The Ghost Wore Gray Read Online Free Page B

She was much older than Isabella—somewhere in her midfifties was my father’s guess, when I asked him later.
    Baltimore introduced us and told the women not to be concerned if they saw my father poking around in odd places. He would have to do that as part of his planning for the renovation. I noticed Isabella’s eyes widen when Baltimore mentioned why my father was there. That’s odd , I thought to myself. I wonder why she’s so interested . I made a note to talk to Chris about it later.
    â€œLet me show you the kitchen,” said Baltimore. He led us through the dining room, which had beautiful windows looking out onto the forest. But the wallpaper should have been arrested for attacking people’s eyes.
    A pair of swinging doors led into the kitchen. Just as Baltimore was about to push on one of them, the other flew open and Peter Gorham came barreling out as if there were a demon on his tail.
    â€œ Schweinhund! ” cried an angry voice on the far side of the door. “ Dumbkopf! Imbecile!” I heard a dull thwacking sound. The cursing stopped.
    Baltimore grabbed the edge of the door and pulled it open, using it as a shield. Peering around the edge, he found himself face to face with an enormous knife.

CHAPTER SIX
    The Unexpected Guest
    â€œDieter!” bellowed Baltimore. “How many times do I have to tell you not to throw things at the help?”
    He pulled the blade out of the door and walked into the kitchen. “Come on,” he said, sticking his bald head back around the door into the dining room. “I want you to meet our cook, Dieter Schwartz.” (Dieter might seem like a funny name for a cook. But you don’t say it the way it looks; it rhymes with “Peter.”)
    I looked at my father. He shrugged and followed Baltimore. Chris and I stayed close at his heels. I glanced at the back of the door as we went through. It had dozens of knife marks in it.
    Dieter Schwartz was actually shorter than Baltimore Cleveland. His face, which seemed to be mostly nose, was red with anger. He stood beside a big pot, scooping something out of it with a ladle, then slapping the ladle back in. He had a disgusted look on his face, and a steady stream of angry German curses was coming out of his mouth. “Dolt!” he cried, switching to English. “I asked him to stir this, and look at it. Look at it! ”
    He held up a spoonful of the stuff. It looked like a combination of silly putty and gravel, only thicker.
    â€œWhat is it?” Baltimore asked.
    â€œCream sauce!” bellowed Dieter as though someone had stabbed him through the heart. Then, more weakly, he repeated, “Cream sauce.”
    Baltimore shook his head sympathetically. “Looks pretty bad,” he said. “But I’ve told you Peter’s no cook. That’s not what I hired him for.”
    â€œI cannot do everything!” cried Dieter. “I must have more help.”
    Baltimore looked a little nervous. “We’ll talk about that later, Dieter. Right now, I want you to meet some special guests.”
    You would have sworn he had pulled some kind of lever inside Dieter Schwartz’s head; although we had been standing right in front of him, he seemed to see us for the first time.
    â€œHow pleased I am to make your acquaintance,” he said to each of us, as Baltimore introduced us. “You must forgive my little tantrum. I treat my food as an artist treats his paintings, and I cannot bear to have it destroyed like this.” He gestured tragically toward the pot of putty. “I fear you have formed a bad impression of me. Ah! I know what will help. Here, try one of these!”
    He rushed to the far side of the kitchen and came back with a pastry in each hand. He gave one to me and one to Chris.
    I thanked him.
    â€œEat! Eat!” he cried, waving his hands in the air.
    I took a bite.
    You can forgive a lot in a man who can make something that tastes