Relative Strangers (7 page)

“Where are you going?”

“I want to take another look at the portrait.” She sounded a trifle desperate. “Reality check, okay?”

“Whatever you say,” Lucas said, “but I’m coming with you.”

Without the crowd of partygoers, the Fireside Room seemed vast and very empty. The Christmas tree lights had been turned on, revealing a new accumulation of pine needles on the carpet beneath. A small fire had been lit in the hearth.

“Hello, Adrienne Sinclair,” Corrie said to the painted likeness. She glanced at Lucas. “A handsome woman, as they used to say back then.”

“Striking,” Lucas agreed. “Clever too. We wouldn’t be what we are today if she hadn’t taken a hand in running the place. She was the perfect wife for a hotelkeeper. A terrific hostess. Full of good ideas as well. She was the one who came up with the idea to promote the hotel by publicizing the wondrous properties of the water from our springs. She claimed it could cure everything from kidney stones to dyspepsia. Back then there were no regulations to make her prove it.”

A stray bit of conversation flitted through Corrie’s mind. “She wrote a pamphlet.”

Lucas nodded. “We sell copies in the gift shop.”

Disjointed phrases came back to her. “Was there a laundry room hidden in a barn?”

“How could you possibly know that?” Lucas sounded annoyed. “No, don’t tell me. Grandma’s ghost provided that tidbit, right?”

Ignoring his sarcasm, Corrie stared at the portrait, telling herself it was just a lifeless face immortalized in oils. She saw that Adrienne had a dimple. Lucas’s dimple.

“I don’t know what I expected to gain by studying this painting up close,” she said after a moment. “I suppose I should feel relieved that nothing strange is happening, especially if it only happens to me.”

No ghostly figure had materialized.

She felt no unearthly cold spot.

The aura, or whatever it was a person was supposed to sense in the presence of the supernatural, was conspicuously absent.

Keeling over into a snowbank had turned out to have a logical explanation. Why couldn’t this sighting?

Corrie wanted to believe that Adrienne at large was just a figment of her imagination, but she couldn’t quite convince herself. After all, she’d seen her. Heard her. The only explanation that accounted for her sudden familiarity with nineteenth-century clothing was that she had encountered a ghost.

Corrie had never wanted to develop any sort of psychic ability. The fact that she apparently already had alternately intrigued and terrified her, especially when it dawned on her that she might not have any choice about acquiring more new perceptions.

“What do you want from me, Adrienne Sinclair?” she whispered.

Of course she got no answer. That would have been too easy. The room around her was silent save for an occasional crackle from the fire.

After a few more minutes of fruitless staring at the portrait, she realized Lucas had left her side and was over by the door speaking with Rachel. It was obvious they were talking about her odd behavior.

“Great,” she muttered.

Lucas glanced her way, saw her watching him, and cut short his conversation. “Call the front desk if there’s any problem,” he told Rachel as he left.

“‘What sort of problem is he expecting?” Corrie asked her friend when Lucas was out of earshot.

“Oh, you know. Raving madness. Stalking the other guests in their showers dressed as someone s long-dead mother. The usual stuff.”

“Funny, Rachel.”

“He simply suggested that a good night’s rest might be the best thing for you.” She gave the portrait a once-over. “So that’s Adrienne, huh?”

“That’s her.”

“She’s got one of those Mona Lisa smiles.”

“More like the Cheshire cat,” Corrie said, remembering her last glimpse of the ghost in the dining room.

Satisfied she’d seen all there was to see, Rachel headed for the lobby. Corrie followed. She supposed she might as well go to bed. She no longer had any enthusiasm for socializing.

“You don’t need to fuss over me,” she told Rachel when they reached their rooms. “It’s not this little bump on the head that’s causing the trouble.”

But when she unlocked her door, Rachel followed her inside. “Humor me. I’ll knock on your door every few hours. If you answer, I’ll go away again. Feel free to yell whatever you like, just let me know you’re not in a coma or anything.” When Corrie started to object, Rachel cut her off “Lucas and I are both worried about you. Live with it.”

“Lucas Sinclair thinks I’m certifiable,” Corrie muttered.

Rachel started to say something, then apparently thought better of it. Her lips thinned with the effort to keep her opinion to herself.

Corrie made a face at her as she got a nightgown out of the huge armoire that served as a closet. “Go ahead. Ask me how any rational person can believe in ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night.”

