Page 25 of Ghostlighted (Ghost Townies #2)

Chapter Twenty

A s much as I wanted to dive into a comparison of Frances’s journal and the housekeeper’s ledgers the minute I got back to the Manor, I ran headfirst into two logistical problems. First, I didn’t actually have the journal, and wouldn’t until we either got the physical copy back from the bookbinder or they forwarded us high-res images of the pages.

However, I remembered the dates the journal covered perfectly well, bringing me to the second logistical problem.

The ledgers didn’t appear to cover any of the same dates.

I couldn’t just go tearing through the rest of the crates in search of more journals or additional ledgers.

Well, I mean I could , but the point of my job was to organize the papers.

If I abandoned my methods of discovery and categorization now—I’d managed to get through maybe a tenth of Thaddeus’s crates so far—I’d jeopardize my progress, which would be a disservice to Saul and the Manor.

Also, while the crates themselves hadn’t been in any particular order, their contents usually had some relationship to each other, either because of category or relative date.

So instead of rampaging through the room like a berserk tornado, I did the responsible thing and logged the contents of the box I’d opened that morning.

I was rewarded for my adulting win when the last pages of the final ledger in the stack coincided with the first three days covered by Frances’s journal.

Maybe, if I was very persuasive—or sicced Saul on them—I could get the bookbinder to send me the images of those pages now rather than when the final project was delivered.

In any case, I took pictures of the ledger pages with my phone so I could start brainstorming some blog posts.

The housekeeper, whose name was never written, started every day’s entry with a list of who was resident in the Manor at that time.

Considering how tight a rein Frances apparently held over the household finances, this might have been a way for the housekeeper to justify the expenses for housing, feeding, and entertaining the family of eight along with a throng that could vary from zero to more than twenty.

A lot of people traipsed in and out of the Manor in those days.

I tapped my dusty fingers on the desk. What about a series of profiles?

Character sketches not only of the Richdales—that was a no-brainer—but of their guests as well?

They could have been notable Ghost residents back then.

At the very least, they were people that the Richdale family felt were important enough to invite to their home—I flipped through a few ledger pages—often for weeks at a time.

Why? Why them? And why specifically at those times?

Like many men of his era, Thaddeus was all about money and the power that marched along with it.

Presumably he’d sought both in the ordinary way of hammering out profitable partnerships and crushing his competitors underfoot before he became laser-focused on wresting the location of Josiah’s alleged treasure from beyond the veil and immersed himself in spiritualism.

Given Frances’s acerbic introduction to her journal, her goals were vastly different, probably around social position and influence. She had two sons and four daughters, more than enough fodder for founding a dynasty through advantageous marriages.

Wait. Why wasn’t there a Richdale dynasty?

Why hadn’t any Richdale heir come forward to lay a claim to the Manor or Thaddeus’s other assets—I glanced sidelong at the mountain of crates—such as they were?

What had happened to the Richdale children? To Jasper and Daisy and Iris and Violet and Cornelius and Caroline? Why were there no Richdale grandchildren? No nieces or nephews? No cousins?

Cousins. Crap.

I checked the time on my phone. I needed to get home, shower, and change so I could pick up Ricky for our so-not-a-booty-call date. I made a quick note so I wouldn’t forget this line of investigation, locked up, and headed home.

As I was driving down Main Street, my gaze caught on the Taqueria, the pub, the psychic knitting shop, the library.

Right. The library.

I smacked the steering wheel with both palms. If I wanted to know what happened to the Richdales, I could just ask . Saul, as director of the Manor, probably knew everything, and if he didn’t—well, his husband was the town’s volunteer librarian. Whatever Saul didn’t know, Jerry would.

That didn’t really change my plans for posts about the family and their guests, but it might make research much easier, not to mention less dusty.

Once Saul and Jerry got back from their mini-vacation, I’d talk to them both and see whether they felt like the profile pieces would be of interest. I mean, they’d be of interest to me , but I didn’t want to just yodel into the void.

I wanted the posts to have a wide enough appeal that they’d benefit the Manor, benefit the town.

