Breaking the Chain (6 page)

11

             
             
"Don't forget to pick up the groceries Mrs. Milliron wanted," Mary said as she followed Jack through the terminal. "And remind Justine and Sadie that they're guests, not hired help. I want them to enjoy their stay, not do housework."
             
Jack squeezed her shoulder. "Don't worry, love. I'm sure I can handle anything that comes up. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Stein are scheduled to leave in the morning, and the next lot's not due until after you get back from Kansas."
             
"I hate to leave you with all the work, but Mac said this was an important job."
             
He nudged her toward the boarding ramp. "That's why he asked you to do it; you're the best curator he has. Go on--you're holding up the line. I'll see you in a few days."
             
Smiling, she hugged his neck one last time. "What would I'd do without you?"
             
"You'd be lost, and we both know it." He glanced at the stewardess, who stood at the check-in counter, tapping her nails on the side of the podium. "I think you'd better get on board; the natives are getting restless." The stewardess flicked a bored glance in her direction, so Mary blew him one last kiss and hurried to her seat.
             
As the plane taxied down the runway, her thoughts wandered back to the plantation. What would her guests think about her leaving so abruptly? Well, it couldn't be helped--the plantation wasn't paying its way yet, and the money to run it had to come from somewhere. Elizavon had made it very clear that she wasn't investing another dime in the bed and breakfast. It was up to Mary and Jack to make a go of it. Jack would just have to make her apologies.
             
The slight change in cabin pressure alerted her to the fact that they'd left the ground, so she tilted her seat and shoved a pillow behind her head. When sleep was elusive because of the thoughts whirring around in her head, she pulled her seat back to its upright position and retrieved her laptop from the overhead compartment. If she couldn't sleep, she might as well get some work done. The sound of clicking keys filled the air as she finalized the details of the Morrison job, completed less than forty-eight hours ago.
             
She'd been surprised when Mac called to give her another assignment. When he'd mentioned that she was the only one of his curators who could do this assignment, an odd inflection in his voice set off warning bells in her brain. She'd pressed him for clarification, but all he'd said was that she'd understand when she got there, and the information packet would be waiting for her at the front desk.
             
The taxi driver appeared startled when she gave him the name of her hotel, and she couldn't help but wonder what kind of situation Mac had duped her into. When they passed the main section of town, she leaned forward. "I thought the hotel was close to the airport?"
             
"No ma'am. It's a couple miles down the road, in the old part of town. Won't take us long to get there. Used to be a real nice area, but it ain't so hot now. Lots of folks moving out, lots of empty buildings. I guess Mrs. Cogrell's nephew will probably sell the property. He ain't gonna make no money trying to run the hotel, 'cause nobody will stay there."
             
"Is there some kind of problem with the hotel?"
             
The driver switched on a small map light attached to the dashboard, then twisted around to glance her way before turning his attention back to the road. "No ma'am. It's just that you don't seem the type to stay there, that's all."
             
"What do you mean 'the type of person to stay there'?"
             
In the dim light inside the vehicle she watched his right hand reach out to adjust the mirror, and noticed the slight tremor as he grasped the silver metal.
             
"Surely you'd tell me if it was dangerous?"
             
The taxi slowed to a crawl, and he twisted in his seat. "Well, ma'am. It's just that most folks don't want to stay there. Leastways, not since..."
             
The faint scent of his aftershave drifted toward her as her fingers gripped the back of his seat. "Since what? Please, tell me."
             
He swallowed, then took a deep breath. "Since that woman died there and funny things started happening." He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. "There, I've said it."
             
Oh God, not ghosts! Fear, then anger flooded her veins. Of all the dirty, rotten stunts. She wanted to reach out and wrap her hands around her boss' throat, then squeeze her fingers together until he turned blue and his eyes popped out. She felt a sharp pain in the palms of her hands and realized that her fists were clenched so tightly her nails had drawn blood.
             
"Are you trying to tell me the hotel's haunted?"
             
He refused to make eye contact. "Maybe, maybe not. The police report says old Mrs. Cogrell died of natural causes, but most folks think her nephew murdered her for her money. And, since he's buddy-buddy with the chief of police, they didn't even bother to investigate her death. Anyhow, ever since she croaked, been some funny stuff going on there--lights that won't go off, even after you flip the switch, footsteps on the stairs in the middle of the night, that kind of thing." He glanced at her reflection, then cleared his throat. "You want me to take you somewhere else?"
             
She thought about it for a moment, but decided that two am wasn't exactly a good time to start looking for somewhere else to stay. "No, thanks. I think I'll take my chances and stay there."
             
"Whatever you say, lady. At least you been warned," he muttered as the car slowed to a stop.
             
Mary's lips twitched as she watched him jump out, open the trunk, and dump her two suitcases onto the row of wooden planks that served as the front porch to the hotel--all while the motor kept running.
             
This guy must really be spooked! What did he expect--ghosts jumping out and screeching at him? Some perverse side of her nature made her delay payment as long as possible. Even though she had the money for the fare in her jeans, she searched both pockets of her jacket, then rummaged around the bottom of her purse for several minutes. When he shifted from one foot to the other and cleared his throat for the fourth time, she decided she'd tortured him enough.
             
He snatched the money out of her hand, leaped into his taxi, and sped away like a frightened rabbit. The sound of her chuckles echoed in the darkness. Gee, was it something she'd said?
             
As she turned to take stock of her surroundings, her laughter was quickly replaced by irritation. How could Mac do this to her again? Her fingers itched to wrap themselves around his scrawny neck for sending her to yet another run-down dump.
             
