Ghost Wanted Page 4
Hoping the main door wasn’t rigged with an alarm, I drew back the bolt and, after a quick breath, yanked it. The silence remained unbroken, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I stepped out, scooped up the Bugles, and hurried inside. I locked the door.
A golden light from a hanging lamp illuminated stairs that curved from the entry lobby to the second floor. The lower floor was used for entertaining. The upstairs bedrooms were available for important university guests. The second-floor hall was illuminated with wall sconces. Each bedroom door contained a nameplate: Red Room, Scholar’s Room, Retreat Room . . . Oh, I liked that one. I put the Bugles on the hall floor, wafted inside, flicked on the light.
I don’t know who had the greater shock, me upon perceiving the sturdy lump beneath the bedspread or the occupant who moved uneasily then came bolt upright, staring up at the chandelier.
I turned off the light, regained the hall, and grabbed the Bugles. I zoomed to the ceiling.
The door opened and light spilled into the corridor. A barefoot man in his fifties with a tangled mop of hair peered up and down the hall. Finally, he shrugged, gave a hitch to baggy tartan boxers, and turned into the room. Hopefully he was a visiting poet and would decide crossed wires accounted for the light.
The huge house remained utterly quiet. I didn’t have a sense that Rose Bower was packed with guests, but obviously I had to be careful. Rather than blip into more rooms, I decided to depend upon instinct. I firmly believe the inner me is lucky.
I crossed the main hallway and peered at a nameplate: Master Suite, Mr. and Mrs. Marlow. A red-velvet swag hung between gold stanchions that stood on either side of the door, marking the suite off-limits. Certainly this wouldn’t be occupied. I put the Bugles right outside the door and flowed inside. It took only an instant to turn on the light, open the door, grab the papers, and shut the door.
Matching wing chairs faced a fireplace with incised wood carving and stucco relief that included matching Grecian urns and a garland of roses. Fluted Corinthian pillars framed another portrait of Lorraine, golden hair upswept, classic features in repose. Her loveliness had a remote quality. There was an aura of stateliness and dignity. Was there a hint of sadness in her gaze? A triple-strand pearl necklace matched the ivory of an elegant off-shoulder gown. Facing each other atop the mantel were two quite perfect Staffordshire figurines of dalmatians. I remembered now that two life-size marble dalmatians sat on either side of the drive.
A mahogany four-poster bed was on the far side of the spacious room. Lace flounces hung from the canopy and sides, curtaining the interior. The bed looked small compared to beds at the bed-and-breakfast where I’d stayed when last in Adelaide. The suite was large with a Victorian sofa, several Queen Anne–style chairs in a cream fabric with a vivid rose pattern, two mahogany chests, a dressing table, and a petit point–upholstered stool next to a harp. Whitmani ferns flourished in two blue ceramic vases. I supposed the staff kept ferns in the suite because Lorraine Marlow enjoyed ferns when she was alive.
I turned on a Tiffany lamp on the dressing table. The shade was gorgeous, with a gold and green pattern. I admired cut-glass perfume bottles that glittered like diamonds in the light. A hairbrush and hand mirror with ornate silver handles lay next to a pair of white gloves that looked as if they had been dropped there for only a moment. A hand-painted china tray continued the rose motif with huge blooms of many hues. The tray contained a china thimble, a book of Emily Dickinson poetry, and ticket stubs.
It was as if Lorraine Marlow had walked out of the room a short while ago and would soon return. Apparently Charles Marlow had kept his wife’s personal items in place and nothing had been disturbed since her death. I picked up a crystal perfume bottle, lifted the stopper, and sniffed. Shalimar by Guerlain . . . Not that I ever used such expensive perfume, but on a visit to New York Bobby Mac and I had dropped into an exclusive perfume shop, and the scent was unforgettable.
I dabbed a bit behind each ear, gave a yawn, sniffed again before I stoppered the bottle. What a gala week Bobby Mac and I spent. We’d stayed at the Waldorf. I remembered the radiance of tulips when we’d walked hand in hand through Central Park. I smiled and swirled into being. On earth, I enjoy being on earth. The room was chilly enough that I chose a pink flannel nightgown. I put the Bugles on the dressing table, looked into the mirror, and picked up the hairbrush. My curls were—
“Where did you come from?” Lorraine’s light high voice inquired politely.
