The Ghost Wore Gray Read Online Free Page A

seemed sad to me.
    We stood at the edge of the cemetery for a moment. Then Chris picked up a stick and walked over to the nearest tombstone. Pushing aside the prickly canes of an old-fashioned rose, she revealed the words underneath: “Martha Ives—1871 to 1882.”
    â€œEleven years old,” she said. “The same as us.”
    I took a deep breath. We wandered around and read the other stones. Most of them seemed to have come from the 1870s and 1880s. The only exception was a tall stone at the far side of the cemetery. When we pushed aside the vines to read the inscription this is what we found.
    Jonathan Gray
    Captain in the Confederate Army
    Born 1837
    Died 1863
    Erected in Loving Memory by His Many Friends
    1875
    I looked at Chris. “Confederate Army. Do you suppose that could be the guy whose picture is hanging in the inn?” I asked.
    Before she could answer, something happened that pretty much answered my question.
    I felt an icy hand brush against my neck.
    â€œCome on!” I said. Grabbing Chris by the hand, I headed for the path. From the look in her eyes I didn’t have to explain. She had felt the same thing.
    We raced back past the waterfall and into the woods. It was only when we were about halfway back to the inn and had stopped to catch our breath that I remembered we were supposed to meet my father and Baltimore for a tour. I had a feeling we were pretty late, so we started to run again.
    Dad was standing on the porch studying his watch when Chris and I came rushing around the corner of the inn. He looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
    â€œSorry,” I gasped. “We went for a walk in the woods and lost track of the time.”
    He nodded and walked back into the building.
    â€œIs he mad?” asked Chris nervously.
    â€œI don’t think so,” I said. “Not unless we’re later than I think. He just wants me to know I goofed up.”
    I could see her relax a little. “You’re lucky,” she said. “My father doesn’t believe in silent messages.”
    When we went into the lobby we found Baltimore and my father talking. Actually, Baltimore was doing the talking. My father was listening to the little man, who at one point actually flapped his arms as though he were about to take off. He turned when he heard us enter.
    â€œHello, hello!” he cried as though he hadn’t seen us for days. “Are you all set for the grand tour?”
    â€œCan’t wait,” I said. “I love old buildings.”
    â€œI see you’ve trained her well,” said Baltimore, winking at my father. I started to object—calling me “trained” made me feel like a dog. But Baltimore had already jumped into his presentation.
    â€œThe first Quackadoodle was built in 1805,” he said, his white eyebrows waggling. “Unfortunately, it burned to the ground in 1806. The second was built in 1807. It lasted twenty years before fire got it, too. The third inn was put up in 1833. That’s the building we’re standing in now—or at least part of it. There have been a lot of additions over the years.”
    Baltimore led us out of the lobby, through the hall with the stairway, and into a large room filled with tables. A stone fireplace took up most of the wall to our left. “The Quackadoodle dining room,” said Baltimore proudly. Two women were hurrying around the room, preparing it for dinner. One of them was setting out silverware and straightening the white linen tablecloths. The other was putting pink flowers into small white vases.
    Baltimore raised his voice. “Martha,” he called. “Isabella! I want you to meet some special guests.”
    The women looked up. The woman with the flowers was named Isabella. She was very pretty, with dark skin and dark eyes that seemed to have something hidden inside them. Martha, the woman with the silverware, looked as cold and sharp as the knives she was holding.