Some Like it Haunted (A Sophie Rhodes Ghostly Romane Book 2) (4 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
he Red Room was very red.

Red carpet, red velvet curtains, red quilt and pillows on the bed.

And I was seeing red when I nearly tripped over Mr. Haviland’s heels because he stopped short upon entering. And it was no wonder he froze.

Myrtle and Marmaduke were levitating an entire tea set over the floor in front of the fireplace, and both wailed intensely as if auditioning to be voiceover artists for a remake of
The Exorcist
. The loud crashes must have been caused by the two broken tea cups and a Tiffany lamp that lay shattered on the parquet floor.

“My Myrtle, this is jolly good fun. I haven’t had such invigorating amusement in some time,” Marmaduke said. “Here, I do believe I shall wail a tad more. It adds to the effect greatly, I think. Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!”

“Marmi,” I shouted.

Marmaduke lost his concentration and the hovering tea set dropped like a rock, shattering into a million pieces.

“Sophie. Did you witness my success?”

“You were doing fine until she interrupted,” Myrtle complained.

“Was this your room, Myrtle?”

“It’s where I spent my time.”

“You never left before you found Shane?”

She shook her head.

Mr. Haviland and the girl stared at me, dumbfounded.

“Who is she talking to?” Mr. Haviland whispered to Shane.

“Marmi,” Shane replied. He gulped. “And Myrtle. Like we told you, she went home with me last night. I can’t see her though. I can only hear her. She talks a lot.”

The girl who had gone to get us gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Her knees wobbled.

Before she fainted outright I ordered, “Sit down in that chair. Put your head between your knees. Geez. This is a haunted house folks. Aren’t you prepared for ghosts?”

“I’m new here,” Haviland said. “I assumed the stories were just hype to bring in more visitors. Are you quite sure this isn’t some sort of Halloween hoax?”

“A hoax?” Marmi blubbered. “A hoax? I will show him a hoax.” Marmaduke lifted the round rug underneath Mr. Haviland’s feet and yanked. The poor new manager of Spencer House pitched over backwards, right onto his bum.

Myrtle clapped. “Good one! You ain’t such a stuffy suit after all, Mr. Marmaduke.”

He bowed. “It’s Dodsworth. Marmaduke Dodsworth. And I shall take that as a compliment.”

Mr. Haviland scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with fear. “Tell them I mean them no harm!” he sputtered, his hands shaking so badly he had to clench them in a ball. “No harm at all.”

“I am so sorry, Mr. Haviland.” I adjusted the rug so it lay flat on the floor again. “Marmi, please,” I said. “We have important business here and you’re playing around.”

Marmaduke hung his head. “My most abject apologies. It’s just a very freeing activity, you know, having the ability to transport things about again.”

“Did you see anyone else around? You know, of the ghost world?”

“I am afraid we have not had a chance to explore yet.”

“Mr. Haviland,” I said, “would it be okay if we visited the other rooms of the house, just Officer Daniels and I? Myrtle doesn’t know who she is and she has attached herself to him. We need to find out why.” I glanced at Shane. He appeared just as unglued as the others. “For obvious reasons.”

Mr. Haviland’s mouth dropped open as if he wanted to say something, but the words were trapped. Finally he nodded faintly. “We have another tour group walking through in ten minutes. Can you be done by then?”

“Absolutely. Thank you. Are you going to be okay?”

He walked away mumbling. “I think I need to go job hunting again.”

Shane and I stepped into the wide hallway. The Red Room was the first room on the right side of the hallway at the top of the staircase. The first room on the left side of the hallway had a plaque on the wall next to the door that read, “The Georgia Room.”

I poked my head in.

The Georgia Room was floral. A full-size poster bed extended into the middle of the room from one wall. On either side were tables with lace doilies and more Tiffany lamps. The bedspread, curtains, rug, and wing-back chair had enough flowers to save the world’s bees had they been real. Two paintings on the wall were of gardens in full bloom.

