Penelope and The Ghost's Treasure

By Ron D. Voigts

Despite Penelope's objections, her parents hustle her off to Tiffin Preparatory School, operated in the old Windorf Hotel. According to the rumors, secret passages and hidden rooms honeycomb the place. There’s talk about hidden treasure and may even be a ghost.

First days at a new school never go well, and for Penelope it is a disaster. Within minutes of being at the school, a teacher falls over dead and everyone thinks Penelope caused it.

Penelope enlists the help of her offbeat friends and a quirky professor to find the real killer in an adventure that leads across roof tops, through hidden passages and in the woods outside the school. Complications arise when a feud develops with some other students and the wily principal plots ways to expel her. Before it’s over she must save herself and everyone in the school from the hands of the crazy killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron D. Voigts
• Release date: Sep 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466165960

Ron D. Voigts

Originally from the Midwest, Ron D. Voigts now calls North Carolina home where he and his wife have a home off the Neuse River. Ideas for his stories comes from the rural areas where he has lived, places he has visited, his love of the paranormal, and an overactive imagination. Ron considers his writing to be a literary fusion of mystery, thriller, paranormal, and any genre that suits the moment. When not plunking out a novel at the keyboard, he spends his time sharpening his culinary skills, watching gritty movies, and eating cookies with chocolate chips.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Reading the Signs

Sometime in the past…

Penelope pointed at the black and white sign that read PRIVATE PROPERTY, KEEP OUT. Should we be turning here?

The prospect of trespassing kicked her heart up a notch, but showing too much emotion would only prompt Mother for a lecture on self-control. Penelope placed a hand over her mouth and feigned a yawn.

Father eased the car left, off the main highway onto a potted, dirt road. Their Calypso Touring Car, one of Father’s past inventions, jostled and rocked as its tires followed two dirt tracks into the wooded brush. Ahead, the forest deepened, threatening to swallow them.

This shortcut will shave a half-hour off the trip, Father said.

The car lurched as it dropped into a pothole. Mother bounced in her seat, her head missing the car roof by inches. She chirped. Are you sure this will get us there faster?

That’s what Elmer said.

You’re gangster brother who’s hiding from the mob. Mother’s voice gained decibels.

I’m sure he would not have told us to go this way if it weren’t faster. Father leaned forward, peering up through the windshield. It’s getting dark outside. It might rain.

Perhaps all the trees are blocking the sunlight. Penelope gazed out the side window as branches and brush scraped the sides of the car.

Remember it was Elmer who nearly got us all killed by a mob hit man, Mother said.

Father turned on the car lights. But he gave Penelope the letter that will get her into the prep school.

Mother sniffed. That’s what we believe. Do you have the letter, dear?

Penelope patted her bib overalls pocket where she had tucked the letter. I have it.

Boom!

Father cupped a hand to his ear. Thunder. I knew it was going to storm.

Shouldn’t rain start falling? Penelope rolled down a window and pushed her hand out, feeling nothing but air.

Boom!

The car shook.

The storm is getting stronger, Father warned.

Mother craned her neck, looking out the front windshield. Penelope made a good point. Some precipitation would be expected by now.

BOOM!

Penelope slapped her hands over her ears as stone and dirt showered down. It’s raining something, and it’s not water.

Kaplop! A massive tree trunk with gnarled roots landed in their path. Father slammed his foot on the brake pedal. Penelope lunged forward, toppling into the front seat.

Maybe it was a tornado, Father said.

Look. Mother pointed out her window. Someone in a hard hat is running this way.

Maybe it’s the weatherman with an update. Penelope righted herself to a seated position between Mother and Father.

What in the Sam Hill are you people doing here? Out of breath, the man pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his brow.

Mother rolled down her window. This is the shortcut to US-17, her left eyebrow raised as she added, according to Elmer.

The man pointed down the road. Didn’t you see the sign?

That says ‘Private Property, Keep Out,’ Penelope said.

No, the one that says, ‘Danger, Blasting Ahead.’ He turned and squinted, looking down the road. Stenciled across the back of his coveralls was Beacons Blasting. Maybe I forgot to put it up.

Mother snorted. You could have killed us.

Poor judgment like that is dangerous. Father raised a finger to make his point.

We were minding our own business. Penelope pursed her lips, trying to imitate Mother.

You people have to go back the way you came. We’re blasting tree stumps, making room for the new highway. It’ll cut a half-hour out of your trip to US-17.

