Mrs Morris and the Ghost, page 2
part #1 of Salem B&B Mystery Series
Her self-imposed schedule to open at Halloween was tight, but she’d prepared by shopping ahead as best she could. A month was plenty of time to fill the place.
The second-floor bedrooms were covered in nubby beige wool and she noticed depressions in some of the carpets, as if heavy furniture had marked the spot. She’d bought a mahogany bedroom suite from 1857 that had a matching armoire and a secretary desk. She took the dimensions for curtains and wrote it on her pad of paper. The pull-down shades didn’t provide the cozy feel she was aiming for.
“A desk for the other bedrooms would be good,” she said aloud, adding that below carpet runners in her neat print. Keeping her hand on the rich golden railing leading from the bedrooms to the foyer, she felt energized. Would there be furniture in the detached garage next to the house? Or in the basement? She’d had a dollhouse as a kid, but this was way better.
Opening the door to the basement, Charlene expected a single bulb with a beaded metal chain but was pleasantly surprised by modern recessed lighting above the steep wooden stairs going down, and flipped the wall switch.
Growing up in Chicago, her parents’ basement had been filled with cobwebs and cracks—the moldy smell and damp had kept her out of there. When she and Jared bought their house on the hill, the basement had thin slits in the cement to allow light, but it wasn’t a usable space, other than for storage.
She’d expected this to be the same, but instead, one of the owners in the last century had created the ultimate man-cave. Her laugh echoed. Rocks the size of dessert plates had been polished to onyx, and rich woods in varying shades from gold to black paneled the far wall of the rectangular room.
To the right was the water heater and pipes beneath the house, screened with lattice so the eye was drawn to the rest of the basement on the left. The cement floor had been covered in octagon-shaped pavers. Racks in the same lattice pattern as the screen waited to be filled with bottles of wine.
The wall connecting just beneath the stairs had been covered with plywood, as if the project hadn’t been completed. No windows lit the area, so without the light, it would be pitch-dark and a possible hazard to her guests.
Charlene went back upstairs to the kitchen and checked the time on her iPhone. “Another hour before the truck.” Charlene remembered a small grocery store at the bottom of the hill and decided to get a few supplies. Beer for the movers, and wine for her. “And lunch.”
She’d just finished her tuna fish sandwich when the moving truck appeared. Two big, burly workers wearing cargo pants and T-shirts that showed their beefy arms and substantial waistlines stomped up the porch steps. Swiping her hand along the rear of her jeans, she opened the right side of the double front doors in greeting. “Hi! I’m Charlene.”
“Mike,” the younger of the two said. His arms were tattooed, and his dark hair slicked back into a thick braid.
“Rick.” The older man had a large nose and a full dark blond beard.
She’d labeled everything for the movers but without seeing the interior of the home, she’d worked off of specs and now prayed everything would fit. “What’s coming off the truck first?” she asked.
Mike consulted a sheet he’d pulled from his back pocket. “The master bedroom set.”
“My suite.” She hoped the smell had dissipated enough that she’d be able to sleep tonight in her new bed. On the road since four this morning, she was starting to run on fumes. “That will be on this main floor, at the end of the hall just beyond the kitchen.”
Eager to see what was there, Charlene hurried down the stairs to the rear of the moving truck. “How was the drive?” She was in no rush to make the road trip again and had already decided that she’d fly back to Chicago to visit her parents . . . whenever she had the time to go.
“Fifteen hours straight through, but we switch off in shifts,” Mike told her. “Once we’re done here, we’ll pick up a load in Boston for delivery in Chicago—that’s our home base.”
Supporting the entrepreneurial spirit, she’d gone with a local, family-owned moving company.
“What about this, ma’am?” Rick gestured to a bubble-wrapped oval slab.
She’d discovered the antique formal dining table at a consignment shop for less than three hundred bucks. “That’s the dining room. If you could please center the table under the chandelier? There’s a sideboard I’d like against the far wall that matches it.”
