Mr. Grey and the Spirit from the Sky
AJ Matthews
Published 2006
ISBN 1-59578-255-9
Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2006, AJ Matthews. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Liquid Silver Books
http://LSbooks.com
Email:
[email protected]
Editor
Barbara Marshall
Cover Artist
April Martinez
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Chapter One
"Wow!" Martin peered through the windshield as a cluster of buildings came into view around the bend. "Is this the resort, or have we wandered onto a movie set?"
Claudia steered the car up the long drive, the gravel growling under the wheels. She tossed her head to clear her long auburn hair from her face and glanced in the rear-view mirror to check on the U-Haul trailer before turning her attention back to the resort. "It looks unreal. Like an Alpine village smack in the middle of the Catskills."
Smoke drifted lazily in the light breeze flowing down from the mountains, the swirls of silver-gray contrasting with the darkness gathering amongst the trees covering the lower slopes. As they drove up the graveled drive of the resort complex the headlight beams swept over the sprawl of buildings, making shadows dart and flutter. Of the hundred or so small rustic cabins dotting the south-facing slope of the small valley only a few showed lights. Further up the hill but almost tucked out of sight behind the main building were two barn-like structures more in keeping with the rural feel of the area.
The huge main building's steeply pitched shingled roof stood tall amongst the cabins, the leaded windows lining its frontage fully lit. An illuminated board above the entrance proclaimed it to be the Knight's Lodge.
Martin pointed. "I'm glad to see there's somebody home."
Claudia chuckled. "Were you afraid this would be a wild goose chase?"
He reached over and stroked her thigh. "Okay, yes, I admit it did cross my mind. I wasn't sure if a chance contact in a New York deli would lead to a serious offer of an investigation." He shrugged. "Call it British paranoia, if you like."
"It must be hell over there," she said in a dry tone, glancing at him.
He winked. "Oh, it's awful!"
"I bet!"
"At least Bruce Baker seems legit. He was quite enthusiastic when I spoke to him on the phone yesterday."
"That's good, but even if this is a bust…” She shrugged. "We've lost nothing but a day or two. We can still reach Indy in a couple of days' easy driving. We've got plenty of time to ourselves before you get to meet the clan."
She gave him a smile. He smiled back, his teeth bright in the reflected light from the headlights. Then his gaze fell on her long denim-clad legs for the umpteenth time since they'd met, and the open way he admired her body gave her a real buzz. She looked forward to the warmer days when she could wear skirts for him.
She shot him a knowing glance. "Do you feel anything here?"
"Apart from your luscious thigh?"
"Be serious!" She pointed through the windshield. "I mean the feel of the place; the atmosphere."
*
Martin turned his attention back to the resort buildings, let his perceptions alter and spread outwards. The darkness about the place seemed to thicken subtly. "Hmm! There's something, but I can't quite get a handle on it."
As they drove past a gap in the hedge lining the drive, they found the source of the smoke, and the scent of burning resinous wood filled the air in the car as they passed through the cloud. A middle-aged man in faded blue denims was tending a large bonfire in a meadow off to one side. The wallowing flames under-lit his face, illuminating his peculiarly fixed expression. Claudia slowed the car but the guy didn't respond to their appearance. Martin knew instinctively the man had seen them, yet something in the rigid set of his shoulders deterred any communication. With a shrug and a glance at him, Claudia drove on and parked in the lot in front of the main building.
Inside they found an American's idea of a mediaeval hall. Wooden paneling covered every vertical surface, and a number of trophies of arms and the hunt dotted the higher regions, along with some faded and tattered banners. A minstrel gallery ran around three sides, a glory of oak banisters and intricate carving which suggested authenticity. Raucous music sounded faintly from a door to the rear of the walkway. The reception desk itself was a heavy, sullen brown affair, matched by the equally sullen-looking, dark-haired girl behind it. She seemed to lurk behind a stand of cheerful postcards as if seeking to avoid any kind of contact. Martin glanced around. No one else was in sight.
"Hi, my-name-is-Donna-how-may-I-help-you?" she intoned as they drew near, her eyes showing only the mildest interest in their presence. Indistinct noises emanated from a partially-open doorway behind her. Martin got the impression of a stairway leading down to a basement level before the girl pushed at the door with her heel. It failed to close properly, swinging open with maddening slowness to allow more muffled noises to escape.
Martin blinked, forced a smile. "My name's Martin Grey; this is my partner, Claudia Mackenzie. We're here at the invitation of Mr. Bruce Baker."
"O-kay," she drawled, looking down at the register on the desk. "Let me see if I can find you."
She took her time, humming softly under her breath as she ran her finger along the rows in the book. From his upside-down viewpoint Martin could see the number of names on the page she was reading was not large by any stretch of the imagination. He laid his finger on one entry. "Here," he said. "Mr. M. Grey. London, England. Ms. C. Mackenzie, Indianapolis, Indiana."
*
Claudia hid a smile. Martin looked so tall and handsome and neat—and fit! And he was all hers, from his head of thick brown hair to his smart polished shoes. His British upbringing made him appear staid at times, even in his current casual guise of raincoat, maroon sweatshirt and light gray slacks, but it hid a steely nerve and a wicked sense of humor.
