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Chapter One
Aiden Bellingan peered up at the nineteenth-century mansion through rusty wrought-iron gates. Imposing, dark, and thoroughly miserable under a heavy grey Tasmanian sky, the windows of his inheritance stared back at him. Empty, lost, and completely forgotten.
He shivered. What on earth could have prompted anyone to think that this dump could be saved? Especially his mysterious benefactor. The possibility of turning it into a boutique hotel melted away in the constant drizzle.
Beside him, George Denakis cleared his throat. “I did try to warn you.”
“Yes, you did, George. You should have tried harder.” To be fair, the lawyer hadn’t tried to disguise the state of the property; he’d simply omitted a lot of the details. Like the fact that the whole town of Bitterport was deserted, bar a few die-hards who’d refused to leave.
Over a century of moss clung in thick layers to sandstone bricks grey with age and muck as it competed for wall space with an out-of-control climbing rose. Shards of glass in broken windows reflected rain-laden clouds. Not even the sun dared to shine on this nightmare.
He yanked on the lock that held the buckled gates together. It fell apart in his hands. “How long did you say the place has been standing empty?”
George pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Since the … er … lady of the house disappeared around 1945, presumably murdered. Between the Bitterport Historical Society and the Bitterport Trust, we have done our best to ensure the mansion remained standing. If not exactly in good shape.”
“That worked,” Aiden muttered under his breath as he pushed the gates. They creaked open with all the drama of a horror movie.
George stepped in beside him as he walked, almost running to keep up with Aiden’s long strides. “I should warn you about Elvira.”
Aiden pushed away the branches of an overgrown tree hanging over the drive. “You should have warned me about a lot of things.”
He’d come to Tasmania thinking this would be easy. Spend a little cash on a fresh coat of paint and updates to match the popular Bellingan Hotels brand, add the property to the website, and start taking bookings. He’d even toyed with the advertising copy: Where Tasmanian heritage meets modern luxury—The Millmerran in historic Bitterport. Discover the stories etched in every stone, the whispers of the past in every room, and the warmth of island hospitality that’s been 150 years in the making. This isn’t just a stay; it’s your invitation to Tasmania’s most captivating chapter in history.
“You could have told me that there’s no post office, or bank, or anything except a barely operating general store and a service station that doesn’t open.”
“Not for much longer. We are currently finding beneficiaries for the other properties, like Moorstone Lodge, the old bathhouse, and the bank too. There’s quite a list.”
Aiden stopped and stared at the man. “You’re kidding, right? Look around you, George. Who in their right mind is going to stay here to bring this town back to life? And, yes, as much as I would like to contest the clause, I do understand the property can’t be sold for at least one hundred years.”
George shrugged. “It would be such a waste to see this grand old dame crumble any more than she has already. Now about Elvira?”
Aiden reached the sandstone stairs with the sweeping balustrades that would have been a magnificent example of the art of stone masonry in their day. A good wash would revive them.
As he studied the mansion close up, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. He glanced around the overgrown grounds but saw nothing except shadows and neglected gardens. Still, the sensation persisted as if unseen eyes were cataloguing his every move. “What about Elvira?”
“Well, she likes to play up, you see.”
“Play up?” Aiden struggled to keep the irritation from his tone. Surely George wasn’t about to add a ghost to his growing nightmare. “Since she hasn’t been seen since 1945, it’s highly likely she’s dead.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say she hasn’t been seen exactly …” Beside him George shuffled his feet in shoes and a jacket that would have fitted in well in the smoking room of the mansion. “No one has set foot inside the building since 1975 when Thomas McGregor fell off a ladder while wallpapering.”
Well, if nothing else, his staff would have an interesting story to tell guests. If he could lure anyone to town to begin with. Still, he found himself asking, “Thomas McGregor?”
“He was the trustee in charge of maintenance. The Trust was running low on funds, and we had no luck finding any relatives at that time, so he and the board of trustees decided to go against Elvira’s wishes and sell the place. It didn’t go down well with Elvira.”
A dull ache crept into Aiden’s head. “Elvira’s dead.”
George grimaced. “Exactly.”
Aiden sighed. Was it too late to run? “Are you trying to tell me the mansion is haunted, George?”
“Well and truly haunted.”
Aiden closed his eyes and pressed two fingers and a thumb against the bridge of his nose to stop the headache from ballooning. “Perfect. Lucky for me, I don’t believe in ghosts.”