Maybe ghosts didn’t like the décor because I didn’t spot a ghost. A plaque on the wall near the light switch described the young girl who had died in the room in the early 1900s. Her name was Georgia Washington Flynn. Sometimes, according to the plaque, visitors to the house will see pretty Georgia, her head full of curls, reading a book on the window settee.

I stared at the window settee. Nope. No Georgia. Maybe she was hiding from me. I whispered her name. “Georgia, are you there?”

My inquiry didn’t elicit a response.

Shane had been too afraid to enter the room with me. He stood outside of the door looking hopeful. “Did she answer?”

I shrugged. “Nope.”

The next room along the hallway was The Witches’ Room. A gas-lit fire roared in the fireplace. It was furnished like a sitting room or den. Two wing-back chairs were placed in front of the fireplace with a small round table between them. On the opposite wall was a green velvet sofa flanked by two more chairs. On yet another wall, between two windows, was a larger round table with two chairs and a crystal ball. Above this table on the wall was the plaque explaining the history of The Witches’ Room. Interested, I stepped to the plaque for a read.

“It’s safe to come in, Shane,” I said. “No ghosts or goblins in here either.”

He came forward, giving the surroundings a quick and nervous survey. “Then why not move on? He only gave us ten minutes.”

“I know. This will only take a minute. I want to see who these witches were.” I read aloud from the plaque. “Bettina and Paloma Artuso were sisters who immigrated to America in 1870. Proud of their craft, they openly sold their services to townspeople of Stephens City. From potions to tarot readings to spell casting, they did it all. When evicted from their small house on Henry Street, the lady of Spencer House, a devoted client, allowed them to reside in her home. They utilized this room for visiting with clients. One morning in 1879, both women were found dead on the floor in front of the fireplace. Rumors surrounding their mysterious deaths were many, but the most often-heard is that the lady of the house, Anna Spencer, poisoned them upon learning a scandalous truth—that both of the women had bedded her husband.” I gave that scandalous truth some thought. “Hm. Do you think he bedded them at the same time, or separately?”

A clattering behind me startled me from my puzzlement. I turned around to find Shane picking up a small brown bottle from the floor. “Klutzy fingers,” he said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It came from this rack. I barely touched it.”

An oak rack similar to one used to hold spices hung on the wall off to one side of the couch.

A pungent odor overwhelmed my nostrils. I made a face. “What’s that smell?”

“It’s bad, isn’t it? I think it’s the bottle. Something leaked out of it.” He took a whiff. “Oh yeah, that’s it.” He shoved the bottle under my nose.

“Ew! Smells like, I don’t know, dead animal or something.” I took the bottle from him and tried to read the label. Dim lighting blurred the already faint lettering. I took it closer to one of the Tiffany lamps and tried to focus in. “Lost,” I read aloud. “That’s strange. What does ‘lost’ mean?”

I placed it back in the one empty slot on the rack. I squinted to read another label. “True...Love? Is that what that says?” I moved to the next one. “This one is easier to read—Wealth. And next to it is Fame. Ah, they’re potions. That makes sense. I wonder what the Lost potion is for. Finding lost people? Lost souls?”

“Come on, Soph,” Shane said, “we’re taking way too much time in this one room.”

I nodded. As we started to leave, two figures appeared in front of us. I stopped instinctively.

“What?” Shane asked.

“You don’t see them?”

“See what?”

The two ladies smiled at us. Bettina and Paloma were twins. They had identical thin noses, angular cheeks, brown eyes and long dark hair. They were young with strikingly beautiful features. Not at all the image of scary witches in fairy tales.

One of the two women began chanting, but I didn’t understand a word of what she said. It might have been Italian or Latin, but it all sounded like gobbledygook to me. I latched on to one word only because it was repeated over and over—Lussuria. Name of a city, maybe?

“I don’t suppose you heard anything either?” I asked Shane.

“In a minute I’m going to hear the sound of Mr. Haviland telling us our time is up,” he said. He pulled on my arm. “Let’s go.”

