“Back then, Fitzgerald was known to procure ladies for special guests.”
“Prostitutes? Ew, but, okay, that still doesn’t explain why she jumped.”
“She became pregnant, and she told Theodore the night of the Christmas gala. An event he had told her he had gotten her a ticket to attend. She showed up, expecting to be his date, but in actuality, he had secured her a position, serving guests. She was distraught, told him her secret. He denied the baby was his, and she refused to leave his room. He went on to the gala and sent security up to remove her. When they wrestled her from the room, she threw herself over the balcony.”
“Was it room 522?”
“No. I don’t know how that room became the focus of the ghost stories.”
“What room was it?”
He cuts his eyes to me and shakes his head.
“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”
“Nope. The room isn’t important.”
“Is it even on the fifth floor?”
“No.”
I lie back against the pillows.
“Anything else you want to know?”
“No, that pretty much covers it. Your great-great-grandfather and great-uncle were douchebags.”
“It was a different time. Fitzgerald did have the entire thing swept under the rug. He paid off the staff, police, and witnesses. But he also made sure his son was not elected governor. And he gave a large sum of money to the girls’ home Belle lived at and took care of her sister, who was also living there, for the rest of her life. This included paying for her education all the way through med school.”
So, the missing teen from the girls’ home was The Lady in Red.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I guess that does make it better. Are there secret passages under the hotel?” I ask the other question on my mind.
“Yes, there are passages under the hotel. No, they weren’t a secret. It was how vendors brought in supplies and the postal service brought in mail. Fitzgerald didn’t want delivery personnel running all over his hotel.”
“Are they still there?”
“Yes, but they were sealed off decades ago when the additions were added to the main inn.”
“Were they used to bring the girls into the hotel?”
“That I do not know. Does it matter?”
“Not really. Do you think Belle haunts the Belicourt?”
“No. It’s folklore. People who were there told others they weren’t supposed to, and that person told someone else. The details keep changing. The floor. The room number. The only thing that has never changed is the color of her dress. It’s like the never-ending telephone game. And every year, especiallyaround the holidays, I have to deal with an influx of Scooby-Doo sleuths.”
Oops.
“Am I Scooby-Doo or Shaggy? I ask.
He shakes his head, amused.
“Velma?” I add.