The Cogrell Hotel was an old, thirties-style boarding house, with a sloped front. Even in the middle of the night, with porch lights blazing, it wasn't a pretty site. What little paint she could see in the dim light was cracked and peeling, and the smell of rotten wood assaulted her senses.
             
What was that old saying? Everything looked beautiful bathed in the pale glow of the moon? Well, whoever penned that one must never have stayed here. Swallowing her disappointment, she picked up her suitcase and stepped onto the porch.
             
The narrow wooden boards creaked and groaned under every step. Great, just great. All she needed to top off this wonderful assignment was to crash through the porch and break an ankle. With her luck, nobody'd hear her cry for help and she'd have to crawl all the way back to town on her stomach, dragging her broken ankle behind. Damn you, Mac!
             
As her fingers closed around the glass doorknob, she breathed a sigh of relief. At least she'd made it across the porch. Taking a deep breath, she twisted the knob and pushed the door with her shoulder.
             
The inside wasn't as bad as expected. The foyer, although dingy, was decorated to resemble an
old-fashioned
hotel. Four barrel chairs with stained cushions circled a round, claw-footed table in the center of the room, and an old saloon-style bar dwarfed the rear wall. She noted a large wooden frame mounted on the wall, intersected with wooden slats that crisscrossed to form small squares. A small metal number on the bottom of each square identified rooms. A set of keys lay inside each square. The numbers stopped at twenty, but some squares remained unnumbered on the bottom row.
             
The sole occupant of the room was an older man with a shock of white hair who lay slumped across the far end of the counter. She could tell he was sleeping, because every time he exhaled, the stack of papers opposite his face rustled. She cleared her throat, but he didn't awaken. The thump of her suitcase when she dropped it didn't rouse him either.
             
How much worse could this get? Not only was this place a dump, now she had to contend with some old geezer sleeping off a drunken stupor. She mentally chalked up another mark against Mac and decided that this trip ought to equate to two extra weeks of vacation. No, make that three weeks. He owed her big time, and the debt just kept getting bigger.
             
A small metal bell sitting to the left of the old man's elbow caught her eye. Maybe he was just hard of hearing instead of drunk. It was worth a shot. She pressed the button, and a loud ping broke the silence. Ah, some sign of life at last!
             
The old man stopped snoring, then lifted his head.
W
atery blue eyes blinked a couple of times, and once they registered the fact that she was standing in front of him, he shot up.
             
"I'm sorry to frighten you, but I did try to get your attention before I rang the bell," she murmured in her most apologetic voice.
             
"Sorry, I must have drifted off. We don't get many customers these days. What can I do for you?"
             
"I believe I have a reservation. My name's Mary Windom."
             
"You must be that estate woman they told me about. Come to figure out how much this place is worth." His eyes roamed across her face, then swung to her case on the floor.
             
"Yes, I'm a curator for Markis Brothers Estate Company."
             
"Well, take it from me, there ain't much here, 'cept for the building and some banged up furniture," he said. "Let me see. Seems like I'm supposed to do something when you arrive. Oh yeah. There's a package for you. It's here somewhere." He rummaged under the counter for a moment, then waved an envelope through the air. "This what you looking for?"
             
"Yes, thanks," she said, grabbing the elusive package. "I don't mean to sound rude, but do you think you could show me to my room?"
             
"Sure thing. You can have any one you want for the same price, since you the only guest."
             
"Anything's fine. I just want to get some sleep. It's been a long night."
             
He pulled a thick ledger from under the counter and shoved it toward her. "Just sign there and I'll get you fixed up."
             
She tried not to show her surprise when he opened a door at the end of the second floor and she was ushered into an elegantly furnished room. An antique ball and claw foot canopy bed, beautifully preserved, rested atop a floral patterned wool rug, and a blocked front dresser with ball-and-claw feet adjoined the room's only window.
             
"This here's the best room in the house," the old man said. "Kept special for all them rich folks who stopped over on their way to New York."
             
"It's beautiful. Thank you."
             
"Well, I guess I'll see you in the morning. Have a nice night."
             
She locked the door behind him and perched on the edge of the bed. This might turn out to be an interesting assignment after all. Her gaze fell to the thick envelope on top of her suitcase, and she thought about reviewing the packet, but exhaustion won out over curiosity. Whatever information it contained had been delayed this long; three or four more hours wouldn't make any difference.
             
As she sank into the exquisite softness of the bed's feather mattress, she wondered if the old man knew anything about the "ghosts" that were supposed to haunt this hotel. The stories were probably either the byproduct of over-active imaginations, or a crude attempt to lower the value of the property. If she'd had to place a wager, she'd put her money on the latter choice. She'd heard other curators talk about attempts by unethical developers to lower the value of a building they wanted to purchase. The cheaper they got the property, the more money they made when they sold it.
             
Of course, there was a slight possibility that this hotel was haunted. She, of all people, couldn't deny the fact that ghosts did exist. Her experiences with the spirit of Magdalene Laroussard, one of the original owners of the plantation, proved that. She thought about the times when Magdalene's ghost appeared to her, begging for help. She'd been terrified at first, then driven to solve the mystery of Magdalene and her husband's disappearance when she realized that Magdalene needed her help. Each time she'd want to give up, Magdalene's spirit reappeared, begging her to continue. She'd finally located their remains, and once the two skeletons had been buried together, Magdalene's spirit never reappeared.