The Gallery of the Dead (Tropical Breeze Cozy Mystery Book 3)
Read The Gallery of the Dead (Tropical Breeze Cozy Mystery Book 3) Online
Authors: Mary Bowers
Table of Contents
For my brother, Joe.
Another big thanks to Kiki, and as always, to Dale.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
The Gallery of the Dead
Copyright © 2015 by Mary Bowers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author.
I’d love to hear from you. Contact me at [email protected]
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Tropical Breeze, Florida is an incorporated city, just barely. We the people, approximately 1,600 of us, have a charter, a mayor (recently indicted and replaced), and a Chamber of Commerce eager to scrape a few of the tourists away from St. Augustine, promising them a quieter beach and quicker pizza delivery. We straggle along State Route A1A for about five miles, beginning and ending with cheeky little cinderblock houses, most of them available for vacation rental, some of them the homes of aging hippies. All of them artists.
This trail of happy houses leads to and away from 3-storey glory homes, gazing obsessively out to sea, and the whole parade is centered by a few 4-storey rental condo buildings.
On the corner of Palmetto and 5
th
Street is something that doesn’t belong. It isn’t painted in beachy colors, it doesn’t face the ocean, it takes up half a city block and has a fieldstone porte cochere, which is useless in balmy weather and also useless in the rain, because when it rains here, it blows sideways, not down.
The Royal Palm, originally built as a family residence and now operated as a bed and breakfast, looks like something that tumbled down the coast from Cape Cod and skidded to a confused stop in the land of surfer dudes and cheese grits.
Its exterior is fieldstone, dark, with a pitched roof where no snow would have collected anyway, and white-painted wood trim that turns green with oak pollen every spring. It has a broad, deep, colonnaded front porch that faces north, away from the sun. It’s the kind of place that
should
be haunted.
It has that kind of a history too: a rebellious daughter who threw herself from the second-floor gallery down to the foyer to the die in a heap at her father’s feet. A grieving father throwing himself from the same gallery railing on the second anniversary of her death, having been forcibly restrained exactly one year before.
At least one of them ought to have haunted the place, but nobody had ever reported it, and when the new owner, Misty McCain, began talking about noises in the night, we all thought she was just trying to stir up business.
The hundredth anniversary of the suicides was fast approaching when Misty discovered that the renowned ghost-hunter, Teddy Force, was looking for projects for his new show right here in the Tropical Breeze area. “How convenient,” we all said cynically. Everybody but Teddy, who was thrilled. The perfect project in a house owned by one of his fans, where he could demand free lodging (and breakfast), at least for himself, and maybe for his co-stars and crew too.
Because things were looking pretty grim at The Royal Palm. In the previous two weeks Misty had only managed to book one retired couple, and they quickly moved on – to St. Augustine, dammit! – after staying only two nights. Before that, there had been a family on their way to Walt Disney World with two sticky-fingered kids, and a honeymoon couple who trashed their room with chocolate syrup.
Ghosts, which had once driven an innkeeper’s business away, were now bringing in bookings that created waiting lists. Look at The Lizzie Borden House! Look at The Stanley Hotel! Book the room on a sunny day, (“Honey, this looks like fun”), then cower under the bedcovers in a haunted room for one night and dine out on it for the rest of your life. Haunted inns were hot, and Misty, we figured, was determined that The Royal Palm would be haunted.
Poor Misty; how we gossiped about her imaginary ghosts. And after she had fallen to her death from the same spot in the gallery as the suicides, we all stood around her grave reciting prayers with the priest and wishing we could apologize.
From the editorial guilt-trip by Bernie Horning, Editor-in-Chief of
The Beach Buzz
, available weekly, on-line and in newsstands, all over Tropical Breeze, Florida.
From the Journal of Edson Darby-Deaver
From the start, I didn’t think Teddy Force’s idea for a reality show was going to work, but when he showed me the contract, my strength failed me. If I’d been a cartoon character, the pupils of my eyes would have turned into dollar signs and started to pulse. I live on a modest trust fund, supplemented by occasional royalties from my books, which I’m sorry to say, are not considered mainstream. They only sell well when I drag boxes of them along to paranormal conventions and sit at a table all day arguing with people who will believe anything. I am a skeptic. A skeptical paranormal investigator.
Darby-Deaver, the Unbeliever. That’s what they call me. I figured, what the heck, I was already held in contempt by most of the paranormal community anyway, and the income would be nice. I was pretty sure the show wouldn’t last very long, so I signed the contract.
To set the record straight, I
am
willing to believe. Just not when there’s nothing to believe in. I want the real thing.
Example: For some time now, I have been formulating a theory that a chance juxtaposition between a murder, an ancient Egyptian goddess and an animal lover has brought a hand of protection over the people of Tropical Breeze, Florida. It’s just a theory, but one I am finding more and more compelling. Briefly, it was inspired by these events:
The murder victim, one Vesta Huntington, was a dabbler in the cult of Bastet, the Egyptian cat goddess. After Vesta’s death, the animal lover, one Taylor Verone, suddenly began to display new behaviors and deductive abilities. Along with these abilities, she acquired – yes – a large, black cat, similar to most representations of the goddess Bastet. This, to most people, would be inconclusive. Where is your evidence, they would ask. How does the death of one old woman bring a goddess to walk among us? I do not have all the answers, but I am not afraid of the questions.
