The Ghostess and Mister Muir Read online

  Among the uniqueness of that window, Muir suddenly spotted a strikingly beautiful lady in an elaborate antique costume, who stared directly at him. He blinked and checked behind whether anybody else nearby may have seen her, but no one was around. When Muir looked back up, the woman was gone — she’d apparently stepped away. Weird. I know I saw somebody. It was only about seven o’clock and still plenty of daylight remained in late August. Must have been a reflection from somewhere else. Scanning the other second story windows nearby, he saw mostly closed curtains or blinds.

  Maybe he’d drunk those beers too quickly.

  Continuing around the block, he entered what he finally recognized as an old hotel. Carving up the first floor for office spaces had erased most traces of what had once been an opulent establishment. Currently, that faded luxury was evident only in a small portion — possibly preserved, but more likely restored — of the former main lobby which faced the grand stairway. Like many staircases of an earlier period, in facilities without elevators, it was wide enough to handle scores of people at the same time. Rising majestically about two-thirds of the way up, it opened to a landing which then split left and right with additional steps connecting to the second floor hallways which still existed, presumably as originally built. At the second level, they doubled back and would have risen again to the third floor except those casements were portioned off, awaiting future renovation.

  At the top, Muir turned left, placing him in the dark east hallway. At the far north end, that passage terminated at the door to his corner suite — he was home. He fumbled with the three keys Coombe had provided; one was for the building entrance, another to Suite Seven, and the third unmarked. His apartment key was considerably more current than the vintage skeleton key he would have expected for an old hotel space.

  After unlocking, he stepped inside the silent suite and plopped the keys on a small delicate table near the door. Instead of feeling like he’d finally reached his new home, however, Muir had the distinct sense he had inadvertently wandered into someone else’s environment. So he ducked back out to the hall to re-check the suite’s number. Yes, Number Seven.

  Muir had seen the apartment before, of course, but it had been in daytime as the impatient manager briskly herded him through its four spaces. Now he took a leisurely tour. Difficult to imagine how the moody interior looked when the structure had been a hotel, but the suite presently occupying the northeast corner of second floor offered everything he needed — living area, bedroom, modest kitchen, and small bath.

  Standing just inside the suite, he realized the four spaces seemed to represent a hodgepodge of eras. On his left was the small bathroom, with shower, tub, toilet, and lavatory — all dated, but probably not farther back than the 1970s. Seemed clean enough, but smelled a bit musty. The kitchen, with one north-facing window near its sturdy round table, had every fixture and appliance he’d need and also seemed to be from about the 1970s — except for a bargain brand modern microwave and coffee maker. It scarcely looked as though a meal had ever been prepared therein.

  His new bedroom, to the immediate right, had one east-facing window. Its mattress squeaked a bit but seemed to be of reasonable quality and consistency. Muir was no expert at furnishings, but the bed frame, stuffed chair, small elegant desk, and wooden chair all looked like they were from around the 1930s. No visible dust, but — like the bathroom — it seemed musty.

  The sitting room, or living area, or parlor — whatever it should be called — really stood out. With surprisingly dim artificial light from the extravagant chandelier and fading outside light from that corner’s north and east-facing windows, Muir surveyed the décor. The furnishings were far more ornate than he was accustomed to, and seemed more like a period movie set than any motel or hotel he’d ever been in. Though everything in the parlor felt antique, nothing seemed musty or badly worn — suggesting they’d been well cared for and/or little used, which made no sense whatsoever in either a hotel or an apartment. It was almost as though someone had just shipped them from a prestigious museum.

  To Muir’s undiscerning knowledge and decorating taste, the furnishings simply seemed about a hundred years old, but the apartment’s restored parlor area was actually a model of post-Victorian upscale home fashion.

  Despite some three dozen tiny bulbs, the chandelier in the middle of the parlor’s ceiling did not provide much illumination. No doubt this was due to roughly one-third of them having burned out. In the northwest corner stood wooden book shelves mostly empty. At the northeast corner Muir peeked behind a paneled screen, which hid nothing but more wallpaper, though he sensed something once belonged there. Centered on the north wall’s window was an old couch in a muted floral design with rich curved wood in the arms.

  Angled near either end were comfortable upholstered armchairs with matching fabric design. From each, one could see out both parlor windows, though most advantageously to the east. Their views through the north window were from nearly opposite angles: northeast and northwest. In front of the couch was a delicate wooden table with fold up wings featuring handle slots. With the wings down it possibly formed an oval.

  In the southeast corner was a garish metal floor lamp, also with burned out bulbs. Dominating the south wall of the parlor were the front, sides, mantel and hearth of a massive fireplace, but darkly painted wallboard completely covered its cavity.

  Evidently for a long previous period, some small piece of furniture had been situated west of the fireplace, because two tiny but deep impressions remained in the luxurious Oriental rug which covered most of the parlor’s wooden floor.

  Through the north window, looking beyond the town square, Muir could see all the way to the levee which restrained the narrow Little Tensaw Branch River. To the west, he could almost see the beginning of the swampy area, improbably close to downtown; to the east, nearly as far as the distant railroad trestle.

