right now. Maybe I’ll work up the courage later.”
Cheyenne nodded. She needed to forget about Joe, finally get it through her head—and her heart—that there was no chance he’d ever return her interest. As long as Eve wanted him, it didn’t matter even if he did.
* * *
“What are you doing here? It’s too cold to be sitting outside.”
Cheyenne turned to see Eve, who’d been as busy as she had since their trip to the gas station, weaving carefully through the headstones of the old cemetery next to the inn. “Just thinking.”
It was the slowest part of the day, between the morning rush when they prepared a fancy breakfast for the inn’s guests and cleaned the rooms, and three o’clock, the time new patrons began to trickle in. She would’ve run home to check on her mother. She normally did. But this afternoon she couldn’t bring herself to make the effort. Presley was there; she’d call if Anita’s situation worsened.
Eve’s footsteps crunched in the patchy snow. Since her boots were more for looks than bad weather, she watched where she was going until she got close enough to avoid ruining the pretty black suede. Then her eyes cut to the words carved in the closest headstone—also the oldest and largest—as if they made her uncomfortable.
They probably did. They made everyone uncomfortable.
Here lies our little angel, brutally murdered at six years. May God strike down the killer who took her from us, and send him into the fiery pits of hell. Mary Margaret Hatfield, daughter of Harriett and John Hatfield, 1865–1871
“Are you feeling bad that we’re planning to capitalize on the mystery of her murder?” Adjusting the scarf around her neck, Eve perched on the garden bench next to Chey.
Eve didn’t have to say who she was. “Maybe a little.” Not only had Mary been born in the home that was now Eve’s parents’ B and B, she’d died there. Her murder had taken place well over a century ago, but just about everyone in town knew the terrible details. She’d been found in the basement, strangled. There’d been no indication as to who’d killed her.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do it.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Cheyenne responded. “You and your parents will lose the inn if we don’t do something.” If that happened, Chey would be without a job, too, but she could probably get on somewhere else. It was Eve’s situation that concerned her. The Gold Nugget meant so much to the Harmon family. Over the years, especially during the past twelve months, they’d dumped everything they had into the business.
Eve hugged herself for added warmth. “I know. I keep telling myself that publicizing a haunting isn’t a big deal. It’s such an old crime. It just adds atmosphere, right? But…we’re talking about a girl who died a violent death. Her ghost really could be lingering here.”
Cheyenne straightened in surprise. “I thought you didn’t believe in things like that. I thought you said every rattle and creak could be explained as the settling of an old house.”
“Since I’m so often at the inn alone, it’s easier to believe that. There’s no point in scaring myself to death. But—” Eve met her eyes “—a lot of people do believe in the paranormal.”
Chey frowned at the sea of headstones surrounding her. For the most part they were organized in neat rows, but crookedness in certain spots suggested a random beginning. “Do you remember, shortly after we moved here, when my mother got mad because I stayed with you part of the time and with Gail part of the time and I didn’t come home for a couple of days? She tied me to that tree.” Cheyenne pointed to the big oak in the corner, which was located close to another bench.
Eve grimaced. “How could I forget? You spent the entire night out here. When my father found you the next morning, he was furious that she could do such a thing to her own child. But…your mother pretty much wrote the book on how to be a terrible parent.”
After that incident, Cheyenne had gone to live with the Harmons for three months—until her mother’s cancer took a turn for the worse. Because she hated feeling like a burden on people who shouldn’t have to take care of her, and because Presley wanted her to come home, she’d eventually gone back. “At first I was terrified to be trapped in the dark, so close to Mary’s grave.”
The memories of that warm, summer night often lingered on the fringes of her mind. They were partly what drew her out here.
“But after a couple of hours,” she went on, “I felt this strange sort of peace, as if she was with me and didn’t want me to be frightened. I even started talking to her.” Uncomfortable admitting this, since she’d never told Eve before, she laughed to make herself sound a little less crazy. “I know it was all my imagination, but I’ve never been frightened of her since.”
“You don’t feel like you’re betraying a friend by using her death or her ghost or whatever in our marketing ideas?”
Cheyenne shook her head. “We could never squelch the rumors, anyway. A good ghost story gets handed down generation after generation.”
“But we’ll be playing into it,” Eve argued. “And do you really think we have to go so far as to change the name?”
Cheyenne studied the Victorian-style building just beyond the black-iron filigree fence that surrounded the cemetery. All the Christmas garland and lights made the inn look magical, but underneath the decorations it needed caulking and paint and some dry-rot repair. New plumbing, too. “Saving the inn will require a total makeover, Eve. The place should get a new name to go with it. That feels like a clean start. And I like calling it Little Mary’s. Adding ‘Gold Country’s Only Haunted Bed-and-Breakfast,’ softens the darkness of it.”
“My parents don’t agree.” Eve kicked at the snow.
“Things are different than when they were in charge.”
“You mean the Russos hadn’t opened A Room with a View,” she grumbled. “Still…” She sighed. “I can’t help feeling bad about using what happened to Mary to book rooms.”
“We’re trying to save her home.” An idea occurred to Chey that brought her to her feet. “Hey, maybe we can save the inn and do her a favor at the same time.”
Eve’s eyebrows slid up. “What are you talking about?”
“What if we get Unsolved Mysteries or one of those shows to come out here and do a segment on Mary’s murder, see if they can convince forensic profilers and detectives to take a look at the scene and try to solve the case?”
Eve blew on her hands, then rubbed them together. “How would we even reach the right people?”
“Are you kidding? One of our best friends owns a PR company. If Gail can’t get in touch with the producer, I bet her movie-star husband has contacts who could. Simon might even be willing to do a guest spot on the show, to mention that this inn is in his wife’s hometown. We’d be a shoe-in if Simon’s name was attached.”
“I don’t want to impose on him, Chey. He already sent us those movie props for our new haunted house theme—not that we’ll be able to use them now that we’re going with a restoration.”
“He won’t
