Hugh burst into the dining room like a man fleeing a mob. His hair was wet, he was still buttoning his shirt, and—I squinted—he was definitely wearing my vintage band t-shirt.
“Is that my Guns N’ Roses shirt?” I demanded indignantly.
“What? No.” Hugh glanced down. “Maybe. There was a laundry situation.”
Bernard and the rest of the Hawthornes froze. I tried hard not to roll my eyes.
The words ‘laundry’ and ‘Hugh’ struck terror in everyone’s heart and with just cause.
“What kind of laundry situation?” Samuel said carefully.
“The kind where everything I own is currently pink.” He grabbed a piece of toast from the sideboard and shoved half of it in his mouth, oblivious to the tense stares focused on him. “Including my underwear.”
Victoria closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, her expression had achieved a new level of glacial calm.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. I just put my clothes in the machine like Nora showed me.” He swallowed the toast. “She said to separate the colors. So I did. I put all the red things together.”
“All the red things,” Victoria repeated slowly.
“Yes. The red things. In hot water, because red is a hot color.” Hugh seemed genuinely confused by our expressions, which currently ranged from disgusted to scornful, if you included Pearl’s. “What?”
“I’ll add ‘laundry basics’ to the household manual,” Bernard said in a funereal tone.
I could tell this wasn’t the first time he’d made such an addition and it wouldn’t be the last either.
The door to the kitchen swung open. Nora Moorbridge emerged carrying a platter of what smelled like the most incredible bacon I’d ever encountered.
The Hawthornes’ new housekeeper was a tall, thin woman in her fifties with sharp cheekbones and a streak of white running through her otherwise dark hair that made her look like supernatural nobility. Which, technically, she was—ghouls had their own hierarchy and Nora carried herself like she’d seen the top of it.
She’d arrived a week ago, months after the previous housekeeper had handed in her notice citing “irreconcilable differences with the household atmosphere.”
Everyone knew she meant Pearl.
Nora had taken one look at the cat, made a dry comment about having worked for worse, and earned Pearl’s grudging respect within the first hour.
She was also an extraordinary cook, a fact which had initially worried everyone. Ghouls had specific dietary preferences that didn’t typicallyalign with the living. Nora had assured us that her culinary skills were strictly for the benefit of others.
So far, nothing she’d served had contained any questionable ingredients.
“I see Master Hugh has discovered the washing machine again,” Nora observed, setting down the bacon like she was noting mild weather.
“There was a color-related misunderstanding,” Hugh said defensively as he reached for a cup.
Bernard filled it with coffee and watched stoically as Hugh sloshed some on the floor straightaway.
“Indeed. I noticed the pink explosion when I went to retrieve the towels.” Nora straightened, her hands clasped primly in front of her. “I’ve taken the liberty of reorganizing the laundry room. The detergents are now arranged alphabetically and I’ve created a color-coded chart for sorting.” She paused. “I’ve laminated it.”
Samuel and I exchanged a guarded glance. It hadn’t taken long for the two of us to become convinced that Nora and Mindy Parsons, Hawthorne & Associates’ mostly friendly ghost, would get on like a town on fire.
“That’s very, er, thorough,” I managed.
“Organization prevents chaos, Miss Abigail.” Her gaze flicked to Hugh like the Grim Reaper passing judgement. “In theory.”
Hugh avoided her eyes and grabbed another piece of toast. “By the way, has anyone seen my good watch? I’m running late.”
Victoria’s eyebrow rose a fraction. “Late for what?”