“Will do, ma’am.” Rick’s eyes flickered down the length of her, as if checking her out. “You plan on living here all by yourself?”
“With my guests,” she answered, wondering if he was flirting. “Call me Charlene, both of you.” Even if he was, she wasn’t interested. She glanced down at her bare wedding ring finger. She had a plan, and it didn’t call for a man.
She cradled an antique lamp with a cut-glass vase and a lace canopy in her arms, while Mike brought in a box labeled Master. Leading him down the long hallway through the kitchen, she pushed open the door to her living area. “This is the sitting room, and it’s a little musty smelling in here. Do you mind opening the windows for me? I barely managed to crack it an inch.”
“Sure thing.” Mike easily opened the single pane, waiting to hear the catch of the lock before he let go of the frame. “You might want to get screens, so you can leave them open. At least until the smell goes away.”
“On my list.” Which just kept getting longer. “I’m opening up a bed and breakfast.”
“Cool idea! When do you open for business?”
Charlene spoke with confidence she didn’t entirely feel. “Halloween.”
He eyed the enormous house and grinned. “Halloween in Salem. Way spookier than in Chicago. All you need is a ghost.”
A breeze fluttered the lace curtain. “Well, right now I’m more worried about a mold issue. Thanks for opening the window.”
Mike checked the window frames. “I do a little carpentry on the side and these aren’t warped or anything. I bet the smell was just an old house being closed up for a while.”
Her shoulders bowed with relief. “Thanks. Hope you’re right.” She pointed to the closed door. “Now, the bedroom is through there—and if you don’t mind, I’d like that window open too. In here, I have a love seat, a matching armchair, and a wall unit for my shelves of books. Also the forty-inch TV.”
“No problem.” Whistling, Mike walked away, his braid sliding against his broad back. She stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and breathed out. Once she had her furniture arranged the house would begin to feel like a home. It was a beautiful place for her to live, a charming city just a mile away. She’d be so busy there would be no time to grieve for her husband. No time to be lonely.
Once the delivery men had gone—Rick’s handshake a tad too familiar—she traipsed around the main floor, eyeing the place as a stranger might.
She’d found the two matching sofas with a flowered yellow and rose print at an estate sale, along with a four by four square mahogany coffee table—the grouping faced the ornate fireplace.
A mirror, Charlene thought, tapping her lower lip with her forefinger, or a painting? The empty space above the mantel cried for something large. Being a nautical town, she could find a nice seascape that would fit. But a mirror would be more elegant in this setting—and worth the cost. She let out a sigh, pulled her pen and paper from her back pocket, and added mirror to the list. Cha-ching.
“You knew this,” she said aloud, dragging two John Henry Belter–style chairs in laminated rosewood and yellow brocade closer to the fireplace—she stepped back to view the arrangement. Originals were in the thousand-dollar range. “And who got them for a hundred bucks each? Oh yeah . . .” She’d learned fast that estate sales were the way to go. And even back in the 1800s they’d had cheaper knockoffs.
She surveyed the room with a critical eye. More chairs and a small rosewood table would create another seating area. Charlene envisioned her guests finding a cozy nook to read. There was space for a bar behind the dining room, where people could meet for a pre-dinner drink. A piano would also be nice . . . but she was getting ahead of herself. All this would take time and money. Time, she had. Money, she didn’t.
Her stomach rumbled, and she checked her phone. Six o’clock. No wonder she was hungry. She quickly went into her rooms, breathed deep—the bad smell was fading, thank goodness—and showered in the white claw-foot tub with a white and blue checkered curtain. The single head felt like a spa on her sore muscles. The faucet screeched when she turned the hot water off.
Steam fogged the mirror—oval, steel frame, and no medicine cabinet, she noted. She might want to buy one, again, when she had the money. She swiped a circular space clean with her palm.
