The Ghost Wore Gray (3 page)

Chris sighed. “What a hunk. Too bad he's dead.”

That was when it happened.

I shivered and looked at Chris. She was already looking at me.

“Did you feel that?” she whispered.

I nodded. Frozen in place, I turned my head ever so slightly and rolled my eyes to the side so I could look over my shoulder.

There was no one there—no one who could have laid an ice-cold hand on the back of my neck.

But I had felt it. And so had Chris.

“Come on,” she said. “Let's get out of here!”

We got.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Secret Cemetery

“Hunk alert,” whispered Chris.

“I don't think I can take it,” I said. “I'm still recovering from the hunk in the hallway.”

“Well, this one is alive and well and standing about thirty feet to your left.”

We were in the backyard of the Quackadoodle, still trying to figure out if what had happened in the hallway was just a trick of our imaginations. I decided to put the question on hold and check out the action on the left.

Chris was right. The tall blond slapping green paint on one of the wooden chairs was definitely alive and well. He looked up and smiled at us. “Hi, girls,” he said, waving his paintbrush.

I felt myself begin to blush.

He put down the paintbrush and ambled in our direction. “Are you staying here?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Good. I think you'll like it. Baltimore's a good host. But watch out for Gloria. She's—”

Before he could finish the sentence, a shrill voice came arrowing out of an upstairs window. “Peter! Peter Gorham! You get back to work!”

Peter winked at us. “Speak of the devil,” he whispered. “I'd better go paint. Stop and chat with me later if you feel like it.”

It took all my willpower to keep from reaching out to push back the curl of blond hair that had fallen down over his forehead.

“We'll probably do that,” said Chris.

“Peter!” cried the voice from the window.

“Yes, ma'am!” he yelled. “Right away.” He dropped his voice. “See you later,” he whispered as he headed back to his job.

“I don't get it,” I said when we stopped on the footbridge to watch the water chuckle along. “Why would a guy who looks like that, and who has to be at least nineteen, bother with the two of us?”

“Speak for yourself!” said Chris. “I may be only eleven, but I'm irresistible to men.”

“So are potato chips,” I said. “And dips, which you happen to be if you think you're ready to knock any man over fourteen off his feet.”

She shrugged. “Maybe we're the only girls here. Maybe he just likes to gossip. Or maybe it was my hazel eyes.”

“You can't see hazel eyes from where we were standing,” I pointed out. “I vote for boredom.”

“Well, I vote we keep walking if we're going to see anything before we have to meet your father,” she answered.

We crossed the bridge and entered the forest. Between the shadows and the silence, the place seemed almost magical. It was warm and lazy. Shafts of brightness struck down through the trees, making puddles of gold on the scatterings of last year's leaves. The air smelled of pine trees, damp soil, and something else that I couldn't quite place, but which seemed rich and alive. It reminded me of the places I used to see in my head when my mother read me fairy tales.

“I love it,” whispered Chris.

I nodded. But I didn't speak. I felt it was somehow improper to say too much in this place.

We wandered on, following the path through the trees. Sometimes it bordered the stream, sometimes it veered away so we couldn't see the sparkle of the water. But we could always hear it rushing along off to our right.

The path made a wide loop and began to struggle its way up a hill. The sound of the moving water became faint for a while. Then, as we circled back, it grew louder again. Before long it was no longer a burble but a roar. I thought I knew what that meant. So I was delighted, but not too surprised, when the path took us around a tall rock and we found ourselves standing at the top of a beautiful waterfall.

“What a spot for a moonlight stroll,” said Chris. She was standing on one of the large rocks that edged the falls, gazing down to where the stream tumbled into a foaming pool some thirty or forty feet below.

“Yeah, and I know who you'd like to go strolling with,” I said.

We dawdled by the waterfall for a while, until I noticed a very faint path leading off to the right. It didn't look as though anyone had used it for some time.

“Let's see where this goes,” I said.

To our surprise, it led to a tiny cemetery.

