“Candles,” Claudia said. “Did anyone see The White Lady?”
“I did,” Matt said, raising his hand. “I came back down to get my phone, and there she was. She vanished before I got into the room.”
“Vanished how?” Claudia asked. She didn’t want to sound suspicious; hated ruining the other guests’ excitement. Even as she spoke, she felt the energy in the room drop.
She felt a little bad that she’d assumed Holly would have been the first one to see The White Lady.
“Just…I don’t know, exactly.” Matt looked abashed. “I turned to call up the stairs to Holly, and when I turned back, the Lady was gone. But I know she didn’t go past me.”
The parlor’s only other door led to the dining room, and the door between the dining room and the kitchen had been open—surely she and Reese would have heard someone in there?
Claudia asked a few more questions, then decided not to investigate tonight. There would be time for that in the morning.
Time to figure out if this was a legend worth pursuing…and if Reese was, as well.
***
Claudia shoved the drapes aside and smiled at the sun sparkling on the fresh, untouched snow.
A good night’s sleep under cozy flannel sheets and a warm down comforter had gone a long way to improving her outlook on life. The snow had been hauntingly lovely last night, but she’d been lost and cold and hungry; today, she could simply appreciate its beauty. She wondered how the dog was doing, and made a mental note to ask Mrs. Hawley.
The dining room had a big stone fireplace and large windows that looked out on the mountains. Quiet holiday music filled the background from unseen speakers.
“This is just lovely,” Sherry enthused. “I’ve always wanted to get away for Christmas. And I love the decorations.”
Others agreed, and then Angela asked, “What’s everyone’s favorite part about Christmas?”
“I love the ritual of it all,” Claudia confessed after swallowing a mouthful of herbed scrambled eggs. “Trimming the tree, wrapping the presents, sitting down for dinner with family…”
“And snow,” Reese said with a wink. “Don’t forget about the snow.”
“But you can have the rituals without snow,” Tom said.
“That’s true,” Reese said. “It’s about being with family and friends—rituals are about sharing the same joys with the people you love.”
Everyone murmured assent, and then they all started discussing their rituals and childhood memories: tinsel versus garland, holly and mistletoe, favorite carols. And cookies. The cookie debate almost got a little heated.
After breakfast, Reese asked, “What’s your plan for today, ghost hunter?”
“Legend hunter, please,” Claudia said, cradling her hands around her coffee mug. “I’m headed into town to meet with the county clerk to look at the lodge’s records, and hit the local library for their archives.”
He offered to drive her, and she agreed. She was perfectly willing to walk, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to make sure she knew the way first. Besides, she had a hunch Reese would be a good traveling companion. Bonus: His truck had four-wheel drive and snow tires. The driveway had already been plowed, as had the lane, but it was still a bit slippery.
At the county courthouse, she waded through land and tax records, making photocopies of what she needed; it was cheaper than ordering them and having them mailed, and ensured she found what she wanted. By the time she was done, it was lunchtime, and she met Reese, who’d been running errands, at a local restaurant.
The proprietors had gone for a full-on log cabin feel, with exposed-log walls, a pot-bellied stove, deer heads on the wall, and a taxidermied black bear to greet them at the door.
The cost was reasonable and the portions hearty—and, Claudia discovered, quite tasty. Her enormous bowl of chili had a nice bite to it, warming her after the walk over from the courthouse, and the buttered cornbread melted in her mouth.
“So what do you really think about The White Lady?” Reese asked after taking a bite of his burger. “Is she real?”
“I want her to be,” Claudia admitted. “So often, they aren’t. But the bottom line for me—for my job—is whether the underlying legend is real. It’s hard to prove a ghost is real, but if the story holds up… What about you? You saw her as a child—it wasn’t a childish fantasy?”
“If she isn’t real, I can’t blame Mrs. Hawley for making her up,” Reese said. “She’s been a good source of tourism for the lodge even at other times of the year. But more than that, I believe Mrs. Hawley believes. Her own husband died of a heart attack—must be twenty years ago now—and I think she likes the idea of someone being able to guide her lover home.”
“Oh.” Claudia looked down at her half-eaten chili in the white porcelain bowl, the paper placemat beneath bearing the history of the diner. “I didn’t know that. How sad.”
“Don’t be sad.” Reese put a hand over hers. “It was a long time ago, and I’m pretty sure she’s had…friends since then. But she hasn’t remarried, and I know the lodge is important to her, so…”
“I get that.” Claudia looked up. “It’s just that so many of the stories are about loss. It just wears me down sometimes.”
“I get that, too,” Reese said. “We want to find our soulmates and have happy endings.”
Claudia squinted at him, but he didn’t sound like he was making fun of her. Perhaps sensing her suspicion, he went on. “My parents truly seemed to be happy with each other, really seemed to be in love. I guess I want to believe that’s possible for anybody.” He squeezed her hand, let go. “So, what will you do if you determine the legend isn’t true?”
She ate a spoonful of spicy, tomatoey chili to give herself a moment to gather her thoughts. “Then I just go home,” she said. “No harm, no foul. I won’t advertise that there’s no historical basis for the ghost; the lodge just won’t be on our program. It doesn’t mean there’s no ghost, though. That’s not my area of expertise.”
“But what do you believe? Are ghosts real?”
“I’ve gone back and forth about it, but in the end, yes, I think so—in some fashion,” she said. “Residual energy, maybe? I’ve seen and felt things I can’t explain, and I think there’s more out there than we can see or hear or test with scientific instruments. How about you?”
“Pretty much the same,” he said, “even though my background is more scientific. I’d like to think my parents are keeping an eye on me, even if they’re not manifesting as spooky floating mist.”
