Chapter Twenty-Six
I sit at the dining table with my book open to the last chapter. My notebook sits beside it, already filled with scribbled notes and question marks.
The back door opens.
Then comes the familiar rustle of paper bags and the heavy thud of boots on hardwood.
Grandma is back from the market.
I push back from the table just as she walks through the doorway, carrying two overloaded brown paper grocery bags in her arms.
“Grandma!” I say, jumping up.
She pauses, peering over the top of the bags. “Well, hello to you too.”
“You should have called me. I would’ve come out to help you.”
“Oh, nonsense,” she says. “I’m not fragile.”
Still, I hurry over and take one of the bags from her arms.
It’s heavier than it looks.
“You bought half the store.”
“It was all on sale.”
“Then you had no choice,” I say.
We walk into the kitchen together.
It’s spotless, and it smells of the lemon cleaner she uses on the countertops every morning.
I set the bag on the big kitchen island while she places the other beside it.
She immediately begins unpacking them.
Milk.
Eggs.
Apples.
A loaf of sourdough.
“What are you up to?” she asks without looking up.
“Research.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
I lean back against the island, crossing my arms. “I’m reading up on The Lady in Red.”
Grandma pauses mid-unpacking.
She turns slowly to face me. “The who?”
“The Lady in Red.”
She blinks. “Like the song?” she asks.
“Song?”
“Chris de Burgh,” she says.
“Um, no. Like the ghost,” I say.
Grandma snorts. “There’s no such thing.”
“Yeah, well, she supposedly haunts the Belicourt.”
She resumes unloading the groceries. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I don’t either,” I say quickly.
Mostly.
Probably.
But the story is still intriguing.
“But apparently, a lot of people have reported seeing her over the last ninety years.”
Grandma places a carton of eggs into the refrigerator. “People see what they want to see. And believe what they want to believe.”
I grab an orange from the bag and roll it between my hands. “There are quite a few articles online. Eerily similar accounts of her and her shenanigans.”
“Reliable sources, I’m sure,” she says dryly.
“And a novelist wrote an entire book about her. That’s the one I’m reading now.”
Grandma shuts the refrigerator door. “A novelist?”
“Yeah. She was writing a travel book about the Teton mountains, and while she was doing research for that book, she became fascinated by the story of The Lady in Red.”
She leans against the counter, clearly humoring me. “And what did this novelist have to say?”
I start peeling the orange while I gather my thoughts. “Well, according to the story, the Belicourt hosts this huge Christmas gala every year.”
Grandma nods. “That part I know. It’s been a big society event for as long as I can remember.”
“Well, supposedly,” I continue, “the ghost is the spirit of a guest who was heading to the gala and fell to her death.”
Grandma winces. “That would certainly ruin a party.”
I nod. “Right? Since then,” I say, “she continues to roam the corridors of the hotel, looking for her lover.”
“Of course she does.”
“Oh, and sometimes, she throws things around in one of the rooms on the fifth floor.”
Grandma laughs outright now. “Well, that is quite a tale.”
“Maybe she does,” I say.
Grandma raises an eyebrow. “Harleigh.”
“You have to admit, it’s strange that so many people have spotted her over the decades.”
“Ever heard of mass hysteria?” she asks.
“Like the Salem witch trials?”
“Yes. Exactly like that. People start believing lies to be truth, and their own minds deceive them.”
I lean forward a little, getting into storyteller mode.
“But what if the woman was a real person who died at the hotel and it was covered up?”
Grandma’s eyebrows climb higher. “Why would that happen?”
I shrug. “The author of the book thinks it could have been to protect her lover. Maybe he pushed her?”
She wipes her hands on a dish towel and looks at me thoughtfully. “You mean murder?”
I nod.
“Did a guest actually fall to her death at the Belicourt?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Eyewitnesses—actual guests who were on their way to the gala that night—reported seeing her lying on the Cottonwood Court floor, yet nothing was ever officially reported, and no one knows her name.”
“So, you don’t know if any of it’s true.”
“Not yet.”
“Why don’t you just ask the young man you were with the other night?”
I shove a section of orange into my mouth. “Man? What man?” I ask as I swallow.
Grandma narrows her eyes. “The young man who gave you a ride home. Your boss?”
Oh, right. I forgot I introduced them.
“Mr. Garrison. Right,” I say. “Um, he’s not exactly a fan of The Lady in Red story. In fact, he gets irritated anytime it’s brought up. Thinks it’s nonsense. So, he’s a dead lead.”
She raises a brow. “What are you planning to do?”
I pop another orange wedge into my mouth and chew slowly.
“Harleigh?”
“I’m going to go down to the library today and look through their newspaper archives. See if I can find out who she was. I mean, if she was a real person, someone had to be looking for her, right? People don’t just disappear into thin air without someone noticing.”
“So, you’re gonna keep snooping even though your boss doesn’t want you to?”
“Yep.”
“Why are you so curious?” she asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
But that’s not entirely true.
There’s something about the story that sticks in my brain.
Maybe it’s the drama of it.
Or the romance.
Or the tragedy.
Or maybe it’s just the idea that the Belicourt has this secret layer of history hiding beneath all that polished marble and glittering chandeliers.
“I just can’t stop thinking about it,” I say. “It’s a really cool story we could use as a marketing tool.”
“For the hotel?”
“Yeah!”
I brush the orange peel into the trash and grab my notebook from the dining table. “Think about it.” I flip it open to a page where I’ve scribbled ideas. “People love ghost stories.”
I start pacing a little as my brain kicks into full idea mode. “Look at Savannah. People love to visit Savannah and stay in haunted hotels and go on haunted city tours.”
She nods slowly.
“And it’s the same in New Orleans. So, why not Wildhaven? Guided ghost tours of the haunted hotel, paranormal experiences.”
Grandma smiles faintly. “And you think people would come here just for that?”
“I know they would.”
I gesture enthusiastically with the notebook. “There are so many possibilities. We could do reenactments. Create Lady in Red–themed cocktails in the lounge.”
Grandma chuckles. “You’ve thought about this.”
“Just a little.”
She shakes her head. “You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.”
“Hey,” I say defensively. “Not just me. People eat this stuff up. And the Belicourt already has the perfect atmosphere. It’s really old.
Hidden in the mountainside.” I gesture around like the hotel is somehow visible from our kitchen.
“Historic architecture. Elegant design. Old corridors. Creepy balconies.”
“That might be true. But it also has an owner who doesn’t want any of it.”
“Not yet. But I think he’ll come around.”
“Well”—she picks up the loaf of bread and starts slicing it—“I suppose people do enjoy a good folktale.”
“Yes!”
“And if nothing else,” she adds, “it gives visitors something interesting to talk about.”
“Exactly.”
I lean against the counter, feeling weirdly energized.
“I just need to figure out if any of it actually happened.”
“And if it did and there was a cover-up, it might not look so good for the Belicourt or the Garrisons. Have you considered that?”
I bite my lip.
I haven’t.
“That could be why your young man doesn’t want you poking around,” she says.
“Hmm. Maybe.”
I take a bite of bread.
Either way, I’m going to the newspaper archives because I have to know.
And because somewhere in the history of this town, there might be a forgotten woman in a red dress, waiting to be found.