small town like Plummerville, and outsiders were not to be trusted.
Yes, the streets were quite busy with the hustle and bustle of the living. And then there were the ghosts. Lucien could tune them out when he wanted to, but the fact of the matter was that the dead were everywhere. There were so many souls who could not or would not move on. Others, brighter lights that came for a brief time and then were gone, came to watch over a loved one. And life went on around them, oblivious.
Lucien had never been oblivious. His first words had been spoken to a ghost. His mother had been perturbed that her son had so many imaginary friends, then horrified when one of those friends had proven herself not to be imaginary at all. He would never forget the expression on his mother's face when, at five years old, Lucien had delivered a message from her long-deceased Aunt Bliss. They were living in his grandmother's house at the time, his father gone three years, his mother not yet remarried.
Lucien had walked over to his mother, tugged at her skirt, and said, "Aunt Bliss said to tell you her brooch is in the top dresser drawer, in the back under some old linens. She wants you to have it."
Mary Louise Thorpe had turned pale and swayed on her feet as if she might swoon, then rushed to the dresser drawer to discover that the brooch she had often admired was truly there. A practical woman, she had taken her son on her lap and tried to reason with him. And herself. He'd been snooping and had found the brooch. He'd overheard her and her mother talking about Aunt Bliss. The color came back to her cheeks as she began to convince herself of a more reasonable explanation. And then Lucien reached out and touched his mother's red curls, and said, "She has hair like you, only hers is not so curly."
Since Aunt Bliss had died more than ten years before Lucien's birth, and he had never seen a photograph of the woman, Mary Louise had been unable to explain away his observation.
And she had been terrified of her son since that day.
As he stepped into Miss Gertrude's boarding house, Lucien closed his mind to the past and to the ghosts who were everywhere. In both cases it was like shutting a door, solidly and surely.
"Good afternoon." The gray-haired woman who greeted him stood behind the counter that stretched along one side of the large room that apparently served as both lobby and parlor. Her smile brightened considerably as she placed the book of recipes she'd been perusing aside. Since she was pleasantly plump and wore a wide smile, and the aroma of something spicy drifted his way from the dining room, he assumed the food here would be good, at least.
"Good afternoon," he said. "I'd like to procure a room."
The curious proprietor, Miss Gertrude herself, he assumed, glanced behind him. "Just for yourself, sir?"
"Yes."
"How long do you plan to stay with us?"
"I'm not sure." As he reached the counter, Miss Gertrude presented a leather-bound book for his signature.
"With or without meals?"
Lucien hesitated. Evie liked to feed him, usually, but she had been testy of late and might be more than happy to allow him to go hungry. "With, I suppose."
She gave him a decent price, and he paid for the first three days in advance.
Miss Gertrude glanced at the signature in her book. "Well, Mr. Thorpe, what brings you to Plummerville?"
Again, he paused to consider his answer. Eve did not want everyone to know her house was haunted. Mrs. Markham might tell, but perhaps he should not. While he detested lying, and even a lie of omission seemed very wrong, at the moment he didn't want to do or say anything that might annoy Eve any more than he already had.
"Business or pleasure?" Miss Gertrude prompted.
"A bit of both," he said, feeling that to be a safe answer.
"Then you must have friends or family in town," the curious landlady continued.
Lucien smiled. "That I do."
* * *
Eve placed her copious notes across one side of the dining room table, then sat
Yes, the streets were quite busy with the hustle and bustle of the living. And then there were the ghosts. Lucien could tune them out when he wanted to, but the fact of the matter was that the dead were everywhere. There were so many souls who could not or would not move on. Others, brighter lights that came for a brief time and then were gone, came to watch over a loved one. And life went on around them, oblivious.
Lucien had never been oblivious. His first words had been spoken to a ghost. His mother had been perturbed that her son had so many imaginary friends, then horrified when one of those friends had proven herself not to be imaginary at all. He would never forget the expression on his mother's face when, at five years old, Lucien had delivered a message from her long-deceased Aunt Bliss. They were living in his grandmother's house at the time, his father gone three years, his mother not yet remarried.
Lucien had walked over to his mother, tugged at her skirt, and said, "Aunt Bliss said to tell you her brooch is in the top dresser drawer, in the back under some old linens. She wants you to have it."
Mary Louise Thorpe had turned pale and swayed on her feet as if she might swoon, then rushed to the dresser drawer to discover that the brooch she had often admired was truly there. A practical woman, she had taken her son on her lap and tried to reason with him. And herself. He'd been snooping and had found the brooch. He'd overheard her and her mother talking about Aunt Bliss. The color came back to her cheeks as she began to convince herself of a more reasonable explanation. And then Lucien reached out and touched his mother's red curls, and said, "She has hair like you, only hers is not so curly."
Since Aunt Bliss had died more than ten years before Lucien's birth, and he had never seen a photograph of the woman, Mary Louise had been unable to explain away his observation.
And she had been terrified of her son since that day.
As he stepped into Miss Gertrude's boarding house, Lucien closed his mind to the past and to the ghosts who were everywhere. In both cases it was like shutting a door, solidly and surely.
"Good afternoon." The gray-haired woman who greeted him stood behind the counter that stretched along one side of the large room that apparently served as both lobby and parlor. Her smile brightened considerably as she placed the book of recipes she'd been perusing aside. Since she was pleasantly plump and wore a wide smile, and the aroma of something spicy drifted his way from the dining room, he assumed the food here would be good, at least.
"Good afternoon," he said. "I'd like to procure a room."
The curious proprietor, Miss Gertrude herself, he assumed, glanced behind him. "Just for yourself, sir?"
"Yes."
"How long do you plan to stay with us?"
"I'm not sure." As he reached the counter, Miss Gertrude presented a leather-bound book for his signature.
"With or without meals?"
Lucien hesitated. Evie liked to feed him, usually, but she had been testy of late and might be more than happy to allow him to go hungry. "With, I suppose."
She gave him a decent price, and he paid for the first three days in advance.
Miss Gertrude glanced at the signature in her book. "Well, Mr. Thorpe, what brings you to Plummerville?"
Again, he paused to consider his answer. Eve did not want everyone to know her house was haunted. Mrs. Markham might tell, but perhaps he should not. While he detested lying, and even a lie of omission seemed very wrong, at the moment he didn't want to do or say anything that might annoy Eve any more than he already had.
"Business or pleasure?" Miss Gertrude prompted.
"A bit of both," he said, feeling that to be a safe answer.
"Then you must have friends or family in town," the curious landlady continued.
Lucien smiled. "That I do."
* * *
Eve placed her copious notes across one side of the dining room table, then sat
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