by Laura Durham
“You’re crazy,” I said.
Fern turned away from the mirror and made a face at Richard. “You’re just upset that you didn’t think of it first.”
“Think of what?” I asked.
Kate sat up. “We’re going hunting for ghosts.”
Chapter 3
“You must be out of your mind,” Richard said as the hostess led us back to the hotel’s restaurant kitchen.
The ghost-hunting debate had been going strong since we’d left my room to come down for dinner. Kate and Fern were firmly in the yes camp and Richard and I fell into the ‘are you crazy?’ camp.
“What’s wrong with photographing a few spirits?” Fern asked.
“We don’t want to catch them.” Kate took small, quick steps behind me in her stilettos. Even though she’d changed into a black dinner dress, she’d kept on her absurdly high heels. “We aren’t Ghostbusters.”
Fern wrinkled his nose. “Never. Those jumpsuits would look dreadful on me.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” I exchanged a look with Richard as I adjusted the scoop neckline of my cranberry-colored sweater dress to make sure I wasn’t showing cleavage.
Richard stopped at the door to the kitchen. “How do you photograph a ghost? All you have is an iPhone camera.”
“Orbs,” Fern said. “It’s all about orbs.”
Richard rolled his eyes. “Well, now you’re just making up words.”
The petite hostess waved us into an expansive kitchen gleaming with stainless steel. Huge chrome vents extended from the tall ceiling interspersed with white hanging pendant lights. Walls were lined with metal tables, while all manner of spoons and ladles dangled from racks overhead. The sounds of meat sizzling and pots clanging filled the air, as did the sharp scent of searing fish and the yeasty aroma of baking bread. In the middle of the industrial kitchen sat a U-shaped marble table with high-backed, brown leather barstools surrounding it on one side. On the inside of the U was a prep area where a pair of cooks in white chef’s jackets and black aprons stood chopping vegetables next to the resort’s catering director, Stuart, who wore a black apron over his blue dress shirt and madras bow tie.
“Welcome to the chef’s table.” Stuart spread his arms wide then gestured for us to pick a bar stool. “Have a seat.”
I glanced behind me as Buster and Mack slipped into the kitchen behind us. They’d changed from their usual all-black-leather ensembles into more tailored black leather pants and plaid shirts. With their multiple piercings and the black motorcycle goggles that Buster always wore on the top of his bald head, the burly men gave off a ‘lumberjack from the wrong side of the tracks’ vibe.
“I can almost taste the warm rolls already.” I sat down at one of the corner stools as my stomach growled in anticipation of the meal to come.
“No rolls for me tonight.” Fern patted his flat stomach. “I have to be able to fit in my clothes tomorrow.”
I ignored Fern’s statement since he was the thinnest one of all of us with a waist a preteen girl would covet.
Kate took a stool next to me. “I’m thinking of going off gluten.”
Richard sat on the other side of me. “If you become one of those people who is vegetarian, gluten-free, dairy-free, avoids night-shade vegetables, and never touches processed sugar, I will kill you.”
As a caterer, Richard was on the front lines of every new food sensitivity, preference, trend, diet, and fad. Although he was very sympathetic to people with genuine allergies, his patience for those riding the latest eating trend for sport wore thin.
Kate’s eyes widened. “I could never give up sugar.”
“And you know booze has gluten, right?” I said.
“Really? Then forget about that.” Kate crossed her legs and her dress rode up to mid-thigh.
Fern patted her leg. “But vodka counts as a vegetable since it’s made from potatoes.”
“What’s on tonight’s menu?” Buster asked, one of the bar stools creaking under his weight as he and Mack took seats at the other corner of the table.
“Crab cakes, mini lamb chops, autumn squash,” Stuart said. “All prepared by you.”
Richard’s face fell. “I thought this was a vacation.”
“How fun.” Fern clapped his hands. “We’re going to learn how to cook.”
“I already know how to cook,” Richard mumbled.
I elbowed him in the side. “Be nice. The chef’s table is a big deal, and I’m sure Stuart pulled some strings to get us back here.”
