The Thirteenth Step
Lori Gerber picked up the pen and without hesitation signed her name below her husband's. She then repeated that action several times as the realtor and lawyers passed numerous documents to the couple for their signatures. It was not until all the paperwork was completed and she and Rhys stood on the tree-lined walkway, staring up at the two-hundred-year-old Greek Revival house, that the enormity of the situation struck her and she wondered if they were doing the right thing.
"I can't believe we actually bought this place," she said.
"Don't tell me you've got buyer's regret," her husband laughed.
"No. I'm just a bit overwhelmed at the moment."
Friends and relatives thought they were crazy. Both Lori and Rhys had great jobs. He was a tax consultant, and she was an advertising executive. Like many people around the world, the couple worked from their home during the pandemic, relying on laptops and cell phones to remain in contact with the outside world. At some point during that incarceration, Lori decided it was time to change the trajectory of her life.
"I want to get away from the city," she announced as she looked down from the window on the near-empty street below.
"My brother has that house in the Poconos. We could go there for a few days."
"I'm not talking about a vacation or a weekend getaway. I want to leave New York permanently."
"Would you really want to commute from Jersey or Connecticut?"
"No. I want to leave everything behind and start a new life."
"Oh. Are you planning on running away and joining the circus?" he teased.
"I was thinking more along the lines of buying an old place, fixing it up and turning it into a bed and breakfast."
"Are you serious? Do you know anything about running a B&B?"
"I know how to scramble eggs and make pancakes, waffles and French toast. The rest I can learn."
"We've spent years working long hours to get where we are now, and you want to throw it all away?" Rhys asked with disbelief.
"I suppose not," Lori replied, disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm.
As the weeks passed and the couple continued to spend their evenings streaming movies and TV shows on Netflix and ordering takeout from DoorDash and Grubhub, Rhys, like his wife, began to long for a change of scenery. One evening after placing an order at Amazon, he idly searched the Internet for business properties to buy.
There are so many to choose from, he thought as he browsed through listings of stately homes and mansions located in various parts of the country.
"If we were to open a bed and breakfast, where would it be?" he asked his wife.
"Maybe along the coast in New England or in California's Wine Country. Why do you ask?"
"Cabin fever must be setting in because I've been thinking about how nice it would be to look out the window and see something other than skyscrapers."
"It would be nice, but it would mean taking a terrible risk, and we've never been risk-takers."
"It's not too late to start."
Although the world was slowly returning to normal—vaccines and test kits were readily available, restaurants and theaters reopened, supermarkets had ample supplies of toilet paper and children went back to school—Lori and Rhys Gerber went ahead with their plans. Having quit their jobs and sold their cooperative apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan to purchase a mansion that stood near the bank of the Mississippi River in St. James Parish, Louisiana, they knew there was no turning back.
* * *
It took more than a year for construction crews to convert the house, most recently used as a nursing home, into an inn. The Gerbers put that time to good use by taking an online hotel management course. As the project neared completion, Lori relied on her advertising experience to promote the hostelry.
"We have to decide upon a name," she told her husband as he compiled a list of furnishings they would need for the eight guest rooms.
"Do you think we can use the name Tara, or would that be considered copyright infringement?"
"I don't know, but I'd rather not risk it. Besides, we need an original name, not one out of Gone with the Wind."
As the couple debated over what to call their inn, Jean-Claude Boudreau, the contractor, telephoned with some good news.
"I don't have to replace the grand staircase," he told them. "It's still in good shape. I'll just have my crew stain the treads and handrail and put a fresh coat of paint on the risers, stringers and balusters."
"That's great," Rhys said. "We can put the money we save into the landscaping budget."
"Considering the history of the house," Jean-Claude continued, "I'm not surprised at the condition of the stairs. I'm not a superstitious man myself, but even I was reluctant to go near that thirteenth step."
"I don't follow you."
"Haven't you heard the legend about the thirteenth step?" the contractor asked.
"No. What is it?"
"That's where Danforth Crenshaw took his last breath."
"Someone died on the staircase?" Rhys asked.
The question caught his wife's attention, and he turned on the speakerphone so that she could hear the conversation.
"Danforth Crenshaw came down from up north at the end of the Civil War, married a girl from New Orleans and bought your house. He was living there about three years when he was murdered."
"Who killed him?"