I dropped the hairbrush as though it were electrified.
“I knew you were here when the light came on and in a moment my perfume bottle rose in the air. It’s a nice scent, isn’t it?” The cultivated voice was quite pleasant.
I turned and looked toward the bed. The lace panels had been pulled back, revealing a folded-back sheet and coverlet though Lorraine wasn’t visible. Obviously she had retired for the night. I’d made myself at home without a thought for her whereabouts. My face felt hot. She was, as Wiggins said, too gentle to censure me for intruding into her boudoir and pawing over her dressing table. I reached down to retrieve the brush and placed it on the dressing table.
“I don’t mean to be inquisitive but tonight on the landing, when you spoke of Paul, I understood you are a spirit, just as I am. Yet now you are here. I see you.” A pause, then, admiringly, “You have quite lovely red hair. But please, how can you be here?” The high voice was amazed.
“Haven’t you ever appeared?” I was stunned. Half the pleasure of beautiful clothes is admiring them, and I felt sure that Lorraine had always enjoyed the finest apparel. “Oh my dear. You can appear. Picture yourself in your favorite dress.”
“Picture myself . . .”
Colors moved and flowed, coalescing into a slender blonde in a padded-shoulder knee-length silk dress with a pattern of ivy against cream. A single strand of pearls graced her slender neck. Tall heels sported an ankle strap. She stood beside the four-poster bed, her lips curving in delight.
If she walked down a street in Adelaide, she would look as distant in time as a flapper in a dropped-waist layered dress.
Lorraine turned and looked into the mirror. Her eyes widened.
I moved to stand beside her. I felt at a disadvantage in a pink flannel nightgown. In an instant, I nodded in approval at my reflection in an A-line dress and sandals. The vibrant shade of aquamarine blue was just right for my complexion, freckles and all.
One thin blonde brow rose as Lorraine saw my image and noted the mid-thigh skirt length.
“Skirts are very short these days.” I hoped I didn’t sound defensive.
“Oh, I know.” She hastened to be agreeable. “Though I have to confess I don’t find today’s styles appealing. Many women on the staff wear slacks. That was acceptable during the war, when women worked night and day in factories, but now everyone could wear skirts if they wished. As for coeds today . . .” A delicate shudder. She turned toward me, her blue eyes troubled and uncertain. “Why are you here?” There was the slightest emphasis on the noun and I thought I heard a tremor in her voice.
I tried for an appealing smile. “I wanted a place where I could read”—I picked up the slim stack of Bugles—“without being disturbed. I didn’t know you were here.”
“Where else would I go?” Her lovely voice was mournful.
I said gently, “When your work on earth is done . . .”
Her eyes, an arresting shade of blue tempered by gray, brimmed with tears. “I blamed myself.”
I scarcely heard the soft words, freighted with sorrow.
“If I hadn’t written him . . . I knew he’d understand . . . but I couldn’t forgive myself when . . .” She bowed her head, pressed slender hands against her face. Finally, her hands dropped and she walked away from me, her shoulders tight. She stopped near an elegant cloisonné screen, orange and red and green and gold gemstones gleaming in an intricate pattern on porcelain agains
t ornately carved wood.
I followed her. I didn’t know why she grieved, what memories caused her anguish, held her to earth. Perhaps I could make her feel better, lift her sorrow. “Wiggins thinks you are wonderful, and he’s dreadfully upset that someone is vandalizing the library and hiding behind your legend. I’m here to clear your name. I’ll find out who’s causing problems at the library. I won’t bother you.” I had a sudden sense that she felt hounded, and that was my fault. Everyone must have a private place, whether on earth or in Heaven. I’d come to Rose Bower hoping to learn more about Lorraine, but I hadn’t intended to intrude where she felt safe.
She turned and gazed at me, her lovely face vulnerable. “He wants to help me?”
