The grueling hours, the demanding clients, and the constant budget pressures weren’t easy, especially for women who wanted families. Some, like her friend, a superb pastry chef and hotel manager, had left the field completely, choosing a forty-hour work week. Now she was an elementary school principal with a handsome husband who coached the basketball team, and a tiny army of her own adorable little ones.
Instead of opting out of the hotel world, Tallulah stayed in the game by starting her own consulting business. Granted, she wasn’t a millionaire TV celebrity like that bald guy who went around the country inspecting hotels, but she made ends meet. Maybe they didn’t overlap, but they did touch. Last year, she and the IRS agreed that her company, T & F Hotel Inspectors, Inc., was truly a going concern. Her spare bedroom in her small, well-organized—well maybe she was a tad crazy about sticky notes—Trenton, New Jersey apartment served as her business address.
Most days she commuted to work in her pajamas, saving on gas and wardrobe costs. Her coworker, Franny, was pleasant and not terribly gabby, except when she was hungry or needed to go out. Best of all, as her own boss, she determined the work hours. She traveled at the client’s expense, and her black marker, pads of sticky notes, and Franny, the “F” in T & F Hotel Inspectors, always went with her.
She now exited the winding, pine-tree-flanked road onto I90 West, to search for her newest client’s establishment, the historic Hotel LaBelle. Established in the early 1900s, the hotel had been one of the first in the area to provide fine dining and sleeping accommodations for travelers who wanted the adventure of the Wild West, without the discomfort. The current owner emailed her after reading one of her guest posts on a large travel website about the challenges of modernizing historic hotels.
Dear Ms. Thompson,
I am writing to see if you can assist me with my historic hotel. I purchased it at an auction for the price of back taxes, which came to over three hundred thousand dollars. Abandoned by the owner in 1905, the Hotel LaBelle was ahead of its time for the era. Everything inside was made from the finest materials, so even though it has been unattended, beneath the animal droppings and graffiti, I could see her beauty. I was in love.
I obtained a bank loan for a million dollars to restore the original property. My plan was to get the dining room up and running first, along with five of the original rooms. The earnings from the restaurant and the rooms were supposed to help with the costs of renovation and expanding the hotel, as there is plenty of land. Over the last year, I have begun to question my decision and my sanity. There have been so many problems with the help and with construction. Customers are fleeing, not flocking to stay here. I am on the verge of bankruptcy.
Can you help me? I have enough money set aside to pay your fee and travel expenses. Please say you will come. I am desperate.
Yours truly,
William Wellington, III
Owner and General Manager
Hotel LaBelle
A million dollar budget intrigued her. How could she refuse? She’d never been to Montana. And Will, or WWIII as she liked to think of him, hadn’t balked at her price or her terms, including bringing Franny. The GPS directed her to continue on Interstate 90W, skirting the town. At the Yellowstone River, she found a dilapidated sign and the dirt road leading to her destination.
“Oh, baby, I think the owner has some ’splaining to do. That sign is awful. And how are you supposed to get down a dirt road in bad weather.” She shook her head and jotted a note on her ever-present yellow sticky pad. “Good thing we have a four-wheel drive.”
Franny, too short to see over the dashboard, was spared the sight of the run-down wraparound porch, tires serving as planters for bedraggled flowers, and a rusty pickup truck parked in the middle of the driveway. The place looked like a junk dealer’s lot. All that was missing was a barking dog chained to a post.
“This is even worse than I imagined. Hotel LaHelle would be a better name. Maybe he hasn’t seen us yet. We can just back up and—”
A middle-aged man with a ponytail, leather vest, a paunch that drooped over his jeans, and cowboy boots bounded out the front door. He tripped down the steps, righted himself, and shoved his head through her open window.
“Ms. Thompson? Aren’t you a pretty little lady? What a sight for sore eyes! Welcome to Hotel LaBelle!”
Personal space was obviously a foreign concept for her new client. She leaned away from the close talker, his garlic-laced breath, and his unwelcome compliments. “You must be Mr. Wellington. Please, allow me to get out and do a walk around the grounds with my dog.”
He yanked the car door open. “Of course, let me get your bag and take it to your room. When you’re ready, come on in and we’ll have a beer.”
“Coffee, please. I never drink while I’m working.” Her instincts screamed, this guy is bad news! But her checking account yelled, you spent the money already! She grabbed her bag, sticky notes, and pug. “See you in thirty minutes.”
The further away she got from the owner, the better she felt. Her muscles, knotted in a fight or flight response, relaxed as she walked along the winding river and gazed at the islands dotting the water. A startled wild turkey gobbled and flapped his wings at the little dog. Unaware that she was half the size of the bird, Franny raced after him, her curly little tail wagging, stopping only when Tallulah tugged on the leash.
“That’s enough excitement for you today.”
