If only he’d been able to convince Mourning Dove to move in with him, none of this would have happened. She would have had a doctor with her when the baby was born, one that would have made sure both she and the baby survived the ordeal. Instead, her stubborn refusal to accompany him to the hotel had set this chain of events in motion. Beautiful Blackfeather’s self-mutilation gave mute testimony to the magnitude of the loss she suffered. Clearly, both mother and infant died in childbirth, leaving her without a daughter and grandchild, and him without a wife or an heir. Pretty ironic, since both the deed to the hotel and his will stipulated all his property was to go to his heirs upon his death.
A three-prong bolt exploded out of the sky and a crash shook the hotel. Getting closer. He hoped Tallulah was out of the path of the tempest, somewhere safe. She’d said she was going to visit Emma Horserider. He wondered what the housekeeper would tell her about Will and Hotel LaBelle that she hadn’t told her on the first trip. What more was there to say about the conniving cheat? What could anyone do about the mess the loser made of things? Tallulah was gone. Lucius was disintegrating. His life’s work was in the hands of a despicable man. Could things get any worse?
At least he still had his beloved Hotel LaBelle to haunt. Seeking light, some form of warmth, and yes, a bit of amusement at Will’s expense, he rose and popped back into the kitchen to see if the crook had wet himself yet.
Flipped on its side, the desk chair was empty. Bags of vegetables and empty cans of beer lay scattered throughout the kitchen. How had that scoundrel been able to get up, much less walk? Where the dickens was he?
Lucius popped from room to room, searching for the phony. The trashed office remained devoid of human life, and the lobby, other than a trail of peas and carrots appeared the same. The elevator had no rider, sleeping or otherwise. Tallulah’s empty room smelled of rose perfume. One by one, he popped in and out of the twenty usable rooms. No sight of Will. Even if he died, he couldn’t just disappear. Lucius had been on the porch and would have seen the man stumble by him if he went to drown his sorrows in the river.
The basement? He found Will furiously twisting a large knob, his bad hand doing little to assist his good one. A sign on an adjacent copper pipe read, “Sprinkler system. Do not disable.”
What was he up to?
Cursing and grunting, Will gave the handle a final savage twist. Water gushed onto the floor and the swindler laughed uproariously. “Let’s see what those mobsters have when I’m done with this place.” He pounded his chest with his good hand. “I don’t care what they say. They have no right to her. I cleaned out the filth, brought her back to her beauty. What did they do? Not a thing. They did nothin’ except loan me some money. They didn’t give their blood, sweat, and tears for this place.” He sloshed through the water toward the steps. “If I can’t have it, nobody will. I’ll show those bastards. Hotel LaBelle is mine until death do we part.”
What are you fixing to do now? Lucius followed behind Will, trying figure out how he could stop this idiot from ruining the hotel.
Up the basement steps the drunk stumbled, and continued to do so through the foyer, then into the elevator. He pressed the button and leaned against a wooden panel, panting, his eyes closed. When he arrived on the second floor, Will shoved the brass door aside and staggered down the hallway. He tripped, nearly fell, and righted himself with a curse. “Freaking area rugs.”
Will yanked open the door to the barren white room and smiled.
“Ms. Tallulah, I gotta say, you’re absolutely right. This room is ugly. Arctic, sterile, and barren. So stinking hideous, I’m going to get rid of it. And maybe myself while I’m at it.” He grabbed a can of paint thinner, lay it on its side, and stabbed it repeatedly with a screwdriver. Sprinkling the acrid contents across the room, he placed the still draining can in the center of the mattress. Standing at the side of the bed, Will pulled a box of matches out of his pocket. Lucius recognized the matches as the same brand, perhaps even the same ones he used to light his cigar on his last night in the earthly realm. “This room won’t be cold anymore. It’s gonna be smoking hot.”
Using his mouth to assist his good hand, Will slid the matchbox open and struck one against the side. The flame flared and fizzled.
“Crappy old things. Must be left over from Stewart.” Another strike, another fizzle. Cursing a blue streak, he tried again.
