Everything sounded legit so far.
Maureen tapped Lawrence R. Jackson’s number into her phone.
Chapter 2
“Jackson, Nathan, and Peters. How may I direct your call?”
“This is Maureen Doherty. May I speak with Lawrence Jackson please? He’s expecting my call.”
“Please hold.”
“Larry Jackson speaking.” The voice was pleasant, businesslike, with a slight southern inflection.
“Good afternoon. This is Maureen Doherty. I have a letter from your office regarding an estate?”
Short pause. A sound of paper shuffling. “Oh yes, Ms. Doherty. The Penelope Josephine Gray estate. Good to hear from you. Will you be coming to Florida soon to claim your property?”
“I don’t know. This is all quite a surprise to me,” she said, looking at Finn and rolling her eyes. What kind of goof would drop everything and take off for Florida based on a one-page letter from a total stranger? She kept her tone level, courteous. “Can you give me some information about my, um, my property? What sort of property is it? And who is—was—Penelope Josephine Gray? The name isn’t familiar to me at all.”
“Oh, really? We were not aware of that. I’d assumed you were a relative. Ms. Gray was the proprietor of the Haven House Inn until her recent passing. It’s a—um—historic property. Built back in the early nineteen-hundreds, I believe.” His voice had turned jovial. “It appears that it’s all yours now, Ms. Doherty. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Maureen frowned. “You called this place, this inn, a historic property. Is it actually an operating inn?”
“Oh yes indeed. It’s been operating for over a hundred years. Haven used to be a very popular west coast Florida beach resort town, but”—there was an audible sigh—“then the theme parks came and the big highways passed us by. Things change.” His voice brightened. “But there are still folks who come to stay at Haven House every year, and it’s a full-time residence for some others. There’s even a small restaurant in the building.”
That was encouraging. If she owned an inn, even a century-old one, where people actually lived and other people were regular visitors, it meant she’d have a place to stay—rent-free—at least for the time being. She made a quick decision—without even tossing the coin. “All right then, Mr. Jackson. If you can give me directions, my dog and I will be on our way within a day or so. I presume pets are welcome?”
“Yes indeed. The late Ms. Gray had several cats,” he said. “The inn has a website. Just google the Haven House Inn. You can get an idea of what it looks like and there are directions on the site. I’ll call the inn and tell them to expect you soon.”
“Okay. Anything else I need to know?”
“I don’t think so. Oh yes.” Jovial voice again. “Did I mention that it’s rumored to be haunted?”
Maureen laughed. “I guess most of the old hotels in the country make that claim. I know they do around New England. Seems to be good for business. Don’t worry about it. I don’t believe in ghosts. Do you?”
“Me? Ghosts? Of course not. Well then, Ms. Doherty, when you get settled, call me and we’ll deal with the necessary paperwork.”
Maureen agreed, said goodbye, and raced for her laptop. Sure enough, there was the inn—her inn—and it didn’t look too bad. There was a picture of the front of the place—lots of windows and more than a few rocking chairs on a wide porch that seemed to wrap around the building—some shots of bedrooms, some with four-poster beds and some with lots of white wicker, one with a fireplace, and a photo showing the entrance to the restaurant with the name ELIZABETH’S over the door.
“Who’s Elizabeth?” she wondered aloud. Finn had no answer but nuzzled her knee. “Hey, we don’t even know who Penelope Josephine Gray is, do we?” She squinted at the screen. If she’d actually been to Haven when she was a kid, she didn’t remember ever seeing Haven House. She remembered that fish, though. It had been her first one and she’d been so excited. Smiling at the memory, she scratched behind Finn’s ears as she checked the maps on the inn’s website. As Larry Jackson had said, there were several sets of directions, including one that looked like an almost-straight shot from Boston over to I-95 and on down to Florida’s Gulf Coast.
“Let’s start packing, Finn,” she said. “We’re going to Florida.”