Stuart came around to our side of the table and began handing out black aprons that matched his own. “Tie these on, so you don’t mess up your clothes.”
I tilted my head as I listened to the music being piped into the kitchen. “Is that ‘Walking on Sunshine’?”
Stuart beamed at me as he handed Richard an apron. “I was hoping you’d notice. I made a mix of one-hit wonders from the ’80s for tonight’s dinner.”
I gave Stuart a thumbs-up. He got major points for not trying to impress us with classical music. We got plenty of that at our weddings each weekend.
Buster and Mack put on their aprons, but only a sliver of their chests were covered and the strings barely tied in the back.
“That’s okay,” Mack said as Buster strained to tie his apron behind him. “These shirts are washable.”
A waiter appeared with a tray of martini glasses filled with an amber liquid with a cinnamon stick as a stirrer.
“Pumpkin pie martinis,” Stuart announced. “To kick off the evening and celebrate the season.”
We all took a glass and raised them in the air.
“Cheers to new friends,” Stuart said, clinking glasses with us.
“To new friends.” I took a drink of my martini, enjoying the sweetness of the drink. Although I was not one of the many people addicted to pumpkin spice lattes, I did enjoy the flavor of pumpkin when it wasn’t mixed with coffee.
“And cheers to a weekend without a wedding,” Kate added before taking a sip.
“I’ll drink to that,” Buster said, his deep voice reverberating off all the metal in the room.
“And to finding ghosts.” Fern winked at Kate.
“Heaven help us.” Richard downed his drink in one gulp.
“If you want to meet the ghosts, I can tell you where to look,” Stuart said, placing his martini glass on the table. “As long as you promise not to post about it.”
Fern’s face lit up. “Can you really tell us?”
“You won’t blog or post anything?” Stuart asked again.
“I have no problem not posting,” Kate said. “Orbs aren’t exactly Instagram friendly anyway. The wedding world would rather see a close-up of this martini. Speaking of which, will you hold this?” She handed me her drink and took out her phone.
“Why don’t you want people posting about ghosts?” I asked. “I’d think that would be a point of curiosity about the resort.”
Stuart sighed. “Normally, yes, but lately some of the guests have been scared off from hearing about heightened paranormal activity.”
I held Kate’s martini in the air as she adjusted my hand and zoomed in on the drink with her camera phone. “What kind of heightened activity?”
Kate snapped a few photos then took the drink from me and resumed drinking it.
“Doors rattling when guests are sleeping, moaning sounds in the hallways and on the balcony, faucets running that were left off, guests’ belongings being moved around the rooms,” Stuart said. “At first the guests thought that housekeeping was responsible, but most things happened at night after the housekeepers were long gone.”
“And people got spooked?” I asked. “Literally?”
“It didn’t help that we got a write-up on a popular style blog calling the ghosts poltergeists. After that, people started canceling reservations.” Stuart frowned. “Our spirits have always been friendly. I don’t know why they’ve been so agitated lately.”
“Agitated ghosts,” Ri
chard said to me under his breath. “Just what we need.”
“Better than an agitated bride,” I said.
He tapped his finger on his chin for a moment. “Fair enough. I’d take a poltergeist over an angry bride any day.”
“At this point, we don’t have any brides,” Stuart said, his gaze falling to the floor. “No one wants to book a wedding at a haunted resort. And if we don’t start booking events soon, I’m out of a job.”
I reached over and squeezed his hand. “Is there anything we can do?”
“That depends,” he laughed. “Is anyone up for an exorcism?”
Fern reached over and clutched Kate’s hand, bobbing up and down in his chair. “This is going to be the best weekend ever.”
Richard spun on his heel. “I’ll meet you at the car, Annabelle.”
Chapter 4
“That wasn’t so bad,” I told Richard as we walked out of the restaurant kitchen two hours later. “And I’m stuffed.”
“The crab cakes were decent,” Richard said, slipping on the dark suit jacket he’d taken off while cooking.