The river view and surrounding lands were the saving grace for this hotel. Make that a positive sticky note. She had to give him some good feedback along with the bad. Front and back, the exterior, the curbside appeal, if you will, had all the charm of a hillbilly hideout, without the handsome hillbilly. She would need to set some very strong boundaries with Wellington—who could very well be nicknamed Smellington at this point. Yuck.
Reluctance dragging at every step, she climbed the front stairs, entered the structure, and gasped.
The long, smooth registration desk appeared to be made of highly polished mahogany, as did the walls and ceiling. Carvings of trees, waterways, and mountains rose across the surface of every wall. Peeking between the trees were deer and turkeys. Fish leaped out of the river and clouds scudded over the mountains. Turning in a slow circle, Tallulah absorbed the genteel grandeur of the lobby. Well, this was getting a lot better, she thought as she jotted more positive notes.
Next to the gleaming wooden stairs, metal lattice work surrounded a wooden box that comprised the elaborate cage elevator. On the second floor, railings on three sides formed a gallery from which the rooms’ occupants could view the entire lobby. Just as she completed her slow circuit and note taking, a woman with long dark braids exited a hotel room, a cleaning basket in one hand and a vacuum in the other. She needed to interview that woman and any other staff Wellington had on site.
“See anything you like?” The owner appeared in front of her and waggled his eyebrows. Tallulah hoped he wasn’t referring to himself. “Sure you don’t want something stronger than coffee?”
She tucked the notes into her purse. “Mr. Wellington—”
“Please, call me Will.” He grinned, exposing crooked yellow teeth. One more strike in a growing list of unappealing pitches. “As in, where there’s a Will, there’s a way.”
Okay, time for the talk.
“Mr. Wellington, please behave in a professional manner with me.”
His face fell. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to be friendly.”
“Friendly is a handshake and a polite hello, not leering at me or wiggling your eyebrows.”
At the top of the stairs, the maid burst out laughing. “I told him not to pull that crap on you. Would he listen? No. Thinks he’s a ladies’ man like the original owner, ‘Love ’Em and Leave ’Em Lucius.’ ”
Tallulah looked up at the woman. “And you are?”
“Emma Horserider.”
“Ms. Horserider—”
“Emma is just fine.” She grinned displaying even white
teeth.
“Okay, I see. I’m Tallulah Thompson. Mr. Wellington called me in to help him save his hotel. I’m only here for a week. I would love to chat with you.”
Emma shot the owner a hard look. “Happy to do it—just not now and not here.”
Tallulah was dying to hear the backstory on this one. “Good, you tell me when and where, and I’ll meet you.”
Emma nodded. “You ever been to Little Big Horn?”
“No, this is my first trip to Montana.”
“There’s a restaurant, a trading post really, just outside the park. You can’t miss it. A huge arrow points to it. I’ll meet you there tomorrow at noon.” Emma turned to Wellington. “If you really want to save this place, you need to behave. This woman is here to help you. Sit down, shut up, and listen.” Emma stomped out the front door.
“Ms. Thompson, can we start over?”
“Yes, let’s try, shall we?”
He extended his hand. “My name is Will, and I really need your help. I’m sorry I acted like a jerk. I do that when I get anxious. Right now, I’m about to have a nervous breakdown. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
She took his hand and gave it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Will. I’m here to help you save Hotel LaBelle. I would love a cup of coffee and a bite to eat, if you have something simple.”
An hour and two delicious buffalo burgers later—one half for Franny—Will sat with his head in his hands. “I just don’t know what to do. Emma is a hardworking woman, but she refuses to clean some of the rooms, says they have a spirit wandering in them. The construction workers are good—when they work. They have a habit of up and walking off the job if they hear of better paying work elsewhere, even though I have a contract with the company. The hotel is on the grid, but the power goes out often in the winter. I’m going to have to invest in an emergency generator. Each room has a fireplace, but some of the rooms are freezing, even when the fire is roaring. And, every now and again, I find wild animals wandering through the place.”
Tallulah pulled out her sticky notepad. “Wild animals?”
“Turkeys, deer, even a mountain goat one time.” He shook his head and stood up to clear the coffee cups. “I lock up every night, and in the morning, I find doors flapping in the wind. If I believed in ghosts, I’d say this place is haunted.”
A chill ran down Tallulah’s back. “What about your guests? What do they say?”
“The last guests I had were a couple of guys who fished all day, drank all night, and trashed the room. Supposed to stay a week. Ran out in the middle of the third night and didn’t pay their bill.”
“What happened?”
“I have no idea. All I know is, even after repeated cleanings, their room still smells like dead fish.”
What would send two tough guys running for the hills?
She had to find out or she wouldn’t be helping the guy. “Will, what room do you have me in?”
“The best one in the house. The honeymoon suite. Claw-foot bathtub, king-sized bed, in room bar.”
“Were your fishing guests in that room?”
