Ghostly Whistles , livre ebook

GHOSTLY WHISTLES
Whistling River Lodge Mysteries #4

Irene Radford
www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café edition October 29, 2021 ISBN: 978-1-61138-984-5 Copyright © 2021 Irene Radford
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BVC TITLES BY IRENE RADFORD
COPYRIGHTS & CREDITS
ABOUT BOOK VIEW CAFÉ
CHAPTER ONE
It was a dark and stormy night. Yeah, I knowthat’s a cliché, but what do you expect the week before Halloween in thefoothills of Mt. Hood in Oregon? Most autumnal nights are dark and stormy.
A wind gust roared through the confined spaceof the porte-cochère, presaging the flash of lightning… Wait, that wasjust the headlights from our airport shuttle bringing guests from elsewhere tothe Whistling River Lodge and Golf Resort. Only no one would be playing golfuntil the fairways dried out for at least three full days of clear weatherafter this relentless rain dump. Say, maybe mid-April.
As manager and majority stockholder, I shouldn’tbe manning the registration desk after eleven PM. But this was less than a fullyear after the plague had been quelled by a vaccine. I’d had to lay off orcut hours of a lot of personnel during the months and months of closedbusiness. We opened the golf course for the summer (masks required) and thatpaid a lot of our bills. Between contagion and a nearly broken economy, I’d comeclose to losing my beloved home. But we’d managed. Now we slowly crept backtoward normal, and I was grateful for every guest.
Business had picked up a little. People neededmini vacations anywhere other than home. I’d managed to hire back some of ourhousekeeping and maintenance staff. André, my brilliant chef, now had a souschef and three extra wait staff. We’d replaced some tables in the CanyonsRestaurant, now up to half-capacity rather than one-quarter, and startedserving casual meals in the Woodlands café and bar. Of course, tented patiodining with portable heaters continued.
We’d coped for too long on take-out mealsonly.
Really, I was grateful for every booking,including late night check-ins. Even the Cascadia Paranormal Society that wouldbe hunting ghosts here for three days and two nights over Halloween. During thefirst partial re-opening when the plague had started waning, the CPS hadn’t hadany other guests to disrupt. I feared they expected the same free run of theentire hotel again. Not this year. I had other guests who didn’t want the spookchasers crashing into their locked rooms at all hours of the day andnight.
My night shift security/front desk clerkneeded a few hours off to attend his granddaughter’s sixteenth birthday partytonight. I’d looked the other way when he borrowed a few pumpkins, gauzeghosts, witch cut-outs, and corn stalks from my decorations to make the churchmeeting room more festive for the party, though I wished he’d taken the pirateskull and crossbones flag, and a few of the Dias de los Muertos painted skulls,and lost them. I knew Bill well enough to know that by tomorrow morning all thedécor would be back in place.
The party ended at nine. Give him an hour toassist in clean up… and it approached midnight now. Where was he?
Those of us left at Whistling River were tiredof twelve hour shifts seven days a week. I had four months to hire more staffto keep the place running while I took maternity leave. Junior kicked me hardenough to bruise a rib. I was more than ready for him to make an entrance. Butmy Lodge wasn’t.
I checked my computer screen. The vehiclecoming to a sloshy stop out front shouldn’t be the CPS coming early. Theyweren’t booked until day after tomorrow afternoon, the day before Halloween.This must be the last-minute reservation that came in yesterday. Late check in.Two guests. Full Suite. Four nights. B. Thomas on the credit card. The secondguest remained unnamed. Okay by me, as long as they didn’t do anything illegalwhile staying here. My husband and I had slipped away and registered at hotelsanonymously—to avoid local gossip and being called back to work—several timesbefore our wedding last Memorial Day.
The shuttle glided to a stop. Craig Knudsen,my security chief, new husband, and fill-in driver knew how to negotiaterain-slick roads. He’d been a cop before early retirement due to a bullet woundthat was almost unnoticeable, except for the scars around his artificial knee,and therefore he’d taken every expert-level safe driving course offered. Itrusted him to keep our guests safe on the road as well as at the resort.
