by Diane Noble
“Exactly that.” Kate blinked against the watery sting in her eyes as she pressed the side of her fork into the soft roll. For a moment neither of them spoke.
When they’d finished their rolls, Kate put aside her empty plate and leaned back in her rocker. “I’ve inspected the upper wing of the hotel twice, always on the lookout for something that might lead me to discover the identity of the ghost.
“I found only one clue—a partial imprint of a slipper-like footprint—but it led nowhere.”
She sipped her coffee, then said, “You said you have a copy of the Joel St. Nicklaus book?”
Susannah grinned. “Famous Haunts of the South? Yes indeedie. I know all about Precious McFie and her nighttime haunts at the Hamilton Springs Hotel. It does give one pause, I must tell you, when I’m alone in my room and turn out the light.”
“I’d imagine so, especially with all the spooky activity of late.”
“You’ve got that right.” Susannah took a sip of coffee. “By the way, I love your beans. They’re Kenyan, yes? French roast?”
Kate laughed. “Yes. Right on both counts. You’re amazing.” Then she sobered. “I searched the archives at the library and scoured old microfiche copies of the Chronicle, but I found nothing new about the hotel hauntings. Just the same story that’s apparently been written up in Famous Haunts. There were references to Precious McFie’s death in 1929, and the supposition that it’s indeed her ghost—decked out in bridal attire—that still roams one wing of the hotel and the path along the creek.”
“But you found something previously unreported?”
Kate nodded. “None of the news accounts I read at the library mentioned that Precious McFie’s fiancé came back here to be with her when she died. Apparently that’s as far as Joel St. Nicklaus got with his research, which is surprising for someone of his stature.”
Susannah was still focused on the fiancé. “Why wouldn’t that be reported?”
“The only thing I can figure is that his family was quite prominent, so the whole affair may already have been a scandal of huge proportions in that day and age. Maybe out of respect for the family, they didn’t want to add any more fuel to the fire.”
“Could they have thought that he killed her?”
“I wondered about that. But all the reports indicate she died of pneumonia. From the little I’ve gathered, I think he genuinely cared for her, even though he’d broken the engagement for another woman. He and Precious had been friends since childhood. Their families were very close.”
“But the Chronicle reported he was here?”
“It wasn’t the Chronicle then. The first newspaper in Copper Mill was the Bugle.” She leaned forward. “That little one-page newspaper reported what happened in much more detail. I had to do some digging in the attic of the Chronicle building to find old copies of the Bugle.”
“And . . . ?” Susannah’s eyes were bright with interest.
“It seems that immediately after the break-up, Precious ran away, not telling family members where she’d gone. Somehow, she ended up in Copper Mill at the brand-new Copper Creek Hotel—what’s now the Hamilton Springs Hotel. It was a destination hotel back then too, with natural hot springs and gourmet fare—a place where the rich and famous would come, knowing it was far enough away to give them the seclusion they needed.
“So Precious made her way here, bringing her wedding gown and veil, slippers, the works. She let only one person know where she was headed.”
“Her former fiancé?”
“You’ve got it. His name was Holden Giles III. She somehow sent for him, hoping he would come back to her and they would marry here in Copper Mill without fanfare.”
“Do you think he intended to marry her after all?”
“No one knows. Apparently, he didn’t send word that he was on his way, so she slipped into further despair. That’s when she took to walking at night along the creek in her wedding gown and veil.
“Then one night a storm blew in, covering the town with freezing rain that quickly turned to ice. According to the article, townspeople saw her walking along the creek in that wedding gown. No woolen coat or sturdy shoes or boots—not even a shawl to keep her warm. Just thin little balletlike slippers...”
“Ballet? Isn’t that what you said you found in one of the rooms? A print like a ballet slipper?”
“Yes. Whoever put it there had to have known that Precious McFie was wearing that type of slipper when she walked the creek.”
Susannah stood to go after the coffee carafe. She poured more coffee for them both, then returned the pot to the kitchen. “I’m listening,” she called from the kitchen. “Go on.”
“Okay,” Kate said, reviewing the sequence of events even as she spoke. “We’ve got Precious McFie, heartbroken, walking in frigid weather in an attempt, it appears, to make herself very ill. We’ve got a prominent big-city family scandalized over what their children had done. We’ve got the former fiancé apparently coming to the side of his former beloved, who unbeknownst to him has fallen ill.”
Susannah came back from the kitchen and sat down, giving Kate a half smile. “And he doesn’t want to be seen, doesn’t want his family to find out he’s here,” she said. “But if this is such a secretive visit, how did the reporter find out he came here?”
“Holden witnessed her death. I found an obscure mention that his name was on the death certificate.”
Susannah grinned. “You’re good,” then she added, “But what does that have to do with what’s going on now?”
Kate nodded. “That’s where the story gets sketchy.”
“How he was able to slip in and out of the hotel unnoticed, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
“Why is this important?”
Kate pondered the question for a moment. “It occurs to me that some sort of secret passage might be the key to both mysteries—the hotel hauntings and the missing producer. Lots of dots to connect, only I haven’t figured out how to connect them.” Then she laughed lightly. “It’s only a theory. Nothing else.”
