How many more times, he wondered impatiently, was he going to have to say that before he could get on with the business of restoring and running his inn?
Mae dismissed her nephew with a wave of her hand. “I’m interested,” she assured Sharyn. “I would love to hear about the ghosts who haunt my new home.”
Sharyn hesitated a moment. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable here...”
“Nonsense. I already love this old inn. I have from the moment Dean first showed it to me. I’ve sensed a, well, a welcoming presence from the old place since we first arrived. If there are ghosts,” Mae said with a gentie smile, “I think they’re pleased that someone is eager to restore their home to its former glory.”
“From what I’ve been told, you’re probably right. The twins supposedly loved this place wholeheartedly. Their mother was obsessed with the inn, which had been built by the first husband she’d adored, and she reportedly passed on her obsession for it to her children. They were so attached to it, it was rumored that the brother—lan Cameron—was involved in bootlegging, maybe even murder, to make enough money to redecorate and enlarge the inn as soon as he was in charge.”
Dean felt a chill breeze drift down the back of his shirt collar, much like that eerie cold he’d felt on the garden path. He shifted in his chair, telling himself he was being an idiot.
“Murder?” Mae repeated, looking properly shocked.
Sharyn nodded avidly. “Apparently, there was a big, very profitable bootlegging ring in this area, distributing booze to the gin joints and gambling houses that were operating in Hot Springs at that time. Hot Springs was quite a hotbed then, a favorite hangout for some notable historical figures, including organized crime bosses like Al Capone and Bugsy Siegel. Some thought Ian Cameron had become involved with those organizations. He’d made no secret that he planned to enlarge the inn as soon as he and his sister took over on their twenty-fifth birthday.”
“Who was Ian supposed to have murdered?” Mae asked.
“A Prohibition officer from Little Rock. The officer was found dead only a mile from the inn. Two weeks later, Ian and Mary Anna were killed after being caught meeting with a bootlegger.”
“And when was that?”
“February 14, 1921,” Sharyn recited promptly. “Valentine’s Day. Their twenty-fifth birthday.”
“The day they were supposed to have taken over the inn?” Dean asked, following the story despite himself.
Sharyn nodded, obviously pleased that he was paying attention. “Their mother had left the inn to them in her will, naming their stepfather as executor of the estate until their twenty-fifth birthday. Some folks thought that the provision was his idea, that he persuaded her he had the inn’s best interests at heart by making sure the twins were mature enough to run it successfully before turning it over to them. Maybe she thought she’d live longer than she did, and put the provision in her will to appease her second husband. But, anyway, he took over after she died and it’s rumored that he and the twins had a lot of arguments about his management of the place. After they died, he automatically inherited the inn.”
Dean cocked his head, thinking of all the murder mysteries he’d read. “Wasn’t there any suspicion that Gaylon Peavy might have been responsible for the twins’ deaths? After all, he conveniently inherited their inn...”
Sharyn shook her head. “Of course there were a few rumors to that effect—rumors Margaret and the mayor still take very personally—but it’s highly unlikely. The twins were killed in a gun battle with a local police officer, a deputy named Tagert. He had been watching the place since the murder of the Prohibition officer, and he caught Ian and Mary Anna meeting with a known criminal, a man named Buck somebody.”
She waved that point off with one hand. “Anyway, Ian and Buck reportedly opened fire, and Tagert shot back to defend himself. Tagert killed Buck. Mary Anna supposedly died in the crossfire. Some say Ian shot himself after he saw his sister fall. They were very close.”
“How horrible,” Mae murmured, her eyes dreamy as she seemed to be picturing the tragic scene.
Dean squirmed again in his chair, wondering if anyone else noticed how cold the room had become. Almost frigid.
He’d left instructions for the central-heating unit to be checked for safety reasons, but he suspected it would have to be replaced soon. Obviously it wasn’t working properly.
Sharyn had turned back to face him. “You know the little shack at the back of your property? It was a caretaker’s cottage. That’s where the twins were meeting with Buck, the place where they died. Crates of booze were found there in the investigation that followed the shootings.”
Dean’s stomach tightened as he remembered that cold spot near the old shack. He visualized again the dark-haired woman on the path, looking at him so beseechingly. So... hauntedly.
A projection, he reminded himself curtly. What else could it have been? He wished to hell the culprit would present himself soon so Dean could put the incident out of his mind.
And still he heard himself asking, “You said people claim to have seen the twins here at the inn since their deaths?”
“Only a very few over the years,” Sharyn admitted. “You know how these legends go—someone claims to know someone who claims to have seen them. Usually on Valentine’s Day, of course, the day of their births and deaths. Of course, no one really even knows what they looked like. There are no surviving photographs of them. Some said Gaylon Peavy was so grief-stricken, he ordered all photos of his stepchildren destroyed.”
“They died seventy-five years ago next month,” Mae mused aloud. “Maybe Dean and I will see them, yet. Maybe they’ll drift through the hallways at midnight on Valentine’s Day or something equally dramatic.”
Sharyn shivered visibly. “Don’t even joke about that.”
Mae laughed. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid I’m as prosaic as my nephew when it comes to ghosts. I don’t really expect to see them, even though it might be an interesting experience.”
“A terrifying experience, I would think,” Sharyn said.
“I just hope no local jokesters decide to ‘help’ us see the ghosts on Valentine’s Day,” Dean muttered.