"No one knows. His wife claims she heard someone come to the house. Crenshaw went out onto the veranda to meet with him and was shot. The injured man ran back into the house and up the stairs to where his wife and son were, making it as far as the thirteenth step before collapsing. He then died in his wife's arms. The legend has it that his ghost can still be heard walking up to the thirteenth step of the staircase."
"Ghost?" Lori echoed. "You're saying this place is haunted?"
"That's what people believe. Of course, I never saw or heard anything myself, and my men and I have been there just about every day for a year now."
"Did they ever find out who killed him?" Rhys inquired.
"Nope. His death is one of the great unsolved mysteries in Louisiana history."
* * *
Although work was still being done on the guest rooms, the construction crew finished converting the old carriage house into a comfortable home for the Gerbers.
"It's so nice to get out of that hotel," Lori declared as she unpacked. "I hate having to live out of a suitcase."
"Jean-Claude said we can use the office now, too," Rhys said.
"I'm glad things are finally shaping up. Hopefully, we'll have the inn fully operational in six months. I suppose I'd better start looking around for a chef. I can handle breakfast, but I don't want to cook dinners. If we plan on holding weddings and other events here, we'll need to serve more than bacon and eggs."
"What other events?"
"The holidays to start with. I'd like special menus for Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Year's Eve, Valentine's Day and Thanksgiving. Then, eventually, we can host a Halloween party and an Easter egg hunt. Hell, we can do all the holidays! Mother's Day, Father's Day, St. Patrick's Day, Fourth of July ...."
"Whoa! Let's not get carried away," Rhys warned. "The place isn't even finished yet."
"You're right. I'm just so excited about ...."
As had so often happened when she worked on Madison Avenue, an idea suddenly popped into Lori's head.
"It's perfect!" she exclaimed.
"What's perfect?"
"Restaurants and inns frequently host murder mystery dinners and sometimes entire weekends. This would be the perfect place to have one since we've got our own bona fide unsolved murder."
"I think you've got a good idea there. Honey, if anyone can make our inn a success it's the woman whose ad campaign made Puppy Pal the bestselling dog food in America."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Lori said. "After I'm done organizing our new home, I want to go to the library and do some research into the history of the house and the murder. I know we won't be ready to open for another six months, but I'm sure there's a lot of work that goes into planning an event like this."
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Rhys asked.
"What?"
"We still haven't come up with a name for the place yet. I'm all for the Riverview Rest."
"No," she declared decisively. "I want to call it The Thirteenth Step."
"What kind of a name is that for an inn?"
"One that is sure to spark the public's curiosity. Don't you agree?"
"You're the Madison Avenue genius, not me."
"It's settled then. Our inn will be called The Thirteenth Step."
* * *
It was a happy coincidence that the grand opening of the B&B coincided with the hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Danforth Crenshaw's murder. To generate publicity for the inn, Lori sent an invitation to eight handpicked people, which challenged them to test their ability to solve a murder that had been unsolved for a century and a half. All invitees accepted the challenge.
Wearing the Chanel suit she had purchased to impress Fortune 100 clients in her Madison Avenue days, she sat on a chair in the lobby, awaiting the arrival of the guests. Raphael Verrone, a professional videographer hired to film key moments of the grand opening weekend, sat on the sofa opposite her.
"You did a great job fixing this old place up," the New Orleans native observed. "I came here years ago when it was a nursing home to visit my grandmother. It was run down to the point where I thought it ought to be condemned."
"I hope all the hard work pays off."
Raphael's eyes went to the large, framed poster that hung on the wall above the check-in desk. It briefly explained the origin of the inn's name.
"Have you seen any ghosts since you've been here?" he laughed.
"No, but since we live in the former carriage house, we've never spent the night here. Did your grandmother ever mention any paranormal events happening?"
"She once claimed to see a wounded man, covered in blood, lying on the staircase. But then my grandmother had dementia, so most of what she said we took with a grain of salt."
Rhys, who had been doing paperwork in the office, walked into the lobby and announced, "I just saw a car pull up the driveway."
"This is it!" Lori exclaimed.
"Good luck to the both of you," Raphael said.
Milos Considine was the first to arrive. A former FBI profiler at Quantico, he was now retired and living in Florida. Lori invited him to the grand opening because while at the Bureau, he helped solve several high-profile cases. He had since become a staple on true-crime television shows, providing profiles on unknown killers including Jack the Ripper and the Zodiac.
"Welcome to The Thirteenth Step," the elegantly attired owner said as Raphael captured the greeting on video. "I'm Lori Gerber, and this is Rhys. We're your hosts this weekend. My husband will take your bag and show you to your room. Afterward, feel free to come down to the kitchen and enjoy our brunch buffet."
