Chapter Eleven
I’m supposed to be finalizing vendor lists for the Western Builders Trade Show.
Instead, I’m staring at a ghost. Well … not literally.
But my laptop screen is filled with article after article about The Lady in Red. The Belicourt’s famous legend.
And the more I read, the more fascinated I become.
The hotel is bustling now. Evening has settled in, and the restaurant, lounges, and bars are filling up. Music and laughter drift faintly through the hallway outside my office.
My desk lamp casts a warm circle over my laptop and notepad. Everything else in the room sits in shadow. Which frankly feels appropriate, considering I’m researching a ghost.
I lean closer to the screen, scrolling through another article.
Local folklore claims that the spirit of a woman, dressed in a crimson gown, roams the halls of the historic Belicourt Resort Hotel.
My lips curl into a grin. I love this kind of stuff. Not because I necessarily believe it. But because stories like this are gold for tourism. People are fascinated by tall tales. Haunted hotels. Mysterious deaths. Any unexplained occurrence.
Half the reason people visit places like Savannah or New Orleans is because of their ghost tours.
And the Belicourt has its own resident ghost.
The Lady in Red. A perfect marketing hook.
I click another link.
This one leads to a blog post with a blurry photo someone swears shows a red mist by the piano in the Belicourt’s Cottonwood Court.
I squint at it.
Honestly, it looks like someone might have had a smudge on their camera lens.
Still, the comments are filled with people arguing about whether it’s real or fake.
I open another tab.
Another article. A version of the same story, this one with a sighting of The Lady leaning over the fifth-floor balcony.
Elegant woman.
Red gown.
And another of her being seen wandering the halls late at night. Sometimes laughing. Sometimes crying. Always disappearing before anyone can get close to her.
But no one seems to know who she actually was. Which is weird. Hotels like this keep records of everything. Guests. Events. Staff.
So, if a woman died here or disappeared or suffered some tragic heartbreak, whether she was a guest or a staff member, you’d think there would be documentation somewhere.
“Okay, Lady in Red,” I murmur to myself, “who are you?”
I type another search.
Belicourt Hotel Lady in Red identity.
Several familiar articles pop up again. But then something different catches my eye. A book. Self-published. The title appears in bold letters across the listing.
What Happened at the Belicourt Hotel? By Sidney Bolin.
I click it immediately.
The product page loads. A grainy photograph of the Belicourt fills the cover—its towering facade lit by moonlight. In one of the upper windows, there’s a faint red glow that looks almost like the silhouette of a woman.
Cheesy.
But effective.
I scroll down to the description.
Local legend has it that the historical Belicourt Resort Hotel in Wildhaven, Wyoming, is haunted by the spirit of the elegant Lady in Red.
But why?
Who was she, and what happened to cause her spirit to be trapped forever within its opulent walls?
Take a journey with me through the corridors of the famous hotel and explore eyewitness accounts from those lucky enough to encounter the playful yet sad apparition.
My eyebrows lift.
“Okay … that’s actually pretty good.”
I scroll further down to the reviews. Hundreds of them. The average rating is surprisingly high.
Curious, I click the first one.
I visited the Belicourt after reading this book, and I swear I heard footsteps outside my door at midnight …
Another one:
The history in this book is fascinating! I had no idea the hotel had such a tragic past.
And another:
Now I want to travel to Wyoming just to see if I can meet The Lady in Red myself.
I laugh softly.
Interesting.
Review after review says the same thing. People are drawn to the mystery. They love the romance of it all and truly fall for the idea that the Belicourt might actually be haunted.
And dozens—no, hundreds—say the book made them want to visit Wyoming to see for themselves.
My brain starts spinning with possibilities. Ghost tours. Historical storytelling events. A themed cocktail night. Maybe even a Lady in Red murder mystery dinner event.
Marketing gold.
I scroll back to the top of the page. Without even thinking, I click Buy Now on the paperback link. It should be here in two days.
“Perfect,” I say aloud.
If there’s even a grain of historical truth behind this story, I want to know.
I close my laptop and glance at the clock on my desk—7:24 p.m.
My eyes widen.
“Oh shoot. I missed supper.”