George looked up at the grimy French doors on the first-floor balcony. “So you don’t see Elvira standing watching us from up there?”
Aiden opened his eyes and followed the direction in which George pointed his finger. Sunlight, weak and watery broke through the clouds and bounced off the French doors. “No, I don’t see a thing.”
Confused, George frowned. “Oh. Well … well, that’s a good thing.” He pulled a key from his pocket and held it out to Aiden. “Off you go. Have a look around inside.”
This was easily turning out to be the strangest thing he’d ever done in his life. He took the key and turned it over in his palm. Big, black, and shiny. In far better condition than the building itself. What nasty surprises awaited him inside? He could almost hear his accountant scolding him all the way from the London head office. Who in their right mind would spend a fortune fixing up a decaying mansion that may never generate any revenue in return?
“You’re not coming inside with me?”
Large, cold drops of rain began to fall as the sun disappeared once more. George raised his umbrella. “Take your time. I’ll wait out in the car for you. I’ll keep the engine running, in case.”
“In case of what?” Aiden was almost afraid to ask.
“In case you need to run.”
Was that a smirk or a nervous twitch, Aiden wondered as George turned and walked back down the drive to his car. He stood in the rain, the icy bite of raindrops on his face as he studied the entrance door. The solid wood and wrought-iron design beckoned, inviting him in to discover the decay that lay behind them. The key turned with a little persuasion, the click of the lock echoing in the silence around him.
Aiden shook off the eerie chill that ran the length of his spine and pushed open the heavy door. Ghosts belonged to the imagination of incurable romantics not level-headed businesspeople. As he stepped over the threshold into the entrance hall, the chill stuck to his skin.
The smell of damp abandonment tormented his senses as he studied what once must have been a grand wooden staircase leading to the first floor. The ancient blue carpet runner was a disaster. Threadbare down the centre where a century of footsteps had worn it through, the edges frayed into loose threads. Whatever pattern had once graced it had faded to murky imprints. Maybe flowers or maybe stains.
He stared at the wallpaper, scored as if someone had shredded it with sharp fingernails. Dear God, he hoped that was paint and not blood splattered across it.
A ladder stood abandoned in the doorway to what might have once been a dining room. Most likely the ladder McGregor fell from. Aiden pulled his notepad out from his coat pocket.
Item 1: Remove all hazards.
A cool breeze touched his skin, a puff of icy breath. He shrugged it off. He must be imagining things with all George’s talk of ghosts.
He stepped onto the staircase, running his hand over the smooth surface. A good sand-back and coat of polish would have it shining and new in no time.
Aimlessly, he climbed the stairs and wandered from room to room on the first floor. Dust and grime ruled every room along with decor typical of a nineteenth-century mansion, occasionally updated to 1970s royal blue and mustard combinations. Possibly old Thomas McGregor’s attempt to modernise the place for sale.
Layers of dust covered furniture that might have survived better if it had been covered with sheets. It would take the entire cleaning crew of his fifteen-floor hotel in Sydney to clean this place up.
Item 2: Inventory list – what to keep, what to restore, what to throw away.
A magnificent, hand-carved four-poster bed dominated the first bedroom on the second floor. Heavy blue velvet drapes hung drunkenly from the loose curtain rail. The hair on the back of his neck rose as he studied the bed. Body-shaped indentations on the scattered pillows and mustard-coloured bedspread. And again, please God let those stains be mildew not blood.
Item 3: Dispose of all linen.
Madness. He’d need more than a renovation and an interior decorator to save this mausoleum. He’d need a bloody fairy godmother with a ton of magic dust.
Marielle closed the display book containing wallpaper swatches and rearranged the interior decorating magazines on the coffee table for the third time in ten minutes, her hands needing something to do while her mind churned with worry.
McGregor Interiors on Salamanca Place was a far cry from the stylish elegance of the shop Marielle had part-owned on Sunset Boulevard, but Hollywood had lost its shine for her a long time ago, and she’d been thinking about coming home to Tasmania for a while. More so since the breakup with Brad. So when her mother had called to say her father had gone missing, nothing else had mattered more. Her business partner had agreed to buy out her share in the shop, and with the paperwork signed and lodged with the lawyers, Marielle had come home.
She huddled further into her sweater as a blast of icy air blew the glass front door open a notch. Coming home to Hobart had its downsides. Californian summers didn’t carry a chill straight off the Antarctic. The weather had been perfect, and business had been good there, but she’d missed her family. Then came that bleak day when her mother had called, in tears with the news.
