Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Sharon Buchbinder
The Haunting of Hotel LaBelle
Copyright
Dedications
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
A book flew at his head—
and sailed through him, bouncing off the wall and landing on the floor.
Mouth agape, the woman stared from him to the book and back to him again. “You’re a ghost.”
“Not exactly. Shall we start over?” He leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “After a hundred years of being invisible to everyone except you, I’d like to know who you are and what you’re doing here.”
“Of course. Why not? Could today get any weirder?” She sank into the desk chair, shook her head, and sighed. “My name is Tallulah Thompson. I’m a hotel inspector, hired by the current owner as a consultant to find out why the renovations are delayed and what he needs to do to fix it. He’s teetering on the brink of bankruptcy.”
“What tribe are you?”
She jerked her head up and those doggone lapis lazuli eyes of hers sparked as if she’d strike him with lightning and kill him with one look. “No one asks that. It’s not politically correct.”
“Well, I guess you haven’t been talking to the right people. And I don’t know what you mean by that last part. I’ve never been involved in politics.”
“Nowadays, it’s considered rude to ask about another person’s national origins.” She threw her hands up. “Why am I giving a ghost an etiquette lesson? What am I thinking?”
Praise for Sharon Buchbinder
“Ms. Buchbinder weaves ancient secrets and modern mysteries into a beautifully written story that will keep you turning the pages.”
~USA Today Bestselling Author, Roz Lee
~*~
“Sharon Buchbinder’s writing grabs hold from the very first page and stays with you long after the last page been read. Her skill in combining historical fact with suspenseful fiction creates an exciting and dramatic backdrop for her stories. Ms. Buchbinder’s books are now on my must-buy list.”
~Jennifer Lynne, bestselling author of Gods of Love
The Haunting
of Hotel LaBelle
by
Sharon Buchbinder
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Haunting of Hotel LaBelle
COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Sharon Buchbinder
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2016
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1153-1
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1154-8
Published in the United States of America
Dedications
This book is dedicated with love to
my husband, Dale,
our son, Joshua,
our daughter-in-law, Elyse,
and our grandson, Dexter.
They remind me every day that family ties
bind with love and priceless memories.
~*~
It is also dedicated to my tireless
and supportive editor,
Amanda Barnett,
who believes in my work
and helps me grow with each manuscript.
~*~
And to Sharon Saracino,
my patient critique partner,
who sticks with me through my ups and downs
and who props me up
and cheers me on when words fail me.
Author’s Note
Anyone who has read my previous novels knows that before I begin to write, I conduct extensive research and steep myself in the materials. This approach enables me to speak through the characters and narrative with rich and correct content. I also rely on subject matter experts and beta readers from diverse disciplines and cultural backgrounds who provide corrections and feedback to me before I submit a story for consideration for publication. I would be remiss if I did not thank my readers here, starting with my ever patient husband, Dale Buchbinder, who read every single draft of the story.
My deep gratitude goes to the following people for their expertise and feedback: Toni Chiazza Diblasi, Christy Dixon, Sherri Denora, Amy Dore, Hal Dorin, Karen and Ken Giek, Ernest and Toni Goetling, Nancy Greenwald, Erin Hayes, Penny Nichols, Sharon Saracino, Nancy H. Shanks, Fred and Robin Vandenbroeck, Sonia Vitale-Richardson, Beth White Werrell, and Susan Willis. Big hugs to my brilliant editor, Amanda Barnett, who prunes the thorns from my roses.
Thanks to the hard work of Frank B. Linderman in the late 1920s, the world has a written history of the Absaalooke, or Crow Nation, a traditionally oral culture. As a young man, Linderman became entranced with the West and moved out there to become a hunter and trapper. Over time, Native Americans befriended him and began to tell their stories to him in sign language and through interpreters. The Crows called him the Great Sign Talker and Pretty Shield said he made books speak. Almost a century later, his work crackles with life and takes the reader on breathtaking journeys into another world and another time. If you have not read his books and are interested in Native American stories, biographies, and autobiographies, here are my takes on where you should begin:
I recommend beginning with Pretty Shield: Medicine Woman of the Crows and Plenty-Coups: Chief of the Crows. Pretty Shield’s granddaughter, Alma Hogan Snell, offers us more contemporary perspectives with her books, Grandmother’s Grandchild: My Crow Indian Life and A Taste of Heritage: Crow Indian Recipes and Herbal Medicines.
I hope you enjoy the story. If you are interested in additional sources I used to research this novel, I would be happy to send you my list of references. Just email me at: [email protected]
Happy reading!
