The Ghost Wore Gray (2 page)

I jumped off my bed with a whoop and gave him a hug. When he left I grabbed my phone and called Chris. “Start packing!” I yelled. “We leave at eight-thirty Wednesday morning!”

About ten minutes later Dad poked his head into the room again. “You know,” he said, “you could have just asked.” Sometimes I wonder who's fooling who around here.

CHAPTER THREE

How to Pack

“OK, Sidney,” I said, “time to move.”

I scooped our cat off my underwear and dumped him onto the floor. Sidney gave my leg a halfhearted whack with his paw, made his cranky sound, and stalked out of my room, twitching his tail angrily.

“That,” said Chris, “is one weird cat.” She was sitting at the head of my bed, helping me pack, which in this case meant rolling her eyes whenever she considered a piece of clothing too hideous for words.

“Ten minutes!” yelled my father from the living room.

“Ten minutes,” I muttered. “I can't possibly be ready in ten minutes!”

“You had all last week,” Chris said quietly.

“Don't
you
start on me,” I snapped.

What Chris had said was true, of course. But I was already feeling sorry for myself because I had realized that while my father is good at a whole lot of things a mother usually does, helping me get ready for a trip is not one of them. I was also feeling a little silly, because I realized it was no big deal, and guilty, because I knew I was going to make us late. Also cranky, because I really didn't want Chris to watch me pack.

“I think I'll go talk to Sidney,” said Chris. “He's in a better mood.”

I waited until she was gone, then sighed in relief. Now I could get started! Using what I call the grab-and-stuff method, I snatched up the pile of underwear and threw it in the suitcase. Socks, shirts, jeans, and T-shirts came next. A couple of sweaters, a few good skirts and blouses, and I was just about finished.

It's a very efficient system, but not the kind of thing you particularly want someone else to watch. I almost made it, too. I was just trying to close the lid when Chris came back into the room. “Good grief,” she said, when she saw the stack of clothes being squashed into the suitcase.

“Be quiet and help me push,” I said. She got on the other corner of the suitcase. Between the two of us we managed to get it closed and fastened.

“Uh-oh,” said Chris.

The cuff of a red sweater was sticking out on the right side.

“Forget it,” I said. “Getting it in now would be more trouble than it's worth.”

“The Golden Chariot awaits,” called my father. The Golden Chariot is what Dad likes to call his car, which is this ancient 1964 Cadillac he bought when I was a little kid. It's yellow and white. It has huge fins. And it's longer than almost every parking space in town. It also breaks down at least once a month, but Dad claims the repair bills are no worse than the car payments most people make. He says its worth it to have a car with class.

I think it makes sense for a preservation architect to have a car like that. It's like the buildings he loves—big, old, and kind of funky.

Chris had ridden in the Chariot several times. But she still wasn't prepared for how much room we had in the trunk. After Dad opened it, she stood looking inside for a moment then said, with awe in her voice, “You know, if you put in plumbing, you could rent that out as an apartment.”

Like I said, it's a big car.

Since I believe in first things first, my box of books was already in the trunk. Dad's tennis racket and golf clubs lay next to them.

“Hey, Mr. T,” said Chris, “I thought this was a working trip.”

“It's an experiment,” I said. “He hasn't played golf in seven years.”

“I am ignoring you both,” said my father, throwing in the last of the suitcases. He went back into the house. A minute later he came out with the cat carrier. Sidney was inside, complaining mightily.

“Is he coming with us?” asked Chris.

“He's staying with my grandmother,” I said.

“Lucky Gramma,” said Chris, climbing into the backseat of the Chariot. I climbed in next to her.

Dad started the car.

“Are we almost there?” I teased when we got to the end of the block.

“Did I tell you I found a kennel that takes kids?” replied Dad.

I decided to be quiet for a while. It was four hours before I asked that same question again, and this time I was serious. I was sick of riding. Dad glanced at his watch, and at the map beside him. “Another hour and a half,” he said, “assuming Baltimore's directions are accurate.”

“Baltimore?” asked Chris.

“Baltimore Cleveland,” said Dad. “The man who owns the Quackadoodle.”

