Cherringham--Ghost of a Chance (8 page)

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.

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.

But for now, Jack watched as Todd bent down, opening his tool box, slipping on a headlamp held in place with an elastic band.

And then grabbing a crowbar and hammer, Jack watched as Todd — making it look effortless — began prying up the floorboards right where the chandelier must have hung below.

*

Sarah heard the phone to The Bell Hotel ring a fourth time.

The receptionist’s not the speediest,
Sarah thought.

Then with a heavily accented, “‘
ello — Bell Hotel”
— the call was answered.

Sarah was hoping the receptionist would prove to be as ineffective a guardian of The Bell's patrons’ privacy as she was in her answering of calls.

“Yes, Suzie isn’t it? I’ve been helping Mr. Myrtle, and he said I should give you a call.”

Not actually the truth,
Sarah knew,
but if it got the job done …

“All right … Yeah. And what did he say I should do exactly?”

“You have the information for all the guests on file?”

Sarah assumed that the hotel hadn't quite migrated to the twenty-first century, and they still collected data on paper.

“Yes, I do. Everyone checks in, we need the information.”

‘Right. You have a Mr. Anderson staying …?”

Sarah waited until Suzie confirmed that they did indeed have such a guest.

“You do, yes?”

“Yes.”

Hmm …
Sarah thought,
maybe something else there, as if Suzie had a comment to make and then was barely able to squelch it.

“We’re trying to find where all the guests come from.”

“He said ‘London’.”

Interesting choice of word.

‘Said’ …

“So, he gave you an address, photo ID, showing he
lived
in London?”

A pause.

This chat was proving far too interesting.

“Not exactly. You see, another bloke, another man made the booking with
his
credit card information. For Mr. Anderson. Must be his friend or somethin’.”

“You don’t have Mr. Anderson’s data—” she quickly altered the terminology, “information on file. But this other man …?”

“Yes, it was his credit card, after all.”

Sarah saw Grace looking over, a bemused expression on her face as if she was imagining the conversation.

“Well, then — it might help us — might help Mr. Myrtle — if you tell me who that man is.”

“Really? That …
all-right?
If Mr. Myrtle says so, I guess it can’t hurt. Let me get the form.”

Sarah could imagine Suzie flipping through the papers with credit card information — probably the most insecure method one could have of storing such da—

Information …

“Ah, here it is. The room was booked and paid for by a Mr. Karl Eiss.”

Sarah checked the spelling with Suzie and wrote the name down.

The address. A street in Chiswick, right near High Road House.

How Sarah sometimes missed those summer evenings, meeting for drinks and dinner at the bistro-like restaurant at the private members club there …

But that was a lifetime ago.

“Got it Suzie. I guess … that’s all I need for now.”

But before Sarah could hang up, the receptionist had a question for her.

“‘Scuse me, miss. But do you know … are they gonna close this place? Think I could lose my job?”

To that, Sarah didn’t have an answer. Certainly a good number of people would like to see the place torn down or renovated beyond recognition. And where would that leave Suzie with her file box of credit card slips?

“Not sure, Suzie. I think … you just have to hope for the best.”

That gave the woman pause, as if the thought had not occurred to her.

Then, brightly, “Then that's exactly what I will do!”

Sarah grinned at that, thinking … can’t wait to share the conversation with Grace.

But first … “Thanks Suzie … and for now, keep this between us?”

“Yes, miss.”

And then — call ended — Sarah turned to Grace.

“So the ‘Mr. Anderson’ I called about … looks like he might be someone else.”

“Really? A false ID?”

“Appears that way. He's really someone named Karl Eiss.”