Chapter 15

fifteen

“ T hat sounds very much like Hugo,” Jo said as she playfully linked arms with Trudy.

It was a rainy afternoon outside as they strolled from the main floor art studio where Jo had just concluded a painting class, and while she excelled as an instructor, Trudy was a mediocre student. When it came to art, Trudy appreciated its beauty, and the discipline required to create it—but rendering anything lovely or intriguing or peaceful was beyond her grasp. With a pencil and paper, she could easily depict an anatomically accurate heart and expound in lyrical detail how essential it was to the human body but ask her to paint something which evoked the emotions purportedly held within one’s figurative heart and she was woefully out of her element.

“I do hope he’s not expecting me to see people every day,” Trudy said. “I’m rather enjoying this life of leisure and not ready to return to work. Not to mention how news of this will cause likely cause Aunt Breezy to have an apoplectic fit.”

“Well, in that case, she can be your first hotel patient,” Jo teased.

“Actually, my first hotel patient was you,” Trudy responded. “And as such, forgive the inquiry, but have you sent a note to your midwife yet?”

“I have,” Jo replied. “I dispatched it the very same day you and I discussed it. She sent a note back straightaway and intends to see me next week. I’m quite relieved, although I know with you by my side, I’ll be in good hands when this impertinent baby decides to arrive.”

As if on cue, Jo burped, triggering giggles from them both.

“Do you think I might meet the midwife,” Trudy asked when their mirth had subsided. “I’d like to hear her philosophy on the birthing process and think it would be beneficial to you if she and I were to get acquainted before your time comes.”

“Of course. She’s coming to see me on Wednesday afternoon. You may meet her then, if you’d like.”

Trudy and Jo continued their sojourn through the lobby, stopping to exchange pleasantries with Mrs. Palmer who was adorned in an excess of rubies and diamonds despite the mid-day hour. Next, they encountered the vivacious Mahoney sisters, Iris and Dalhia, who regaled them with an excruciatingly detailed account of their recent trip to Bath, until they were set upon by none other than Miss Greta Watson and pet clairvoyant, Mrs. Delilah Lamb.

Mrs. Lamb was stocky, robust woman in a lime-green dress whose demeanor bore no resemblance to a timid little lamb in any way, shape, or form.

“At last, we meet,” Mrs. Lamb said to Jo without the benefit of actually being introduced. “It’s imperative I speak to your mother-in-law.”

“My mother-in-law?” Jo replied. “You mean Constance Bostwick?”

“Yes, that’s the one. I encountered her dogs the other day and one of them is suffering a great malaise.”

Jo tried to disguise her chuff of laughter behind a cough. “And which dog might that be?”

“The one with the pale blue collar,” Mrs. Lamb stated as if surely that was obvious. “The poor creature carries a painful memory leftover from puppyhood, and I wish to alleviate it of this burden with all due haste. Would you kindly pass this news along to the other Mrs. Bostwick?”

“Uh… I will do my best, Mrs. Lamb, but I wonder… Would it not be more expedient for you to deliver this message to her directly? I imagine she’ll have questions for you and I’m not sure when I’ll see her next.”

“I sent a note to her hotel room the very same afternoon that I crossed path with her dogs, but she has yet to reply,” Mrs. Lamb said with an air of both exasperation and bewilderment, as if this lack of response was the most peculiar thing in the world. Even more peculiar than… a pet psychic.

“My mother-in-law keeps a busy schedule, Mrs. Lamb. I’m sure it’s only her social obligations that have delayed her response. Perhaps you might wait a few more days?”

“A few more days? The tender beast is smothering beneath the weight of its discontent, but very well,” she said with sigh so dramatic Coco would be envious. “I’ll wait to hear from Mrs. Bostwick until tomorrow but then I shall send a second missive.”

Without so much as a by your leave , Mrs. Lamb turned and strode away followed by an apologetic-looking Miss Watson.

At their departure, Jo looked at Trudy in amused disbelief. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it again and shook her head at the absurdity.

“One might suspect you don’t believe Mrs. Lamb’s assessment,” Trudy said wryly.

“The only thing I find more amusing than the suggestion that Flossie is troubled by a puppyhood memory is Mrs. Lamb’s belief that I’d be willing to deliver such a message to my mother-in-law,” Jo responded as they began walking once more. “I’ll tell Chase, and he can pass the message along. In fact, he’s playing billiards with Alex. Let’s go tell him now. I’m eager to see his reaction.”

