“Come here, you two,” Alice LaRue bellowed. “Meet our out-of-town guests.”
The two came over and stood before our group while Mary Ann made the introductions. “Where have y’all been?” she asked.
“We went boating on the lake,” Brian said. “Hey, Mom, could you spare Annabeth for a little while longer? I want to take her to the dance at the pavilion tonight.”
“I don’t have to go if you need me,” Annabeth said.
“Well, I do need you to help with dinner.” Mary Ann smiled at the girl. “Would eight o’clock be too late to go?”
“That would be great, Mom. I’ll help.” Brian took Annabeth by the arm. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you in my room.” He winked at her.
As those two walked away, I saw Emily Faye look at them with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen on anyone. She saw me looking and quickly built a little smile on her face and asked if anyone wanted any more tea.
After refreshments were over, the group offered to give us a tour of the hotel.
“That would be lovely,” Biggie said, and Miss Mattie agreed. Rosebud, who had just come back from his walk, said he had to take the car down to be checked because he’d heard a funny noise driving over, and Mr. Thripp said he’d heard it, too, and he’d be glad to go along to help. I didn’t believe that for a minute, but I offered to go
and help, too, because I wasn’t any more interested in touring the hotel than they were. Of
course
Biggie said I
had
to stay with her. Sometimes I get tired of being treated like a little kid. I’m going on thirteen for gosh sake, but go tell Biggie that.
The first thing they did was lead us over to a big glass-covered case that stood on fat legs like an old piano. Inside, the old hotel register sat on a velvet cushion.
“Normally, we don’t take this out of the case. It’s priceless.” Hen Lester took a small key out of her pocket. “But for you, we will, so you can see for yourselves what a distinguished clientele this place used to have.”
I couldn’t help thinking how much this woman reminded me of Mrs. Muckleroy back in Job’s Crossing.
She raised the glass. Lucas Fitzgerald reached in and gently lifted the giant ledger out, then she closed it. He set it down on the top and began turning the pages. “Gather around. Can you all see?”
We grouped ourselves around the table and peered at the pages.
“Look.” He pointed with one long finger at a name. “Ulysses S. Grant, June 16, 1866.” The ladies oohed and aahed. “And here.” He turned some more pages, pointing to more names. Rutherford B. Hayes, Alma Gluck, Harry Houdini, Oscar Wilde.
“Oscar Wilde?” Butch squeaked. “Oscar Wilde stayed here?”
“He stayed in the Orchid Room,” Miss Mary Ann said. “And that’s where you’re staying, Butch.”
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Butch beamed.
“And here,” Lucas continued, “this is important. Jay
Gould, April 1873 and again in November of that year. Everybody know who Jay Gould was?”
The others nodded. “I don’t,” I said.
That seemed to please the old lawyer. “Then I’ll tell you, son. But first, I’ll have to give you a little history of our town. Quincy was settled way back in 1836. Bet Job’s Crossing isn’t that old, eh, son?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Older,” Biggie said.
Lucas looked disappointed, but continued. “At that time, the site was a river landing on Big Cypress Bayou.”
“Ain’t, uh, isn’t it still?”
“I’m getting to that. First things first, son. Well, sir, back then, steamboats came sailing down the bayou and Caddo Lake to the Red River, then on into the mighty Mississippi. The town grew like willows on a creek bank and became a major river port between all points west and north all the way down to New Orleans. Why, we had an opera house, four saloons, five mercantile stores, two livery stables, three hotels, and the finest Carnegie library west of the Mississippi. At one time, up to fifteen steamboats would be lining the docks right here in little Quincy, Texas, taking people and goods up and down the river.”
“Hard to believe,” Norman Thripp said, his eyes wandering out the window to look at the quiet street.
“God’s own truth,” the lawyer said, his eyes taking on a faraway look. You would of thought he could actually see the busy dock with workers scurrying around loading and unloading the big paddleboats while ladies with parasols strolled along the decks. “By 1872, over two hundred steamboats a year were landing here, and the population
had swelled to thirty thousand people.” He looked at me. “That was a right large town in those days, son. We were giving even Galveston a run for its money.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, what happened to it?”
“That’s where old Jay Gould comes in. You see, son, he was what they used to call a robber baron. He owned a railroad, and he wanted to run it through Quincy because it was such an important place, but he had to get permission from the town council. The town council met and asked themselves why they’d want a noisy, smelly railroad coming through when the town was doing just fine the way it was.” He slapped the table. “So they turned him down flat.”
“I’ll bet he was pretty mad,” Butch said.
