“I hope so. Mr. Beck won’t be happy if we’ve got nothing to show him.”
“I won’t be happy either. We need to save Blackbird Inn. I don’t know what I will do if I lose it. I’ll die without it.”
She looked up at him. “It would be bad, but you won’t die. But it’s not going to happen. We’ll save it.”
He set his mouth in a firm line. “You have no idea.”
She sorted through the stack of papers and pulled out two ledgers, both of them small and dusty, their leather covers cracked from age and the heat of the attic.
“These look old.” Changing the subject was a good idea. Things had gotten way too tense. She opened the first ledger, its yellowed pages crisp between her fingers.
“What year?” Garren slid next to her.
She leaned against him, not caring if the move was too brazen. Being with him felt comfortable, at least in the daytime. At night, he was a little spooky. She ran her finger down the page and over to the date column. “Nineteen…something,” she said. “I can’t make it out completely. The cursive is pretty, but sloppy in places.”
“It’s just the guest register, but I guess we should hold onto it and look through it later to see if we can find any famous names.”
“Yes.” She started to close the book when something fell from the pages. A pressed and yellowed four-leaf clover.
Garren picked it up and twirled it in his fingertips. “Maybe this is the luck we need.”
She held the book open for him to place the clover back inside. She gasped. “Alexandra Dumare’s name is here.”
“What?”
“Yes, it’s her name all right.” She paused and scanned the page. “Oh my God.”
“What is it?”
“Below her name. Look.”
He stared at the page and his eyes widened. “How is that possible?”
“I don’t know, but Arturo Beck has some explaining to do. Why did someone sign his name to a register that’s a hundred years old?”
Chapter 5
What the hell was going on? Sophia held the inn register at arm’s length and stared at the names. Printed in block lettering, both Arturo Beck and Alexandra Dumare’s names were clear and written by the same hand. No mistaking it, someone with the identical name as her boss had not only stayed in the inn at the same time as the missing or dead Alexandra, but they had checked in at the same time and shared adjoining rooms.
Garren looked on, hands in his pockets. “That makes no sense. No one ever mentioned that Alexandra was staying at the inn with someone. I always assumed she was alone—that’s part of what made her disappearance such a mystery.”
“And that someone has the exact name of the man who sent me here to research. I can’t believe it’s a coincidence.” She examined the names. “It’s the same handwriting, too. The same person signed both of them in.” She took a deep breath then let it out slowly. “Didn’t the police ask for the ledger when they were investigating? This seems like an important clue.”
“We’re talking something that happened a hundred years ago. Police work was a lot different back then. No DNA tests or forensics like we have today. Mostly, they relied on interviews and confessions.”
“Right, but still…”
“And I don’t think they even investigated the disappearance as a crime. At first, the rumor was that Alexandra went missing and I know the townspeople and sheriff put a search party together and searched the woods around here. But when they found nothing, they assumed Alexandra had run off with someone. Those days, it was unusual for an unmarried woman to be traveling alone.”
“She obviously wasn’t alone.”
“Yeah.” Garren sighed and took the ledger. He ran his fingers across the names. “It wasn’t until a few years later that the rumors began.”
“That she’d been murdered?”
“Yes, or worse.”
Sophia shuddered. What could be worse? Torture? Rape? She didn’t ask. “But what about Mr. Beck? How does he play into this? How could his name be on a hundred-year old list—with the name of the person who disappeared?”
Garren shut the ledger and set it in the box of stuff they were taking back downstairs. “Maybe it’s a coincidence.”
“Or maybe it’s his grandfather or great-grandfather.”
“That’s possible. It’s definitely odd.”
“Something else is going on, I feel it. The Mr. Beck who sent me here must have known that another Arturo Beck had been here with Alexandra. And being here right at the anniversary of Alexandra’s disappearance? Something is definitely going on, and it’s making me nervous.”
“We’ll have to ask him when he gets here.”
“Count on it. I don’t like secrets.”
They worked through the last papers in silence, pulling out anything that might be of interest and setting it in the box to go downstairs.
“Is that it?” Sophia yawned and stretched.
“For these boxes, yes.” Garren stood. “There’s one more place I want to look. He pulled the keys from his pocket and held one up. “I think this is the one I need.”
She scrambled to her feet. “What’s that one for?” She imagined a tiny cage or closet that he could lock her away in. She shivered.
“My grandmother’s trunk. I want to check in there to see if there’s anything else that might help. She kept a lot of mementos in the trunk, but maybe something related to the inn will be there.”
She let out a sigh. “Especially if it was something important. She’d probably keep it separate from the inn’s business.”
“Let’s go.” He headed for the corner. “Over here. Can you bring the lamp? The cord should reach.”
“Sure.” She picked up the lamp and followed, keeping the cord clear of obstacles.
He led her to an area with a lot of furniture. Dressers, chairs, and bedframes stood in rows and leaned against the wall. Even a mattress, covered in a sheet, had been stored in the dusty attic.
The lamp cord tightened. “This is as far as it will go.” She set it on one of the grimy tables.
“That’s close enough.” He kneeled in front of the trunk. “I can see.”
“It’s beautiful.”
