The Ghost of Grey Fox Inn (4 page)

“He was there,” I interrupted, leaning back against the bookcases for support. My heart was racing. “In my room. Just like Charlotte said. I don't understand it, but I—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” George said, raising her hands. “Take it easy. Let's go back to your room; you can explain everything. And here”—she handed me her glass of lemonade—“I think you need this more than I do.”

Setting the candle back on the table in the hallway, we returned to my room. Once we had settled down, I went through everything that happened with George. The sighting was virtually identical to Charlotte's account, and I felt sheepish for doubting her. But that still left the question: If we weren't dealing with a
rambunctious ghost, how was this person getting in and out of the rooms? And more importantly: What did they want?

As I spoke, George paced the room, her eyebrows knitted in thought. Suddenly she stopped midstep and knelt down to inspect something at her feet. “What's this?” she asked.

I walked over to her and saw that she had found a scattering of gray-brown dust on the floor near one wall. It was arranged in a jagged line, as if it had fallen from something as it passed by. I touched some of it and raised my finger to my nose. It smelled of earth and smoke. “Ash,” I said with certainty. “But it's the height of summer! No one's using the inn's fireplaces now. Where could it have come from?”

George shook her head, puzzled. “No idea. But it's the only clue we've got.”

I sat back on my heels, a familiar feeling tingling in my gut.

“You think there's a mystery afoot?” George asked, her eyes on mine.

“I don't know—yet,” I answered. “But there's no denying that something strange is going on.”

George nodded, and yawned hugely. “Well, whatever it is, I think it can wait until morning,” she said sleepily.

“Yes,” I agreed, yawning back at her. “Good night, then.”

After George went back to her room, I locked and bolted the door once more, but realized that doing so was a futile gesture. If something wanted to get in, I didn't know how to stop it.

Needless to say, it took quite a while for me to get back to sleep.

The next time I woke up, the room was bathed in sunlight, which made the events of the night before feel almost like a dream. I was brushing my teeth when I first heard the sound of many voices filtering up from the floor below. When I looked at my clock, I saw that it was only seven thirty in the morning; what could possibly have that many people up and chattering at this early hour?

Ten minutes later I walked down the spiral staircase to find many of the same guests from last night's gathering back in the main room, talking animatedly among themselves.

“It was the darnedest thing,” I heard one woman say. “The door just slammed, all by itself!”

“A whole shelf's worth of books fell to the floor,” a man nearby exclaimed. “Right in front of my eyes!”

The elderly woman who had asked for Parker's picture was shaking her head somberly in reaction to some other tale of supernatural happenings from last night. “The out-of-towners might deny it,” she said with a knowing tone. “But any Charleston native knows that this old place has more ghosts than a Halloween fun house!”

A moment later Bess and George appeared next to me, Bess looking much more rested than both George and I did. “Well,” I told them, “it looks like I wasn't the only one to have a visitor last night. Everyone seems to have a story of their own!”

John William, the owner of the inn, was surrounded
by a throng of people, regaling them with stories about the inn's ghosts. Some of Parker's friends from the news were among them, scribbling into slim notebooks.

“The Grey Fox hasn't seen paranormal activity on this scale in decades,” he said. “It's almost unprecedented. Perhaps the ghosts wanted to be a part of the wedding of the year too!” A few people tittered at the joke, and one of the reporters pushed through to the front, asking John William some more questions.

Bess nudged me, nodding her head toward the other side of the room, where Mrs. Hill stood with her husband behind the breakfast table, dabbing at her temples with a silk handkerchief. She looked pale and distraught, her eyes rimmed with red. “Looks like not everyone is enjoying the ghosts as much as John William is,” Bess noted.

I nodded. Mrs. Hill was murmuring something to her husband, but I couldn't hear what she was saying. Curious, I told the girls I wanted to pick up a few croissants and some juice and made my way over to where they were standing.

“What are we going to do, Cash?” I heard Mrs. Hill say as I neared. “I thought we were doing good by our boy by picking this place, and now look what's happened. This dignified ceremony is turning into some kind of dog and pony show!” She shuddered. “What if this is a bad omen?”

I winced. It looked like Charlotte's hope to keep all this a secret had been short-lived.

“Come on now, sugar, be reasonable,” Mr. Hill replied. “A few little spooks and specters aren't gonna ruin our boy's big day. Everything's going to be fine.”

“We should have stayed at the Palmetto Inn,” Mrs. Hill said, loud enough for everyone around the table to hear. “I knew there was a reason this place had so many vacancies at the height of wedding season, and now we know what it is.” Then Mr. Hill whisked his wife away, muttering something about last-minute table adjustments for the reception.

Next to me, I saw Charlotte's mother pouring herself a cup of coffee, with Mr. Goodwin standing next to her, a steaming mug already in his hands. He was
staring after the Hills, shaking his head in obvious irritation. “If she wanted the Palmetto Inn,” he muttered to Mrs. Goodwin, “they could have paid for it themselves. We would have had to take out a second mortgage on the house to pay for that place.”

“Russell!” Mrs. Goodwin admonished him, her eyes scanning the room. “Keep your voice down, will you?” She caught me watching them before I could avert my gaze. “Oh, good morning—Nancy, is it? I hope you got more rest last night than the rest of us!”

