Daphne and I pass through a second security check at the door, where we’re each given manila envelopes with our names on them, and then are directed through the foyer to the hallway on the left. The octagonal brick-colored floor tiles and the flowery wallpaper is the same as it was when Mrs. Young opened the house for Mr. Young’s wake.
“Remind you of your family’s vacation house in the Hamptons?” I ask Daphne.
She shakes her head. “Right size, wrong vibes.”
“How so?”
“It’s like someone died in here. And not in a murder mystery.”
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Mr. Youngdiddie in here. Had dementia pretty bad in the end. Mrs. Young cared for him at home until he passed, and then she had his wake here.”
She points to a framed photograph sitting on a knitted lace doily on one of the side tables. “Is that them?”
“Yep.”
“Why does Simon still have their photos up in the house?”
“They were selling the house as-is, furnishings and all, and he’s put his focus on fixing up the bedrooms and the basement for a game room for the boys ahead of taking care of the common areas.”
“It adds quite the ghastly touch, does it not?” Simon strolls out of a room on the right to join us. He’s in a black suit with a crisp white shirt, his hair styled to look like he’s just rolled out of bed.
And he is, naturally, smiling widely in a way that makes my belly dip and my own smile pop out back at him.
“Welcome to the Grand Persimmon Hotel,” he says. “I see you’ve received the information about your rooms and your stay. I am Archibald Ninnington, and I shall be your host this evening. If there is anything you require, anything at all, please do not hesitate to request assistance.”
He puts one hand to my waist and kisses my cheek, and my entire body flushes with the contact. “And you may call me anything you wish, of course. That dress will never cease to be stunning on you.”
Yep.
The dress.
The red dress.
With the new panties he hand-delivered yesterday.
They’re also red.
The lace is more sheer.
And I’m not wearing a bra, because his kids are headed to a sleepover when the murder mystery dinner is over.
“Is this place haunted, Archie?” Daphne asks. She’s in a killer black dress that highlights her curves, and she spent an hour on her makeup and had her hair’s green and blue highlights touched up too.
“Certainly not.” Simon winks at her. “Or perhaps I should say, not yet.”
“I was going to ask if I could be the dead body, but I think I’d rather be the ghost.”
Simon still has his hand on my waist, and he’s drawing circles on it with his thumb and lighting my entire body on fire. “Four people have already asked to be the dead body.”
“How many want to be the ghost?” Daphne asks.
“Only you.” He shifts to look at me again, and his smile widens even more, as if he’s aware of the effect his hand is having on me. “Bea? Would you also like to be the dead body?”
I smile back. “Nope. I want to figure out who did it before anyone else. And I can’t do that if I’m dead.”