Grandma has supper on the table at seven o’clock sharp. And you’re either there on time or you’re making yourself a peanut butter sandwich.
I definitely didn’t mean to stay this late.
I close the computer, load my bag, shut off the desk lamp, and step into the hallway.
The Belicourt at night has a completely different energy.
During the day, it’s all business and filled with staff moving purposefully. But now, the long corridors are dimly lit, creating a dreamy atmosphere, and bustling with guests dressed up, looking to enjoy their night.
I’m halfway down the hall toward the lobby when a familiar voice stops me.
“Working late, Miss Storm?”
I turn to see Porter Garrison.
He’s walking toward me from the far end of the hall, with a steady, confident stride, jacket slung casually over one shoulder, like he just stepped off the cover of Forbes magazine.
My stomach does a tiny little flip that I refuse to acknowledge.
“Please, call me Harleigh,” I say, smiling.
He slows as he reaches me, slipping his jacket on. “Okay, Harleigh. What has you here this late?”
I shrug lightly. “I sort of lost track of time.”
His eyes flicker toward my office door. “Working hard?”
“Sort of.”
His eyebrow lifts slightly. “That doesn’t sound convincing.”
I laugh. “I was doing some marketing research,” I say vaguely.
“Sounds fascinating.”
“Not really.” I grin.
He studies me for a while. Then he glances at his watch. “I was actually heading to dinner.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I step aside slightly. “I was going home to make a peanut butter sandwich myself.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I missed supper, and Grandma holds supper for no one,” I say, laughing.
He pauses for a moment.
“You could join me.”
I blink, surprised at the offer. “Really?”
“Why not?” His tone is casual, but his expression says even he’s surprised. “I’d like to pick your brain and hear about what you’re working on,” he says.
I hesitate for exactly two seconds. Then I smile.
“Okay.”
His lips tilt upward. “Good.”
We head toward the elevator together. The doors slide open with a soft ding.
Calliope greets us, “Good evening, Mr. Garrison. Harleigh. Going up?”
“Third floor, please,” Porter answers.
“Yes, sir,” Calliope chirps as we step inside.
The mirrored walls reflect both of us standing side by side, and I suddenly become very aware of the awkward silence.
And the fact that Porter smells faintly like expensive cologne—a smoky, rich sandalwood scent.
The elevator begins to climb.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“The Wild Sage Steak House.”
I notice Calliope’s reflection in the mirror, and she keeps her head down, but I catch her lips curving into a smile.
“Sounds fancy,” I say.
“You haven’t tried it?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
“It’s the best steak in Wyoming,” he says.
The doors open on the third floor.
“Enjoy your evening,” Calliope says as we exit. The grin never leaving her face.
The Wild Sage Steak House sits at the end of the corridor, warm, inviting light spilling from its entrance.
But we barely take three steps before another voice calls out, “Porter?”
We both turn to see Diana. She’s walking toward us from the other direction, tablet tucked against her side.
Her eyes flick from Porter … to me.
And something in her expression shifts. From pleasantly surprised to stunned. Maybe even … irritated.
“Hello, Diana,” he greets.
“Um, hi,” she says slowly. “Heading to dinner?”
Porter’s posture remains relaxed. “We are.”
Diana’s gaze lingers on me for a heartbeat. Then returns to him. “Oh?”
“Yes. We were both working late,” Porter says calmly. “And I thought it might be a good opportunity to see how Miss Storm is settling in.”
The explanation is perfectly sensible. But something about the way Diana’s smile tightens makes my stomach twist slightly. She doesn’t like that we’re together.
“That’s … thoughtful,” she says. Her tone is professional. Friendly even. But there’s an edge beneath it.
Jealousy.
“Well,” she continues briskly, “I’ll leave you to it.”
Her eyes flick between us once more before landing on me and narrowing slightly. “Enjoy your meal.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Good night, Diana,” Porter says.
“Good night.”
She turns on her heel and walks back to the elevator. Her stilettos clicking sharply against the polished floor.
Neither of us speak as we watch her disappear.
Porter exhales slowly. Then he swings his arm toward the restaurant’s entrance. “After you.”
I glance up at him. “Is she mad?”
“No.”
He pauses.
“Maybe.”