Muir watched Lucy inspect his apartment’s interior as though she were an auction appraiser. Even though he visually enjoyed her movement, Muir was puzzled at her fascination with supposed spirit elements. After a deep swallow of cola, he put his bottle on the serving table and moved to the non-functional mantel.
Lucy returned from the kitchen with a paper towel, which she placed beneath Muir’s beverage. “You’ve got to protect this beautiful old wood.”
Yeah. “So who was this ghostly old lady?” His eyes followed Lucy on her second visit to the bedroom.
“Well, she wasn’t old for one thing. Barely eighteen if I remember correctly.” She reconsidered. “Uh, maybe nineteen… not sure. Anyway, from the photos I’ve seen, she was gorgeous.”
“Define gorgeous. I thought a hundred years ago the ladies were all shapeless, shriveled, and wrinkled.”
“Oh, Levi, quite the contrary. She was the epitome of a Gibson Girl.”
Muir squinted to help his memory. “I’ve heard the term and seen some illustrations, but don’t recall much.”
“Impossibly narrow waist, but generous around here,” both hands pointed to her breasts, “and here,” both to her hips. “Wavy hair, worn up off the neck, floor-length skirts or dresses.”
“So they didn’t show any leg?” he inquired, already knowing the answer.
“Maybe in the dance halls.” Lucy smiled. “Why? Are you a leg man, Levi?” she asked, tensing her calf muscle.
Muir considered his words. “Let’s just say I appreciate beauty, wherever it may appear.”
“Well, as the song says, a glimpse of stocking was shocking back in the early 1900s, when our ghostess was still alive.”
“Is this a generic ghost or does our attractive young lady have a name?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Danielle Gregg.” Lucy fingered the carved end panel of the corner bookcase. “The museum next door has a good bit of historical documentation.”
“So, let’s go.” Patting his pocket for keys, he realized they were on the delicate table near the entrance.
“Hold on. I’m not dressed for a museum visit.” She waved her hand over the tanned expanse of her toned legs. “Besides, I don’t think the archives portion is even open on weekends. Like I said, we’ll go after school one day.”
Muir’s reply emerged before he even realized what he was saying. “But I need to know now.”
“Why? What’s the rush?”
He studied the chandelier. “Not certain, but I have a sense that it’s urgent.” It definitely felt that way. All of a sudden, too.
“Ten seconds ago you were scoffing about ghosts and dissing shriveled women but now you can’t wait to know more about them… or her.”
“Can’t explain it, Lucy. It just came over me.” Very odd.
She walked toward the fireplace and peered into his face. “Are you making fun of me?”
“No, not at all.” He shook his head. “It’s a sudden urgency to know more about this person, or this place… maybe both.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.” She stretched again and rocked her head back and forth a few times to stretch her neck. “Oh, hold on, just remembered something. There’s a rumor she had a portrait done. So lifelike, it’s practically a studio photograph. Supposedly still in this hotel somewhere.”
“Where? I have to see it.” But no idea why.
“Nobody knows where, if it even still exists.” Obviously noting his disappointment, she lightly whapped his elbow. “Maybe we’ll find a copy of it at the museum next week.”
“I need to see the original.”
“Why?”
“Not sure I can explain.” And don’t understand myself.
Lucy moved toward the east-facing window and studied the spot on the sidewalk where they’d stood earlier. “Hey, why not call your manager? Maybe Mr. Coombe knows.”
“Good idea.” Muir hustled to the small desk in his bedroom. With his checkbook was a small stack of local business cards. “Here it is — Coombe.” He grabbed his phone and punched in the number.
After six rings, the manager answered.
Rather breathlessly, and without any initial pleasantries, Muir asked about the painting.
“Why is it so important?” Coombe tried to brush him off. “This is my weekend.”
“Look, you said you’ve had trouble keeping this suite rented. Well, I’m renting and plan to stay, but I’m going to need a little cooperation from you to make this work. Do you know where the painting is or not?”
From a few feet away, Lucy made a theatrically scary face and positioned her fingers like claws.
Coombe sputtered a bit into the phone. “Well, I’m not certain your, uh, item is included, but years ago somebody deposited a few framed pieces in the store room…”
“Where’s that?” interrupted Muir.
