Before I let her start her story, I created a store section plan for each type of book, so we wouldn’t start out by simply moving books from one random pile to the other. We moved to the front corner, armed with a few empty cardboard boxes I’d found and labeled with things like Cookbooks, Romance, and Self-Help, and sat amid the clutter.
“Are you familiar with the Vanderbilt family?” Rita asked.
I searched my memory. “As in Vanderbilt University in Tennessee?”
“Yep, that’s the one. In the late 1800s, Cornelius Vanderbilt donated a million dollars, and they renamed the college after him.”
“What does Vanderbilt University have to do with your inn?” I sipped my coffee and hoped this story would make the time pass more quickly while we pawed through scattered piles of books.
“Cornelius had a son, George Washington Vanderbilt. The Vanderbilt family built several large, expensively gorgeous estates. One of those estates, the one George built, is here in North Carolina.”
“I know. I’ve always wanted to visit Biltmore in Asheville, but I’ve never managed to find the time.” And once I’d had the time, fun vacation junkets had no longer been an option. “I’ve heard it’s absolutely fantastic.”
“Make time. It’s worth it. Biltmore had every possible amenity for the times. And then some. George wanted to build a completely self-sustaining estate like the ones in Europe, and he succeeded.”
“Cool.” I added a trip to Biltmore to my checklist of things to do. “But what does this have to do with Hokes Folly?”
Rita grabbed a small pile of books from the floor and separated them into the boxes, but her eyes sparkled as if she was truly enjoying telling her story. “I’ve always loved the history of Hokes Folly, and I’m tickled to have a captive audience.”
“It’s not like I have anywhere else to be right now.” I grinned and moved to the next pile of books.
“Very true.” Rita handed me a cookbook to stick into the box next to me. “John Jacob Hokes inherited a large sum of money in the spring of 1895 at the age of thirty-one. An uncle, whose only son had died as a child from a bad case of strep throat, passed away and left it all to dear John as his brother’s oldest son. Good old Uncle Barton Hokes had made his fortune the same way the Vanderbilt family had—in shipping and railroading.”
“Wait, Hokes. As in Olivia Hokes?” I cringed at the memory of the rude woman.
Rita chuckled. “I take it you’ve met one of our ‘town treasures.’”
I nodded. “Not a memory I relish.”
She handed me another cookbook. “John was their great-great-great-uncle. And he’d inherited scads of cash. This was wonderful, except for one thing. He had no head for handling money. All of his life, whenever he’d gotten ahold of some, he squandered it on poor investments or gambling. So, when he inherited this fortune, he decided to hire a financial adviser and a solicitor.
“Things were great for a while. John was invited to some of the best parties and was on the guest list for certain balls where eligible daughters were trotted out by mothers hoping to rebuild family finances through marriage to money, in spite of the fact that it was, after all, only inherited business money. But there were still some things John wasn’t considered ‘good enough’ for. As a result, he went through life with a chip on his shoulder, always expecting the worst from society.”
I jumped in, wanting to know how the hotel played in. “And he moved here, and they named the town after him?”
“Stop rushing my story. I don’t get to tell this very often. Let me enjoy it.”
“Okay, okay.” I held up my hands in mock surrender before grabbing another handful of books to sort. At least the story was keeping me from thinking about my own issues for a while.
“When George Vanderbilt opened Biltmore on Christmas Eve, 1895, he threw a ritzy party for his family and friends, and John Hokes didn’t get an invitation. Feeling left out again, John set out to prove he was as good and as smart as any of them. It wasn’t until years later that it came out that John had been on the invitation list but his was unfortunately lost in the mail.”
“Too bad our dear old postal service hasn’t improved much over the years,” I grumbled under my breath.
“So very true.” Rita shook her head. “Well, due to this particular error, John decided to one-up Vanderbilt. He planned an estate to rival Biltmore. He went about sixty miles from what is now Asheville and made sure his elevation was a bit higher than Vanderbilt’s. He chose an architect and a landscaper who could create a style to outshine Biltmore’s, and by late 1896, the work had begun. John’s house would have all that his perceived rival’s had, and then some. It would have three hundred rooms instead of only two hundred fifty, two indoor swimming pools instead of only one—one for ladies and one for men so anyone could swim at any hour—a larger staff to better serve the guests, larger gardens, a larger conservatory with plants even more exotic … well, you get the picture.”
“Yep.” I sang a few bars of “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better.”
“Exactly.” Rita shifted down the row, working only on the books piled in the floor space for now. “The construction went well. The house took shape, one slow piece at a time. Until 1901, when John’s financial adviser made some very bad investments and lost John’s fortune in a matter of months. The house was only about eighty percent built. The grounds were still a mess, since the landscaping was supposed to be finished in the last year of construction.”
“How awful for him.” I knew exactly how it felt to have every hope and dream snatched away in an instant.
“It was, in more ways than one. He’d insisted they complete the gardener’s cottage so he could live on the estate during the actual building process.” She handed me yet another cookbook, which topped off the cookbook box.
As I took the box to the proposed cookbook area and emptied it, I raised my voice to answer. “At least he had a place to stay and wasn’t out on the street with nowhere to go.” I thought of my own recent past and shuddered.
“Yes, but there was the problem. It also allowed him to spend long hours looking through his windows at the great hulking monstrosity of unfinished work that was supposed to have been his shining achievement.”
“What a waste of a lifetime.” I strode back down the aisle and sat again.
“Oh, it gets better. The town that had sprung up on the estate with folks there to build and maintain the house and grounds continued to prosper. The estate was originally named Hokes Bluff, and the town was called Hokes Bluff Village. However, when the lord of the manor went financially belly-up, the town renamed itself Hokes Folly.”
