by Maddy Hunter
The redheaded clerk named Liam was minding the front desk again. I requested my room key, but the slot was empty, meaning Nana had already retrieved it. “There’s a message for you though,” he said, handing me a slip of white paper.
Receiving messages while I’m on vacation gives me the willies. I always think the worst. Somebody back home was in an accident. A tornado wiped out my apartment complex. My VCR malfunctioned and recorded a rerun of Baywatch instead of Sex and the City. I unfolded the paper.
Emily darling,
I’ve taken a taxi into town to look for a clothing store. Will try to be back for dinner. If I’m late, go on without me. Have much to tell you…not the least of which is…I love you. Tonight I want you to myself.
Etienne
I felt a tingling below my navel that traveled to my toes and fingertips. Every nerve ending in my body quivered with anticipation. The down on the back of my neck stood on end. I felt weightless, as if I’d been pumped full of helium and was in danger of floating away. I wondered if this was the human version of being in heat. I read his words again. “I love you. Tonight I want you to myself.” His sentiment filled me with so much excitement I thought I might explode, until reality slapped me upside the head. How could Etienne have me all to himself when I was sharing my room with two other women?
“Oh, by the way, Miss Andrew, I’ve given Mrs. Sippel and Ms. Hovick the key to their new room. The custodian volunteered to take over Rita’s duties today, so we were able to open up a new room. It’s across the hall from yours. I’ll be happy to help the ladies move their bags when they’re ready.”
“They’re being moved to their own room?” Was this a sign from Above or what?
Liam motioned me closer and said in an undertone, “Mind you, now, Archie’s not the housekeeper Rita was, so the room might not be up to our usual standards. But you tell the ladies, if they find the least thing out of order to make a note of it, and we’ll take care of it as soon as possible.‘Service’ is our motto here at Ballybantry Castle.”
Liam seemed friendly enough. Maybe he’d be more forthcoming than the desk clerk I’d questioned this morning. “How long have you worked here, Liam?”
“Off and on for six years now, not including the eighteen months we closed down for renovations. I worked for me da in his mortuary that year.”
“Have you ever seen the ghosts that are creeping around this place?”
He didn’t skip a beat, but I could see a wariness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Ghosts? Here? Go on with ya, now.”
“Let me phrase it another way. Why are you afraid to admit the castle is haunted?”
He forced an unconvincing smile. “You’d be confusing us with Ballygally Castle. It has a tower room that people claim is haunted and a grisly legend to accompany it.”
“Worse than the Ballybantry legend?”
He looked genuinely confused. “What legend would that be?”
“The one about the forbidden marriage, the boy floating in the moat, the girl dying in childbirth, and…the duck.”
He shook his head, absolutely deadpan. “Not familiar with it, but it does sound a bit like one of those American soap operas of yours.”
Stonewalled. Again. Maybe I needed to try another tack. “Who owns Ballybantry Castle?”
“A family by the name of McCrilly, and a group of investors from America. The family decided to sell stock in the castle when they learned their B-and-B license was being revoked and the building was going to be declared uninhabitable. It’s something of a white elephant, isn’t it now?” He gave the lobby a sweeping look. “A brilliant structure, but who can afford to foot the bill for its upkeep? ’Twas the investors from America who put up the capital for the renovations. I heard it was millions.”
McCrilly. Now we were getting somewhere. If Ethel Minch’s maiden name was McCrilly, I’d have a small piece of the puzzle. “It must have been traumatic for the family to give up ownership of their ancestral home.”
Liam nodded. “Aye. But mind you, the McCrillys only owned Ballybantry for twenty years. They bought it from the previous owner when they won the Irish sweepstakes back in the late seventies. Ownership has changed hands at least a dozen times.”
I drew a black line through my mental image of the McCrilly name. Back to square one. “Do you happen to know the name of the family who built the castle?”
He shook his head. “Don’t know.”
“Do you know the names of any of the former owners other than McCrilly?”
“Me da might know. I’ll ask him if you like. But he’ll want to be knowing why you’re asking.”
“Because it’s history! How can you work in a place this old and know so little about it?”
He shrugged dully. “I’ve no curiosity about it actually. Besides, the first owners were English, so why would I want to be remembering their names?”
Hadn’t Ethel Minch said much the same thing this morning? Hmm. “Tell me, Liam, since your father runs the mortuary, have you heard any more about what caused Rita’s death?”
Liam hung his head woefully. “Sad thing, that. ’Twas her heart. Her arteries were clogged worse than a backed-up pipe. The coroner said ’twas surprising she lasted as long as she did. Me da blames it on our full Irish breakfasts. Too many trans-fatty acids, you know. He’s a cornflakes man himself.”
Etienne had warned me about the health risks of Irish breakfasts, but I hadn’t listened. I thought about the bacon and sausage I’d chowed down this morning and imagined the backup in my own arteries. I vowed to eat a more sensible breakfast tomorrow morning. But learning that Rita’s death was heart related didn’t provide me with any clear answers about the incident. She still could have been frightened to death, but how could we ever prove it?
