Making a quick stop in her bedroom to freshen up and grab Vail’s flashlight, she headed for the tower elevator. She could always enter the passages from the twelfth floor. Gritting her teeth, she slid open the grating to the ancient lift and stepped inside.

  The elevator rattled through its slow ascent while Marla mentally ticked off the seconds. She jumped back when a chill breath blew across her neck. In the next instant, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “Stop it, Andrew,” she ordered brusquely. “I’m not in the mood for being teased.”

  A low chuckle sounded, while something scraped her arm. Marla screeched, leaping into the wall. That elicited a knocking noise. It came from outside, as though someone wanted to get in from the shaft. You idiot. You’re supposed to wait for Dalton and go together after lunch. He’s probably waiting for you by the cabana stand and will worry when you’re late. Tremors raced up her spine. The knocking seemed to correspond with her heartbeat, a paced rhythm that grew insistently louder until the entire elevator shook. Sweat beaded her brow. If only this damn thing would move faster.

  The noise abated suddenly as she topped the tenth floor. This isn’t the Tower of Terror, she reminded herself. Despite the groans and rattles, we’re not going to plunge into the depths. Pressing a hand to the wall, she felt its vibration between her fingers. Shallow, gasping breaths made her lightheaded.

  When at last the door opened, her knees were so wobbly that she staggered across the threshold. A long corridor stretched before her. Resisting the urge to turn and run, she experienced a moment of panic when the elevator descended, leaving her alone. She had enough presence of mind to switch on the flashlight.

  Should she search for Andrew’s gemstones or Polly’s letters? Did either really exist? She wasn’t sure what to look for, only that she’d felt a compelling urge to come here by herself.

  The soft thud of a door shutting gave her pause. Real or imaginary? She’d gotten to the point where she couldn’t believe her own ears. When a figure emerged out of the gloom, her heart lurched. She shone her flashlight ahead, lighting up the flushed face of Jeffrey Levine.

  “Marla, I should have known I’d find you here.” He spread his hands in a welcoming gesture, but she’d heard the annoyance in his tone.

  “Are you looking for Andrew’s treasure?” she retorted. “Cynthia told me we’d divided up the resort. This is my territory.”

  “I wanted to get the lay of the land. This level is just like it was in Andrew’s day. Why do you suppose it’s been so well-preserved?”

  “Good question. People would pay a lot of money to stay up here, especially with the rooms restored to their original condition. It could be there are structural faults that aren’t immediately visible. You know, roof leaks and such.” Or it could be that the hotel doesn’t own the top levels, and whoever does halted progress for their own reasons.

  “If that’s true, you shouldn’t be here alone,” he said. “Strange things happen to folks at this resort.”

  “You don’t seem to be scared off by ghost stories.”

  “Who said anything about ghosts? That guy who fell off the ladder, Polly dying this weekend, and that weird group of ghost hunters are too much for coincidence. You’d think someone is trying to chase people away.”

  Not to mention the missing groundskeeper. “Why would that be?” she asked. As Jeff neared, she realized how his muscles bulged under his black shirt. She hadn’t been aware of his strength before, but now it made her take a step backward.

  His onyx eyes gleamed in the reflected light from her torch. “You tell me. Have you made any discoveries?”

  She met his gaze levelly. “Nothing significant.”

  He grinned with an expression she’d almost call relief. “Maybe you’ll find something decent that Aunt Polly can wear for burial. You wouldn’t want to put her away in those shmattes she favored.”

  “Being so religious, she’ll probably get buried in a shroud. That’ll be my mother’s decision.”

  “You won’t find much here.”

  “You’ve been to her rooms?”

  He waved a hand. “I’ve breezed through all of them. The history fascinates me. You’ll let me know if you learn anything relevant, won’t you?”

  His malevolent gleam made her answer carefully. “Sure, Jeffrey. I’ll let you know what I find, but I doubt Andrew’s loot really exists. I think Polly made up the whole megillah just to rile everyone.”

  “Or to draw us together, that being her aim this weekend.”

  Hadn’t Polly said she wanted to make amends? Marla had never found out what she meant. Had she been referring to Ruth’s falling-out with her sister and brothers? But their Colorado relatives seemed oblivious to any schism. Marla would have to probe deeper into their family history to learn what had prompted Polly’s remark.