“You really know a human being named Baltimore Cleveland?” I asked.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Not only do I know him, but he's going to be our host for the next three weeks. And he's going to be paying me a lot of money.”

“It's a wonderful name,” I said. “Just wonderful. I think I'll look at the scenery for a while.”

The scenery was worth looking at. Steep, rocky hills covered with pines stretched up to our right. Little streams splashed and bounced down these same hills, then disappeared under the road, only to pop up on the other side, where they meandered off through the more gentle territory that sloped away in that direction. It reminded me of pictures I had seen of England.

“It won't be that much farther now,” announced my father as he turned the Golden Chariot onto a narrow, winding road. Dad's idea of not much farther is different from my own, but eventually we saw a sign that said “Quackadoodle Inn—3 miles.”

Eventually we saw the inn itself.

Dad stopped the car. He stared at the inn with a kind of glazed expression on his face. I couldn't tell if he was struck with a vision of what the place could be—or appalled by what it looked like right then.

“Well, Mr. Tanleven,” said Chris cheerfully, “it looks like you've got your work cut out for you.”

Dad's dream project was a rambling old three-story building, surrounded by a wide porch cluttered with big wooden chairs. The top of the inn was a strange jumble of towers, turrets, dormers, and cupolas.

It was fascinating. But it was also a mess. The porch was sagging, the roof was mossy, and the walls were marked by dark spots where shingles had fallen away.

I shivered. I had never seen a place that looked more likely to be haunted.

CHAPTER FOUR

Baltimore Cleveland

The lobby was empty.

“Hello?” called my father, juggling two suitcases, a tennis racket, and golf clubs.

“Be right with you!” yelled someone in another room.

“That's Baltimore,” my father said. “I recognize his voice.”

We put down our suitcases and looked around.

The fading purple wallpaper was covered with huge red flowers. The threadbare oriental carpet had seen better days—and probably better years. The antique furniture was heavy and dark, and looked as if it had been selected to prove one of my father's favorite sayings: “Just because something is old, it doesn't necessarily follow that it's beautiful.”

I looked at Chris. She looked at me. We rolled our eyes. But before either of us could say anything, a round little man came bustling into the room. “Good morning, good morning!” he cried, ignoring the fact that it was well past noon. “You must be the Tanlevens. I'm Baltimore Cleveland.” He thrust out his arm and began pumping my father's hand.

Chris and I tried to keep from giggling. Baltimore Cleveland looked a little like a creature from a fairy tale. He was about five feet tall (I know because I'm four foot ten, and he was only an inch or so taller than me). His cheeks were as round and as red as a pair of apples. He had twinkling blue eyes with those little crinkles at the sides you always see on people who spend most of their time smiling. His eyebrows were bushy and white, matching the thick fringe of white hair that circled his otherwise bald head. He wore an apron that had once been white, but was now decorated with bits of food of almost every imaginable color. A smudge of flour whitened the tip of his nose.

Dad got his hand free from Mr. Cleveland's grasp and turned toward Chris and me.

“This is my daughter, Nine, and her friend, Chris Gurley.”

“Nine?” asked the innkeeper, giving me a funny look.

“Well, it's really Nina. But everyone calls me Nine, because of my last name.”

He looked puzzled.

“You know, Nine Tan-leven?” I asked, hoping he would get it without any more explanation.

He narrowed his eyes, and then his bushy white eyebrows popped up in surprise. “Oh, I see!” he cried in delight. “Very good. Very good, indeed! Well, I'll call you Nine, and you can call me Baltimore. Or Balty, although I don't particularly like that, since it sounds too much like Baldy.”

“I'll call you Baltimore,” I said, shaking his pudgy hand.

When he had pumped Chris's hand to his satisfaction, Baltimore led us out of the lobby into a wide hall that ended at the foot of a long staircase. I glanced at my father and saw him cringe as he took in the wallpaper. The only thing in the hall that looked good was a huge batch of fresh-cut flowers, sitting in a glass vase on a table set against one wall.

Following Baltimore, we walked up the creaking stairway and then down another long hall decorated with a dozen or so framed pictures. To my surprise, about half of them were fairly good. A group of old photographs caught my attention. I made a mental note to take a closer look at them when I had a chance.