There was a little more to it than just packing, but within a few days Maureen had told Mrs. Hennessey the good news about her inheritance, which provided a perfect reason for moving. She’d picked up a map from Triple-A just in case her GPS didn’t work, and packed the Subaru’s rear compartment and back seat with several suitcases full of clothes—she was, after all, in the fashion business—her computer, laptop, and printer, along with the few things that seemed worth transporting all the way to Florida, including the contents of the box she’d brought home from Bartlett’s, a couple of lamps, and quite a few books. One of the stock boys from the store was happy to load all the rest of her furniture into his truck for his own first apartment. Some of her fall and all of her winter clothes were distributed among a group of girlfriends who’d gathered for a wine-and-pizza goodbye party. Each of them promised faithfully to come to Florida real soon and to stay at the Haven House Inn.
It was three-thirty on Wednesday morning when Maureen shared a final cup of coffee and a tearful goodbye with Mrs. Hennessey. She strapped Finn into the passenger seat, stopped at Kane’s (they opened early for fishermen) for three cinnamon-sugar doughnuts and another coffee, filled the gas tank at the Shell station, and they were on their way. The rain had stopped, but the skies were mouse colored and overcast. Finn looked back and forth from the doughnut box on the console to Maureen’s face.
“What?” she said. “We have a long drive ahead of us. I’ll need the sugar. For energy. You wouldn’t want me to fall asleep at the wheel, would you?” She could have sworn he rolled those big brown eyes. Mindful of maintaining her size 10 figure—she’d packed a couple of really cute bathing suits—she promised herself that whenever, wherever, they stopped for lunch she’d have a salad. She sipped her coffee, helped herself to a doughnut, and headed for the Southeast Expressway and Route I-95.
Maureen, with the aid of Garman, Triple-A, and a toss of her new lucky coin, had selected the famous South of the Border motel—just south of the North Carolina border—as her halfway point. It was pet friendly and she’d wanted to stop there ever since that eighth-grade trip to Walt Disney World had taken them past the place. Nancy and Frank Doherty had jointly vetoed the idea. “Tacky,” Nancy had declared.
At seven o’clock in the evening, after sufficient highway rest station breaks for Finn and herself, the promised salad for lunch, and two more doughnuts for energy, Maureen saw the huge sombrero marking the entrance to the place. She drove slowly past the Ferris wheel, the merry-go-round, the giant pink flamingoes. The old childhood thrill came back. It was everything she’d imagined it might be—wonderfully, deliciously tacky. Check-in was quick and efficient. She bought a couple of postcards to send to her parents and Mrs. Hennessey. She fed Finn, put his food and water bowls on the bathroom floor, turned on the television, and told him she’d be back soon.
She’d spied a colorful roomful of old-time pinball machines just off the lobby. That’d be her first stop. We’ll have to get back on the road early, she told herself, but I’m going to take the time and a few dollars to experience at least a taste of one of my childhood fantasies. Maybe I’ll even stop at Pedro’s for a hot dog.
It was an eighth-grade dream come true. From the arched doorway she spotted the flashing lights and heard the intriguing sounds from a colorful Ship Ahoy machine with great graphics of pirates and ships. The Addams family beckoned enticingly from another. Bones, Spock, and McCoy invited her to visit Star Trek once again.
Smiling, she entered the room, immediately drawn to the flashing lights of a true-to-the-original Zoltar fortune-telling machine. It looked exactly like the one she remembered from the old Penny Marshall
movie Big. She pushed a dollar bill into the slot. “Okay, Zoltar,” she whispered. “What do you see in my future? I really would like to know.”
After a satisfying moment of blinking, pinging, and chiming, a card inched out from an oblong golden portal. A drawing of a quarter moon and a star were at the top of the pale blue oblong. The text, centered on the card in dark red, followed:
With a message from the dead
On a journey you’ve been led.
Another message from a stranger
Holds an answer, comes with danger.
A riddle, a puzzle in plain sight.
An answer, a vision in black and white.
You’ll know the where but not the why.
Beware the place one comes to die.
ZOLTAR KNOWS ALL
Maureen stared at the thing for a long moment, not moving away from the costumed wizard locked inside his glass booth, turbaned head nodding, plastic eyes watching, pale hands ceaselessly moving over the crystal ball. “Nonsense,” she muttered. “Stupid gibberish.” Shoving the blue card into her pocket, she hurried from the room, pirates, space explorers, Morticia, and the anticipated hot dog forgotten. Alone in the elevator, she reread the card. Was it nonsense? Silly amusement park trivia?