Trudy and Jo arrived at the billiards room still giggling and as they paused at the entrance, a memory from the scavenger hunt flooded Trudy’s senses. The one of Alex leaning over the table and expertly executing the perfect shot. It sent a rush of heat tingling through her body.

A curious rush of heat that made no sense.

Perhaps she could attribute her sudden warmth to their walk from the lobby—although they’d kept a rather sedate pace what with Jo being in a delicate condition. They’d hardly sprinted. And if a patient had come to Trudy with a similar symptom, she might have thought it was caused by a fever or heatstroke or wearing too many layers on a warm day. But none of those things were true just now. And so, in Trudy’s expert medical opinion she could conclude only one thing.

It was… attraction.

Basic biological attraction.

Just because she’d chosen to remain unmarried, that didn’t mean she was immune to the sensation of it. She even recognized its essential value to society. Sexual attraction—and its accompanying urges —was required for the propagation of the species. It was just science.

And yet, experiencing it at this moment was also damnably inconvenient. Because even though a sexual desire for Alexander Bostwick might benefit her species , it certainly did not benefit her personally.

“Hello, darling,” Jo said, crossing the room to her husband’s side.

Chase was standing next to the billiards table, a cue stick in one hand, an ale in the other. His countenance brightened upon seeing his wife, and Trudy felt the tremble of something else. Something more than just the meaningless pang of biological need.

It was the echo of longing.

An echo she’d buried down deep because her ambition to become a physician like her father and her brother had taken precedence. Years ago, she’d made a sound, sensible choice knowing that marriage and medicine were not compatible. Not for a woman. She accepted that. But occasionally, in the deepest recesses of her heart, she wondered what it might feel like to have a man look at her the way Chase looked at Jo.

With besotted admiration.

With recognition of exactly who she was.

With unconditional love.

But no man had ever looked at Trudy in that way, and none ever would. That was not her path.

“Hello, my love,” Chase responded to his wife, placing a tender kiss on Jo’s temple. “How was your class?”

“Exhilarating, as always. Trudy was my most exceptional student,” Jo replied, gesturing to where she lingered in the doorway.

At her name, Alex turned and smiled, but the intensity of it paled in comparison to the adoration Jo received from Chase, and Trudy stuffed her longings back down deep where they belonged. She ignored those inconvenient flutters of desire. She was grateful for his friendship, and it was enough.

“I was exceptional in all the worst ways,” Trudy replied cheekily, disguising any hint of yearning. She crossed the room to join them, asking, “I assume you’re all familiar with Claude Monet?”

“Yes,” Chase replied curiously.

“I am nothing like him.”

“Oh, come now,” Jo argued as the brothers laughed. “You are not as dreadful as that. The bowl of fruit you painted showed some lovely strokes.”

“It was a cow in a meadow.”

It wasn’t really.

It was a bowl of fruit, but their laughter enveloped her like an embrace, and she welcomed it. It wasn’t true love or even adoration, but it was genuine affection, and she was happy to accept it.

However, the two other gentlemen in the billiards room did not. They scowled and huffed at the boisterous disturbance.

“Ah, I think our interruption has violated the inner sanctum,” Jo whispered. “I’ve a message to deliver, and then we girls will be on our way. I need to take this impertinent baby upstairs for a nap.”

“You’ve interrupted nothing, my dear,” Chase said. “Except a game of billiards that I’m sure to win, but what’s your message?”

Jo’s face was serious as she replied, “Mrs. Lamb, the clairvoyant who speaks to pets, wants your mother to know a painful memory from puppyhood is causing Flossie to suffer from malaise.”

Chase stared down at her, his expression turning droll. “Flossie is suffering from malaise?”

Jo nodded.

“Flossie, the dog my mother dotes upon and feeds by hand who sleeps all day on a satin pillow. That Flossie?”

She nodded again as he smiled.

“And how much, pray tell, is it going to cost us to rid dear Flossie of said malaise?” he asked.

“Oh, we didn’t get into that,” Jo said, finally grinning back at him. “But surely Flossie is worth every penny.”

“Flossie is hardly worth a single penny,” he teased. “And anyway, I know why the poor thing is glum. She spends her entire day listening to my mother complain. I’ve done the same and trust me, it’s demoralizing.”