Kate pushed between us and hooked her arms with ours. “I think you mean ‘to die for.’”
The jumbo lump crab cakes we’d taken turns searing in melted herb butter had been delicious. As had the mini lamb chops in fresh mint chutney, the patty pan squash we’d roasted in the oven, and the crisp green salad we’d mixed and served with a champagne vinaigrette we’d whipped up from scratch.
Fern turned around from where he was walking ahead of us. “Are we talking about the Grand Marnier crème brûlée that I made?”
Kate moaned. “The dessert was so creamy and smooth, it was like velvet.”
“You flambéed it,” Richard corrected him. “I made the custard.”
“I know.” Fern beamed. “Who knew I’d be so handy with a flame torch?”
When we reached the lobby, Kate sat down in an upholstered wing chair near one of the crackling fireplaces, stretching her legs out in front of her and showing plenty of thigh. “I need to rest a moment before we go hunting for ghosts. I shouldn’t go on a full stomach.”
Fern took the wing chair across from her and patted his flat waist. “Good thinking. I’m about to pop.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “It isn’t like swimming. You don’t need to wait thirty minutes after eating.”
“Are you all thinking of going swimming?” Stuart asked as he joined us in the lobby with Buster and Mack. “The indoor pool is still open.”
“Not me.” Buster put a hand over his mouth to cover a yawn. “We had a long drive up on our bikes, and I’m ready to hit the sack.”
Mack stretched his arms over his head and, since he wasn’t wearing his leather vest with chains, nothing jangled. “It must be this mountain air. I feel so sleepy.”
I felt a little sad that I wouldn’t get to see if the duo owned black leather bathing suits, but I understood how they felt. I wouldn’t mind soaking in a bubble bath and then tucking myself in early.
“I need to see how Hermès is adjusting to the room and take him out for an evening walk,” Richard said.
“Before you all head off, let me introduce you to my general manager,” Stuart said, looking across the lobby. “He’s right over there.”
I tugged Kate to her feet amid vocal complaints as Stuart steered a distinguished-looking man with graying hair and a narrow mustache toward us, followed by a smaller man with thinning blond hair swept over the top of his head.
“I’d like you to meet Mr. Charles Rubin, the resort’s general manager,” Stuart said, indicating the taller man then giving a nod to the shorter man. “And his assistant manager, Mr. Quentin Anderson. Gentlemen, this is DC’s top wedding team.”
“I don’t know about top—,” I began to say, but Richard stepped on my foot, causing me to yelp.
Richard extended his hand to both men. “Richard Gerard. Washington’s top caterer. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I believe I’ve heard of you,” Mr. Anderson said.
Richard inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I’m sure you have.”
Stuart introduced us each individually, and we shook hands all around.
“I hope your rooms are satisfactory,” Mr. Rubin said, his eyes lingering on Kate’s low neckline before turning to Stuart. “Which section are they in?”
Stuart shifted from one foot to the other before answering. “To get them rooms together, I had to place them in the historic wing.”
The general manager’s face darkened, and his assistant inhaled sharply.
“Don’t worry about us.” Kate winked at Mr. Rubin. “We love ghosts.”
“You know about the hauntings?” Mr. Rubin took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dabbed at the thin line of a mustache on his upper lip.
Kate nodded enthusiastically, and I wished I were standing close enough to give her a swift kick.
“They’ve assured me they have no intention of writing about our ghosts,” Stuart said, his face as pinched as the general manager’s.
“Of course not,” I said. “We’re here for a relaxing getaway. We promise not to breathe a word about the ghosts to anyone.”
Mr. Rubin’s shoulders sagged, and he tucked the handkerchief back into his suit jacket pocket. “I appreciate your discretion.”
“Will you look at what the cat dragged in?”
I froze as I recognized the high-pitched Southern drawl nearly shouted from across the room.
Kate squeezed her eyes shut. “Tell me I’m imagining this.”
“Anyone but her,” Fern said, his voice nearly a hiss.
