The Chalice Thief: Pine Lake Inn, #6

Chapter 1

People all over the world picture Australia as a desert from one coast to the other. I’ve talked to people from a lot of different places in the world, and the first thing they always ask me about the lucky country is how I stand the heat.

I stand it very well, thank you.

Sure, there’s places you could sizzle an egg on a rock even in the middle of winter. Most of Western Australia really is a desert, after all, and there’s places there that have never seen the thermometer drop below zero degrees Fahrenheit, ever.

Here in Tasmania it’s a different story. This is Lakeshore, after all. Our small town is nestled right into the shadow of the Hartz Mountains, right in the middle of Tasmania. There’s times when it’s hot and times when it’s not. I’ve even seen snow once or twice in my life. Now, in the middle of June, we’re heading straight into Winter. Might get to see some snow again. I’ve had my lightweight jacket out for days now. Ever since coming back from a vacation in Port Arthur.

Nice town. Hopefully, I’ll never have to go there again. If you’d been there with me you’d understand. I’m just glad to be home.

Lakeshore used to be practically unknown to the world. There’s always been a tourist trade, to be sure, because we’re right on the shore of three lakes and we’re the last bit of civilization before the Hartz Mountains National Park. People like to come and stay a few nights in my Inn, and walk our streets and experience our local color. They like to take pictures and go for walks on the hiking trails and have a taste of a simpler life.

Then again, some people come here for a different reason. They come to see where the murders took place. They come to see Dell Powers—me—and ask after stories of times I’d just as soon forget.

In the last few years Lakeshore has seen more than its fair share of death. The newspapers have reported it all in very vivid detail, and that tends to pique people’s curiosity, I guess. Me and the Pine Lake Inn have been at the center of more than a few of those stories.

You’d never know it to look at me, but I’m something of a celebrity. I’m approaching the wrong side of forty and just five foot seven or so, and although I’ve got the body of a woman half my age and my long auburn hair is still dark and shiny, I’m not the typical movie heroine. Not exactly Claudia Karvan, although I’ve been compared to her and I’ll take that compliment.

Hey. A girl can dream.

You’d never know my Inn was that famous either just to look at her. A yellow, three-story building set in among the Monterey Pines, and nearly on the edge of Pine Lake. It’s got a long and, well… let’s just say a storied past. A previous Inn on this very spot burned to the ground. This incarnation of it was built during World War Two. Men had fought duels on the ground where it stood. Death had claimed several lives here, including those of the two previous owners. The ghosts of the past are everywhere.

That’s not exactly a metaphor, either. There’s ghosts here. I can see them. I can talk to them. Sometimes, I even call them my friend.

Especially when my own husband was murdered here and stuffed into a wall. That’s a long story, and one I’m almost, nearly, sort of over.

Standing at the check-in desk in the foyer of the Inn, it’s not death that’s on my mind. It’s new life. Specifically, I’m thinking about my business partner Rosie Ryan’s pregnancy.

Rosie’s due any day now—any hour now, really—and me and the other people on the staff have a bit of a running bet on which day it’ll be. George, our intrepid handyman, put his money on tomorrow. Twenty dollars. He keeps telling me there’s still time for him to win even if it is already four in the afternoon. I’ve called Rosie at home three times so far today. She’s frustrated, and she’s bloated, and she’s going back and forth with some of the weirdest cravings a pregnant woman could ever have, but she’s not going to be going into labor tonight. Tomorrow either, if I had my guess. Poor woman.

The telephone on the desk rang, and I reached to pick it up. Yes, I’m the owner and the manager of the Inn, but I do my bit of work here as well. I’ve a room on the third floor so I’m here most days anyway. Might as well make myself useful. Rosie does the cooking, when she’s not at home about to give birth. I do the business stuff.

There’s a couple checking in for a two night stay, and I smile apologetically to them while I answer the phone. It’s been an unusually busy day, made worse by my front desk worker for the dayshift calling in sick. It’s Saturday, and sick in his case means he’s still got his drink on from last night. That’s a conversation I’m not looking forward to having, but I can’t keep letting my employees do things like that, if I expect to keep having an Inn for anyone to work at. Thankfully I can always count on my other two front men, Janus and Ikon, but this new guy might not be with us for much longer...

My hand reached up to my throat to touch the little unicorn necklace there. It helps to steady me when I get frustrated. Gift from my best friend just before she died. It’s carved wood, beautiful in its detail, even down to the spirals on its horn. I hardly ever take it off.