The last time Alex had seen Trudy, she’d been leading a bloodied Asher from the ballroom with her sisters in tow while he escorted a similarly bloodied Finn into a back hallway so he might get him to the Bostwick suites without being seen. What a fiasco!

But today she’d appeared in the billiards room with his sister-in-law, smiling, making jokes, and suggesting that she’d painted a bowl of fruit that looked like a cow.

He highly doubted that was the case. She was likely a fine artist. In fact, he had a hard time imagining there was anything at which Trudy Hart didn’t excel—a fact she seemed intent upon proving right this very moment.

After Chase and Jo had left the billiards room and gone upstairs, Alex and Trudy made their way to Jo’s studio so they might converse about his haunting in private and not be disturbed. Once there, she gathered several sheets of paper and a sharp pencil, and they sat down at a small table near the window, while outside, grey clouds hung low in the sky and for once, the lawn was absent of hotel guests.

“I’ve formed two hypotheses,” Trudy said without preamble, and he chuckled at her efficient manner.

“You are very scientifically minded, aren’t you, Dr. Hart.”

She smiled. “It is both a gift and a burden.”

“Let’s hope your meticulous system of investigation yields results. Am I safe to assume one hypothesis is that Izzy’s things are being left by a living person and the other being it’s her ghost?”

“A ghost or some other form of supernatural being, yes, but first, let’s make note of all the irrefutable facts. First, you are finding your wife’s belongings in unexpected places. Second, someone or some thing is leaving them for you to find. And third, all the items are physical in nature, meaning you can touch them. They aren’t images or reflections of things that appear and then disappear. Would you say all of this is accurate?”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s accurate except…” He hesitated to share this but perhaps it was relevant.

“Except?”

“Sometimes I smell her perfume. She always wore the same fragrance.”

“And where has that occurred?” she asked, poising the pencil over the paper.

He felt his face heat inexplicably. There was no reason for him to feel awkward… and yet it seemed as if what he was about to say was overtly intimate even though he knew for a fact, it was not.

“I’ve smelled her perfume on my bedsheets,” he finally answered.

“Ah, I see.” Her expression remained neutral as she looked down and jotted a note. “I suppose since perfume is kept in a bottle, we should still consider it a physical item.”

Damn.

He wished he’d thought of that or had simply said in his room because for some reason, causing Trudy to think of his wife in his bed bothered him. Which was nonsensical, of course. He and Isabella had been married for months. Naturally, people would assume they’d shared a bed.

Of course, the greatest irony of all was that they hadn’t.

Izzy had never been in his bed.

And she’d never allowed him into hers.

Alex and his wife had never been intimate anywhere. They’d never consummated their marriage—but that was a fact he was not willing to share with anyone regardless of how irrefutable it was.

“And you’re certain all the items were hers?” Trudy asked. “Not someone else’s?”

“Most of her things were either embroidered or etched with an image of a gardenia, so yes, I’m sure the items belonged to her.”

“A gardenia?”

“Her signature flower.”

She paused, and he noted a tiny smirk playing at her lips. “I was not aware people laid claim to such a thing,” she said.

He placed a hand against his chest in faux dismay. “Are you suggesting you don’t have a signature flower? I thought every lady of fine breeding had a signature flower.”

Her smile grew as she cast a glance his way. “Ah, well, there’s your answer, then. I cannot claim fine breeding and therefore cannot claim a signature flower.”

He leaned back in his chair and regarded her carefully. “I think your signature flower should be… an amaryllis.”

“Why an amaryllis?” she said, setting down the pencil. “Because its stems are long and plain?”

He laughed her dry humor, responding, “They are tall, I will grant you that, but surely you know they symbolize confidence and determination. And while you say their stems are plain, I would say they are free from distracting adornment while their petals are richly hued and lovely. Exotic even.”

Now it was her turn to laugh as she gestured toward her person. “Exotic?”

“Unique, then,” he said.

She tilted her head as if considering it. “I’ll allow that.”

“And…” he could not resist adding, “An amaryllis requires patience and attentive care in order to bloom.”

Her gaze met his at the innuendo, and the atmosphere around them shifted from humorously playful to something altogether different. He realized suddenly that he was flirting with her again—while they discussed his dead wife’s perfume on his bed sheets. Perhaps it was that last bit that made her smile slowly fade.

She turned back to the paper and picked up the pencil once more. He cleared his throat and sat up in his chair as the rain outside began in earnest.