“And here are your rooms,” Baltimore announced, stopping at a pair of doors that stood side by side. “This is for Poppa,” he said, swinging open one door. “And this is for the young ladies.”

“See you later, kids,” said Dad. He stepped into his room. I stepped into ours, hoping it wasn't covered with the kind of wallpaper that would make me want to skip breakfast. Chris was right behind me. “Hey,” she said. “Not bad.”

She was right. To my surprise, the room was almost pretty. It had two brass beds with white coverlets, a desk, a dresser, two battered but comfortable-looking armchairs, and lacy curtains that moved slowly in the breeze. The wallpaper was a simple design of pink and blue stripes.

“Dibs on this one,” said Chris, throwing her suitcase on the bed nearest the window. I thought about fighting her for it, then decided I should let her have it since she was my guest. I watched as she suddenly turned, realizing that maybe she should have waited for me to choose. “Unless you want it,” she said.

I shook my head. “You'll probably catch cold there, anyway,” I said.

“Your closet is here,” said Baltimore, pointing to the only other door in the room. “Your bathroom is the third door on the right as you're heading back to the stairs.”

“We don't have one of our own?” I asked in shock.

Baltimore shook his head. “This is a very old inn,” he said with a smile. “It was a big deal when they brought the plumbing indoors. That was back in—”

He was interrupted by a screeching voice from the top of the stairs. “Baltimore! Baltimore Cleveland! I want to see you this moment!”

“My wife,” said Baltimore with a sigh. “I'd better find out what she wants. You girls have a pleasant afternoon. I'll see you at dinner.”

“Baltimore!” screeched the voice again.

“Coming, Gloria,” called the innkeeper. He bustled off down the hall, wiping his hands on his apron.

Chris looked at me and we both burst out laughing. “Baltimore!” she cried, doing a perfect imitation of the screeching Gloria. “Baltimore Cleveland, you come here right now!”

“Shhh!” I hissed, closing the door and sagging against the wall. “She might hear you.”

We giggled our way through unpacking, first dividing the dresser and the closet equally. I put my stack of books next to my bed, then went to stand at the window.

“Nice view,” said Chris, coming to stand beside me.

She was right. Our window looked out onto the inn's backyard, which was small and neatly trimmed, with a scattering of wooden chairs. The yard was bordered by a stream, about six feet wide, that bounced and bubbled over glistening rocks. The midday sunshine made the water sparkle as though it were filled with diamonds. A little footbridge crossed the stream about fifty feet from our window. The bridge led to a path that disappeared into the forest.

We were just deciding to go and explore when my father stuck his head into the room.

“How are you two doing?” he asked.

“Great,” I said. “Do you mind if we go out for a walk?”

He glanced at his watch. “No problem. But if you can make it back in ninety minutes, Baltimore is going to be giving me a tour of the inn. I thought you might like to come along. It's a fascinating old place.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, glancing at Chris. She nodded.

“Fine,” said Dad. “I'll meet you in the lobby.”

“Are you sure your heart can stand it?” I asked.

He laughed. “It really is horrible, isn't it? I'll just be sure to take a lot of before-and-after photos. Even if I only do a halfway decent job, people will think I'm a genius when they see what the place used to look like. See you guys in an hour and a half.”

He popped back into his room. Chris and I headed out into the hallway, where I remembered the old photographs I had spotted on the way in.

“Stop a minute,” I said. “I want to look at these.”

The five pictures were arranged in a kind of X-shape: two above, two below, and one in the center. Each was in a fancy, gold-painted wooden frame.

They were all interesting, but it was the one in the center that held my attention. It was a picture of a man in a Confederate Army uniform. I've seen other photos from the Civil War period, and while the men are OK, they're not what I'd call gorgeous. That wasn't the case here. This was a picture of one of the most handsome men I had ever seen. He was staring intently at the camera, as people usually did in those old photos. But the serious look in his large, dark eyes was offset by a smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth—as if he couldn't really imagine being
that
serious for long. The gray uniform accented his broad shoulders and trim waist, and there was something exciting about the way his hand rested on the saber at his side.