When Vesta’s Egyptian trifles were donated to Taylor’s charity for resale, they were distributed throughout Tropical Breeze and beyond. Thus a web was spun, I have postulated, one which I am working to confirm in my spare time. Taylor, like many people suddenly confronted with the paranormal, has been a difficult witness. In layman’s terms, she doesn’t want people to think she’s a nut case. So I continue my private investigation, but I
do not simply believe,
despite the fact that the theory excites me.
Balderdash, you say? I agree. Unless and until, that is, I have
proof
. Most people, even confronted with proof, would say, “Poppycock.” I, on the other hand, am willing to keep an open mind. I am not a Believer.
Teddy Force is a Believer. He thinks every damp spot on the wall is a ghost trying to push his face through. I hope this illustrates the difference between us.
Teddy was going to call the new show
Haunt or Hoax? Featuring Porter the Ghost-Sniffing Dog
. That’s quite a mouthful, but I was told it was a working title only and not to worry about it. The set-up: Teddy looks for ghosts while I look for evidence of a hoax, and Porter the English Bulldog runs around knocking things over and slobbering. Teddy thinks the dog is psychic. I think that says it all regarding Teddy’s cold grip on reality.
Before we even had the rest of the cast put together, Teddy had made the decision to do the first episode in downtown Tropical Breeze. There’s a used book store with more atmosphere than a Bela Lugosi movie, and it has always had a reputation for being haunted. He loved the “visuals” as he called them: stacks of old books, an elusive Siamese cat with startled blue eyes, and the silent figure of a man in black with a graying ponytail and a mournful expression (the owner).
Teddy always goes into these things thinking everybody will be happy – no,
honored
– to see him, but the owner of the book store wasn’t.
The Bookery was owned by Barnabas Elgin, V, who told Teddy, “Yes, I know it’s haunted, but we are all doing fine here and we don’t need your help. Good
day
, sir.”
Knowing Barnabas as I do, I’m not sure what to make of that. He would certainly take a ghost or two in stride. He grew up in that building, presumably among any entities that were already there, so he was bound to be used to them, if not emotionally attached to them. Other than them, all he has is his pet cat. But Barnabas is also unpredictable with people that he considers impertinent, and Teddy is certainly that. It would have amused him to lie to Teddy about being haunted and liking it.
Personally, I’ve never sensed a ghost in The Bookery, but if I were a ghost needing a place to stay, I’d go there. Anyway, whether Barnabas was kidding or not,
Haunt or Hoax?
wasn’t getting into his store.
So that left us looking for something else to investigate. Long-distance travel wasn’t in the budget yet, at least not until we had delivered a few episodes to the network, hopefully “knocking their socks off and getting the green light to go for it,” as Teddy had put it.
The St. Augustine Lighthouse has been done to death, so to speak, and Teddy had just combed it out for ghosts on his last show,
The Realm of the Shadows
, which had promptly been cancelled. Not good karma. We needed fresh fields.
But the real problem was me, and I knew it. Teddy had pitched the show around the concept of a skeptic vs. a believer, then realized too late that if the skeptic kept exploding the ghosts, there wouldn’t be much of a show. Who wants to watch a ghost-hunting show where all they find is bad plumbing?
For instance, I have watched a door in a supposedly haunted house slowly drift closed all by itself. It made my hair stand on end, even though I knew what was probably causing it. A simple experiment with a carpenter’s level proved that the house had settled on that side and the door was off-balance. The owner was furious. She
wanted
her ghost. She had told all her friends about it, and she thought we were trying to make a fool of her. To this day, she says a ghost in her house keeps closing the doors. But we couldn’t use it for the show. No thrills. No audience. No show.
We picked around at The Casements, John D. Rockefeller’s retirement home, in which he died, but no soap. It’s just down the road in a nice little city called Ormond Beach, but there’s nothing scary going on there. It’s so family-friendly, cheerful and sunny that brides schedule their wedding receptions there.
And then there’s Henry Flagler’s Ponce de Leon Hotel in St. Augustine. Flagler built it during the Gilded Age, when dollars were for lighting cigars with, but it’s a college now, and is always so overrun with students, professors and tourists that any investigation would be impossible, at least during the term, and we needed something
now
. It was a shame, really. The place is stunning: entire walls of Tiffany glass, woodwork carved by unknown masters, and a dome of glittering mosaics thrown up there just because they could. You should see it some time. If you see a ghost, let us know.
After that, we were just about out of ideas when Misty McBain came to Teddy emoting about the disturbances in her new bed and breakfast inn, The Royal Palm.
I had my doubts. But we were desperate, Misty was willing, and a deal was struck from the soda fountain at Don’s Diner over burgers and fries. I wasn’t there, but J.B., the counter waitress told me all about it. Teddy had just made up his mind to start sniffing around for a haunting in Daytona Beach, to the south. I live in St. Augustine Beach, north of Tropical Breeze, I wasn’t excited about driving that far every day to do the show. When we went “on location” around the country, it would be different. We’d have local lodging. But for now, we were working up the first few episodes to get a season-long contract, and as I mentioned, the budget was limited.