Claudia had to agree with that.
“Is that how you ended up at the show?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, I sort of fell into it. I was the family genealogist, and I played around with cameras, and couldn’t decide what to major in at college. Eventually I moved to LA with a friend who wanted to be an actress, and got a job as a PA, and…I’m good at research.”
“It’s a good thing to be good at,” he said. “Maybe I can hire you to dig into my family’s history.”
“I wouldn’t say no to that,” she said, and wondered why it made her feel so light and airy, like a snowflake in a swirl of wind.
***
Despite the local library being in a modern building, the older records hadn’t been updated to the modern age, leaving Claudia to slog through ancient microfiches of local newspaper archives and census records in the chilly, damp windowless basement.
Still, there was something about this kind of research she loved; the chance uncovering of a mystery, the allure of discovering a treasure of information. Google left a lot to be desired when it came to the thrill of unearthing secrets.
Reese had come with her, and helped her by making photocopies and bringing her books on local history. She could have spent days in the photo archives alone, poring over the sepia-toned depictions of early Adirondack town life, and he got distracted as well, commenting on the old buildings and the structure of the main bridge that went over the river that flowed along one side of the town of Heather Mountain.
It was already dusk by the time they left, Claudia’s bag stuffed full of paperwork to review over the next two days.
Dinner that night was another pleasant, happy affair. Everyone seemed in good spirits and hopeful that the ghost would make another sighting (and no one seemed to blame Claudia for being a downer the night before, which was a relief). She liked the way Reese was easy with everyone, even drawing Brittany away from her phone for a conversation about technology.
Plus the venison stew, roasted vegetables, and an apple pie with locally made maple ice cream almost sent Claudia into a food coma.
Afterwards they repaired to the parlor again. Holly, Tom, Brittany, Angela, and Reese settled in to play Apples to Apples, while Matt read his Kindle, Mrs. Hawley knitted, and Claudia started in on the reams of photocopies. This was a work trip—she wasn’t really on vacation, despite the holiday—but it was pleasant to sit and read, listen to the laughter and voices, and sneak occasional glances at Reese.
This time, it was Angela who spotted something moving in the dining room when she stood to stoke the fire. Once again, they rushed across the foyer into the other room.
“What was that?” Tom asked, and at the same time Holly said “Was that a light outside?” and Claudia had to admit that really did look like the flicker of candle flame outside the window, although neither she nor the rest of them clearly saw a person.
“We should go check for footprints,” she suggested.
They had to find boots and coats, so it was a few minutes before they could head outside. Claudia thought it was rather fun, really, being led on the chase—if it were real, all the better, but even if not, it was entertainment, and there was nothing wrong with that if all the participants were having fun.
It was, she realized, the first time she’d truly wanted to find proof that the legend had merit. Oh, she always wanted to for the sake of the show (no legends, no show—and thus no job), but this time, it was for the sake of the ghost, and Mrs. Hawley, and Heather Mountain Lodge.
Clouds obscured the stars and moon, but the ambient light from the lodge along with the flashlights Mrs. Hawley procured for them provided enough illumination to show that there were no footprints outside the dining room.
It was Brittany who spotted the white candle in the white snow, its wick blackened, showing it had been used.
They all trooped back inside, kicking snow off their boots on the porch and shivering in the warmth. Mrs. Hawley went off to make hot chocolate and hot buttered rums.
Reese waited until the others had gone and just he and Claudia were still on the porch. “What do you think about it?” he asked.
She gave a cautious shrug. “I have to admit I saw
something
, but I can’t swear it was candlelight. Finding the candle on the ground was…an interesting development, though.”
“It sounds like everyone saw something,” he said. “But wouldn’t the candle have disappeared when the ghost—if she exists—did?”
“That’s not my area of expertise, really,” Claudia said, unlacing her snow boots. “My job is whether the legend has a basis in fact.”
“And how’s the research going?”
“Nothing to confirm or deny yet, but the night is young,” she said. “Mrs. Hawley gave me a book on Adirondack ghost stories that includes the legend of The White Lady…but the account was given by her father, who bought the lodge before Mrs. Hawley was born. I’m still tracing back the property records from then. I need to either find some kind of proof of a woman whose husband died around the holidays, or a very old account of the ghost, or even both.” She slipped on the brown leather ankle boots she wore indoors and stood.
“I suppose that means I can’t entice you for a round of Rummikub?”
She laughed. “Maybe tomorrow, if I get enough work done.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked, holding the door for her.
“I wouldn’t take you away from
your
vacation, but no, at this point it’s all research I need to do.” She smiled, honestly feeling her next words. “But I really appreciate it.”
Dammit. Why couldn’t this research trip be longer?
Maybe they’d get a blizzard and get snowed in…
***
It did snow the next day, although the flakes drifted down languidly, showing no interest in being collectively labeled a blizzard. Clearly they hadn’t gotten the memo.
Still, it made Claudia’s work all that more pleasant. She’d missed the feeling of curling up in a comfy sweater and thick socks by a warm fire, watching the snow outside while she read and made notes and cross-referenced things.
She’d propped pillows around the Victorian sofa to compensate for its saggy antique cushions and made herself a little nest. The room smelled of pine from the garlands and cinnamon from the arrangement on the birch side table, where a lamp with amber and glass shades shaped like calla lilies illuminated her reading.
It was Christmas Eve, so nothing was open in town; she’d made sure she had everything here ahead of time.
The rest of the guests had gone out cross-country skiing, so she had the place to herself, except for the cook making their feast of supper and Mrs. Hawley catching up on paperwork in her own office.