Sharon Buchbinder
Prologue
Hotel LaBelle, Billings, Montana, 1905
After five years of hard work, scrimping and saving, today Lucius Stewart’s dream became reality. This afternoon, he paid the Cattleman’s Bank off in full, and now held the deed to the beautiful Hotel LaBelle in his hand. He sat at his desk, sipped an exceptional whiskey from his bar, and dangled a fine cigar between his lips. He liked it when all the patrons and staff were in bed, asleep. During the evening in the crowded bar, with the piano player pounding the keys, it was impossible to even hear his own thoughts.
Lucius blew a smoke ring and stared at the wood ceiling of his office. A good day. Perhaps the best of his thirty-five years of life. Though born and raised in
New York City, the West had always called to him. When his mother died, he sold the family home and headed to Big Sky Country. During the ten years of working his way up to general manager in a large hotel in the city, he dreamed of building his own place. He wanted something for city folks like himself who hankered after a taste of the frontier—with the civilized amenities of a soft bed, fine dining, and good wine.
If he’d been married, he would be celebrating with his wife. But the woman he loved turned him down, saying it would never work. In her nation, the women owned the home and all the family possessions. When a man and woman married, the husband moved into the wife’s home. And therein lay the rub. They came from different worlds. To keep the Hotel LaBelle up and running, he had to be present, pure and simple. The place wouldn’t run itself. Lucius knew if he blinked too long the barkeep would water the liquor, the cowboys would tear the place apart, and the hotel would be destroyed.
So, he decided they were getting married, and she was moving in with him. They had to, especially with a little one on the way. An awful thought sprang into his mind. What if something happened to him before he could convince her his way was the right way? Life was unpredictable. Hadn’t his father died when he was a small child? If his father hadn’t provided for his mother, Lord only knew what his life would have been like growing up. Lucius set the deed to the hotel aside, picked up a pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and began to write.
****
An hour later, satisfied with his work, he dropped the pen on the desk. As soon as the ink dried, he’d put the second document in his safe place, along with the deed. Right now, he was plumb beat. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.
“Lucius Stewart!”
He fell backward, hitting the chair and his head on the wall. He rubbed the back of his skull and searched for the source of the voice.
“Who’s there? What do you want? I don’t have any money—I took it all to the bank today.”
An old woman stepped out of the shadows. She wore a buckskin dress covered in elk teeth. Eagle feathers perched on her head as if about to take flight. Anger creased her tanned face.
“Beautiful Blackfeather.” The mother of the woman he loved stood before him, the feathers on her head trembling, and her face twisted in rage. “What’s wrong? Why are your arms bleeding? What happened to your hair? Is Mourning Dove not well?”
Shaking from head to toe, his heart thundered in his chest like a bear trapped in a cage. All the traditional signs of mourning were right there in front of him, but he refused to believe his eyes. No, it couldn’t be. His vision blurred and he wailed. “No, no, tell me it isn’t so. Tell me Mourning Dove lives, please!”
“Do not speak of my daughter, you worthless dog,” she spoke in Crow at the same time her hands flew in Plains Indian hand talk so fast and with such fury, he could barely keep up.
“Slow down,” he signed back. “What is wrong?”
“You. You are what’s wrong. You lay with so many women, you thought my daughter was another to toss aside. Now there is a child and you are not man enough to make things right.”
“That’s not true!” Lucius jumped to his feet. “I love your daughter. I want to marry her. Here in my hotel, with a judge. Make it legal in the eyes of Montana law and white folks. Show her she’s worth more to me than a bride price of a horse.”
“Liar,” Beautiful Blackfeather signed. “You love and leave all women. You hurt many and will do it no more.”
“No, no, no. You don’t understand. I don’t want any other women.” Exasperated, he withdrew a gold wedding band from his pocket and held it out for Beautiful to see. “For Mourning Dove.”
She pulled her medicine stick out of her belt and aimed it at his face. A wispy white feather hung on the tip and moved with his breath. She spoke in Crow. Though difficult to understand, Lucius knew enough of the language to recognize she cursed him. Beautiful Blackfeather wasn’t any ordinary mother-in-law to be. The Crow considered her the most powerful Medicine Woman in Montana. He had to stop her, make her comprehend his intentions.
The room spun, colors twisted and whirled like a kaleidoscope, and his fingers and toes tingled. He grabbed the edge of the desk and squeezed his eyes shut to maintain his balance as the floor shifted. He opened them to discover Beautiful Blackfeather was gone. When he raised his hands to wipe away the sweat soaking his face, his stomach hit the floor. His hands had disappeared too.
