"Right, no lesson learned, except that hard tack and stale cider are not great fare for a long voyage."
Edward coasted to the window to stare out at the landscape that he would never again experience. "Mary loved all things Egypt. She had books on the subject." His voice sounded distant, letting me know he had drifted into a long ago memory.
"Mary?" I asked. "Oh, right, the woman who lived here in the mid eighteen hundreds." As far as Edward had admitted, the only other Cider Ridge owner he'd connected with was Mary Richards, a woman who lived in the house in the 1850s. "So, she was a well-read woman?" I asked. "That wasn't always the case back in those days."
"She could hold a decent conversation." He continued staring out the window.
I felt a twinge of jealousy as it seemed he was thinking of Mary and his expression showed admiration. Some time ago, I'd purchased old photos from an antique dealer in Port Danby. I'd come across the photos during some research. In one shot, Mary Richards had been standing on the front stoop of the Cider Ridge Inn and behind her, in almost shocking clarity, was a tall, dashing figure. Lola Button, the antique shop owner, had found the photos and was confused and slightly stunned by the second image. Fortunately, Lola, like most people, easily passed it off as some double exposure problem or malfunction of the camera. I knew the instant I saw the photo that the figure behind Mary Richards was the lingering spirit of Edward Beckett. It was still impossible to explain why his image had appeared on the photo, but it was there, not clear as day, of course, but unmistakable nonetheless.
"I suppose you two had more in common since you both lived in the same century." I wasn't sure why I said it except that I was feeling a touch envious that he seemed to miss his conversations with Mary.
"It's true, she didn't speak nearly as much nonsense as you," he quipped. "And she didn't spend her day staring at metal boxes."
I was feeling far more hurt than I should have considering that the comments were coming from a ghost. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to fill that void left behind by Mary Richards."
He turned around, quickly enough that his image stretched and it took a second for his nose to catch up with his face. The strange visual was a reminder that Edward Beckett was not standing in my kitchen, only his spirit and soul, a rather unforgettable soul. Still, once his image solidified, so to speak, and he stood in front of me, his waistcoat and eyes a crisp blue, his tall boots, shiny and black, his long dark hair tied neatly back with a blue ribbon and that unmistakable cocksure grin, it was hard not to believe that the real Edward Beckett was grinning down at me.
"What void would that be? My entire existence is one massive void. People pass through here to occasionally make my fate more palatable with decent conversation. For now, you are fulfilling that position, but eventually, you'll leave me too. You'll leave and I'll remain." There was profound sadness in his tone, but everything he said was true.
"Well, I'm glad I make your existence more palatable," I said dryly, "but I'm afraid you'll be stuck with me for awhile. I have no plans of leaving anytime soon. My entire life savings has gone into this house, so it seems you're both stuck with me."
He nodded. "And, for that I am grateful," he said in a rare moment of humility. "If only you wouldn't be opening the front door to every traveling imbecile and vagrant in need of a bed."
I laughed and was admittedly relieved that the more weighty conversation had ended. "My guests will be perfectly respectable travelers interested in a cozy night and a few delicious meals in a large historical home. You should be flattered. People of this century marvel at the architecture and craftsmanship of centuries past. New homes and buildings rarely have the character or marvelous details of a home like Cider Ridge."
"Why should I be flattered? I didn't build this home. In fact, there are dozens of things I would have done differently if I had designed it."
The front door opened and closed, which meant either a sister or a boyfriend or less enjoyable, a thief or killer had entered. Whoever it was, I needed to shut down the conversation. I was going to have to practice stopping on the proverbial dime when it came to chats with Edward, especially after the Sunday night dinner fiasco.
Seconds later, the mystery was solved. No killer or thief, just my big sister. She held up a red and white striped bag. "Here, take these leftovers from the wedding reception. They had a candy table and these pieces were left behind. I'm eating myself into a sugar coma."
