The heat from the sunlight streaming through the open window caressed her face. She opened her eyes and blinked, searching her memory for the answer to the simple question that plagued her often: Where am I?

Gazing around the cool white room, with its stucco walls and worn terra-cotta-tiled floor, she remembered where she was. Now that she could hear the sound of the seabirds swooping above the shoreline and smell the scent of the salty Ionian Sea air, she knew.

Corfu. She was on the tiny Greek island in a quaint seaside inn whose best feature was its rustic elegance and charming simplicity.

Lani stretched beneath the hand stitched blue-and-white quilt. The starched sheets felt crisp, even after she’d spent the last ten hours sleeping off the jet lag that had arrived with her. She turned her face toward the sunlight, watched the tiny flecks of dust that danced in the air before she pushed herself out of the deliciously soft bed and onto her feet.

Heading for the cozy balcony, she stepped out into the day. The village below hummed with activity and she took it all in with a mixture of instinct—for surely, there were stories to be told and no chance for unearthing them could be squandered—and appreciation.

She stood at the railing dressed in tee shirt and shorts, having learned the hard way that a journalist should remain clothed even while sleeping. One mortar blast in an Egyptian city had convinced her that evacuating a hotel room wearing a short Victoria’s Secret special wasn’t the way to gain respect. A lot of welcoming stares, yes, but little professional credibility. It was a lesson she’d taken to heart that night, one she’d never needed repeated.

So Lani was adequately clothed when she watched fishermen toting their nets toward their wooden boats, vegetable sellers pushing heavy carts piled high with freshly-picked produce, and mothers ambling behind infants riding in old-fashioned strollers. The cobbled streets of Corfu were alive, and lively, and she was eager to join in the activity. In the busy streets, she saw a wealth of stories just waiting to be discovered.

Lani felt her blood begin to heat, her pulse to quicken, and she practically ran back into the cool, calm room.

Tapping a fingernail against the bedside table, she waited for her call to be answered. When it was, she spoke rapidly, wondering as she did whether or not she’d have to repeat herself. But the voice on the other end of the line assured her in surprisingly good English that a breakfast tray would be delivered to her room momentarily.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked,” she said. “Please have it left on the table for me. And add it to my bill. Thanks.” She put the phone down with a thud, grabbed her clothes and headed for the shower.

There was too much to do for her to waste time lying about.

Corfu beckoned.

---

“You expect me to believe that the ghost of Carole Lombard spoke to you while you were taking a bath? What sort of fool do you think I am?” Charles Grant shook his bald head at his wife of thirty-six years and snorted. “Maybe the heat’s getting to you. You’re not used to this hot, dry climate and it must be addling your mind a bit. That’s the only explanation I can think of... God knows you’re not usually so…so, well…so damn crazy!”

Without taking her eyes off the computer screen, Claire spoke as if she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.

“It says on this website that they honeymooned at the Oatman Hotel in 1939. How romantic! And we were there this afternoon, remember? Only they had that room closed to tourists—airing it out or something. Anyway, maybe Carole saw me there and that’s why she decided to make contact with me. She probably felt it—I must be a spirit receptor!”

Claire tightened the belt of her sister’s green chenille robe around her ample waist. She’d taken to raiding Emily’s closet; wearing her sister’s clothes whenever she felt the urge, as she’d done when they were growing up. Her sister was more fashion conscious and although she was a tad smaller than Claire through the hips and thighs, Claire could still squeeze into Emily’s things—if she sucked in her breath and tried hard enough.

Claire and Charles were spending three weeks caring for Watson, Emily’s miniature poodle, while Emily chaperoned a high school trip to Spain. The way Claire figured it, using her sister’s wardrobe was a small price for Emily to pay to have someone listen to the incessant yapping of the tiny animal.

I should buy more green…my eyes are almost green—well, in a brownish sort of way. Why is it that Em always picks the brighter colors? She’s much more open to new things than I am. Hmmph. I’ll have to begin to pick up brighter clothing, more blues and greens. Cut back on the browns and beiges, I think.

And what on earth is he going on about now? Honestly! He’s almost as bad as Watson. And he’s just grouchy because he’s hungry!

“Spirit receptor? More like a nut magnet, if you ask me,” Charles said as he headed for the small kitchen. He’d hidden a bag of Fritos in the top cupboard last week. “Anyway, the sign in the hotel didn’t say that Carole Lombard died there, only that she spent her honeymoon there.”

Claire sniffed as she shut down the Dell.

Let him laugh. I know what I saw in the bathroom. It was Carole and she was trying to tell me something. Tomorrow I’ll find out what’s so important to her. I mean, it’s got to be something mighty interesting if she’s returned from the dead to talk about it...