Trevor buys a bed-and-breakfast – Is it haunted?

My latest novel is now out, and since it’s set in a bed-and-breakfast I thought it fitting to write a post on that subject.

First, a few words about Murder at Graverly Manor. In this third—and last—installment of the Five-Star Mystery series, hotelier Trevor Lambert returns to his hometown of Vancouver to recoup after suffering the trauma and drama of opening Hotel Cinema in Hollywood. When he happens upon an elegant Victorian mansion for sale in the city’s West End, he decides it’s time to pursue his dream of operating a bed-and-breakfast. But the eccentric proprietress, Lady Graverly, won’t sell until he completes a one-month trial period as innkeeper. Trevor quickly discovers that operating a B&B is far more challenging than he anticipated, and his troubles are exacerbated by vanishing residents, screams in the night, and Lady Graverly’s refusal to let him see her private quarters. When things start to go really haywire, former colleague Shanna Virani flies in from LA to help out. As the two hoteliers uncover the manor’s dark secrets, they discover that its past is inextricably linked to Trevor’s destiny.

In researching this novel I learned to appreciate the unique offerings of this often-overlooked lodging segment. Bed-and-breakfasts provide an authentic, grassroots cultural experience, and as such are popular with foreign tourists. They’re cheaper than hotels, partly because they offer fewer amenities, and are more intimate, offering personal touches, décor and in-room amenities that reflect the city they’re in. There are no cavernous lobbies, no revolving doors and no conventioneers. In a B&B you’re likely to interact with other occupants as well as with the owners. And, of course, breakfast is included.

Being a private person and somewhat antisocial, I prefer the anonymity of hotels, where constant shift changes ensure that no one can keep tabs on my comings and goings. Hotel guests are busy and blessedly standoffish, and interactions are just how I like them: rare and superficial. Call me a curmudgeon, but I’m rarely interested in chatting with strangers, particularly before I’ve had a good strong cup of coffee. I do enough of that at work, where I’m paid for it. On airplanes, after a polite hello to my seatmates, I yank down imaginary shades on either side of me emblazoned with an upright middle finger, and then bury my nose in a book. I’m more open to social interaction in the evening, particularly with a glass of wine in hand, so the B&B ritual of guests congregating at cocktail hour is more appealing. Furthermore, in B&Bs the walls tend to be thin, the plumbing more resonant, which discourages loud music, headboard-slamming sex and off-tune shower singing, and alerts the entire household when you’re taking a pee.

A few years ago, on a trip to New York I stayed at the Inn at Irving Place, twelve rooms housed in two 1834 buildings in Gramercy Park. Its antique furniture, ornaments, and fabrics in every conceivable floral pattern made me feel like I was staying at someone’s grandma’s house. I lived in constant fear of breaking something. The manager’s desk was located at the foot of the staircase, and he was super-friendly and seemingly omnipresent. To evade the obligatory chitchat I contemplated scaling the fire escape, but feared I would cause a racket and get caught. Instead I would hunker down in my room, listening for the opportune time to bolt for the door without being accosted. The service was exceptional, the rooms charming, but on my return visit I booked the 185-room Gramercy Park Hotel. I like shiny new things.

I’m more inclined to appreciate a B&B while on vacation, when I’m less uptight, more sociable, and less prone to fits of quiet rage when service is slow. One of my best experiences was at a B&B just outside of Buenos Aires called Ave Maria. The food was homey and delicious, the rooms rustic and airy, and I could escape loquacious guests by hopping on a horse and galloping across acres of Argentine pampas.

Graverly Manor is a B&B’s worse-case scenario, and isn’t meant to represent the typical experience. For example, most B&Bs don’t come with a dead body in the cellar. Though I do recall a story way back about a German guest of a Miami Springs hotel complaining at checkout about an unpleasant odor in his room. The source turned out to be a dead body under the bed.

Like Trevor, people are often seduced by a false romantic notion of operating a bed-and-breakfast. They love hosting out-of-town guests, and reason that running a B&B should be a simple matter of a few extra place settings at the breakfast table. They soon discover that paying strangers aren’t as neat or respectful as friends and relatives (as a rule), and the work can be frenetic and unrelenting. Yet the proprietors who get it right, like my friends at the West End Guest House, provide an intimate, comfortable and economical option that is simply unrivaled by hotels.

On a personal note, on Monday I’m leaving for a six-month sojourn in Europe. Aside from loafing around and bastardizing languages, I’ll be working on my next book. I’ll keep the subject a mystery for now, but I will divulge one clue: it’s not a mystery. While there, I’ll be checking out all sorts of hotels and reporting in. But, given that I’m on a sabbatical from my hotel career this year, my champagne tastes will have to be put on ice for a while. I’ll be staying in B&Bs.