Phantoms Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mystery #13 Read online

  Thank goodness I’d stopped at the front desk and asked them to give a wake-up call at five o’clock or I would have probably slept the entire night away. When the bedside phone chirped its strange foreign tone I jolted awake, heart pounding, head disoriented.

  I took a few minutes to really unpack my bag and hang things in the wardrobe, choosing a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater that wasn’t terribly wrinkled. A glance out the window showed the courtyard below to be thoroughly damp but no raindrops dotted the few puddles. The sky seemed to be clearing in the early twilight. I set my seldom-used umbrella beside my purse.

  The hot shower and shampoo felt wonderful and I gave myself over to the whole routine. Even though it would be useless to hope my hair wouldn’t fluff uncontrollably in this humidity, I spent time with the curling iron and some kind of styling gunk that was supposed to tame frizz. We would see about that.

  Forty-five minutes later, standing on the steps of the Angel, I studied Louisa’s map. She’d used street names but two blocks into the stroll, I was still having a hard time spotting them, so I relied mostly on her notes about landmarks. Turn right at the pharmacy and go until you get to the theatre. From there two blocks to the right and the fourth door on the left would be a red one, number 15. I used the brass knocker, mainly because one never got to do that at home.

  Louisa answered, wearing a flowered silk dress in shades of blue with a white apron over it and turquoise ballet flats. Her hair touched her shoulders in soft curls of the wash and wear variety. I could imagine her as a teenager with a daisy tucked behind one ear.

  “Come in, darling.” She’d stowed my umbrella and wool blazer before I knew it. A waft of incense reminded me of the letter I’d received at home.

  “Wine?” she offered.

  From the brightness in her eyes I guessed that she might have already started. The first floor of the row house seemed to consist of a living room and kitchen. Stairs rose to the left of the front door. I followed her into the kitchen and accepted the glass of cabernet that she poured.

  “Afraid I don’t do fancy when it comes to food,” she said. “It’s going to be a simple chicken and veggie casserole and a light salad.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “While it bakes, let me show you around.” She stood in place and spread her hands. “Kitchen. Very simple.”

  It wasn’t a large room but seemed equipped with the necessities—smaller versions of stove and fridge than would be typical in America, but certainly adequate. A countertop in green linoleum, the ubiquitous electric kettle, a table set for two.

  We walked through the doorway back to the living room—which Louisa called the parlor—where I’d barely registered the décor as dating back to the 1950s with sturdy upholstered sofa and armchair, a piecrust-style coffee table and matching end table. A small lamp there, a floor lamp at the opposite end of the sofa. A quality rug, a bit worn at the edges, on the polished wood floor. If I’d guessed at Louisa’s choice in furnishings based on her dress and manner, this would not have been it, but when she explained that she’d been hired as caregiver to an elderly woman when she first moved to Bury and that the lady had later willed the home to her it all made perfect sense.

  I noticed her own touches. An arrangement of candles on the coffee table, photos in silver frames. Two of them showed Louisa—fresh-faced, young, with a group of friends in backpacking gear.

  “Just never bothered to shop for new furniture,” she said. “This is comfortable. Why throw it out?”

  She led the way up the stairs and pointed out the two bedrooms separated by a small bathroom, all facing a tiny landing. Again, the ’50s styling, although she’d obviously upgraded the mattresses and bedding, opting for thick comforters and piles of pillows to snuggle into.

  “If you should change your mind about the hotel, dear, this one would be yours,” she said as we left the guest room with its yellow floral wallpaper and bright royal blue accents.

  The timer on the oven saved me from having to answer at that moment as Louisa rushed downstairs. I followed a little behind her, loving the charm of the old house but wanting a few more answers before committing. I still didn’t know the full story of why Louisa and my father had not spoken for the last twenty years of his life.

  The rich scent of chicken in a creamy sauce filled the kitchen. We took seats at the table and served ourselves from the casserole and the bowl of bright green salad.

  Conversation soon turned back to the knit shop and Louisa’s friend Dolly.

  “I’ve known her for a few years now. We met through a knitting club here in town. Back when I was the live-in for Mrs. Whitmere I needed something to occupy me during the long hours she slept so I took up needlework. When Dolly opened her own shop, she started a small knitting group there.”

  “I noticed the beautiful afghans in the bedrooms.”

  “Dolly and I, we’re about the same age, had those types of lives that are so similar in ways and so very different in others. She married, was a homemaker for years, successful husband. I never married, couple of close calls on that, but it always seemed more fun to explore the world. While Dolly found a home career, knitting sweaters for the Scottish wool companies, I zipped around Europe with a rail pass and backpack. No children to raise, for either of us, so we had the free time to pursue hobbies. That shared interest formed the basis for our friendship. She can be a prickly person, though, and I suppose she doesn’t have a lot of friends.”

  She wouldn’t be easy as an employer either. I remembered how worked up she’d become over her yarn stock being out of place. I thought of Louisa’s ideas about the unexplained incidents in Dolly’s shop.

  “You seem to have a difference of opinion about the supernatural,” I said as we cleared the table.