The girl looked up at him, unsuccessfully hiding her annoyance at his interference in her ritual. From somewhere below, a series of violent hammer blows began to sound, each metallic blow echoing through the door like the knell of doom. An agonized cry of, "Not there, Dave, for Chrissakes!" was followed by the abrupt cessation of hammering and the start of a noisy scuffle. The girl fixed her gaze on Martin as she reached back with her foot once more and pushed the door firmly shut. Claudia opened her mouth to ask what was happening down below but the girl forestalled her by pushing the register across to Martin.
"Yes, Mr. Grey, Ms. Mackenzie, you're in guest cabin number four," she told them as the noise from below was shut off. "Please sign the register; I'll get your key."
Martin stared from her to the closed door as she broke away to fetch a key from the board. He signed, and Claudia accepted the Yale key she proffered.
"Your-cabin-is-out-the-door, turn-right, you-can't-miss-it," the girl intoned as if reciting a script which had bored her long ago. "Resort-rules-and-regulations-are-on-the-card-pasted-on-the-door. Please-take-care-to-observe-the-drill-in-the-event-of-fire. Breakfast-is-in-the-restaurant-at-seven-a.m.-to-eigh
t. I hope you folks have a nice stay with us," she added, with something approaching relish.
"Thanks," he said. "Is Mr. Baker here?"
The girl jerked her head towards the stairway leading to the gallery. He's in the office." Her lip curled with faint derision. "Just follow the music!"
* * * *
"Martin! Claudia!" Bruce Baker zapped the remote control at the CD player and Van Halen was cut off in mid roar. He dropped his feet from the desk and rose to greet them as they stood in the doorway, his handshake firm. "Good journey?"
"Just about." Martin smiled at the man's choice of music as much as he smiled in greeting; he seemed rather old for heavy rock. "Driving on the wrong side of the road is quite an experience."
"You baby!" Claudia gave him a smoldering look, her emerald eyes sparkling. "You hardly covered a hundred miles before you handed over to me."
She winked and Martin marveled yet again at his good fortune in discovering someone so in tune with him—and so beautiful. Claudia's tall slender frame was clad in a heavy coat over a sweatshirt and denims, but her clothing didn't detract at all from her natural poise and grace. Her deep auburn hair shone with a luster scarcely hidden by the baseball cap she wore. Her eyes sparkled as she looked at him, and he felt once again that moment of perfect communion.
"A hundred miles is a long way to an Englishman," he said mildly, stroking the small of her back.
"…and a hundred years is a long time to an American." Claudia completed the saying with a grin.
"It surely is." Bruce grinned, slapped Martin on the arm, and nodded to Claudia. "I had the same kind of experience in Britain two years back. Driving on the left?" He shuddered. "Scary! I don't know how you guys do it. Take a seat and make yourself comfortable, folks." He got up and crossed to a mini-bar. "Drink?"
Martin sat on the couch and leaned back, his arm slipping around Claudia's shoulders as she sat beside him. "Scotch if you have it, please."
"I do."
"Diet Coke for me," Claudia asked.
*
Whilst Bruce was engaged in fixing their drinks Claudia looked him over to gain a sense of the man they'd met briefly in a New York City delicatessen during their last case. Bruce Baker was in his mid fifties, with graying brown hair brushed back in a bouffant style which had really gone out of fashion in the early 80's. A moustache not quite long enough to attain Zapata status stretched high across his lip, and on closer examination the hairs showed traces of coloring. Of middling height, he was dressed in fawn slacks and a blue and white checkered shirt that failed to conceal signs of a paunch. His clothes looked casual but expensive, and she thought she recognized some top brands. From where she sat she could see the suede loafers he wore, and as he moved she noticed a hint of lifts.
*
Martin looked around the cluttered but cheerful office. Several prints and photographs hung on the paneled walls, showing scenes from the Catskill Mountains. A filing cabinet stood in one corner next to a computer desk, its monitor displaying an armored knight on a caparisoned horse that galloped slowly over the dark screen. Under the window a row of small cupboards had been turned into a comfortable bench seat with the addition of some padding and red velvet.
"So, you fixed the problem down in New York?" Bruce asked, handing out their glasses.
"I believe so," Martin said after taking a sip. "Any details left over from the case are for the living to work out now."
"Good. Good." Bruce sipped his own bourbon and looked pensive for a moment, before sitting in his chair. He drummed his fingers on the desk in a brief tattoo, his gaze unfocused. Crow's feet at the corners of his blue eyes hinted at some enduring strain.
"The truth is, Martin," he said at last, "although I've suspicions enough about this place to call upon your particular talents, I'm not entirely sure you'll find anything supernatural."
Martin sat back and raised his eyebrows in silent invitation for him to continue.
Bruce looked embarrassed and darted a glance at Claudia, who sipped her Coke and gazed back with an expression of polite interest. "This place is kind of crazy, you know? All sorts of screwball people work here. Some of the things I've seen going on…" He trailed off. "Well, I guess any supernatural occurrences are getting lost in the background count, you know?"
