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For the next hour and forty-five minutes, the aging concierge led the small group through the hotel, stringing them along on a spine-tingling, breathtaking adventure. Gera was certain the man had missed his calling. He should be on Broadway, she determined. Or in Hollywood. The man was a master at storytelling, weaving such a believable and heart-wrenching tale that even she almost succumbed to the notion that ghosts roamed among them.
Almost, but still not quite.
The tour ran over schedule. What the group lacked in numbers, it made up for in enthusiasm. Judging from the faces of her companions and the way they gathered around their guide for any last tidbit of information, even after the tour officially ended, Gera was the only holdout of the bunch.
When Gera quietly left the group, no one noticed her departure. Leo was telling another of his tales, this one about his life here as a child. His one true regret, he told them, was that he never knew Miss Cordelia in her prime. He was born months after the tragedy of ‘38. She was never the same after that, folks said, withering slowly away into a shell of her former self.
Gera consulted her watch and picked up the pace, hurrying downstairs to the restaurant. She hoped they would seat her, even though the clock showed straight up nine o’clock.
The lights were already dim. Only one couple remained at a table. Gera’s stomach protested with a loud grumble as she turned away. Hopefully there was something in town still open.
When she heard someone call her name, she looked back and saw Jake, the night clerk, seated near the windows. He motioned her forward.
“Were you hoping to eat?” he asked.
“Yes, but it appears I’m too late. The kitchen is obviously closed.” She looked around in disappointment, at the wait staff resetting tables for breakfast.
“Not necessarily. Have a seat.” His smile was cryptic as he motioned to the chair beside him. “Is there anything you can’t or won’t eat?” he asked.
“Uh, I don’t do liver. Or English peas.” A ripple of revulsion shimmied through her. “And I’m a little iffy on most Chinese food.”
He handed her a basket of assorted breads as he stood. “Here, nibble on these while I go sweet talk the chef. I’ll see if we can still rustle you up a meal.”
“Are you sure? I hate to be a bother...” She tried to sound humble, but her eyes lit with anticipation. Her stomach chose that moment to give another rumble.
Jake laughed aloud, a very pleasant sound. “Seriously, have a roll. I’ll be right back.”
Gera stole a glance at her reflection in the mirror and finger-combed her hair, smoothing down the wayward spikes. After years of wearing her hair at or below the shoulder, she was still getting accustomed to the shorter style. The new cut emphasized her wide-spaced gray eyes, but she didn’t like the way it often left her ears exposed. She picked at the ends now, tugging them over the tips of her ears.
She saw Jake’s reflection behind her as he made his way back from the kitchen. He carried himself with ease, obviously comfortable in his own skin. She liked that in a man.
“One chef specialty, coming up,” he reported as he took his seat.
“I’d say it wasn’t necessary, but my stomach demands otherwise,” Gera grinned. “Sorry to be such a bother. The tour took longer than I imagined.”
“The ghost tour?” Jake asked in surprise.
“Yes. I’ve just returned from the Leo the Performer Grand Puppet Show.” She used a flourishing hand movement to embellish her tone.
Amusement danced in Jake’s blue eyes. “Ah, he must’ve changed up the act. I don’t recall any puppets last time I tagged along.”
“His entourage,” Gera clarified. “I must say, that man is quite the performer. One tug and everyone danced like puppets on a string.”
“Everyone but you,” Jake noted shrewdly.
She lifted one shoulder. “In my opinion, he laid it on a bit too thick. But the others seemed to lap it up, so I guess it evened out quite well.”
A waiter brought water and a chilled bottle of wine, compliments of the chef. Jake was clearly impatient as the man poured each of them a glass, but Gera noted that he remained polite. She liked that in a man, too.
The moment the waiter was gone, Jake returned to their conversation. He was eager to hear her opinion, another huge plus in Gera’s book. Not, of course, that she was keeping score on his best qualities. Like she told Loretta, she wasn’t looking for a man.
“What was it about the tour you didn’t like?” he asked.
“Nothing. Honestly, the tour was fine. Very informative. I learned a lot about the hotel and the town as a whole. I just thought the whole thing was a bit... theatrical. There was one point when a woman on the tour almost broke out in tears. She’s a guest in the hotel, and her room ‘tested positive’ for ghosts. The poor woman was almost hysterical.”
A frown marred Jake’s handsome face. “That is unfortunate,” he agreed.
