Dead Man Haunt (A Dead Man Mystery Book 2) Read online

  “Until you slithered across the bed screaming to the high universe and woke me up.”

  “I’d like to see you not scream if something huge and hairy laid down against your back.”

  She muffled a giggle. “I’ll give you this. I am glad it wasn’t me.” She snapped another picture. “Beautiful. Sometimes I do wish we could go back in time and experience these places.”

  It was so much grander in its prime, Patrick mentally thrust into my mind.

  Twila’s mind, also, I assumed, since she nodded and replied aloud, “Even in all its deterioration, I can see how glorious it once was. Now, are you finally going to tell us why you insisted we come here?”

  In good time, Patrick said evasively. First you both need to get a sense of the place. As it is now

  ...and as it was.

  Stubborn ghost. I’m not sure what gives certain ghosts the ability to intrigue Twila and me into these investigations concerning their long-ago deaths. Whatever, Patrick had that ability.

  An older woman stepped through a door on the hotel’s veranda, peering around as though looking for someone. Us, I assumed, since thanks to Katy’s reporter friend, we had an exclusive on the building premises for a twenty-four-hour period, seven a.m. to seven a.m. I shifted Miss Molly and grabbed my satchel of snacks, drinks, and other ghosthunting paraphernalia from the sidewalk while Twila stuffed her camera back and zipped the case. Ready, we started across the street.

  The stupid siren split the air and we jumped back onto the curb so fast I nearly lost my hold on Miss Molly, not to mention my bladder. Trucker hates sirens. He set up a howl that raised the hairs on the back of my neck worse than the precursory chill prior to an apparition’s appearance, and Twila squatted beside him.

  “Shush, Trucker. It’s that nasty old deputy Katy’s friend told us about.”

  It was. The SUV pulled over to the curb, and one of those typical cigar-chomping, beer-bellied good old boys emerged in full regalia. Tan trousers above spit-shined lizard boots, followed by a belly that would have defied gravity even more, had it not been for a wide black braided belt and a Western buckle with a longhorn steer holding it up. An extremely long-horned longhorn steer. The shirt ruined the effect, though. Dirty brown and covered in flashy red roses, white mother-of-pearl snaps, it looked like something that would draw scorn even in a backcountry icehouse where beer, pretzels, and microwave pizzas were the fare of the day.

  I gaped in awe of the fact that even with the seat pushed all the way back, that mountain of flesh could fit behind the steering wheel. He even kept his Stetson in place while he drove, and right now he tilted the brim down even closer to his warty, red-veined nose.

  “You little ladies headin’ for the hotel?”

  Trucker, raised with love rather than harsh discipline, and normally a mild-mannered Rottweiler, growled low. It amazed me at times that the dog sensed my dislike of certain people, even though I tried to remember my manners.

  The cop zeroed in on my dog. “He had his shots? We got an ordinance ’bout that.”

  Twila bristled and laid a hand on Trucker’s shining black head. “We little ladies always keep up our shots. Do you?”

  The cop licked the side of his mouth as though searching for a missing cigar, but backed up a step. “Heard there was someone comin’ here to the hotel today. You know we got proceedings in the works to condemn that place. You get hurt over there, the city ain’t responsible.”

  “The hotel is privately owned,” I said. “We understand the risks and are old enough to make our own decisions.”

  He glanced across the street, then back at us. “Just so’s you know. Frankly, I can’t see why anybody’d want to go in there. Place’s been abandoned for thirty, forty years. Should’ve been tore down back then.”

  “With that sort of rationale,” Twila said with a stern glare, “I suppose you think the Alamo has outlived its tenure. It’s a lot older than this hotel.”

  “ ’Course not!” he huffed. “The Alamo’s a gen-yoo-wine piece of Texas history!”

  Given the awe in his voice, I expected him to doff his Stetson and lay it across his chest. I suppressed a giggle and turned my back on him before I lost control. Mistake. Behind Twila, Patrick materialized in all his full, naked glory and thumbed his nose at the cop.

