Jackson arrived and I filled him in on the small details I'd noticed, the marks on Donna's arms, scuffs on the floor and that she was still wearing yesterday's apron. He'd met Donna out at the sheep farm and had already formed somewhat of a narrative about the woman. She was not exactly sunshine and smiles, and people with rotten dispositions made great targets for murder.
The staff was gathered in the main sitting room waiting for permission to leave. Carlton sat on one of the chairs. A walnut mantel clock was on the table next to him. The glass was broken. It was easy to see that the hands were stuck at nine o'clock.
"How are you doing, Mr. Hamner?" I asked.
His shoulders sank with the question. "I'd been looking forward to this anniversary, and now it's a disaster, a terrible disaster. I still can't believe what happened. The freezer repairman was scheduled for Wednesday. This is just awful."
"Yes, it's a tragedy." I motioned toward the clock. "What happened to your nice mantel clock? It looks like an antique."
He patted it sadly. "Been sitting on that marble mantel for over a hundred years. I don't know what happened. I found it on the floor when I walked into the room this morning. The glass is broken. I think one of the cleaning staff must have accidentally knocked it off while they were dusting."
I decided not to point out the obvious that the clock might very well be evidence. At this point, everyone in the hotel last night, Carlton included, was a suspect. If this was, indeed, a murder, and my intuition was telling me it was.
My other intuition, the one that was connected to the spirit world, told me my best source of information was going to be the Thornbridge ghost. He obviously knew that Donna was in the freezer. The big question was—did he know who pushed her inside? Another question was—would he talk to me? He'd already revealed himself to me once, but that didn't mean he was ready for a full-on chat. There was only one way to find out. With everyone gathered in the sitting room and the hotel free of guests, it would be easy to find an empty room for a little ghost to ghost-friend chat.
As expected, no one noticed when I wandered out of the room and up the oak staircase. Edward liked to be upstairs when there was a lot of activity on the ground floor. This morning there was plenty of that. The one thing I hadn't anticipated was that the rooms were locked. I walked along the floral carpet runner trying each door. Finally, the last door I tried was unlocked. I glanced around to make sure no one had noticed me. The hallway was empty. Voices carried easily in big, old houses. I could hear Jackson's deep voice but couldn't make out the words. His tone sounded official. I was sure he was calling the coroner.
I slipped into the bedroom and gently shut the door. The room was decorated in Victorian furniture and paisley wallpaper. It was a little stuffy looking for my taste, but I was sure most guests stayed at the Thornbridge to feel like they'd been transported back in time. This room would do exactly that. There was even a blue porcelain pitcher and washbasin set up on a table.
I shook my head to stop my silly perusal and review of the room décor. A woman had been presumably murdered, and Thomas McRooney might know who did it.
"Thomas? Thomas?" I had to keep my voice quiet so it didn't carry down the hall and the stairs to the sitting room. "Thomas, did you see what happened last night?"
I felt a rush of cool air behind me and spun around. It took me a second to get my bearings. It was ridiculous considering how often Edward had popped up out of thin air. Early on, it always startled me, but after about a year of gasps and flinches, I found that I hardly reacted to his sudden appearance. But today I was standing in a strange place and the spirit in front of me was nothing like Edward Beckett.
Thomas looked even more unkempt up close. His pants were so threadbare and patched, it seemed he'd only had the one pair when he was alive. His appearance and clothing showed the wide gap that had existed between the rich and poor in the nineteenth century. It was profound.
Thomas's wide grin was missing a front tooth. I instantly sensed that he was a kind, gentle soul. "Milady, so nice to meet you." There was a twinge of an English accent, not posh like Edward's but with its own dose of charm.
"Milady isn't necessary. Call me Sunni."
He bowed again. "Thomas McRooney, at your service, Miss Sunni." (It seemed not all ghosts were arrogant. Just the one in my house.) "Wha' can I do for ya, Miss Sunni? I presume this has got somethin' to do with that old crow's—" He coughed and cleared his throat. "With that woman's death." He dropped his head in shame. "Shouldn't have spoken ill of the dead, but that woman, she, she—" He shook his head, blurring his features side to side until the vaporous molecules came back together and lined up into his kind face. "I don't mind admittin' I was afeard she might—you know—"
"Stick around?" I asked.
"Yeah, thought I'd be stuck with her." His face dropped again. "Once again, forgive me." There was a touch of shame in his expression. I realized it was something I'd never seen in Edward's face. And I was certain Edward Beckett had done far more things to be ashamed of than Thomas McRooney, more stunning proof of the disparity between the early century rich and poor.
"Please, there is nothing to forgive, Mr. McRooney."
"Please," he said so quickly his mouth didn't catch up to the word for a few seconds. "Please, call me Tom."
"Of course, Tom."
He grinned so wide the ends were nearly off the sides of his face. "I 'aven't heard anyone call me that in two hundred years. Sounded especially nice the way you said it."
"I'm glad. So, Tom, I met Donna Garten when she was still alive. Let's just say she was abrasive and unpleasant. You're sure she's moved on?" I'd come up to find out about Donna's murder. I hadn't anticipated this topic at all. Frankly, it was something I should have considered. I knew better than most that people who died in unfortunate circumstances often lingered in the place where it happened.
"Miss Garten is gone. Saw her spirit vanish right in front of me. She was afeard about being dead and she looked to me for help. I didn't give it." He looked down again. It must have been something he did a lot when alive. It was sad to watch.
"Please, Tom, you needn't be ashamed or afraid to say anything to me. I'm not here to judge you. I was excited to meet you. I heard all about you—"
His face lit up. In ghost terms that meant his features grew crystal clear. His smile returned. "Did Sir Beckett tell you about me? I was so nervous 'bout writing to him, but Mr. Sheffield told me I should." His smile faded. "I 'oped he might write back but then I told myself—Thomas, why on God's green earth would a gentleman like Sir Beckett write a missive to a poor beggar like me."