  Louisa set the dishes into the sink, ran some water over them and poured us each another glass of wine. “Let’s relax in the parlor. I guess you could say that I’ve seen enough not to be a disbeliever, while Dolly has never seen enough to be a believer.” She laughed heartily, a sound that filled the small room where we settled at opposite ends of the sofa.

  “Let me show you something,” she said, setting her wine glass aside and rising to cross to the bookshelves. She pulled out a book with an ethereal pattern of gray smoke on its cover and blew a whiff of dust off the top.

  I caught sight of the title—The World’s Top Ten Haunted Sites.

  “This isn’t an authority on the subject,” she said. “More of a starter volume. I’ve actually visited all ten of them.”

  She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and opened the book as she settled back onto the sofa.

  “In fact, here’s one that’s very close to home.”

  I immediately thought of New Mexico, but saw that the heading on the page said England—Suffolk. Silly me. The photo at the center of the spread looked a little familiar.

  “It’s our Abbey,” Louisa said. “Right here in Bury.”

  Now I knew where I’d seen those spires.

  “Of course, many of what they consider the ‘most haunted’ sites in the world center around battlefields and such, places where hundreds or thousands of people have died. What makes our Abbey unique is that it’s been inhabited for well over a thousand years and there have been consistent sightings of those from the spirit world during all that time.”

  I stared at the images, taken in foggy light—the lumpy ruins of the ancient structures alongside the more modern Gothic styled ones that looked like something right out of a 1930s movie set. Or maybe it was the shots of the gravestones tilted at odd angles in the nearby churchyard which gave that impression. Being a sucker for old Hitchcock films and remembering gripping my brother’s arm in the theater when he dragged me to a slasher movie without my mother’s knowledge, I felt a stirring of interest. Sometime while I was here I would have to visit those old ruins and see if I picked up my aunt’s enthusiasm.

  Meanwhile, I caught myself stifling a huge yawn. Louisa notic
ed too.

  “It’s been a long day for you,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind and stay here?”

  For about half a second I was torn. Her guest room was lovely. But then, my room at the Angel was also lovely. And it would feel good to have a night completely to myself. I made polite noises about the kindness of her offer as I carried my wine glass to the kitchen and looked around for my blazer and umbrella. We parted with a hug.

  A light drizzle had begun sometime during the evening but at the moment it had subsided into an atmosphere of dense, cool moisture that didn’t actually include any real raindrops. I kept my umbrella folded and let my skin soak it in, understanding how English women got their dewy complexions.

  The night streets lay in quiet shadows before me, the residents of the tiny neighborhood tucked in behind softly glowing windows. Victorian styled street lamps gave just enough light to keep me from becoming completed spooked as my footsteps echoed on the sidewalks. Following Louisa’s directions in reverse got me back to the Angel, a little chilled but unharmed by anything of a phantom nature and more than ready to heat the kettle and have a relaxing cup of tea.

  Snuggled into my flannel jammies, I only made it halfway through the tea before my eyelids refused to stay open. The thick duvet felt so good as I pulled it up to my chin and I’m pretty sure I was unconscious moments after the lamp went out.

  Chapter 4

  Sunlight brightened the windows that faced the front of the hotel. It was my first clue that I was in an east-facing room. I stretched and savored the warmth of the covers, up to the moment it became evident that my bladder wasn’t going to let me stay in bed much longer. Back from my quick trip to the bathroom I parted the sheer curtain and looked out.

  A flurry of traffic moved through the lot, mainly young mothers releasing uniformed kids to begin their day. I hadn’t realized there was a school nearby. I pressed the button on the coffee maker, remembering that breakfast was included in my room price but not quite having the energy to get dressed just yet. From the glimpse I’d caught of the restaurant with its high ceilings and dark woods, I had the feeling this wasn’t one of those places where you should show up in sweats with your hair in sleep-tangles.

  Voices drifted upward, excited kids meeting their friends and heading for class, while I sipped at my coffee and thought about the past few days. Louisa with her bright smile and ready laughter, her openness to unconventional ideas as well as to me—the unknown niece that she welcomed as if we’d known each other for ages—her airy clothing and ballet-style shoes. I’d never had a friend quite like her.

  A friend. Is that what this new family member would become?

  Only time would tell, I reminded myself. I pulled myself away from the window and set my cup aside, determined to make the most of the morning on my own. I showered, but decided the hair was going to be hopelessly bushy. It seemed to be doubling in volume in a purposeful effort to soak up as much moisture from this new climate as possible. I gave up attempts to style it and ended up pulling it back into a ponytail.

  I thought of home. It would be good to check in with Ron at some point, make sure that things were under control at the office. Meaning that I hoped he wouldn’t trash my office in an attempt to find a file or something that would, in fact, be buried on his own messy desk. I could also reassure him that Louisa seemed quite content without money from me. And then there was the longing to hear Drake’s voice again. But a quick calculation of the time difference told me that this was not the hour to waken either of them.

