Ghostly Whistles: Whistling River Lodge Mysteries, #4

By Irene Radford

The Cascadia Paranormal Society invades the Whistling River Lodge, but they are searching for more than ghosts. Albert Allegheny demands that Lodge-owners Glenna McClain and her new husband Craig Knudsen turn over all the evidence they have collected on Bigfoot. She has spotted a few suspicious things in the forest, but evidence? No way. Except the pandemic has cost the local community dearly, and the dollars this obnoxious man represents could help the town.

Then a member of the Society shows up dead, and the resident ghosts go to ground. That means cancelling the Halloween party and Masque Ball, threatening Glenna's bottom line even more—not to mention the poor night clerk accused of the crime.

Then Glenna discovers Albert Allegheny is a dangerous fraud out to steal her business. To save her lodge and her community, Glenna has to find the murderer and expose Allegheny for what he is. With a little help from her new husband—the hotel security chief—her best friend—the local resident witch—and some surprise dancing guests, the lodge community team up to solve the crime and save the lodge. The ghosts have few other surprises in mind as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bookview Cafe
• Release date: Oct 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781611389845

Irene Radford

Irene Radford has been writing stories ever since she figured out what a pencil was for. A member of an endangered species—a native Oregonian who lives in Oregon—she and her husband make their home in Welches, Oregon where deer, bears, coyotes, hawks, owls, and woodpeckers feed regularly on their back deck. A museum trained historian, Irene has spent many hours prowling pioneer cemeteries deepening her connections to the past. Raised in a military family she grew up all over the US and learned early on that books are friends that don’t get left behind with a move. Her interests and reading range from ancient history, to spiritual meditations, to space stations, and a whole lot in between. Mostly Irene writes fantasy and historical fantasy including the best-selling Dragon Nimbus Series. In other lifetimes she writes urban fantasy as P.R. Frost and space opera as C.F. Bentley.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

It was a dark and stormy night. Yeah, I know that’s a cliché, but what do you expect the week before Halloween in the foothills of Mt. Hood in Oregon? Most autumnal nights are dark and stormy.

A wind gust roared through the confined space of the porte-cochère, presaging the flash of lightning… Wait, that was just the headlights from our airport shuttle bringing guests from elsewhere to the Whistling River Lodge and Golf Resort. Only no one would be playing golf until the fairways dried out for at least three full days of clear weather after this relentless rain dump. Say, maybe mid-April.

As manager and majority stockholder, I shouldn’t be manning the registration desk after eleven PM. But this was less than a full year after the plague had been quelled by a vaccine. I’d had to lay off or cut hours of a lot of personnel during the months and months of closed business. We opened the golf course for the summer (masks required) and that paid a lot of our bills. Between contagion and a nearly broken economy, I’d come close to losing my beloved home. But we’d managed. Now we slowly crept back toward normal, and I was grateful for every guest.

Business had picked up a little. People needed mini vacations anywhere other than home. I’d managed to hire back some of our housekeeping and maintenance staff. André, my brilliant chef, now had a sous chef and three extra wait staff. We’d replaced some tables in the Canyons Restaurant, now up to half-capacity rather than one-quarter, and started serving casual meals in the Woodlands café and bar. Of course, tented patio dining with portable heaters continued.

We’d coped for too long on take-out meals only.

Really, I was grateful for every booking, including late night check-ins. Even the Cascadia Paranormal Society that would be hunting ghosts here for three days and two nights over Halloween. During the first partial re-opening when the plague had started waning, the CPS hadn’t had any other guests to disrupt. I feared they expected the same free run of the entire hotel again. Not this year. I had other guests who didn’t want the spook chasers crashing into their locked rooms at all hours of the day and night.

My night shift security/front desk clerk needed a few hours off to attend his granddaughter’s sixteenth birthday party tonight. I’d looked the other way when he borrowed a few pumpkins, gauze ghosts, witch cut-outs, and corn stalks from my decorations to make the church meeting room more festive for the party, though I wished he’d taken the pirate skull and crossbones flag, and a few of the Dias de los Muertos painted skulls, and lost them. I knew Bill well enough to know that by tomorrow morning all the décor would be back in place.

The party ended at nine. Give him an hour to assist in clean up… and it approached midnight now. Where was he?