Teddy had come into the diner alone and (according to J.B.) started flirting with a knock-out redhead who wanted nothing to do with him. Then Misty came in the door and swooped down on him the way a TV star likes his groupies to swoop.
She asked if she could have his autograph, and he (again, quoting J.B.) decided to teach the redhead a lesson and turn his back on her, to the redhead’s obvious relief. Misty took the stool on the other side of Teddy, offered to buy him lunch, and a business relationship was born. Maybe more, if Misty could manage it. Teddy is a hound with the ladies, and over eighty per cent of them fall for him, according to my observations. I’m told it’s his eyes. To me they are a particularly reptilian green, but I’m not a woman. Females are fascinated by them. I’ve even heard them called “hypnotic.” Against his black hair, with a smooth face decorated by dimples, all sitting on top of a muscular body over six feet tall, ladies of a certain temperament just don’t stand a chance.
He quickly got her to commit to free lodging during the shoot and we were in.
We had our first meeting with Misty in the dining room of The Royal Palm two days later. Teddy had been talking about interviewing and hiring “the crew,” but nobody had shown up yet. I figured Teddy always did exactly what he wanted to do in spite of directors, production assistants or lawyers, so it didn’t matter.
Looking around at the fragile antiques which Misty had lavished upon the entry hall, the parlor and the dining room, I decided I’d better have a talk with Teddy about letting Porter loose in the place. He’s a wrecking ball with legs.
Misty seated herself primly at the head of the table and beamed as a big, shambling man in his mid-twenties bumped into the room with a silver tea tray loaded with cups and cookies. He gave us a sideways glance and set the tray down, saying, “I’ll just go get the tea.”
He was back in a moment with a vintage silver-plated teapot, which he set beside Misty.
“Will you pour, Mother?” he asked with a little smile.
“Thank you, Paul,” she said. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet my son, Paul. He’s my assistant manager in our new venture. This is Edson Darby-Deaver, and
this
is the famous Teddy Force.”
We shook his hand and he seated himself while Misty served tea.
Paul had a thick head of dark brown hair and his mother’s faded blue eyes, which he flickered at us every now and then. He was awkwardly tall and seemed to be trying to minimize himself by slumping. After sitting next to his mother, he virtually disappeared.
Misty handed tea to us in eggshell china cups and offered milk, sugar cubes and tiny homemade sandwich cookies. The silver pieces glimmered on the table, reflecting the striped wallpaper and the elaborate royal blue draperies. I was interested to see an Egyptian statuette on the buffet. Misty had probably gotten it from Vesta’s collection, and I had a silent little joke with myself about the eyes of the goddess being upon us. My theory, you know.
Misty sat back and lost herself in a moment of bliss.
This
was why she had bought The Royal Palm: to live inside a Regency novel and drink tea out of little china cups in the afternoon. I wondered if she was capable of the business end of her fantasy, and if she had any idea of the work involved in running a bed and breakfast.
The cookies were good. The tea was pinkish and tasted like boiled flowers.
Teddy has a talent for digression, and after about ten minutes of cheery drivel, I decided it was time to bring the meeting to order. I activated my voice recorder, set it on the table where it would pick up all our voices, and said, “Shall we begin?”
Misty gave a start, looked at the recorder as if a snake had appeared on the table, then stared at me. I suspected that she’d forgotten I was there.
Undaunted, I proceeded. “When did you first notice that The Royal Palm was haunted?”
She was still staring at me, but now with disapproval. Teddy was so much nicer to talk to. And to look at. I’m not bad, but I’m no Teddy. Friends have told me I look like a little white-haired professor who wandered away from school and can’t remember how to get back. At five-foot seven, I don’t consider myself little, per se, but I won’t quibble.
“Well, I suppose right away,” she said, like she couldn’t remember.
I doubted her immediately. People who sense a Presence tend to have total recall of the moment. Still, I kept an open mind. It’s what I do.
“Please,” I prompted. “In your own words.” I cocked my pen and prepared to take notes.
“It’s all right, Mother,” Paul murmured, leaning toward her. “Don’t let him scare you.”
“Well, it was when I first went through the house with my real estate agent, Rocky. Rocky Sanders. She has an office right next to Don’s Diner, where I met you.” She had turned back to Teddy with a melting smile. “You know, that was the luckiest day of my life, bumping into you like that over at the diner. I’ve blessed my lucky stars ever since then, and I just know you’re going to help us.”
“I’m going to do my best, my lady,” he said gallantly, patting her hand. “We’re professionals. We do this kind of thing all the time.”
I began to have even more doubts about having signed onto the show with him. Before that moment my gravest doubts had been about Porter.
“
Ahem
,” I said, shooting a glance at the hand-petting. “Where precisely?” When she gave me a blank look, I specified. “Where precisely on the premises did you have your first sense of the paranormal?”