The Last Boyfriend (Inn BoonsBoro Trilogy 2) - Page 48

He could only stare. “I did?”

“You said she had her hair up in a net in the back. That’s a snood.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. I’ve got a minute or two. Can I?” she asked, gesturing at his keyboard.

“Help yourself.”

He turned it toward her as she sat, and waited, enjoying his coffee as she typed.

“I’m pretty sure if you put those elements together, you’re talking early to mid 1860s.”

He let her work in silence for a few minutes. Peaceful here, he thought, in the middle of the day. He should get back next door before too much longer, give Ryder a hand. And maybe slip over to Vesta later, see if he could talk Avery into going out—or staying in.

“How about this?” Hope turned the screen toward him. “What do you think?”

Curious, he studied the illustration of a small group of women in a kind of drawing room. “I think I wonder why women wanted to wear something that looks that uncomfortable.”

“Fashion hurts, Owen. We live with it.”

“I guess. This is pretty close, in type, I mean. The skirt was pretty much like this one, and the sleeves, and it had a high neck like this one. Maybe some lace or something on it.”

“This is fashion from 1862. So you could start there. And I doubt you’re looking for a maid or servant,” Hope added as she studied the illustration. “It’s too fashionable. Not impossible as it could’ve been a dress passed to her by an employer or relative, but going with the odds, she dressed like a woman of some means.”

“We’ll play the odds to start. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, and it’s interesting. I’ll be in the office if you need me.”

He intended to give it a half hour, then strap on his tool belt. But he got caught up, poking through old records, old newspaper articles, genealogy sites.

At some point, Hope walked back in, freshened his coffee, added a plate of warm cookies.

He finally sat back, frowned at his screen.

“What the hell is this?” Ryder demanded. “You’re sitting here eating cookies while I’m up to my ass next door?”

“Huh?”

“It’s two-fucking-thirty.”

“Oh. Sorry. I think I found her.”

“Found who?” Ryder snatched the last cookie, and his scowl eased off after he bit in.

“You know.” Owen pointed toward the ceiling. “Her.”

“For Christ’s sake, Owen, we’ve got work. Play ghost-hunter on your own time.”

“Eliza Ford, of the New York Fords.”

“I’m glad we cleared that up.”

“Seriously, Ry, I think it fits. She died here, from some kind of fever, in mid September 1862. She’s buried in New York. She was eighteen. Eliza, Elizabeth, Lizzy. That’s kind of cool, isn’t it?”

“I’m riveted. She’s been here for about a hundred and fifty years. I think she can wait until we finish the goddamn work next door.” He picked up the mug, took a drink. “Coffee’s cold.”

“I’m going to go up, try to talk to her. I’ll make up the time after. Avery’s working until six anyway.”

“Really glad this petty business of the job fits in with your social schedule.”

Because Ryder’s tone put his back up, Owen matched it with his own. “I said I’d make up the time, and goddamn it, we owe her. She warned us about Sam Freemont. He might’ve—damn well would have—done worse to Clare if Beck hadn’t gotten there in time.”

“Shit.” Ryder dragged off his gimme cap, raked his hand through his hair. “All right, go talk to your dead friend, then get next door. Are there any more of those cookies?”

“I don’t know. Ask Hope.”

On a grunt, Ryder headed out.

Owen shut down, but left his laptop on the table as he climbed the stairs. He’d found several women between the ages of eighteen and thirty who’d died in town during the right time frame. And there’d be more yet if he went with the theory that a ghost could pick his or her own age.

But Eliza Ford felt right.

He got all the way up before he remembered standard operating procedure had Hope or Carolee locking all the guest room doors when they weren’t occupied. By the living anyway.

He started to turn, go back down. And the door to Elizabeth and Darcy opened.

“Okay. I’ll take that as a come on in.”

It felt strange, stepping into the room that smelled of its signature English lavender scent and Elizabeth’s—or Eliza’s—honeysuckle.

“So.”

The door eased closed, with a quick click, behind him, and had a little chill running along his spine.

