Jesse's Hideout (Bluegrass Spirits 1)

by Kallypso Masters

  The disappointment on his face left her wondering if he’d find anything here the least bit entertaining if zombies were his benchmark for excitement.

  “Do you have any ghosts here?” Derek asked.

  “Well, now, that’s another matter. We’ve had a few ghosts in the neighborhood over the centuries. Some even say the notorious Jesse James hides out here on occasion.”

  Derek came over to sit on her lap. “Daddy said he robbed lots of trains. Have you seen him?”

  After reassuring herself with a curt nod from Greg to make sure he had no objections, she went on, beginning with one foot firmly planted in reality.

  “I was alone in this house one night about a year after the previous owner passed away, asleep in the room where your daddy is staying now. The house had a number of renovation projects going on, and I was exhausted. After locking all of the doors and windows, I went to bed as soon as it grew dark and drifted off to sleep.”

  She lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned closer to the boy. “Suddenly, I heard footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, plodding footfalls. Someone was in the house! But who could it be? Had one of the workers stayed behind, up to no good?”

  “Was it a bad guy?”

  “Well, when I opened the door, holding a baseball bat in case I needed to use it—”

  “All you had for protection was a bat?” Greg interrupted, pulling her out of the story.

  She wouldn’t tell him it was a miniature Louisville slugger or he’d be even more incredulous. If she’d jabbed the end in a vulnerable spot, she could have caused great harm.

  Choosing to ignore him, she focused on Derek. “Deciding that the element of surprise was on my side, I swung open the door—but no one was there. However, I still heard the heavy footsteps. They continued to come up and down the stairs for another half an hour after I went back to my bed. Finally, I called out to the spirit that I was tired and needed some sleep so please stop.”

  “Did it?” Derek’s eyes were as wide as saucers now.

  “Yes, it did. I’ve heard those steps again on occasion, especially when I’m making renovations or moving the furniture around. Spirits don’t like change.”

  “Will I hear steps tonight?” His eyes showed a mixture of excitement and fear.

  “Oh no! I’m not doing anything that would stir up the spirit right now.”

  The boy relaxed his shoulders and rested against her chest, eliciting every maternal instinct she possessed. “I see a ghost in my room at home, but Mommy says nobody’s there.” He shook his head. “She sure looks real to me.”

  “Son, sometimes we can let our imaginations run wild and conjure up all kinds of scary things when all we need to do is take a moment to analyze things and figure them out.”

  Apparently, Greg didn’t think much of her ghostly footsteps story, either. Regardless of what this exasperating man thought, her experience was the God’s honest truth.

  Greg’s disbelief still firmly in place, he said, “That must disappoint the guests coming to have an otherworldly encounter.”

  She met Greg’s gaze, fighting to rein in her temper as, once again, he called her a fraud and a liar.

  If he’d done any research on the local tourism sites, he’d know that ghosts abounded in this county. Still, her inn wasn’t so much haunted as visited by Mrs. Foster. She preferred to call her a spirit, since she’d known her in life.

  But the night she’d heard those heavy footsteps had been as real as the sound of his own steps on the stairs. Could she convince him by sharing one more story? Why she bothered, she didn’t know, but she didn’t like being called a liar.

  “While construction men were wiring the cellar, they reported hearing otherworldly sounds in the northern room of the cellar. And something kept playing games with the electricity.”

  “How can ’lectricity play games?”

  “Well, the workers would plug their electric drills into the same outlets as the overhead lights were connected to, but the tools would suddenly lose power. However, the lights continued to shine even though both were plugged into the same outlet.”

  “Sounds like they needed a better electrician.”

  Why did she bother?

  Ignoring Greg, she spoke to Derek instead. “The workers became so frightened they quit for the day, but came back the next day and found all the outlets working fine.”

  To this day, Tillie hadn’t figured out which spirit had been responsible for that prank, but Mrs. Foster wouldn’t do anything so silly.

  Greg rose from the sofa, setting his empty saucer on the table and putting an end to her storytelling. “Come on, Derek. Let’s put the chess pieces away and straighten up our mess.”

  “Don’t worry about anything,” Tillie assured him. “I’m sure he’ll want to play with them again. Leave them as they are until then.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” Fatigue suddenly weighed Tillie down, unlike she’d experienced in forever. She stood and gathered the empty saucers and glasses placing them on the tray. “When would you like breakfast?”

  “Our bodies are on Central, so let’s say nine.”

  Thank you! She could sleep in a bit.

  “Nine, it is. If you need anything overnight in the kitchen or anywhere, help yourself. Good night, Derek. Sleep well. Oh, and Greg, I promise to finish your tour tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good. Night, Tillie.”

  She lifted the tray and started out of the room before turning back. “Good night, Greg.”

  She met his gaze, and he added, “Thanks. For everything.” He smiled, but the corners of his eyes didn’t scrunch this time.

  Day one down. Nine to go. She’d so anticipated having them here, but the roller coaster of emotions she’d ridden today made her wonder what lay ahead.

  Greg Buchanan, just you wait. I’m going to charm your skepticism away before you leave here.