"Oh, I hope I can sort out the natural from the supernatural. If nothing else, I'm sure I can set your mind at rest, whether the result is positive or negative."
"If you can help me on that score, I'll be more than grateful!" Bruce said, raising his glass.
Martin echoed his toast. Bruce sipped his whiskey and set the glass down. "Okay, if you're cool about everything I proposed in my e-mail to you, we can sign a contract and get everything legal."
"Fine by me," Martin said with a smile. "I've got to keep on the right side of the visa people."
Bruce drew a printed contract from a folder on the desk and slid it across to him. Martin read through it twice, his practiced eye taking in everything before nodding. "This is fine, bar one point."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"
"Expenses." Martin tapped the relevant paragraph. "If you've no objection, I'll submit a detailed claim at the end of the case. I find it easier to keep track of them that way."
Bruce shrugged. "Okay, provided you don't go over a thousand bucks a day, I've no objection."
"A thousand's well above what I'll need," Martin said with a laugh. "I don't imagine it'll be anything near that in total."
Bruce regarded him for a second then nodded slowly. "That's good to hear. Wait one, and I'll alter the form."
He turned to the computer and spent a busy few minutes on the keyboard, before a printer whirred and produced two copies of the altered contract. Martin read and signed one, Bruce signed the other, and they exchanged copies and a handshake.
"So, does anything in particular stand out as being unnatural?" Martin asked, sipping his whiskey.
"This here's one place," Bruce replied, gesturing with his glass around the office. "I came in one day a few weeks before I met you in New York to find a whiskey bottle turning by itself on the desk. No one else had been in here, the windows and door were closed and draught-proof. Sometimes I come in and feel a real bone-deep chill, like the furnace had gone out in midwinter, yet the weather stays mild. I felt that when I saw the bottle. Real spooky, y' know?"
"Yes, I know what you mean," Martin replied quietly. "Unexplained temperature changes are a common sign of a haunting. Is there anything else?"
Bruce scratched his head. "There's one other thing here," he said after a few moments. "Sometimes I feel like someone is calling, or trying to touch me to get my attention. And I know it isn't natural."
Claudia put her hand on Martin's thigh and gave it a squeeze. He looked at her and she regarded him calmly with her deep green eyes. He nodded at the unspoken message in them.
*
For the second time in their brief relationship, Claudia felt the thrill of the opening of a new case. It was like a narcotic but without the harmful side effects. Her empathy with Martin deepened as she thought of all the times he must've felt the same. The look in his eye when he met her gaze told her eloquently that he knew how she felt.
The mystery surrounding the old Chestnut Mansion Hotel back in New York had expanded her youthful fascination with the occult. She and Martin had tackled that case together—and had become lovers. Their life and death battle with the evil spirit in the roof garden of the old hotel had burned away the giddiness that came with the first few weeks of a new love affair; now their love had a resonance that thrilled her. She felt closer to Martin than any guy she'd ever known.
As a result of what had happened at the close of that case she'd been forced to leave her position with the real estate company dealing with the property. Even so, it'd proven to be an ill-wind that had blown good. She was with this wonderful guy who'd walked into her life to fill her thoughts and hopes with his presence. As for employment, a phone
call to her old boss back home in Indy had set up a new realtor's position. She and Martin had loaded her possessions into a U-Haul trailer and departed New York a day later with few regrets.
Once they finished here, they'd head on home to Indy and she'd introduce him to her family. That little matter had potential problems but she'd deal with those when the time came. The future looked brighter than it had for years.
*
Bruce cradled his glass between his palms and leaned forward. "Martin, Claudia, I have my own beliefs about the afterlife and don't mind a ghost or two around the place—if they exist. Trouble is, other folks get kind of squirrelly, you know?"
"I know." Martin smiled and sipped more Scotch.
"It could have an impact on guest figures. You have no idea of what this place takes to run, even in this off-season quiet spell. Factor in the upgrades I have planned, and it's real tricky."
"Do you own the resort, Bruce?" Claudia asked.
Martin smiled. "You're ever the realtor, darling!"
Claudia made a moue at him and turned her attention back to Bruce.
Bruce's gaze lingered thoughtfully on her for a moment before he shook his head. "I'm part-owner with my wife, Ursula, whom you met in New York; and we have a silent partner, a lawyer, also from the Big Apple. We bought the Knight's Lodge earlier this year, along with all the problems." He rocked his head, his expression rueful. "Ursula figured it would be good to let it run for a season, see where the problems are so we can tackle 'em in the quiet times. We didn't reckon on there being so many," he said mournfully.
"My brother runs his own business," Martin said in sympathy. "It takes a hell of a lot of work. From my own experience with the Revenue office I know the hideous amount of paperwork the tax alone requires."
"Don't it just!" Bruce stared down into his glass. "Maybe I should have stuck with architecture," he said quietly.
"I'll do what I can to help solve this problem," Martin said firmly.
Claudia yawned and waved her hand in apology. "Sorry! It's been a long day, and I'm tired."
He patted her knee. "Me too, love. We'll go and unpack, then look into things in the morning." He finished his drink and stood up. "This is good Scotch, by the way."
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