Draycott Everlasting Page 3
“No more problems with the police, I assure you.” The chef’s dark eyes gleamed. “Pigs, that’s what they are. But now from miles around people will fight to spend the night beneath our roof. All it takes is one small addition, one thing every tourist wants.”
“Free breakfast?” Hope added a row of dollar signs to the buttercream crosses.
“You are too practical. What people want is excitement, passion. Danger mixed with romance.”
“Don’t tell me you’re hiring Tom Cruise to work in the kitchen. Or maybe Mel Gibson. I doubt that I could afford either one for a sous-chef.”
“It is a joke, no? I do not hire these men. Me, I find something much better for you than any man. I find you—a ghost.”
“I’ve sensed magic and stirring history in Glenbrae, but never any ghosts.”
“It is the perfect thing to make the tourist’s heart drum like thunder, non? First, they hear the bang-bang in the night.”
“That would be the water pipes going,” Hope muttered.
“Then they see a shape, all cobwebs and mist, gliding up the stairway.”
“That would probably be our dust motes.”
The chef ignored her. “Now they are frightened, trembling. They clutch their hearts and race forward, desperate to see more. Then they hear the throb of laughter, low and terrifying. Closer it comes, rippling down the stairs.” Gabrielle’s voice rose. “Now they shiver with fright, eager to tell all their friends about the haunted-house tour in Glenbrae. Soon you will be very rich.”
“I don’t know about that….”
“You Americans love the thought of a ghost in the bedroom, non? Voilà, in a week you have more visitors than beds to hold them and no more problems of money for you.”
Hope sat back slowly. “You’re saying that Glenbrae House needs a ghost in the bedrooms?”
“Of course not.” Gabrielle smiled sagely. “What we need is the idea of a ghost, one to summon only while the guests are here.”
“Out of thin air, I suppose.”
“But no. Out of the old curtains, of course.” Gabrielle sat forward eagerly. “And just today in the village I meet a friend whose specialty is Macbeth. I am certain he can help us.”
“Really, Gabrielle, I don’t think you understand—”
The Frenchwoman strode to the side door leading out to Hope’s herb garden. “You will please to come in now, Mr. Jeffrey.”
A gangling youth in a rumpled white shirt and threadbare flannels rose from behind the ragged hollyhocks and rocked anxiously from foot to foot. “Don’t blame Gabrielle,” he said, picking up the conversation as if he’d been part of it all along. “This was all my idea. I’ve been doing some amazing lighting effects for the drama project I just completed. ‘New Concepts in Hamlet and Macbeth.’ Might even be put down for an honors when I’m done.” He frowned, as if thinking of something unpleasant, then shrugged. “Not that any of that matters. The thing is, with backlighting and a double-colored floodlight, angles can be made to recede and corners can be blurred.”
Hope didn’t see the connection. “They can?”
“Of course.” His cultured voice burst with enthusiasm as he ambled into the kitchen. “Special effects are everything today. You take a pinch of dry ice here and some chemical smoke there.” He waved one hand. “Voilà.”
“Then you have a fire hazard on your hands?” Hope said dryly.
Jeffrey slid into the seat opposite, eyeing Gabrielle’s last wedge of almond cake. Hope was fairly certain she heard his stomach rumble. She decided that he could use a good meal, since he looked dangerously thin. “Be my guest,” she said, sliding the plate closer.
She had to appreciate his bitter effort to resist. “Oh, I couldn’t. We barely know each other, and Gabrielle made it for you, after all.” He looked at Hope’s chef with doglike devotion.
Hope filed that look away for future reference. “But I insist. I couldn’t eat another bite.”
Hunger finally won out over good form. Half of the slice was gone within seconds, the other half consumed more slowly, while the young drama student’s pale blue eyes closed in silent rapture. He scraped the last piece of icing off with his thumb, then linked his fingers eagerly. “It will work. Trust me, I’m an expert at ghosts.”
“You’re a parapsychologist?”
“No, a lighting specialist. Our test performance of Macbeth went off without the slightest hitch. Mr. Willett-Jones said I was the best thing since dry ice.”