Marielle sighed as she acknowledged that the Hollywood glitter had begun to fade long before that. Decorating for the stars had been a wonderful learning experience, but her heart would always belong to her hometown.
“Are you all right back there? Do you need a hand?” she called out, thinking her mother had been gone a bit longer than it took to make a coffee.
“All under control, sweetheart.” Lainie came through from the kitchenette at the back of the shop, a mug of steaming coffee in each hand, her mobile phone tucked awkwardly under her arm, and signs of fresh tears on her face. She set the mugs down. “Here we go, darling. That should take the chill off.”
Marielle sat down on the sofa, lifted a mug, and inhaled the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. “Any news from the police?”
“Nothing yet.” Lainie’s breath caught. She picked up her phone again, checking for the dozenth time that morning. “It’s been weeks, Elle. I’m not giving up hope that they’ll find him safe and well, but …” She trailed off, unable to say out loud what they both knew. After this long, the statistics weren’t in their favour. “Someone, somewhere must surely know or have seen something.”
“Why couldn’t Dad just let go of Elvira Brown’s case? If he had, then maybe he’d be here with us now.”
Lainie sighed heavily. “It wasn’t only Elvira who kept him going back. There was the connection to your great-grandfather, Lachlan McGregor, who started the investigation into the Fetish Murders that happened there. Lachlan never got to the bottom of the case after Elvira disappeared. And then there was the incident involving your grandad, Thomas. Your dad always had his doubts that his fall was an accident, but so much information disappeared as things got archived or moved. Add to that the rapidly dwindling population, and there weren’t many witnesses left in town.”
Marielle frowned. “Is the town completely abandoned now?”
“There are still a few residents left, scattered around the place, mostly those who grew up fishing there and refuse to leave. I think the Bitterport Historical Society will die in hope of a town revival. When Iain retired from the police force, he joined the Bitterport Historical Society and started researching the old cold cases again. Bitterport had enough of them, that’s for sure.”
Lainie tapped her finger against her cheek, pausing to think for a moment. “It all escalated when he decided to put his old family home in Bitterport on the market. He said there was no point hanging onto a home we’d never live in again, even if it would be hard to find a buyer. He was clearing out his father’s old toolshed, and found boxes of things Thomas had kept from his renovation work at Millmerran House back in the seventies.”
“What kind of things?” Intrigued, Marielle tightened her grip on the mug in her hands. Had Dad found something of value that might have contributed to his disappearance?
“Documents, photographs, also some strange equipment.” Lainie paused, remembering. “There was this strange wooden box about the size of a portable typewriter. It had these alphabet wheels and mechanical parts, very intricate. Thomas had labelled it that he’d found it amongst Elvira’s things. We thought he’d likely meant to add it to the historical society’s collection. Your dad was fascinated by it.”
Marielle leaned forward. “Did he figure out what it was?”
“Eventually. It took him some time to research, but he discovered it was a code-breaking machine used during World War II.”
“And that’s what got Dad so interested in the case again?” Her father had always enjoyed a good puzzle.
“That’s what made him realise the Fetish Murders might be connected to something much bigger than anyone had imagined. Wartime espionage, coded messages, secret operations.” Lainie’s hand shook as she reached for her coffee. “I should have made him stop. Should have insisted he leave it alone. I’m not sorry we left that town behind ages ago, but your dad still feels a connection to it, so he keeps going back there to potter around. And now he’s missing, like Elvira.”
The stress of the last weeks had begun to take their toll. Lack of sleep had pressed bruises under her mother’s eyes. Marielle reached over to squeeze her hand. “Dad had great instinct for solving old cases. You know he wouldn’t rest until he had all the answers.”
“I would have been much happier if he’d found something else to do other than dig around in the past of that awful town. I swear Bitterport is haunted by all the ghosts who met their fate there.” Lainie took a deep breath and let it out on a shuddering sigh. “I had a bad feeling that something like this would happen when he got that phone call. The man wouldn’t give his name, but he said he had information he thought Iain might be interested in. He wanted to remain anonymous because he was afraid.”
“Afraid of whom?” Her dad wasn’t one to take chances. He’d have made sure he wasn’t being led into a trap.
“Well, that’s just it. The man wouldn’t say, but your dad must have known who he was dealing with otherwise he wouldn’t have gone out to Bitterport to meet him.” Lainie set down her mug and pressed her palms against her temples. “Iain wouldn’t stay away this long without contacting me. The police are considering that maybe he’s … Oh God, I don’t want to think that’s true.” Lainie slipped a tissue from the box on the table and dabbed at her eyes.