With a message from the dead on a journey you’ve been led. That part, she admitted to herself, was true.
What about the rest of it?
Finn greeted her with tail wags and kisses. She sat on the floor beside him, her arms around his neck, her face against soft fur. “I don’t know what I’ve gotten us into, Finn,” she said. “But it’s much too late to turn back now.”
Chapter 3
On Thursday morning, by the time the sun rose over the giant sombrero, the Subaru was gassed up, Finn fed, Maureen coffee fueled, and they were on the road again. “I’d like to get to Haven while it’s still daylight,” she told the dog, “so we can get a good look at our new home.”
You’ll know the where but not the why.
She opened the car windows, admitting a pleasant, Carolina-woodsy smell. Finn happily stuck his head outside. “I’ll call that lawyer first thing tomorrow morning,” she promised him. “We’ll find out why this Penelope Josephine Gray person wanted to give me her inn.” She knew Finn wasn’t listening—his eyes closed, silky ears flattened by the early-autumn breeze. She wanted that why for herself.
They made good time, pausing briefly at a South Carolina rest stop for Maureen to walk the dog, to refill her new South of the Border coffee mug, and to buy a couple of glazed doughnuts for energy. Scenery seemed to fly by. They stopped for lunch just outside Savanah—salad again—where Maureen wished they had time to explore that historic city. Maybe someday,” she thought. Not today. Florida, here we come.
The sun was low in the sky when they crossed the Howard Frankland Bridge from Tampa to St. Petersburg. “We’re almost home, Finn,” she told the dog, who dozed on the seat beside her. “Just a few more miles and we’ll be there.”
Following Garman’s well-enunciated instructions, Maureen passed a WELCOME TO HAVEN banner. “This is it, Finn. Wake up.” She nudged the golden, made a left turn onto Beach Boulevard, heading toward a sunset streaking the sky with improbable shades of turquoise, gold, pink, and magenta. Finn woofed, and stuck his head out the window, sniffing soft, tropical air.
She recognized the inn immediately from the pictures she’d seen on the website. It was bigger than she’d thought it might be. She pulled into a fenced area marked HAVEN HOUSE GUEST PARKING. Remembering her promise to call her parents as soon as she arrived, she tapped their number into her phone. No answer. She glanced at the clock on the Subaru’s dash. With the time difference it was early afternoon in California. They were probably out to lunch. She left a message and promised to call later.
Finn was anxious to get out of the car. She grabbed his leash, her handbag, her overnight case, and a bag containing Finn’s food and bowls. She’d deal with the rest of the contents of the Subaru later. “Okay, boy,” she said, “This’ll be your first walk in our new neighborhood. Look. There’s the beach at the end of our street.” Finn gave a happy “yip,” and straining at the leash, he pulled Maureen—not toward the beach, but across a brick sidewalk bordered by a narrow patch of wild flowers, mostly daisies—and started up the front steps of the building. A Halloween pumpkin grinned from the top step. This was a real pumpkin, with a lopsided grin, with a candle inside—not a lighted plastic one like the one at Kane’s Donuts. She smiled at the remembered smell of singed orange pumpkin flesh
Several of the rocking chairs she’d noticed in the photos were at the top of the stairs. The elderly occupants—two men and two women—regarded Maureen with undisguised interest. “You checkin’ in?” asked a woman, a halo of white hair surrounding a deeply tanned and wrinkled face.
“Yes,” Maureen said.
One of the men leaned forward, causing his chair to stop rocking. He was short, well muscled, with a shock of gray hair. The other man had closed his eyes. “I saw your out-of-state plates. Massachusetts, huh? You another one of those ghost hunters?”
She remembered the lawyer’s good-humored remark about haunting, and her own observation that old hotels usually promoted the myth. “No. Is there really supposed to be a ghost here?’
Three of them laughed in unison. The fourth one now appeared to be dozing. The white-haired woman wiped tears from her eyes. “Oh boy, dearie, are you in for some surprises.”
“You sure you want to stay here?” asked a tiny woman with dyed black hair and a great deal of makeup. “Ms. Gray—she used to own the place. Dead now. Anyway, she tried to keep quiet about some things. Nobody’s business. But—you know—word gets around.”