“Wiggins wants you to be happy. I promise.” I held out my hand. “Friends?”
A slender hand gripped mine, the touch cool and gentle. “Of course I will be your friend. How like Paul to wish the best for me even though I broke his heart. But I can’t bear remembering. . . . I’ve tried so hard not to bring back those days, but now it seems as though it were yesterday and my world turned dark and gray and empty.” She withdrew her hand.
Colors dissolved. Lorraine was no longer visible.
“I’ll leave.” I knew as I spoke that she was no longer here. The room had an empty feel. Yet, just in case, I said quickly, “I won’t bother you again.” I had no sense she was there to hear me. I had so many questions I wanted to ask. How had she known Wiggins? What made her cry in remembering him? Why did she feel guilty? Why had she remained on earth all these years? And for now, what had happened at the library? Why was she considered the cause of these events? But clearly she didn’t want to deal with me about either the past or the present.
Perhaps someday I might learn about Lorraine and Wiggins. For now, I must discover what had occurred at the library, see if I could restore luster to her memory. “I came looking for a place to stay. I’ll go now.”
I disappeared and once again had to deal with the Bugles. I opened the door cautiously. I stepped into the empty hall, closed the door softly behind me. The Bugles, of course, appeared to float serenely through the air. At the far end of the hall, I saw a nameplate: Sanctuary. I took that as an omen, placed the Bugles on the floor, moved inside, made certain no guest was in residence, opened the door, and picked up the papers.
The beautifully appointed room might have been waiting for me. Perhaps it was. I was delighted by a four-poster with floral flounces and curtains at each corner that matched the drapes at the front windows. Violets and ivy, a lovely combination. I admired the lace spread and patted a downy pillow. I took the precaution of wedging a straight chair beneath the doorknob. Anyone trying to enter would alert me in time to remove evidence of my presence. I returned to my pink flannel gown and snuggled into the four-poster with the Bugles.
Chapter 4
The Bugle, Page 3, Monday, October 14
History Senior Excited by Hands-On Project
Bugle editor Joe Cooper
Chair of the History Department Dr. Malcolm Gordon announced Friday that Tulsa senior Michelle Hoyt will be the first student to base a senior paper on private journals.
Dr. Gordon hopes Hoyt will blaze a trail for future Goddard history majors in writing a paper based on original research of previously unexamined material.
In an interview Friday, Hoyt explained she will write a history illuminating the political impact of the late Susannah Fairlee, a leading Adelaide citizen, based on Fairlee’s diaries. Hoyt begins work on Friday.
“My overall objective is a complete exploration of the diaries,” Hoyt said. “Mrs. Fairlee retired from the city council two years ago. She began keeping diaries when she was first elected to the council twenty-seven years ago. The diaries that cover her twenty-five years on the city council should provide insight into Adelaide history including bond issues, school expansion, and park development. I intend to scan the last two years, extract any meaningful political observations, and return those two volumes to her daughter, Janet Fairlee Hastings, who wants to keep them as mementos of her mother. I will then concentrate on the diaries that recount her activities on the council. The library will be the repository of the diaries that cover the twenty-five years of her government service.”
The diaries were donated by Mrs. Hastings to Goddard Library. Hoyt’s study is a cooperative effort between the library and the History Department.
Fairlee passed away September 17 at the age of seventy-three. She was a member of the city council for twenty-five years. Her civic accomplishments include serving as president of the Adelaide Friends of the Library, chairman of the United Way, and on the boards of the Girl Scouts, Habitat for Humanity, and the Adelaide Food Bank. She was active at St. Mildred’s Episcopal Church as a Stephen Minister, part of an outreach program by lay persons to individuals who are ill or in trouble, and was a past directress of the Altar Guild.
In the senior paper, Hoyt intends to provide an overview of Adelaide history during Fairlee’s lifetime that reflects Fairlee’s influence upon Adelaide. Current city council member Ralph Linton said about Fairlee: “Susannah never hesitated to take action when she saw a problem. She established the food bank and often drove to groceries and restaurants seeking leftover foods.”