“But you keep seeing . . . something. With a bustle yet.”

“Maybe I am cracking up.” Corrie frowned, suddenly remembering another detail. “Actually, this last time there wasn’t any bustle to speak of. Hey, looks like ghosts do get a change of wardrobe. The second dress was made of blue serge.”

Rachel whistled. “I’m beginning to believe you really are in contact with the supernatural.”

As Corrie went into the bathroom to change into her nightgown and clean her teeth, she thought about that. She still wanted a rational explanation, but since none had presented itself she was stuck with believing in a ghost.

The more she thought about what she’d seen, the more details she could recall. For one thing, in the dining room that night Adrienne had looked older than she was in her portrait. Her dress had been for everyday, with a gored front on the circular-shaped skirt. It was an “outing gown,” an outfit Adrienne considered appropriate for yachting, boating, and tennis.

“There was a jacket with a shirtwaist,” she said. “Large sleeves. And a wide capelike collar trimmed with bias folds of ombre surah.”

“What?”

Corrie caught sight of her own sheepish expression in the bathroom mirror. “Darned if I know,” she told Rachel as she returned to the bedroom. “It just popped into my head.”

“Sleep,” Rachel ordered. “Lucas could be right. You did get quite a knock on the head.”

Corrie obediently crawled in under the covers. “Lucas thinks he has the answer to everything,” she grumbled. “I hope I am seeing ghosts, just to prove him wrong.”

“He likes you more than he wants to admit too.”

With a last glare at her friend, Corrie clicked off the bedside lamp and closed her eyes. “Good night, Rachel.”

Gentle laughter reached her, along with the sounds of the hall door opening and the overhead light being switched off. “Good night, Corrie.”

The door closed, but Rachel’s voice was still perfectly audible as she launched a parting shot. “I was slow following you and Lucas to the Fireside Room because I stopped to chat with his mother,” she said. “We’re having brunch at her house tomorrow.”

* * * *

Lucas was just finishing his business with the concierge when Corrie and Rachel passed her desk on their way out of the hotel.

“Good morning, ladies.” His glance encompassed both women, taking note of the coats and gloves they carried, but the moment his gaze fixed on Corrie, he stopped noticing anything else. She had an edginess about her, making him wonder if she’d slept any better the night before than he had.

Rachel returned his greeting. “Morning, Lucas. Have you heard a weather report? It looked kind of overcast from my bedroom window.”

Storm clouds were gathering in more than the sky outside, he thought as he continued to study Corrie. She looked as if she couldn’t wait to get off the premises.

“Chance of something,” he replied.

“That perfect weather yesterday spoiled us,” Rachel said.

“If we get more snow today, that should guarantee good skiing for the remainder of your vacation.” Small talk! he thought. Suddenly he hated having to play the genial innkeeper.

“There is that,” Rachel agreed.

Corrie still said nothing.

“So where are you ladies off to this morning?”

Rachel beamed, momentarily reminding him of a schoolteacher who was pleased by a student’s particularly bright question. “To your mother’s house,” she answered. “Joyce said we couldn’t miss the place—a charming old Victorian just down the street.”

Before he could think of a reply, Rachel grabbed Corrie’s arm and propelled her out of the hotel.

Lucas bit back a groan. They ought to post a sign: Matchmakers at work. No wonder Corrie looked so ill at ease.

He tried to dismiss her from his thoughts, but for the next half hour images of Corrie in his childhood home kept slipping into his mind. It unnerved him to think what stories his mother might be telling her. He could be reading too much into a simple invitation to visit, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was not. Before an hour had passed, he had found someone to cover the registration desk for him and was on his way out the door.

He told himself he’d been meaning to visit his father that day anyway.

* * * *

After a delicious brunch, Joyce Sinclair led her guests into a room filled with books on local history and what appeared to be bound volumes of every issue of
Down East
and
Yankee
magazines for at least forty years. Urging them to sit on either side of her on a long sofa, Joyce indicated the stack of albums she’d placed on the coffee table. “I thought you might enjoy seeing these.”

Corrie’s first thought was that Joyce was matchmaking again. She expected to be treated to Lucas’s baby pictures, but instead the scrapbooks were filled with clippings, photographs, and memorabilia tracing the history of the Sinclair House. Joyce moved rapidly back in time, providing an impromptu history lesson. Decades flew by, all made vivid by Joyce’s anecdotes. The most compelling sight was a black-and-white photograph that showed one entire wing of the hotel in flames.