  Out the east window, which presently looked exactly like all the other windows, Muir glanced down to the place he was standing when he’d felt the chill and seen the costumed woman. He scanned all the buildings visible from that spot, trying to guess which one may have caused such a reflection to appear as though a person was actually present in the position he occupied at that moment.

  A noise. Was it a whisper? If so, then a sad undertone, without discernable words. Or if a faint tune, then distant and elusive. Muir sensed the sound clearly enough to look for a source, but equally certain he’d just imagined it, he dismissed the noise as perhaps the radio of a quickly passing vehicle on the street below.

  On the round kitchen table, he laid out his material from two days of new teacher orientation and three days of professional development sessions. Frankly, he had not learned much and the trainers had seemed as bored with their material as the reluctant audience had been. He hoped that was not typical of Magnolia High School’s in-service training.

  Muir wasn’t sure what to make of sturdy Principal Gull and hoped he would be assigned nearly any other faculty member as his mentor, if he was required to have one. Given his choice, he would learn as he went along and preferred not to be dependent on the personality or perspective of someone who was a mentor only by virtue of having a few more teaching years under her or his belt. Lucy had not elaborated but still left the impression that Gull was over her head as an administrator and not especially perceptive. Muir had been assigned mentors in the military, but they were individuals whose experience and wisdom drew the younger troops to their sides. Such was the proper relationship… rather than a mutual burden on two reluctant participants.

  Sorting through his small mountain of paperwork, he selected the semester schedule and faculty roster as the only valuable items and stacked the rest in the nearly empty bookcase in the parlor. A quick circuit through the bedroom and bathroom reminded Muir to return to his truck for the rest of what he’d need overnight — Dopp kit and a change of clothes.

  Hours later, as he undressed for bed, Muir had a sense he was being
watched. Checking the windows again, he couldn’t see anybody across the street… though it was clear people lived in several of those second stories because many had lights on, albeit behind curtains or blinds. Though he closed the curtains on his four windows, it did not dampen the feeling of curious eyes upon him.

  Over Friday night, his first in the Whitecliff Apartment / Majestic Hotel, Muir slept fitfully with unusual dreams. The images he could later recall were vague and shadowy — a unique window, old furnishings, someone whispering or possibly humming, and that aroma he’d first sensed in the manager’s office. Though too vague and too wispy to categorize, it left a notion of something rich and sweet… and old. When he woke, Muir thought he recalled the dream smell as similar to honeysuckle, but that wasn’t quite it. Something else… something with strength and mystery, though cloaked in dusty sweetness.

  Chapter Three

  Saturday, August 16

  Muir woke more tired than when he’d crashed around midnight, after thinking further about Lucy Tierney. He remembered a few scattered dream images but strained to make any sense of them.

  In the kitchen he would have made strong coffee, but realized he hadn’t brought any grounds or filters, so he needed to check out whichever downtown stores were open on Saturdays. Friday evening’s walking exercise had not apparently set back his ankle healing, so another brief stroll should be okay. Didn’t know enough about the town yet, but he did recall seeing near the northeast corner of the square a donut shop, which should have coffee and pastry.

  He got both… twice.

  During breakfast he wondered what Lucy had hinted about — and Principal Gull had cautioned about — but still had scarcely a clue. Guess I’ll find out on Monday morning.

  Many of the customers in the small dining area were obviously couples, and Muir noted how different it felt, since his breakup with Eva, eating alone. He wondered where Lucy ate breakfast, thinking perhaps he could accidently bump into her sometime, somewhere. She’d not only been the first friendly face he’d encountered, but also a lovely one. If she was in a relationship with some local guy, Muir speculated how serious it might be and whether they had any qualms about exclusivity. “Nah,” he concluded, “somebody that cute and smart would already be taken.”

  He ordered another large coffee to take with him.

  On the way back to the Whitecliff, Muir retrieved a few more of his belongings from the truck and carried them up to his suite. Later, he should return to Aunt Martha’s and transport what else he’d left with her. “Wonder why she’s so dead set against visiting me here?” he asked himself. And why do I keep talking to myself?

  After reheating the cooled coffee in his microwave, Muir paced in the limited confines of his quarters. Not really pacing… it was more that he didn’t feel like sitting still, despite needing to let his ankle rest. Nearing the bedroom dresser, he spotted Lucy’s card, read its cryptic note for the seventh time, and then turned it over. “Must be her cell phone. Didn’t know teachers gave out their private numbers.”

  He hesitated, wondering if Lucy would take a call from an Alexandria, Louisiana area code, then shrugged and punched in her number. No answer, so it went to voice mail.

  “Hi, this is Levi Muir… your rookie colleague at school. It’s, uh, Saturday morning. I got trapped by Mrs. Gull yesterday and never had a chance to get the lowdown on this business about the old hotel. Let me know if you have a few minutes today.” Then he recited his number and ended the call.

  She won’t call me back. She’s probably lounging around with her boyfriend. He wondered what it would be like, lounging with Lucy. Muir tried again to sit and sip coffee, but somehow he was itchy to be in motion.

  About ten minutes later, Lucy called.

  “Hi, Lucy, I was just thinking about you.”