"So you want your sister to fall into a coma instead?" I asked as I pulled out a cherry lollipop. I unwrapped it and pushed it into my mouth. "Hmm, you're right. You have no self-control. Better leave this bag of candy with me." I walked it into the pantry and put it on the top shelf as if that might hinder me from taking candy from the bag.
Lana poured herself a cup of cold coffee, then added crushed ice to the cup. Edward watched with confusion and shook his head before vanishing.
"This old place has Dave in quite the lather." Lana pulled out a chair. "He's convinced that the Cider Ridge Inn is haunted. He keeps asking me to confess to seeing and hearing unusual things in this house."
My hackles were up, yet again. It seemed Dave was not going to let go of the orange incident. I just wondered how far he'd push his new obsession. I pressed on a smile, but I was feeling anything but jovial. "What did you tell him?" I asked.
"Of course, I told him that I'd only seen the occasional ghost walking through a wall." She laughed. "He got mad at me for teasing him about something—and this is a direct Crockett quote—about something so serious and groundbreaking. Seriously, what went on with those oranges? The way he describes it that fruit took off around the kitchen and circled the ceiling a few times before falling to the ground. I'm a little worried. I think he drinks far too much coffee, then he stays up late watching movies and talk shows. It's a bad combination."
"I'd have to agree with you on that. As you see, all of my produce is behaving as expected today." I pointed to my fruit bowl. Two of the infamous oranges sat nestled amongst the apples. I could only assume Henry had eaten the third one. "All kidding aside, Lana, please talk him out of this nonsense. I don't want rumors buzzing around that the inn is haunted. That will scare away too many guests."
Lana shrugged. "It will also attract a good many of them. I don't know if it's such a terrible idea to get a little, you know, paranormal publicity."
I sighed loudly to let her know I disagreed with her theory.
She put up a hand to stop me from filling in the sigh with the details of my dissent. "Never mind. I know, you've made it clear you don't want anything to do with rumors of a haunted inn. I still think you're missing a marketing opportunity, but I won't say another word about it. I'll talk to Dave and tell him to set his ghost hunting sights elsewhere."
My shoulders relaxed for the first time since we'd started the conversation. I was confident Lana could turn Dave's nose in a different direction, or, at the very least, away from the Cider Ridge Inn. "Thanks, Lana, I'd be eternally grateful."
She raised a brow. "Oh really? I will remember that next month when I have to cover a thousand paper stars with silver glitter."
I slumped down. "No, not glitter, anything but glitter. I'll have it in my hair and teeth and nose for the next month."
"Eternally grateful implies someone who is willing to risk anything, even having glitter show up in the most unlikely of places, just to show their appreciation."
I shook my head. "Guess I need to choose my words more carefully. Fine, silver glitter it is, but first, you need to do your part and stop Dave from chasing ghosts . . . and flying oranges."
Chapter 7
Prudence had texted that she wanted a quick meeting before we set off on our various pursuits. The news office was on my way to the museum where I had lined up several more interviews with museum officials, so it was not a problem, especially if it meant a pastry or donut was waiting for me. I parked the jeep and climbed out. Dave was just walking into the newsroom, his laptop bag
on his shoulder and an extra large cup of coffee clutched in his hand. He held the door for me, and I swept inside anxious to be assaulted with the aroma of fresh baked goods. I was disappointed when the pungent fragrance of Parker's throat lozenges was the only thing I smelled.
Prudence looked a little more disheveled than usual. Her blouse was not pressed to the usual crispness, and a few hairs hung out of place from her bun. "I'm sorry there are no treats," she said, confirming the dreadful conclusion I'd already reached. "My car wouldn't start this morning, and it's just been downhill ever since."
"Sorry to hear that, Prue," Dave said in a tone that was far too cheery for the sentiment. He seemed quite happy about something. Perhaps the coffee barista had tossed in an extra shot of espresso.
"Well, we all have those days," Prue said as she struggled to gain control of the two rogue strands of hair. I liked this side of my new boss. It made her far more relatable. (Although, I would have preferred a cheese Danish.)