Twenty minutes after the former behavioral analyst arrived, a limo delivered the next two guests from New Orleans' Louis Armstrong Airport.
From the frumpy way she was dressed, Sophia Wesley might be mistaken for someone's maiden aunt. Certainly, no one would guess her net worth was close to half a billion dollars. Born in a small town in New Hampshire, Sophia moved to Boston after graduating college to work in the accounting department at Burgess Press. At twenty-two, she enjoyed living in the city and wanted to experience all that it had to offer, from Red Sox games at Fenway Park to the Boston Pops concerts at Symphony Hall.
A year after moving to Beantown, she began dating a coworker. However, while the couple was enjoying a romantic weekend on Martha's Vineyard, the handsome, personable young man tried to murder her. Although stabbed three times, she managed to escape his clutches. After her boyfriend was arrested, it came to light that he had killed six women in the New England area. Once she recovered from her wounds, Sophia returned to New Hampshire where she wrote a book about her personal relationship with a serial killer.
Now, twenty years after her harrowing experience, she had penned more than three dozen bestselling true-crime books, a third of which were made into TV movies and one into a feature film. Unfortunately, she still bore the scars of her brutal attack, both physical and mental. The date on Martha's Vineyard had been her last; she no longer trusted men. She lived alone in a house protected by a state-of-the-art security system, with only her cat for company.
The woman who shared the airport transfer with Sophia was also well-known to the American public. But unlike the writer, there was nothing frumpish about Harley Gorham. Quite the contrary! Her platinum blond hair, red lipstick, tweezered brows and beauty mark were reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. She wore a bright purple crop top blouse and matching shorts that showcased her long legs and curvaceous figure.
"Hi y'all," she called as she took off her Cartier sunglasses, revealing heavily made-up eyes.
A former Miss Texas who was second runner-up in a Miss America pageant, Harley began her journalistic career covering fluff pieces for an NBC affiliate in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. She was interviewing the mayor at the annual Memorial Day parade when shots rang out. Already on the scene, Harley and her cameraman provided firsthand accounts of the mass shooting that resulted in twelve people dead and twenty-two injured.
It was a classic case of being in the right place at the right time. Once her coverage of the shooting was rebroadcast by stations around the country and appeared on Internet news sources, job offers came in from Fox News and CNN. NBC wanted to promote her and offered to move her from Dallas to New York. The bubbly blonde declined, preferring to host her own series on the Investigation Discovery channel. Her southern belle charm, beauty queen looks, outspoken views in favor of capital punishment and ardent support of victims' rights soon made her one of the most popular stars in the Discovery network family.
Again, Lori and Rhys greeted the two guests in the lobby as Raphael filmed their arrival. Sophia, timid and demure, was overshadowed by the boisterous TV personality.
"Isn't this the most darling plantation house?" Harley cried, exaggerating her drawl for the camera. "It makes me want to bite into a praline or sip a mint julep."
It was nearly an hour before the next guests drove up. The first three were in the dining room where Harley was entertaining Milos and Sophia with an anecdote about meeting Donald Trump at the Miss America Pageant, when the limo from Louis Armstrong Airport returned, bearing three more passengers.
Damian Spires was known as the "lawyer to the stars." Although he was not one of O.J. Simpson's famed Dream Team, he was every bit as well-known and successful as Cochran, Shapiro, Dershowitz, et al. When he won an acquittal for Academy Award winner Valentina Breslin who was charged with killing her boyfriend, his stunning legal victory was immortalized in a Netflix limited series. He was no Clarence Darrow, he readily admitted, but he made more money in one year than Darrow made in his lifetime.
The second person to step out of the limo was Frederica "Pepper" McCain. Unlike fellow author Sophia Wesley, her books, although based on real-life murders, were fictional novels. Dubbed by her publisher as the Queen of Mystery, she was the world's bestselling writer of detective novels. Born in Pennsylvania, the former high school English teacher now divided her time between her homes in London, Paris and Key West.
"The only reason I keep my place in Florida," she was overheard saying as she exited the limo, "is because I like living near Hemingway's house."
The woman Pepper was speaking to was Rhiannon Bischoff, a psychic and paranormal researcher best known for investigating the homes and crime scenes of history's most notorious killers. Her claims to have spoken with the ghost of Lizzie Borden made her not only a legend in the ghost-hunting community but also the butt of jokes told by late-night TV hosts.