  Chapter Five

  Sleep didn’t come to Greg that night as quickly as it did Derek. The boy was out before Greg finished his second five-minute bedtime story. Greg left him snug under the covers and appliqued quilt. He walked into his adjoining room, checked e-mails, read a while, but still couldn’t get his mind to stop rehashing the day’s events.

  The handwriting on that recipe card was Gram’s beyond a doubt—the same cursive used in her journals. There could be no other logical explanation than that Tillie had found the recipes here in the house or had been given them by his grandmother. Tillie had inherited the house and most of its contents after all.

  He recognized enough of Gram’s furniture throughout the house to know it was from her estate. Where else would the recipe cards have been all these years if not inside some drawer, dresser, or cabinet?

  Why lie about it?

  Because ghosts are popular now, and she had rooms available awaiting unsuspecting travelers.

  He wouldn’t mind running into the ghost of Jesse James. The first question he’d ask was where in the hell was this hidden proof of his delayed departure from this world? Why hadn’t Gram been more forthcoming in her journals?

  Of course, he’d love to have a chance to talk with her, too, and apologize for what she must have perceived as a rejection during her final years without any contact from him? When he’d discovered the truth about when Gram died, he’d confronted his mother, but she seemed to have no remorse over her actions. How could she be so callous toward her own mother—not to mention what her actions had cost her son.

  Greg spent the next few hours poring over two key volumes of Gram’s “personal ramblings,” as Mother categorized them, trying to see if he could uncover any new clues. When Gram’s journals had arrived initially from the attorney, he’d been working for Nancy’s father’s firm—fresh out of architecture school and keeping extremely long hours in addition to carving out time to date his future bride. The journals had been tucked away and promptly forgotten.

  Until his accident. Gram poured out her heart and soul on
every page. She’d bucked the norm for women of her day and age. What on earth had his mother disliked so much about her? Maybe he’d come right out and ask her someday.

  Or not. Neither he nor his mother engaged in deep conversation about anything that mattered. And ever since he’d learned the truth about the devastating way his family had deserted Gram in her final years, the last thing he wanted to do was have a heart-to-heart with his mother. His anger toward her was still too raw three months later. Oh, he had demanded to know why she would do something so horrific, but she’d only said she’d changed since then.

  There would never be an excuse good enough to appease Greg.

  He set down the journal and closed his eyes. As he began to doze off, he thought he heard a rocking chair down the hall. Was it coming from Tillie’s room? Was she unable to sleep, too? Served her right, only she was probably staying up late to concoct some new ruse to make her ghost stories plausible.

  But how could he hear her all the way on the other side of the house without a connecting hallway upstairs? The walls in the center of the house were probably a foot thick.

  Tossing the quilt aside, he grabbed his phone for a flashlight and opted to go downstairs for a look-see. She’d told him to make himself at home. When would he have a better opportunity to explore without being watched than in the middle of the night?

  The parlor was a good place to start. He shined the LED light inside the fireplace, hoping to find some evidence of one of the secret passageways Gram had mentioned to him. Oddly, none were mentioned in her journals, though. Had she played to a boy’s imagination? Tillie’s, too, because she’d heard the stories as well.

  Next, he shined the light on the walnut mantle. Beautiful craftsmanship, but nothing…what’s that? Upon closer inspection, he saw scratching in the wood that looked like the initials J.H.

  John Howard was one of Jesse James’s aliases. Could it be that he left them here on one of his visits—whether in the 1860s and 1870s or the 1930s?

  “Oh, it’s you!”

  Greg looked up to find Tillie in a long robe and gown more sheer than he’d have expected the old-fashioned innkeeper to wear, more reminiscent of the glamorous days of Hollywood in the ’30s. Her loose hair was haloed by the foyer light.

  “I-I hope I didn’t wake you,” he stammered. How to explain what he was doing in here at midnight or whatever the hour? “Couldn’t sleep and thought I’d do a little…” Snooping? “Uh, exploring. This house fascinates me.”

  She smiled. “Go right ahead. I’m just glad you aren’t an intruder.” Her hand came out of the folds of her robe to reveal a revolver. Thankfully, she kept it pointed toward the floor.

  “I see you’re able to take care of yourself. I won’t have to worry about Derek coming upon that, will I?”

  She entered the room, set the revolver on the end table, and flipped the switch for the lamp. “Not at all. I usually keep it locked in my gun safe unless I’m alone and will return it there tonight.”

  “That puts my mind at ease.” He’d taught his son never to touch a gun and to seek out an adult if he found one, but why tempt fate?

  Pointing to the mantle, she said, “Those initials are from Mrs. Foster’s last beau.”

  Beau? She’d been involved with someone after his grandfather passed away? Well, she’d been widowed for several decades. Why shouldn’t she seek out companionship? And that was as far as Greg intended to take the relationship in his mind. This was his grandmother, after all.

  While he wasn’t ready to relinquish his original idea that the initials might have been etched by Jesse himself, he ought to hear her out. “What makes you say that?”

  “I have some letters written by Joseph Hill—who I believe carved the J.H. there.” She pointed at the mantle. “He was an important person to her later in life. On her deathbed, Mrs. Foster told me about him, describing as the last great love of her life. She didn’t meet Mr. Hill until decades after she’d been widowed. I think she said she was about seventy-two years old. For whatever reason, the two of them never married.”