The graveyard was in a clearing, or what had once been a clearing; now it was starting to fill in with small trees and shrubs again. Fifteen or twenty old tombstones dotted the area. Flowering vines crawled over many of the taller stones, and the grass was so high that some of the shorter markers could hardly be seen. I wondered if other, even smaller stones had been completely covered by the grass. The idea seemed sad to me.

We stood at the edge of the cemetery for a moment. Then Chris picked up a stick and walked over to the nearest tombstone. Pushing aside the prickly canes of an old-fashioned rose, she revealed the words underneath: “Martha Ives—1871 to 1882.”

“Eleven years old,” she said. “The same as us.”

I took a deep breath. We wandered around and read the other stones. Most of them seemed to have come from the 1870s and 1880s. The only exception was a tall stone at the far side of the cemetery. When we pushed aside the vines to read the inscription this is what we found.

Jonathan Gray

Captain in the Confederate Army

Born 1837

Died 1863

Erected in Loving Memory by His Many Friends

1875

I looked at Chris. “Confederate Army. Do you suppose that could be the guy whose picture is hanging in the inn?” I asked.

Before she could answer, something happened that pretty much answered my question.

I felt an icy hand brush against my neck.

“Come on!” I said. Grabbing Chris by the hand, I headed for the path. From the look in her eyes I didn't have to explain. She had felt the same thing.

We raced back past the waterfall and into the woods. It was only when we were about halfway back to the inn and had stopped to catch our breath that I remembered we were supposed to meet my father and Baltimore for a tour. I had a feeling we were pretty late, so we started to run again.

Dad was standing on the porch studying his watch when Chris and I came rushing around the corner of the inn. He looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” I gasped. “We went for a walk in the woods and lost track of the time.”

He nodded and walked back into the building.

“Is he mad?” asked Chris nervously.

“I don't think so,” I said. “Not unless we're later than I think. He just wants me to know I goofed up.”

I could see her relax a little. “You're lucky,” she said. “My father doesn't believe in silent messages.”

When we went into the lobby we found Baltimore and my father talking. Actually, Baltimore was doing the talking. My father was listening to the little man, who at one point actually flapped his arms as though he were about to take off. He turned when he heard us enter.

“Hello, hello!” he cried as though he hadn't seen us for days. “Are you all set for the grand tour?”

“Can't wait,” I said. “I love old buildings.”

“I see you've trained her well,” said Baltimore, winking at my father. I started to object—calling me “trained” made me feel like a dog. But Baltimore had already jumped into his presentation.

“The first Quackadoodle was built in 1805,” he said, his white eyebrows waggling. “Unfortunately, it burned to the ground in 1806. The second was built in 1807. It lasted twenty years before fire got it, too. The third inn was put up in 1833. That's the building we're standing in now—or at least part of it. There have been a lot of additions over the years.”

Baltimore led us out of the lobby, through the hall with the stairway, and into a large room filled with tables. A stone fireplace took up most of the wall to our left. “The Quackadoodle dining room,” said Baltimore proudly. Two women were hurrying around the room, preparing it for dinner. One of them was setting out silverware and straightening the white linen tablecloths. The other was putting pink flowers into small white vases.

Baltimore raised his voice. “Martha,” he called. “Isabella! I want you to meet some special guests.”

The women looked up. The woman with the flowers was named Isabella. She was very pretty, with dark skin and dark eyes that seemed to have something hidden inside them. Martha, the woman with the silverware, looked as cold and sharp as the knives she was holding. She was much older than Isabella—somewhere in her midfifties was my father's guess, when I asked him later.

Baltimore introduced us and told the women not to be concerned if they saw my father poking around in odd places. He would have to do that as part of his planning for the renovation. I noticed Isabella's eyes widen when Baltimore mentioned why my father was there.
That's odd
, I thought to myself.
I wonder why she's so interested
. I made a note to talk to Chris about it later.

