Myth and Magic. Mae Clair
a new fuse, and the lights aren’t working. I don’t want to go down there.”
Veronica should have known. With the sun setting and exaggerated shadows creeping from the walls, Alma was more likely to tangle with a rabid dog then venture into the basement.
It was nearing six in the evening. Beyond the towering windows in the lobby, darkness feathered the edges of the October sky.
“I’ll go.”
“By yourself?” Alma was appalled. “In the dark? After what I saw?”
“I’ll take a flashlight. There’s nothing down there but food stores and boxes.”
Alma frowned. “Now, don’t start sounding like Sheriff Cameron. I saw Warren Barrister’s ghost, plain as day.”
They’d had the same discussion numerous times. Veronica slipped a hand beneath Alma’s arm and steered her toward the kitchen. “There are no ghosts at Stone Willow, Alma. If someone was in the basement, they’re gone now.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I do. But whatever you saw wasn’t a ghost.” Veronica was careful not to upset her further, but didn’t want to stoke rumors of the supernatural.
“What then?”
She bit her lip, unable to offer an answer.
As if taking that as a concession of defeat, Alma harrumphed her triumph and departed. Veronica headed behind the reception counter and rummaged through the cabinets until she found a flashlight. She tested the batteries, then walked to the basement wondering what else could go wrong. The breaker was another item in a long list of mechanical problems to plague the lodge. Coupled with those incidents that bordered on the supernatural, it was no wonder guests had started to imagine poltergeists behind every corner.
The hinges on the basement door creaked as she pushed it open, and she made a mental note to tell Lew to oil them when he took care of the breaker. She tried the light switch once, then flicked on her flashlight, angling the beam down the staircase. Darkness yawned below, layered in whorls of licorice black. Must and mildew tickled her nose, and a draft of cool air scraped over her cheek.
The cone of yellow light bobbed as she descended the steps. She paused at the bottom, sweeping the light to the far corners of the room, sending shadows scurrying from the beam. To the left, a floor-to-ceiling shelving unit loomed against the wall. Row after row of jarred vegetables and fruits cast back the reflected glow of her flashlight. Alma had canned most of the items, gathering the vegetables from a garden at the rear of the lodge, purchasing the majority of fruit from a local market.
To the right, a short set of block steps led up to an exterior exit. Rarely used, the metal storm doors were angled into the rear of the home, part of the original structure from the 1800s.
She felt an unnatural chill, but pushed it aside, realizing she was being silly. There was nothing in the dark that wasn’t there in the light. Crossing to the shelving unit, she ran the beam of the flashlight over neat, orderly rows of canning jars, pausing to study the handwritten labels. Something moved behind her and a hand settled on her shoulder.
Veronica gave a startled squawk and lurched clear, her scream choked short by fright.
“Veronica, it’s Caith.” His voice struck her as the yellow beam washed over his face. Wincing, he raised a hand to block the direct path of light. She caught only vague impressions—coal black hair and eyes like crisp winter sky.
“Caith?” she echoed dumbly.
“Mind lowering the light?”
Veronica dropped the beam to the floor where it bounced off faded denim and brown work boots. She had a vague sense of his height, pinned between him and the shelving unit. He held a flashlight in his hand, smaller than hers, something that would easily fit into his pocket. Sidestepping, she swept her own light to both corners making sure there were no other surprises. “What are you doing in the basement?”
“I came in through the storm doors a while ago.”
“They weren’t locked?”
“Not when I got here.”
She frowned, disturbed by the idea of Caith snooping around without her knowledge. “You could have saved me three years of gray hair by coming through the front door like everyone else.”
“Sorry.”
She doubted he was. He didn’t seem contrite at all. Now that her eyes had adjusted, she could see him better. Wiry and lanky as a youth, he’d developed the muscle and definition that comes with maturity. Tall, broad of shoulder, and narrow through the hips, he carried a trim, athletic physique. His hair was shorter, black as the raven he’d been named for, and tapered against his neck in a becoming cut. Piercing blue eyes held her gaze, causing her heart to hammer faster. The good-looking boy she remembered had grown into a thoroughly handsome man.
He frowned. “What are you doing in the basement in the dark?”
“The light doesn’t work.”
“I figured that out.”
Heat flushed her face. “So that private investigator’s license is good for something after all?”
Caith chuckled softly. “Maybe we should start over.”
Veronica opened her mouth to snap a reply. Before she could formulate a single pointed word, a shrill scream jarred her to the bone. She felt the blood drain from her face as the horrified shriek shuddered into silence, then started again, climbing in volume.
“Alma!” she cried.
Of one accord, she and Caith bolted for the stairs.
Chapter 5
Veronica clung to Caith’s heels as he barreled into the lobby where Alma Kreider stood screaming. “Alma, what is it?” she cried, rushing to the woman’s side.
White-faced, her eyes darting between Veronica and Caith, Alma pointed behind her. “The kitchen. There was a man outside. A horrible man. I saw him looking in the window.” Covering her face with her hands, she began to cry. “It was ghastly. Like a scarecrow. A ghost.” Her voice broke beneath hysterical sobs.
“Shh,” Veronica comforted. Thankfully, all the guests were out on a hike with the guide, Ben Dunning, and hadn’t heard the commotion. “It’s all right now.”
Caith snatched the flashlight from her and darted for the kitchen. Wrapping an arm around Alma’s shoulders, Veronica led her to one of the low-backed sofas in the lobby. It took her close to ten minutes, but eventually she managed to calm the agitated woman. Alma’s sobs had dwindled to sniffling by the time Caith returned.
“Well?” Veronica asked expectantly as he walked into the lobby.
The cold air had heightened the color in his cheeks, intensifying the wintry blue of his eyes. He shook his head.
“Nothing. I looked outside and the ground wasn’t disturbed below the window.” He scowled doubtfully at Alma. “The soil’s soft enough to leave prints, but I couldn’t find any.”
“It’s almost dark,” Veronica said. “You could have missed them.”
“Maybe.” Unconvinced, Caith continued to look at Alma. “Are you sure it wasn’t a trick of the light? A reflection of some sort?”
“I know what I saw, young man. You sound just like that Sheriff Cameron and all his cronies, not willing to believe a word of anything.” Alma’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who are you anyway, and what are you doing here?”
Before Caith could answer, Veronica rushed to explain. “Alma, this is Conner Lairen. He’s the consultant BI hired to evaluate the lodge and its anti-stress program. He’ll be staying with us for a while.”
“Consultant. Hmph.” Alma’s