Those of us left at Whistling River were tired of twelve hour shifts seven days a week. I had four months to hire more staff to keep the place running while I took maternity leave. Junior kicked me hard enough to bruise a rib. I was more than ready for him to make an entrance. But my Lodge wasn’t.

I checked my computer screen. The vehicle coming to a sloshy stop out front shouldn’t be the CPS coming early. They weren’t booked until day after tomorrow afternoon, the day before Halloween. This must be the last-minute reservation that came in yesterday. Late check in. Two guests. Full Suite. Four nights. B. Thomas on the credit card. The second guest remained unnamed. Okay by me, as long as they didn’t do anything illegal while staying here. My husband and I had slipped away and registered at hotels anonymously—to avoid local gossip and being called back to work—several times before our wedding last Memorial Day.

The shuttle glided to a stop. Craig Knudsen, my security chief, new husband, and fill-in driver knew how to negotiate rain-slick roads. He’d been a cop before early retirement due to a bullet wound that was almost unnoticeable, except for the scars around his artificial knee, and therefore he’d taken every expert-level safe driving course offered. I trusted him to keep our guests safe on the road as well as at the resort.

Craig alighted from the shuttle, leaving the engine running. Then he opened the passenger door and offered a hand to Mr. B. Thomas (I presumed) and a tall, long-legged lady. They looked to be in their mid-forties, maybe early fifties. The outdoor lights embedded in the arched road covering just beyond the front door gave me full vision of the couple. He had wings of gray hair at his temples, and she had thick, shoulder-length dark hair with mahogany highlights that swept her shoulders in a fashionable cut. They both wore comfortable jeans. Expensive designer jeans worn to buttery softness that molded butts and well-defined calves. (Hey, I might have married the love of my life five months ago, but I could still appreciate a beautiful man). He sported a plaid flannel shirt beneath his heavy weather-proof jacket. She wore a cable knit sweater over a turtleneck top and carried her jacket.

They both looked familiar, but I couldn’t place them. The name hadn’t triggered a flag on the computer that they had stayed here before, or at least since we digitized everything.

Craig quickly retrieved their bags from the back of the van and ushered them inward through the automatic sliding doors.

Another gust of wind followed them. It smelled of moldy leaves covering the forest floor and other decaying things. Local legend said the scent belonged to Sasquatch. A common scent in this part of the woods, but not one I associated with indoors.

I checked my dogs, where they snoozed before the gas log hearth across the lobby from the massive registration desk. They’d alert me if anything unusual walked the nearby trails or entered the lobby. Pepper, the black miniature poodle bitch, half-opened one eye. Salt, her white litter mate, lifted his head and cocked his ears forward in curiosity. Officially the poodles belonged to the hotel, (thanks to the previous owner) but they lived with me. Big Al, my Newfoundland Retriever rescue dog, knocked over a pyramid of real pumpkins in his haste to wrap himself around my feet under the desk. He didn’t like strangers. And Craig, his pack mate, left to park the shuttle in the back of the building.

Beautiful dog, Mr. B. Thomas said as he approached the desk. Do we need masks? We’re both fully vaccinated.

No, you are fine. Besides, it was now illegal to require proof of vaccination—medical privacy laws at the federal and state level. Masks and social distancing remained in place at some businesses. But if you are more comfortable with one, we have no objection. Everyone on staff has also been vaccinated.

I extended my hand across the desk. Hi, I’m Glenna McClain, the manager. We spoke earlier today about your reservation.

He took my hand and shook it, firmly but not aggressively so. No clammy palms either.

Bryant Thomas, he said. And this is Janet Dryer.

Ding, ding, ding. My brain woke up and identified them. I admitted my secret vice to myself, and knew him as a judge and producer of a couple of music and dance reality TV competition shows. There was one currently airing on Wednesday nights. This was late Wednesday evening. They must have flown to Portland right after the close of tonight’s episode. I’d watched from the employee lounge. My favorite contestants were safe for another week.

I forced myself into a professional blank countenance. We sometimes hosted celebrities who needed anonymity.

Big Al obligingly poked his nose above the desk, sniffing in every direction. He climbed upward, massive paws on the desk while he continued to sniff. Then his tongued lolled and his butt wiggled happily, tail slapping the side of my chair. He trusted this guy more than he did most men. Therefore, I should too.

