Cherringham--Ghost of a Chance Page 6

  “Not yours …”

  “Exactly. And guess what else I found?”

  “Freddy the ghost?”

  “Not quite,” he said. “But near enough …”

  Sarah watched him reach into his pocket and bring out what looked like a plastic bag.

  “In a corner of the room. In a trash can …”

  He held it out to her and she took it.

  Heavy plastic. A logo, product name. She turned it over.

  “Dry ice,” she said.

  “And that’s not all.”

  Now she could see that Jack really did look triumphant. From his other pocket he produced a small, red bottle.

  “Theatrical dye,” said Jack.

  “Ah — blood,” said Sarah.

  “Can’t pin this one on Freddy,” said Jack. “But I think I know who is responsible.”

  10. An Unexpected Visitor

  Jack put a leg up on the railing of his boat, Riley standing by his side.

  Already this morning his dog had raced away from the boat’s mooring, chasing birds from the thickets nearby, and even scaring up a rabbit that bolted as if it had springs on its hind legs.

  Yes, Jack thought, Riley has great hunting instincts.

  And maybe he should actually go hunting with him some day.

  English countryside.

  Pheasants scattering before your eyes.

  Riley would enjoy it.

  But Jack … well, he had seen so much gunplay in his day. More than a few times he’d had to use his weapon.

  Somehow the idea of shooting for sport didn't work for him.

  But fishing?

  Now that was different story.

  And standing there in the late October sun, still some warmth to it even though the sunsets came earlier and earlier, he had been thinking about The Bell Hotel, its ghost … its wacky cast of characters.

  Just about all of them looking guilty.

  He had a theory who it might be — but nothing was quite hanging together.

  Still, he had an idea.

  By now, Sarah would be in her office. He hadn’t wanted to interrupt her in the chaos he knew ensued every morning just getting Chloe and Daniel out the door and off to school.

  Won't be long before Sarah will need to think about university for Chloe.

  Changes come fast.

  Another thing Jack well knew.

  He slid his phone out and, squinting in the bright morning sun, searched for his recent calls, popping up Sarah's number and tapping to dial.

  “Jack! I was hoping you'd call.”

  “Morning Sarah. Make any discoveries in the night?”

  “Nothing more really. Just background on the previous rejected applications to develop the old hotel. Whoever is behind them has been very persistent.”

  Jack nodded. “I'm guessing someone could be … persistent enough to trigger a little accident just to move things along?”

  “Not so little Jack. I mean … that could have been really bad.”

  Jack hesitated. When he was a NYPD detective sometimes he found that he figured things out … thought things through … better on his own.

  He had had some good partners.

  And some not so good ones.

  When he became chief of detectives, he made sure that he was careful in any pairings he made.

  Not only could your life depend on your partner, but partners needed to be in sync, looking at a crime scene, interrogating the suspects.

  Not easy to do.

  But with Sarah … Jack felt that whatever ideas he had only got sharpened, made clearer when he talked to her.

  “Had a thought,” he said.

  Sarah laughed at that, “I imagined you did.”

  “I couldn't catch this Mr. Anderson last night. Like he knew I might want to talk to him. So — I’m going to surprise him this morning.”

  “Well, that should be fun.”

  And Jack laughed at that.

  “Won't it? Wondering if you might ask Todd to pop over to the hotel. Say—”

  Jack looked at his watch. Another memento from his service in the NYPD.

  The traditional watch: a classic Rolex.

  Looked great. And even told time as well!

  “Maybe 30-40 minutes? If he can get away.”

  “Will do. Anything else I can do?”

  “Think so. I'm guessing Mr. Anderson won't be forthcoming. Can you check in with that receptionist … What’s her name?”

  “Suzie. Probably the only person in the place that doesn't seem suspicious.”

  “Don't write her off too fast,” he said, laughing. “So with the blessing of father and son Myrtle, can you see what information the hotel has on the mysterious Mr. Anderson? Whatever information he used for booking …”

  “Good idea. The place may be run down and shabby but they still have to follow proper booking procedures.”

  “Exactly my thought. And then — can you get away this afternoon? Gorgeous day. Come to the Goose, we’ll walk, plan, see where we are. Maybe a stroll to the old church? Clear our heads …?”

  “The one with the mural of Doom?”

  That gave Jack pause. By now, so many places in this village had such a special connection to him and Sarah.

  In a way, he thought that Cherringham had become more their village than just about anybody else who lived here.

  Though the ever-suspicious Buckland sisters just might challenge that.

  “Sure. Grace is on top of things. It’ll be good to get our heads together. I’ll let you know what I find out about Anderson.”

  “And if we’re in for a winter like last year, we’d better enjoy this sun—”

  Then, on the phone, Jack heard a loud voice in the background — words indistinct.

  Then Sarah: “Excuse me. What are you doing? We're not quite open yet, and—”

  More words. The voice shrill over the tinny speaker.

  Even abrasive.

  Then Sarah came back to Jack.

  “Jack — got to go.”

  “Irate customer?”

  “No,” she said, no humour in her voice. “Just got a surprise visit myself.”