Lucius grabbed Will’s arm, to no avail. His ethereal fingers passed right through flesh and bone, making no impression on the boozed up man. Shouting, he attempted to get a message through, “Don’t do this. Please!”
Forty matches in a box, Lucius calculated. How many had been left that day? He had smoked two cigars, and it had been a brand new box of phosphors. No reason to believe they were intact a century later. There might only be a few that worked out of what, ten or twenty?
“Aha!” the madman chortled and held up a flaming matchstick. “I give you fire!”
Lucius leaned over and blew as hard as he could.
The flame sputtered and disappeared.
“I did it,” Lucius threw his head back and yelled to the ceiling. “I did it!”
The scratch of wood against wood stopped his rejoicing.
Another match flared.
Lucius huffed and it went out in a twist of smoke.
“Damn these things.” Will struck another.
Lucius puffed and said, “I can do this all night, you lunkhead. Give up.”
Will bent over weeping and cursing. Lucius couldn’t see what the other man was doing. The swindler’s body blocked his view. He took a deep breath—and missed the glowing box of matches as they flew in the air and onto the bed—which burst into flames.
The desperate, drunken man cackled maniacally, burst into tears, and collapsed onto the floor.
The fire ate its way along the mattress cover, a hungry red demon eager for more fuel. It spilled down the side of the bed and traveled the path of the dribbled paint thinner over Will’s inert body.
Lucius grabbed at a pillow to beat the fire out, but his fingers passed through it. He popped into the hallway. Where is that gosh-darn new-fangled fire alarm? The red-and-white square stood out in stark contrast against the dark wall.
Focus on the handle and do what the sign says. Pull.
Wispy, smoky, barely visible, his fingers passed through the handle, once, twice, three times without effect. He shrieked in frustration and despair. His life, if you could call it that, was over. If Hotel LaBelle went, perhaps he’d disappear too. Maybe the good Lord sent Will to punish him, over and above Beautiful Blackfeather’s curse. Lucius loved his hotel, an inanimate object that made him puff up with pride like a rooster—so much so that he refused to leave it. He had loved the building more than he loved Mourning Dove.
Ruined, everything was ruined.
Chapter Eight
As night began to fall, Tallulah finished her dinner in silence, still recovering from her vision, and reflecting on how it differed from all the others. Aside from the highly interactive and extremely attractive Lucius, none of her other visions required her participation. The Pictograph Cave man, more like a moving, three dimensional photograph, disappeared before she could speak to him. She wondered if he’d ever appeared to any other visitors at the park. The ranger acted as though he’d never heard the story before.
The battlefield episode felt the same way, exploding around her, not only in three dimensions, but in full surround sound and chest-rumbling bass, like an immersive movie experience or video game. Both experiences had been impersonal, happening in front of or around her. According to experts on the paranormal, occurrences such as these were called residual hauntings. They played like tapes, over and over, whether people were there to see them or not. Someone born with the “gift,” as her grandmother called it, would see these past events and people. From a more scientific perspective, some brains happened to be wired to receive these transmissions, like tuning into the frequency of a radio or TV
station.
The vision today, however, had been personal. The woman spoke directly to her and only her. The people offering Tallulah hospitality were descended from Beautiful Blackfeather. Yet, they could not see her. Neither did they “lead the witness” by identifying her, yet when Tallulah described her, they obviously recognized her immediately. It was almost as if the encounter had been anticipated…or intentional. How could they know she would be the right instrument to tune into the Beautiful Blackfeather station?
She swallowed her last spoonful of the delicious pudding, sipped her coffee, and placed her mug on a blue geometric coaster. Then she pinned Emma and her brother to their seats with her gaze. “How long have you guys been planning this?”
Bert glanced at Emma. “My sister called me, told me she thought you were the one—”
“I’ve been searching for the right person for years.” Emma had the grace to blush. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“This was a test?” Tallulah didn’t know whether she should be angry or flattered.
Emma nodded and traced a pattern on the tablecloth. “Yes.”