The antique trunk had a bowed top and hammered iron strappings across the top. In the center, a carving of a bird had been blackened with stain, or dirt.
A blackbird.
“It is beautiful. This trunk has been in my family for generations. Family stories say that it came over when my family emigrated from Germany. The blackbird on top was hand carved by a local witch. So the story says.”
She tapped her finger on her lip. “Why a blackbird? I’ve been wondering why the inn is named after a bird.”
Garren smiled. “Among twenty snowy mountains, the only moving thing was the eye of the blackbird.”
“Huh?”
“Wallace Stevens, from his poem ‘Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.’”
“Okay, but that doesn’t explain—”
“My family name, Amsel, means blackbird. So the bird has been our spirit animal, well, forever. It’s an important symbol in our heritage.” He stuck the key in the lock. “Let’s see what’s in here. I hope Grandma left us some answers.”
Garren lifted the heavy lid and peered inside.
Sophia watched, trying to see over his shoulder to what was inside the trunk. “That’s interesting. I saw some blackbirds outside earlier.”
“Yes, those are American blackbirds. There are some European ones, actually thrushes, here, too. You can tell by the golden orange ring around their eyes. Very vivid. And those are the ones my family is named for.”
“Thanks for the bird-watching lesson.” Sophia came closer but let him dig through the stuff inside. “I didn’t know there were different kinds of blackbirds.”
“No problem. Oh wow, look at this.” He dug in the chest. “I remember this hat.” He set out a small round woman’s hat with dusty black feathers attached
to the side. “She wore it on Sundays when she served brunch. She always said a lady’s head should be covered on the Sabbath. And this black hat was her favorite. I used to think of her as a blackbird when she wore it.” He smiled.
“Your grandmother sounds like an interesting woman.”
He stared at the hat, running his fingers through the feathers. “She was.”
The way he talked so lovingly about his grandmother set her heart pounding. Not only was he sexy, he was sentimental. She let out a sigh.
He turned, his face lit in yellow light from the lamp. “What is it? We’re almost done.”
Her faced burned. “N-nothing.”
He went back to work, pulling all sorts of things from the chest. Bone-colored kidskin gloves, folded linen handkerchiefs in every color, even a set of fat faux pearls. The treasure chest seemed to be more of a lingerie chest.
Garren sat back on his heels. “Look at this!” His eyes shone as he held up a two small books. “I think we found something useful.”
She stepped close. “What are they? Books?”
“My great-grandmother’s journal. Or two of them, at least.” He flipped through the pages. “Looks like she wrote in them often. Maybe she wrote about Alexandra.”
“Why would your grandmother have your great-grandmother’s journals?”
He packed the other things back into the chest. “That’s a very good question. And these are dated right around the time of Alexandra’s disappearance. They must be important, since my grandmother kept them hidden away.” He shut and locked the chest, the hinges groaning as he aligned the lock. “We’ll have to read through them and see what secrets they hold, if any. Maybe the piece of information we’re looking for is here.”
Sophia nodded. Maybe the journals would be useful to the mystery of Alexandra, but how would they help her save the inn? She hadn’t come to play Nancy Drew. And things were getting more complicated.
“I’ll stick them in the box.” He stood. “I’m ready to go back downstairs, how about you?”
“Definitely.”
“You meet me upstairs and we’ll have dinner and look through these things after we eat? Maybe we’ll still luck out and find something before Mr. Beck gets here.”
“I’d like to grab a quick shower first, but yes, let’s do that. I’m already getting hungry.”
“I’ll ask Bernadette to bring up dinner for two. You come on up to the third floor when you’re done. We can work until Mr. Beck gets here.”
“Sounds great.” Sophia shivered as the temperature in the attic dropped by at least fifteen degrees. Across the room, something fell to the floor, bounced, and rolled.
Garren scanned the room. “I think we need to leave the attic to the ghosts.”
Chapter 6
Sophia climbed the last set of stone stairs to Garren’s rooms. The shower had certainly helped with her fatigue, but a million questions remained and her mind wouldn’t slow down. Did Mr. Beck know about the inn guest that shared his name? Did Garren know more about the disappearance of Alexandra than he was telling? And were there really ghosts at Blackbird Inn?
She sighed. The questions were never-ending and the longer she stayed at the inn, the more questions there were. The mysterious inn held a lot of secrets. She spent more time questioning things than finding answers.
And what had possessed her to wear the white dress? She tugged at the hem. Form-fitting to the waist, with a flared short skirt, she’d tossed it in her suitcase on a whim. When she’d tried it on at the store, the clerk had raved about how great the white cotton looked with her long red hair. She’d bought it knowing the clerk was trying to make a sale, but she’d never worn it. It was the only dressy thing she brought with her to the inn and, for some reason, dinner with Garren had seemed like the place to wear it. Wearing her hair up had been a last-minute choice. Was she trying to impress the handsome innkeeper?
Maybe.
And she knew better than to wear white after Labor Day. This was serious.
“At least my shoes aren’t white,” she mumbled. She paused and glanced down at the red platforms she’d worn. They’d looked so cute online. Not the smartest shoes for climbing stairs, though, especially stairs where ghosts might be, and she might have to run for her life. She could take the shoes off, but she was almost to the third floor.