Gera continued with a nod. “I wouldn’t doubt it if she checked out this evening or, at the very least, requested another room. She looked petrified.”
“What happened?”
“Leo was telling us a tale about a young woman who fell to her death from the second floor. It shouldn’t have killed her, except that she landed on a pointed rock that—well, you know the story, I’m sure.” She broke off, realizing impalement wasn’t a suitable topic for dinner conversation. “Supposedly her spirit roams the halls at night, looking for the person who pushed her. So when the EMF meters went off and someone caught what they called an orb on their digital camera, Mrs. Gullible almost lost it.”
“Mrs. who?”
Seeing his confused scowl, Gera was quick to explain, “Sorry, it’s a silly habit I have, assigning nicknames to people in my mind.”
A teasing light sparkled in her companion’s eyes. “Oh? And what would my nickname be?”
Without thinking it through, a name popped from her mouth. “Clark Kent.”
Jake was clearly amused. He cocked his brow and said with mock indignation, “Not Superman?”
Gera hated the color that bloomed within her cheeks. So she found him attractive. And maybe he did remind her a bit of the caped hero’s alter ego. She suspected there was much more to the man than his easy smile and friendly demeanor.
She tried for a casual shrug. “They’re one and the same, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know, are they?” Behind his glasses, his blue eyes danced with merriment.
Gera fanned her flaming cheeks. “No need for an infra-red thermometer in here,” she muttered. “Definitely too warm for ghosts.”
Jake threw back his dark head and laughed, but he was gracious enough to let her off the hook. “Was that the only spirit you encountered tonight?” he asked.
She happily changed the subject. “According to Leo, we may have also rubbed elbows with the murdered Penelope, a lovesick prostitute named Angie who mourned herself to death when her baby was stillborn, and a fellow named Samson. I forget what happened to him...”
“He was a worker who somehow managed to get trapped next to the furnace,” Jake readily supplied. “He didn’t actually burn to death, but from heat and dehydration.”
“Is it just me, or is that more deaths than normal for one house to bear?”
With a shrug, Jake took a sip of wine before answering. “Not just any house, mind you. A century-old house. One with many occupants and a long, unique history.”
She recalled Leah’s words from the previous evening. “Yes, I understand you know all about the history of the house.”
“I admit, I’m a bit of a history buff.”
“So is it common, even here in Jerome, that one house has seen so many deaths?”
“I suppose we’re a bit over our quota,” Jake conceded.
“A nice bonus if you’re running a haunted hotel,” Gera said, studying Jake over the rim of her wineglass.
A look of irritation crossed his face. “Are you saying we exploit their deaths?”
“I’m saying it never hurts having such a tragic past, if you’re trying to sell the concept of ghosts.”
“Is that what you think we’re doing?”
“Perhaps not you personally, but the owners are making a killing off the ghost angle.”
“You say this because...”
“Oh, I noticed that Leo was quite careful with his wording. He did an excellent job of never coming out and making a direct claim that the hotel was haunted. He made a point of saying ‘some folks say’ or ‘guests tell us.’ He asked us to explore the possibility that ghosts exist, rather than claiming they were real. But the man is a master at his craft. His stories were suspenseful, his delivery impeccable. He didn’t have to say there were ghosts present. Everyone else said it for him.”
“Everyone but you.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.” It had become her mantra.
Before Jake could respond, the waiter delivered their meals. Jake’s was a thick cut of steak, piled high with mushrooms, tomatoes, peppers, and thinly sliced potatoes. Gera’s had many of the same vegetables, swirled into a creamy sauce over pasta and chicken.
“I have no idea what this is, but it is delicious,” she breathed after just one bite.
“I’ll be certain to tell the chef,” Jake said. “Sometimes these conglomerations end up on the menu.”
“This one should,” she insisted. She closed her eyes as she took another bite. “Delicious.”
Always a great moderator, the food worked its magic, chipping away at the sharp edges of their previous words. The mood shifted, mellowing with each click of their forks against their plates. By the time the waiter appeared with a tray of decadent desserts, they were chattering away and laughing like two old friends.
Gera eyed the sweet, delicate creations offered. “I can’t decide,” she admitted. “They all look divine.”
“We’ll take them all,” Jake said, drawing a gasp from Gera. “Leave the tray.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Cody.”
“The whole tray?” Gera cried as the waiter slid the tray between them and promised to return with coffee. “Do you have any idea how many calories that is, not to mention the c...” Her words trailed off as she interrupted herself. “Wait a minute. He called you Mr. Cody.”
