Odyssey Pruit paints pictures of the ghosts and spirits she saw in the halls of an old hotel where she worked ten years before. GUY HOGAN doesn’t believe in ghosts. Hogan is hired to guard Odyssey’s pictures for her first art show in the same old hotel. When an early blizzard closes the roads, knocks out the power and telephone, Hogan is trapped in the hotel with Odyssey’s quirky fans. When imps and ghouls make their presence known, Hogan questions his doubts, and the answer could be murder.
Excerpt
Opening Scene
By noon, the autumn sky had turned from blue to the color of road
asphalt. Treetops bent in the winds funneling into the canyon from the
high peaks. Stray snowflakes splattered the windshield, turned into tiny
droplets, and in an instant were gone.
My best friend and new
boss, Dalton Cummings, pulled his pick-up into a parking spot at the back of
the big, white hotel and killed the engine. “The truck with the
paintings is supposed to be here in about an hour.” He pulled up
the sleeve of his flannel shirt and checked his Timex for the tenth
time. “We’ll leave our gear in the pickup. I’ll
let the hotel manager know we’re here. You see if you can
find,”--He snatched a clipboard from the dashboard and flipped through
the pages–-“damn it, I can never remember her...”
“Porsche Hurt,” I told
him. “Porsche. Like the car. Hurt, like
ouch.”
“That’s one of those damn made-up New York
City names if I’ve ever heard one. Her folks never gave it to
her.”
“You’ve said that before.” Then it
hit me. I held back the smile. “I know what’s going
on. Ex-game warden Dalton Cummings is nervous about his first paying job
since retirement. What could it be?” I enjoyed the edge I
had over my friend.
Cummings turned toward the window. His breath
painted a gray haze on the glass.
“Let me guess.”
I wanted to see his face, but he wouldn’t turn back. “The
man who fought forest fires, rescued lost campers, and saved fish and wildlife
for generations to come is afraid of a New York woman.”
“That
ain’t it.”
“Then what?”
He shook his
head, and the brim of his Stetson left a mark on the fogged window.
“I don’t like hotels,” he mumbled.
“What?”
“Hotels.”
He clamped both hands on the steering wheel. “I’d rather be
in my own bed.” He stared straight ahead. “I do fine
in a sleepin’ bag in the backcountry. But there’s
somethin’ about a little old mint on a fluffy pillow and turned-down
sheets that makes me all crawly.” He shook like he was cold.
“It’s all too fancy.”
“Don’t worry.”
I bit back a laugh. “It’s just two nights. You probably
won’t get any sleep anyway.” I couldn’t resist adding one
more thing. “The ghosts will keep you awake.”
Cummings
jerked up on the door handle and glanced sideways at me. He raised his
middle finger. “Screw you, Hogan.”
About the Author
