Lacing up for Murder

Whistling River Lodge Mystery #1

Irene Radford

Chapter 2

La Llorona.

“Now that’s a new one.” I had to lean against the wainscoting.

Old George Ramstead had mentored me when I first started working here, promoting me through the ranks until I had worked nearly every job in the hotel and finally ran the front desk summers and between terms during my college years. Then when my marriage ended in disaster and I’d returned to Whistling River broke and broken hearted, he’d hired me again as his assistant. Which meant I’d been running the hotel for four years before I became part owner and manager.

I thought of the rambling old building and extensive grounds as more my home than the house my dad left me last year.

“Consuelo, I have to have the three suites at the end of this wing clean and ready for guests in...” I consulted my watch and cursed. “In fifteen minutes! If they aren’t here already. Then I’ve got three hundred lacemakers filling the east wing and ballroom. A lot of those ladies demand early cleaning and fresh towels so they can spend the afternoons working in their rooms. Is that done?”

“Clean them yourself, Miz Glenna. We quit.” She shoved her cart full of cleaning supplies and fresh linens at me. Then she stabbed at the elevator button, not bothering to trudge down the cross corridor to the creaking service elevator at the end.

“Consuelo, please don’t quit,” I pleaded, mentally calculating who in town I could draft to fill in for this very busy weekend. The week after Labor Day brought out empty-nesters and Elder Hostel travelers in droves. Most of my student temporaries had gone back to school. Except for the two interns down at the front desk.

Was cleaning rooms and soothing hysterical guests in the tea room part of their contract?

“Please just do those three suites for the Sakata party. Then we’ll talk.”

Cautiously, I edged away from the wall, easing the cart so that I herded Consuelo and the girls back toward the three suites in question.

“I mean it this time, Miz Glenna. I no work with that ghost around.” Consuelo stood firm, the cart pressed against her chest.

Lilia and Rosario, though, inched backward, in the direction I wanted them to go.

“What if I asked Father Tomas to come in and do an exorcism?”

Consuelo snorted. “Better you ask la bruja, Miss Joy, to come in and cleanse the place.”

“Will that help?”

Lilia and Rosario nodded in unison. Consuelo took a moment to think about it. “Miss Joy, she know more about these things than Father Tomas.”

I whipped out my cell phone and speed dialed Joy Dancer, my best friend from High School and the town’s resident witch.

“Joy, I need help,” I barked into the phone the moment my friend picked up. “Help with a ghost.”

Not that I believed in ghosts. Not really.

“Is Grandpa Al acting up again?” she asked. Joy had abandoned her family name so long ago most people had forgotten that she was originally a Whistler.

The perpetual chuckle in her voice soothed the anxiety that had built in my shoulders.

“Not Aloysius Whistler. It’s George,” I whispered. “And he’s scared my maids so badly they won’t clean the south wing. How fast can you get over here?”

“Packing my kit as we speak. You sure you want to cleanse the place of ghosts? Not just move them temporarily? The Cascade Mountain Paranormal Investigators Convention in two weeks will be sorely disappointed if they can’t find any ghosts.”

“Good. I’ve dealt with that particular group before. They barge into any room they want with their obnoxiously beeping equipment without regard to manners, etiquette, or privacy. If they didn’t pay double the room rate I’d refuse to book them. I’ve had to put severe restrictions into their contract.”

“Not all ghost hunters are that bad.”

“Not all of them. But this group is. How long ’til you get here? I need these rooms pronto.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

Whistling River is a small town in permanent population but spread out along a river valley north of the canyon, up the slopes of Mt. Hood, along gravel roads and twisted lanes. Distances are deceptive in travel time.

I checked my watch again and cursed. The party of very well connected Japanese businessmen were due to check in within minutes. Just once I hoped the airport shuttle was late.

“Break the speed limit, Joy.” Closing the phone, I forced myself to breathe deeply. “Joy is on the way, Consuelo. Will you finish the rooms now?”

“For you, Miz Glenna.” She nodded and fingered her own rosary that spilled from her skirt pocket. “You help my ’Tonio get High School so he can get a good job as cook and not just kitchen helper. You help us both learn English and study to become citizens. You help us with banks. Soon we open our own restaurant. For you I do this. But Miss Joy Dancer should hurry.”

With only a hint of hesitation in her step, Consuelo took possession of the cart, spun it around and aimed for the three suites at the end of the corridor.

oOo

The moment she entered the largest suite in the hotel, three bedrooms, each with an ensuite bath, a sitting room with another half bath, and a mini kitchen with a long dining/conference table, I turned sharply left and took the fire stairs upward.

Ten minutes to my board meeting. I dared not be late. But some things have to come first.

Panting from my sprint up two flights of stairs to the attic apartment, I slapped the light switch to my right. A single bare bulb shed a diffuse and dusty light upon the iron bedstead made up with homemade quilts, a threadbare wingback chair set before the fireplace that shared a chimney with the lobby — both converted to propane. A scattering of rag rugs covered the otherwise bare floorboards.

The scents of candle wax, old rose potpourri, and dust filled me with warmth and nostalgia. It smelled of home. I’d lived in this cozy little space for two years after I came back to Whistling River. George kept me sheltered here until I could afford a place of my own.

We spent many long winter nights sitting before the fire talking about our dreams for the hotel, the day to day management, gossiping about the movers and shakers in our small resort town. He helped me find and hire a lawyer with enough guts to stand up to my ex and outmaneuver him on settlements.

Even now I kept a change of clothes and a toothbrush here for those times when life became too hectic to go back to my condo.

So did George Ramstead. He’d come back to haunt our hotel, in the flesh. He hid up here, letting the world — meaning some debt collectors with mob connections — believe him dead.

He’d poured his heart and soul into this hotel. Even if he did cook the books and tend to hire illegal immigrants at less than minimum wage. Then he pocketed the difference. He’d also made a lot of lousy decisions when he drank too much. Which was most of the time. Like selling off sixty acres of prime woodland. He could have just sold the timber and kept the land, but no, he had to sell it all.

Now I was trying to buy it back to expand the golf course to tournament level. A top ranked fairway designer was available next year and then not again for another ten years. His prestigious work could put Whistling River Lodge on the map for professional golfers.

“George,” I whispered into the still, stale air. No trace of the ghostly wind dared penetrate the bare walls or circular oriel window at the end, where it overlooked the porte cochere.

Silence hung heavily around me. George knew better than to prowl the hotel during daylight hours. He should have retreated here when Consuelo spotted him.

“George, leave my maids alone, please. They work hard. Please don’t scare them anymore.” I turned on my low heel and retreated to reality.

“Sorry, love, didn’t mean to scare Consuelo and the girls, but I needed to check out whoever rented those suites. I’ve heard rumors that the Sakata group might be a front for the Yakusa. And my enemies have connections there.” George poked his head out from the inglenook on the other side of the fireplace. His bushy grey eyebrows waggled humorously.

I was not amused.

“You’re paranoid, George. Mike Conditti gave up trying to collect that debt when probate declared your estate bankrupt.”

“You didn’t think I was paranoid when you helped me fake my own death.”

“I’ve changed my mind. Now either behave yourself, or go haunt your widow. I’ve got enough people booked for this week I may need this room.”

This time I really did leave him to stew.