“So,” he repeated. “We’ve been open over a month now. Things are going pretty good. We had a little wedding last weekend. I guess you know about that. It went fine, from what Hope reported. So anyway, I’ve got to get to work in the next building, but I’ve been doing some research downstairs. On you. It’d help us help you if we knew who you are. Eliza?”

The lights flickered on and off, made his fingers tingle.

“Are you Eliza Ford?”

The shape came first, blurred and soft, then sharpened into the figure of a woman. She smiled at him, and curtsied.

“I knew it! Eliza.”

She laid a hand on her heart, and he swore he heard the whisper inside his own head. Lizzy.

“They called you Lizzy, a nickname.”

Billy.

“Billy called you Lizzy. Billy who?”

She crossed her other hand over the one at her heart, closed her eyes.

“You loved him. I got that. Did he live here, in Boonsboro, near here, what? Did you come to visit him? Was he with you when you died? Or maybe he died first.”

Her eyes flew open. He recognized shock, cursed himself. Maybe she didn’t know she was dead—or that Billy had to be dead. He’d read up on that, too. “I mean, did you meet him here. At the hotel, at the inn?”

She faded. A moment later the porch door swung wide, then slammed shut.

“Okay. I guess you’ve got some thinking to do. I’ll talk to you later. Nice going, Owen,” he muttered to himself as he went downstairs. “Really tactful. So, Lizzy, how does being dead feel? Shit.”

He carted his laptop out to his truck, got his tools. Then he went through the gate and into the building next door to do penance with his nail gun.

* * *

“THAT’S SO SAD.” Avery poured the marinade she’d made that morning over the tuna steaks. “Only eighteen. I know people didn’t live as long, and women usually got married and had kids a lot sooner. But still. Eighteen. A fever?”

“I couldn’t find much—I’ll look more now that I have this name to go on. It was really just a few lines.”

“Eliza. That’s so close to what Beckett started calling her—and the Lizzy nickname, too.”

“It makes it all feel kind of ordained, I guess. Mom picked the name and location of the room, Beckett started calling her Elizabeth because of that. Then Lizzy.”

“I don’t know about ordained, but it’s spooky—a good spooky. And I think you’re great—I’ll even give you brilliant—for finding her, but how’s that going to help you find this Billy?”

“I needed something solid. I have her name, where she lived, where and how she died—even if she didn’t know that—so I can try to follow those dots to him. Was she meeting him here? Was he a local? Another traveler?”

As she washed field greens, she glanced back at him. “September 1862. That could be the answer.”

“Why?”

“Owen.” She let the greens drain, stepped toward him. “How long have you lived in southern Washington County?”

“All my— Oh, shit. I didn’t think of it. I was so focused on finding her, and when I hit that name . . . the Battle of Antietam.”

“Or Sharpsburg, depending which side you were on. September 17, 1862. Bloodiest single day in the Civil War.”

“He coul

d’ve been a soldier. Maybe, maybe,” he mused. “She could’ve come here to try to see him, make some contact. People even went out and watched battles, right? Made frickin’ picnics out of it.”

“People have always been screwy. Anyway, she died the day of the battle. You said she came from New York, so it seems logical she stayed at the inn. If she had friends or relatives in the area, it feels like she would’ve stayed with them. Could be Billy’s from New York, too, and she followed him down here for some reason.”

“Or he’s from the area, and she came to be with him. Or he, like most men his age—if we figure he’s close to hers—was fighting in the war.”

“That seems most likely. Taste this.”

He took the piece of thin, crispy bread. “Good. Really good. What is it?”

“An experiment. Pizza dough, rolled almost paper thin, herbed, baked. I’m thinking of serving it in the new place. So, it feels like if she’d come to see him, and they’d hooked up, she wouldn’t need to find him now. She died, but if he was here, wouldn’t he have been with her? So he, following that train, wasn’t here when she got sick.”

“Or he just let her down. Didn’t come. Could’ve been married, not interested.”

She snatched the plate of bread away before he could grab another piece. “That’s not romantic. Stick with romantic, or no more for you.”

“I’m just considering possibilities.” When she continued to hold the bread out of reach, he rolled his eyes. “Okay, they were the Civil War version of Romeo and Juliet. Star-crossed lovers.”