  Greg remained riveted to her words. Gram had mentioned a traveling companion in her journals, but not by name—and she hadn’t indicated he was male.

  When Tillie came closer to where he stood, she reached out to touch the carved initials. “Instead, the two simply traveled together to cities far from local prying eyes—places like Cincinnati, Chicago, St. Louis, and once even to New York City. Mostly to meet and spend time together in cities that had a lot to offer—plays, ballets, operas, and always fine dining.” Tillie grinned impishly. “I have no idea if the relationship became physical. Mrs. Foster wouldn’t have told me anyway, because I was only a senior in high school, and the old woman thought me naive when it came to boys.”

  He’d guessed at Tillie’s naiveté with dating already. Someday, she’d make the lucky man who could win her heart very happy.

  “After her death and before renovations began for the inn, I scoured the house looking for treasures of hers I wouldn’t want lost or damaged. I discovered many of the letters she received from Mr. Hill, a number of them tucked between the pages of her books. The affection in the correspondence was quite formal and distant by today’s standards, but Mrs. Foster cried when she told me he’d died tragically in a bus accident while on vacation in Mexico. Thank God Mrs. Foster hadn’t been with him.”

  Greg’s focus returned to the initials. Perhaps Tillie was right. The initials might not be Jesse James’s alias at all, but most likely belonged to this Joseph Hill—a man who couldn’t claim his grandmother at the altar, but wanted to leave his mark on her home at least. The initials provided a legacy for the man and a daily reminder to Gram of his existence. He had to have carved the initials decades after Jesse James had died—either time.

  “That’s an amazing story.” The woman had a knack for storytelling in general. This one he believed, not only because of her tone of voice and sincere facial expressions but because he’d read about Hill in Gram’s journals. The thought of the old girl seeking another companion, if not lover, late in life made him smile.

  Tillie broke into his reverie. “Since you’re up and I need to put this revolver back in the safe, why don’t I show you the two remaining rooms on this floor?”

  Greg wouldn’t pass up this opportunity. “Sounds great. Lead the way.”

  He closed the LED app while she retrieved the revolver. “Follow me. Let me put this away first,” she said as she crossed the first room he’d cut through to the dining room a few times. She turned on lamps as she made her way to what he remembered to be his grandfather’s office. “Why don’t you join me in here first?”

  These two rooms combined were smaller than the parlor. The office was only seven or eight feet deep from the doorway to the birthing room and the exterior wall of the house, but its length was the same as the parlor on the opposite side of the house.

  “Mrs. Foster’s husband was a popular country doctor, and this was his office where he saw patients. Of course, he also made house calls. She said his patients paid him with all manner of barter from bacon and steaks to eggs and produce.”

  “Hard to imagine a doctor working like that today.”

  “More like impossible. Interestingly, Jesse James’s relative who lived here in the 1860s also was a physician.” She pointed to a walnut cabinet with glass-front doors. “This is my liquor cabinet. It’s unlocked, so anytime you’d like to have a drink, help yourself.”

  He doubted many innkeepers offered guests an open bar. The cabinet boasted every type of alcohol he would imagine anyone would want, with an abundance of various types of bourbon. “Thanks. I’m not much of a liquor drinker, especially when I’m responsible for Derek, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

  In the corner, near the driveway side of the house, he saw a gas fireplace. In front of it sat a wing chair with a crocheted afghan and throw pillow, flanked by a small table.

  “My guests love that spot for reading on a c
old or dreary day.”

  “How about you?”

  She cocked her head. “Me?”

  “Do you ever slow down long enough to curl up with a good book or a glass of brandy in front of the fire?”

  Wistfulness flashed across her face. “On occasion.”

  “Lately?”

  She shook her head. “I stay busy from spring planting to fall harvesting and then holidays will be here. I’ll curl up in front of the fire in January,” she said with a smile.

  Unbidden, a fantasy popped into his head of the two of them cuddled up in front of the fire at his house, sipping hot toddies, their legs and feet intertwined.

  Where the hell had that come from?

  Drawing himself back to the conversation, he asked, “All work and no play?”

  A spark of fire lit her eyes. “What do you do in your spare time?”

  “I stay busy running my architecture firm.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Of course when Nancy doesn’t have Derek, I spend time with him.”

  “Nancy’s your…wife?” She hesitated, and he realized she had no clue what his status was.

  “Was. We’re divorced, but share custody.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She sounded as though she meant it.

  “I usually have Derek every other weekend. This trip happens to be the longest we’ve been together since she left me two years ago.”

  “It must be hard for Derek to be apart from one or the other of you at any given point.”

  He shrugged. “We broke up so early in his life, all he remembers is us being in separate homes. But there are times when he clings to me when I take him home, which makes me wish we’d been able to work it out.” For some reason, he opened up more than he would to someone he barely knew. “I made some poor choices, spending long hours at the office and not giving my marriage and family the attention I should have. Oh, I saw to their financial needs, not unlike my own father, but that’s no excuse.”