When Rita held out three more cookbooks, I simply handed her the cookbook box for her to fill. “You mean the town is named after someone’s failure?” That was wrong on so many levels.
“You got it, babe.” Rita shifted down the aisle.
“That’s horrible.” I shook my head. “What happened to him?”
Rita settled herself by another stack of books and began sorting. “The locals got used to seeing him mumble to himself as he walked the streets, running his errands. He babbled to everyone about how he would one day reclaim his fortune and finish the building of the estate. They all figured he’d become delusional or just plain senile. They made fun of him, played jokes and pranks on him, and it was said some parents even used him as an example to their kids of what would happen if they didn’t eat their veggies, go to bed, get good grades, or do what their parents said.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I thought about the frustrated old man desperately clinging to his lifelong dream, and I found myself rooting for him.
“Sadly, I’m dead-level serious. As the Great Depression took hold of the town, the young and able left to find work, and the town began to die. In 1934, at the age of seventy, John Hokes finally passed away, never having achieved his dream of finishing Hokes Bluff. Upon his death, the government seized the unfinished manor and land in payment for back taxes.”
“There was nothing left for an inheritance of any kind so someone else could try to finish his work?”
“Nothing at all. Although there was John’s nephew, Olivia and Ophelia Hokes’s great-grandfather.”
“I haven’t met Ophelia yet, but if she’s anything like Olivia, I can wait.” I had no desire to be scrutinized again.
“The Hokes sisters are definitely unique. Their great-grandfather petitioned the government about the manor and land. He wanted to retain ownership of the estate and proposed a way to pay off his uncle’s debt, but the government refused. He was furious, but there was nothing he could do about it. That little tidbit of history has always stuck in Olivia Hokes’s craw. If her great-grandfather had been able to gain control of the estate, she and her sister would probably be extremely rich women right now.”
“I didn’t get the impression they were financially struggling.” The vintage dress Olivia had worn to the lawyer’s office was worth a small fortune in the right market.
“They do have quite a nest egg.” Rita leaned back against the shelves and took a sip of what had to be cold coffee by now. “But they don’t have nearly what they might’ve if they’d been the ones in control of the estate.”
“And where does the inn come in?” I stood, picked up a full box of mystery books, and emptied it two aisles over in the appropriate new section.
“In 1997, a major hotel conglomerate bought the estate and one thousand of the surrounding acres from the government for a song. They completed the manor, using its original plans and landscaping. This took two years. In the fall of ’99, Hokes Bluff Inn opened its doors to the paying public. This boosted the economy as tourists poured dollars into the town, shopping in the historic downtown shops. Restaurants popped up almost overnight, as did bed-and-breakfasts and gas stations and a bunch of other service-oriented businesses. And now Hokes Folly is the booming metropolis you see today.” Rita spread her hands as if to encompass the town as I walked back through the piles to where she sat.
“That’s great, but you still haven’t gotten around to explaining how being a makeup artist landed you a job at the hotel in the first place.”
“Oh, yeah.” Rita brushed dust off her hands and arched her back to stretch. “I almost forgot you asked. This is the best part. The Hokes Bluff Inn is a five-star facility. But there’s a twist that makes it a must-do for the rich and famous. When you arrive, you have to park your vehicle in an enclosed and attended parking facility two miles from the manor house. You’re then taken down a winding road through some really beautiful trees to the hotel in one of several horse-drawn carriages, which are exact replicas of designs from the 1890s.
“Once you’re at the manor house, staff dressed in period costumes carry your bags and escort you to your assigned room. The atmosphere is like it would have been around 1900. Even the meals, games, and entertainment are all set up to be as authentic as possible.”
“Kind of like a step back in time.” I had remained standing, and I shifted down the aisle, working on upper shelves from which the books had not been tossed, while Rita continued to sit on the floor and work on random stacks.
“Exactly like a step back in time. Each guest is provided with either a lady’s maid or a valet, depending on gender. Here’s where I come in. Throughout the day, the women will dress for activities and meals just as they would have in 1900. On the estate grounds near the manor, there is a separate facility where the ladies go to have their hair done in turn-of-the-century styles, and period costumes are provided for both men and women. Basically, my staff and I get to take each woman and make her a turn-of-the-century work of art. And I’m quite good at it too.” Rita added a flip of her red tresses and a flashy grin.
“It sounds like things are pretty realistic.”
“That’s how it’s meant to be, and they’ve done a beautiful job of it.”
“I’d love a behind-the-scenes tour sometime, if you can swing it.”
“I think I can manage that.”
I had finally reached the end of the row of bookshelves, and I glanced at my watch. Almost noon. No wonder I was hungry. “Hey, it’s lunchtime.” I stretched. “Want to stop to grab a bite to eat?”
“Sure. I know just the place.” Rita stood and leaned over to pick up a full box of science fiction books and groaned. “I’m too old to be playing on the floor.” She took the books to their new section.
We walked down Center Street to a small publike restaurant with dim lighting and a wooden floor. A long bar stretched along one wall, and a huge gilt-framed mirror hung behind it. Light filtered through the stained-glass windows and made softly colored patterns on every surface. Seated at a small, round table near the bar, I ran my fingers through the tiny rainbows that played across the tabletop while we waited for someone to take our order.
We had received our drinks and ordered lunch when the local noon news came on the television mounted on the wall behind the bar.
“Thank you for joining me, Connie Dunne—”
“And me, Jonathan Greer,” piped in her co-anchor.
“—here on Channel Five Noon News for weather updates and highlights of our evening news,” the anchorwoman continued. “The top story this half hour is the arrest of the man who allegedly murdered local bookstore owner Paul Baxter five days ago.”