"I've been to Key West several times," Rhiannon told the author. "I even did a TV special about reported hauntings there. Did you know some people claim to have seen Hemingway's ghost at his former home?"
"Really? I've been there several times, and I never saw anyone but tour guides and cats," Pepper replied as the three guests entered the lobby.
"Maybe our resident ghost will make an appearance while you're here," Lori said as she stepped forward to welcome them.
"I'm afraid, unlike these two lovely women, I don't believe in ghosts," Damian declared.
"I never said I believed in them either," Pepper corrected the lawyer. "I'm not saying they don't exist, mind you, but I grew up near the Gettysburg battlefield, supposedly one of the most haunted spots in the world, and I never witnessed anything out of the ordinary."
"Well, I have," the paranormal investigator insisted. "Some of us can see things others can't."
"I'm not sure that's a gift I'd want," the author said as they followed Rhys upstairs to their rooms.
The last two people to arrive did not come by airport limo nor did they have a long drive as Milos Considine had. They both lived locally. They were not rich or famous like the other six guests. Lori chose to invite them because they had a direct, personal connection to the house and the unsolved crime that occurred there.
Enrique Fuentes, a retired police chief, grew up less than a mile from the inn and was currently writing a book on the murder. Misha Gentry was Crenshaw's only known living descendent. He had read about the sale of the house, contacted Lori to introduce himself and was invited to attend the grand opening. Although the young man resembled Danforth Crenshaw's portrait, he looked decidedly out of place in the stately ancestral home. With his long hair, tattoos and multiple piercings, he could have easily passed for a rock star.
"Everyone is here," Lori told Raphael after Misha was escorted to his second-floor room.
"What would you like me to do now?" the videographer asked.
"Why don't you go have something to eat? Then you can relax. I don't think you need to film anything until the guests take their seats at dinner."
* * *
Since the inn's dining room had no view of the staircase, Lori arranged for several tables to be placed end-to-end in the lobby. Shortly after six, the guests began coming down the stairs. Damian Spires wore a suit designed by Tom Ford while Milos Considine donned his Armani. Enrique Fuentes, who was in a much lower income bracket, purchased his sport jacket at JCPenney. Misha Gentry chose not to change for dinner and was still wearing the clothes he arrived in.
The women, not to be outdone by the men, dressed for the occasion as well. Rhiannon Bischoff wore basic black. Pepper McCain was more stylish in a blue Saint Laurent cocktail dress she bought at Harrods while Harley Gorham turned heads in a hot pink Versace gown with a plunging neckline. Even Sophia Wesley changed from her frumpy pantsuit to a modest gray dress with a hem that extended well beneath the knees and a high neck that revealed no hint of cleavage.
Once all eight guests were assembled in the lobby, Lori requested that they take their seats.
"And now, if I may, I'd like to introduce your host and hostess for the evening," she announced.
Gaylord St. Martin and Paulette Marceau, who were part of an acting troupe that performed murder mystery events in the southeastern states, entered the lobby dressed in period clothing.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Danforth Crenshaw," Gaylord said, trying his best to conceal his southern accent for the part. "And this is my lovely wife, Gabrielle."
Paulette smiled and bowed her head in acknowledgment of the introduction. When the actors took their seats at each end of the table, Lori stepped forward and addressed the attendees.
"I'm sure all of you have done your research in preparation for this evening. While you enjoy your meal, I invite you to question your host and hostess to gain whatever additional information you might want. And please feel free to discuss whatever theories you might have with your fellow guests, as I'm sure each of you has a unique insight into the murder. Good luck."
Having given her speech, Lori joined her husband and Raphael Verrone in the second-floor hallway where they could observe the diners through the railing.
"Everything seems to be going well so far," Rhys observed.
Over the salad course, the guests interviewed the faux Danforth and Gabrielle Crenshaw. Unfortunately, most of the questions they asked added little additional information to what they had already learned on the Internet.
"If you were originally from Ohio, what made you come to the South?" Pepper asked.
"I was here during the war, serving under Major General Butler when he was military governor. I hate to mention this fact since Butler was despised by the people of New Orleans. After the war, I returned to the city. I fell in love with my darling wife, married her and bought this house."
Harley addressed the next question to Gabrielle.
"How did your family react to your marrying a Yankee?"
The actress, who did not have to lose her southern accent for her performance, replied, "Although my parents were not overjoyed that I was marrying a former Union soldier, they had little choice in the matter."