“Were you lying when you said you couldn’t see Beautiful Blackfeather? ’Cause, if you were, you both deserve an Academy Award.”
“No, we couldn’t see her. Or hear her. We—ah—have other gifts,” Bert said. He rolled his chair back and forth. “Our people are connected to horses in mystical ways, going back many centuries. My sister is a horse whisperer. That’s why she changed her name from Blackfeather to Horserider. She communicates with the horses in their own language, breaks in broncos, and helps our rodeo people and Indian relay riders stay safe.” He grinned. “Emma talks to dogs too but didn’t want to be called the Dog Whisperer—that name was taken.”
“What were you doing cleaning the hotel?” Tallulah knew it wasn’t for the money. There had to be another reason.
“Keeping an eye on it for a friend.” Emma stood and began to clear the dishes.
“Well, that’s not cryptic at all.” Tallulah sighed and pointed at Bert. “What about you? What’s your talent?”
“Ha! If I told you, I’d have to kill you. Homeland Security and all that.”
“Wow. You two are just a mystery wrapped in an enigma inside a puzzle, aren’t you?” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “So what is it you want me to do, aside from communicate with your great-great-grandmother? You didn’t seem at all surprised by her messages, so what’s my purpose, really. And, please, don’t go all national security on me. I’m not buying it.”
Tail wriggling, Franny chose that moment to appear with a massive deer antler in her mouth. She dragged it over to Tallulah and placed it at her feet. “Whoa. Where did you get that?”
Emma waved to the trio entering through the dog door. “The other dogs must have given it to her.”
“Given? Dogs don’t normally give their toys away.”
“She’s a Medicine Woman’s dog. They’re showing her respect.”
Tallulah squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m not a healer. I don’t take care of sick people or even know anything about using plants for herbal medicine.”
Emma placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “You see spirits who are sick and need your help. You lead them on the path to the camp beyond, what you call life after death, when they’ve lost their way. You walk on the path of light. Don’t hide your gifts. We need your talents.”
Her grandmother’s warnings to keep her visions to herself didn’t really apply here, did they? These people had unusual gifts too. They weren’t looking to lock her up or drug her into a catatonic state, were they? She sighed. “Okay, I surrender. How can I help you? What is it you want me to do?”
“This won’t hurt a bit.” Bert chuckled.
Standing in front of the cabinet Beautiful Blackfeather had pointed to, Emma frowned at her brother and said, “Tallulah, could you come here, please? I need to show you something.”
Emma pulled a drawer out and removed a bundle wrapped in deerskin. “This belonged to Beautiful Blackfeather. She told her family it was to go to the person who could see, hear, smell, touch, and taste the man she cursed, Lucius Stewart.”
“How did you know—” She hadn't told Emma she'd kissed Lucius. Only the first four senses had been in their conversations.
“I saw your face when you spoke of him. It was only a matter of time before your lips met.”
Heat filled Tallulah’s face. “That was all we did.” These two didn’t need to know he’d rejected her advances and made her feel like piece of toilet paper on his shoe. “After all, what else could a ghost possibly do with a living woman?”
Emma snorted. “Let’s not go there.” She pointed to the recliner. “Since we don’t know what will happen when you open this, you should probably lie down and get comfortable. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt during this—experiment.”
“That’s the first reasonable thing you’ve said in the last five minutes.” Tallulah sat on the chair, found the lever to raise her legs, and tried to relax. “Got a blanket? I might get chilly.”
The other woman grabbed a soft throw covered with colorful geometric patterns and tucked it around Tallulah’s legs. “Better?”
Bert pulled alongside her. “Good luck.”
“Thanks. Okay, let’s have it.” She put her palms out to receive the bundle, expecting an electric shock or some jolt of supernatural something to hit her when it was placed in her hands. Nothing. She unwrapped the package with reverence, unwinding first the deerskin, then a cotton cloth, finally arriving at a—
“A stick with a white feather at the tip? This is the treasure of Beautiful Blackfeather?”
