Phantoms Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mystery #13 Read Free Page A

waved vaguely toward
the next block. “You can find me whenever you want.”
    We stepped out of the car and met
at the back where she reached for my bag in ‘the boot.’ “Besides,” she said
with a twinkle in her eye, “if you’re here at the Angel you might get a chance
to see one of the ghosts.”
    Ghosts? Sure.
    I might as well admit right now
that I’m a supreme cynic about that stuff. Not one supposedly haunted old house
or hotel or graveyard that I’ve ever visited has shown me any evidence
whatsoever of the famed supernatural residents. Louisa, on the other hand, had
told me during the long drive that she studied astrology and ancient folk
legends in college—hinting that this curriculum may have led, in part, to the
rift with my ultra scientific father. I could vouch for his distrust of the
unproven—every childhood alibi I tried to construct met with the strictest of
testing before he accepted it.
    She registered the skepticism on
my face. “The Angel Hotel,” she said, adopting an official tone, “is reputed to
be home of not one, but two, ghosts. One is said to be the fiddler who was sent
into the tunnel connecting Angel Hill to a pub in Eastgate Street. The man
entered, playing his fiddle so onlookers could track his progress, but he never
came out. Modern day spirit activity still seems to center around the cellars
of the hotel near the now-bricked up entrance to the tunnel.”
    She grinned at me. “My job these
days is to give tours of ‘Haunted Bury St. Edmunds’ through the tourism
office.” She switched back to her tour-guide voice. “Of course, those fortunate
enough to stay in the Charles Dickens Room often report odd noises in the night
and strange little episodes where items go missing from the room.”
    “Well, I don’t think I’m in the
Dickens room,” I assured her. “But I’ll try not to disturb any of the old
residents.”
    A uniformed bellman appeared just
then, rushing down the front steps of the hotel and approaching the car to ask
if I was checking in. He hefted my suitcase and headed indoors with it.
    “Take a moment to settle in,”
Louisa suggested. “I’ll check in at my office and come back for you. Then we
can find some lunch and take that walk around the gardens.”
    We parted with a quick hug and a
plan to meet in thirty minutes. I trailed the bellman into the lobby which
consisted of a series of cozy, low-ceilinged rooms, the central one featuring a
wide rock fireplace flanked by large overstuffed couches. I completed the
check-in paperwork at a reception desk of dark wood and was directed to follow
the bellman—a lengthy trek up a flight of stairs, around a series of sharp
turns, along a squeaky corridor which included two steps up and two steps down
for no readily apparent reason, a few more turns until we came to a hallway
with numbered rooms on the right hand side only. He cheerfully unlocked the
door for me and placed my baggage on the floor.
    I’d reached for my wallet in
hopes of figuring out the strange bills I’d exchanged at the airport when the
man cheerfully bade me goodbye and disappeared out the door. No hand fidgeting
for a tip? Now that was something you never saw in the States.
    It was a good-sized room with a
desk in one corner, an antique wooden wardrobe offset by the modern touch of a
flat-screen television mounted on the wall beside it, a small round table with
full tea service that included electric kettle, a choice of black tea or Earl
Grey or coffee, along with every desired sweetener and creamer, plus two
packets of cookies. I was loving England already!
    The large bed was made up for
two—a twinge—how nice it would have been for Drake to be here with me. It was
pre-dawn back home so I called Drake’s cell, left him a quick message that all
was well and suggested that he give me a call once he woke up. A quick brush
through my hair and a retouch of lipstick. Short of a six hour nap there wasn’t
much else I could think to do to