  Twila sensed the ghost, too. Her brown eyes crinkled and I’d have been willing to bet that the wild imagination we shared was forming identical pictures in our minds: the cop, astonished and determined to catch a streaker who dared violate his quiet town. A chase. Patrick deliberately slowing down until the cop reached out to grab him, then vanishing into thin air.

  I examined Twila’s face, trying to detect whether the cop behind me could see Patrick, but I couldn’t glean a clue. She just caught her lower lip between her teeth and stifled the laughter always so near the surface beneath her quiet demeanor—the demeanor she showed people besides close friends, anyway. Miss Molly took that moment of laxity in my hold to crawl up my shoulder and try to escape down my back, claws working seriously on her behalf. I yelped and dragged her free, capturing her front paws in a stern hold as I nestled her back in place.

  “We’re running late,” I said, teeth clenched against the stings of pain on my shoulder.

  “Yes,” Twila agreed. She tightened her hold on Trucker’s leash, nodded a curt dismissal at the cop, and started across the street. Patrick glided up beside her, offering a gentlemanly arm, which she accepted. She and the ghost strolled unhurriedly, Twila in her long paisley skirt and peasant blouse, white sandals, red hair shining in the warm sun; Patrick a solid six foot of tanned, blond male, his backside one of those yummy rumps I loved to gaze at when outlined in a pair of football jersey pants or faded, tight jeans.

  I hadn’t decided yet if Patrick looked better naked or in the tailored blue-and-white pinstriped suit he deigned to show himself in at times. I didn’t mind one iota examining the ghost over and over again while I tried to make up my mind.

  I could see Twila’s grip on Patrick’s forearm, anyway. The cop probably just saw Twila’s arm in the air. Whatever. His entire attitude irked me, and I didn’t give a diddly damn whether he saw Patrick or not. I headed after Twila, but halted when he said, “You could’ve had a nice welcome to town, you’d’ve let us know you were coming.”

  “Oh?” I asked. I hadn’t told the town officials I was part of the last group, either, since I pretty much kept my ghosthunting separate from my writing life.

  “You’re that writer, ain’t you? Alice Carpenter? Seen your picture on them book jackets.”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “But I’m not here promoting one of my books.”

  “Too bad. Mayor would’ve made sure you had a better time than what you’re in for over there. Hope you ain’t afraid of ghosts. Been lots of stories regardin’ strange happenings inside there since they closed down that there Springs Hotel.”

  “Ghosts?” I said with a straight face. “How fascinating!” Afraid of ghosts? If he only knew. “From what I’ve heard and read, there were also a lot of real-life strange happenings at that hotel when it was in operation.”

  “Now don’t you go dredgin’ up all them old half-truths and writin’ about them,” he insisted with a frown that pulled his warty nose down near his top lip. “Lots of folks are still alive here in town who wouldn’t be too happy about that.”

  “Some of the original population from the stories are still around then, are they?”

  He jammed his Stetson tighter onto his head. “Good day. I’d say y’all come back again, but I got a feelin’ the sooner the two of you have your tour and get out of here, the sooner the mayor will breathe a sigh of relief.”

  A glimmer of consternation flickered in his eyes, as though he regretted his words. But before I could question him further, he slid his mountain of flesh back into the SUV. He’d left the motor running, and he dropped the vehicle in gear and swerved around the corner beside me with a squeal of tires.

  “At least you didn’t childishly fire off that stupid siren again,” I called after the disappearing vehicle. In retaliation, as though he’d read my lips in his rearview mirror, he popped off the siren in a series of short bursts. Across the street, Trucker howled, and I snuggled Miss Molly close and headed for the hotel.

  Chapter 3

  “Awesome,” Twila murmured. “You can almost see the ladies in their ball gowns, the men in their natty suits or white tuxedos. I’ll bet there used to be a piano in that alcove over there.”

  We stood in the lobby. The next floor up, the mezzanine, only protruded over half the lobby, which left the ceiling above us soaring two floors overhead. The lobby itself encompassed the entire front of the block-long hotel and stretched away into shadows ahead of us. On either end, dark stairwells led to the mezzanine, and still brilliant green carpets with bright splotches of red flowers covered portions of the marble floor.