“Actually . . . ,” I started to say, but my voice trailed off when I saw Charlotte standing across the room. She must have just come downstairs. She was surrounded by a group of guests who—from the look of panic spreading over her face—were probably filling her in on the evening's many hauntings. “Excuse me, Mrs. Goodwin, I'm going to go see if Charlotte needs anything.”

As I made my way across the room, I saw that George and Bess had had the same idea and were already at Charlotte's side. “Sorry, everyone!” Bess
called out to the group of guests. “I'm going to have to steal the beautiful bride for a bit—lots to do today!” And with that, Bess smoothly ushered Charlotte out of the main room and onto the front patio.

“Thank you so much,” Charlotte said to Bess as soon as the door closed behind us. “I don't know how much longer I could have lasted in there. Between my parents and Parker's parents being at each other's throats, and all these ghost sightings last night”—she plopped heavily into a wicker rocking chair—“this wedding is turning out to be a complete disaster.”

“Don't be silly,” Bess said. “These kinds of problems always happen at weddings. Don't you remember Aunt Jessica and Uncle John's wedding? How the product they used in Aunt Jess's hair attracted a whole hive full of bees right in the middle of the ceremony? Well, they still had a lovely wedding and are happily married—despite a few little stings! Right?” She patted Charlotte's arm. “Let's focus on getting things done. What do you need to do this morning?”

Charlotte nodded. “You're right. Worrying doesn't
help. Well, we need to go drop off something at the bakery making the cakes, and a check for the florist as well.”

“Not a moment to waste, then!” Bess said. “Let's go, ladies!”

A little while later, we arrived at the Sugar & Spice Bakery, a tiny boutique with powder-blue and cotton-candy-pink decor. A cloud of warm, sweet-smelling air greeted us the moment we walked through the door, and my mouth instantly started to water. I was starving—I had been so caught up in eavesdropping that I hadn't gotten a bite to eat back at the inn. A larger-than-life woman emerged from the back—she wore a white apron, and her hands were covered with a thin layer of flour. “Well, hello, honey!” she boomed at the sight of Charlotte. “Oh, I see you brought some friends today!”

“Hi, Carla,” Charlotte said. It was the first time I'd seen her smile today.

“Come on inside, everybody,” Carla said, ushering
us farther in with a wave of her enormous arm. “I just pulled a tray of blackberry muffins from the oven—y'all can be my guinea pigs.”

And before I knew it, a warm muffin oozing with blackberry juice was stuffed into my hands. I took a bite and groaned. “This is the best thing I've ever eaten,” I said through a mouthful.

Carla hooted with laughter. “Girl, you're just trying to get on my good side, ain't you?” She turned to Charlotte. “Now, honey, have you brought them?”

Charlotte rifled through her purse until she found a small white box. When she opened it, I saw four silver charms inside, each one with a white ribbon tied to it. She handed the box to Carla. “What are those for?” George asked.

“It's part of a Southern wedding tradition,” Charlotte explained, “called a charm cake. In addition to the wedding cake, the couple has a second cake made with different charms baked between the layers. The ribbons are left trailing out. During the reception, each of the bridesmaids and the maid of honor chooses a
ribbon and pulls out the charm. The charms all have different meanings.”

“Kind of like a fortune cookie,” George said.

Charlotte nodded.

“Speaking of charm,” Carla said, leaning across the counter, “how about you tell that charming fiancé of yours to do a local interest story about a very special bakery right here in downtown Charleston?”

Charlotte chuckled. “For you, Carla—anything,” she said.

“Ooh, sugar,” Carla hummed with a blinding smile, “I'm going to bake you a cake you are never going to forget!”

Next we made our way to the florist, which was only a few blocks away. The shop was bustling with employees rushing in and out with bundles of flowers, while a tall, reedy man barked orders at them from behind a desk. “The lilies are for the Rogers/Flynn wedding, not the Thompson funeral! And get those orchids on ice before they wilt!”

“I'm sorry to bother you,” Charlotte said, walking
up to him. “But I've just come to drop off a check for the remainder of my order.”

“It's not a bother, my dear,” the man said, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. “It's always like this in the late summer months. Everyone is either getting married or dying, all at the same time.” He took the check from her hand and squinted at it. “Hmm,” he muttered, and tapped at the keys of his laptop.

“Is something wrong?” Charlotte asked.

“Ah, yes,” the man said, looking at the screen. “I'm sorry, miss, but this isn't enough to cover the cost.”

Charlotte looked perplexed. “I don't understand. I called just last week, and this was the figure you quoted me.”

The man nodded. “Yes, but that was before you changed the rose color from white to yellow. We don't get a lot of demand for yellow roses, so I had to have them custom ordered.”

Charlotte had gone pale. “Changed the color? But—but I never did that.”

“You must be mistaken, miss,” the man replied. “I got
a call from you just yesterday, making that specific request. I thought it was strange myself, given what most people think about yellow roses, but I figured, to each his own.”

Charlotte had her head in her hands. I turned to her and asked, “Why would someone impersonate you just to change the color of your roses? It doesn't make any sense.”