Only we couldn’t go. As we attempted to walk through the two ghosts an invisible wall knocked us back.

The other woman rattled off a few more words of gibberish, mentioned the city of Lussuria again, then gave me a nod. “It is done.” Both ladies faded from sight.

Shane was visibly shaken by the invisible barrier stopping us. He lifted a foot tentatively in a second attempt and this time stepped successfully past the door frame. He blew out a sigh of relief. “That was creepy. For a minute there I thought something was holding us back.”

Still wondering what the witch meant by, “It is done,” I decided not to tell him that the barrier wasn’t his imagination. Bettina and Paloma had prevented us from leaving the room while they did their thing. Only, what thing were they doing?

I shook off a bad feeling and followed Shane into the hall. Marmaduke and Myrtle sat on the stairs discussing the more difficult task of turning lights off and on again. “I ain’t ever done it myself,” Myrtle said. “But I’m up for tryin’ anything once.”

I wanted to check out the next room, but Mr. Haviland bounded up the stairs. “Please don’t set your ghosts on me, but the next tour is about to begin, and I really do need to ask you to go. Maybe you could come back another time. When we’re closed to the public.”

“We understand,” I said.

“Sure we do,” Shane agreed. He shook Haviland’s hand. “Thank you for giving us some time now.”

“Was it helpful?” he asked, less suspicious and more sincere now.

“I don’t know. Myrtle, did you remember anything?”

“Nothin’ more than I already told ya.”

I indicated Mr. Haviland. “Is he the man that Shane was talking to when you felt the pull toward Shane?”

She nodded. “That’s him.”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure we made any progress tonight. I know you’re a skeptic,” I told Haviland, pulling one of Cal’s business cards out of my purse and scribbling my number on the back, “but if you hear anything from one of your tour guides or other employees here about the Red Room ghost—anything that might tell us who she is—would you call me?”

He took the card slowly, but willingly. After checking behind him to make sure no one else was around to hear, he leaned in and whispered, “If I was inclined to believe, what would this ghost look like?”

“Shorter than me by about four inches,” I said, biting back a smile, “round in girth, blond hair down to her shoulders.”

“Red cheeks and a pretty face,” Shane answered.

“There!” Myrtle said defiantly. “I told you he can see me.”

“I can’t see you,” he said defending himself, “Sophie described you that way.”

Mr. Haviland shook his head at Shane arguing with thin air. He backed down the stairs. “Yes, well, if I have any information for you, I’ll be sure to get in touch. The exit is down these stairs and out the back hallway. Have a, uh, Happy Halloween.”

Cal rang me during our walk back to the car. “I finally got rid of Rachel,” he said.

“No life-threatening gas leak?” I asked.

“Nope. Did you solve Shane’s dilemma?”

“Nope. Are you as exhausted as I am?”

“Yup.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That we should go to bed and try tomorrow night?”

“Thank goodness we think alike. But I have your car.”

“Pick me up on the way to work tomorrow.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

“Dream about me?” he asked in a sleepy voice.

“I plan on it.”

“‘Night,” he said.

“Good night.”

With the car in sight, I unlocked it with the remote.

“Did I ruin your plans?” Shane asked, opening the passenger door.

“It’s not your fault,” I assured him. “Things happen.” I started the engine and pulled out into traffic. “There are other nights.”

“So are we still at square one?” he asked. “With Myrtle, I mean.”

“I would like to know why I feel so strongly that he has the answers I’m lookin’ for,” Myrtle sighed from the back seat. “‘Cuz quite frankly, he sure doesn’t seem to have any answers.”

“Gee thanks,” Shane snapped.

“Can you blame me?” she asked.

“I certainly cannot place blame with you,” Marmaduke chimed in. “It is utterly astounding how grossly he lacks answers of any kind.”

I’d come down on Shane pretty hard in the past, but I understood his current dilemma. True, we hadn’t come away with any winning cards in our gamble visiting Spencer House, but I had an ace up my sleeve.

“Don’t worry,” I told Shane. “I think I know someone who might be able to help.”