“The same relative position as my office, but on the far side of the building.”
Muir winked at Lucy. “West side of the first floor?”
“Yes,” grunted the manager. “And this could have waited until Monday.”
Muir ignored the complaint. “How do I get in?”
“If your front door key doesn’t work, try the third key I gave you.” Coombe sighed. “That storeroom’s not used for much. Most people refuse to go in there.”
“Why?”
When Coombe ended the call without replying to the final question, Muir glared at his phone briefly before turning it off.
Smiling at an obviously positive development, Lucy moved to his side. “What did he say?”
Muir impulsively hugged her and kept squeezing. “Our beautiful damsel is locked in the storeroom downstairs. Let’s go rescue her.”
****
It was a surprising embrace, but ended so quickly Lucy wasn‘t certain she’d hugged him back. On their way down to the storeroom, she asked to hear the rest of Mr. Coombe’s comments, which Muir dutifully relayed, though it was clear his mind was on the portrait of the ghostess. He tried all three keys, but none worked and Muir became visibly frustrated.
“Here, let me try,” she said. “Might need a woman’s touch.” After jiggling the unmarked key a bit, she got the door open… with an agonizing creak. She couldn’t restrain a gasp. Inside was spooky and dark, and the light switch didn’t work.
Muir merely looked impatient.
Lucy, however, had a thousand goose bumps. “Maybe the bulb’s burned out.”
With a disgusted sigh, Muir went out to his truck for a flashlight… leaving Lucy alone in the storeroom for a lengthy three minutes and 42 seconds.
During that eternity in the dark, she poked around a bit, but felt such a chill that she wrapped her arms across her chest and was backing out of the room when, “Yikes!” Muir appeared directly behind her and tapped her trembling shoulder with the flashlight.
“Sorry. Here’s your light.”
“Don’t do that!” She snatched it from his hands. “No wonder nobody comes in this place… gives me the creeps.” Lucy moved the rather weak beam of light across the plentiful dark shelves and boxes, revealing ominous shadows.
“Maybe your spirit chasers should spend the night in here and take some readings,” suggested Muir with a crooked smile.
“I’ll be sure to recommend that at our next meeting.” Partly diffusing the gloom with Muir’s pitiful light, Lucy turned to him. “Are you cold?”
“Not really. Why?”
“I’m freezing.”
He pointed to her bosom, where the chill’s effects were particularly visible. “Well, you’re dressed in skintight spandex for run-walking outdoors in August.”
She cleared her throat, quickly crossed her arms again and turned away slightly. “And what is that smell?”
Muir reached for the flashlight and began sniffing the room. “Not sure, but it’s definitely not the same one I mentioned before.” He followed his nose to a spot beside a sagging cardboard box near the far corner. “Here it is,” he announced, waggling the dim beam over the spot. “A dead rat.”
“Yuck.” Lucy started retreating again. “Look, this has been real fun, but with the Arctic temperature and all these dead bodies lying around, I’m not sure I can stand it. Next thing you know, the door will slam shut and I’ll jump about twelve feet.”
Both sets of eyes immediately zoomed to their only exit and peered through the gloom as a tiny gust of something moved the door about three millimeters.
“That’s it. I’m outta here.” She zipped so close to Muir, they were almost in the same spot.
“Hold on a minute, Lucy.” He kicked a small box into position to block open the doorway. “We haven’t had a chance to inspect everything.”
“Well, if we don’t find a picture in exactly sixty seconds, I’m gone.” But she settled down enough to resume searching.
At first they didn’t locate any framed pieces at all, just haphazardly stacked boxes lining the antique, sagging shelves… and a few pieces of dusty furniture scattered on the floor. Small piles of old magazines and newspapers filled in the few gaps.
Then, in a far corner, Lucy spotted some frames leaning against the wall, with one edge on top of waist-high boxes. Her hands were already on the first one when Muir arrived with the light. “Ow!”
“What happened?” Muir squinted in the darkness.
“Don’t know.”
“Not a rat bite, is it?” He probably grinned.