"Tom, don't think like that. Edward and I are friends, and he would never write me a note. It's just the way he is."
Thomas nodded. He was smiling again. "Yeah, Beckett did have that way about 'im. He sure had a way with the ladies. Always envied 'im for that."
"Thomas, back to last night. It was last night, right?"
"Sure was. I was up in the attic. I spend a lot of time there. Lots of people comin' and goin' in this place." He said it with a sadness that tugged at my chest. I was so glad I'd decided not to subject Edward to the same existence. "I heard some noises downstairs, a struggle or some such thing. At first, I ignored it but don't get much entertainment in my life so I thought I'd head toward the noise to see if there was some kind of row or quarrel. It was late, for those of you who sleep," he added. "I'd heard Donna in the kitchen working late."
"Did she do that a lot? Nine seems really late."
Thomas shrugged his thin shoulders. "Seen her do it enough that I figured it had to be her. I thought maybe that sweet little—" Thomas dropped his face again. "Pardon me again, Miss Sunni, I was about to say something untoward about a respectable young lady. My apologies. Spent so much time alone, my manners ain't what they used to be. That Maribel—I always felt sorry for her having to put up with Donna. I thought maybe she'd stayed to help and they'd gotten into a tussle."
"A tussle? Whatever was happening—it was physical?"
"Don't know if it came to fisticuffs, but I think there might have been some pushin' and shovin'. But when I got there, wasn't no one around. Then I heard Donna callin'. She was behind that big silver door. Tried to open it but didn't 'ave the strength."
"It's quite heavy. What did you do next?"
His face dropped.
"Remember what I said, Tom, I'm not here to judge you. You don't have to be shy or ashamed about anything."
His lifted his face. "The only thing I could think of was to wake up Carlton. I've never revealed myself to him. To be honest, I don't think he'd take it well. Not like you, just standing here talkin' to me like we've been friends for years." He smiled at that assessment. "That Beckett—he always had the luck. Always won at the card tables too."
"This would be a good time to remind you that he died under very unlucky circumstances."
"True, true. But he died for the woman he loved. Mrs. Ross—she'd get those stars in her eyes whenever she saw 'im. Never ever had anyone look at me the way she looked at Beckett. Always thought Kathy Garfield was the love of his life, but since he took a bullet for Bonnie Ross guess I 'ad that wrong."
"Between you and me, Tom, you didn't have that wrong at all. From what I've read, a gentleman never turned down a duel and if nothing else, Edward was a gentleman."
"That he was. Never met anyone as polished. The boys and I down at the local pub used to have a good laugh about it. Dirt didn't dare stick to Beckett's boots. Firefly Junction changed once he arrived. He was proud and could give you a cold shoulder when he wasn't in the mood to say hello, but he brought class to the place. The village was a different place when Sir Edward Beckett rode down the street on his horse. He sat that saddle like royalty, and every head turned to watch."
Voices downstairs reminded me that time was limited. I could have stayed up there for hours talking to Thomas, but eventually, I'd be missed downstairs. I'd already pieced together what Thomas did next. "It was you that pushed down the mantel clock," I said. "You were trying to wake someone to help."
Thomas fidgeted with the ends of his brown vest. "Didn't mean to break the thing. My plan didn't work. No one woke up. After that, I went back to the attic. I had no idea she would die in that box. I suppose it was from the cold." He let out a low whistle. "In my day, you just kept food that wasn't dried and salted down in the cellar."
My phone vibrated. I pulled it out. It was a text from Jackson. "Where did you disappear to?"
"Be right there," I texted back and slid the phone in my pocket.
"People nowadays sure do spend a lot of time looking at those things." He motioned toward my pocket. "Since I always see Carlton talking into his, I assume someone is on the other side talking back. Darndest thing I've ever seen. I still remember the first time Olsen Thornbridge, the grandson of the original owner, Richard, brought a black box and hung it on the wall in the front parlor. Had a bell that was louder than the ones the cows wore in the fields. I was standing in the room watching him 'ang the thing up. He didn't know I was there. I always thought I could talk to Olsen, and he wouldn't be too afeard. He was a good man, that Olsen. Fell dead of a heart attack right on the front stoop. I thought maybe he'd join me, that way I'd have someone to talk to. He vanished like the rest."
"The rest?" I asked, then remembered how long Thomas had been in the Thornbridge Hotel. Just like Edward, nearly two centuries had passed. "I suppose you have many stories to tell from your years in this house."
"Sure do." His laugh was tender and sweet. "I told Dex next time he stays at the hotel, he can write a few down."
"A memoir," I said and tucked the notion away as a book idea. "I need to get downstairs before I'm discovered lurking about on my own. One thing, Thomas, I can see why you don't reveal yourself to Carlton. But why didn't you reveal yourself to Olsen Thornbridge?"
His face dropped again. I hated to see it. "Olsen was a gentleman like Edward, educated, refined manners and all that. Wouldn't be my place to talk to 'im."
That was it. That was why Thornbridge's resident ghost never spoke to people who lived at the hotel. After growing up poor in the early nineteenth century, he didn't consider himself on equal footing with others.
"I think you're wrong about that, Tom. You're worth knowing, and I've enjoyed talking to you."
A smile nearly broke his face in two… literally. "That's good of you to say. You tell Sir Beckett that he's still a lucky man." With that, he vanished. I stayed for a second to make sure he didn't return, then I poked my head out to check that the coast was clear before heading down to the kitchen.