She’d kept her hair wrapped in a towel and now loosed it, letting her dark brown waves free. Hazel eyes, a thin, oval-shaped face, her cheekbones stood out, making her realize how much weight she’d lost after Jared was gone. A little blush and she’d be fine—or would she? Her diamond studs caught the light, and she swallowed the ache in her throat. “Jared, if only you could be here with me. Life would be perfect, but how, how . . .” her voice cracked, “could it ever be again?”
Facing the mirror, she looked at herself crossly. “Stop it. Stop it right now. You will be fine. You didn’t cross thousands of miles to bring this all up again. It’s a new beginning. Now begin it!”
Remembering an Italian place in the same strip as the little grocery store, she decided that pasta and a glass of red was just what she needed. She flipped on the television to a local station where the anchorwoman predicted a cold front, and stepped into her closet.
This would be her first impression meeting her new neighbors and she wanted to look nice.
The TV behind her turned off.
Charlene tightened the towel around her and peeked out to her living room. “Hello?” The picture was blank. Frowning, she walked out and reached for the remote. The program flashed back on. A loose wire?
She’d gotten used to the television as background noise in the last eighteen months without Jared. She shrugged and chose black slacks and a burgundy silk blouse with leather burgundy flats. Keeping on the TV and the front porch light to give the appearance of the house being occupied, she walked out the door and locked up.
The evening was still light as she parked in the lot of Bella’s Italian Ristorante, the smells of garlic wafting out to tease her before she even opened the door. She was greeted by a fiftyish maître d’ in black, who gave her a warm smile. “Good evening! Will you be dining alone?”
“Yes, tonight, and most nights after that.” She laughed, not offended but accepting of her widowed status. “I just bought the old place up Crown Point Road, the one with the widow’s walk? I’m turning it into a B and B. My name’s Charlene”—she offered her hand—“and I hope to send my guests—when I have them—here.” Her idea was to exchange advertising perks for a discount.
“You bought that place?” Brown eyes widened beneath salt and pepper bushy brows. “It’s mostly been vacant as long as I’ve been here—I came from New York, what, about five years ago now.” He looked as though he wanted to say more but pursed his lips, a red flush creeping up his throat. “I’m David. Welcome to Salem. I run this place, among other things.”
What was the matter with her house? Sure, it was big, but she had big plans. “So great to meet you—I’ll call and make an appointment later this week to discuss some joint opportunities.” Her stomach growled, and she was tempted to grab a mint from the bowl on the podium.
“Would you like that table for two next to the window?” He gestured with an outstretched arm across the clustered round tables, each with a white cloth and a candle flickering against the dim interior.
“Please. And thank you, David.” Charlene followed him and took the seat facing the entrance and the bar. The brick walls had beautiful prints of quaint villages with cobblestone streets and hilly beach towns perched on cliffs. One looked like Positano, where she’d vacationed with Jared on their fifth wedding anniversary. Sorrento, the Isle of Capri, oh, what happy memories. She glanced away, the constant ache never far.
“When did you get in?” David flourished a white dinner napkin and handed it to her. He spoke without looking at her, his expression slightly anxious.
“Just this morning. This will be my first night in my new home.” What the heck was going on? His demeanor had changed . . . and the Realtor had been odd too.
Was there something wrong with her home, like a sinkhole she didn’t know about? Had she invested all her money into something that was doomed from the start? Those doubts sounded like her mother’s voice, so she banished them. Negativity was luckily not an inherited trait.
A brunette waitress wearing a black shirt and black pinstriped pants dropped off a menu, her smile friendly. “What would you like to drink? Wine, or a cocktail?”
“Something from the bar.” The rows of gleaming bottles captured her interest. “It’s been an exhausting day. A vodka martini, please, double olives.” She and Jared had discovered the beauty of the underrated martini during one of their long weekends.
“Coming right up.” The young woman shifted her weight from one leather clog to the other. “I’m Jessica. Did I hear you tell David that you just moved here? You are going to love Salem! So much to do and see. Have you been down to the wharf?”
“Not yet. But I will . . . I’ve got a lot to do before I open up my B and B. I’m ready to take reservations, though—can I give you some cards, in case anyone is looking for a place to stay?”