I sighed, and since I’d be driving Ricky’s truck to Richdale, I pulled the Civic into the garage and made sure the door had cycled closed before I stepped into the mudroom. I expected Gil’s usual demanding greeting since it was close to his dinner time, but there was nothing.

Oh, right. He was next door with Avi.

Neither Gil nor Avi took up a lot of physical space, but the house felt so empty without them here that I crept up the stairs, almost afraid to make any noise.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I rolled my eyes. “What is wrong with me? It’s not like the house has another ghost. Get hold of yourself, Amani.”

I marched into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Even if this was totally not a booty call date, I owed it to Ricky to look less like a dust Yeti.

By the time I got downstairs, clean again and in a fresh pair of jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt in a color Greg had always referred to as “Rose? Are you kidding me?”, my curls were still wet, but at least they weren’t frosted with document detritus.

The EVP equipment, still in its original packaging, sat on the counter.

After a moment’s consideration, I moved them to the butler’s pantry.

If Avi decided he didn’t want to experiment with the devices?

I wouldn’t push. As much as I wanted more stories from him, whether in his Jake Fields persona or a new one, the next steps were in his hands.

He had little enough agency nowadays. I wanted to let him take the lead whenever he could.

I glanced at the clock on the wall over the sink. Felicia had texted me that the best time to ambush Ricky would be around seven, at the nurse’s shift change. Their charge nurse cousin would be back on shift then and would support me in getting Ricky out from underfoot.

Her words, not mine.

I hadn’t ever been to the hospital in Richdale. In fact, I hadn’t been to Richdale at all other than to drive through it on the way to and from Portland. It’d take me an hour at most, and it was only five thirty, so I had half an hour to kill.

I was tempted to head next door to see how Avi and Gil were doing at Sofia’s place, but I resisted, because agency .

I could unpack one of the boxes Ricky and I had hauled back from Greg’s place, but I’d been buried in Thaddeus Richdale’s past all day and surrounded by Oren’s past for weeks.

I wasn’t ready to face my own quite yet, even if the scope was considerably less intimidating.

Then again, when it came to facing your past, it was quality, not quantity, that was more likely to kick you in the gut, right?

However, maybe I could handle a little bit of the past—just a taste—if only to keep me company without even Gil around.

I decided to throw together one of the comfort foods from my childhood—my dad’s chickpea salad, a recipe that I knew from memory.

Ricky and I could share it tonight, since I suspected he could use all the comfort he could get.

Two cans of chickpeas were draining in the sink, and I’d finished chopping the parsley and green pepper when Avi appeared across the island from me. I squeaked and dropped the onion.

“Crap!”

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you’d be used to me by now.”

“No worries.” I caught the onion before it rolled off the countertop. “I was kind of lost in thought.” I gestured to the vegetables, the jar of olive oil, the lemons waiting to be squeezed. “This was one of my dad’s signature dishes. It’s bringing back memories.”

“Ah. Memories.” He tucked his thumbs in his cardigan’s pockets. “I can understand that. I’ve encountered my share this afternoon, too.”

I halved the onion and started to dice it, trying to keep my fingers curled under for safety the way Dad had taught me—and mostly failing, just as I always had.

The onion’s fumes were muted since I’d chucked it in the freezer for a few minutes first, so I couldn’t blame them for the tear that trickled down my nose.

I wiped it away with the back of my wrist. “Did you spend much time at Sofia’s back when… when…”

He lifted a brow. “When I was alive?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“I did. She’s lived in that house as long as I can remember, although I never knew her first husband. When I was a kid, she was still taking an active role at the restaurant, so she wasn’t around during the days so much. My parents and I often spent evenings there with her and Ramon.”

“Ricky’s uncle?”

“Yes. Lorenzo, Liam’s father, was already an adult by that time, though. I attended his wedding, in fact.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Remember, I’m more than ten years older than Liam. I was there the first time Lorenzo and Susanne brought the baby to visit Sofia. She was ecstatic, even though he screamed the whole time.”

“Well, neither of those things has changed,” I murmured. Sofia still doted unconditionally and Liam still expected the stars to align for his own convenience. When it came to family, some lessons could never be unlearned.

While others never stuck, no matter how hard you tried.