“Oh, ha ha. Splinter, maybe.” She held the finger very close to her eyes but couldn’t see anything. “Bring that light closer.”
As he shifted his flashlight, the beam struck the face of a beautiful woman and Lucy shrieked. Her insides turned to ice.
“What?”
The face was so vividly lifelike it seemed she was in the room with them. “That’s her!” Lucy pointed. “Danielle Gregg.” Her heart raced about two hundred beats per minute.
“Wow, she is a hottie.” Muir hustled over and examined the portrait calmly.
After her heart rate and breathing began to settle down, Lucy also inspected the artwork, though from a distance. “Well, you can’t tell much from these old paintings. The artists usually exaggerated their best features and hid all their warts.”
A sudden low groan made both of them jump.
“What was that?”
Muir flicked the light around. “Don’t know. Maybe some air in the pipes.”
“What pipes? There’s no plumbing in this storeroom.”
“Might be a restroom next door. I don’t know.” He finally looked a little anxious too. “But let’s take the painting upstairs where we can see. I want to check out this lovely lady.”
Taking care not to step on the dead rat, Lucy hurried out and immediately noticed the contrasting warmth of the hallway. She held the flashlight while Muir lugged the sizeable painting.
Upstairs, the portrait resting against the wall next to the dormant fireplace, they studied it from various angles and distances. The image cropped the subject at about mid-thigh but her visible features appeared to be approximately life-sized. Though framed in massive fine walnut, the portrait itself was about two feet wide and three-and-a-half feet tall.
“No question this is Danielle Gregg — I’ve seen photos of her portrait in several sources.”
Muir pointed toward the east-facing window. “This is definitely the same lady I saw from the sidewalk last night.” He scrutinized the bottom corners. “Can you tell when this was painted?”
“Well, it has to be before 1914 when she died, but she looks fully mature here, so I’d guess it was probably earlier that year or possibly the year before. Let’s say she was about nineteen at that point.”
“What kind of costume? I mean…”
Lucy positioned herself to take advantage of the best lighting. “Well, this is the epitome of a Gibson Girl. Wavy hair worn up, tiny waist, generous bust and hips.”
“I’m surprised how much skin she’s showing,” said Muir as he pointed to the flesh above her neckline.
“Well, that was only for very formal situations, such as a society ball or an expensive portrait. The normal everyday wear for an upper class lady would have had her bosom covered up to the chin. Probably two dozen buttons.”
Muir couldn’t take his eyes off the painting. “She’s positively gorgeous.”
“Don’t get carried away, Romeo. First of all, she’s been dead for a hundred years. Secondly, once you remove all those whalebone corsets and bustles — and whatever else they strapped on — the women of that time probably looked a lot like we do.”
Muir eyed Lucy from top to bottom and grinned. “Then they were lovely indeed, though I doubt they wore sneakers. And we’ve already established they didn’t have tanned legs.”
Lucy could have been warmed by his remark, but a distracted Muir soon dragged a kitchen chair over in front of the portrait and sat to study it even more carefully.
Over his shoulder, he asked, “What else do you know about Danielle Gregg?”
“Not very much besides what I’ve already told you. She died on the train tracks not far from here. But we’ll get what we need at the museum archives next week.”
Muir nodded as though he’d tuned out her reply.
To get his attention again, Lucy stood in front of the portrait. “I figure you were kidding about spending the night in that horrid storeroom, but it would be really cool to get some of my chapter buddies here in this parlor with instruments to take a few readings.”
He had already started shaking his head. “Don’t even believe that’s legit. No offense.”
Though it was not the time to be offended, she was. “Well, just think about it. Maybe this Gregg ghost wants us to know more about her.”
“Assuming there is a ghostess, why would she want that?” Muir leaned way over to peer around Lucy.
“Can’t say. Won’t know until we establish contact.”
“No, I’m opposed to letting a group in here to pick this lady’s departed brain.”
“I thought you wanted to get to know her better.”
He nodded. “But just us.” After a pause, “So how would we reach her anyway? I mean besides some nutty séance.”
“Our instruments and readings would detect presence or activity, but not necessarily instigate contact, as you might think of it. If the ghostess Gregg wants contact, I suspect she’ll find a way to reach you.”