"What does that mean?"
"I was born into an old, respected and wealthy family."
"Cotton planters?"
"No, sugar. But during the war, we lost everything. My brother was killed, the money my father invested in Confederate bonds vanished and our home was taken from us because we couldn't afford the taxes on it."
There were more courses to the meal and more questions for the actors. Raphael filmed the entire dinner from the second-floor hallway, occasionally zooming in on those who were speaking. Just as the empty plates from the main course were being taken away, he turned his camera off.
"What are you doing?" Rhys asked.
"I want to replace the battery. I don't want it to go dead during the reenactment."
Raphael took less than a minute to make the switch. Once the fresh battery was in place, he turned the camera back on and continued to film.
For dessert, diners had their choice of hummingbird cake, sweet potato pie, Mississippi mud cake or, for those whose appetites were less hardy, beignets. Along with the sweets, the kitchen staff served either regular roast coffee or café au lait, a New Orleans favorite.
As Paulette reached for a beignet, she deliberately spilled the chicory-based brew onto her dress.
"If you'll excuse me," she said, "I have to go upstairs and change my gown."
At the second-floor landing, the actress gave the Gerbers the thumbs-up gesture, indicating that the evening was going well.
"You and Mr. St. Martin are doing a great job!" Lori whispered.
Once his fellow thespian was upstairs, Gaylord pretended to hear a noise on the veranda.
"I do believe we have a visitor," he announced. "Since the butler is busy in the kitchen, I'd best go see who it is."
When he opened the front door and stepped outside, the guests began sharing their theories.
"I think his wife killed him," Harley said confidently. "On my show, when a person is murdered, more often than not, it's the spouse who did it."
"But what about the man on the veranda?" Pepper asked.
"We have only Gabrielle's word that he existed."
"It doesn't appear to me that Mrs. Crenshaw fits the profile of a killer," Milos opined.
"Let's not forget that this murder took place during the Reconstruction era," Pepper observed, "a time when many opportunistic people came down here from the North to make their fortunes. In all likelihood, Danforth was killed because he was a carpetbagger."
Damian, an African-American, suspected the Klan's involvement.
"As a former police chief, you must have had access to the original investigation reports," he said, speaking directly to Enrique. "Was there any mention of the KKK in them?"
"Police did question known members, but no arrests were made."
"I'm not surprised," the lawyer to the stars said with disgust.
"The murder occurred in 1873," Fuentes contended defensively. "There was no forensic investigation back then. No fingerprint identification, DNA or blood spatter analysis. There wasn't even a witness to the shooting."
"Gentlemen, please!" Pepper interrupted. "Let's not start the Civil War all over again."
"Miss McCain is right," Milos said. "Let's stick to the facts. We don't ...."
A shot suddenly rang out from the veranda, and Gaylord St. Martin threw open the door and stumbled inside. Theatrical blood coated his shirt and topcoat. Playing the part of a dying man, he dramatically limped across the lobby and headed for the staircase. The guests rose from their seats and watched him climb the steps.
"One, two, three," Harley counted as she crossed the lobby to get a better look. "Four, five, six."
The others followed her. The dowdy Sophia Wesley was the only one to hang to the rear.
"Seven, eight, nine."
Paulette Marceau appeared at the top of the staircase.
"Danforth!" she called, putting her hands to her face in shock.
"Ten, eleven, twelve."
Gaylord raised his head and looked up at his costar. Then he took one more step and collapsed.
"That was it," Rhiannon said. "The thirteenth step."
Paulette quickly descended the staircase, put her arms around Gaylord and delivered her line.
"Someone has shot my husband!"
Raphael zoomed in on the two performers as they reenacted the death scene.
Harley applauded and called out, "Bravo!"
"Be quiet," Damian told her. "They're not done yet."
"Someone call the doctor!" Paulette, still in character, pleaded. "My husband is ...." All of a sudden, the actress' face turned white, her eyes widened and she screamed. "He's dead!"
The six guests, the inn's owners and the videographer continued to watch.
"Why are you all just standing there?" the hysterical actress shouted. "Call the police. He's dead!"
"Isn't she overacting a bit?" Harley asked Pepper who was standing next to her. "This is a simple murder reenactment, not Macbeth."
Enrique Fuentes was the first person to realize that Paulette was not pretending.
"Oh, shit!" he exclaimed. "The actor's been killed!"