  “Glad to see I made such a favorable impression this past week.”

  “No, I mean, well, yes you did, of course, but that’s not…” He tripped over his tongue — a recent habit.

  “Okay, there I go again, jumping the gun.” She exhaled audibly.

  “Uh, maybe I should start over. Thanks for calling back…”

  Lucy’s tone lightened. “Would’ve sooner, but didn’t recognize the number so I looked up the 318 area code. Then I put two and two together.”

  He repeated the basic content of his voice mail message. “I’ve been thinking about what you started to say the other day and I’d really like to hear the rest.”

  “Any time, Levi… when the principal’s not around, that is.”

  Muir’s phrasing nearly stammered. “Ho-ow about sometime this morning?”

  “Uh, essentially,” said Lucy after a slight pause, “I’m free right now. Well, exercising actually.”

  He’d noticed her heavy breathing and was relieved to learn it related to exercise instead of boyfriend tussling. “Jogging, I bet. I figured you for a runner.”

  “Runner? Why?”

  “You know… tan and trim and uh, you know.” Mister Smooth-Talk.

  Lucy chuckled lightly. “If you mean fit, thank you. But I don’t run. That’s high impact and I want these knees and ankles to last me a long time.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “I’ll show you when I get there. I’m on South Bridge Street right now and heading north. Probably be at your hotel in five minutes.”

  Muir checked his watch. “Cool. I’d also like to show you something… or ask you.”

  “I’ll meet you in front of the Majestic.”

  “All right, it’s a date.”

  “Wear some comfortable shoes and a shorts, because it’s pretty warm outside.”

  “Okay, see you in a couple of minutes.” Muir wondered what they’d be doing but had no intention of wearing shorts because his legs were too pale. He hadn’t been outside much in the past two years of school with heavy course loads. His military hitch had split his college career, but most of the successful classes were crammed into those final two years. During that time, he’d kept up his workout on weights and aerobic machines, but primarily indoors. A badly sprained ankle during mid-summer had been slow to heal and effectively cut out any treadmill training.

  As he changed into jeans and t-shirt in his bedroom, Muir again had the feeling from last night — somebody was watching. But who? The window was draped and he heard no movement. Toward the high ceiling, he saw nothing but the chandelier; then he glanced toward the bedroom doorway. “Okay, I know you’re here.” He was surprised he’d said it at all, much less out loud, but no sooner had he spoken than the room filled with a beautiful aroma, as though a flock of butterflies had been flushed and darted away. Couldn’t place it — something he’d never smelled before the previous evening.

  Then he remembered the image of honeysuckle from his dreams. “No, you’re not honeysuckle,” he addressed the scent. “You’re richer, more potent… maybe a hint of medicine about you. But it’s a good medicine, not medical.” As if that made any sense — hashing his imagery and speaking to odors. And continuing to talk to myself.

  Just as quickly as the aroma entered, the sensation of eyes watching disappeared. “It’s not polite to peek,” he addressed the invisible monitor. Wonder who I’m talking to? Muir shook his head, smiled to himself, wrapped his bad ankle, and finished tying his sneakers. “I’ll be outside for a while, so there won’t be anything going on here to interest a peeker.”

  He grabbed his wallet and keys and ascertained the door locked as he closed it. “And I don’t have anything worth stealing,” he added before heading down the hallway toward the grand staircase.

  By the time Muir reached the corner outside, he spotted Lucy, looking quite nice in a spaghetti strap t-shirt and tight spandex jogging shorts. Even though she wore a compressive sports bra underneath, Lucy clearly had attractive upper dimensions. Heading east from the intersection with Bridge Street, she wasn’t quite trotting, but it was much brisker than a walk. He’d have to remember to inquire. He waved.


  “Hi, Levi,” she said breathlessly, as she checked her watch and held two fingers to her throat.

  “Good morning. Perfect timing.” It was difficult not to stare — she looked delicious. He scouted for a bench to sit on. “So, this note…”

  She continued to pant. “Okay if I work you a bit first?”

  “Huh?” He took a half step backwards.

  She grinned and whapped his shoulder. “I need another few minutes of this,” she motioned vaguely toward her feet, “before I stop. Then we can take a breather. Okay?”

  “Sure. How far?”

  Lucy squinted in the direction of the bandstand. “Oh, three laps around the square ought to do it.” She checked her watch again.

  By the time Muir had phrased his question about her speed-walking, she was already a dozen feet ahead and he hurried to catch up. “Wow, this is quite a pace.” And quite a view, as well.

  She paused enough to let him catch up and continued.

  By the end of their first lap, Muir’s ankle was screaming.

  Having already slowed to keep from losing him, Lucy clearly realized she’d need to stop, so she doubled back and again fingered her neck artery. “Out of shape? Ex-military guys are supposed to be lean and mean.”

  “I’ve been out for around three years, but this is about my ankle.” He pointed where the sock bulged from the elastic wrap. “Guess I got soft.”

  “Not so soft, Levi.” She tried to pinch his midsection. “Plus, you’ve still got your guns,” she pointed to his biceps. “Okay, let’s head back to the bandstand and you can sit while I stretch.” She took off before he could reply. He watched.