The Ghost Wore Gray (6 page)

“Peter doesn't live here,” I pointed out.

“No, but I'll bet he has a key. He's probably in and out all the time. No one would even think twice if they saw him.”

“You think Peter did it?” I asked, stepping back out into the hallway.

“Don't be dense. I'm just saying it's too early to start narrowing down the list of suspects. I'd say the only people we can count out right now are you, me, and your father. And if we didn't know him so well, we'd have to leave him in, too.”

I looked at her.

“Well, it could be one of those crazy self-destructive plots,” she said. “They have them on TV all the time.”

“That's why TV rots your brain,” I replied. “What about Baltimore? Can't we cross him off the list? After all, he does own the place.”

Chris shook her head. “He's definitely still a suspect. For the same reason.”

“You can't be serious,” I said.

She shrugged. “Who knows what kind of plot might be going on here? Until we can figure out a logical reason why someone would want those plans, we have to keep all the possibilities open.”

We had been walking down the hall as we talked and had reached the set of old pictures. “Do you think
he
has anything to do with it?” I asked, indicating the photograph of the long dead Confederate soldier who had stood in our room the night before.

Chris shrugged. “Doesn't seem likely,” she said. “For one thing, ghosts don't seem to move things around much.”

I nodded.

“Besides, he's just too gorgeous.”

I laughed. “Now who's not thinking like a detective?” I asked. But as I stared at the picture, I knew what Chris meant.

“Ah,” said a voice behind us. “I see you're admiring the ghost of the Quackadoodle Inn!”

I turned and saw Porter Markson standing behind us. His hands were tucked behind his back, and he smiled as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Didn't you know the inn is supposed to be haunted?” he asked, misinterpreting the surprised look on my face. “Well, don't let it scare you. Captain Gray has never been known to harm anyone.”

“Captain Gray?” I asked.

Porter nodded. “Captain Johnny Gray. Legend has it he was the most handsome man in Charleston, South Carolina.”

“Well, what's he doing haunting an inn here in New York State?” asked Chris.

Porter shrugged. “Who knows? To tell you the truth, I've never actually seen him. Sometimes I think the whole legend was cooked up by one of the previous owners just to get people interested in the inn.”

I decided not to tell him how wrong he was about that!

“Are you ladies heading down to breakfast?” he asked.

“Yes!” said Chris emphatically. “I'm starving!”

That was no surprise. Hunger is sort of a permanent condition with Chris.

“Well, if you don't mind some company, I'll come with you.”

That was fine with us. I figured we could pump him for more information about the ghost while we ate.

Breakfast turned out to be coffee and pastries, set out in the dining room for anyone who wanted them. They called this a Continental Breakfast. That means it's European. For some reason sophisticated people call Europe
The
Continent—as if the other six didn't exist! It sounds stuck-up to me, but that's the way it is. Chris happily poured herself a cup of coffee from the big silver urn. I made a face and went looking for some milk. I don't know how she can drink that stuff!

When the three of us finally settled down to start stuffing Dieter's glorious pastries into our mouths, it struck me that we were the only ones in the dining room.

“Where's everyone else?” I asked.

Porter blew across the top of his coffee. “Well, probably people have either eaten or decided to sleep late. Dieter leaves breakfast out until eleven o'clock.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Of course, there are
only
seven guests anyway.”

“I wonder why?” asked Chris.

Porter shrugged. “The inn's not doing very well. Things will pick up a little this weekend. It's Thursday, so probably a few people will show up today. There might be a fairly good crowd come Friday. And, of course, there's the dance on Saturday. That should draw some extra guests.”

“Why isn't the inn doing well?” I asked, thinking Porter might know something useful.

Before he could answer, Mona Curtis came sailing into the room. “Oh, there you are, Nine,” she said. “I was just looking for you! Could you come and talk to me a minute?”

“Good grief!” whispered Chris. “Do you suppose she proposed to your father already?”

I glared at Chris, then tried to get my face back under control before I went to talk to Mona. I don't think I quite managed it, because when I got to her table the first thing she said was, “For heaven's sakes, don't look so apprehensive. This is a business talk. It has nothing to do with your father.”

Before I could decide how to answer that comment, she asked me to wait while she got some coffee. I watched unhappily as she crossed the room; little as I liked to admit it, Mona was a very attractive woman. That morning she was wearing a peach and yellow cotton sweater. I had seen one something like it in a magazine a few weeks before. Very expensive! Her dark hair brushed across her face as she bent to examine the pastry tray. Her long fingers hovered over the goodies before reaching out to pluck up a cheese danish. My mind changed the image to a vision of a giant Mona, reaching out to snatch up my father.

I began pressing my fingertips against the white linen tablecloth, to see how red I could get them. That may sound stupid, but it gave me something to think about.

“I can't have a serious conversation without my morning coffee,” said Mona, slipping back into her chair. She poured some cream into her steaming cup and stirred it. I wondered if she would realize I was faking if I sneezed and knocked the coffee into her lap.

She tapped her spoon against the edge of her cup a couple of times and then set it down. It was the closest thing I had seen to a nervous gesture on her part.

“Well, let's get right down to business,” she said.

“OK,” I answered. I was dying to know what this was all about.

Mona smiled.
Vulture
, I thought.

Then she struck. “I was wondering,” she said, stirring her coffee again, “if you might like to write a book for me.”

I fell off my chair.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Deadly Wildflower Bandits

I heard Chris snort when I hit the floor. It would have made me angry, except I knew I probably would have done the same thing. Porter jumped to his feet, but sat back down again when he saw that I wasn't hurt. Mona just raised one eyebrow. “Are you all right?” she asked after I had climbed back into my chair.