* * *
Enrique immediately took charge of the situation, warning everyone to stay away from the staircase so as not to contaminate the crime scene. After phoning the police, he performed a cursory examination of the body. Meanwhile, Lori led Paulette away from the staircase, and Rhys poured the actress a glass of brandy to calm her nerves.
"The man is dead, all right," the former police chief announced. "He has no pulse."
"The shooter might still be outside!" Harley exclaimed.
Rhys, Milos and Damian went to the window but could see no one on the veranda or in the yard. Neither was there a strange car in the parking lot.
"Maybe he's out back," Pepper suggested, "or inside the house. How many doors does this place have?"
As a precaution, Rhys hurriedly locked the back and side doors.
"How do you know the killer is a man?" Rhiannon asked. "A woman might have shot him."
"It wasn't a man or a woman," Enrique declared. "The victim wasn't shot. That's fake blood on his clothes. There's no bullet wound beneath his shirt."
"Then what was the cause of death?"
"We may have to wait for an autopsy to find out."
"So, he might not have been murdered," Pepper mused.
"That's right. He could have died of natural causes."
The uniformed policemen were the first to arrive. They immediately secured the crime scene and searched the house and grounds. Next, two detectives entered the inn, followed by a forensics team. The last person to show up was the medical examiner. Given the lateness of the hour, the detectives spoke to the kitchen staff first. Since the cooks and servers did not witness the death, they had little information to offer. Consequently, they were allowed to leave with the condition that they make themselves available should further questioning be necessary.
"You people are all staying at the inn, correct?" Detective Bertrand Laroche asked the assembled guests.
"Everyone except for Raphael and Paulette," Lori told him.
"I'll talk to the two of them now, and I'll come back and talk to the rest of you tomorrow. I don't think I need to warn any of you not to leave town. In fact, I'd prefer it if you remained at the inn."
The police questioned the videographer first, thus allowing the actress further time to regain her composure before speaking with her. It was nearly midnight when they finished. Since Paulette had been given a ride to the dinner by the victim, Raphael drove her home. Once they were gone, the eight guests and the two owners gathered around the makeshift dining table in the lobby.
"Tell me, is Gaylord St. Martin really dead, or has this all been part of the murder mystery we were brought here to solve?" Damian asked.
"This was definitely not part of the performance," Lori replied.
"The man was dead. You have my word on that," Enrique assured everyone.
Sophia Wesley, who barely said two words all evening, claimed she was tired and went up to bed. Her fellow guests suspected fear, not fatigue, caused her to seek safety behind a locked door.
"Who could sleep after seeing someone die like that?" Rhiannon cried.
"Not me, that's for sure!" Harley answered. "I'm far too keyed up. Who wants to talk about possible theories?"
"Of which homicide? The one that occurred tonight or the one from a hundred and fifty years ago?" the former FBI profiler asked.
"This one, of course. Who cares about that old murder anymore?"
"I'm not feeling well," Misha claimed. "I'm going up to my room, too."
"You do look pale," Lori observed. "Would you like Tylenol or a cold capsule?"
"No, thank you. I just need some rest. I'm sure I'll be fine in the morning. Good night, everyone."
"Getting back to the murder," Harley said. "Anybody got any ideas?"
"We don't even know that a murder was committed," Damian pointed out. "The police chief here said there was no bullet hole. Was there any other sign of violence?"
"None that I could detect," Enrique replied.
"He could have died from natural causes then. He might have been on drugs or had a serious medical condition."
"Besides, there's no evidence that a killer was here," Rhys declared, taking part in the discussion. "I never saw or heard a car drive up, and there are only four vehicles in the parking lot."
"If it was murder, the killer could have left his car on the road and walked over the lawn, taking cover behind the trees so as not to be seen."
"You're all overlooking the obvious," the paranormal researcher cried. "Danforth Crenshaw killed the actor. That's why you didn't see or hear him arrive. His spirit was already in the house."
"And how exactly did a ghost kill him? Did it scare him to death?" Harley asked facetiously.
"This isn't funny. Ghosts are real. I've seen them. I've communicated with them."
"Then why don't we hold a séance and ask Gaylord St. Martin if he was murdered, and if so, who killed him? While you're at it, you can conjure up Danforth Crenshaw, too, and we can solve his murder, as well."
Upset at being teased, Rhiannon stormed out of the lobby and went upstairs to her assigned room.
"Perhaps you shouldn't have mocked her beliefs," Pepper suggested.
