The Thornbridge Hotel was located off Edgewood Drive, the main road through Firefly Junction. It was nestled deep in a grove of tall trees, a picturesque mix of yellow buckeyes, sugar maples and chestnuts. Trees that had probably been there since the hotel was built two and a half centuries ago. While my home was a Georgian brick beauty, the Thornbridge with its large gables, round towers, multiple porches and spindle work placed it in the category of Queen Anne architecture. Its many windows were mostly shaded by deep overhangs, which, to me, made it seem far more like a haunted house than the Cider Ridge Inn.
I grabbed my notebook, phone and press pass and climbed up the front steps. I realized I'd only ever driven by the building, so I took a few moments to admire it. Toothy dentils ran across much of the trim, and some of the windows were made of green and blue leaded glass. I'd gone for more of a modern yet still classical overhaul on the Cider Ridge, whereas standing at the front door of the Thornbridge, you could almost imagine yourself in the early nineteenth century.
I rang the bell on the front door. After a minute or so, a man opened the door. "Due to a special event, we're closed to guests," he said, then blushed profusely when he spotted my press pass. "Miss Taylor? Please, excuse me. I thought you were here as a guest. Please, come inside. And excuse the chaos. We're getting ready for a celebration. This old beauty is having her two hundred and fiftieth birthday." Another deep blush. "Of course, you already knew that. How silly of me. I'm Carlton Hamner, owner and manager of this fine hotel." Carlton looked to be in his fifties, though he had a spray of freckles across his face that gave him a boyish quality. He was thin and had pinkish skin as if he'd just scrubbed it for hours. It could have still been remnants of the earlier blush. His light gray button-down shirt was topped off with a dark blue bowtie. "Please, this way, if you don't mind. I need to tell my chef something. I'll introduce you to the kitchen staff. Then I can show you around." He glanced back at me as I followed him through a large sitting room that had flowery wallpapers and a wide plank pine floor. The furniture wasn't stylish or up-to-date, but it looked comfy, inviting.
The clangs and smells of a busy kitchen rattled the narrow hallway. I expected to walk into a room filled with people, but it turned out only Donna Garten and a young woman, her assistant, I surmised by the white coat, were behind the racket. The young woman had her sleeves pushed back as she scrubbed a large pot in the dish sink.
"Donna, this is the reporter I told you about." Carlton spoke mildly considering the noise in the kitchen. "The journalist from Prudence's newspaper, the Junction Times." Donna was flipping through a recipe box and glanced up quickly to nod hello. I must have looked familiar enough that she did a double take but then returned her focus to the recipes.
Carlton rubbed his hands together a little nervously as he neared his chef. Donna's short hair was tucked under a hairnet. Her coat was blindingly white. Something told me she never splattered or spilled. There just wasn't space for that in her time-controlled world.
"Donna, I think we should serve the deviled eggs instead of the bruschetta. The bruschetta can be very messy for people as they walk around the room visiting with each other." He shrank back instantly from her glare. I found myself taking a tiny step back too. Carlton might have been the owner and manager, but it was easy to see who was in charge. At least inside the Thornbridge kitchen. I supposed that wasn't too unusual. Most chefs considered the kitchen their domain.
"If they're clumsy, then they deserve a few tomato stains," Donna snapped. "The eggs that farmer brought me were not fresh enough for deviled eggs. I'll bet his hens laid them last week. I told you—try the egg farm off Cedar Road. I've heard Emily and Nick run a quality business."
I was about to speak up and put in a good plug for my sister, but something told me it might have the opposite effect on Donna. She was a difficult and scary person to read. I wasn't even sure if my sister would want to deal with a customer like Donna. Carlton absolutely cowered under her glower. "Yes, but the Edmund family has been providing the Thornbridge with eggs for a century. It's part of the charm and tradition of this hotel to keep its ties to the past." Carlton turned to me. "You may quote me on that."
"Yes, of course." I opened my notebook. I'd been so entertained by Donna and her authoritative manner (hard to pull off in a hairnet, but she was doing an admirable job) I'd forgotten I was there to get a story.
"Well, since you insist on buying eggs from Edmund, the deviled eggs are out and the bruschetta stays on the menu." She said it in a way that left no room for argument. Not that it seemed Carlton would even consider it.
Carlton forced a smile for me. "Yes, well, let's leave them to their work. I'll show you around the house. The dining room has a lovely view of the mountains. That's where we'll be holding the anniversary party."
There was a certain old-world charm about the hotel, but it really did need some updating and a fresh coat of paint in spots. Carlton led me into another formal sitting room with a large marble fireplace and cozy chairs for reading. It had a view of the back gardens, a neatly trimmed mix of boxwood lined pathways and flower beds. Oil paintings, early scenes of the town and surrounding landscape, lined the walls of the room, a room made more elegant by cherry wood wainscoting and a sprawling chandelier.
"This is where our guests come for some quiet time. No technology allowed. Only books and quiet, reflective thoughts," Carlton said with a serene glow in his dark eyes. Something told me Carlton needed to use the room often after dealing with his ornery chef.
As I surveyed the room, I searched for any kind of hint that a ghost was nearby. Nothing stood out. The room seemed peaceful enough. "It's a great room to relax," I said. "So tranquil. And the view of the garden is lovely." I pulled out my notebook to jot down a few details. Carlton was beaming as he gazed proudly around the room.
The serenity we were both feeling was shattered by Donna's harsh tone. "Carlton, Harris is late again. I need that produce!" Her face had appeared in the doorway like a menacing specter (not the specter I was hoping for). Just as quickly, she vanished, her purposeful footsteps pounding wooden floors as she marched back to her kitchen.
Carlton's beaming grin had been wiped away. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Taylor, I've got to go deal with this." He walked away, his earlier erect posture quickly fading to one of aggravation and surrender.
I was alone. I used the moment of solitude to try a little one-on-one ghost summoning. "Thomas," I called quietly into the vast room. "Thomas, it's me, Sunni Taylor from the Cider Ridge Inn. I'm Edward's—" I paused. What exactly was I to Edward? His personal ghost whisperer? His innkeeper? His current tenant? Then it came to me, and I was stunned that it took me any time to come up with since it was the truth. "I'm Edward Beckett's friend." There was no response. I was disappointed. Somehow, I'd convinced myself that the shy Thornbridge ghost would reveal himself to me.
Footsteps approached. They were far less firm than Donna's. Carlton returned to the room. His expression went from glum to pleasant as he stepped inside. He wanted to make sure the journalist left with a positive view of the hotel. His grumpy chef was not helping matters. "Now, Miss Taylor—"
"Please, call me Sunni." As I said it, a framed oil painting of nineteenth century Firefly Junction shifted quite noticeably and even noisily on the wall. It leaned at an angle.
Carlton froze and his face went from white to pink. At first, I thought it was fear (the opposite of the elation I was feeling) but as he scurried across the room to right the painting he was laughing nervously. "Silly old painting," he said and glanced furtively around the room as if someone was watching him. "Happens all the time." He straightened the painting then spun back around. His eyes shifted around the room again as he rubbed his hands together. "I think it's a foundation problem. I've been meaning to have an expert out to check on it." He laughed again. It had such an edge to it, I half expected him to break into hysterics. Instead, he took a deep breath and motioned toward the doorway. "I'll show you the conservatory at the back of the house. Guests can pick fresh lemons for their tea." He hurried me out of the room. I paused just a moment, looked back into the room and winked.