“Mad? That feller was so livid he put a curse on the town. He said that within a year, grass would be growing in the streets.”
“And did it?” I asked.
“Well, just about. Only it had nothing to do with Jay Gould. You see, up on the Red River there was a logjam that had started years ago and was growing bigger every year. It was beginning to interfere with river traffic, so the Corps of Engineers took on the job of doing something about it.” Lucas looked sad. “Well, what they decided to do was to dynamite the jam. It cleared the river all right, but it diverted the water away from the Big Cypress Bayou to the point where the boats couldn’t get in to our port any longer. Well, now we were left with no port and no railroad either. Yes, sir, Mr. Jay Gould was right about the town. Now, we’re just a sleepy little town on the creek—but a proud one with a proud heritage.”
Lucas Fitzgerald stopped talking, and everybody was quiet for a long time. Finally, I asked, “Is he the ghost they talk about in the brochure? Jay Gould?”
Alice LaRue let out a snort of laughter. “Shoot, no, son. That’s a whole ’nother story. You should get Mary Ann to tell you that one. She knows it well enough. Let’s go, folks. It’s getting late. We’ll have to postpone the rest of our tour.” She grabbed her cane and stood up. “Meeting starts here in the morning at nine sharp.” She hobbled toward the door leaning on her cane.
“Well,” Biggie said. “Let’s all go to our rooms and have a little rest before supper.”
I
followed along as Mary Ann led us down a bunch of hallways to our rooms. We twisted and turned, and once or twice I could have sworn we went back the way we’d come, up one short flight of stairs, then down another. The halls were kind of dark, and the doors that lined the walls were painted brown. Finally, we stopped in front of a door with a brass plaque on it that read: OSCAR WILDE ROOM.
“This is your room, Butch,” Miss Mary Ann said, taking a key out of her pocket and unlocking the door, then stepping aside for Butch to enter first.
He crossed his hands over his chest and looked around the room, which was decorated in purple and gold. The canopy bed was painted gold and had a spread made of purple velvet. The drapes on the windows matched the spread and there was a gold full-length mirror hanging next to the washstand, which held a white
bowl and pitcher edged in gold and decorated with purple violets.
“I just love it!” Butch breathed. “Miss Mary Ann, could it be possible that Oscar Wilde is the ghost of the Imperial Hotel? That would be just so cool!”
Miss Mary Ann went over and threw open a window. “I believe Annabeth must have forgotten to air your room out. No, Butch, I’m sorry, but Oscar Wilde hasn’t been seen around here for the last hundred years.”
“Oh, well,” Butch said, touching the soft velvet spread. “His spirit’s here. I can just feel it.” He walked over and stood before the mirror, then turned sideways and sucked in his stomach as he looked at himself. “Y’all can go on now,” he said. “I’ll see you at supper.”
“Don’t mind Butch,” Miss Mattie said to Mary Ann as we continued down the hall. “He’s a little strange, but he has a heart of gold.”
“I think he’s charming,” Miss Mary Ann said as she turned the key in a door marked LADY BIRD JOHNSON ROOM. “This is the room we selected for the Thripps.” She stepped aside to let Miss Mattie enter the room, which was light and airy. The two tall windows had lace curtains and the pale blue walls were covered with pictures of Texas wildflowers.
“Did she …” Miss Mattie said.
“No, I’m afraid our beloved former first lady never stayed here at the Imperial, but we set up this room as a tribute to her work in preserving the beauty of the roadways of our state. You know, she is responsible for so many of the wildflowers we enjoy on our Texas roadways
in the spring. She was raised not far from here, as you may have heard.”
“I know,” Miss Mattie said, fingering the silver hand mirror on the marble-topped dresser. The room’s just beautiful. I was so afraid our room would be dark and heavy like that awful Oscar Wilde Room. No offense, it’s just that I like …”
“None taken,” Miss Mary Ann said. “We try to offer something for everyone.”
As she led us down the hall, around a corner and up a small flight of stairs to Biggie’s room, she kept telling us stuff about the hotel.
“The hotel had fallen into wrack and ruin in the fifties before the historical society took it over and renovated it,” she said. “You could see sunlight through the holes in the ceiling, and a family of possums had raised several generations of young in the lobby. It was a mess, believe you me!”
“I can imagine,” Biggie said. “How did you get the money for the project? It must have cost a mint.”