“Mr. Willett-Jones is your professor, I take it?”
“Hardly. He’s the drama critic for the Observer. It’s a small paper, but it has a good deal of clout in dramatic circles.”
Hope wondered if Jeffrey’s parents knew about those “dramatic circles.” Or if they cared. The boy looked as if he was wearing his last shirt, and he clearly hadn’t eaten properly for quite some time.
“Jeffrey is good, I swear it,” Gabrielle said firmly. “When he makes the lights follow his ghost onstage, my skin creeps most terribly. Even I believe it is real.” From the sternly pragmatic Gabrielle, this was praise indeed.
As the two stared at her, Hope had the perilous feeling she had lost the argument before it had even begun. “I’m afraid it’s out of the question. I won’t lure visitors to Glenbrae under false pretenses.”
“You don’t understand.” Jeffrey rocked forward on bony elbows. Though worn, his shirt was custom-made, with fine hand seaming inside. “All these old wrecks have ghosts. Glamis has dozens of them, and Windsor is chock-full of odd knocks and bangs.” Jeffrey looked very pleased with himself. “I remember my mum always used to say—” His smile abruptly faded.
“Even if I wanted to try it—which I don’t—there’s no way your scheme could work,” Hope said quickly. “It wouldn’t be convincing.”
Jeffrey roused himself from his reverie and jammed long fingers into his hair, frowning. “Wrong again. Gabrielle showed me around this morning while you were working, and I’ve got the whole place mapped out. I already have a list of the materials I’ll need.”
Hope swallowed. “Materials?”
Gabrielle beamed. “He is very organized, you see.”
Jeffrey tried to hide a flush at her praise. “All your visitors will see is a lovely hint of ghostly garments drifting down the stairs. Add some wonderfully maniacal laughter and it’s guaranteed to bring down the house.”
He moved closer to Gabrielle. Together the two stared at Hope.
“Now, just wait a minute. Even if this apparition did work, how would you get the word out? You can’t post a sign in the village announcing that Glenbrae House now has a resident ghost.”
Gabrielle cracked eggs, then added vanilla and cream for a rich chocolate sauce. “Just today Jeffrey and I pass a group of tourists on the way to hike in the hills. I hear them complain there is nothing to see in Glenbrae. But I explain very carefully about the secret of our little village.”
“And just what is that?”
“The secret ghost of Glenbrae House, of course.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, shadows filled the great hall.
Plumes of smoke drifted along the oak banister. Only the wood paneling and stairway were visible in the semidarkness.
“Not like that. Slower. Glide.” Jeffrey’s voice was muffled as he crouched behind a velvet sofa, toying with a complicated electrical panel. “You’re supposed to be terrifying, remember? A bloody apparition from beyond the grave.”
Hope tugged at the microfiber shrouding her head and did her best to glide. “There’s no way that this can work, you two. I wouldn’t fool a blind man.”
“But you are wrong,” Gabrielle said. “In the darkness your sleeves glow like fire itself, and you are the picture of a ghost. Just keep coming. Jeffrey has run the wires under the carpet so you will not trip.”
“There’s another problem.” Hope paused on the stairs. “All this electrical equipment and wiring you mentioned is going to cost a lot of money—money that I ju
st don’t have. I can’t afford to pay you, either. Maybe it would be better if we forgot the whole idea right now and—”
“No problem,” Jeffrey said eagerly. “I have a van full of equipment on loan from the university until the end of term, free and clear. It’s almost as if fate has stepped in. Actually, I think Glenbrae House was meant to have a ghost.”
Hope closed her eyes and prayed that Glenbrae House was not meant to have a lawsuit filed by an irate tourist.
As Jeffrey worked over a different row of buttons, the light intensified. Hope’s diaphanous gown rippled.
“Now start the tape recording, Gabrielle.”
A bloodcurdling howl erupted from the floorboards outside the kitchen. The effect of the shriek, combined with the ghostly illusion, was quite remarkable.
“I’m going to hit the lights. Hope, you can start moving along the landing.”
