Oddly enough, there didn’t seem to be any threatening presence anywhere in this area.
Is it possible you might have pleased Ms. Ophelia by coming in here to do your research on the Ashton family?
“Anything is possible.” I’d found that out the hard way, but Piper was right about one thing—I didn’t get the sense that Ophelia had been threatening us in the upstairs hallway. “Piper, would you please go check on the Ashton family? Faye retired to her room, although I assume only for a brief afternoon nap. I know it’s taking a chance of getting us thrown out of the manor, but see if you can bring up the anomaly of room thirteen into the conversation. We need to find out why Gertrude would warn us against entering another room. The thought never would have crossed our minds if she hadn’t mentioned it, which goes back to our original assumption that she wanted us to find that voodoo doll with a telltale pin stuck in its back.”
It’s also very convenient that Ms. Gertrude left the manor to go shopping at the local grocery before we had a chance to seek her out. I could only imagine that an estate this size has a regular delivery truck service. I realize that the majority of the staff would be given the week off after the death of Ms. Florence, but I would think a place like this would have a significant store of groceries and necessary items on hand, probably enough to feed a small army.
“You make a good point,” Piper said, walking the photo album we’d been leafing through over to a side table so that we didn’t misplace the book. She was much like Orwin with his love of anything to do with history. “I’ll stick to the cover story about the documentary. Do you think they’d believe me if I said Ms. Florence was the one who initially contacted us?”
“I’d say so, given what Faye let slip about Florence hearing Ophelia cry out her husband’s name in the middle of the night.”
By this time, I was already rolling a ladder to the section that would contain the personal journals from the generation of Eugene and Ophelia Ashton. Faye had mentioned that Ophelia was a local, and one who hadn’t originated from a wealthy background. I could only imagine the personal accounts recorded in her journals. That is, if Ophelia had been the type of woman to pen her feelings to paper.
“Wish me luck,” Piper said, quietly slipping out of the library and closing the door behind her with barely a sound.
The décor of this room reminds me of turn of the century England.
We were usually so caught up in solving these side mysteries that Pearl rarely talked about her two-thousand-year-old past.
Don’t get me wrong. She had plenty to say.
She certainly provided very specific details when the time warranted, but we were always driving someplace or researching a way for me to be rid of this hex. It was kind of nice to have her as a personal resource to ask those random questions that always seemed to come to mind at the most inopportune times.
“Pearl, you mentioned that the archeologist who found you in Cleopatra’s tomb took you back to England. Do you miss the Egyptian culture?”
I began to carefully make my way up the ladder in order to reach the top shelf of the bookcase. It should go on record that there wasn’t a speck of dust on the shelves or any of the multitude of leather-bound books. The number might very well be in the several thousand. Whoever on staff charged with the job of maintaining the manor’s library deserved a grateful pat on the back for a job well done.
I certainly miss my dear Cleopatra. She had such strong magical abilities that it used to take my breath away. England became my home, though. I spent far more years there living within one family than in any other place I’d ever been. Highclere Castle made this manor look like the servant’s quarters. It was grand in a way only a historic English family holding could be. Lord Carnarvon was an earl, of course.
The wistfulness in Pearl’s voice had me wishing I was a witch with time traveling abilities. I’d never met a traveler, as they were known as. They were few and far between, often keeping to themselves. Truth be known, they were quite rare, much like Piper’s ability to heal with just the touch of her hand.
Lord Carnarvon’s daughter was quite the handful. It’s my sweet Piper who reminds me of Cleopatra’s gentle soul. She always wanted to do right by her people and took her role as her people’s divine leader far too seriously.
“How did you become linked with Piper?” I asked, looking down from my perch at the top of the ladder.
Pearl had materialized and was gracefully slipping in between the various antique vases placed strategically around the library. It was as if she were a slip of herself and not really here in the present time. Her thoughts had taken her back centuries upon centuries ago.