“Does your theory involve suspects you think might be involved in some sort of flimflam scam?”
“Flimflam scam?” Kate chuckled. “That’s a good way to put it. And yes, I’ve got a suspect in mind...”
Paul emerged from the bedroom. He’d showered and shaved and dressed for the day. Kate remembered that he had a breakfast meeting at the diner with the other pastors in town. She glanced at the clock, surprised at how the time had flown since Susannah’s arrival.
Paul stopped to give Kate a kiss, greeted Susannah warmly, then headed to get some coffee. Sighs of ecstasy emanated from the kitchen. He’d obviously spotted the cinnamon rolls.
With a roll in his hand, he came back through the doorway, took a bite, then looked toward heaven as if the roll was manna sent straight from God, and he was a starving Israelite.
After a few chews, he said, “Kate, I heard your cell beep when I got out of the shower. It’s in your handbag.”
“Beep?”
“Yeah...I don’t think I’ve ever heard it do that before.”
Susannah returned to the kitchen with Paul while Kate went to the bedroom to retrieve her phone. She picked it up, frowning at the screen. It told her she had a new text message. She didn’t know much about text messages and certainly didn’t receive them very often.
She clicked on the READ NOW button, and the message appeared. The Sender ID said “UNAVAILABLE,” and under the subject line was a single word: WARNING. Her gaze traveled to the body of the message. It read:
STOP YOUR INVESTIGATION NOW. YOU DO NOT WANT TO KNOW WHAT IS PLANNED FOR YOU IF YOU DON’T. FORGET YOU HAVE EVER HEARD OF PRECIOUS MCFIE. HER DEATH WAS NOT ACCIDENTAL. AND NEITHER WILL YOURS BE.
She stared at the words, trying to make sense of them, then she slowly made her way to the kitchen. Her hand trembled as she passed the phone to Paul.
Chapter Nineteen
There were a half-dozen colors a
nd at least as many designs spread out across Kate’s worktable in her studio. It was Friday morning, and as soon as Paul left for Chattanooga to visit his mentor Nehemiah Jacobs, she had gone straight into the studio to work on a stained-glass votive for Susannah. Paul had expressed hesitance to leave after the ominous message Kate had received, but she assured him that she would be fine. She didn’t want her incessant sleuthing to get in the way of Paul spending much-needed time with his mentor.
She chose a pattern of irises, which were Susannah’s favorite flower, and monarch butterflies. The colors would be vivid, just like Susannah’s personality. Kate went to work cutting the glass.
As she leaned over the table, she considered the Newt Keller case, the hotel hauntings, and the text-message threat from the previous day. Her heart skipped a beat every time she thought about it.
Paul had taken her phone to the deputy’s office the previous morning, but because the place was still abuzz with the stepped-up search for Newt Keller, finding out the identity of the sender was obviously a low priority. Deputy Spencer also said the phone company couldn’t block further messages from that ID because it was an unlisted number.
How did all these puzzle pieces fit together? It seemed that just when she thought she had figured out one part of the mystery, something else cropped up that completely changed the dynamics of the case.
Someone was worried that she was getting too close to the truth. But who?
She pressed the glass cutter and snipped a piece of violet glass, then she held it up to the light before trimming it to fit the space on the pattern. But her nagging thoughts kept her from concentrating as she should. She made two bad cuts, then laid the cutter down.
The threat obviously had to do with her investigation of Precious McFie’s death. But why? Was there something she didn’t know about the death? The text message said it wasn’t accidental, but Kate suspected that was untrue, that the sender of the text message was simply trying to frighten her.
She picked up a piece of gold-hued glass and held it to the light, turning it slightly to determine the cut that would best complement the design.
She was back where she started, and the feeling she was missing something pecked away at her brain. But for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what it was.
She had just finished cutting the gold glass when the phone rang.
She trotted quickly into Paul’s office, grabbed the receiver, and put it to her ear.
It was Renee.
“Our ghost has struck again,” she said.
Kate sank into Paul’s office chair. “Last night?”
“No, in broad daylight, this morning.”
“At the hotel?”
“Yes. I was there for Birdie Birge’s taping and saw it all.”
Kate had spent the morning away from the studio to work on her gift for Susannah. She’d also just needed some time away to puzzle the mysteries. She sighed, thinking maybe she’d made the wrong choice. “What happened?”
Renee let out an annoyed sigh as if she thought Kate should’ve been there to see it firsthand.
“First the lights blinked and dimmed, then they blinked again and went out completely. Everything was shut down—in the studio, the kitchen...The entire hotel was without electricity.”
“The power didn’t go out here,” Kate said. Her worktable light had been on all morning, without a flicker or a hiccup.
“Believe me, it did at the hotel,” Renee said. “Then that same cold wind came up. That caught people’s attention. And if that hadn’t, the chair that moved across the foyer of its own accord would have.”
“A chair moved itself across the foyer? That’s impossible.”
“I saw it with my own eyes.”
Kate took a deep breath. “There’s got to be a logical explanation.”
Renee’s voice took on its usual know-it-all tone. “Believe me, it was real. Very real. People were screaming and running outside. One woman fainted, and the fire department had to be called.”