The woman held back half a moment while she admired Pepper and scritched Salt’s ears. I was getting quite used to wearing a mask as a fashion statement, color coordinated of course, when they started easing restrictions, she said with a sultry laugh.

I was willing to bet that she made quite the fashion statement any time.

Salt trotted over and dropped his favorite squeaky toy at her feet. Generous of him, but reassuring. He welcomed her into the family pack.

She smiled and crouched before him. Thank you, sweetie, she said, her voice a lilting, almost musical alto. She patted his head, examined the toy, and murmured soothing sounds to him.

Salt retrieved his squeaky, brushed his muzzle against her leg and retreated to the warmth of the fire, further dismantling the pumpkins.

Best reception committee I’ve met in a long time, the woman said, and stood to face me fully. She added her own credit card to the man’s on the desk in front of me.

Janet, I thought I was paying for this? Mr. B. Thomas said. He didn’t look annoyed, just tired and a bit frustrated.

We agreed that you’d pay if we are still a couple at the end of the stay. Otherwise we share, fifty-fifty. She smiled brightly at me. Janet Dryer, talk show host whose insightful interviews were frequently featured on the evening news. She somehow made all of her guests (willing victims) comfortable with her gentle manners and dagger sharp questions.

I know you requested a suite overlooking the river and the golf course. That wing has been completely booked by the Cascadia Paranormal Society for day after tomorrow and the next night. So, I’ve put you in the north wing, a full suite, with a view of the river and the wilderness hills. I hope that is acceptable. I was prepared to offer a hefty discount just in case it wasn’t acceptable. They could be golf fanatics, for all I knew.

No problem. He waved away the change with a flick of his long, elegant fingers, brushed a fake cobweb from his shoulder, and shook his whole arm to dislodge the sticky stuff.

Sorry, I apologized. My head housekeeper’s teenage daughters decorated with enthusiasm, if not exactly good taste. They were responsible for the skulls peeking out from the middle of some of the pumpkin pyramids. About half of the white papier mâché or clear plastic decorations were painted with Dias de Los Muertos designs in vivid colors. They peeked through other displays when least expected. Sort of scary, sort of friendly.

I finished up the couple’s registration and sent them toward the elevator with an apology for no bellhop service this late in the evening, or ever before ski season.

Again, he waved away the problem with a flick of his wrist. He shouldered his soft duffle and reached for hers. But she’d already slid her arm through the strap of a more elegant, bright red, leather carry-on bag. At the last second, she grabbed a flyer for the Halloween festivities on the mountain. Good, there’s a dance here Halloween night. We have time to cobble together some costumes.

Mr. B. Thomas wasn’t just the judge and producer of a ballroom dance competition, he had been a professional dancer with a string of titles. She’d been a contestant a couple of seasons ago and danced with him for two of her most spectacular numbers. There’d been rumors….

He dropped his left hand to his side. She slid hers into it and their fingers curled in a gentle clasp without them having to look to find the other hand. They acted like this was completely normal for them.

Yep. I believed those rumors now.

As the elevator closed upon the new guests, Craig pushed through the front doors.

Bill has clocked in and is making his rounds. You and I are free to go home. I brought my truck around, so you and our impending bundle of joy won’t have to get wet and chilled walking home, he said, leaning in for a kiss on my cheek. I wanted more.

Later.

The dogs leapt up from their places by the hearth and rushed to my husband’s side. They recognized the words home and walk.

Another pumpkin rolled away, revealing yet another painted skull at the bottom of the pile, like an archeologist’s treasure.

Part of me sagged in relief that the long day was finally over, and I could shed my shoes and put my feet up. Another part of me peered into every corner of the lobby, past the mechanical witch presiding over a cauldron with a fake fire beneath it. I needed to make my own rounds, checking every inch of my hotel, cobwebs, fake and real alike, squeaks on the stairs, and dust on the wainscotting before leaving for the night.

Craig gave me a more substantial kiss on my neck, right below my ear so that I squirmed as my vulnerable spot warmed and tingled. Then he guided me upward from my comfortable chair. He’d built a small dais behind the registration desk for my chair as soon as my OB-GYN doctor told me I could maintain normal activity but should not stand for long periods of time. So now I sat when I managed registration, as well as my desk, and could still see over the massive piece of furniture that dated back more than one hundred years to the founding of the lodge.