Craig alighted from the shuttle, leaving theengine running. Then he opened the passenger door and offered a hand to Mr. B.Thomas (I presumed) and a tall, long-legged lady. They looked to be in theirmid-forties, maybe early fifties. The outdoor lights embedded in the archedroad covering just beyond the front door gave me full vision of the couple. Hehad wings of gray hair at his temples, and she had thick, shoulder-length darkhair with mahogany highlights that swept her shoulders in a fashionable cut. Theyboth wore comfortable jeans. Expensive designer jeans worn to buttery softnessthat molded butts and well-defined calves. (Hey, I might have married the loveof my life five months ago, but I could still appreciate a beautiful man). Hesported a plaid flannel shirt beneath his heavy weather-proof jacket. She worea cable knit sweater over a turtleneck top and carried her jacket.
They both looked familiar, but I couldn’tplace them. The name hadn’t triggered a flag on the computer that they hadstayed here before, or at least since we digitized everything.
Craig quickly retrieved their bags from theback of the van and ushered them inward through the automatic sliding doors.
Another gust of wind followed them. It smelledof moldy leaves covering the forest floor and other decaying things. Locallegend said the scent belonged to Sasquatch. A common scent in this part of thewoods, but not one I associated with indoors.
I checked my dogs, where they snoozed beforethe gas log hearth across the lobby from the massive registration desk. They’dalert me if anything unusual walked the nearby trails or entered thelobby. Pepper, the black miniature poodle bitch, half-opened one eye. Salt, herwhite litter mate, lifted his head and cocked his ears forward in curiosity.Officially the poodles belonged to the hotel, (thanks to the previous owner)but they lived with me. Big Al, my Newfoundland Retriever rescue dog, knockedover a pyramid of real pumpkins in his haste to wrap himself around my feetunder the desk. He didn’t like strangers. And Craig, his pack mate, left topark the shuttle in the back of the building.
“Beautiful dog,” Mr. B. Thomas said as heapproached the desk. “Do we need masks? We’re both fully vaccinated.”
“No, you are fine.” Besides, it was nowillegal to require proof of vaccination—medical privacy laws at the federal andstate level. Masks and social distancing remained in place at some businesses.“But if you are more comfortable with one, we have no objection. Everyone onstaff has also been vaccinated.”
I extended my hand across the desk. “Hi, I’mGlenna McClain, the manager. We spoke earlier today about your reservation.”
He took my hand and shook it, firmly but notaggressively so. No clammy palms either.
“Bryant Thomas,” he said. “And this is JanetDryer.”
Ding, ding, ding. My brain woke up andidentified them. I admitted my secret vice to myself, and knew him as a judgeand producer of a couple of music and dance reality TV competition shows. Therewas one currently airing on Wednesday nights. This was late Wednesdayevening. They must have flown to Portland right after the close of tonight’sepisode. I’d watched from the employee lounge. My favorite contestants weresafe for another week.
I forced myself into a professional blankcountenance. We sometimes hosted celebrities who needed anonymity.
Big Al obligingly poked his nose above thedesk, sniffing in every direction. He climbed upward, massive paws on the deskwhile he continued to sniff. Then his tongued lolled and his butt wiggledhappily, tail slapping the side of my chair. He trusted this guy more than hedid most men. Therefore, I should too.
The woman held back half a moment while sheadmired Pepper and scritched Salt’s ears. “I was getting quite used to wearinga mask as a fashion statement, color coordinated of course, when they startedeasing restrictions,” she said with a sultry laugh.
I was willing to bet that she made quite thefashion statement any time.
Salt trotted over and dropped his favoritesqueaky toy at her feet. Generous of him, but reassuring. He welcomed her intothe family pack.
She smiled and crouched before him. “Thankyou, sweetie,” she said, her voice a lilting, almost musical alto. She pattedhis head, examined the toy, and murmured soothing sounds to him.
Salt retrieved his squeaky, brushed his muzzleagainst her leg and retreated to the warmth of the fire, further dismantlingthe pumpkins.
“Best reception committee I’ve met in a longtime,” the woman said, and stood to face me fully. She added her own creditcard to the man’s on the desk in front of me.
“Janet, I thought I was paying for this?” Mr.B. Thomas said. He didn’t look annoyed, just tired and a bit frustrated.
“We agreed that you’d pay if we are still acouple at the end of the stay. Otherwise we share, fifty-fifty.” She smiledbrightly at me. Janet Dryer, talk show host whose insightful interviews were frequentlyfeatured on the evening news. She somehow made all of her guests (willingvictims) comfortable with her gentle manners and dagger sharp questions.
“I know you requested a suite overlooking theriver and the golf course. That wing has been compl