A Valentine Wish (Gates-Cameron 1)

Mark seemed to come to a sudden decision. “Tell you what. I’ll let you look over my notes and I’ll make the old newspaper files available to you whenever you want to go through them. I’ll also give you some names that might be helpful to you. In return, I’d appreciate your telling me if you find out anything interesting. There could be a book in this, after all. At the very least, a newspaper article.”

Dean wasn’t at all sure he wanted his inn used as the setting for a ghost book, but he felt he owed Mark something. “If I find anything conclusive, I’ll discuss it with you,” he said.

Mark chuckled. “Very carefully phrased. I like you, Gates.”

Dean smiled. “I’d better get back to the inn. God only knows what my aunt and the decorator will come up with if I don’t keep an eye on them.”

“I’ll drop my notes by the inn as soon as I get a chance.”

“Anytime. Thanks, Mark.”

“Yeah, sure. This could get interesting.”

Dean wondered what the other man would say if he knew just how interesting the situation had already become.

DEAN WAS LEANING over a table in the inn lobby, trying to feign interest in the scraps of fabric and wallpaper littering the table’s surface. His aunt crowded dose to his left side, paying avid attention as the decorator droned on about options and possibilities.

“Or we could go with the cabbage-rose print and the pastel plaid for accent pieces. Maybe a touch of saffron,” the painfully thin, dramatically coiffed woman suggested with smug appreciation for her own cleverness.

“Oh, no, not saffron. Ian detests yellow.”

The feminine voice came from very close to Dean’s right ear, so close that he jumped, scattering samples everywhere. He whirled, bumping the table and dislodging even more samples.

Mary Anna Cameron was standing less than three feet away, looking at him with a mischievous smile.

“This is getting much easier,” she commented. “Contacting you, I mean.”

Dean couldn’t believe she had made her appearance this time in front of witnesses. “What are you—”

“Dean?” His aunt rested a hand on his arm. “Dear, what is it? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t take his eyes from Mary Anna, who waited politely for him to reply. “She’s—”

“Mr. Gates, if you don’t care for the saffron, we could select an alternate color.” The decorator sounded annoyed.

Dean was amazed that the women weren’t screaming in shock—gasping in surprise, at the very least. After all, a ghost had just materialized right in front of them.

“Aunt Mae, surely you see ...” His voice faded.

“I don’t think they can see me, Dean,” Mary Anna said.

“I’m not very fond of the saffron, either. I’m sure Ms. Buchanan can come up with a color scheme we both like better,” his aunt assured him, patting his arm. “Let’s talk about it, shall we?”

Mary Anna was looking at the table, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “Cabbage roses are so common. Isn’t there anything more original available?”

“I can’t do this now,” he told her through clenched teeth. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“But, Dean, you’re the one who set up this meeting for today,” his aunt protested.

The decorator lifted her pointed nose in apparent affront. “I, too, have a very busy schedule, Mr. Gates. If this wasn’t a convenient time for you, you should have let me know earlier.”

“But—”

“The workmen are all gone for the afternoon, Dean. What is it you have to do now?”

He looked at his aunt. “I—”

“I rather like the one with the birds and vines,” Mary Anna mused, reclaiming his attention. “Instead of yellow, you could use dark red as an accent, though your decorator will probably call it something fancier, like vermilion.”