“Nineteen forty-seven,” Joyce murmured, pausing a little longer on that page. “The year of the wildfires. A lot of Maine communities were damaged. Fires raged out of control in hot spots all over the state. They came after a three-month-long drought, and in a cone year too.”

Corrie wanted to ask what a cone year was, but Joyce rushed on, adding only that her husband and his father had risked their lives to put the fire out before the rest of the building caught.

A few minutes later, Joyce slowed down again. She’d come to a picture of her own house. “Adrienne and Lucas’s son Norman built this for his bride,” she told Corrie and Rachel. “After about 1900 the whole family lived here during the winter when the hotel was closed.”

Corrie felt her interest quicken at the mention of Adrienne. “And before that? Did the family live in the hotel?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, the room you have now was once part of the family suite. Adrienne and her Lucas stayed on the third floor in the central wing of the hotel year-round.”

Turning back another page, Joyce came to Adrienne Sinclair’s obituary. A great sadness crept into Corrie’s heart as she read the yellowed clipping. “She was only fifty when she died. That seems so young.”

“Not in those days. Not for women. The Sinclair men, on the other hand, have a history of being long-lived. They all tend to reach their nineties.”

Reminded of her own family situation, Corrie said nothing, but she wasn’t given time to dwell on the subject. Joyce turned to her, an earnest expression on her face.

“I wonder if you’d mind telling me something, my dear. I know you’re a freelance publicist. ‘What is it you do exactly?”

“I handle public relations campaigns for several retail merchandise businesses. I also work for a library district and a children’s book writer.”

Joyce looked impressed. “That must be fascinating.”

“I have no experience with hotels,” Corrie warned her, but the disclaimer didn’t discourage Joyce from launching into an account of her quest for new business for the Sinclair House. Adrienne had come up with a great gimmick with the spring water. Joyce was hoping to find a modern equivalent.

“You could always conjure up a few ghosts,” Rachel said.

“Bad idea.” Corrie’s voice was low, a warning intended to stop her friend from blurting out anything more.

“Ghosts?” Joyce echoed. Dead silence lasted a full sixty seconds, then she clapped her hands in delight. “What a wonderful idea! We can hold séances. Maybe Adrienne will appear. I’ve certainly got plenty of questions I’d like to ask her.”

“Get Corrie to pass them along,” Rachel said. “She’s already seen her.”

“You’ve made psychic contact with Adrienne?” Joyce sounded thrilled. “Did you see her too?” she asked Rachel.

“I should be so lucky.”

“Oh, my! A ghost. A real ghost. How splendid.”

“So go on already.” Rachel poked Corrie in the ribs. “Tell her the whole story.”

Reluctantly, Corrie recounted the details of her three sightings. When her story was finished, Joyce leapt to her feet and ran to the bookshelves. She pulled out an old photo album and quickly found the page she wanted. “Was this the man you saw?”

Corrie looked down at an older Lucas, handsome as the devil with a touch of gray at his temples. “The first Lucas? Adrienne’s husband?”

“Yes.
The resemblance to our Lucas is remarkable, isn’t it? Now, what about him?” Joyce flipped back a dozen pages and held the album out again.

And there he was, the man who’d been yelling at Adrienne in the dining room. “Who is he?” Corrie whispered.

“Horatio Mead. Adrienne’s brother.” Joyce frowned. “I wouldn’t have thought he’d have crossed the threshold of the Sinclair House, not for any reason. There was a feud between the Meads and the Sinclairs, you see. Each family owned a hotel. Adrienne abandoned her family’s place, the Phoenix Inn, to marry the owner of the Sinclair House. The Phoenix is still in business, more or less. It’s a ramshackle old place on the other side of town.”

“Do the Meads still own it?” Rachel asked.

“A descendant does. Stanley Kelvin.” Joyce blushed. “You might have seen him at the Christmas Eve party. I’m afraid Lucas left you to try to kick him out, but he didn’t do it, of course. Not from an open house. Poor Stanley. His mother insisted that he take over the hotel after the death of her father, Erastus Mead. Erastus was Horatio’s grandson. Poor old Horatio must have been spinning in his grave when Stanley ran the place into the ground. Which brings me back to what you saw, Corrie. Why on earth would Horatio have come to the Sinclair House?”