As I gathered up my belongings, I heard footsteps scuttling across the lobby. “Have they started serving dinner yet?” Bernice asked, breathless.
“Dinner’s at seven thirty,” I said, checking the wall clock. “You have forty-five minutes. What’s the rush?”
“I want a good seat.”
I wasn’t sure what made one seat any better than another, but I decided not to ask. With my luck, she might tell me. “Hey, Bernice, this is a good time for you to call the bank and have them wire you some money.”
“I don’t need any money. You already got me some.”
“Not enough to last you for the rest of the trip.” I beckoned her with my index finger. “Come on. It’ll be painless. And I’ll wait here until you’re done.”
Two phones hung on the wall opposite the front desk. One had a silver casing and was designated as a coin-operated phone. The other was encased in gray with a turquoise strip slashed down the front and labeled “Card Phone.” I dug my address book out of my bag, inserted my TE callcard into the turquoise phone, punched up the number for the Windsor City Bank, and handed the receiver to Bernice. “Tell them to wire your money right here to the castle. They do things like that all the time.”
While she explained her problem to a clerk in Iowa, I returned to the front desk and hefted Ashley’s Golden Irish Vacations bag onto the counter. “Would you leave a note in Ashley Overlock’s box telling her that Emily has her tour bag and she should pick it up in my room when she gets back?”
While Liam penned the message, I noted the minute hand on the wall clock and hoped Bernice talked fast. My phone card was only good for twenty minutes.
While I waited, I looked over a display of postcards that came in the shape of frothy glasses of Guinness, black-faced sheep, Celtic crosses, and old-fashioned red phone booths. From behind me, Bernice continued her conversation with the bank clerk. “No, I’m not giving you my account number. This phone could be tapped.”
I shook my head. Hindsight was telling me I should have bought the one-hundred-minute card. I heard Bernice’s voice increase in volume. “Let me talk to Mr. Erickson. He knows who I am.” I checked the clock again, watching another minute tick by.<
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I pulled a Celtic cross, a glass of Guinness, and a black-faced sheep from the postcard display and dug out a ten-pound note to pay for them. I didn’t really enjoy writing postcards, but it was more economical than buying another callcard. Liam regarded my ten-pound note.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t accept that.”
“What?”
“That bill isn’t considered legal tender here in the republic.”
“I got it at a bank. What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s provincial money. Issued by one of the provincial banks in Northern Ireland. It’s only good in the North.”
“Aren’t we in the North?”
“We’re in the republic. We’re a stone’s throw away from the North, but it’s still the republic, and your money’s no good.”
“You can’t do some kind of exchange thing?”
“I could if the bill were pounds sterling, but as you can see, it’s not.”
This was nice. I had a wallet full of cash that was worthless in 90 percent of the places we’d be visiting. Unfortunately, so did Bernice. I was going to have a great time explaining this to her.
“Emily, will you come here and talk to these people?” Bernice held the phone out to me. “They’re making my blood pressure go up.”
I took the receiver from her. In the eight months I’d worked at the bank, I’d become buddies with Mr. Erickson, the bank president, so I was only too happy to talk to him. “Greetings from Ireland,” I said into the receiver, expecting to hear Mr. Erickson’s rich baritone in reply. What I heard instead was elevator music. I frowned at Bernice. “Where’s Mr. Erickson?”
“He’s on coffee break. I’m on hold.” The phone suddenly started to beep like a digitized Gatling gun. Bernice tented her arms over her head and ran toward the front desk. “Move, Emily! It’s gonna blow!”
I hung up the receiver and removed my phone card from the slot, holding it in the air so Bernice could see. “The beeping alerts us that we’ve run out of time, not that the phone is going to explode.” Our lesson in international calling obviously needed a little more work. “Were you able to arrange for any money to be transferred before you were put on hold?”
“I arranged nothing. The clerk was an idiot. That does it. No more phone calls. I’m heading for the dining room.”
“Wait a minute, Bernice.” I chewed my lip, contemplating what kind of word picture I could draw to explain our money problem. I snapped my fingers with inspiration. “Do you remember the Civil War?”
She shot me a narrow look. “Just how old do you think I am?”
Bad start. Take two. “Do you remember how the South issued their own currency during the war, and that after the war, the money was declared worthless?”
“If this is a joke, I hope you remember the punch line. My husband used to try to tell jokes, but he’d always forget the punch line. It really used to irritate me, especially after he’d go on…and on…and on…setting the thing up. Harold wasn’t very funny.” She looked suddenly nostalgic. “But his Mr. Peeper was as long as my arm. That kind of made up for things. What were you saying about Confederate money?”