"I just wanted to check in on how this week's edition is coming." She glanced down at her checklist. "Myrna, I've given you a list of businesses that might want to buy ads this week. Please give them a call, and pass them along to me if they decline. I've found that I have quite the talent for selling ad space to reluctant buyers."
Myrna secretly rolled her eyes my direction. Prudence was not exactly the salesperson she considered herself to be. Myrna usually had to call people and smooth things over after Prudence came on too strong. She had scared off more than one of our regular advertisers with her brusque pushiness.
"Sunni," Prudence's all-business tone snapped me out of my thoughts, "what about your story. How is it going?"
"Splendidly. I've been invited to the museum this evening for the unveiling of the Lotus Chalice," I announced excitedly. Myrna clapped to cheer on the good news.
Prue's nostrils did the flare thing that always signaled she was upset. I briefly repeated everything I'd just said in my head and couldn't find the trouble spot.
"That certainly seems like an event I should have been invited to. I wonder how I was overlooked. I've given more than my fair share to the museum trust. Perhaps, it was just an oversight." She was talking mostly to herself, letting herself know that she was not purposely left off the guest list.
I tensed in my chair, waiting for her to ask for my invitation. I released a breath when she shrugged. "I couldn't have made it anyhow. I have a card game tonight with some of the neighbors. I never like to miss it. I usually win." Prudence was especially humble this morning. "Now, Dave, how is your story?" She glanced at her clipboard. "That's right. You haven't told me what you're working on." She held the clipboard against her ample chest and favored her lead reporter with her most gracious smile as she waited for him to fill her in on the details.
Dave rubbed his chin and fiddled with a few things on his desk. "Actually, Prue, I'm in the thick of it, and I would really like to keep it a secret. That way I can wow you when it's finished."
Parker cleared his throat and spoke up for the first time this meeting, any meeting for that matter. "That's not how we do things," Parker said. "I need to know where to fit the story in the layout, and if I don't know what it's about, then I can't make a good choice."
Dave beamed as he turned to Parker. "Trust me, this will be a front page story."
"How exciting," Prudence cooed. "I can't wait to read it. Well then, I suppose that's it for the meeting. I need to get into my office and try and recover from a hectic morning. Let's get to work!" With that, she click-clacked away on her stout heels.
I glanced over at Dave. He was avoiding eye contact. Just what was the man up to?
Chapter 8
The museum parking lot was filled with long yellow school buses. Throngs of grade school children wiggled and fidgeted on the front steps as they waited for their teachers to take them inside. Fond memories of school field trips, including a fantastic whale watching trip that, unfortunately, ended with half my class, teacher included, getting seasick, popped up from the nostalgic side of my brain. Naturally, the only thing any of us kids were ever interested in seeing at the museum was the ancient mummy. I still remembered the toothless mouth, and his small hands wrapped tightly against his body.
I was able to skirt past the lines of school children and through the entrance for regular day pass visitors. Several museum employees were dashing around getting everything ready for the field trips.
A young woman sitting behind the tall reception counter looked up. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, you can." I held up my press pass. "I'm Sunni Taylor with the Junction Times, and I'm here to see John Hartman. He's expecting me."
The receptionist smiled and picked up the phone. "A reporter, Sunni Taylor, from the Junction Times is here to see you." She nodded and hung up.
"He'll meet you on the antiquities floor. That's the ground floor, so you'll go down on the elevator."
"Thanks for your help." Little voices outside the museum were getting louder as the kids grew anxious to start their educational tour. I stepped into the elevator. The buzz and chirps of young excited conversations were replaced with dull, prim elevator music.
The doors opened to the ground floor. On the opposite wall, a sign with an Egyptian figure pointed me in the direction of the Ancient Egypt hall. Several glass display cases lined the long, tiled hallway to the main hall. I stopped to admire a small figure carved out of bright blue stone.