  “From?”

  “Mandy Myrtle.”

  Sarah lowered her voice. “And she’s not happy, either …”

  “Going to be an interesting day,” he said. “See you over here later …”

  “You bet.”

  Then the phone went quiet.

  Riley did a circle at Jack’s feet.

  “Want another dash, boy?” Jack waved his hand towards the grassy meadow that stretched to the Roman road on the other side of the field, the road straight and lined perfectly with tall hedges.

  And Riley didn't need any more encouragement as he raced to the gangway, legs flying, running out to the grass, the sun making his fur glow.

  *

  “Ms. Myrtle — maybe you’d better sit down.”

  Sarah looked at Grace who did a live version of a frowning emoji.

  The woman standing in their office was dressed in a snug and smart black skirt and jacket, with a crisp white shirt — the very epitome of a stylish businesswoman.

  But with her eyes glowering, and her clipped voice far too loud for the small office, the woman was intimidating.

  “Please. Have a seat. And Grace can make us some tea and—”

  “Tea? This bloody country with its tea obsession. For the record, a pot of tea does not make everything better.”

  Steady now, Sarah thought.

  Sarah tried again, “Please, do sit down …”

  The woman rolled her eyes in a gesture that looked more like she was rolling her whole head. Then, with a “God …” she took the chair opposite Sarah.

  “And I’m sorry you don't want some, but Grace, can you make me—”

  “I didn't say I wouldn’t have a cup of tea, now did I? You villagers.”

  The way the woman said that word made it seem like she had descended from London t
o visit Middle Earth.

  Sarah thought she might have to check whether she had clumps of soil between her toes.

  “Ms. Myrtle, I can see you are very upset, and—”

  “How amazingly observant! You bet I am, Ms. Edwards. In fact — ‘upset’ doesn't begin to describe my current state.”

  Grace busied herself in the small kitchen area.

  “And do I have something do with that?”

  The woman leaned close, looking more like a predatory magpie about to snatch up a chunk of road kill.

  “You could say that. You and that big galumph that has been talking to my father — and stupid Crispin.”

  “How about you tell me how I can help?”

  The woman popped open a black purse that only now Sarah noticed matched the business attire. A sharp click, and a gold clasp released the clam-like purse to open.

  The woman pulled out a card.

  She extended it to Sarah as if the chunk of cardboard would do more than explain everything.

  The cardstock thick. High gloss on both sides.

  The company name: Interglobal Hospitality Holdings.

  The address in Mayfair.

  Nice neighbourhood.

  Her title: Executive Vice President.

  Which could mean just about anything. Sarah knew that the big global conglomerates could have more “Executive Vice Presidents” than a circus has clowns.

  Not a bad comparison, Sarah knew.

  Though Mandy Myrtle was — so far — anything but amusing.

  “This is the company I work for … consult for. They have money; they have … influence. They are the perfect company to take an interest in The Bell.”

  Ah …

  “To completely renovate it, restore it to its Victorian grandeur. Make it a world-class destination. At least for those who come wandering out to the ‘cute and cosy’ Cotswolds!”

  Sarah nodded. “Sounds like a good plan. Your father must be—”

  Another 180-degree head roll, this time punctuated with the woman's hands flying into the air.

  “That is precisely the issue, you see. Crispin is trying to convince my addled father that they will make far more if they just knock it down and turn it into a spa hotel. Something glitzy — and tacky, I might add. Who knows, he may have raised the money already.”

  Now it was Sarah's turn to put up a hand.

  Grace walked over with the two cups — nearly tiptoeing as if walking through a minefield.

  “But won't you all benefit … either way?”

  “You’ve seen the hotel, yes? I know Crispin’s game. He’s running it into the ground, so eventually he’ll get a green light to do what he wants.”

  “I see.”

  Sarah took a sip. Some of Mandy Myrtle's vitriol was starting to make sense.

  “Then you two show up, helping him. I imagine he needs to make sure everything’s squeaky clean. So, why not use the local version of Detectives Anonymous?”

  No attempt there to moderate her scorn. What a charming woman.

  “That — is not helping. He needs to give up his plan, and my father needs to sign on with Interglobal.”

  And Sarah guessed that Mandy would get a massive bonus, even a promotion, if she could make that happen.

  But then she had a thought.

  The woman was fierce. Like a thunderstorm entering a room. Full of bluster and noise — and even threats.

  Could that mask the fact that she too would like the place to collapse?

  The truth here seemed even farther away.

  “You two need to stop. Right now. You can go back to your little webby business here. And your friend to whatever Americans do in their dotage.”

  Good thing Jack isn't here.

  “I will discuss it with ‘my friend’. Will you be staying at the hotel?”

  Mandy Myrtle stood up. “Of course. I have an interest in the place. Have I not made that clear?”

  “Crystal clear.”

  Mandy Myrtle turned and started for the door out.

  It’s going to be a fun time in the hotel tonight.

  But Sarah had a question. On a topic that the woman had not raised.

  “Ms. Myrtle—”

  Hand on the doorknob, the woman paused, barely turning back to Sarah.