Marielle leaned over and hugged her. “We’ll find him, I promise.”
“I’m so pleased you came home, Elle. I don’t think I could do this without you.”
For a moment they sat, heads together, rebuilding their hope of finding Elle’s father alive, before Lainie moved away and reached for the newspaper. They sipped their coffee in silence, the rain splashing against the windows of the old convict-built warehouse that, a hundred years ago, would have served seafaring clippers. Sometimes, if she sat quietly enough, Marielle could imagine the voices of fishmongers and marketgoers vying for attention and a bargain.
Beside her, Lainie shuffled the newspaper. “Well, would you look at that … They’ve finally put something in the paper. POLICE APPEAL FOR INFORMATION: MISSING PERSON IAIN MCGREGOR. Oh … there’s his photo.” She paused to take a deep breath before letting it out on a sigh. “And right below it: The Bitterport Historical Society is pleased to announce that an heir has been found for Elvira Brown’s decaying residence, Millmerran House. Successful hotelier, Aiden Bellingan, recently inherited the iconic property in Bitterport, with the intention of renovating it into a boutique hotel. I hope this poor man knows what he’s let himself in for.”
Marielle settled back on the sofa with the disturbing realisation that a stranger now owned the house where her father had disappeared. The inheritance had popped up like another barrier between them and the truth. “Won’t that hamper the investigation into where Dad might be?”
Lainie shook her head. “James said they’ve finished at Millmerran House. They’ve searched every room, every corner … nothing. They’re looking for his car now. That’s all they have left to go on.” Her breath hitched. “They keep using phrases like ‘at this stage’ and ‘given the timeline.’ I know what they’re really saying. That he’s not just missing anymore. That someone might have … God, I don’t want to think about the possibilities.”
“Dad’s the smartest man I know. If he’s out there, he’s finding a way back to us. And if someone’s preventing that, then we’ll find him. You and me. We won’t stop looking.” Marielle squeezed her mother’s hand and waited for her to look up. “Hey … we’re McGregors. We don’t give up. Not on Dad, not on anything.” She managed a smile. “Remember what he always says? That not knowing is the hardest part? We’ll get answers. Whatever it takes.”
Lainie’s breath shuddered out, but some of the steel returned to her spine. She nodded, dabbing at her eyes. After a moment, she picked up the newspaper again and changed the subject.
“Well, the property is in Bellingan Hotels’ hands now. The old place might end up being a money pit for the chain, though, after standing empty all these years.” She held the paper closer to study the photograph of the new owner. “Why would anyone want to stay there, would be the big question. I’ve never been back there myself, but from what your dad told me, it’s falling apart. Overgrown with ivy and climbing roses, broken windows, moss in every crevice. The historical society did try to maintain it, but after Thomas’s accident, no one’s ever tried again.”
“Until now.” Marielle swallowed the last of her coffee. “Do you think Bellingan will fly in his own team of decorators?”
“I doubt he’d search local.” Lainie’s eyes widened. “Please don’t tell me you want anything to do with it, Elle!”
Marielle shrugged. “I guess all I want is answers. We both do. I can’t help but feel the police may have missed something. If we put our hand up for the job, we’ll be able to get inside the house and have a look around.”
“I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less than renovate that death trap. No, I have to trust that James will find him.” Lainie pushed her reading glass a little further down her nose. “Aiden Bellingan is so handsome!”
Marielle leaned over to see. He certainly fit the bill for tall, dark, and handsome. Broad shoulders, lean build, neatly trimmed dark hair. Would he have blue eyes or hazel? Hard to tell from a black-and-white photo. “He looks like he stepped right out of the pages of a magazine shoot.” If she was looking, he’d be her type, but after Brad’s shenanigans, it would be a long time before she considered a relationship again.
They’d had such big dreams, her and Brad. But people did strange things to survive in Hollywood, and everything they’d worked so hard to build had come crashing down with the arrival of Marcy Delray, the actress playing the lead role in Brad’s latest action movie.
Marielle waited for the stab of pain that usually came with memories of Brad and their life together, relieved when it didn’t come. Time and distance had healed some of the wounds, and the final seal on her past would set as soon as settlement came through on the apartment.
No, she didn’t need a new man in her life. There were more pressing things to see to. Like finding her dad.
End of Excerpt
