The Ghost Wore Gray Read Free

again, and this time I was serious. I was sick of riding. Dad glanced at his watch, and at the map beside him. “Another hour and a half,” he said, “assuming Baltimore’s directions are accurate.”
    â€œBaltimore?” asked Chris.
    â€œBaltimore Cleveland,” said Dad. “The man who owns the Quackadoodle.”
    â€œYou really know a human being named Baltimore Cleveland?” I asked.
    He glanced over his shoulder. “Not only do I know him, but he’s going to be our host for the next three weeks. And he’s going to be paying me a lot of money.”
    â€œIt’s a wonderful name,” I said. “Just wonderful. I think I’ll look at the scenery for a while.”
    The scenery was worth looking at. Steep, rocky hills covered with pines stretched up to our right. Little streams splashed and bounced down these same hills, then disappeared under the road, only to pop up on the other side, where they meandered off through the more gentle territory that sloped away in that direction. It reminded me of pictures I had seen of England.
    â€œIt won’t be that much farther now,” announced my father as he turned the Golden Chariot onto a narrow, winding road. Dad’s idea of not much farther is different from my own, but eventually we saw a sign that said “Quackadoodle Inn—3 miles.”
    Eventually we saw the inn itself.
    Dad stopped the car. He stared at the inn with a kind of glazed expression on his face. I couldn’t tell if he was struck with a vision of what the place could be—or appalled by what it looked like right then.
    â€œWell, Mr. Tanleven,” said Chris cheerfully, “it looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
    Dad’s dream project was a rambling old three-story building, surrounded by a wide porch cluttered with big wooden chairs. The top of the inn was a strange jumble of towers, turrets, dormers, and cupolas.
    It was fascinating. But it was also a mess. The porch was sagging, the roof was mossy, and the walls were marked by dark spots where shingles had fallen away.
    I shivered. I had never seen a place that looked more likely to be haunted.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Baltimore Cleveland
    The lobby was empty.
    â€œHello?” called my father, juggling two suitcases, a tennis racket, and golf clubs.
    â€œBe right with you!” yelled someone in another room.
    â€œThat’s Baltimore,” my father said. “I recognize his voice.”
    We put down our suitcases and looked around.
    The fading purple wallpaper was covered with huge red flowers. The threadbare oriental carpet had seen better days—and probably better years. The antique furniture was heavy and dark, and looked as if it had been selected to prove one of my father’s favorite sayings: “Just because something is old, it doesn’t necessarily follow that it’s beautiful.”
    I looked at Chris. She looked at me. We rolled our eyes. But before either of us could say anything, a round little man came bustling into the room. “Good morning, good morning!” he cried, ignoring the fact that it was well past noon. “You must be the Tanlevens. I’m Baltimore Cleveland.” He thrust out his arm and began pumping my father’s hand.
    Chris and I tried to keep from giggling. Baltimore Cleveland looked a little like a creature from a fairy tale. He was about five feet tall (I know because I’m four foot ten, and he was only an inch or so taller than me). His cheeks were as round and as red as a pair of apples. He had twinkling blue eyes with those little crinkles at the sides you always see on people who spend most of their time smiling. His eyebrows were bushy and white, matching the thick fringe of white hair that circled his otherwise bald head. He wore an apron that had once been white, but was now decorated with bits of food of almost every imaginable color. A smudge of flour whitened the tip