  “What do you think about the ghost?”

  The woman’s hand stayed locked on the doorknob. Her body frozen.

  But it was clear that the unexpected question had an effect.

  The woman's eyes narrowed.

  She’s searching for an answer, Sarah thought.

  “There is no ghost.”

  Sarah nodded. Mandy Myrtle would have practically grown up in the old place. She must know every inch of it.

  Her answer very firm. Logical. And exactly the right answer if you wanted to turn the property into a five-star hotel.

  Yet something about the woman seemed different.

  “Good to know,” Sarah said with a smile.

  With that, Myrtle twisted that doorknob and left, exiting a tad more quietly than she had entered.

  And when Sarah turned back to Grace, her eyes wide, big grin on her face …

  Sarah had to make a joke. “My new best friend!”

  And they both laughed.

  11. The Man in Room Three

  Jack knocked on the door, a sharp trio of raps.

  Early enough so that he hoped that the elusive Mr. Anderson hadn't stepped out for whatever adventures he planned in the village.

  Then, Jack heard the sound of a chair scraping wood, the sharp click of what may have been the lid of a laptop being quickly shut, and then steps.

  But no answer to the door.

  Jack shook his head and rapped again, louder, knuckles hard against the thick centuries’ old door.

  The brass doorknob turned slowly, the brass so scratched and dull it nearly matched the burnished look of the wooden door.

  And of course — the door opened only a few inches.

  When Jack got his first peek at Mr. Anderson.

  Two things he noticed.

  The man was wearing sunglasses.

  That itself was odd, considering he was indoors and the general lighting in the hotel was muted at best.

  And the man's sandy brown hair looked … a bit askew.

  As if someone had hurriedly placed it atop one's head, hoping that the quick placement — of what some called a “rug” — wasn't noticed.

  This could be an interesting interview, Jack though.

  “Yes. What is it?”

  The man's voice had an odd timbre too … as if, to match the sunglasses and wig, the voice was part of whatever “look” Mr. Anderson was going for.

  The only look that made sense to Jack was that of someone who was doing their absolute best not to be recognised.

  “Mr. Anderson, I’ve been asked by the Myrtle family to look into the events of the other night.”

  The door remained open a mere few inches. Hard to see what the man's eyes were doing, blocked by the dark glasses.

  Anderson was silent.

  “You know? The chandelier? That fell? Big scare, could have killed someone.”

  The toupeed head bobbed up and down signalling understanding.

  “And since the chandelier is just below this room, I was wondering if I couldn't have a look around.”

  Mr. Anderson looked behind as if he might not be alone.

  “I was in the middle of something. This really isn’t—”

  “Kind of urgent, Mr. Anderson. We don’t know whether the local police need to get involved. So, if I could take a look — now — that would be great.”

  A tongue slipped out of the man's mouth and swabbed his lips.

  And Jack thought: he's hiding something.

  “Um, okay. Let me just—”

  The door shut, and Jack stood in the gloomy hallway waiting. Then it opened wide, and Jack walked into the room.

  The bed sheets wrestled into a knot. A tray
with a pot of tea, sitting on the dresser. The room had a view overlooking the square, right down to the memorial to the great revolutionary battle that took place in the village.

  When Cherringham's streets ran red with the blood of rebels and royalists alike.

  Jack took a second to walk around the room.

  He was actually killing time.

  Nothing he noticed about the wooden floor of the room, save that the planks were wide, and old enough to have dips and bends from years of use.

  Then he turned back to Anderson, who had moved over to the small writing desk beside the window, standing there as if shielding the laptop, or maybe the papers next to it.

  “That night, you didn't notice anything that happened?”

  He answered quickly.

  “No. Nothing at all. Everything was perfectly normal until the chandelier fell. Then, of course, mayhem. People wondering what happened, racing from their rooms.”

  Jack smiled. “I can imagine.”

  Mr. Anderson seemed resolved to be as elusive as he could be.

  But the real point of this visit was soon to be clear.

  “And you've been in this room for …?”

  “Three nights now.”

  Jack looked down at the floor.

  If someone had tampered with the strong fastenings holding up the chandelier, it would have been right here.

  But the floor looked as though no one had touched it, or even cleaned it, for a long time.

  Then as Jack crouched down for a closer look, a knock at the open door.

  Jack turned.

  “Todd! So good you could come over.”

  Todd Robinson, the village electrician, knowledgeable and someone Jack thought of as a friend, walked in.

  “W-who’s this?” Mr. Anderson said.

  “Oh. Didn't mention this. Todd here is an electrician. Going to check the wiring, how the light was attached. See what happened.”

  Todd nodded.

  “But I have work—” Anderson started …

  The electrician — as warm and affable as they make them — walked over to Anderson.

  Wonder what Todd makes of him, Jack thought.

  “Not to worry, mate. Just got to pry a few boards up, take a look-see. Ten — fifteen minutes max.”

  Trapped, Anderson nodded then turned to look out the window. His body still blocking the small table.

  And arousing Jack's curiosity about what was there.