Chapter Text
“Are you headed home for the holidays?”
Charlotte Heywood looked up from her laptop and fixed Alexander Colbourne with a bewildered stare. It couldn’t be helped.
One: Because her coworker rarely, if ever, asked about her personal life or her comings and goings.
Two: Everyone, including him, knew she didn’t go anywhere for the holidays except the office and her apartment. Her plans, or lack thereof, were fixed in place and as steady as a metronome.
“No, I’m not,” she replied slowly. I never do, she thought. You know this. Why ask?
“Oh, great,” he said, and stepped into her office.
Charlotte cleared her throat. She hoped this wasn’t another attempt at kindling a romance. At last year’s holiday party Colbourne had made a vague declaration of romantic interest towards her -- it had been horribly awkward, especially so after she’d turned him down. He was a nice man, but there was no spark between them. Not to mention that, at the time, he’d been her team lead. She thought they’d both silently agreed to bury that memory forever. “Is there something you needed, or…?”
“Yeah, er, sorry,” he replied. It was then that she noticed the thick portfolio in his hand. Relief settled over her. It was work-related. Good. He set the files on her desk. “Mrs. Eleanor Campion passed away.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she murmured, already flipping through the documents. It was Mrs. Campion’s Last Will and Testament. Deeds, titles, bank statements. No surviving heirs. Several large assets, all transferring to the Campion Trust. It was clear-cut. She would have to review the portfolio and ensure estate taxes wouldn’t pose a problem, but, as an executor, it was the best-case scenario. They would barely have to lift a finger. Which, of course, did little to explain why Colbourne came knocking at her door. He was competent enough, so why--? She scanned the pages again. There. Her eyebrows furrowed together. “She died four months ago.”
Her unspoken question lingered in the air. Why hadn’t he closed the case?
“She left behind no heirs, no living family, and the Trust wants all hard assets liquidated before the year’s out,” he said. He maneuvered a photograph out from the stack. A charming two-story Queen Anne style home proudly stood surrounded by a forest of tall firs. “This is Parker Inn, and should have caught them a pretty penny by now.”
Charlotte dropped her chin to her palm. There were plenty of reasons property wouldn’t move: location, the structure itself, the economy… to name only a few factors. None of that mattered to the seller when they wanted to sell. In their eyes, it needed to go no matter the obstacle. From the picture, however, the Parker Inn looked in fine standing, and the town of Sanditon nestled in the mountains of the Pacific Northwest was known for its snowy retreats and festive landscape during Christmas. “Is there a rat infestation? Termites? Built on an old burial ground?”
“That’s the sticky bit… We don’t know. I’ve hired three appraisers from the local area in as many weeks, but they’ve-- well. They’ve not completed the job, offered us full refunds, and justified their shoddy work with nonsense excuses.”
“Such as?”
He laughed mirthlessly and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “They say it’s haunted,” he said, his tone belying exactly how ridiculous he found the very idea. He showed her a newspaper article clipping. The header read: Like a good scare? Pacific Northwest’s Sanditon's Hidden Haunted Treasure. “Each and every single one.”
“Come on,” she scoffed. He was pulling her leg. “Haunted? If this is your idea of a Christmas prank, Colbourne, you can--”
“I’m dead serious,” he cut her off.
“No pun intended?”
Her joke bounced off him. He didn’t even crack a smile. “Believe me, I wouldn’t come to you with this if I didn’t need your help. This was supposed to be signed, sealed and delivered weeks ago. And I have plans this Christmas. Plans I can’t afford to change.”
She took a deep inhale. This wasn’t the first time a coworker had darkened her doorway asking for help ahead of the holidays. It was a well-known fact in the firm that she eschewed all things holly jolly, and often took on extra work while everyone else was skittering out the door for turkey dinners, yuletide parties, and late-evening flights. Eyeing her towering pile of work, an allegedly haunted bed and breakfast wasn’t what she needed or wanted to add to her tight schedule.
“Look, I know I’m usually free, but it sounds like you’re asking me to fix a pretty big problem months in the making--” She looked at her calendar. If the Trust wanted the inn sold by the new year, she had three weeks to get it appraised, on the market, and sold off. Not to mention untangling all legalities as they arose. It was hardly enough time. “--and to do it in less than a month. That’s asking for the impossible.”
Or a Christmas miracle, she thought sarcastically. After all, there was no such thing.
Colbourne then did something very, very uncharacteristic of him. He folded his hands in front of his chest. She almost got the sense he was ready to drop to his knees if required. “Please, Charlotte,” he said. “I will owe you the biggest favor of my life if you let me transfer the Campion file to you.”
Her resolve slipped a fraction. She narrowed her eyes. “Tell me your big holiday plans and maybe I’ll consider it,” she said. Fingers crossed it was something silly and she wouldn’t feel guilty telling him off. People pleaser problems. She held up her hand. “And -- if I agree -- you owe me a glowing and glorious recommendation next time Mrs. Wheatley is hiring up. I want that corner office.”
Mrs. Wheatley was their no-nonsense boss who ran the firm with an iron fist. But everyone knew she had a secret heart of gold, and, for some reason, listened to Colbourne’s advice from time to time.
“If you insist,” said Colbourne, with the same constitution of a man asked to give his last words before receiving justice via firing squad. “This is the first Christmas I’ll have with my daughter since her mother and I divorced. I promised her she’d have my undivided attention… which she will not have, if I can’t close.”
Damn, thought Charlotte. How could she say no to that? She felt the icy casing surrounding her heart melt. While she did not particularly care for or enjoy the winter holidays, she wasn’t a complete Scrooge. She had seen the picture of little Leonora on Colbourne’s desk. She reminded Charlotte of her own younger sister, Alison. Maybe even a little bit of herself, once upon a time.
“Fine,” she said, already regretting the decision. A haunted inn in the middle of nowhere. Three weeks to turn it around, with three appraisers already off the job. What was she thinking? “Give me everything you have, forward all the emails, and remember: You owe me big.”
Colbourne gave her a measured nod. “Between you and me, Ralph Starling got his big promotion to the Boston team. A fight for the senior exec spot is imminent… and you closing the Campion case will give you saved rounds and then some.” He tapped the portfolio. “Good luck. And, again… thank you.”
That evening, Charlotte made arrangements for her trip to Sanditon. If remote hiring an appraiser hadn’t worked, she had no choice but to attend in person and ensure everything went to plan. Luckily it was within reasonable driving distance, and the weather hadn’t yet turned for the worst.
Over yesterday’s reheated takeaway, she did an internet search on the Parker Inn. Scrolling, she found the usual fluff: cozy cottage; perfect for family vacations; only a hop, skip, and a jump away from ski resorts. She clicked an innocuous link that led to a local newspaper article on the inn’s history.
Built in the late 1800s by railway magnate Thomas Parker for his wife, Mary, and his four children…
She dusted a crumb away from the corner of her mouth and kept scrolling.
… Tragedy struck the Parker family in 1922 when Thomas Parker’s younger brother Sidney was found dead on the property under unknown circumstances, and again in 1923 when a diphtheria outbreak took the lives of his children, Henry and James, and his first wife, Mary Parker…
A tintype of the Parker family, date unknown, was inserted midway through the article. They were a large family, standing on the steps of the front porch in three rows, shoulder to shoulder. Although Charlotte knew it wasn’t fashionable to smile in photographs back then, a shivery chill ran down her spine at seeing their grim faces, unaware of the unhappy times that awaited them still.
“No wonder everyone thinks you’re haunted,” she murmured. Enough of that, she exited the browser and proceeded to pack her suitcase for the days ahead.