“Yes, that is correct. My name is Jake Cody.”
“Then that means you—you’re—”
A light of amusement flickered in his eyes. He nodded and confirmed, “That’s right. I’m one of the owners who is making a ‘killing,’ so you claim, off the ‘ghost angle’ of this hotel.”
Gera opened her mouth to say something, then shut it. Words came out on the second try. “I do apologize. I had no idea...”
“No need to apologize. You gave me your honest opinion, something you wouldn’t have done, had you known my true identity. I appreciate your candor.”
“It would’ve been nice,” she grumbled, “if you had kept me from inserting my entire foot into my mouth.”
Jake pushed a piece of cake toward her. “If there’s any room left in there around your foot, try this. It’s a house specialty.”
Jake pulled a bowl of bread pudding from the tray and set it between them, followed by a slice of cheesecake. One by one, he lined the treats along the table and encouraged her to sample them all, just as he intended to do.
As Gera dipped into one of the offerings, she asked, “So Minerva and J.T. Cody were your... what? Grandparents? Great-grandparents? Aunt and uncle?”
“Grandparents. And that apple dumpling you’re eating is from her very own recipe book. My grandmother was an excellent cook.”
“Mmm, it’s divine.” She had a second bite. “I understand she opened a bakery here, before it was a hotel.”
“Yes, and continued to make breads and desserts for her guests, right up until her death.”
“And when was that?”
His blue eyes clouded, as surely as the sky on a stormy day. His voice was quiet. Reverent. “Eight years ago. Leo didn’t mention her death, I’m sure, but the truth is, my grandmother was the last and most recent person to die here at The Dove.”
“I’m so sorry,” Gera murmured. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did she die?”
Jake studied the raspberry torte beneath his fork. He pushed it around the plate, poking it a time or two with no real conviction. “She fell from the third-floor landing,” he said quietly. He sighed and set his fork aside, suddenly done with dessert.
“That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”
“She was old and frail. Logic tells me she could’ve simply fallen.” He shoved his fingers through his dark hair, leaving it in disarray. Even with his hair at odd angles, he was still decidedly handsome. What woman didn’t like that in a man? “But my gut says differently.”
“You—You think she was pushed?”
He looked miserable. “I can’t prove it. The police ruled it an accident. The coroner refused to do an autopsy. But somehow, I know that she didn’t just fall.”
“I don’t suppose there were any witnesses?”
“None.”
It was Gera’s turn to play with her fork. She peeled away the layers of cake, separating each of the four tiers from the cream frosting that held it together. “Leo spoke very highly of your family,” she began softly. “He obviously adored your grandmother.”
“He and Lucy were very close to my grandmother. When she died, they stepped up and ran the hotel. Did a great job of it, too. But then Leo’s bursitis set in, and the day-to-day business got to be too much for him. Lucy is still over Housekeeping, but her mind is fading. If you meet her and she starts talking about my grandmother in the present tense, just agree with her. It brings her comfort to think she visits with ‘Nerva, as she called my grandmother.” A sad smile hovered at the corner of his mouth.
“Leo said he had never known a finer family. So—So why would anyone... I mean, who would—”
“Want to kill her?” Jake supplied.
“Yes.”
He pulled in a deep breath, releasing it with an air of defeat. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just don’t know.”
When the waiter brought coffee, Jake retrieved his fork and finished off the apple dumpling. Gera divided her attention between the mutilated cake and the bread pudding.
“That,” she proclaimed with a very satisfied smile, “was absolutely, positively, unequivocally, delicious.”
Her mother’s smile didn’t go unnoticed by her dinner companion. The blue of his eyes deepened.
Gera noticed that he noticed. Between the wine, the decadent desserts, and the fascinating twinkle in his eyes, she felt warm all over. Not now, Gera, she reminded herself sternly. No matter how much you like about the man—and let’s face it, it’s just about everything—now isn’t the time for this. You’re here to work.
Another thought occurred to her and she visibly brightened. “Hey, if you’re a history buff, you probably know the town’s history, too.”
“I can give you a fairly accurate account,” he replied. “What is it you would like to know?”
“Mac,” she said without hesitation. “Tell me about Mac, your one-eared ghost.”
Jake looked over her shoulder, to the staff hovering politely in the distance. “We’re keeping the staff,” he murmured regretfully.
Gera was reluctant to have their evening end. Only because he’s a source of information, she assured herself. Strictly work related.