Dutifully Hope stepped forward, awaiting her cue. In the sudden darkness she could almost imagine the hushed silence of the house as it had been centuries before, lit only by candles and overseen by its stern-eyed master, the MacLeod.
An odd prickling sensation ran down her neck.
“Go,” Jeffrey ordered in his best stage director’s voice.
Hope glided down the stairs as Jeffrey had instructed, her hands floating out beside her.
“Perfect. Gabrielle, hit the third button.”
A pale gleam emanated from the ceiling, taking shape at the curve of the stairway, where two long sleeves, a ghastly fluorescent head and a trailing gown drifted over the steps.
No wind touched the room.
No noise marked the apparition’s descent.
Hope finally reached the turn of the stairs, feeling her way with her fingers in the darkness. She could barely breathe beneath the cowl Jeffrey had draped over her head, and she could see almost nothing. At the third step, something caught the hem of Hope’s ghostly gown, and when she grappled for the wall, something pricked her finger hard.
She bit back a hiss of pain. “Jeffrey, I don’t think—”
“Great. Just fabulous. Now do the rest, the way we rehearsed.”
“But I still don’t think—”
“Go on.”
Sighing, Hope raised her arm. As the lights changed, her ghostly shape took full form in the darkness. Then the silence was split by a shattering scream, and the ghostly head separated from its body and flew toward the ceiling, accompanied by ghoulish laughter.
Outside, the front steps creaked. “Miss Hope?” The oak door opened slowly. “Is anyone here?” A white-haired head appeared in the gloom of the front hall.
Wildly Hope clutched at the yards of fabric trapping her face. She tried to answer, but every sound was muffled by her costume. After a moment she recognized the voice.
Morwenna Wishwell. An inveterate meddler, but a wonderful neighbor.
With sickening clarity Hope envisioned her first lawsuit: a spry old lady shocked into an early grave by the sight of a headless apparition flittering over Glenbrae’s oak banister.
CHAPTER TWO
HOPE STRUGGLED DOWN the stairs, expecting disaster.
Jeffrey’s curse was interrupted by a boom as one of the speakers toppled behind the sofa. Static filled the air, and high overhead the lost soldier’s “head” reappeared, floating like a grinning pumpkin.
Why didn’t Gabrielle just turn on the lights?
“Dear, dear me.” Morwenna halted in the foyer. Her breath caught in surprise. “First a head and now a torso. I see this lovely old house finally has a ghost of its own. How perfectly wonderful.”
Hope continued to pull at her hood, staggering forward and fighting to be heard above the static that rumbled through the hall.
Then the lights came on, and Jeffrey and Gabrielle ran to Hope’s side. “Are you all right?” Jeffrey demanded.
Hope finally managed to tug off the hood that was threatening to choke her. “Just barely.” She wobbled down the stairs toward the visitor. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Oh, no problem, my dear. Most enjoyable, it was.”
Hope frowned. “You weren’t afraid?”
Morwenna smiled benignly. “Was I supposed to be?”
“Yes, actually.” Hope rubbed her stinging wrist. “And that proves my point. I’ve been telling Gabrielle and her friend that this ghost idea won’t work.”
“On the contrary, my dear.” Morwenna tapped her jaw thoughtfully. “Anyone seeing you there in the dark would have been certain they were looking at a class-one apparition. Of course, anyone with real knowledge of the subject would have been looking for the related signs of paranormal activity. Temperature change, for one. Pervasive fragrances and unusual auditory stimuli—that sort of thing.”
Just then a bloodcurdling scream blasted from Jeffrey’s carefully prepared audio system.
Morwenna chuckled. “Not bad,” she said calmly. “Perhaps a touch heavy-handed, but effective nonetheless. Just last month while we were visiting Warwick Castle, my sisters and I saw a wonderful apparition cross the herb garden. He had a most impressive shriek, but not nearly as good as yours, I’m bound to admit. Was your tape sound-enhanced?” she asked Jeffrey.
He blinked in shock. “Er, I rigged up auxiliary speakers and sound tracks with extra feedback. Two speakers behind the bottom step.”
The old woman’s eyes twinkled. “How very clever. I think that another pair added at the entrance hall might give you a very nice rebound effect.”