“What about the media? Were any reporters there to see it firsthand? Or camera crew to film it?”
“By this morning, most of the media had left. I guess they’ve moved on to the next story. There might have been one or two stray reporters hanging around, like Lucy Mae. I saw her interviewing some people, but she wasn’t in the foyer when the chair moved.” She paused, then said again, “I have no doubt that this is real.”
Kate waited. Lately, she saw a different Renee than she was used to. Gone were the sarcastic remarks, the juicy gossip she was prone to spout, the police lingo, the well-placed, perfectly timed harrumphs that stood Kate’s hair on end and made her pray for grace. Renee’s brusque ways were somehow endearing, and truth be told, she missed them. It seemed the possibility of Copper Mill’s ghost had frightened the spunk right out of her.
“What is it?” Kate prompted after an extended silence.
When Renee finally spoke, her voice trembled. “Something’s wrong with Kisses. Really wrong with him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s acting the same way he did when we saw the ghost at the hotel,” Renee whispered as if worried that Kisses might hear her. “He yips and growls and runs in circles all over the house like some ghost is playing with him—you know, with some sort of ghostly Frisbee that people can’t see. I’m certain that a ghost from the hotel—or maybe a different one—has moved in here.”
Kate could hear sniffling on the other end of the line.
“It may be something else entirely,” Kate said. “Why don’t you try the vet?”
A harrumph erupted on the other end of the line. “You wouldn’t say that if you could see him right now. Listen to this.”
Kate waited, then heard yipping and growling and Caroline praying.
Renee came back on the line. “See what I mean?”
“It certainly doesn’t sound like the Kisses we all know and love.”
Renee said she would think about calling the vet, then they said their good-byes, and Kate pressed the off button.
The ghost of the Hamilton Springs Hotel was definitely becoming more active. Whipping up a frigid wind. Pushing a guest down the stairs. Leaving ballet-slipper prints upstairs. Cutting off the electricity. Moving furniture around.
Things seemed to be escalating, and it was time for Kate to act.
Kate grabbed her coat and handbag and headed to the garage. She went straight to Paul’s tackle box, rummaged around, and grabbed a spool of fishing line.
Chapter Twenty
Kate raced into the hotel. The power was still out, which meant the tapings were canceled, and the foyer was eerily empty. She headed straight to Sybil’s office.
The general manager gave Kate a weary smile. As she walked into the dark office, she motioned for Kate to sit down across from her desk.
“I heard what happened here this morning,” Kate said.
Sybil nodded. “It was quite a show. And I’ve decided the ghost of the Hamilton Springs Hotel has won at last.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve just finished writing my resignation letter.” She gestured toward an old-fashioned typewriter behind her. “I’m calling corporate to let them know that today’s my last day.”
“Oh dear,” Kate said, stricken. “I think I’m onto something that will explain everything. Can you give it just a few more days?”
Everything might be a stretch, but Kate could hope—and maybe pass along a bit of that hope to Sybil.
“It’s been an agonizing decision. In many ways, this hotel is my life. But the stress is too great—and honestly, Kate, at first I thought it was a hoax. But after the theatrics this morning, I’m convinced the haunting is real.”
“I’m so sorry,” Kate said quietly.
“I’ve talked with my boss at corporate, letting him know why I must leave. He’s quite upset over it all, especially the lost revenue the hauntings have caused. But he’ll be sending a replaceme
nt. We’re hoping that person can turn things around.” She shrugged. “I’m beginning to think our ghost has something personal against me.”
“Occupancy is down...Is that the reason for the drop in revenue?”
Sybil nodded. “Aside from the Taste Network guests, the hotel is practically empty. Other than the network people, guests have even stopped coming to the Bristol. And the spa has lost customers and once the Taste people are gone, they plan to lay off their masseuse. At this rate, we’ll go under in a few months.” She let out a hollow laugh. “The ironic thing is I’d hoped that letting the Taste Network film here would give us a needed boost. I thought it was a brilliant marketing move. How could I have been so wrong? My brilliant idea obviously angered the ghost that haunts this place. The whole thing backfired. The Taste Network ratings have gone through the roof, while the Hamilton Springs may have to close its doors.”
“What if the two things are connected—the ratings spike and the ghost activity?”
“That’s what I just said; they are connected.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. What if the ghost activity was generated by someone in the network, someone who had a lot to gain from the media attention?”
Sybil sighed and shook her head. “I’ve thought about that as well. It doesn’t make sense. Rumors of the ghost have been around for decades. But this is real. If this was a one-time occurrence, I’d agree that someone is pulling off some sort of a hoax. But, rumor or reality, it’s about to put us under.”
“Can you show me the chair that moved across the foyer this morning?”
“I don’t know what for, but, of course, you can take a look. I examined it after the event and didn’t see anything unusual. It’s just a sturdy, handmade wooden chair with a cushion.” She stood to lead the way to the foyer.
A few minutes later, Kate knelt beside the chair, felt around the legs and back, looked underneath the cushion, tipped it this way and that, then pulled out her penlight and peered underneath the chair.