“Perhaps we should get back to work,” she said, shuffling the papers, then finally asking, “What happened with Isabella’s things after she passed? Are they still at your house in Chicago?”

He didn’t really want to talk about this anymore but there seemed no way around it. He gave a single shake of the head. “No. A few weeks after the funeral our housekeeper packed up all her belongings and we had them delivered back to her parents.”

“Did you keep anything?”

“No.”

A flicker of surprise passed over her features, and no wonder. Certainly, a grieving bridegroom would want to keep a few trinkets or mementos of his beloved wife, wouldn’t he? It was a fair—if inaccurate—assumption.

She jotted another note and asked, “What do you do with the items once they’ve appeared to you?”

“I give them to Daisy, but I don’t know what she does with them. We’ve never discussed it.”

“Have you ever witnessed anything moving of its own accord, or is it simply there?”

“I’ve never seen anything move. I just find it where it wasn’t before.”

“Has anything ever appeared a second time?”

He shook his head, she jotted another note, and a robust gust of wind sent raindrops pelting against the window. It was storming more intensely now, and Alex wondered how many more details he’d have to reveal about a time in his life he’d rather not recall. Still, he appreciated the deftly clinical manner in which she was handling this peculiar interrogation. As they proceeded, he made no more innuendos, and she received his answers without any visible sign of emotions or obvious judgment. Just straightforward questions and factual answers, as if she were evaluating him for an upset stomach or an aching back.

“Well,” she said at last, “This is helpful information, but it supports both hypotheses equally.”

“And neither suggests a reason why it’s happening.”

“True, but at this stage the reason behind it is irrelevant.”

“Not to me, it isn’t. I’m far more interested in why than how.”

Thunder rumbled outside and her gaze turned sympathetic. “Yes, of course you are. What I mean to say is, if we focus too much attention on why this is happening, it might blind us to clues pointing to who—or what—is responsible. Unfortunately, motivation isn’t… documentable.”

He shook his head slowly. “I trust your analytical judgment, Trudy, but as you can imagine, these facts and my feelings are closely intertwined.”

“I understand. Please know I am sorry for your troubles. What’s happening to you is cruel and you don’t deserve it.”

Lightning flashed, as if an omen, and he chuckled at his own expense. “Isn’t that an assumption on your part, Dr. Hart? Nothing on that list of irrefutable facts proves nor disproves if I deserve this or not.”

“Far be it for me to rely on something as unscientific as a gut feeling, sir, but I am certain you don’t deserve it.”

“I appreciate your confidence,” he said, as another rumble of thunder rattled the windowpanes. “But what do you suggest we do next?”

She looked down at the papers once more, her forehead momentarily creasing in concentration.

“I suppose if we focus on the hypothesis that it’s a person, we must make a list of who has had access to your wife’s belongings, as well as your room back in Chicago and your room here at the hotel.”

“That’s a short list,” he said. “There’s me but I assure you I am not doing this to myself. Then there’s my mother, Daisy, Ellis, Finn, Lorna, Adele who is my mother’s maid. Mother’s seamstress has free reign of our house and came with us to the hotel with her husband, but Esther is seventy years old and not spry enough to hide items in the places I’ve found them.”

“What about her husband?”

“Gerard helps tend our gardens and never comes inside the house.”

“What about your brother or Jo?”

He shook his head and even laughed at the notion. “Jo hasn’t been to Chicago since my wedding, and Chase only came home for a few days at the time of the funeral.”

“Jo didn’t attend the funeral?”

“She wasn’t feeling well enough to travel, so neither she nor Chase have been around to have any involvement in this, not that I would have any doubts even if they had. In fact, I still haven’t told either of them anything about it.”

She pondered this for a moment, then, as if this had just now occurred to her, asked, “Do Ellis and Finn live with you?”

Alex nodded and stood up to stretch his legs. He’d been sitting too long, and all these questions and memories were making him restless.

“Yes, Ellis, Finn, and my Uncle Vernon moved in with us late last summer soon after my father had his heart attack. My uncle and Ellis have been lending a hand at our investment company.”

Actually, Uncle Vernon was lending a hand while Ellis seemed more interested in a handout . If the lad could learn to apply half as much effort to getting the job done as he did to looking for a shortcut, he’d be well on his way to success. He was capable, he just wasn’t motivated.

“Your investment company in Chicago? Bostwick & Sons?” Trudy asked.