  Across the lobby front, glass-filled doors and windows with foot-square panes separated the interior from the veranda, the panes grubby and dirt-encrusted. Only dribbles of light filtered in. Several brass ceiling fans hung from the ceiling, corroded and lacking the patina that would have given them more grace. A garland of foot-high wallpaper circled the room above the doors and windows and below the mezzanine railing. Despite decades of exposure to sunlight and cigarette-smoking guests, the faded scenes on it still bespoke elegance. As on my previous visit, I wished I knew more about the true names of all the exquisite décor, but my interior design and architectural knowledge consisted of whether something was, in my opinion, pretty or ugly.

  Hallways beside each of the twin staircases led deeper into the bowels of the building. On my earlier expedition, a few of us had explored the ghost-infested former office space area
along one hall and the guest arrival area down the other. At the far end of the latter lay the true entrance to the building, hidden from the street so the limousines could discharge guests in privacy.

  Our lone guide, who’d introduced herself only as Carrie, wrung her hands and jittered back and forth from one foot to the other. She was a different tour guide than the one we’d had for the other group. Up closer, she wasn’t nearly as old as she’d appeared from far away. I put her age at early sixties, well younger than Granny Chisholm.

  “Ah...um...would you like to set your things down before we look around?” Carrie asked.

  “That would be nice,” Twila answered.

  “I...um...the pets...”

  “They’ll stay with us,” I said sternly.

  “The cat. Well...um...cats need...”

  I sighed and finished her sentence, “...litter. Yes, they do, and I’ve got a portable box for Miss Molly. Trucker will let us know when he has to go out. I’ve also got a pooper scooper.”

  She nodded and jittered off towards one of the stairwells. “Then, I’ll...um...show you where you can set up a camping area. You...um...know there’s no electricity. And only one bathroom works.”

  Twila drew in a deep breath. When our eyes met, her brown ones twinkled with suppressed laughter. I’m sure mine were full of irritation at Carrie’s halting stutters of explanation. Twila always did have more patience than me.

  The stairwell curved upward, a handrail on one side, a bare wall on the other. The steps were muted-red brick, still firm and un-crumbling after all this time. Probably handmade, I assumed. We emerged on the mezzanine level, where the same type carpet covered the floor, this time wall-to-wall rather than the large single pieces. Evidently a much cheaper blend of fibers, also, since worn areas indicated more heavily traveled paths and around the baseboards the carpet had frayed and torn. Whatever padding had once been in place must have worn down with the material. I detected hard floor beneath my footfalls.

  Carrie kept moving, but Twila and I paused to examine our surroundings on this level. Below us was an unobstructed view of that gorgeous, shabby lobby. On the far side of the mezzanine set the check-in desk, the fine-quality wood still showing a muted gleam under a layer of dust. Message pigeonholes lined the wall behind the desk, and a gigantic old cash register set to one side. Beyond the check-in area, a doorway opened to a dark hallway, down which I knew from my other visit lay our bathroom. A twelve-pack of toilet tissue lay by the door, and a line of paper trailed off into the darkness.

  Patrick visualized in front of the check-in desk. This time he wore his clothing, the blue suit with wide lapels, white shirt with a darker blue tie, black and white spats on his feet. He didn’t even glance at us. Instead, he haughtily drew himself up and pounded on a bell on the countertop. Before I could stop myself, I scanned the floor around Patrick’s feet, searching for his luggage. Of course, he didn’t carry any. When I glanced back at the counter, I expected to see a clerk scurrying up to pacify this impatient guest.

  Instead, Carrie hurried up beside us. “Did you hear that?” she asked, staring across from us.

  Wow, an entire sentence without an ah or um, I mused, then naughtily replied, “What? I didn’t hear anything.”

  “The bell at the desk,” Carrie insisted. “I...um...hear it every once in a while. But there isn’t anyone over there to ring it!”

  “We’ll keep an ear out,” I said, glancing around for Twila and Trucker. They stood over beside the elevators, and Twila was running her hand across the wall.

  “Beautiful,” she called to me. “You can still see the wonderful green enamel. I’m glad they didn’t cover that up when they repainted.”

