“Okay, tell us.” Vi sat in an armchair and gestured at the rest of us to sit.
“All right, but I have to make it quick,” Wally said. “I’m supposed to be at the front desk.”
Vi shook her head. “I don’t think you’ll get any more customers today.” She waved her arm toward the window and the full-on winter storm that raged outside.
Wally’s mouth tightened at the corners. He took a deep breath. “Alastair Carlisle built the castle in 1895, after a trip to Scotland. He and his wife, Ada, had fallen in love with the castles over there and wanted to build one of their own. Ada had inherited a large piece of forested land from her father, and the two of them designed the house together using her land and his money.”
Vi waved her hand in a move-along gesture.
Wally grimaced and continued.
“During the five years it took to build the castle, Ada fell ill. By the time it was completed, she was essentially bedridden. The couple had two small boys and needed to hire a governess to watch them and begin their schooling. Alastair built a small cottage on the grounds for the governess and designed the turret bedroom for his wife.”
“You can probably tell where this story is going,” Vi broke in. “Mr. Carlisle and the governess had an affair and thought that his invalid wife would never be the wiser.”
“I was getting to that.” Wally cleared his throat. “And there’s no proof . . .”
“Well, Ada was no dummy,” Vi said, ignoring him. “Even though she was sick, it didn’t mean she was stupid. She figured out what he was up to and she was furious.”
Wally opened his mouth to continue the story.
Vi held up her hand. “She had nothing to do up in her turret room other than knit and contemplate her own death and feel betrayed by her husband,” Vi said. “So, she hatched a plan.”
“We don’t know that, Ms. Greer,” Wally said.
Vi crossed her arms, and narrowed her eyes at him. “The rumors say she told the nanny she had put a curse on her. The Victorians were very interested in spirits and many believed in ghosts. Mrs. Carlisle said if anything happened to her, she would return and curse the nanny and her husband.” Vi nodded to Wally to tell his part of the tale.
Wally continued. “According to the story, by the time the castle was finished, Ada and Alastair were barely speaking. Her illness left her confined to her room, where she heard about the happenings in the castle from her trusted maid. The governess took over the care of the young boys and eventually,” Wally said and paused with a severe look at Vi, “rumors said, Alastair fell in love with her.”
Vi nodded to encourage him.
“One night, in the dead of winter, Ada drowned in her own bathtub,” Wally said. “She had sent the maid to get some hot cocoa and by the time the servant returned, Ada was dead. Of course, there was an investigation, but they found no evidence of foul play. The police assumed she had passed out from her liberal use of narcotics and drowned by accident.”
“Narcotics?” Mac asked.
Wally nodded, and began to speak when Vi interrupted again. “Calm down, Kojack. They all took laudanum back then.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It wasn’t like she was dealing drugs.”
I placed a calming hand on Mac’s arm. Not that I needed to. There were many things I loved about Mac, but his restraint in dealing with Vi was definitely at the top of my list.
Wally raised his eyebrows at Vi.
Vi ignored him and took over the story. “Since then, rumors have flown and people say that Alastair or the nanny actually killed her off so they could be together. Her ghost looks out the upper window of the turret room and some people have seen it wandering the halls and climbing the stairs.”
“Why would her ghost be walking the halls if she was bedbound?” I said.
Vi held my gaze. “You know as well as I do that ghosts can do anything they want—it’s one of the perks of being a ghost.”
“I hadn’t realized there were perks . . . ,” I said.
Mac cleared his throat and glowered at us both.
Vi resumed her tale. “Tragically, the nanny died about a year later. She had moved in to the main house and she fell down the stairs on a perfectly clear night. No one knows why she was out of bed, or what she was doing wandering the halls. The people in town said it was the ghost of Mrs. Carlisle who pushed her. Alastair never got over the double loss of his wife and his mistress.”
“Alleged mistress,” Wally said.
Vi narrowed her eyes at him.
“Alleged mistress,” Vi said. “The boys grew up and had their own scandals. Prohibition was very lucrative—”
Wally stood, interrupting her. “I really need to get back to the desk. I’ll let the chef know there will be two more for dinner.”
“This is gonna be great!” Vi said.
4
After Wally left, Violet dragged Mac and me back downstairs to meet the knitters and to let Lucille know the “good news” that she and Mac would be sharing a room.
The knitters were ensconced in the library toward the back of the hotel. Vi led us to the doorway and swung her arm to usher us in. Mac stood motionless in the doorway and I bumped into him. I peeked over his shoulder to see what had stopped him.
The room held more yarn than I had ever seen in my life. I had been to many yarn stores as a child when Violet had dragged me along on her shopping trips, but this was overwhelming. Skeins and balls of yarn congregated in soft, fuzzy piles. Eight women sat scattered around the room, all holding a piece of knitting while a very attractive instructor spoke in that strange knitterly language. She said things like “keep your tension steady,” “don’t forget the yarnover in the middle of the fourth row,” and “I have a great new cable needle to try, plus I’ll show you how to cable without a needle—you’ll love the freedom.”
The library was smaller than the lounge, with a scaled-down fireplace and walls covered in bookshelves. Ornate Victorian wallpaper in bright green and blue covered whatever wall space was left. Two small couches and several chairs made a conversational arrangement in the center of the room. It still retained the masculine aura of pipe smoke, whiskey, and leather, and must have been Alastair’s personal refuge. He likely would have been outraged by the invasion of fluffy balls of mohair. The knitters had dragged in some dining room chairs to accommodate their group. A wall of windows showed large flakes settling on the trees.
Mac seemed paralyzed and I pushed him to get him to move into the room. Either our tussling or Vi’s loud “ahem” caught the interest of the knitters. They all turned in our direction.
Mom jumped up, letting her knitting fall to the floor.
“Clyde! Mac! What are you doing here?” Mom said as she approached. “Is something wrong? Is Seth okay? Is it your father?” She clutched my arm, and her forehead crinkled in dismay. “The cards warned me that something terrible would happen this weekend. . . .”
She and Vi shared similar delicate features but rather than a braid and brightly colored skirts, Mom pulled her hair back in a bun and favored either tracksuits (she had one in every color) or khakis and blouses.
“Mom, everyone is fine. Our flight was canceled and we came here to stay because of the storm.”
Mom relaxed her grip on my arm, and a smile spread across her face. “Oh, how fun! You can finally learn to knit. Lucille was just saying how she thinks you’re a natural.” Mom leaned closer to me and lowered her voice. “I didn’t want to burst her bubble and tell her you don’t like knitting.”
Lucille had joined us at the door by this time. She was my height, very thin, and wore her silver hair short and spiky. She turned to Mac and said, “Phillip, I’m so glad to see you. I was worried about you flying in the storm.”