“Sure does,” Maureen agreed, wondering exactly what was nobody’s business. Bedbugs? Roof leaks? Bad food? Finn had greeted all four of the rocking-chair welcoming committee with individual hand licks and now pulled Maureen toward a door. “Nice to meet you all,” she said. “I’m Maureen and he’s Finn. Is there a manager inside?”
“Yep,” said the white-haloed one. “Elizabeth. She’s probably at the front desk.”
So that answers that, Maureen thought. Elizabeth has a restaurant named for her.
The sleeping man’s eyes flew open. He appeared to be older than the others. “You aren’t one of them ghost hunters, are you? We already got one of them staying here. Asking damn questions every minute. Runnin’ around here day and night with that stupid camera.” He dropped his voice. “Pain in the butt. Don’t need no more of ’em. Pests.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the far end of the long porch where a lone man sat in a rocker, his back toward the others. “Calls himself a ‘psychic detective.’ He’s over there.”
“I’m definitely not a ghost hunter,” she assured them with a laugh. “We’re here on—uh—personal business.” She pushed a massive green door open, noting a bronze plaque beside it designating the place as a “historic landmark,” and stepped into air-conditioned coolness. Nice. She glanced around the lobby. Homey, in a southern way. White wicker chairs, bamboo tables, bright floral fabrics, hanging plants. Nice—but empty. There was no one at the reception desk, but there was an old-fashioned brass push bell. She gave it a tentative tap, then another. No response. She put her overnight case and Finn’s bag on the floor and looked around the room. The neon restaurant sign she’d seen on the website was at the left side of the lobby. ELIZABETH’S. Piano music—a bouncy tune—issued from behind louvred plantation doors. Finn headed straight for it, pulling Maureen along. “Woof,” he said.
“Good idea, Finn. Maybe we’ll find Elizabeth in Elizabeth’s restaurant.” She pushed the louvred doors apart and stepped inside. Something smelled very good. This room had a more formal vibe than the lobby—but in a good way. There was a fireplace, and fern-patterned draperies framed tall windows. The sun had set, but the shapes of rocking chairs on the porch could still be distinguished in the pinkish afterglow. Round tables were situated aroun
d the room, each one topped with a snowy white tablecloth and surrounded with an assortment of straight-backed dining room chairs. The music came from a piano situated near the fireplace. The tune Maureen recognized as one that had been in the old Muzak rotation at Bartlett’s. “Tangerine.” There was no one seated on the piano bench. An old-time player piano, she thought. How cool.
There was a scattering of guests at tables around the room. A tall man wearing traditional waiter’s garb—black trousers, white shirt, and red vest—balanced a large tray full of plated food over one shoulder. Another man, similarly dressed, stood behind a wonderful old-style, heavily carved wooden bar where one lone customer sat on a red-cushioned stool. There were the usual restaurant sounds of muted conversation, the clink of glassware and silverware. A little on the outdated side, she decided, observing the mismatched chairs and threadbare carpet underfoot. But not bad. Kind of shabby chic. Looks like they blew the budget on the lobby.
“Hello. Will you be joining us for dinner?” The woman in a pencil-slim black skirt, crisp white tailored shirt, approached from behind a decorative screen. She didn’t wear a vest but carried out the color scheme with a bright red cobbler’s apron with the traditional bib top and deep front pocket. Raising penciled eyebrows, she gave Maureen a fast up-and-down look, then glared pointedly in Finn’s direction. “Pets aren’t allowed in the dining room.” Her name tag said “Elizabeth.”
“How do you do.” Maureen smiled and offered her hand. “I’m Maureen Doherty. I think you were expecting me. There was no one at the front desk, so we just came on in.”
“Oh, Ms. Doherty. I’m so sorry.” The woman had a firm handshake. “Elizabeth Mack. If I’d known you’d be arriving today I’d certainly have been at the desk to greet you. I wish you’d called ahead.”
Acknowledging the somewhat passive-aggressive welcome, Maureen smiled, nodded, tugged on Finn’s leash, and turned to head back to the lobby. A sudden smattering of applause and a few shouts of “Congratulations!” and “Hooray!” made her look back. The glittering flash of a Fourth-of-July sparkler came from the direction of the bar.
Be My Ghost Page 2