He looked horrified. “Absolutely not.”
“I want to stay in the same room they stayed in.”
“Naw, you don’t want that. There’s still a faint smell of fish in the closet.”
“I insist. It’s time for me to fish or cut bait.” She smiled. “Humor me.”
He shook his head. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you about the stink.”
It’s not the odor I’m worried about.
An hour later, after a guided tour of the hotel upstairs and down, and taking the pug out for her bedtime constitutional, Tallulah admired her room. The updated bathroom, two queen-sized beds, and flat-screen TV brought the place into contemporary times, but the carved wood-paneled walls spoke of its rich history.
Every muscle in her body screamed for a hot bath. Tallulah cranked on the faucets of the claw-foot tub, plugged her cell phone in to charge, and stripped out of her travel clothes. She stepped into the steaming water and sank down into the bubbles, closing her eyes with a sigh of contentment. Franny plopped on the rug next to the tub and snored. An hour later, Tallulah awoke to a yapping pug and tepid bathwater. She stepped over the dancing dog, dropped her flannel nightgown over her head, and brushed her teeth while the little beast cocked her head and watched.
“Let it never be said that a pug allowed its owner to brush their teeth alone.”
Franny snorted.
The nightlight cast a small yellow glow when Tallulah opened the bathroom door, headed to the bed—and stopped. A drop-dead gorgeous mustachioed man with brown wavy hair falling to the collar of his old-fashioned suit perched on the edge of her four poster. The scent of cigar smoke and whiskey wafted to her on the breeze from the overhead fan, and his shadow stretched across the quilt in an extended parody of his height.
Franny leaped at the man’s legs and barked. He reached down to pet the dog, murmured something, and she wagged her curly little tail.
Rooted to the spot, heart thrumming in her throat, Tallulah debated running back into the bathroom and calling Will on her cell phone to get his butt up to the room and explain how this stranger got past her dead bolted and chained door. She took a deep breath. Flight wasn’t an option since he blocked her path from the room. Besides, she’d have to unwrap her pug from around his ankles or leave her here with the intruder. Not a chance.
Time to put up a good fight.
“Who the hell are you?” She wanted to snatch Franny away from him, but didn’t want to get too close to this stranger. “What are you doing in my room?”
The man’s dark, intelligent eyes widened and his eyebrow quirked. “You can see me?”
“Of course I can see you. I repeat. Who the hell are you? You’re sitting on my bed as if you own the place.”
“I’m Lucius Stewart. I do own the place. I’m the proprietor of Hotel LaBelle.”
Chapter Two
Hotel LaBelle, Billings, Montana, Present Day
The long, white flannel nightgown did little to hide the shapely figure of the woman with the wild blonde hair and wide blue eyes. Lucius Stewart found her womanly charms incredibly distracting but remained startled beyond belief—she could actually see him. Really see him. How was it possible?
“Is this some kind of joke? Hazing the hotel consultant? Tell Will it isn’t funny, and get out of my room. Now.”
She pointed toward the door, her white-tipped fingernail reminding him of the breath feather on the tip of Beautiful Blackfeather’s medicine stick. He inspected her face, his gaze traveling slowly over her pouty red lips and her cheekbones. He inspected her longer than any civilized woman would deem polite. She glared back at him, fists on her hips—just like someone else he’d known years ago.
Her mannerisms, regal bearing, and commanding presence sucker punched him, turning his limbs to jelly and his mouth to mush. If he believed in reincarnation like he’d heard some of the Alaskan tribes did, he’d say she was Mourning Dove reborn with blonde hair and blue eyes. He let out a long breath and managed to untie his tongue.
“You Crow?”
Her frown became deeper, her voice angrier. “Excuse me?”
Perhaps she didn’t understand him. He spoke slower and louder, “Your tribe. Are. You. Crow?”
“I. Am. Not. Deaf.” She patted her thigh. “Franny come. Get away from him.”
The little dog with the pushed-in face and bug eyes jumped and wagged its curly little tail harder as if in defiance of her owner’s orders. What’s with this so-ugly-it’s-cute creature, anyway?
“Franny! Come here.” The little dog plopped on its haunches and looked back and forth between the disturbingly familiar woman and him as if trying to decide which way to go.
Lucius stood and stretched, still trying to reconcile this woman’s ability to see him and her uncanny resemblance to the woman he’d loved and lost.
“Don’t you come near me.” She backed u
p to the desk, hands scrabbling on the mahogany surface. “Or I’ll, I’ll—”
“What? Hit me?” He laughed at her surprised expression—the mirror image of Mourning Dove’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed look when he’d proposed to her. “Throw something at me. Please.” He almost hoped he’d get smacked so he could feel something. Anything was better than this nothingness. 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?”
“The Crow gal who cleans this place can feel me but never hears or sees me. You can. How is that possible?”
The Haunting of Hotel LaBelle Page 2