to believe...
The real reason she’d painted the mural had been to send a message to her absentee mother, assuming she really was back and had gone to Green Meadows.
Another purpose for the lodge: she could come out here to simply think about the mother she’d never met and without interference figure out what to do next to try to find her.
* * *
MONDAY MORNING WAS BUSY, as usual, but after showing a potential buyer to the office door, Grace glanced out the windows just as Caleb Blackthorne entered The Busy Corner across the street. He looked every bit the confident male in his jeans and leather jacket and boots. His long hair was tied back with what appeared to be a strip of leather. A little breathless, she had to fight the urge to leave the office and visit the restaurant for some take-out coffee as she often did. Instead, she decided to make a fresh pot.
“Oh, I didn’t see the pot was empty,” Carol said as Grace carried it to the restroom to get water. “I can do that. You have more important things to take care of.”
“No problem, Carol.” Grace raised her voice over the already running water. “I needed an excuse to stretch my legs anyway.”
An excuse to get away from more important things—that wretched paperwork that was waiting for her on her office desk. She would love, for example, to give Caleb that grand tour of Green Meadows she’d promised him. Hmm...
Setting up the coffee took only a few minutes. Carol was now on the phone with one of their suppliers. As she thought about the possibility of that tour to get her away from the office, Grace couldn’t resist the temptation to walk back to the windows. She was staring at The Busy Corner as if she could conjure Caleb Blackthorne again, when an old minibus rattled up and parked in front of the restaurant. Out stepped the odd-looking driver, who appeared to be wearing a costume of sorts. Short and chubby with a Van Dyke beard, he sported a bowler hat and a frock coat that had seen better days.
As he walked around the vehicle to let passengers out of the back, she noted the cartoon-like ghost painted on the side of the bus along with Spooky Tours... Hosted by Vincent Pryce.
What in the world...?
And then it hit her—this was a ghost tour operation. And it had come here, no doubt, because of the rumors at Green Meadows!
The odd little man was guiding a dozen people inside The Busy Corner.
“The coffee is ready.”
Carol’s voice jerked Grace around. “What?”
“Your coffee.” The receptionist indicated the coffeemaker.
“Right. Thanks.” She glanced back through the window as the man followed his customers inside. What in the world was he telling them about the development? And with all those people in the restaurant—potential residents—within hearing distance. “I think I need something to go with the coffee. If anyone asks for me, I’ll be back in...well, a while.”
Grace left the office and raced across the street. She opened The Busy Corner door. All the passengers on the tour had taken seats around tables, and a busboy was distributing menus and water. Grace glanced past them to the far wall where Caleb sat alone enjoying a piece of apple pie. She wanted to wave at him, but he didn’t seem to notice her. Or anyone for that matter. He was too busy reading his newspaper.
One of the people from the minibus said, “What I heard happened on that farm is even better than the Milwaukee beer baron story. C’mon, Vincent, don’t make us wait any longer. Tell us about the farmhouse murder!”
Grace clenched her jaw so she wouldn’t interrupt. She wanted to hear what this guy had to say, as well. Her father had told her there had been a murder on the Green Meadows property, but he hadn’t had the details.
The tour leader—Vincent, apparently—stood in the center of the room, bowler hat still firmly in place as he puffed out his chest and cleared his throat. “Right after the First World War, that farm was owned by a mean old couple with a crazy grown son. Really weird folks, the Whitmans, who made their neighbors uncomfortable, made friends with no one. They were farmers who should have had responsibility to their animals, but they got up whenever they wanted and made the cows wait to be milked.”
“Was that bad?” asked another member of the group.
Vincent said, “Yes, it was bad. They should have been milked at sunrise. Those poor cows suffered. And then they didn’t milk the cows again until after dark. The neighbors were horrified when they saw the lanterns lighting up the old barn late at night. Horrified, too, when the crazy son who served in World War I marched around the property carrying a shotgun and looking for Germans.”
“Plenty of Germans in these parts,” a local woman said. “Did he ever shoot anyone?”
“He did. One of their cows who wandered away from the herd. Shot it in the head and killed it dead.”
Several gasps made Grace realize everyone in the restaurant other than Caleb was captivated by the story. Finally looking up and spotting her, he shot both eyebrows up high and shook his head.
“What happened then?” came another question.
“Son got taken away to an asylum, where he stayed for the rest of his life.”
“That’s it?” a man groused. “A cow was murdered?”
People grumbled as if disappointed.
“No, no, that was just the beginning,” Vincent went on, embellishing. “Then the rumors started about a cow with blazing red eyes appearing. Soon after, the couple was found dead. Old Whitman sprawled across the kitchen floor, his head smashed in...blood on a rolling pin in the sink.”
“What about the woman?”
“Found facedown outside as if she’d been running from something fearsome and had a heart attack. Rumor had it the murdered cow’s ghost was possessed, and no one wanted to go near the property because it haunted the fields.”
“Oh, come on!” Appalled, Grace moved toward the tour guide. “Where did you get that information? What proof do you have that anything you said is true?”
Vincent puffed himself up but still had to tilt his head to look her in the eye. “Are you a ghost hunter?” he demanded.
As if his calling himself a ghost hunter gave him unique qualifications, Grace thought. “No. Green Meadows is my community, and I don’t appreciate your tall tales meant to scare people or make them uncomfortable.”
“I’m not doing anything illegal. And just because you don’t believe in ghosts doesn’t mean the story isn’t true.”
“A ghost cow?” she asked.
“With blazing red eyes. And it still wanders the area, sometimes on deserted country roads...”
Grace had had enough. She started to open her mouth again.
“Oh, come on, lady,” one of the group interrupted. “Don’t spoil our fun!”
Fun? Could this man really just make up a bunch of lies and people would pay to hear them? Distraught,