“Goodness, me, that was a problem,” Miss Mary Ann said. “Of course, that was before I got into it, but they say the ladies held auctions, bake sales, charity balls, anything they could think of to raise the money. Then they shamelessly prevailed upon any childless widow with an antique to her name to will her things to the project. You’d be surprised how many fine furnishings we obtained by bequest.” She gave a little giggle. “And you’d be surprised how many indignant relatives came out of the woodwork to try and break the wills, usually folks who had made themselves plenty scarce during the poor woman’s last
days.” Miss Mary Ann stopped and pointed to a door just to our right. “This is the Jay Gould Room. It is Lucas Fitzgerald’s permanent home. And, Biggie, here’s your room.” She inserted another key and swung open the door.
Biggie’s was a corner room with four windows, with white ruffled curtains. The pale green wallpaper was decorated with little pink roses on white trellises. The bed had a pink spread and was piled high with lacy white and pale green pillows.
“This is the finest room in the hotel,” Miss Mary Jane said, “the Diamond Lucy Room.”
“It’s pretty,” Biggie said. “Hmm, Diamond Lucy. Where have I heard that?”
Miss Mary Ann winked at me. “Diamond Lucy is our resident ghost. Hers is a fascinating story, which I’ll be glad to tell you after supper, if you wish.”
“And she stayed in this room?” Biggie asked.
“Well, no, actually.” Mary Ann flicked a speck of dust off the dresser with her hankie. “She stayed in one of the rooms down the hall, but the society decided to name our finest room after our most colorful, if not most famous, guest.”
I nodded. “Where’s my room?”
“You’re sharing with Rosebud,” Biggie said. She went over and sat down at the dressing table and began taking pins out of her hair. “I’m going to have a little nap. Will you be okay until suppertime?”
“Sure, Biggie.” I was already heading out the door. “I’m not a baby, you know.”
Me and Rosebud were staying in the Rutherford B. Hayes Room. It was all done in emerald green with heavy,
dark furniture. Mary Ann opened a door next to the bed and said, “This is your private bath. Normally, you’d have to share it with the room next door, but that room is never used, so you’ll have it all to yourself.”
I was hardly listening as I went back to the bedroom. On the marble-topped washstand, I had spotted a big-screen TV with a pile of video games stacked next to it. On the opposite side of the TV sat a little scented votive candle and an ashtray with a book of matches marked IMPERIAL HOTEL.
“I don’t smoke,” I said.
Miss Mary Ann laughed. “That’s okay. Maybe you’ll use the ashtray to put gum wrappers in.”
“Will you be okay until Rosebud gets back?” Miss Mary Ann asked as she turned to go.
“Yes, ma’am!” I was already checking out the video games.
“Supper’s at six-thirty,” she said with a smile, closing the door behind her.
I played games for an hour, then turned on the TV and watched talk shows for a while. Biggie doesn’t like me watching those shows, but I feel you can learn a lot from them. For instance, I know for a fact that I will never ever have affairs with members of my family or get into fist-fights with members of the opposite sex. Also, if I ever decide to get a tattoo, it will not be a picture of a hula dancer or a bloody dagger.
When I came down for supper an hour later, Rosebud and Mr. Thripp were sitting at a small table in the lobby playing chess. I stood watching for a few minutes but nobody seemed to notice me.
“Did you get the car fixed?” I asked.
Both of them ignored me. Mr. Thripp frowned at the board and kept putting his hand on one of his men, then moving it to another. Rosebud sat with his chin in his hand, a little smile crinkling the corner of his mouth. Finally, Mr. Thripp moved one of his pawns and Rosebud, quick as a flash, made his move and toppled Mr. Thripp’s king.
“Say what?” Rosebud finally looked at me.
“Did you get the car fixed?” I said again.
“Wasn’t nothing wrong with it,” he said with a wink. “Me and Norman here, we just wasn’t all that interested in touring the hotel, so we found us a nice little ice cream parlor down the street and had ourselves a banana split.”
Just as I was about to tell him thanks a lot for not taking me along, a little gong rang from somewhere in the back of the hotel, and Miss Mary Ann came into the lobby. Biggie, Miss Mattie, and Butch came down the stairs together followed by Lucas Fitzgerald.
“Supper is ready in the courtyard,” Mary Ann said.
We followed her down the hall past a small room with a few tables and chairs and a bar across one wall. Miss Mary Ann said that was the lounge, and it was only opened when guests requested it. A little farther on, we came to a pair of French doors that led to an open area in the middle of the building. Ivy climbed up the white-painted brick walls and clung to the upper balcony, which had a wrought-iron railing stretched across it. I could see tall windows behind the railing. A thick hedge of azalea bushes hid the foundation of the building and dripped white and pink blossoms all along the pathway. Hanging
baskets filled with bougainvillea bloomed everywhere, and in one corner the biggest crepe myrtle I’d ever seen grew all the way up to the balcony. Miss Mary Ann saw me looking at it.