That is where we want to be. Father slammed his fist on the dashboard. Elmer was right.

Frightening. Mother sighed.

Uncle Elmer had stolen books from the mob, escaped their henchman, turned government informant and survived a twenty-year marriage with Aunt Madeline. In the sea of life, he was the flotsam that always floated to the top.

Penelope grinned. That’s Uncle Elmer.

Fortunately, the Calypso Touring Car drives backward, as well as it does forward. Father shifted it into reverse. A wide mirror descended across the windshield, reflecting the view through the rear window. Without turning his head, he piloted the car in reverse down the dirt road.

Soon they were back on the main road. After an hour of driving, they came to a wood bridge over a torrent of water.

That is the Helawah River. If you look down there, Father said, pointing upstream, you can see the limestone cliffs.

Crossing the bridge, they turned onto US-17. Mother pointed at a stone building with a graveyard nearby. That is the oldest church in the county.

Penelope paid little attention to her parents. A paved driveway and a majestic sign announcing the school was ahead, dashing any hope of avoiding this dark moment in her life.

Father tapped the dashboard clock. You’ll be on-time for the first class.

I’m sure glad we left at 3 AM this morning, Penelope moaned.

In a grassy field by the driveway, she spied the remnants of a brick wall, scorched and blackened by fire. A smoke stack like a pillar of an Egyptian temple stretched to the sky. Weeds grew in a forgotten parking lot. Remnants of a sign hung from a rusted metal post.

WINDORF PHA

What’s over there? Penelope squirmed in her seat to see better, but a grove of trees hid her view as they turned a bend.

Over where, dear? Mother said, never taking her eyes off the road.

Never mind, Penelope said, wondering what the strange words meant.

Chapter 2 – School Daze

Penelope carried her suitcase and followed Mother through the school parking lot. I think going to prep school is overrated. She hoped to make a point. I did well at home, learning on my own.

I do not understand what all this fussing is about. Mother walked three paces ahead and, although she wore high heels and took short steps, still managed to outpace Penelope.

I don’t understand why I need to go away to school. Nor did Penelope understand why Mother could not be more considerate and walk with her, instead of ahead as if they were in some type of race.

Because, was all Mother said and increased her speed, her high heels clicking across the parking lot pavement.

Father, who had lingered behind checking the air in the car tires, caught up to them. You can never be too careful when it comes to properly maintaining a car.

Not fair. Penelope ignored her father and continued her argument. Why can’t you continue teaching me at home until I go to college?

Explain it, Gustaf, Mother said, gaining a further lead.

Well, the concept is quite simple. Proper tire inflation is paramount to car maintenance…

Mother snorted. I meant the reason for Penelope attending Tiffin Prep School. Never mind. I’ll explain.

Without losing her stride, Mother began walking backwards, which was a feat in high heels. A preparatory school is an excellent way to gain knowledge necessary for a successful career in college. And what better place to attend then a school founded by Tiffin College, which, by the way, is both your father’s and my alma mater.

I know the story, Mother. The collegiate achievements of her parents were indelibly scribed on her brain. Her father graduated magna cum something with a triple major in chemistry, physics and math. Her mother made high honors with a degree in literature and a minor in annoyance.

Then why do you keep asking? Mother said.

Because you don’t understand!

Mother turned and chirped. Father stopped and stroked his mustache. Penelope dropped her suitcase and stared ahead.

The first word that came to Penelope’s mind was monster.

The three-story building was a sprawling structure of mixed architectures that lacked any plan. Victorian. Gothic. Gingerbread. The overall color was yellow with blue trim and a red roof. Two sharp gables flanked a domed rooftop. A staff at the peak of the dome displayed three pennants. A black flag. A red flag. A yellow flag. Across the double-door entrance spanned a red canopy. A perky sign on the front lawn announced TIFFIN PREPARATORY SCHOOL.

Outstanding, Mother said.

Amazing, Father commented.

Ugly, Penelope added.

Mother continued, The history is quite interesting. After Thaddeus Windorf lost his business to a mysterious fire back in 1942, he built the Windorf Hotel on the site. The hotel was a smashing success. He amassed a considerable fortune. Sadly, in 1953 he died of pneumonia. Soon afterward, his wife, Lady Windorf, died, leaping into the Halewah River.

The newspapers reported she left a suicide note, explaining that she jumped from the cliff behind the hotel, Father said. But her body was never found.