Jeffrey looked stunned. “Where did you study stage acoustics?”
“Oh, here and there, my dear boy,” Morwenna answered. “And I don’t mean to intrude, but the mail-delivery woman was in a rush to get home to see her sick daughter, so I offered to bring this letter up to you. I hope that was all right?”
“It was very kind of you, Miss Wishwell. May I offer you a cup of tea? Or perhaps something stronger?”
“Some other time, I think. My sisters will be wondering what’s happened to me.”
Hope barely heard as she scanned the return address of the overpriced Chicago law firm that had handled her late uncle’s estate. She prayed this was the rest of the money she had been waiting for, the final part of her uncle’s bequest that had been tied up in court for over a year now. Eagerly she tore open the heavy envelope. But a moment later the words blurred before her eyes.
She sank down in a chair beside the door, the letter falling unheeded to her feet.
Morwenna touched her shoulder. “Nothing bad, I hope?”
It was worse than bad. The law firm informed her there would be no more funds. And as a result of her uncle’s poor planning, she now had a whopping bill that she owed the U.S. government. Hope suspected it was because of his law firm’s inept miscalculations.
Either way, she was ruined.
Hope blinked hard, fighting back tears.
“You had better drink this, child.”
Numbly Hope accepted the glass pressed into her fingers. The elderberry wine Morwenna must have fetched from the sideboard went down like kitchen grease. She would have to sell the few good antiques she had managed to acquire for the manor. Like it or not, the books in the library would have to be sent to auction. But none of these measures would stave off ruin for long.
Morwenna’s kindly eyes seemed to bore right through her, picking out her secret worries. “Things are never as bad as they seem, my dear. The inn will catch on, and this ghost of yours is quite wonderful. It’s been too long since we’ve had any visitations here on this side of the valley. The last one was—” She cleared her throat. “Dear me, I mustn’t run on.” She smoothed her shawl as she stood up. “Are you sure that there’s nothing I can do? We still have a spot for you in our investment club.”
Hope shook her head. Her problems were beyond the help of mutual funds or slow-growth portfolios. Besides, she had no money to commit.
Suddenly Morwenna’s fingers tightened on Hope’s wrist. “My dear girl, you’re bleeding.”
Morwenna looked as if she was going to say something, but shrugged instead. “I suggest you try a bit more gain on the bass, young man. You’ll find that it enhances the resonance.” She waved at Jeffrey, then disappeared outside.
“Who was that?” he asked.
“One of our neighbors,” Gabrielle explained. “A very clever lady. If she suggests some electronic change, I suggest you do it.”
Jeffrey rubbed his jaw. “That’s the odd thing. I was considering that even before she mentioned it. But how could she know so much about sound systems?”
Gabrielle studied the white-haired figure on the gravel drive. “She knows very much, that one. So do her two sisters. And now,” she said sternly to Hope, “you will tell us what was in that letter.”
“More bills, this one from the IRS. They’re not the sort of people to accept excuses.”
Gabrielle frowned. “This is bad, no?”
“As bad as it gets.” Slowly Hope picked up the letter and slid it into her pocket. “I…I’m going outside for a while. Then I think I’ll try to get some sleep.”
Gabrielle and Jeffrey exchanged a look, but said nothing. “I’ll bring you some lemonade if you like,” Gabrielle said helpfully.
“That would be nice,” Hope said.
But what she needed was a way to escape the ruin that was staring her dead in the face.
What she needed now was a genuine miracle.
“I’M TELLING YOU, she looked as if she’d seen a ghost. And I don’t mean the apparition that those clever young people conjured up on the stairway.” Morwenna frowned as she paced briskly back and forth in the tiny, beamed kitchen of the cottage she shared with her white-haired sisters.
Perpetua, still regal at seventy-four, smoothed back a stray hair. “We’ll have to intervene.”
Morwenna ran her fingers over the silver pin at her collar. “Once the plan is launched, it would be too late for her to protest. It will only take me a few minutes to do the calculations.” She sat at the desk and began keying codes into a sleek laptop computer.