Too much sitting, I reminded myself. I needed to move more. A lot more. But it would wait for morning.

The building will still be here in the morning. You don’t have to touch every bit of woodwork and test every floorboard before retiring.

I sighed. He understood, as no other man alive could, how much the Whistling River Lodge and Golf Resort meant to me. It meant almost as much to him.

Not walking a quarter mile through this murk sounds good. But first, your little bundle of joy is making a trampoline of my bladder. I have to make a stop before I do anything else.

I should expect anything else? This is almost as bad as morning sickness.

Only another four months to go. I rubbed the side of my rapidly expanding belly. I think I got pregnant on our wedding night, just after we considered it safe to forget birth control. We’d waited on the wedding until the vaccine became wide-spread, and we could have a few guests attend in person rather than teleconference.

I’ll let the dogs out now, he said, putting on a smile.

Just don’t let Al wander too far. He doesn’t mind the rain, and he’ll stink up the truck and the house with the perfume of wet dog.

And Pepper will follow him just to assert her authority over the pack, and Salt will follow her because she is alpha. He reached beneath the desk to find the leashes while I hastened around the corner to the administrative corridor and the restroom.

When I came back, Bill stood behind the desk, having pushed my dais and throne aside so he could stand behind the computer monitor without disturbing the orange mums with green ribbons around the neck of the vase. I exchanged a few pleasantries with Craig’s second-in-command.

He rubbed his face with his hands as if to banish fatigue, dislodging a bit of skin on his lower lip.

What’s that? I asked pointing to the vividly red splotch. Had he dislodged skin or make-up?

Cold sore, he mumbled, and looked away. Then his eyes focused on the computer screen. Is Mr. B. Thomas and guest who I think he is? he asked me, pointing to the room chart.

Yes. And his guest is Ms. J. Dryer. I think they are here for privacy to test their relationship. You know that his wife died of the plague just before the vaccine became available.

Bill nodded once and resumed his survey of activity, like he always did at beginning of shift.

How was your granddaughter’s birthday party? I asked.

He paused before shrugging his shoulders. All of the kids are growing up too quickly. But Ellie will only be sixteen once. I should step back, a little—a very little—and let her explore the world and her options. No smile lit his face as it usually did when he talked about any of his children or grandchildren, or his wife of nearly forty years. Night Security was his retirement job after thirty-five years on a local police force. He’d been here ten years. Now that Ellie was in high school, I expected Bill to completely retire any time.

Another reason to being on more staff. I hired the new intern from Portland State. She starts on the first.

We need her on the thirtieth, when the Cascadia Paranormal Society crashes over us like a tsunami.

I wish. But it’s a nightmare of bookkeeping for her to start this late in the month. I hate to add to Babs’ workload.

Think about it, he said, rubbing his broken lip. He didn’t sound like he had a cold. I know you don’t have to have a cold to get one of those sores, but in my experience that’s when they popped out most often.

Something happen tonight? I asked. Reticence was not his usual demeanor.

Nothing important. I saw a text on the security reports that some high school senior boys have been playing nasty pranks, smashing pumpkins without permission, soaping car windows, that sort of thing. I hope it doesn’t escalate.

I’ll remind Craig to expand his patrols.

Bill nodded and scrolled down the computer screen some more. "You run on along home and get some rest. Craig and the dogs are waiting. You do not need to straighten the decorations. I’ll do it. He turned his attention to the house phone, checked a blinking light and replied, Room Service."

I ducked out before I got roped in to making a sandwich for someone. A good ski season and I’d be able to afford to hire back, full time, all the workers I’d had to place on standby, including extra kitchen staff. For now, I was grateful for a single intern.

CHAPTER TWO

Six o’clock the next morning, an hour before sunrise this far north, Craig and I ran the dogs along the river trail like we did every morning. This section that bordered the sixth and seventh fairways had been groomed with gravel and didn’t hold as many mud puddles as some of the other trails. I was less likely to trip and fall on this path, a growing concern as I grew bulkier and more awkward. Instead of leading the pack I was now much, much slower. I waddled rather than