Oh, great, Penelope said, shaking her head. I’m going to a school founded by a dead man and his crazy dead wife.

Mother droned on, Her will left the hotel to Tiffin College, which converted it to the prep school this past year. You will be attending its first year of existence. Aren’t you excited?

Beyond anything you could ever imagine. Penelope sighed, wishing she were anywhere but here.

I heard, Father added, that Thaddeus Windorf was obsessive. The architectural design of the hotel bordered on lunacy.

Lunacy! That word interested Penelope. It offered potential. Things rational and sensible offered little stimulation to her senses, but the promise of lunacy quickened her heart and elevated her spirit. However, to show such emotions would only dilute her argument, so she said flatly with no emotion, What kind of lunacy?

Father tilted his head back as he took in the school. They say the building has stairs and doors that go nowhere, hidden passages, rooms askew and missing space. If you measured the outside dimensions of the building and compared it to interior dimensions, thousands of square feet of space are lost.

Who said all that? Mother asked.

Elmer, he answered.

Of course. Mother snorted. Who else?

Father seemed nonplussed as he bent over and picked up a penny from the parking lot. He studied it and rubbed it between his fingers. A 1909 Lincoln.

What’s that? Penelope pointed to the ugliest statue she had ever seen. With its head cocked back and arm stretched out to a fist, the bronze effigy of a stout man stood boldly on a marble base

That, Father said, is Thaddeus Windorf. Well at least it’s his likeness. He died six months after the statue was dedicated.

But why is he waving his fist?

That’s the interesting part of the story. It seems originally the fist had an index finger, but it disappeared shortly after the statue’s dedication. Father held the penny up in the light, examining it closer.

Mother planted her fists on her hips. Who told you all this?

Elmer.

Of course, Penelope added.

Deliveries are made at the back. The nasal tinged voice belonged to a girl standing under the canopy. Her yellow hair ended in a tight ponytail. She wore a plaid skirt, a crisp white blouse and a beret with a pompom cocked on her head.

Mother, whose willingness to inform never lacked anything, began, We’re here to register our daughter for school. Penelope should do well at Tiffin Preparatory School. I educated her myself. Mother bobbed her head and corrected her posture. We’re Amours.

At that moment, many things could have embarrassed Penelope. She wore bib overalls and a stocking cap pulled down to her ears. Her height probably made her look like a fifth grader, instead of thirteen years old. Her father was more interested in the penny he had found. But the only real thing that embarrassed her was Mother, especially when she added, we’re Amours, as if the word meant their religious conviction or political affiliation.

The girl sniffed and lifted her nose. I am Laura Ainsley Fulton of the Boston Fultons.

Penelope Angelique Amour of the Dillwood Amours. Penelope held out her hand. Pleased to meet you.

Ignoring the outstretched hand, Laura spun around and marched toward the entrance. You need to see Dr. Merriweather. Follow me.

Penelope grabbed her suitcase, shuffled her feet and parroted Laura. Follow me.

Mother sniffed, Father tucked the penny in his vest pocket, and they followed her.

It still has the ambiance of the old hotel, Father said, staring up at the chandelier in the lobby. That’s cut crystal.

Mother scrutinized the decor, eyeing a massive fireplace, a grand piano and a potted Norfolk pine tree. Her gazed lingered the longest on the water fountain at the lobby’s center where three porcelain fish on a pedestal spit a steady stream of water into the basin. They could have removed the fountain. It is a bit much for a school environment.

Penelope poked her finger into a water stream. Father can toss his penny in and make a wish.

That’s Miss Batworthy, the principal’s secretary. Laura pointed at a frumpy woman sitting at the lobby’s desk.

Mother shoved Penelope forward toward the secretary. We’re enrolling our daughter in the ninth grade.

Miss Batworthy studied the Amours with her monkey eyes darting from Mother to Father and stopping on Penelope. Is she old enough to attend the ninth grade?

Mother chirped. She’s much older than she looks. Actually, she’s thirteen. She’s very mature for her age.

Mother looked at Penelope, took her by the collar and applied enough lift to take her to her tiptoes. Stand up straight, dear. Don’t slouch.

I am standing straight. Penelope pulled away. She wiggled her shoulders and adjusted the collar of her shirt away from her ears. I don’t stretch.

Mother said nothing, but her glance conveyed a deeper meaning with implications of an impending long lecture.

Batworthy glanced over her shoulder at a door marked HOTEL MANAGER. Dr. Merriweather may be busy.