"That's Shabti, a funerary figure." The man reached me. He was forty something with brown hair brushed tightly to one side and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His name tag read John Hartman, Curator of Antiquities. "They were carved dolls made to accompany the deceased to the afterlife. A sort of personal assistant, as it were," he added wryly. "This one is my favorite. He looks almost as if he's grinning."
"Yes, it's beautiful, and there is definitely a smirk," I agreed. I put out my hand. "I'm Sunni Taylor. I really appreciate you taking time out of your day. I'm sure today is busier than most."
"Yes, we're all looking forward to the unveiling." He motioned for me to walk with him. "The display case is here in the main room." We walked past all the wondrous artifacts to an empty glass box sitting on a black marble pedestal. John tapped on the case. "It's formulated to withstand great amounts of pressure. It's basically unbreakable. We use this case for the most valuable objects. Since the chalice is on loan from Cairo, we are working extra hard to keep it safe. He pointed out all the cameras in the room, including one hanging directly over the display case.
"I suppose you have to take extra care with something so irreplaceable, and like you said, Cairo trusted you with their priceless artifact. You need to make sure it's returned safely."
"Exactly," John said. "Let me show you the antiquities lab. That's where we're keeping the chalice. After the museum closes for the night, I am tasked with taking the chalice from the safe and carrying it to the display case." He sounded proud to have the responsibility placed on him. I, for one, would have had nightmares of dropping the artifact and having it splinter into a million ancient pieces right in front of my eyes.
We continued down a long hall and turned left. The rich, elegant marble of the main hallway morphed into plain, scuffed white tile and plaster walls, like the kind you might see in a school or industrial building. "This area is off limits to visitors," John said. "This is where we do all our research and cataloguing."
John pulled a key card out of his coat pocket. He waved it in front of the digital box on the door marked Antiquities Lab. The door beeped and opened. "Only a few people have access to this room. There are too many ancient artifacts that could be stolen or ruined if mishandled."
As he spoke, we walked around a large set of shelves, all stocked with boxes and plastic tubs. Each container was labeled with a series of numbers and a line of description. "These are mostly items that came to us for carbon dating and cataloguing. The finer, more intriguing pieces make it out to the display floor. The re
st are for research and teaching at the university. I assume you've already spoken to Dr. Fisher. He'll be doing the honors tonight."
"Yes, he gave me an invitation. Looking forward to it."
A young woman, thirty-something, in a lab coat that was far too big for her slender frame was walking out of a storage room with several books. Her black hair was straight to her shoulders, and with her ivory complexion and green eyes, she could have been Cleopatra herself, at least a Hollywood version of the Egyptian queen.
"Miss Taylor, let me introduce you to our lab technician, Sarah Essex. Sarah is busy trying to verify the origin of some pottery."
Even in an oversized lab coat, Sarah floated along with perfect posture. Once again, I was reminded of Cleopatra. And, it seemed, John Hartman might just have been her Mark Antony. The two exchanged more than just a friendly smile. There was something flirtatious about their greeting.
"Glad to meet you, Miss Taylor," Sarah said. "If you have any questions about what we do here in the lab just ask."
John laughed. "What we do in here?" He chuckled again. "What don't we do. I was about to give her a short tour," he added. "There are some recent pieces from a dig in the Sahara laid out on that square table. Why don't you give them a look while I fill Sarah in on a few details for tonight. But please don't touch anything."
I nodded succinctly. "Yep, I still remember that number one rule from my childhood field trips to the museum."
Sarah laughed. "I guess we all have that rule etched into our childhood memories. I heard we have four busloads of fifth graders today. I hope the tour guides ate a good breakfast. It's going to be a long day."
"There was quite a flurry of activity upstairs. I'll check out those new pieces." I nodded at John. "Please, take your time."
I walked over to a large table that had fragments of pottery and sculpture scattered across it. I glanced past the shelves to the place where Sarah and John had wandered off for their chat. John's hand was on the small of Sarah's back as she smiled up at him with starry eyes. My hunch had been right. They were a couple or, at the very least, working toward that status.
Death at the Museum Page 4