“What is that woman doing here?” Buster’s voice rumbled with anger as he clenched his big hands into fists.
All three men from the resort turned to watch the owner of Brides by Brianna saunter over to us, her Louis Vuitton purse dangling from the crook of her arm and her blond hair bouncing around her shoulders.
One of the newer wedding planners in DC, Brianna had arrived on the scene less than a year ago in a flourish of her daddy’s money and a torrent of backhanded compliments about anyone she deemed to be competition. We’d fallen in her crosshairs after showing her up at a bridal show, and she’d taken every opportunity since then to try to knock us down a peg. She extended her vitriol to our loyal wedding team—Richard, Fern, Buster, and Mack—and the feeling was mutual.
“There’s still time to make a run for it,” Richard said out of the corner of his mouth, a fake smile plastered to his face.
“You’ve got your whole little crew with you,” Brianna said when she’d reached us. “Isn’t that sweet?”
I crossed my arms and returned her sugary smile. “One of our clients sent us all here for the weekend as a thank you. Why are you here?”
“A site visit.” She waved one hand in the air. “I have a client who’s looking here and at Keswick.”
“A wedding client or one of your other clients?” Fern arched an eyebrow at her.
Brianna’s eyes narrowed at him. “You know very well that those rumors were nothing but lies.”
Fern shrugged. “I heard about your call-girl ring from several very trusted sources.”
All three men from the hotel gaped at her.
Brianna stamped her foot. “I am not running a call-girl service. And if I find out who started that rumor . . .” She passed her gaze over all of us.
I put my hands up. “Don’t look at me. I hadn’t even heard that rumor. And I certainly haven’t spread it.” Not exactly true. I’d heard it firsthand when Kate had started it. But it was true I hadn’t spread it. Fern had taken care of that out of his busy Georgetown hair salon all by himself. “What reason would I have to say something bad about you, Brianna? It’s not like you’ve ever said anything bad about me.”
Brianna’s face twitched. She knew very well that she’d made plenty of snide comments about Wedding Belles, but she couldn’t very well own up to them to me.
“Bri
anna!” A woman’s voice called to her from the front door. “You didn’t wait for me.”
We all turned as the petite, dark-haired woman ran over in high-heel slides that clacked against the hardwood floor with each step. She stopped to catch her breath when she reached Brianna’s side then gave our group a wave. “I’m Kerry with The Buzz.”
Mr. Rubin sucked in his breath, while Stuart folded his arms tightly over his chest and stared at her.
“Do you all know her?” I asked Stuart.
Mr. Rubin pointed a thin finger at the young woman whose face had fallen. “She’s the one who wrote about the resort being haunted by poltergeists. She’s the reason we may all lose our jobs.”
Chapter 5
“Do you think the general manager was serious when he said they could lose their jobs?” Kate asked as we walked away from the lobby.
I looked back over my shoulder to see Stuart talking with Brianna and Kerry, a sour expression on his face. The general manager and his assistant had made their excuses and left shortly before we had. I felt a twinge of guilt at leaving Stuart behind with the two women, but not enough of a twinge to suffer a second longer in Brianna’s presence. I was only sorry we hadn’t escaped when Buster and Mack had. If we’d left right after Kerry had walked up to our group, I might already be in bed.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not sure how hotels work. I guess if bookings are down for a certain period of time, it doesn’t look good for the management team.”
Richard made a face. “And all because a third-rate blogger wrote some post that went viral? Who reads that drivel anyway?”
“A lot of people,” Kate said. “Goodbye print, hello digital media.”
Richard cast his eyes skyward. “Just what we need more of—amateur journalists ruining reputations and spreading rumors.”
“I read The Buzz sometimes,” Fern said. “She really does have the best gossip.”
“I rest my case,” Richard said.
We turned down a pale green hallway with matching floor tiles. White planters filled with greenery alternated with white wood low-backed benches down the right wall. Framed black-and-white historical photos of the resort covered one wall, while the other wall consisted of a series of French doors.