Seven Turns: A Ghost Story/A Love Story

Cally was gratified, on returning to the Rose Room, to see that nobody had attempted to straighten up the pile of notebooks she had left on the desk. She paused beside the desk chair and considered checking her email. Perhaps she would even send a reply back to her agent, for once. She could mention she had gathered enough notes to possibly start a first chapter. Then she shook her head, and promised herself she would send an email once she actually started writing. Tomorrow, maybe. Possibly.

She left everything where it lay on the desk and took a set of pajamas from the drawer. Passing the bookshelf as she headed toward the bathroom, she grabbed the little plastic bottle of generic rosé wine off the top shelf. She suspected it might only have been put there as a decoration, but she took it into the little bathroom anyway and set it on the edge of the tub next to the rose-scented candle there. While the tub filled, she dumped a generous handful of bath salts “with real rose petals!” into the water and opened the little window over the sink. A night-scented breeze blew in and made all the doilies flutter.

The candle was one of the battery operated types with a “realistic but safe!” flame. She switched it on and sank into the warm water. The old fashioned tub was big enough that she was able to stretch all the way out. Twisting the cap off the wine bottle, she raised it in a toast. “Here’s to you, Bethany, and your kind little touches. I hope you are going to be OK.”

Presently the warm water, the passable wine, and the shadows dancing in the flickering fake candlelight all contrived to settle the thoughts whirling in her head. Bethany had merely had an unfortunate mishap and would be alright in a short time. The weird summer storm the night before had just been a storm and, despite Joan’s little fantasy of Ian’s special powers, it had merely passed, as do all summer storms. There had been no figure standing at the crossroads – that had just been a trick of the lightning, rain, and shadows. Ben’s eyes were merely blue and he was just a nice guy who worked in a news store and she didn’t have enough hormones left anymore to care anyway. She had gathered plenty of notes and stories toward starting a sequel to her book, and she might be able to talk her agent into an advance that would keep her alive long enough to finish it, instead of dying on a park bench somewhere in order to avoid having to go back to technical writing.

She finished the wine, dried off and slipped into her pajamas. Switching off the candle, she returned to the bedroom, taking not one glance at the pile of work awaiting her on the desk. The rose-covered bed had been thoughtfully turned down by she knew not and cared not who; she was confident she would fall asleep the minute her head touched the pillow. The old gray cat was lying in the middle of the bed, purring up at her.

“Oh, you again.” She considered trying to shoo it out the window onto the belvedere again, but decided to let it stay. “Doctor Boojums, is it? Or shall I call you Boo? Just you scoot over a few inches, now, and we’ll get along fine.”

The cat apparently did not want to share the bed. When Cally lifted the coverlet to try to nudge it to one side a little, it yowled and leapt to the floor. “Suit yourself,” she said, reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp. “I’m sure you can find your own way out.” She slid between the sheets and turned her back on it, settling her head deeply into the pillows.

The cat was not satisfied with this arrangement. It stood at the bedroom door and scratched, yowling every few seconds in a very unpleasant voice.

Cally spat a few unladylike words, slipped out of her warm cocoon and turned the light back on. The cat looked up at her and yowled again. “What?” she said to it. “I’m the one who should be upset!” She sighed a sigh so deep it was almost a growl, and opened the door to let it out. “And don’t even think about coming in here again, if that’s how you’re going to be!” The cat ran out, streaking down the hall toward the stairs.

“You and Doctor Boojums are getting along well!” George was coming up the hall from the direction of the stairs, and the cat dodged between his legs as it passed.

“I wouldn’t call it getting along,” Cally answered. “But maybe now I can get some sleep,” she added pointedly. George was smiling congenially, but Cally didn’t feel the least bit congenial, herself, at the moment. She stepped backward and started to close the door, not waiting to see if he had got the hint.

“I am curious,” George said at the closing door, as if Cally had said “By all means, please let’s chat!”

“What?” Cally opened the door no more than six inches.

“I’m just wondering what color Doctor Boojums appears to be to you?”

“What kind of question... ?” Cally opened the door the rest of the way, holding the throat of her pajama top closed with one hand. “That’s... he’s gray, of course. Why?”

“I just wondered how things look to you,” George said. “He used to be orange.”

“Did he?” said Cally. “Well, that’s very interesting, but you must excuse me, I was just...”

“I was worried about Miss Bethany,” said George. “I said a prayer for her.”

Cally gave up. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“She’s going to be fine. They say she’s sleeping right now.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Cally. “At least someone is. Sleeping, that is. But I also hope she’s going to be fine, of course. I’m sure she will be.”

“I am very attached to her,” George said. “It really upsets me that someone would hurt her.”

So, Cally thought, the list of people who thought the accident had seemed suspicious continued to grow. “But, why would anyone want to do that?”

“Maybe it wasn’t Bethany they were trying to hurt,” George suggested.

“That’s an odd thought...” Cally considered it nonetheless. As she did so, a loud clatter, as if something had fallen from the butler’s desk at the north end of the hall, made her and George both turn their heads to look. The clatter was followed by the sound of labored footsteps, though Cally couldn’t see anyone else in the hallway.

George lowered his voice to a whisper. “I have to go,” he said urgently.

“Goodnight, then, George.” Cally gave him a resolute look, her hand on the door knob. And then, as she watched him standing there with his head cocked toward the footsteps, he vanished.