“It’s a nice evening for a stroll,” she blurted out.
His eyes warmed with a smile. “A stroll it is, then.”
Jake left a generous tip before guiding her out of the dining room, his hand light upon her back. As they stepped out into the evening, a gust of air greeted them, stirring in Gera’s hair.
“Some would say,” Jake informed her, “that was a ghost, saying hello.”
She reached up to straighten her tousled strands. “Must’ve been a real swell fellow, back in the day,” she grumbled.
They wandered off the long porch, turning away from the twinkling ground lights to find the ruffled edge of pavement.
“Watch your step,” Jake warned, keeping his hand upon her back. A safety precaution, they each told themselves. “If we keep to the middle of the road, there’s less potholes,” he advised.
“How far up the mountain does this road go?” Gera asked as they trudged uphill.
“The pavement ends just past these houses, but a dirt road winds all the way around Cleopatra Hill to the other side.”
The first house was dark, but the last of the houses was fully lit, with lights gleaming in most every window. A cluster of cars gathered out front and spilled onto the road.
“Looks like they’re having a party up there,” Gera commented.
Jake shook his head. “Not a party. More like a wake. That’s Abe Cunningham’s house.”
“Abe Cunningham? The man who was killed yesterday?”
“Yes. It’s one of the oldest houses still standing in Jerome. It was his parent’s home until he and Ruth married. They gave the house to them as a wedding present.”
“I understand he almost lost the property, because of unpaid taxes.”
Jake sent her a sharp look. “You’ve been in town for twenty-four hours, and you already know about that? You must be good.” Over dinner, she had revealed her profession as a reporter and the reason for her visit to Jerome.
She gave a short laugh. “It didn’t require much skill on my part. You know how people like to gossip.”
“Ah, the universal language of small towns everywhere.”
“I also heard about the hierarchy of the hillside.” A smile hovered around her mouth. “The way I heard it, things do, indeed, run downhill. So, I take it the Cunningham family must’ve been well off?”
Amused by her statement, Jake’s eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “Abe’s father was a bigwig at the mine,” he confirmed. “You can’t see it now, but there is a huge ornate sign out front with their name on it, made of copper.”
She studied the illuminated house up ahead. It was a rambling craftsman from another era, but hardly a mansion. From this distance, and silhouetted against the night sky, she could see only a faint golden luster amid the brighter lights.
“That must’ve been the popular thing of the day. I noticed a lot of copper accents at the hotel. That piece in the lobby is very intricate.”
“Richard Luna had it commissioned in 1933, not long before he died. It originally hung on the wall, before my grandparents had it built into the counter.”
“Wow. That was one large wall piece,” Gera murmured.
“And too gaudy for my grandmother’s tastes. But her own father was the metalsmith responsible for creating it and the other pieces, so of course they kept it. I learned from an early age that some things in The Dove can never be discarded. They’re part of the hotel’s legacy, my grandparents said. And besides, I think it looks good at the check-in.”
“Yes, it was one of the first things I noticed when I arrived.” When I was on the lookout for a demented innkeeper, she recalled.
“Let’s walk this way,” Jake suggested.
For the briefest of moments, when he guided her off the pavement and into the overgrown tangle edging the far side of the roadway, she thought again of that demented innkeeper from the movie. He, too, had been handsome.
“Where are we—Oh!” There was no need to continue her sentence. She saw where they were going. And the view was breathtaking.
Beyond the shaggy border of trees and bushes, there was just enough earth to qualify as a ledge. The ground fell away at their feet, making way for a fantastic view of the town below.
“Here,” he offered. “This crooked tree makes a pretty good chair.” Not surprisingly, given the staggered town below, the tree grew at an angle, offering the perfect spot to rest upon its bent and twisted trunk. Jake wedged his shoulders between two nearby trees and turned just so, lowering himself onto another bent trunk. He leaned back into the chair provided by nature and grinned over at her. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Very cool,” she agreed.
“I like to watch the cars coming into town,” Jake admitted. “Look, there comes one now. It’s making the first curve, down past the old high school.” He offered a running commentary, noting when the vehicle passed different landmarks. As it maneuvered the series of twists and turns along Route 89A, Jake gave a play by play of the car’s progress, based solely on the angle of the headlights and the repeated application of its brakes. The car would disappear from time to time, hidden behind the buildings and houses it passed, but Jake knew precisely when it traveled along Hull Avenue, noted it was turning right onto Jerome Avenue, then left onto Main, and now climbing its way up the steep incline of Clark Street. Would it turn up toward them? Take Hill Street to another hotel? Or meander out of town, via the continuing Route 89?