"Do you think there's a murderous ghost in the house?"
"No. Like Mr. Spires, I'm not even sure a murder has been committed."
"This isn't one of your nice, tidy fictional murders where a clever detective roots out the killer in the last chapter," Harley argued. "This is the real deal, so why don't you let those of us who know about actual homicides discuss it."
"Fine. My body is still on London time anyway. So, I'll say goodnight and go to bed."
"I think I'll head up, as well," Enrique announced. "I've always been an early riser. And even though I'm retired, I'm usually in bed by ten and up by five the next morning."
"Me, too," Milos said, "that long car ride from Florida was exhausting."
"It looks as though the party is over now," Damian declared, glancing at his Rolex. "I think I'll go phone my wife. She's probably still awake."
"Do you have any liquor around here?" Harley asked the Gerbers.
"Yes, we have a fully stocked bar in the kitchen," Lori answered.
"Good. Get me a bottle of vodka. I'll take the party with me to my room."
* * *
When the alarm went off at six the next morning, Lori wanted nothing more than to hit the snooze button and go back to sleep, but that was no way to run a business. She got out of bed, took a shower and hurried from the carriage house to the inn to begin making breakfast.
"Can I help with anything?" Rhys asked after pouring them both large cups of strong coffee.
"You can peel the potatoes for the hash browns."
By eight o'clock, the food was ready, and the dining room table was set.
"Do you think we can put furniture in the lobby back the way it belongs?" Lori asked her husband.
"Maybe you should wait until the police get here. They might want us to leave everything the way it was for now."
The couple drank more coffee as they waited for the guests to come downstairs. The grandfather's clock in the lobby struck nine and then ten. Still, no one appeared.
"If I had known they were going to sleep this late, I wouldn't have gotten up at six," Lori said. "Didn't Mr. Fuentes say he was usually up at five?"
"Yes, but he didn't go to bed at ten."
"I assume with all the excitement, most of our guests had trouble falling asleep."
It was nearly noon when Detective Laroche arrived with his partner, Josepha Drucker.
"I'm afraid none of the guests is up yet," Rhys apologized.
"Go and wake them. We need to talk to them."
The Gerbers went upstairs and knocked on all eight doors, but no one answered.
"Do you have a pass key?" Laroche asked.
"We keep it in the office," Lori answered. "I'll go get it for you."
Behind the first seven doors they opened, the detectives found dead bodies. The eighth guest room was empty. The bed had not been slept in, and there were no personal items or luggage in sight.
"Who was in this room?" Bertrand demanded to know.
"That one was assigned to Misha Gentry," Rhys answered.
"He lives in the area, so maybe he went home for some reason," Lori suggested. "He did say he wasn't feeling well."
"What's his address?"
"I don't know."
"Didn't he give you one when he checked in?"
"This was a special event, by invitation only, so I didn't ask anyone to sign the register."
"If you invited him, what address did you send the invitation to?"
"The invitations weren't mailed."
"Did you phone him? What was his number?"
"All contact was done online. I can get you his email address," Lori offered and went back to the office.
When she left the room, it was her husband's turn to be bombarded with questions.
"What about his car? Do you know the make and model? What about the color? Did you notice the plate number?"
"I'm sorry. I never actually saw Mr. Gentry arrive. I brought another guest's luggage upstairs, and when I came back down, he was standing there at the bottom of the staircase."
"Here you are; I printed out all the emails I received from him," Lori said when she returned to the lobby.
"Drucker, have the techs check this email address," Bertrand requested. "See if they can get me a physical location."
The detective then read through each of the emails from the most recent one to the first.
"It says here, this young man was a direct descendent of Danforth Crenshaw," the detective noted.
"Yes. That's why I invited him," Lori explained, "because of his connection to the family."
"Rebecca Everson was the last Crenshaw, and she died right here when this place was a nursing home."
"Then Mr. Gentry lied to me."
The detective's phone rang and after he answered it, he turned back to Lori.
"That's not the only lie he told you. This email address doesn't exist, and there is no Misha Gentry anywhere in the state of Louisiana."
"Damn! Finding this guy is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack!" Josepha groaned.
"You two are going to have to come down to the station," he told the Gerbers. "You'll describe this guy to a police artist and we'll run a composite photo in the papers and on the TV news."
"If it's a picture of him you want, why don't you print one from the video?"
"Call that videographer and tell him to bring his footage here ASAP," Bertrand told his partner.
Less than an hour later, Raphael Verrone arrived with the memory card from his video camera.