Breathe in Dell. The phone’s ringing.

We’re taking early reservations for the cooler winter months and there’s a wedding party who wants to use the Inn next week so they can take their pictures with the Hartz Mountains in the background, and then there’s—

Over the plastic earpiece of the phone, a burst of static nearly deafened me.

This happens sometimes, and no it’s not because I haven’t updated the phone system in ten years. In the static, I could hear distant words. His ghostly words that were hard to understand, but I recognized the voice. He likes to talk to me through the phones. Sometimes, I get to see him in my dreams. Somehow ghosts can come and go in dreams whenever they want to. At least, for someone like me they can.

It’s a way for me and my husband Richard to stay close, now that he’s dead.

The nice couple from Hobart standing at my counter were both watching me with curious expressions while I stood here a moment too long listening to the words being whispered in my ear. Um, I stuttered, thank you, but not now. Call me later. Okay?

The static quieted, and then it was only silence on the line.

Once I settled the phone back in its cradle I finished setting the Randalls up in room six. There’s sixteen rooms in the Inn, on the two floors above us, while the bottom floor here is where we have the commons room for the guests and the dining area with our very own kitchen. That’s where Rosie usually does her magic. Our Inn’s open for guests and locals alike to come and get a meal. People drive in from miles away to eat here.

Of course with Rosie off on maternity leave about to have her babies—twins, thank you very much—we’ve had to improvise. We’ve been using guest chefs hired on a per diem basis.

Hasn’t been the same.

Here you go, I said to the Randalls as I handed them the room key. We still use real keys here at the Pine Lake Inn. I think it’s a more homey touch than those electronic pass cards they use in the big cities. We use a written log for people to sign in, too. We keep all of our records on computer file as well because that’s the only way to do business nowadays. I just like to have people sign their name in the big book and maybe leave a little comment. Some of the ones I’ve read have made me laugh out loud.

I was just telling the Randalls how to get to their room when the phone rang again.

Hastily I picked it up. Ghosts have the absolute worst sense of timing. I said, not now. Can you just call me back later, please?

Instead of static, there’s a moment of heavy silence on the line before I hear the voice of Lakeshore’s senior sergeant.

Geez, Mom. I’m just calling to see if you and me and Carly are still on for dinner.

I had to smile. My son’s been doing a right fine job as senior sergeant here in Lakeshore. Saved my skin a couple of times, and others in town as well. That business with his father a few months ago rocked him back on his heels a bit, but he came through it. Just like I did. Sort of.

His sister, Carly? Now that might be another matter.

Hey, Kevin, I said to him. Sorry, I was… expecting someone else.

Oh? You waiting on a call from James?

Kevin…

We’ve had this conversation before. James was my boyfriend until, well, just a couple weeks back. He decided… no, I suppose I have to say that we decided together that we needed some space. It was his idea, his problem, but I didn’t fight him too hard on it. Maybe I should’ve. Either way, James is gone. He’s off to a job with a paper in a bigger city on the mainland. Thing is, Kevin knows that, and he still keeps pushing me on it.

Forget I asked, he said, hearing the tone in my voice. So. I called to ask about dinner. We’re still on, yeah?

Yes, Kevin. Looking forward to it. I made some final notes on the computer file for the Randall’s reservation. My nightshift desk worker will be here any minute. I’ve a few things to check on then I’ll meet you and Carly down at the Thirsty Roo. How’s that sound?

Aces, Mom. See ya.

The call ended and I found myself with nothing to do. I tidied up the desk, and then I ducked into the commons room to pick up a board game that had been left out on a table. I noticed a few of the DVDs from the shelf were missing but sometimes the guests take them up to their rooms to watch on laptops or portable players. I’d have to ask the cleaning staff—all three of them—to keep an eye out for them in case someone, er, accidentally took one home.

Back in the foyer I straightened the framed painting of Lieutenant Governor David Collins in its spot on the wall. Once upon a time it wouldn’t have stayed hung. Not on this wall. Nothing ever stayed up on this wall.

Not until we found my dead husband stuffed into the space behind.

Ever since he was removed, and properly buried, the painting has stayed in place like it should. It was like every time the painting fell, my hubby’s ghost had been trying to send me a message. I only wish I’d figured that out sooner.

I glanced over the refurbished fireplace next to the painting. Every brick in place. Everything as it should be. Now people came to the Inn to stand in front of it and take pictures as they smiled and nodded in my direction, sometimes even saying how sorry they were for my loss.

