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Birdie pulled a few candles out of a cupboard and lit them and the women settled in around the kitchen. Avery perched on a stool, and Birdie and Francine pulled up dining chairs from the oak table, watching as Cam prepared to make the dish. Cam felt like she was onstage, and that this was some kind of performance. Was this what it was like to star in one of those TV cooking shows? She shuddered at the very idea of it.

Cam placed the book on the dining table and flipped to the parsnip soup recipe. She didn’t want to risk having it next to her as she cooked, in case she splattered something—not that she usually did, of course. Cam prided herself on being a neat cook. But there was only so much you could control.

Birdie, Avery, and Francine all gathered around the pages, poring over them, and Cam put a pot on the burner and slipped a few slices of butter into it. As the butter foamed, she finely diced an onion.

“Does it feel warmer in here?” Avery asked.

“It might be the heat from the stove,” Birdie suggested. “But I think you’re right.”

Cam peeled the root vegetables and diced them, too, adding them to the mix with hot beef stock. As the contents of the pot came to a boil, tendrils of steam rose into the kitchen. The four women watched as one plume rose higher and higher, morphing from a wisp into something that looked like a human form, though still transparent and unsubstantial. It was a petite woman, her hair in a curly bob, wearing a silvery-pink dress. Parsley yipped and a collective gasp went up in the room. Cam felt her sense of wonder mix with relief. What if the ghost hadn’t shown up? And fear, too. What if she wasn’t friendly?

“It’s her,” Francine whispered. “It’s Ada.”

Suddenly, a sound seemed to come from every corner of the kitchen, scratchy, indistinguishable whispers.

“Hi, Ada,” Francine gamely greeted the ghost.

Nice idea, Cam thought. If she had been dead for nearly a century, she would probably appreciate being treated with a little common courtesy.

The whispers got louder, and just as Ada’s form had emerged from the mist, words suddenly became distinguishable in the cacophony.

“FIIIIIIIINNND IIIIIIIIT,” the voice insisted angrily. “FIND IT!”

“Did you hear that?” Cam asked the women, who nodded.

Cam stepped toward Ada. “What is it you want us to find?” she asked. “I want to help you. Just tell me what it is you’re looking for.”

Ada’s image seemed to flicker like the signal from an old television station with bad reception. Just then, the pages of the cookbook began flipping, one after the other.

Birdie looked around as if trying to identify the source of a draft.

“Has this happened before?” Avery whispered to Cam, who could only shake her head mutely.

Each page turned over, faster and faster, and the book rattled from side to side on the table, seeming to thrum with an energy of anger and frustration. Dislodged, it crashed to the floor, where it landed with a thud and closed.

And suddenly, as if a switch had been turned off, it all stopped. Ada disappeared, and the book stopped moving. The kitchen was silent, and the warmth they had felt just a moment ago was gone.

Cam wiped her hands and picked up the cookbook. It seemed clear that Ada couldn’t communicate beyond that simple phrase, but it was obvious that she was pointing them to the book. “There must be something in this,” she said, stroking its cover. “I think Ada was trying to tell us that whatever she’s looking for is in here—or at least a clue to the thing that she wants us to find is.”

Avery looked stunned. “Remind me to never doubt you again, Cam,” she said. “Because that was a bona fide ghost.”

Birdie shook her head and looked sympathetic. “That poor girl,” she said.

Francine refilled her margarita glass. “This,” she declared, “is the coolest girls’ night ever.”

Cam placed the cookbook on the sideboard and out of harm’s way and set out bowls for the soup, along with a basket of crusty bread and a salad she had prepared ahead of time. As she tossed the greens with vinaigrette, her thoughts spun.

“What could it be that she wants someone to find?” Avery asked, setting the table with thick cotton napkins and silverware. “Buried treasure?”

“She did come from a wealthy family,” Francine said as the women pulled up to the table to eat.

“But what good would riches do her now?” Cam asked.

“And how would you even know where to look?” Birdie, ever practical, asked. “It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, only you don’t know it’s a needle you’re searching for.”

Cam sighed and ate a spoonful of the soup, which was savory and earthy. “I’m going to start with that cookbook.”

“You know,” Avery said to Cam later, when they had finished dinner (plus another round of margaritas) and done the dishes and were settled into their twin beds under the eaves upstairs, “you don’t have to do this. You could just close up that cookbook and put it away in a box. You could focus on you—on your future—and not Ada’s past. You’ve got enough going on as it is.”