“Figures.” She sighed, tilting her head to peer through the window as if she could get another look.
Of course, she was gorgeous—sunny hair, holiday-movie-heroine smile—the kind of woman grumpy tree farmers tripped over their saws for. A billionaire hotel heir looking to bulldoze the town would stop in his tracks. And she’d be perfect for Grant. He'd cook, she'd clean, and they’d meet somewherehorizontallyin the middle.
Ugh!
I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to refocus. My line of questioning had derailed, and I was laying claim to Grant like the holiday homewrecker wolves were circling.
“He leaves dirty laundry everywhere,” I blurted, lying through my teeth so hard I checked the sky for lightning. “I once found his socks in the freezer. He said it neutralizes the smell.”
Amelia visibly recoiled. “Oh, wow.”
“Never marry a man with big feet. It's a curse,” I added like a couples' soothsayer.
“Good advice.” Amelia wrinkled her perfectly pert nose.
A tiny, wicked spark of satisfaction warmed my chest.Town officially bulldozed. Tree farmer neutralized.Yes, I was a festive troublemaker. No, I wasn’t changing my ways.
She straightened her shoulders, no longer interested in the view beyond the window. “How can I help? You had questions about the inn?”
“That’s right. I haven’t seen the ghost yet, but I’ve seen the signs.”
“Oh, you’ll see him,” she said. “He’s testing you. Seeing if you’re worth the trouble to pull out all the stops.”
All the stops?I didn't like the sound of that. I was already halfway to comatose from just the eerie footsteps.
“Any idea who the spirit might be? There’s nothing in the file, and Edith didn’t know.”
“That’s the thing. There’s no record of anyone dying here. It’s a mystery.” She fiddled with the ends of her scarf. “I heard it all started maybe fifty years ago. Little things at first, strange footsteps, cold spots. Even a lantern glowing in an empty room. Always the same room.”
“Which one?”
“The small banquet hall; the one that faces the lake.”
I glanced toward the distant windows, frost fogging the glass. “And no one’s ever figured out why?”
She shook her head. “A few years after the hauntings started. Let’s see… nineteen-eighty, I think. They got worse almost overnight. The owners had to close that December. They've been doing it ever since.”
“How odd. Something must have happened.”
Amelia shrugged. “Sure. But who knows what? I’ve asked around. The case has always intrigued me. Nothing sticks out about that year. The inn was business as usual. You can check the books…” She trailed off as a rattle sounded behind the veranda door. Both of us froze.
The doorknob jiggled, the door creaking open an inch. Then—slam.
Amelia flinched, her hand pressing against her throat. “See? That’s my cue. Be careful, Ms. Spellman. Whoever he is, the ghost is angry.” She gathered her things and hurried down the steps toward her car.
“Great,” I said to no one, shivering inside my jacket. “Can’t wait to get back inside.”
I had clues, though. Nineteen-eighty. Something happened that December that had ramped up the hauntings. Then therewas the banquet hall. There were notes in the case file about the glowing light. It could be a coincidence that it always appeared there. Or not. Either way, it was a start.
The hall felt emptier on the way back in; the portraits lining the walls somehow creepier. I never understood why people decorated with oil paintings of strangers. Kittens in baskets full of yarn would’ve really cheered the place up.
A faint flicker at the edge of a mirror caught my eye—broad shoulders, familiar profile—Grant shadowing me like he could steal my clues. But when I turned, no one was there.
“Okay,” I whispered, gripping my empty mug like a weapon. “We’re avoiding Grant. Not seeing him around every corner.”
I tiptoed toward the banquet hall. The double doors loomed at the end of the corridor, carved with holly leaves and faded scrollwork. Behind the frosted panes, a faint shimmer of light pulsed.
Inside, the room echoed with the whine of the door hinges. A pair of chandeliers dripping with crystal teardrops, hung low over a long banquet table buried beneath a film of dust. Gold-leaf sconces lined the paneled walls, between heavy portraits in gilded frames. The air was colder than outside, tinged with something spicy, like cloves and decay.
