Or the tragedy.
Or maybe it’s just the idea that the Belicourt has this secret layer of history hiding beneath all that polished marble and glittering chandeliers.
“I just can’t stop thinking about it,” I say. “It’s a really cool story we could use as a marketing tool.”
“For the hotel?”
“Yeah!”
I brush the orange peel into the trash and grab my notebook from the dining table. “Think about it.” I flip it open to a page where I’ve scribbled ideas. “People love ghost stories.”
I start pacing a little as my brain kicks into full idea mode. “Look at Savannah. People love to visit Savannah and stay in haunted hotels and go on haunted city tours.”
She nods slowly.
“And it’s the same in New Orleans. So, why not Wildhaven? Guided ghost tours of the haunted hotel, paranormal experiences.”
Grandma smiles faintly. “And you think people would come here just for that?”
“I know they would.”
I gesture enthusiastically with the notebook. “There are so many possibilities. We could do reenactments. Create Lady in Red–themed cocktails in the lounge.”
Grandma chuckles. “You’ve thought about this.”
“Just a little.”
She shakes her head. “You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.”
“Hey,” I say defensively. “Not just me. People eat this stuff up. And the Belicourt already has the perfect atmosphere. It’s really old. Hidden in the mountainside.” I gesture around like the hotel is somehow visible from our kitchen. “Historic architecture. Elegant design. Old corridors. Creepy balconies.”
“That might be true. But it also has an owner who doesn’t want any of it.”
“Not yet. But I think he’ll come around.”
“Well”—she picks up the loaf of bread and starts slicing it—“I suppose people do enjoy a good folktale.”
“Yes!”
“And if nothing else,” she adds, “it gives visitors something interesting to talk about.”
“Exactly.”
I lean against the counter, feeling weirdly energized.
“I just need to figure out if any of it actually happened.”
“And if it did and there was a cover-up, it might not look so good for the Belicourt or the Garrisons. Have you considered that?”
I bite my lip.
I haven’t.
“That could be why your young man doesn’t want you poking around,” she says.
“Hmm. Maybe.”
I take a bite of bread.