I stared at Bernice, my mind bombarded with images of her and Harold that were far too disturbing for any human to process. I couldn’t deal with the money issue right now. That crisis could wait. I’d withdraw more cash from an ATM in the republic. I waved her off. “Nothing. Never mind. It’s not important.”
My eyes were still glazed over when Nana let me into the room. “We’re about ready to make the move across the hall,” she announced as she closed her suitcase.
I dumped my stuff on the bed and regarded the two of them. Maybe it was the unflattering dullness of the room’s fluorescent lighting, but they suddenly appeared very old and vulnerable. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” I asked, suffering a pang of conscience. “You don’t have to move if you’d feel safer in here with me.”
“You’re sweet to offer, dear, but to be honest, Tilly and me like to be on our own. We didn’t sign up for this trip to be a bother to you. We can take care of ourselves.” With a herculean grunt, she swung her suitcase onto the floor and popped the handle up. I stared in horror.
“Nana! You shouldn’t be lifting suitcases by yourself! What are you thinking? You’ll hurt your back!” As I hurried across the room to assist Tilly in closing her bag, Nana rolled hers toward the door.
“It’s on account of exercise class, dear. I can do all sorts of things now that I couldn’t do before.”
“The desk clerk said he’d help you with your bags,” I said as I headed for the phone.
“Save your breath,” Tilly advised, joining Nana at the door. “He’s probably operating on Irish time. By the time he walks down the hall, your grandmother and I can be unpacked.”
I saw them to their door, but Nana shooed me away before I could gain more than a peek at the flowers and flounces in their room. “I’d invite you in, dear, but you need to get ready for dinner and so do we.” She let Tilly go ahead of her, then in a confidential whisper said, “Do you think George would find me too brassy if I rouged up my lips a little tonight?”
I gave her the thumbs-up sign. “Before I forget, make a list of anything untidy in your room and give it to me so I can inform the front desk. The custodian cleaned your room, so I’ve been warned it might not be up to usual standards. You know how men are about cleaning. They miss a lot of details.”
She returned my thumbs-up. I scooted back to my room, checked the time, and geared up to warp speed. I set out a long red matte jersey dress with a slit to mid-thigh, red thong sandals with a three-inch heel, and drop pearl earrings. Understated but elegant. I liked that. I ran into the bathroom. Eh! My anti-itch cream had turned my skin yellow. I’m surprised no one had mentioned that I looked like a summer squash. I removed my eye makeup, washed my face with foaming cleanser, and examined my complexion in the mirror. My hives were less visible than they’d been earlier, and they’d stopped itching, which meant that even though my anti-itch cream smelled terrible, it worked. Or maybe I should attribute the improvement to the fact that nothing disastrous had happened on the afternoon tour. Yeah. That was more likely. I felt in control again.
I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and twisted it into a simple ballerina’s bun, then began applying fresh makeup. Light foundation. Eyeliner. Mascara. A smudge of brown eye shadow for depth. Blusher high on the cheekbones. As I reached for my lip pencil, I heard a knock on my door, and hurried to answer it. I checked the clock again. Probably Etienne picking me up for dinner. Hmm. I wondered how he’d feel about having a little appetizer before the main event.
“Here’s the list you asked for, dear,” said Nana when I opened the door. She handed me a sheet of castle stationery. “And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, you s’pose I could borrow some a your lip rouge? I couldn’t find none in my toiletry bag, then I remembered why. I don’t usually wear none.”
I took the note from her and scooted into the bathroom. I searched through the dozen tubes of lipstick I’d brought with me, selected one, and pressed it into her hand. “The perfect color for you, Nana. Shell Pink Passion.”
“No kiddin’. I like it already.”
I returned to the bathroom, outlined my lips, and, as I riffled through my stash of lipstick tubes again in search of one called Lusty, glanced at the note I’d set on the vanity. The list was short and was printed in Nana’s distinctively neat and precise hand.
Cigarette butt left in ashtray
Lightbulb burned out in floor lamp
Dead body in closet
I inhaled a calming breath. “NANA!”
Chapter 8
“I slid open the closet door to hang up my dress, and there he was,” said Nana. “Crumpled up like an accordian.”
I peered at the body lying in near fetal position on the floor of Nana’s closet, recognizing immediately the pony-tailed man wearing the green coveralls with the fish and warthog embla
zoned on it. “It’s the custodian,” I said. “I saw him in the lobby this morning, carpet-sweeping the rug. Did you check for a pulse?”
Nana nodded. “He hasn’t got no pulse, but he’s still warm, so he hasn’t been dead too long.”
I dropped to my knees in search of bloody footprints, but from what I could see, the area around the body was clean. There was no trace of blood on either the carpet or the body. But the man’s eyes were wide open and glazed with what looked like terror, and his mouth was contorted into a shape that suggested that he hadn’t prayed with his last dying breath. He’d screamed. Pinpricks of ice needled my flesh. “I’d better call the front desk.”