The Allifair surname can actually trace its origin back to Great Britain, and it was one of my sweet Piper’s ancestors who called me forth after the passing of my dear Evelyn. She might have been a handful, but I was always able to keep her on the straight and narrow.
“I’m sure you did,” I replied with a small smile. By this time, Pearl had made her way across the lower shelf of the collection of bookcases on the other side of the room. She was making her way to the one of the exceptionally tall windows located on either side of the hearth. The glass that made up the dozens of panes was wavy, making the grounds beyond seem as if they were an artist’s rendering of the surreal landscape. “You’ve done a great job with Piper.”
Sometimes I fear I’ve kept her far too sheltered.
I don’t think I’d ever heard Pearl doubt herself before, and I found myself somewhat in an awkward situation standing at the top of the room looking down. Piper did have a tendency to be overly trusting of random people and often believed that the complicated situations we often found ourselves in would always have a way of working out for the best, whereas I was the complete opposite.
But Pearl assuming she was the sole influence responsible for fostering that innocence just wasn’t the case.
“Piper grew up in a small town,” I pointed out, unable to let this topic go without giving Pearl a bit of reassurance that she was still at the top of her familiar game. “From what I’ve come to learn, the Allifair family was and still remains quite protective of Piper. Pearl, I know that the two of you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t feel these cases, the ones we’ve had thrust upon us, wouldn’t help Piper grow in some way.”
Joining you and Mr. Cornelia on your journey to find a cure to your hex was all my sweet Piper’s idea, if you remember correctly. Where she goes, I go.
Pearl was being modest in her ability to influence Piper, but that was expected given the familiar’s demeanor. She wasn’t technically modest concerning most things, but she was humble about her interactions with Piper.
“Pearl, I’ll continue to do my best to make sure that Piper is never hurt during these cases,” I promised, continuing to watch Pearl as she navigated around a vase filled with fresh flowers near the windowsill. “If the time ever comes when I need to confront Ammeline, I’ll—”
You’ll not face that Lich Queen alone, so you can dash that thought right out of your head, dear hexed one. Piper and I are now part of your traveling family, and we’ll be there when the going gets tough. We just need to make sure that my sweet Piper is prepared, and cases like these will be what help fortify her arcane abilities as a witch. Now, enough chit-chat. We have much more work to do.
I did hope that Piper’s gift of healing didn’t need to come in handy too soon, given our circumstances. Orwin in particular was at risk due to the warding spell he’d cast over himself to protect against anyone using witchcraft on his physical being. That included healing spells and curative potions. He’d done the right thing in his own judgement, but he’d also left himself wide open to the risks of getting injured or worse…the very real possibility of death.
Miss Lilura, do I need to go through my list of knock-knock jokes to shake this avalanche of conundrums you keep making up in that thick head of yours? You worry more than Cleopatra’s guards, and they were of some renown. T
he pharaohs were demigods, in case you forgot. They were guarded by heroes of the realm.
I pursed my lips in frustration at Pearl’s attempt to get my mind off what had definitely crossed everyone’s mind recently, especially after our run in with a pack of bloodstained werewolves in Wyoming. Had it not been for Knox’s abilities, I’m not so sure we would have come away from that case unscathed or intact.
Focus, dear hexed one. I’m sure our time in here is limited in some fashion or another, considering that my sweet Piper is bound to get the Ashtons’ strict attention once she brings up room thirteen.
We’d already canvassed the landing for any type of trip wiring or hook where a string could have been threaded in order to trip Florence to her death. No tract of anything had been found, which gave credence to the whole ghost theory.
That thought had me carefully shifting on the ladder so that I could read the titles of the leather-bound books. Interspersed between those historic items were personal journals made of soft rawhide and tread-bound yellowed parchment paper. There was no way to know which diary belonged to which Ashton, so I took care to start from the beginning of the shelf and work my way across now that we had an elementary understanding of the family’s ancestry.
I became so engrossed with the research that I lost track of the time we spent here.