"You can use the computer in the office," Rhys suggested. "It's already hooked up to a printer."
"Wait a minute!" Raphael exclaimed as he watched the video of the guests sitting down to dinner. "Where's Gentry? Why is his seat empty?"
The two detectives, the Gerbers and the videographer watched the entire footage. At no point did they see the long-haired, tattooed young man.
"Since you don't have him on video, it looks like we go back to our original plan," Bertrand declared. "Let's get going so that we can put this guy's picture in tomorrow's paper."
Upon returning from the police station after meeting with the sketch artist, Rhys suggested they go to the carriage house and get some much-needed rest.
"I don't want to leave all that food out," his wife replied.
Once inside The Thirteenth Step, the couple removed the tables from the lobby and moved the sofa and chairs back to their proper place. After the room was in order, Lori looked up at the portrait above the fireplace.
"You know, when I first saw Mr. Gentry, I couldn't help noticing there was a strong family resemblance to his ancestor."
"But it's not his ancestor."
"I know that now, but if you were to remove Danforth's beard and mustache and take away Misha's long hair, the two men would be identical."
"You're not suggesting Rhiannon Bischoff was right and that Gentry was actually Crenshaw's ghost?"
"I never believed in ghosts, but now I'm not so sure."
"Even if such things do exist, what possible motive would Crenshaw have for killing eight strangers?"
Lori shrugged. A pragmatist at heart, she never wasted time pondering questions that had no answers. Despite planning and hosting the unsolved murder-inspired weekend, she was not one for mysteries herself, not in books, movies or real life.
"I'll leave the detecting to Laroche and Drucker. I've got work to do."
Heading toward the kitchen, she had to pass the poster on the wall behind the check-in desk.
"Oh, my God!" she exclaimed.
"What is it?" Rhys asked.
"Look!"
The poster no longer told the story of the origin of the inn's name. Instead, Misha Gentry, whether he was a deranged killer or a ghost, left a message behind: "Murder is not a hobby or a form of entertainment. Nor should it become a business. Seven of these people owe their fame and fortune to this most heinous of crimes, and the eighth was planning on doing the same in the future. Whether they analyzed it, wrote about it, reenacted it, defended it or televised it, they all in some way capitalized on murder. Now, they all have firsthand knowledge of how horrible a deed it is."
Rhys took out his phone to call Detective Laroche, but before he could dial the number, the message disappeared.
* * *
In the weeks following the ill-fated murder mystery weekend, autopsies were conducted on all eight victims, but no definitive cause of death was determined. Their hearts simply stopped beating. Although foul play was not proven, police investigated the case as a homicide. In a press conference, Detective Laroche admitted the force had a suspect but could not locate him since all they had to go on was a false name and a composite photo of the man, which no one had come forward to identify. It was assumed by one and all that the eight murders, like Danforth Crenshaw's, would go unsolved.
The media sensation this case caused cannot be underestimated. Eight people were dead, most of whom were nationally known celebrities. Not only did the press descend on the inn like locusts, but people from all walks of life were drawn to the former sugar plantation house to satisfy their morbid curiosity. Realizing they could never make a success of their business after the unforeseen tragedy, Lori and Rhys Gerber—thankful that the ghost of Danforth Crenshaw did not seek revenge on them for hosting the murder mystery weekend—listed the building with a local realtor and moved to an undisclosed location to get away from the reporters who hounded them.
As for The Thirteenth Step, the building, after being on the market for two years, was eventually purchased by an entrepreneur who hoped to capitalize on its horrific history by converting it into a two-story, upscale murder-themed restaurant. Once again, Jean-Claude Boudreau's construction crew went in and remodeled the former plantation home. But before Murder on the Menu could open its doors to the diners, the Greek Revival house mysteriously burned to the ground. Fire investigators could find no accelerant or other proof of arson, but they did conclude that the blaze started on the staircase.
The photo in the upper left corner is of Oak Alley Plantation, located in Vacherie, Louisiana.
This story is loosely based on the 1871 murder of William Winter who was shot in the chest by an unknown assailant and allegedly ran into his home and died on the staircase. This unsolved murder took place at Myrtles Plantation in Saint Francisville, Louisiana. Legend has it that his ghost still climbs the staircase but only as far as the seventeenth step where he died (not the thirteenth step as in my fictional story).
Salem avoids all tall staircases, not because he's afraid of ghosts but because he's too lazy to climb up them.