Mother stared at the door. "Shouldn’t it say principal?"

Jake, the janitor, hasn’t gotten around to it yet.

Father stepped around the desk and examined the door’s sign. Two screws. I could have it off in a jiffy.

Batworthy pressed a key on her intercom. Penelope Amour and her parents are here to register her for school.

A whiny voice droned from the intercom, School started last week. Tell them we’re all full up. We have 100 students registered and that is the maximum. Good-bye. The intercom went dead.

Miss Batworthy batted her eyelashes. You heard Dr. Merriweather. No room for little Penelope.

Looks like I’m not staying. Penelope turned to walk away.

Mother blocked Penelope’s retreat without taking her eyes off Batworthy. Tell him it’s Gustaf and Winifred Amour, old classmates from Tiffin College. He probably remembers me as Winifred Thorpe. That’s my maiden name.

A deep sigh came from the mealy woman as she pushed the intercom switch again. They say they are Gustaf Amour and Winifred Amour.

Mother cleared her throat and stared down her nose at Batworthy.

Oh, yes, you might remember her as Winifred Thorpe.

A growl came back from the intercom. I don’t know anyone named Gustaf Amour, Winifred Amour or Winifred Thorpe. And by any other alias I still won’t know them.

This is ridiculous. Mother leaned over the desk and pushed the intercom switch. Honestly, Malcolm, get your wits about you, or I will tell that old story about a goat, a can of motor oil and Dean Wilcox’s underwear.

A goat. Motor oil. Someone’s underwear. The permutations of how those three items could be combined danced through Penelope’s head. She hoped Merriweather did not meet with them and Mother would tell the tale, but the door to the office sprang open.

Gustaf! Winnie! Out stepped a tall man. The lack of hair on the top of his head was amply compensated by bushy eyebrows and a walrus mustache. He pumped Father and Mother’s arms with handshakes. Come into my office.

You look the same, Father said, following him, although maybe the top of the tree has lost a few leaves.

We’ve come to register our daughter for school. Mother grabbed Penelope by the strap of her bib overalls and dragged her closer.

Merriweather’s mouth formed into a pucker as his eyebrows lowered over his eyes. He scrutinized Penelope from various angles. He moved his face closer until she smelled his breath, which had an odor reminiscent of kitchen garbage. Merriweather pinched the fabric of her stocking cap and pulled it off.

Penelope felt the rush of cold air around her ears.

Mother pushed and brushed at her hair. It is a bit unruly. Her hair has a natural curl that makes it wiry. That’s why she wears the cap.

Penelope brushed her fingers through her hair until they snagged and moved no farther. I wear the cap because I like to. She snatched it back and pulled it back on.

Is she ready for the 9th grade? Merriweather’s voice ended in a whine.

We schooled her ourselves. I taught her grammar, literature and social sciences. Gustaf covered math and science. Isn’t that right?

Father, who had been examining a clock on Merriweather’s desk, looked up. Fascinating timepiece. The face is glass, which exposes the inner workings. You can see the gears and cogs.

Gustaf, I asked you about math and science. Mother folded her arms across her chest and threw her head back.

Two of my favorite subjects, Father answered.

Penelope joined him and pointed past the clock’s hands. There’s the main spring.

If you look back there, you can see the pendulum movement.

Mother snorted. My point is she is ready for the ninth grade. That is why we came to Tiffin Preparatory School.

Brrringgg!

The bell atop the clock vibrated.

Merriweather snatched it away from Father, turned off the alarm and returned it to his desk. The school is designed for 100 students with exactly 25 per grade level. School started last week and our enrollment if already full. We have no room.

Give Dr. Merriweather the letter. Mother shoved Penelope toward him.

She plucked it from her overalls pocket and handed it to him.

Merriweather slipped on a pair of glasses. Unfolding the paper, he began to read, Dear Malkie. Hey it’s me, your old friend Elmer. Merriweather looked over the tops of his spectacles. Your brother Elmer. How’s he doing?

He’s doing well. We saw him earlier this year, Father said.

Mother cleared her throat. Elmer is in a transitional period. Relocating. He’s gone into a new business line. Hardware or something.

I think he’s got a new name too. They do that in the witness protection program, Penelope added.

The next moment was fraught with silence. Mother looked wide-eyed at Merriweather with her head tilted at an acute angle, Father toyed with the wind key of the clock, Penelope donned her ten-dollar smile, and Merriweather stared