The Ashtons were a very interesting family, particularly Eugene Ruthsford Ashton. His was the fourth journal I’d pulled off the shelf, and I’d been standing on the ladder for quite a while. My legs began to burn from the position I’d put myself in, but I didn’t want to climb down until I’d found Ophelia’s diary.
You better make it quick, dear hexed one. I hear someone coming down the hall.
I instinctively reached for the leather tied journal that had tilted upon me withdrawing Eugene’s accounts of his later years, clasping both in my hand as I began to carefully make my way back down the ladder. Pearl had vanished, and I had just set my boot on the polished hardwood floor when the ornate doorknob began to turn.
Wilbur? Now what is Gertrude’s husband doing seeking you out, Miss Lilura? Be careful with this one. I’ve never had good dealings with those who have overly bushy eyebrows that practically touch the middle of their forehead.
“Miss Lilura, I was hoping to find you here,” Wilbur said in a hushed tone, closing the door to the library before turning to me in earnest. He clasped his hands in worry as he stepped closer. “Is it true that you and Ms. Allifair are…to use the vernacular term…ghost hunters?”
Oh, dear. What has my sweet Piper said to the Ashton family members that has this man enamored with the idea of ghost hunting?
Wilbur had all but whispered the description, as if someone else was in the room with us. He had taken the time to look around the large room. I stopped myself from following his lead, wanting to take advantage of this time to ask him pertinent questions. I would have sensed a presence had Ophelia joined us or any of the other spirits that might be within the walls of the estate.
“It’s not what you think, Mr. Wilbur,” I explained, holding the two journals close to my chest. Izzy had only introduced Wilber and Gertrude by their first name, so I showed him deference and appropriate respect the best I could with the limited information I’d been given. “We’re doing a documentary on hauntings, but we aren’t actually those kind of ghost hunters like you see on television.”
Humans had a tendency to make fun of the supernatural with movies, books, and television shows. What they didn’t know was that they had probably run into a predator or two in their lifetime without ever being the wiser. Vampires and werewolves, in particular, hunted one another if their paths crossed. For the most part, they did their best to keep the peace where the public was involved.
It’s those human hunters that worry me. Mr. Cornelia showed me a website once where those mere mortals congregate to discuss the supernatural. I’m very close to talking the alien hunter into hacking their network and shutting them down for good.
I highly doubt that Orwin would do any such a thing, but it was comforting to know that Pearl would go the extra mile in keeping those within our own realm safe from harm.
“Aren’t you going to set up any of those fancy detector machines or bring in some medium who can talk to those spirits who are stuck in this place?” Wilbur asked, a rather stern frown now settling into his weathered features. “There are ghosts here, Miss Lilura. I know it. I can feel their eyes on me every time I walk into their rooms.”
I’m relatively sure that Mr. Wilbur’s eyebrows just grew a half-inch. Either that or it’s gravity at play.
Wow. Pearl must really not like his bushy eyebrows, because she hardly ever allowed her manners to slip.
Manners? I’m simply stating the obvious truth, Ms. Lilura. Could we please speed this along? I’m thinking we can take those journals up to the room, you can order up a spot of warm cream, and we can settle in until the alien hunter and our new rescue dog show up for dinner.
“No machines, Mr. Wilbur. Just good old-fashioned research to put into the documentary. We’ve seen the reviews of the Ashton Manor online, and there were a few posts that spoke of that same feeling of someone watching them,” I replied, figuring now would be the perfect time to ask him the questions we needed answered. “Do you know who might still be haunting this manor? Ms. Faye told us that Ms. Florence could hear Ophelia call out to her husband in the middle of the night.”
Wilbur looked over his shoulder at the door, as if to double check that someone hadn’t opened it without him taking notice. His blue eyes had clouded with age, but they somehow darkened even further upon talking about poltergeists.