  “Don’t get too close to that last elevator door,” I warned. “It’s partway open.”

  “It’s not supposed to be!” Carrie said without a hint of stutter as she hastened over to the bank of three elevators and halted in front of the open one. The cages were protected by wide, crisscrossed brass, one of those contraptions that would fold in and out on itself when the door was opened or closed. Carrie pulled at the open-shut mechanism, but it refused to budge.

  “I’ll...um...have to call the handyman,” she finally said. “We can’t leave this open with you ladies here.” She pulled a cell phone out of her skirt pocket and dialed while saying, “You two can go ahead into the...ah...camping area just down the hall.” She pointed to her left, past the elevators.

  I, for one, hurried to obey, since I wasn’t too keen on standing there listening to her haltingly describe the situation to their...ah...handyman. I did look back at the check-in desk, but Patrick had evidently received the attention he demanded and checked in.

  My satchel strap cut into my shoulder, and Miss Molly had that look on her face that told me her claws would show themselves again soon if she didn’t get out of my arms. Most of the time she loves to be held and petted, but now that I thought of it, those times were always on her terms. Cats could be prissy that way.

  Twila led Trucker into a large room, with me following. Twila gazed to our right in awe. Another wall of glass-paned doors encompassed the entire area on the right side of the room, which overlooked what could only have been a ballroom in its day. Below us stretched an area unencumbered by any furnishings, every bit as large as the lobby.

  I set Miss Molly down, held tightly to her leash, and wandered over to look out the windows. I’m not afraid of heights, but the stark emptiness of the floor below gave the impression that we were higher above it than in reality, and I crept back, away from the windows.

  Twila studied the rest of our camping area. A faded blue couch, which looked as though it would send up a cloud of dust if we dared sit on it, was placed against the far wall, an end table beside each lumpy arm. Another small end table was beside a rickety wooden chair nearby, and a Coleman lantern decorated the top of it. We dropped our satchels on the floor, and I rubbed my shoulder in relief.

  “Well,” I mused, “like I warned you, it’s not the fanciest place we’ve ever visited.”

  “Oh, but it’s so much more!” Twila gushed. “Can’t you just see what it used to be like? How every guest was pampered and catered to? How delicious the meals must have been? Just imagine, Alice. Imagine it as it used to be, like Patrick said.”

  “Yes.” Patrick visualized beside the rickety chair, blond hair slicked back and tailored suit accenting what lay beneath. “It was grand. Even at home, where I had a dozen servants at my beck and call, I didn’t feel nearly as comfortable as here. At home there were always a slew of problems to take care of, business to attend to. Here, it was total relaxation. As Twila says, fantastic meals. The baths. Masseuses trained in the best schools available night or day. There was even a gymnasium on one of the floors above us, and a bowling alley in the basement. Utter, total freedom from worry and relaxation drew all of us here, in addition to the healthy mineral baths.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered. “And it probably took a few hundred peons to make all that freedom and non-worry happen.”

  Carrie scurried back in and asked, “Are you settled? Oh...um...” She stared at Miss Molly by my feet and then the dark gray rug on the floor.

  I rolled my eyes and knelt by my satchel to unpack, while Twila did the same. I set up Miss Molly’s portable litter box and poured in the litter, sliding a glance at Carrie in time to see her nod in satisfaction. I carried the litter box over beside the couch and stuck it beneath one of the end tables. Miss Molly sniffed at the litter box, then turned her nose up.

  “I know it’s not as big as your box at home,” I whispered so Carrie wouldn’t hear. “But you damn well better use it if you need to go!” Then I sighed and added another ten bucks to the running tally in my head as Miss Molly stuck her tail straight up in the air and walked off with a subdued cat-growl of displeasure.

  Carrie’s cell phone rang, and I remembered my own phone in my purse and dug it out to turn it on. The battery indicator showed a full charge, but I knew that wouldn’t last. The battery was well over two years old, and I kept forgetting to buy a new one. So I switched the phone off to conserve it. I had a charger in the car, but without electricity at our disposal here, I hadn’t bothered to bring the in-house charger.