“Fine,” I said. “Only I think my ears have gone bad. I thought I heard you ask if I wanted to write a book.”

Mona nodded. “Your ears are fine,” she said. “Your father told me you had a very interesting experience with a ghost earlier this summer. He also told me you kept a journal about it. I asked him to let me read a few pages. I think it's pretty good.”

Now this was a complicated situation! The idea that my father had shown this woman the journal I had let him take made me angry. But how angry could I really get, when the result was so interesting?

Mona stirred her coffee. “I'm not making any promises,” she said. “But the fact is, I edit kids' books for a living, and your adventure in the Grand Theater sounds interesting. If you'd be willing to let me read the rest of the journal, I'll give it serious consideration. If I think it can work, I'll tell you what you would have to do to turn it into a book.”

“I need time to think,” I said, sliding out of my seat.

Mona shrugged. “No hurry,” she said. “I'll be here through Sunday.”

“Well,” said Chris, when I got back to the table, “what was
that
all about?”

“I'll tell you later,” I said.

I was a little nervous, because in the time it had taken me to walk back to my table, I had realized I wasn't sure how Chris was going to react to this news. I mean, if it were the other way around, I would have had two feelings. I'd be glad for Chris, of course. After all, she
is
my best friend. But I'd also be so jealous I'd probably explode.

I wished I could figure out a way to discuss Mona's offer with my father before I had to explain it to Chris. But she was sitting right there, and she wasn't about to let me get away without telling her what the woman had wanted. I wouldn't have, either, if it had been the other way around.

Porter Markson slid away from the table. “I guess I'd better get moving,” he said. “I'm going for a little hike today. I'll see you girls at dinner.”

“OK, Nine,” said Chris when Porter had left the dining room. “
Now
will you tell me what this is all about?”

“Let's go outside,” I said.

We went to stand on the little bridge that crossed the stream. I told Chris what Mona had offered to do.

“That's great!” she said.

Then she got real quiet.

I tapped a finger on the side of her head. “Yoo-hoo. Anybody home?”

“Why didn't you tell me you were keeping a diary?” she asked. She sounded hurt.

“What was to tell?” I said and threw a twig into the water. I watched the stream carry it away from us.

“I was just keeping a record of what we did while we solved that mystery. My father asked if he could read some of it, and I let him. I had no idea he was going to show it to some editor and tell her it might make a good book.”

Chris was quiet for a moment. She tilted her head to the left, then to the right, then back again. It looked as if she had a slow motion Ping-Pong game going on in her mind. Finally she stopped, and nodded, as if she had come to some kind of decision.

She looked at me and threw her hands into the air. “I think it's wonderful!” She threw her arms around me. We started jumping up and down.

Let me tell you, it's as important to have a friend when you want to be happy as it is to have one when you're feeling lousy. But it's hard to focus on things when you're jumping up and down, so I stopped when I noticed some people coming out of the woods.

“What's wrong?” asked Chris.

“Nothing,” I said. “We've just got company.”

I could see now that it was Arnie and Meg Coleman. They were strolling down the path that led to the bridge, holding hands like a couple of kids. They looked sweet. I thought about my parents, and wondered why some people have to split up and others are able to stay in love all their lives.

“Howdy, youngsters!” said Arnie as he and his wife stepped on to the bridge. “Glorious morning, eh?”

I recognized that “eh.” All the Canadians I've ever met tack it on to at least half their sentences.

Arnie was carrying, of all things, a shovel. And they both had buckets filled with dirt and plants.

Meg giggled. “We dug up a few wildflowers for my rock garden. I know we're not supposed to, but we didn't take anything that's endangered. You won't turn us in, will you?”

She actually seemed worried that we might be going to call the police on her.

“Your secret is safe with us,” said Chris, though how she managed to keep her voice serious was beyond me.

Meg reached out a plump hand and patted Chris on the cheek. “I knew I could count on you, dear,” she said with a wink. “Come on, Arnie. Let's get these back to the room before someone else catches us!”

We waited until they were out of sight. Then we broke out giggling. From that point on we referred to Arnie and Meg as The Deadly Wildflower Bandits.

We walked back to the inn to find out if there was any place nearby where we could go swimming. The lobby was empty when we entered. We could hear someone yelling in the distance. At first I thought it had to be Gloria. Then I figured it was probably Dieter.

It was a real shock when I finally figured out it was my father.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A Hole in the Wall

“Is he upset, or just excited?” asked Chris, when it dawned on her who was doing the shouting.

“I'm not sure,” I said. “Let's go find out.”

The sound had come from the right. We ran through the hall into the dining room. It was empty, but I could hear my father's voice more clearly now. It was coming from the kitchen. Now I realized that Deiter was yelling, too.

As we got closer to the kitchen, I could tell that Dad was happy. But Dieter was obviously very upset. I wondered what could make one of them so happy, and one of them so mad.

I didn't have to wonder long. As soon as we went through the kitchen door I could see what had upset Dieter: my father had made a mess in his kitchen. I decided right then that Dad was either braver or dumber than I had ever realized.

The little German cook was standing by the stove, waving a spoon over his head and cursing. His face was bright red. Martha and Isabella, who must have rushed in when the commotion began, stood a safe distance away from him. All three of them were looking at my father, who was standing next to a hole in the wall and wearing a big grin. The hole was about a foot wide. A pile of dusty plaster lay on the floor at Dad's feet.

“What is going on here?” asked a new voice.

It was Baltimore who had just come in through the back way. He had a very worried expression on his face as he surveyed the scene.

“This man—this man is
ruining
my kitchen!” cried Dieter. “There is
dust
in the air! Dust!”

“‘This man' is just doing his job,” said my father. “I was checking at the back side of the fireplace to make sure the wall was solid and look what I found!”