“You misunderstand me, Miss Lilura. It’s not just the ghosts who haunt this manor nor is it just the spirits who have their eyes on everyone,” Wilbur murmured, leaning in close enough that I could smell the underlying scent of Old Spice aftershave. “Don’t be fooled by the Ashtons.”
The spirits who have their eyes on everyone? So, this older gentleman does know about the ghosts roaming the halls. This is taking a very interesting turn, dear hexed one.
I was more worried about Wilbur’s warning about the Ashton family. He hadn’t helped discern if the guilty party was of the living or the dead in the least. As a matter of fact, I was becoming more concerned by the second that this mystery might take longer to solve than I’d originally suspected.
“Oh, there you are,” Izzy exclaimed, having come through the library door so suddenly that I was afraid Wilber would clutch his chest and fall to the floor to his death. “Wilbur, I’ve been looking all over for you. Gertrude is back with a truckload of groceries. Would you be a dear and go help her? With most of the staff off this week, we’re a bit shorthanded in the kitchen.”
“Of course, Ms. Ashton,” Wilbur exclaimed, although he’d lost a bit of his color. “I was just answering some questions regarding the maze on the back property. I’ll be getting back to my chores now.”
Maze? It seems as Mr. Wilbur was kind enough to throw us another bone, unless that was his way of throwing Ms. Izzy off our trail.
“Ms. Lilura, please know that what happened in the maze last year was nothing more than my mother’s overly active imagination,” Izzy exclaimed, almost in disappointment that the subject had even been brought up. Her acting abilities from this morning were beginning to show their frayed edges. “There are no supernatural spirits or nasty ghouls roaming this manor. My mother had no one living in this big old place besides the staff and herself, and she was a bit lonely for company. Imaginations run wild under those types of circumstances.”
Ms. Izzy appears a bit tense, doesn’t she?
I had noticed right away the manner in which Izzy was clasping her hands together as she attempted to explain the maze incident—whatever that might be. It would definitely be added to the other twenty or so leads that Piper had jotted down in the app on her phone.
“Now, Ms. Allifair explained that Gertrude had mentioned room thir
teen, of all things. I checked the renovation log,” Izzy explained a bit tersely. It seems we were wearing out our welcome. “According to my mother’s laundry list of needed maintenance tasks, room thirteen needs to be painted and updated.”
“I’m sure the manor takes a lot of upkeep,” I responded, treading carefully as I was unsure of what Piper might have said to the Ashtons. “It’s noticeably well-loved, and the small details like the fire in the hearth and the hot tea make all the difference. I can see why people rave online about their stays here at the Ashton Manor. You have an impressive Yelp rating.”
Very well done, Miss Lilura. I do wonder, though. Is it possible that Ms. Florence was the one who cordoned off the room for whatever voodoo ritual she was conducting? That is a theory we never explored.
Izzy dropped her gaze to the items I had tucked away in my hand. Her precious frown had now turned into a full-on grimace.
Are you sure, dear hexed one? Those Botox shots make it very difficult to come to such a conclusion without a detection spell.
“Your colleague expanded on this documentary of yours,” Izzy stated with displeasure. “I’m not thrilled to discover that the focus is on false stories regarding my ancestors. Let me be perfectly clear—this manor is not haunted. Nor was it ever. With that said, I promised you and the others a place to stay this evening. I’ll honor my word to do so, however, my family and I would appreciate it if you would leave after breakfast.”
The mere mention of ghosts seems to have riled Ms. Izzy, hasn’t it?
“We meant no disrespect, Ms. Ashton.” It seems that our investigation had just been put on the fast track, not that we were anywhere near solving Florence Isla Ashton’s murder. “We’ll leave after the morning meal, giving you and your family your privacy.”
We will? I’m going to assume an amazing idea to find out what happened to Ms. Florence has popped into that hexed head of yours. I’m currently not seeing how we could expedite this murder mystery, but then again, I’ve been deprived of my spot of warm cream thus far.
The Squeaky Ghost Gets the Curse Page 6