The siblings said nothing, just watched her with those big brown eyes. A melody, some old native music, filled the room. Were they humming? Or was it coming from outside?
“Okay, okay, I’ll pick it up.” She placed her hand over the stick, but before she could grasp it, the rod flew up and struck her palm as if someone had slapped it into her hand.
“Ouch!” No electric shock zapped her with a thousand volts. Instead, thunder clapped and a black vortex sucked her out of the cozy family room and into another space and time…
****
Tallulah arrived in Lucius Stewart’s office, long before Will’s ransacking. She scanned the room, expecting to see the dapper owner at his desk, but the chair stood empty. A cigar butt smoked in the ashtray, and a half bottle of whiskey sat on the desk next to an empty glass. She reached over to pick up some papers on the desk—and saw her mutilated arm. Slashed in numerous places, many of the wounds still oozed blood. She glanced down at her feet. Moccasins? No mirror, but the window might serve as one. She stood at the glass and peered at her reflection. Gone was the wild blonde hair. Instead, dark hair surrounded a sad-eyed, wrinkled face. Her hand went to the base of her skull of its own accord, and the stubble of close cropped hair met her fingers. She was in Beautiful Blackfeather’s body. Now what? She stepped back to the desk and allowed Beautiful to take control.
The Medicine Woman picked up a document with scribbles and a thumbprint on it, along with a gold ring. Placing both into a small beaded buckskin bag, she walked outside to the river’s edge and stripped. Everything, including her clothes, medicine stick, and small bag, went into the larger cloth pouch she carried on her back. Under the full white moon, she raised her hands and called upon her spirit animal. Shudders racked her body, bones cracked, and pain erupted along every inch of her as black-and-white feathers sprouted. Sharp talons now served as her feet, and her arms grew into wings. Dulled by the heavy drumbeat of her heart engulfed in grief, she felt no joy in shapeshifting.
Beautiful grasped the pouch in her sturdy claws and launched into the night air. Below, the river chuckled, owls hooted, and mice rustled in the grass. No desire to dive into the water and pull out a fish thrilled her soul. The owls could have the mice. Tonight she mourned the loss of her only child and flew over the plains to the hulishoopiio, the scaffolded
sacred place where Mourning Dove’s body lay wrapped in robes and ropes. Screaming her grief, she circled her daughter’s grave three times and flew onward. She headed back to camp, back to her teepee where her infant grandchild, Mourning Dove’s daughter, awaited her. It was time to be strong, to raise her daughter’s child, a grandmother’s grandchild, one without a mother or a father.
Just as she was about to dive down to her home, an overwhelming urge to return to the white man’s hotel overcame her. As she flew over the building, flames shot out of an upper window and a man screamed in pain…
****
Tallulah gasped and sat upright.
“She’s back!” Bert shouted.
Emma’s worried face hovered overhead. “Do you want some water or coffee?”
“I was in Beautiful’s body—in Lucius’ office. He wasn’t there. I—she—took an important paper and a ring.” She looked at her arms, threw off the blanket, and stared at her feet. Her voice fell to a whisper. “I—Beautiful turned into an eagle.”
Bert placed his large hand over hers. “You’re okay. You’re here with us now.”
“Lucius and Mourning Dove’s daughter lived. You’re her great-grandchildren and—” Panic gripped her heart with the sharpness of an eagle’s talons. “Fire! The hotel’s on fire! Call the Sheriff! I have to get back there!”
“We’ll make the call, but you can’t go out in this thunderstorm. When it comes down this hard the roads wash out. You’ll never make it.”
****
Rain lashed the window and lightning flashed a staccato pattern in the pitch-black sky. Lucius paced the smoldering room and screamed in frustration, “I should be able to do something to save you, at least. You may be a scoundrel, swindler, and a deadbeat, but even you don’t deserve this.” He stood over the other man’s inert form, his gaze wandering from head to foot.
Is that his itty-bitty phone next to him on the floor?
The Haunting of Hotel LaBelle Page 8