  “Dalton is waiting for me, so I can’t waste time,” she told her cousin-by-marriage. “Excuse me, Jeff.”

  “Polly’s door is the third on the left, past her parents’ suites. Want me to keep you company?”

  She narrowed her gaze. The man seemed in no hurry to leave. “No thanks, I’m sure Lori is expecting you.” Not that you care about your wife. Jabbing the elevator button to summon the lift, she waited until he’d begun his descent before rushing down the hallway.

  Now, where might Polly have hidden her letters? Why did they matter to Vincent, whoever he was?

  She surmised it had been Ruth’s decision to move everyone to the twelfth floor after Andrew died. Perhaps Ruth suspected the gems were somewhere in the penthouse, and she didn’t want the children disrupting things while she searched for them. It was even likely she had found his stash and used it to support herself and the family. But wouldn’t she have shared that find with Polly, her eldest?

  Having identified Polly’s room without any trouble, Marla stepped inside—then stopped in shock. Drawers were spilled open. Clothing was piled on the closet floor. On the dresser, tracks showed through coatings of dust. Had Jeff searched through her aunt’s belongings here as well as in her room downstairs? He couldn’t have been looking for the treasure. They all knew Polly didn’t have it. The only thing he could’ve been looking for were her letters…or possibly the old lady’s will. But why would he care? A nagging memory surfaced, and Marla recalled smelling lilacs in her aunt’s room. Of course. Brownie favored lilac scent.

  So was Brownie spying for Jeff, and not Mr. Butler? Were Jeff and Brownie working together for some reason that Mulch considered trouble? As her theories expanded, Marla felt her blood chill. Was Jeff responsible for the old man’s vanishing act?

  I know who you are. Mulch’s words repeated themselves in her mind. She’d have to ask Anita what she knew of his background.

  Marla regarded the task before her with slumped shoulders. She didn’t have time now for a thorough search. Glancing at her watch, she noted the dial read twelve-thirty. As though she and Vail had a mental link, her cell phone rang and his voice greeted her.

  “I’ll be there shortly,” she said. “Save me a chair.”

  “Where are you?”

  He’d be angry if she told him. “I’m, uh, on my way.” She hung up before he could worm the truth fr
om her.

  Polly must have stored her recyclables here, Marla figured, discovering a collection of metal lids from coffee cans, washed plastic containers from ready-made puddings, foam trays from the supermarket, and scraps of aluminum foil. Empty jars took up an entire shelf in the closet, where clothing no longer in style hung inside out on dusty hangers. Marla rifled through the garments, checking pockets but finding nothing except shredded tissues. She came across a pile of monogrammed handkerchiefs, reminiscent of a lifestyle full of tea parties, formal courtships, and calling cards.

  Her back aching, she got a whiff of mothballs from a woolen blanket and stifled a sneeze. A dress bag hung in a shadowed recess next to a crocheted shawl, but she’d search them later.

  Straightening her shoulders, she retreated into the room to yank open the drapes. There, now she could see better. After flicking off the flashlight, she rifled through each drawer in the mirrored dressing table and then in the oak dresser. Under a pile of full-length folded slips was an ivory silk negligee. She lifted it with reverence, amazed Polly had ever possessed such a delicate item. Spaghetti straps led to a plunging neckline edged in lace. The gown must have belonged to her aunt when she was younger, and taller, before osteoporosis had shrunk her size. It looks like something a woman would wear on her wedding night. Could her spinster aunt have taken a lover? This would have been so out of character for Polly that Marla stood as though hypnotized at the thought, fingering the silk fabric.

  Aware that she was overdue to meet Vail, she replaced the nightgown in its drawer. Then she spotted an empty cereal box stuffed with papers on the night table. Maybe the letters were in there! Her excitement waned, though, as she sifted through grocery coupons, empty junk mail envelopes, and outdated financial statements.

  Maybe Jeffrey had taken the letters, if her aunt had hidden them here. Marla didn’t want to acknowledge the likelihood that she’d been duped, and that Polly had sent her on a wild goose chase with her senile ramblings.