“You bet,” Jessica said. “What’s the name going to be?”
“Charlene’s Bed and Breakfast.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a glossy black and ivory business card with the name embedded in silver. “I hope to have it up and running by next month. My goal is Halloween. Is it as busy around here as I’ve read?” The season held great appeal for her bank account.
“It is! That’s so cool.” Jessica leaned back and folded her arms across her waist, just above her black apron. “I have people coming in here, to the restaurant, all the time. My parents visit from Philly and they are always looking for a new place to stay.”
Jessica walked away to get Charlene’s drink, and Charlene breathed a sigh of relief—the waitress hadn’t sent off any warning signals. Picking up the menu, Charlene relaxed for the first time that day.
The drink arrived, and she gave Jessica her order of lobster fettucine, then sat back and silently toasted herself. To a new life. Making friends, making money, and some new memories. She sipped the martini and watched the people come and go—all strangers.
In the past year and a half, it didn’t matter where she’d gone in Chicago, it seemed the experience was somehow tied to Jared. Work—they all knew and loved him. Home, he was in every fiber of the couch, every blond hair behind the dresser. She had to save herself. She’d packed her wedding ring along with a box marked Jared and bought this house in Salem.
An hour and a half later, Charlene drove home with a full stomach and a carton of leftover fettuccini. She unlocked her door and walked into the cavernous house. She paused at the threshold, blinking against the bright lights from the dining room chandelier.
The lights must be on a timer, she thought. She didn’t remember turning them on, but it looked so pretty that she didn’t mind. Putting the leftovers in the fridge, she poured herself a glass of red wine from Napa Valley, a boutique winery she’d discovered on a trip with Jared. She sipped, enjoying the full-bodied flavor, and carried it into the living room. Her flats were silent on the hardwood floor, and she tilted her head back, staring up at the ornate McIntire carvings, advertised as such in the real-estate listing she’d found online.
This was a grand old house, and she couldn’t wait to fill it with people and laughter and music. Her mind drifted and she wondered who had lived here hundreds of years ago. Must have been a large family, with all of those bedrooms upstairs. When newly built this home would have been an enormous extravagance, with maid quarters and all. They probably had a ballroom and hosted parties and dances. She spun around, wineglass in hand, slowly swaying.
She slow-stepped toward the fireplace and fancied a tall man standing near the mantel, his broad back to her. Dressed in a black suit, his dark hair to his collar. Closing her eyes, she allowed her imagination to take flight. She hummed softly, then sighed. “You’re a romantic at heart, just like Jared used to say.”
She turned on a few lamps, which cast a soft glow, preferring that to burning out the lights in the chandelier, and sat in a wingback chair to enjoy her wine. When the glass was nearly empty, she yawned, got up, and headed for bed.
As she entered her bedroom she noticed the television was off again, and she’d purposely left it on when she’d left this evening. It was a problem for tomorrow, she decided. Exhausted by the first day of her new life, she changed into flannel pajamas and slid under the covers.
She had new bedding to go with her new bed, and the crisp white duvet was soft and dreamy against her skin. The feather pillow allowed her head to sink in like a cloud and comfort her.
Her eyes felt heavy, and she turned off the light. Sleep.
* * *
Charlene woke in confusion.
This wasn’t her house in Chicago. Not her bed. Not . . . oh yes. A pelting sounded against her windows. Heavy rain pounded overhead. She debated getting out of bed to make sure they weren’t leaking but decided it could wait.
Wind rustled the trees outside, branches eerily scratching the roof. She shivered and brought the comforter up to her shoulders.
No way could she sleep now.
She turned on her side, the hair on her nape rising in alarm. Was that—her breath caught. Her mind tried to reason what she saw before her. Black shoes, black pants. A suit jacket.
No. No. No! Charlene lifted her head and screamed. The man she’d envisioned standing before the fireplace was now right in her room, next to the window. She brought the duvet up and over her face, shuddering with fear.