“You look stunning.”
She looked up to see Garren standing on the landing, a glass of red wine in hand.
Her face warmed. Stop acting so smitten. “Thank you.” She looked down so he wouldn’t see the blush creeping along her cheeks. Her mouth went dry and she steadied herself on the handrail. Whether she liked it or not, Garren made her girly parts hot.
Who was she kidding? She loved it.
She reached the top stair and stopped in front of him. He’d changed into gray dress slacks and a black button-up, left open at the collar. His hair was pulled into a neat ponytail. Her insecurities vanished and she smiled. Just another dinner. With a sexy man. What was there to fear? Technically, this was work.
Garren smiled in return. “Bernadette brought up our food. Are you hungry?”
Her stomach growled in response and she giggled. “Yes. I am. Quite.”
“Then let’s eat. This way.” He gestured. “I’ve got a small dining table in the parlor where we can have dinner and chat.”
Alone. Her heart thudded. Alone was good.
She followed him into the parlor and then stopped, immediately transfixed by the artwork on the walls. Every wall. Frame against golden frame, large and small paintings lined every inch of wall space in the room. Some paintings were portraits, some still life: all beautiful. Most looked old, the paint hazing and cracking inside their ornate frames, which added to their beauty. “Amazing.” Words couldn’t express the beauty. She covered her mouth with her hand, acutely aware that Garren was staring at her.
He raised an eyebrow. “My great-grandfather was a painter. Mostly oils. I don’t think he threw out anything he painted.” He glanced up at a large painting of a man in a wicker chair. “I didn’t inherit his ability, though. I can’t paint a straight line.”
“He was talented.” She moved to sit in the chair he pulled out for her. “I’m not an artist either, but I can tell that’s first-class work. And each one is so beautiful and full of life.”
Garren moved to the opposite side of the table, set his wine glass down, then sat. “Yes, he was a fantastic artist. But quite eccentric.”
That seems to run in the family. “I see.” She glanced at the largest oil, a portrait of a young woman with dark, maybe black, hair and bright blue eyes. “Wow. Who is that a portrait of?”
He studied the painting for a moment. “My great-grandmother. I think she was about twenty-five when he painted it.”
“She was gorgeous.”
“Yes. They were very much in love, so the story goes.” He paused then chuckled. “And she hated that painting.”
“Why?”
“She said portraits were phony. A snapshot of a moment, an outward glance, with no soul. Two-dimensional.” He looked at the painting then back to Sophia. “But that’s enough of art. I know you’re hungry so let’s eat.”
“Your great-grandmother sounds like an interesting woman.” She picked up the white cloth napkin and set it in her lap. “Everything looks delicious.” Her plate was filled with grilled vegetables and a chicken breast with a golden sauce. The savory smells caused her stomach to grumble again and she held her napkin closer.
“Bernadette is a great cook. She keeps me well fed.” He poured her a glass of wine then refilled his own. “Shall we toast?”
“To what?” She raised her glass.
He raised his. “How about to new friends and old mysteries?”
“And to Blackbird Inn.”
“To Blackbird Inn.”
She clinked her glass to his, and then sipped the wine. If it hadn’t been work, she would swear the evening was a date. The way Garren looked
at her, his interest in her clear. She set her glass down and dabbed at her mouth with the napkin.
Not a date.
She shook her head and sampled the vegetables. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a real date. Working all the time left little chance for a pet, much less a romance. Yet here she was in a magnificent old inn with a polite and handsome man, having a secluded dinner on the finest china.
If she let her imagination get away with her, she could picture herself as lady of the inn, a cast of servants waiting on her every whim. And a tall, dark, and handsome husband who protected her from all that went awry, whether it was burned soup or a rogue gunman.
She smiled and stuffed a forkful of food in her mouth. She’d date Garren, odd as he was.
They ate in silence. Once in a while, she’d look up and Garren would be staring at her. He’d smile and she’d look away.
But this is not a date.
She was getting full, her stomach happy but protesting another bite. She sipped her wine, the tartness bursting in flavors of ripe berries in her mouth. She savored the taste then sipped again. Wine wasn’t food. It didn’t count.
“Can I get you anything else?” Garren asked.
“No, thank you.” She’d set her napkin down, warmth rushing through her body. Maybe she shouldn’t have drunk the wine so fast. “That was really good but I’m stuffed.”
“Okay. Me too, actually.” He pushed his plate away and set his napkin on the table. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Bernadette will come clear the table, so we can go ahead and go to the library.” He paused. “It’s the perfect place to talk, if you’re still feeling up to it.”
“Oh yes.” She stood. “I want to talk. We have a lot to talk about.”
“Did I hear my name?” Bernadette clambered into the room, a large tray in her arms, her long skirts rustling as she walked.
Why did she wear such historical clothes? Sophia supposed it was something to help the ambiance at the inn. But cooking and cleaning in such clothing wouldn’t be easy. She’d have to leave a big tip for Bernadette when she left.
Myths & Magic: A Science Fiction and Fantasy Collection Page 5