“But I still don’t believe in ghosts.”
Lucy finally moved out of his view and patted his firm, broad shoulder as she passed. “Ghosts have a way of making you believe.”
****
As Lucy busied herself in the kitchen, Muir finally rose and moved closer to the painting. Noting the height was wrong, he dragged his chair to the wall and placed the frame on its arms. There was something about her lips in the portrait — far lovelier than the Mona Lisa, but with a similarly enigmatic smile. Standing directly in front of it, with the portrait’s face as high off the floor as her real face would have been if still living, he said softly, “Miss Gregg, if you were still around, I’d sure want to kiss you.”
A soft, cool, concentrated breeze moved across his face. “Did you feel that?” He called out to Lucy.
“Feel what?” She raised her voice over the noise of sink water.
“Never mind.” It had passed as quickly as he’d felt it. Muir made his way into the kitchen and stood behind Lucy as she rinsed his several dishes.
“You know, Levi,” she said without turning around, “it works better if you put them directly in the dishwasher instead of piling everything in the sink.”
“I keep forgetting.” Standing close behind her, he placed his large hands on both her shoulders. “Guess I need somebody to watch over me.”
Lucy stopped in mid-maneuver, with a glass nearly slipping from her grasp. “Careful, mister… I have sensitive shoulders.” When she turned to face him, his arms dropped to his sides and he took a half step back.
Muir smiled self-consciously. Why did I do that? “Uh, thanks for coming over here… you know, giving me the lowdown and helping me find the picture.”
She scrutinized his face. “Glad to help out. It combines three things I’m interested in.”
He arched his eyebrows.
“Local history, haunted sites, and, uh, helping newbies get acclimated to our school.”
“Do all the rookie teachers get your personal assistance?” He reached for her hand, found it still damp, and dried it against his shirt. Then he raised her knuckles and kissed them chivalrously.
She eyed him with a puzzled expression. “Actually, I’m pretty selective.”
“Well, if I’ve made the cut, I’m glad. And I’d like to repay your kindness. How about lunch? I’ve worked up an appetite with all that jogging.”
“It wasn’t jogging — and you only took about one lap, as I recall. Plus it’s not yet time for lunch.” She checked her watch. “Besides, I can’t.”
Probably has to hurry home to her honey. “Oh… okay.”
She took a final look around the suite. “But I’ll take a rain check for that meal. After we visit the museum archives, you can take me to supper.”
“Okay, it’s a deal. Monday?”
“Let’s play it by ear, Levi. That’s your first day of class and you might be too shell-shocked to interact with an adult.”
****
During the afternoon, Muir had located the grocery southeast of downtown to stock up on staples. On the way home, he’d driven by the address Lucy had provided for her duplex and wished he would spot her so he’d have an excuse to stop. But he didn’t.
After dining on nondescript fast food from about three blocks down Park Street, Muir settled in his antique living space into the comfortable stuffed chair nearest the east window. Monday’s syllabus was in his hands but his mind was distracted by thoughts of Lucy. Was she taken by someone else or potentially interested in him? Was he ready yet to start something new?
As he had previously, Muir again sensed he was being watched. This time, however, he chalked it up to the painting’s beautiful piercing blue eyes, which seemed to follow him no matter where he was in the suite.
After a hot shower, a tired Muir headed toward the bedroom with a new sensation he was being monitored. Passing the portrait, he said, “Good night, Miss Gregg.” Immediately, he felt another concentrated puff of air on his face and neck, and also thought he heard a faint whisper. “Okay,” he grinned. “If you’re haunting me, I guess that’s your way of saying good night.” Then he turned out the light and got into bed. “Good thing I don’t believe in ghosts,” he muttered.
During that night, Muir had another set of dreams — slightly less hazy than those of the prior night. In these, he had a much clearer view of the woman with the beautiful face and striking figure, the same individual he’d seen in the east-facing window — the lovely Danielle Gregg in the portrait.
In his dream, he’d called out her full name, but she did not reply. And even though the figure in his vision did not interact, she seemed like someone Muir had known all his life.