“Let me show you the kitchen,” said Baltimore. He led us through the dining room, which had beautiful windows looking out onto the forest. But the wallpaper should have been arrested for attacking people's eyes.

A pair of swinging doors led into the kitchen. Just as Baltimore was about to push on one of them, the other flew open and Peter Gorham came barreling out as if there were a demon on his tail.

“
Schweinhund!
” cried an angry voice on the far side of the door. “
Dumbkopf!
Imbecile!” I heard a dull thwacking sound. The cursing stopped.

Baltimore grabbed the edge of the door and pulled it open, using it as a shield. Peering around the edge, he found himself face to face with an enormous knife.

CHAPTER SIX

The Unexpected Guest

“Dieter!” bellowed Baltimore. “How many times do I have to tell you not to throw things at the help?”

He pulled the blade out of the door and walked into the kitchen. “Come on,” he said, sticking his bald head back around the door into the dining room. “I want you to meet our cook, Dieter Schwartz.” (Dieter might seem like a funny name for a cook. But you don't say it the way it looks; it rhymes with “Peter.”)

I looked at my father. He shrugged and followed Baltimore. Chris and I stayed close at his heels. I glanced at the back of the door as we went through. It had dozens of knife marks in it.

Dieter Schwartz was actually shorter than Baltimore Cleveland. His face, which seemed to be mostly nose, was red with anger. He stood beside a big pot, scooping something out of it with a ladle, then slapping the ladle back in. He had a disgusted look on his face, and a steady stream of angry German curses was coming out of his mouth. “Dolt!” he cried, switching to English. “I asked him to stir this, and look at it.
Look at it!
”

He held up a spoonful of the stuff. It looked like a combination of silly putty and gravel, only thicker.

“What is it?” Baltimore asked.

“Cream sauce!” bellowed Dieter as though someone had stabbed him through the heart. Then, more weakly, he repeated, “Cream sauce.”

Baltimore shook his head sympathetically. “Looks pretty bad,” he said. “But I've told you Peter's no cook. That's not what I hired him for.”

“I cannot do everything!” cried Dieter. “I must have more help.”

Baltimore looked a little nervous. “We'll talk about that later, Dieter. Right now, I want you to meet some special guests.”

You would have sworn he had pulled some kind of lever inside Dieter Schwartz's head; although we had been standing right in front of him, he seemed to see us for the first time.

“How pleased I am to make your acquaintance,” he said to each of us, as Baltimore introduced us. “You must forgive my little tantrum. I treat my food as an artist treats his paintings, and I cannot bear to have it destroyed like this.” He gestured tragically toward the pot of putty. “I fear you have formed a bad impression of me. Ah! I know what will help. Here, try one of these!”

He rushed to the far side of the kitchen and came back with a pastry in each hand. He gave one to me and one to Chris.

I thanked him.

“Eat! Eat!” he cried, waving his hands in the air.

I took a bite.

You can forgive a lot in a man who can make something that tastes like that.

“It's wonderful!” said Chris.

“Yes, I know,” said Dieter, putting his hands behind his back and rising up on his tiptoes. “I am a genius.”

My father was looking longingly at the pastry in my hand. I was just about to offer him a bite when we were interrupted by a familiar shriek. “Baltimore! Baltimore Cleveland! You come here this minute.”

Baltimore sighed. “I guess the rest of our tour will have to wait,” he said. “Gloria wants me for something.” He handed my father the tube he had been carrying. “Here are the old floor plans I promised you. Dinner's at seven. I'll see you then.”

“It was
supposed
to be at seven,” said Dieter, looking gloomily at his ruined cream sauce. “Now, I don't know.”

“Baltimore!”

The innkeeper winced. “Coming, dear.” He turned toward us. “Seven o'clock,” he said. Then he hurried off.

“Well,” said my father, nodding at the tempermental cook, “I guess we'd better be going, too.”

“Go, go!” cried Dieter, turning back to the stove. “I must create! I want dinner tonight to please the young ladies!”