Chapter One
Billings, Montana, Present Day
Tallulah Thompson stood inside the largest of the caves in Pictograph Cave State Park. She focused her binoculars on the distant figures painted thousands of years ago by hunters who camped out in the protected space. Alone in the room, she scanned the walls—then dropped the field glasses in astonishment. A tall, tanned man with two long black braids stood with his back to her. Wearing buckskin moccasins, pants, and a breech cloth, he pressed a stick to the wall. Stroking with great concentration, the man focused on his drawing, and the muscles in his back rippled. The small figure of a turtle emerged from his work. He must be participating in one of the interpretive events the park noted on the website. Great idea. But he should know better than to touch the walls. Just as she was about to call out to the man, a noisy group entered the space. She glanced at the family of five and turned back to the actor—but he had disappeared.
She searched the cavern. Where could he have gone? Maybe there was a back exit? A few moments later, on the walk to the visitor center, she mulled over the disappearing man. She hated to be a tattletale, but those walls were national treasures and shouldn’t be marred, even by a well-intentioned employee. She found the friendly park ranger with the beard and wire-rimmed glasses rubbing Tallulah’s chubby dog’s belly.
“Thanks so much for keeping an eye on Franny so I could see the caves.”
He handed her the leash. “No problem. She’s been greeting every guest.”
“Looking for food, no doubt. Pugs live to eat.”
The park ranger whispered into the dog’s velvety ears. “What happens at the park, stays at the park.”
Franny snorted and licked his nose.
Tallulah hated to break up the light moment, but she had to say something, the paintings in the caves were priceless. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news.”
He placed the dog on the ground and stood. “Uh-oh. Someone leave trash in the caves? Climb over the fence? Take a rock?” He shook his head. “It’s a nuisance, but my job, I’ll go talk to whoever did it. What do they look like?”
“Someone was drawing on the walls. It was your interpreter, the guy in the Native American costume working in the Pictograph Cave.”
The ranger’s brow furrowed. “We don’t have any events going on in the caves, or on the grounds for that matter. I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“Tall, extremely tan, long black braids. I didn’t see his face.”
The ranger shook his head. “Nope, nobody like that here today. The only guy who works here who might fit the description is visiting his sick aunt on the Crow Reservation.”
Then who had she seen in the cave?
“My imagination must have been in overdrive.” Her face flushed. “Sorry I bothered you.” She scooped up the pug. “Thanks again for taking care of Franny.” She hightailed it to her rental vehicle before she made an even bigger fool of herself.
Why was this happening now? She hadn’t had visions this vivid since her mother and father died and she went to live with her grandmother.
Her grandmother warned her about her gift. Told her to keep it to herself or suffer the same consequences as her mother. Tallulah tried, but occasionally she used her second sight on the sly to help a few of her clients. Sometimes a pesky earthbound spirit needed to be guided to its next destination. But, this one—he was so real. The strength of the apparition took her by surprise. She hadn’t even suspected he wasn’t real. That was one powerful sacred space, stron
g enough to suck her back in time to see the artist who created the stick figures on the cave walls.
She leaned back against the headrest of the SUV, closed her eyes, and took deep, cleansing breaths. Her grandmother would have scolded Tallulah for telling the park ranger what she saw.
“He’s not one of us,” she would have said. “You should never share your visions with anyone you don’t know well. They’ll think you’re crazy, try to lock you up, drug you.”
Like her mother.
Except she hadn’t initially realized the artist was a vision. She rubbed the turquoise talisman her grandmother had given her for protection, and a sense of peace flowed over her. Tallulah opened her eyes, stared through the glass sunroof, and admired the cloud formation that appeared to be painted on a huge blue canvas. It looked like an eagle, its huge white wings outstretched.
Big Sky Country, indeed.
The apparition in the cave put her on notice. Be prepared. You are on special lands, as sacred as her grandmother’s home in the Choctaw Nation in Durant, Oklahoma.
The lengthening shadows on the craggy hillside told her it was time to buckle up and face what was certain to be a distressed property and a distraught hotel owner. She checked her dog’s safety restraint, then started the engine. “Time to work for our keep, Franny.”
The fawn pug cocked her head, stuck her tongue out, and appeared terribly interested in her owner’s words.
“You know what we have to do, right? Get in, get it fixed, and get out. Time is money and while we love to rescue hotels, the more time we spend there, the less money we make.” And the lower her bank account dropped. She wasn’t starving, but if she didn’t keep moving ahead like a shark, she and Franny might be fighting over her expensive dog food. And she couldn’t count on her visions to put dog or people food on the table.
After earning a Master of Management in Hospitality from one of the best universities in the country, and steady advancement in New York City hotels for over a decade, Tallulah knew what did and didn’t work. During her education, she learned the business of managing a hotel from marketing to profit margins. Her internship and employment provided the nitty-gritty of the real world. She’d cleaned toilets, hauled bags up to rooms, registered guests, and served food. Hotel management was a twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week business. She kept in touch with her classmates and knew the industry ate half of them alive.
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