Dr. Gordon described Mrs. Fairlee as a “larger than life” personality and believes that her diaries can provide insight into the power of a single citizen to affect policy.
Hoyt’s long-range career aspirations include obtaining a master’s degree in history and teaching while writing popular histories. Hoyt said, “David McCullough is my inspiration. Someday I want to write books that bring history alive as he has. This paper will give me a wonderful opportunity both as a historian and as a writer.”
Dr. Gordon praised Hoyt’s undergraduate work. “She is meticulous, insightful; the kind of student who makes teaching a joy. I foresee a wonderful future for her.”
When not reading history, Hoyt relaxes by running 10Ks, reading Charlaine Harris and Harlan Coben, and piecing together intricate puzzles. Partially completed now is a puzzle of the Norman Rockwell March 1, 1941, Saturday Evening Post cover of a teenage girl in a sweater set, plaid skirt, bobby socks, and scuffed saddle oxfords. Hoyt said, “Norman Rockwell covers are snapshots in time, and that’s how alive and real all history should be.”
It didn’t take great perception to perceive that Bugle Editor Joe Cooper would gladly share a library carrel—or any space—with Michelle Hoyt, preferably after hours. The accompanying photograph suggested why. Michelle was seated at a library table, her hand resting on a stack of red leather diaries. She wasn’t conventionally pretty. There was too much character and force in her oval face. Bright dark eyes looked smart and challenging under a tangle of dark curls, but a surprisingly sweet smile suggested good humor and kindness. She didn’t look like the kind of girl to stand up a guy with no word.
Now why . . . ? Oh, yes. Joe’s lament as he tried to make sense of his night. Maybe she wasn’t as nice as she looked. But I shouldn’t waste time worrying about the love life of the Bugle’s unhappy editor. Obviously this feel-good story had nothing to do with the dark deeds that prompted Wiggins to send me here.
I picked up the Tuesday, October 15, Bugle.
Is Unidentified Cupid Visiting Library?
Bugle editor Joe Cooper
Goddard Library staff and patrons this morning reported the unexplained appearance of single long-stem red roses on desks, in carrels, and among shelves.
Theories to account for the flowers range from a flower-shop promotion to student humor to an old campus legend about Lorraine Marlow, whose portrait hangs on the main landing at the library. The unexpected gift of roses to dating couples has long been attributed to Marlow, who is known as the library’s resident ghost.
Annabelle Bailey, Tishomingo senior, found a rose in her carrel. “I was here when the library opened
at seven and went straight to my carrel. I wanted to finish a paper due for my nine o’clock. This gorgeous rose, a cream bloom tipped with red, was resting right on top of my stuff. I thought”—Bailey looked regretful—“it was a present from my boyfriend, but when I called him, he said it wasn’t from him, and then he got a little worried that some other guy was sending me flowers.”
Research Librarian Reginald Vickers reached his office at eight and found several librarians near his desk. “They wanted to know if Thea—that’s my wife—had sent me an early Valentine. I checked with Thea and she didn’t know anything about the rose. She said”—Vickers said wryly—“if anybody was sending me a single red rose, she wanted to know the details, pronto. After roses were found all over the library, I called her back to reassure her that I didn’t have a secret admirer. My guess is that it’s a dare of some sort.”
(In the interest of full disclosure, a red rose was found this morning on the editor’s desk at the Bugle.)
Goddard Public Information Director Edward Morgan said apparently only the library and Bugle editor’s office reported roses. Morgan declined to speculate on the agency behind their distribution or the motivation for the apparent prank. “Roses cause no harm, but Campus Security is concerned that someone apparently gained entry to the library after hours. Anyone with information about the roses is asked to contact the Campus Security office.”
Security Officer Ben Douglas insisted every entrance to the library was locked when he made his rounds at eleven p.m. Monday. “Nothing was open and there was no break-in. Staff entrances are opened by electronic keypads. Some of the service entrances require a key. Whoever got in either had a key or knew the code for keypad entrances.”
The Bugle asked the office of Library Director Kathleen Garza if any staff members used keypad locks to enter the library after hours this week. As of press time, the director’s office had not responded.