“Sure. I guess.”
Jane fell into step with her as they walked along a corridor to the far end of the ground floor. There, an archway led into a cavernous kitchen. Pots and pans hung from rafters. A giant fireplace and hearth filled one end. Other than that, the place was state of the art with giant refrigerators and freezers, a range top surrounded by granite, a work table, and other modern appliances. There was also a large table in a breakfast nook. Old paned windows looked out over the cliff top where flowers and shrubs grew in beautiful profusion.
Chef Bo Gerard, a man who greatly resembled Chef Boyardee, and his two young assistants, Harry Taubolt—dark-haired and lean, a handsome young man in his mid-twenties—and Devon Richard, blond, a little heavier, a little older, and bearing the marks of teenage acne—were already there. They all looked morose. Each had a mug in front of him as if they were all imbibing in coffee, but a large bottle of Jameson’s sat in the middle of the table between them. The three looked up from their cups and smiled grimly at seeing Scully, then leapt to their feet when they saw Jane.
“Miss, guests aren’t really allowed back here,” Chef Gerard said.
“Oh, leave her be. What, does she look stupid? They’re going to look up everything about this place,” Scully said. She walked past the table, heading toward the granite counter and a coffee pot. “Miss Everett, coffee? You can lace it or not as you choose. The guys already have the booze on the table. Me? My minister dead on my wedding day? I’d be drinking.”
Jane smiled. “Coffee, yes, lovely, thank you.”
She accepted a cup from Scully, who sat and poured herself a liberal amount of Jameson’s from the bottle on the table.
Not about to let an uncomfortable silence begin, Jane dove right in. “Scully, you said that we shouldn’t have been allowed to plan a wedding here. Why? What happened before.”
“Scully!” Chef said.
Scully stared at him and then looked at Jane. “You know the legend, of course. I was so startled and so scared when I saw the poor Reverend MacDonald. I looked at her picture. I mean, seriously, who knows? Maybe she can push people down the stairs.”
“Scully, you’re an idiot,” Harry Taubolt said, shaking his dark head. “You see ghosts everywhere.”
“There are ghosts,” Devon Richard said, staring into his cup. He looked at Jane then as if she had somehow willed him to do so. “There are ghosts. They can move things.”
Chef let out an impatient sound. Harry snorted.
“You forget where you put things or what you’ve done, that’s what happens,” Chef said.
“No,” Devon said, shaking his head firmly. “When I come out to the Great Hall and find a napkin on the floor, I know I didn’t put it there. When I’ve preset a plate with garnish, then the garnish is on the counter top, I know I didn’t put it there.” He turned to stare at Harry. “And you know it happens. You just have to deny it, or you’d be scared.”
“You think that Elizabeth Roth is the ghost?” Jane asked.
“No,” Scully said.
“Yes!” Chef snapped firmly.
“An old ghost,” Harry said softly. “Elizabeth was due to marry John McCawley just before the start of the Civil War. McCawley was from the South. He wasn’t in the military, he hadn’t made any declarations about secession, but the family wasn’t happy about the marriage. I say one of them did McCawley in when he was out in the woods. Hunting accident? Hell, no one believes that. Nathaniel Roth, Elizabeth’s brother, was out in the woods at the same time. He must have shot McCawley. And Elizabeth couldn’t bear it or the fact that her family would be party to such a thing. She killed herself—that we know. And she hates the family. She couldn’t be married here, so she won’t let anyone else be married here. She pushed your minister down the stairs.”
“She looked beautiful and gentle, not like a vengeful murderess,” Jane said. She turned quickly to Scully. “Who do you think is haunting the place?”
“Scully,” Chef said.
But Scully laughed. “Jane is an FBI agent. You think she can’t find out?” Scully told Jane, “Mrs. Avery decided three years ago that she’d allow a man and woman from Georgia to be married here. Cally Thorpe was going to marry Fred Grigsby. Cally fell down the stairs, too. Detective Forester didn’t mention that fact because he was working somewhere else when it happened. He’ll know now, but, anyway, what the hell? That was ruled an accident, too.”
“So,” Jane said carefully, “you think that Cally was pushed?”
“How many people really just fall down the stairs?” Scully demanded and shivered. “I think I have to quit. I mean, I love this place, but we were alright before Mrs. Avery booked another wedding. What is the matter with that woman?”
“How many of the people working here today were working here when Cally Thorpe died?” Jane asked.