“That tree’s over a hundred years old,” she said. “Isn’t it something?”
Biggie walked over and touched its smooth bark. “This old tree must have seen a lot,” she said.
“I expect so,” Miss Mary Ann said and swept her arm toward the table. “Please have a seat. Annabeth will be serving the food as soon as you’re all seated.”
The table, spread with a pink cloth, was set next to a stone fountain in the middle of the courtyard. In the middle of the fountain stood a bronze statue of a young woman wearing nothing but a drape. She was holding a pitcher. Water ran from the pitcher and splashed onto the goldfish swimming in the round pond beneath her feet. Lily pads floated on top of the water.
Butch walked over and stood in front of the statue. “That is just so beautiful,” he said. “Reminds me of New Orleans. Mattie, you and Norman ought to do something like this out behind the tearoom. I could design you something real nice.”
“Oh, yes,” Miss Mattie said. “We could serve lunch out there when the weather is nice.”
Mr. Thripp shook his head. “There’s nothing but an alley behind our building,” he said. “Where would you put the Dumpster?”
“Let’s all take a seat,” Biggie said. “Dinner’s getting cold.”
Biggie took her place at the head of the table and Miss
Mary Ann sat at the other end. Me, Rosebud, the Tripps, and the lawyer found places on either side of them. There were still two empty spaces at the table. Miss Mary Ann rang a little glass bell beside her plate and instantly Annabeth came through the door followed by Brian, who was carrying a large tray. Brian helped Annabeth as she served each of us a bowl of cold, green soup, then they sat down at the two extra places.
I tasted mine. “Uck!” I said. Biggie gave me a look, and I knew better than to say more, but I’ll tell you the truth, I thought it tasted exactly like pond scum. Miss Mary Ann said it was cucumber-dill soup. After the soup, Brian and Annabeth cleared away the soup plates and brought in individual chicken pot pies. I have to admit, they were almost as good as Willie Mae’s. The crust was buttery and crisp, the inside filled with chunks of white chicken and little baby peas and onions swimming in creamy gravy. For dessert, we had fresh strawberries served on crispy biscuits with whipped cream on top.
Mr. Thripp tilted back in his chair and patted his little round tummy. “Right good,” he said. “Mattie, we ought to get the recipe for that pot pie for the tearoom.”
“Sit up straight, Norman,” Miss Mattie said. “You’re about to break that chair.”
Sure enough, just as she said that, I heard a cracking noise and the little back legs of the chair gave way, dumping Mr. Thripp on the ground in a jumble of skinny arms and legs.
“My soul, Norman. Look what you’ve gone and done.” Miss Mattie could have been a little more sympathetic, if you ask me.
“Ooow,” Mr. Thripp said.
Rosebud jumped up and, taking him under his arms, lifted him to his feet. “Can you stand up?″
Mr. Thripp took one step. “I guess so,” he said, “but I believe I’ll just go sit on the sofa for awhile.” He hobbled toward the door.
Biggie and Miss Mattie, busy examining the damage to the antique chair, didn’t look up.
“I’ll have Annabeth serve the coffee in the lobby parlor,” Miss Mary Ann said. “Ladies, don’t worry about the chair. We have an excellent furniture restorer here in town. I’m sure he can fix it good as new.”
“Good as old,” I said.
Everybody looked at me until I turned red. Then Miss Mary Ann herded us all into the lobby. After the coffee was served, Annabeth and Brian went upstairs to get ready for the dance. When they came back down, Annabeth was wearing a white dress with lace at the sleeves and hem. Her hair was pulled back from her face, and she wore a white gardenia behind her ear.
“You are a vision of loveliness,” Lucas Fitzgerald said. I agreed. She looked like pictures I’d seen of Greek goddesses.
“You promised to tell us about the ghost,” I said after they left.
“So I did.” Mary Ann patted her knees and beamed at me. “Everybody want to hear?” When they all nodded, she commenced. “This is the story of one Maudie Morgan, also known as Diamond Lucy. She was born in Kansas City, Missouri, the daughter of a livery stable owner and his wife in the late 1850s. It was said she grew to be the
most beautiful girl in town with long golden curls and skin the color of cream. All the boys in town wanted to marry her, but she snubbed them all. You see, she had dreams of becoming an actress on the stage. One day, she met up with a drummer and ran away with him, hoping to find fame and fortune in New York City.”