As if that helps.

Most days I ignore the fireplace completely. Sometimes, though, I just can’t. It’s always been a centerpiece for the Inn. I mean, it’s right there dominating that one wall as soon as you walk in the front door. We hardly ever have to use it but it’s always been a source of compliments from our guests.

Now, for me, it’s just a reminder of things I’ve lost.

The gentle sensation of a man’s fingertips touching my cheek surprised me, and I smiled. I lost my husband in a senseless death, true enough, but I’m lucky in a way. I get to still feel his presence. To remember that I was loved by him.

And he’s not the only friendly spirit I’ve got here at the Inn.

Time to check on my guest chef, I told myself. On my way into the dining room I found a few of the tables already occupied. There’s Pastor Albright, reading from his Bible over a bowl of lamb shank soup. Next to him is our town’s librarian, Ada Wenting. She basically has a bunch of books on shelves in the front room of her house for people to borrow, but it’s always been enough for a town like this one.

On the other side of the room, I found my friend Jess sitting at an empty table in her ripped jeans and heavy metal t-shirt, legs crossed, her long black hair in a ponytail over one shoulder. She switches it up sometimes, appearing with her natural blonde when the mood strikes her, or in an elegant black dress. She’d lived a double life, my friend had, and it affected how she appeared to me. Now that she was dead, that is.

She waved her fingers at me, and then blew me a kiss. If it wouldn’t’ve stirred a few looks in my direction, I would’ve sent her one right back. Had to love this girl. After her death she’d decided to stick around here. Now she roams the halls of my Inn whenever she likes. The grounds, too.

Funny thing about ghosts. They’re sort of tied to the place where they die. Jess died here. Now her spirit can’t leave.

Same as the other ghosts I’ve got living with me. Four of them altogether. At least, so far.

In the kitchen, I found Marco Bastoni and two of my kitchen staff creating masterpieces in their white smocks and matching paper hats. At least, Marco calls them masterpieces. Things like linguini in red sauce. Shrimp fra diavolo. Something that started with beef and ended with a mushroom gravy that I couldn’t pronounce no matter how hard I tried. People coming to eat at the Inn couldn’t pronounce it either, which meant they weren’t ordering it. People weren’t liking the new menu. Thing is, Marco has been my third temp chef since Rosie went on leave for her pregnancy at her midwife’s order. Don’t know if I’d find a fourth one to step in. I’d be down to making grilled cheese for people.

Which might actually be an improvement over unpronounceable a beef-and-mushroom doovalacky.

Marco saw me, and he waved with his fingers as he tasted a sauce, careful not to get any on his mustache.

Uh, hi Marco. Everything ready for the dinner crowd?

"Miss Dell! Molto bene! His large frame is an ill fit for the kitchen, with its center island and its double oven and all the cabinets and shelves and such. It was muscle he carried around, not fat, but even his bouffant hairdo was oversized. For all of his grand proportion he was grace in motion in the kitchen, spinning a bowl while he mixed the contents and adjusting the temperature under a skillet where his sauce was bubbling. I will have all things ready for the people to love. You will not worry, yes?"

That bushy brown mustache curled at the ends as he smiled. It was a very infectious smile, although I found it hard to like the man. There was just something about his grandiose behavior that put me off. Or maybe, I just wanted Rosie back. Well. I’m going to go out for the evening. Janus has the night shift at the desk. If you run into any problems you can just ask him.

Uh, no no no. He waved his whisk around a tight circle the air. Marco does not have the problems in the kitchen. Marco makes beauty in the kitchen. That is what I do.

Brilliant. Well… What was I going to say to that? Alrighty, then. I’m off. My number’s at the desk if you need it.

He waved the whisk again, already back to his cooking. My regular two servers both gave me a shrug. They were used to Marco’s bluster by now. The man could cook, I’d give him that, even if the dishes were a bit much for the simple palettes here in town. The bluster was just ego, but the size of that ego matched the size of the man.

When I come out again, Jess has gone off to wherever it is ghosts go.

On the way out of the Inn I spotted another of our resident ghosts leaning up against the far wall. Lachlan Halliburton is a gentleman ghost from the 1800s. He was one of the first deaths ever on these grounds. Before there was even an Inn here, in fact. He doesn’t say much, and he was a handful the first few times he and I came in contact, but he’s turned into a decent houseguest. He’s got a habit of knocking