“Yes.”

He walked around behind her chair and leaned forward, perusing her notes and the short list of names, but then he caught sight of the most endearing little freckle right behind her ear. He stared at that instead of the lists although exactly why he found a freckle so captivating he could not say. After a brief moment, he stood upright once more and began to pace.

“I know we’re not supposed to be contemplating motives, but I must say, the only two people on that list clever enough to pull off such a scheme are my mother and my sister, but I know neither of them would do such a thing. I’d stake my life on it. As for the others, Adele adores me, Esther is too old, Lorna too timid, Finn too foolhardy, and quite frankly, Ellis is too lazy. The only thing he’s truly interested in is finding himself a wealthy heiress so he doesn’t have to work for a living. Believe me. I have given this a great deal of thought and none of these people would have any reason to taunt me.”

He paused in place and looked over at her. “That’s why I keep coming back to there being supernatural forces at play, as much as I hate to say it out loud. I can’t explain it with any facts, but I feel it, somehow. And… I’ve started having dreams.”

“Dreams?”

“Yes, but it’s the same dream every time, and so vivid. I see… I see Izzy falling down those stairs and I’m reaching out, trying to catch hold of her hand but I just keep getting farther and farther away. And then I see her standing off to the side, as if there are two of her. She’s lying at the bottom of the steps but also staring up at me from the doorway of the front parlor. It’s terribly disconcerting.”

He shook his head vigorously as if to dispel the vision. He hadn’t intended to mention the dreams to Trudy. They were only dreams, after all. Not ghostly visitations but rather a distorted memory playing itself over and over in his mind, but making the admission was almost a relief.

She nodded slowly. “That does sound disconcerting. Perhaps we should discuss the second hypothesis. The same irrefutable facts apply, and yet if the items are being manipulated by some spectral being, what other questions should we be asking?”

They gazed at one another, each equally befuddled.

“Since it seems neither of us possesses any useful knowledge regarding the occult,” she said tentatively. “I suppose we must learn.”

“How?”

She gave a quick, short sigh. “By consulting the… experts and asking them if spirits can manipulate objects on their own. And why they might choose to do so.”

Once again he appreciated her pragmatic nature. She wasn’t shaking her head with a tsk, tsk, tsk , or looking at him as if he’d lost his senses, as anyone else surely would. He ran a hand through his hair, wondering how his life had come to this strangeness.

“Experts. Are you referring to the spiritualists at the hotel?”

“It’s a place to start.”

“But how can we be certain anything they tell us is true?”

“Ah, I see my skepticism is contagious,” she said with a sudden smile.

“I’ve been skeptical all along, but the fact remains someone, or some thing , is taunting me. And making a fool of me. I’d rather not add insult to injury by letting some fraudulent clairvoyants lead me further astray from reality… but I don’t see that we have any choice but to consult them.”

Trudy rose from her chair and crossed over to the window, tapping her fingers against her chin as she gazed out at the rain. He smiled at the gesture. She’d done it numerous times during the scavenger hunt, and he recognized it now as an unconscious habit she performed while mulling over information. Like the little secret freckle behind her ear, he found her subtle motion oddly appealing.

Maybe he had lost his senses…

After a moment, she turned back to face him.

“An unconventional dilemma calls for an unconventional solution, and since the hotel is currently run amuck with occultists, we may as well take advantage of that.”

“Run amuck? I only know of three. Well, four if you count Mrs. Lamb, but haven’t you ruled out Mr. Gibson?”

“I’m willing to give the trance speaker another chance but more importantly, Mr. Tippet informed me earlier today that five more spiritualists arrive this week. Apparently he’s planning some sort of event where all the psychics, mediums, mentalists, and clairvoyants gather in the ballroom to give readings. I believe he’s calling it a Mystic Mylee.” She arched her brow at the name and continued. “That seems a fortuitous opportunity for us to question several of them in a short amount of time.”

“I cannot think of anything I’d enjoy less,” he responded dryly. “And yet… as they say, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Perhaps we’ll hear some common threads that are useful. If not, we’ll be no worse off than we are now.”

“Exactly. Didn’t Mr. Edison once say he’d learned ten thousand ways to not make a light bulb before he succeeded?”

“Good Lord, I hope you’re not suggesting we see ten thousand clairvoyants.”

She smiled patiently. “I was thinking we’d start with four or five.”