“Ah, looks like it’s taking Hill Street,” he decided. “There are some historic buildings up there, you know, including the last of the company hospitals. It’s the big building you see when you come into town. They’ve turned it into a hotel now, and the former surgeon’s house into a bed and breakfast.”
“Is that the hotel that’s been featured on one of those ghost shows?”
“A couple of times, I think. Quite honestly, I’m surprised your editor didn’t book you over there. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad she didn’t, but they’re well known for their ghost sightings. I would’ve thought she would choose them over us.”
“Yeah, well, I would’ve thought she would choose Ramon over me to cover the story, so there you go.”
“Ramon?”
“One of our other reporters.” She didn’t mean to sound so accusatory, but the censor bled into her voice. “He actually believes in all this ghost stuff.”
“And you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.” She hated the hint of apology she heard in her own voice. Why should she apologize for being the only sane person in this brainwashed town?
With Jake’s sigh, she detected an air of resignation. Was it because he, himself, was a believer? Did her skepticism toward ghosts create too wide a chasm between them for...? For what, Gera? she chided herself. This is an interview, not a date.
As if he heard her arguing with herself, Jake asked, “What is it you want to know about Mac?”
“Okay, so we both know I’m a non-believer.” Might as well lay it all out there, naked and ugly for all the world to see. “But I’m trying. I’m trying to wrap my head around how this works, for those who do believe. So, if I believed in ghosts, and if I thought such a thing was possible, I could understand how having Mac hanging around all these years, looking out for the town, would be a comforting notion. In that scenario, there’s not a lot of difference between a ghost and a guardian angel.”
“Which, I assume, you also don’t believe in.”
Her sharp look was confirmation enough.
“I’m trying to keep an open mind here,” she insisted. “I know many people believe in angels, my own grandmother being one of them. So, for the sake of argument, let’s say I did believe Mac’s ghost was alive and well, and roaming the streets of Jerome.” She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the absurdity. “What I can’t get is how these people—the ones who thought Mac was this good and decent ghostly guy, always looking out for the best interest of the town—can suddenly turn on him, and decide he is behind all the thefts and mischief in town, and now, as of last night, capable of murder. No matter how hard I try, I cannot make a logical leap from good ghost to bad ghost, just like that. It doesn’t make sense.”
As if any of this makes sense, Gera groaned inwardly. Here I go again, discussing ghosts as if they actually exist.
“What can I say?” Jake shrugged. “It’s human nature to believe the worst in people.”
“If Mac were real,” she cracked dryly, “I might actually feel sorry for him. Seems to me the town has turned out to be somewhat of a fair-weather friend.”
Jake was quiet for a moment, looking at the streets below. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock, but the sidewalks were all but rolled up. The bars were the only businesses still open in town, and from here, none appeared to be busy. The streets were quiet. Being a weeknight, most of the houses were dark, as well.
“It’s a small town,” he told her needlessly. “We don’t have a lot of crime here. Everyone knows everyone. So, I guess when something bad does happen, it is easier to blame a ghost, than to think one of our own may be guilty.”
“I get that, but yet... I don’t.” She may as well come clean. “I’m sorry, Jake, but I really don’t get it. How can an entire town be so gullible, as to believe a ghost murdered a man? We’re talking a flesh and blood man—your own neighbor, in fact—” she flung her arm out to indicate the house behind them, “murdered in the middle of town, and people are content to blame it on a ghost!”
“Maybe it’s different where you come from, Gera, but crime is rare around here. People are jumpy. And now there’s been a murder. No one knows what to think.”
“Apparently, no one is thinking at all,” she retorted. “Someone started the idea that Mac was to blame, and it seems everyone else is all too willing to jump on the bandwagon, regardless of how ridiculous it is.”
“You know what they say. Ignorance feeds on fear.”
Gera threw him a sharp look. “You want to talk about fear? Do you know the scariest thing I see in all this?”
“What would that be?”
“While the town is content to blame Abe Cunningham’s death on a ghost, his real killer is still out there, roaming free.”
As if on cue, the night wind stirred, blowing a burst of cool air that seemingly pushed the moon behind a cloud. The night went dark.
Gera’s voice fell to little more than a whisper.
“Now that’s a scary thought.”