  Downstairs, the restaurant was bustling with people in business attire who seemed to be downing their final cups of coffee and heading out to important appointments. A willowy young server dressed all in black greeted me and I decided to treat myself to a full, traditional English breakfast. I won’t sugar-coat this—I’m not one to stress over healthy eating. I tend to have what I want, and I’m lucky enough in the genetics department that I don’t normally gain much weight. Either that or my tendency to run through life at a NASCAR pace keeps the pounds off. I gave this only about two seconds’ thought as I cut into the first of the plump sausages on my plate.

  A familiar shape approached, clad in waves of purple flowers.

  “I thought I might catch you here,” Louisa said. She slid into the chair opposite me but waved off the server’s offer of food or drink. “I got a call early this morning. The woman who was to take the afternoon shift at the office is down with some kind of bug. I’m going to have to work all day.”

  “That’s okay,” I mumbled through the bite of toast that I’d just popped into my mouth. “I can find plenty of places to explore.”

  Her brows went into a little wrinkle. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. I just feel like I’m abandoning you, and so quickly after your arrival.”

  I patted her hand. “It’s fine. I’ve got my camera and there are a million pictures waiting to be taken out there.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’ll be off work around four. Come by my place and I’ll figure out something to make for dinner.”

  “I can take you out somewhere,” I offered.

  “Actually, I have some lovely fresh greens from my neighbor’s garden. How about a salad? ”

  I gave a smile and a nod. After all, I supposed I shouldn’t chow down on sausages and eggs all the time. Louisa rose, her quick little movements nearly upsetting a pitcher of milk, and she darted out the door after leaving me with the suggestion to come anytime and we could have tea in the garden. With a whiff of some exotic scent that matched the flowers on her dress, she was gone.

  I leaned back in my chair and let the waitress take away my empty plate. I didn’t see much of a change to my day; I’d planned to tour the Abbey and gardens, visit a few of the historic buildings, and take pictures up until lunch time anyway. With the large breakfast, I could foresee skipping lunch and maybe grabbing a nap before calling home sometime in the late afternoon. The kind of schedule a person on vacation should have.

  By three o’clock I’d accomplished nearly everything on the list—including a tour inside the Gothic-style cathedral given by a very nice priest, minister, vicar, or whatever his title was. He never quite explained that. I’d managed enough photos to please the folks back home without, I hoped, boring them to death. The lure of the nap was beckoning as I unlocked the door to my room. I succumbed, only to be awakened by the phone’s funny jangle an hour later.

  “Hey babe,” said Drake.

  “What time is it there? I was going to call you later.”

  “It’s way too early, for sure. But I have a flight so I was up at dawn. At the airport now, in fact. Just needed to hear your voice.”

  Aww. We exchanged mushy talk until I could hear the whine of rotor blades in the background. The routine of his flights had become so familiar to me that I could put myself right there in the cockpit with him, scanning the instruments and handling the controls. This past summer had included a little too much personal drama for me but I looked forward to working alongside him again. Soon, I hoped.

  When the phone connection ended I realized that Louisa would be expecting me shortly. I straightened the mussed covers on the bed, swished some mouthwash to get rid of that sleep-taste, and ran a brush through my hair. Twenty minutes later I was again tapping the hefty brass knocker against the plate on her red front door.

  She’d exchanged the flowered dress from this morning for a pair of stretchy leggings in lavender and a pretty top of filmy crepe-like fabric in what I was beginning to recognize as her signature colors of purple and aqua. This one had a pattern of tiny beads around the neckline.

  I apologized for running a bit late, explaining about the phone call from Drake.

  “It must be hard, juggling a man and a business,” she said.

  An image of myself trying to heft my husband into the air popped into my head. “Just juggling the man is tricky enou
gh.”

  Her hearty laugh filled the room for a second. “Oh, you are so right about that!”

  She ushered me through the parlor and into the kitchen.

  “Tea and cake in the garden, or would you rather go straight to the wine and have an early dinner?” she asked. “I wasn’t sure whether you’ve adjusted to the time change yet, so I’m prepared for either.”

  As tempting as the idea of a real English tea and cakes sounded, I had a feeling I needed something more substantial. After the big breakfast, and with all the midday activities, I had skipped lunch.

  “Can I help you with the salad?” I asked, while she poured wine into two glasses.

  “Everything’s ready here on the worktop and it won’t take but a moment.”

  “I would love to tour your garden,” I said, peeping out the window in her back door.

  “It’s not terribly fancy, especially by English standards,” she said. “Mostly roses.”

  We carried our wine glasses outside past a small bistro set, and I trailed her along a pathway of stepping stones as she showed off the last of the autumn blossoms, including a few hybrids that the home’s previous owner had especially prized.

  “Your mother loved roses, as I recall,” she said, cupping a peachy bloom in one hand.

  “She did. I’ve managed to keep quite a few of them alive but I’m not really a gardener.” I’d already given her the quick rundown of how I’d inherited the house, during those get-acquainted conversations on the phone.

  “I’ve kept a few of Arlene’s letters. Last night after you left, I found them. Thought you might like to have them.”