THE RICHMOND VICTORIAN INN

Like Nancy Sinatra's, my boots are made for walking. I'm constantly on the go because even in the off-season, there's plenty of paranormal stuff to do, like heading off for a ghost investigation at some haunted college, business or B&B with my friends Matt Borden and Gloria DeSousa from Vermont Spirits Detective Agency. Matt and Gloria are "Private Eyes for Those Who've Died."

My husband and I own a haunted tour business called Queen City Ghostwalk. Toward the end of our busy 2013 season, I got a call from Matt asking if I'd like to join him and Gloria, along with a family they've done some other investigations with, for a visit to the Richmond Victorian Inn in Richmond, Vermont.

Richmond is a quaint little town, a former railroad stop south of Burlington that boasts one of the area's most iconic images, a popular prop for any visitor's New England photo op: the much-loved Old Round Church.

I'd been by the Richmond Victorian Inn and marveled at its old-fashioned charm. If it could speak, it would say, "Welcome! Do come in and have some tea and scones."

There's a reason for that. The innkeepers of the sweet Queen Anne Victorian, Frank and Joyce Stewart, make some of the best cream scones this side of the Atlantic. And there's a reason for that, as well. Frank Stewart, the culinary wizard who rules the stove at the Richmond Victorian Inn, is from Glasgow, Scotland. The Scottish make fantastic scones. It's an undisputed fact.

Talking with Matt about the visit, I took a look at my calendar. The proposed investigation was in November, when I'd be due for a much-deserved break. My husband, Roger, was also invited. What a terrific little breather it would be for us, ghost tours put to bed until the following March, when we would start up again with our Black Shamrock Haunted Pub Tours.

I did some research on the inn. It was first built for A.B. Maynard, a prominent lawyer, and his wife, Julia. Later, it was known as the George Edwards Homestead, after a Vermont state senator. In 1945, the home was purchased by Luke and Mary Harrington, whose family, famous for their company's smoked meats since 1873, moved in and built a smokehouse right across the street. (Harrington's is still located across from the inn today.) In 1968, the widowed Mary Harrington sold the home to Stuart and Jeneva Burroughs, and after a few more go-rounds as a private residence, the inn passed into the hands of Vicki Williamson, the location's first B&B owner.

The date of our stay at the inn coincided with an unplanned surgery for our aging Rottweiler, Zeus. Roger, possibly the most wonderful spouse on the planet, insisted I go, while he stayed home to keep Zeus company post-op.

When I got to the inn, dinner was in full swing, with Matt; Gloria; the Stewarts' daughter, Hilary; and the family I'll call the Tanagers gathered around the table in the dining room.

Frank and Joyce were in and out, bringing all manner of foods, pizzas, breads, crackers, pâtés and pickles. There was an assortment of beverages, including some nice wines.

Right here, let me tell you that alcohol is not the norm on your average ghost investigation. As a matter of fact, on most, it's a no-no. There's nothing worse than trying to contact the spirits over the noise of someone hollering, "Y'all, I'm sooo drunk!" like some frisky southern belle. It has happened to me on at least one investigation. (And no, I was not the one doing the hollering.)

But anyway, this was social imbibing in its most polite form. After all, there were teenage children present.

Joyce and Frank soon sat down to relax, and we all got acquainted. It was then I learned why the inn is run with such meticulous ease. Frank has been a chef in some of the finest kitchens (he's even got a photo of himself and former president Nixon having a fireside chat), and Joyce, who served as an officer in the U.S. Air Force, was once a member of the Royal Air Force Gliding and Soaring Association. When fate brought them together years ago, it was a match made in B&B heaven. We exchanged personal information and then got down to haunts at the inn. I was fascinated by one story Joyce told me of a local antique merchant who came to show her some china for the inn. The woman was intuitive and sensed the presence of a woman, possibly a former owner of the inn. She also picked up on the fact that Joyce and Frank's Cairn terriers, Lucy and Nessie, who had passed some time before, were paying frequent visits to the inn, which accounted for the behavior of one of the Stewart's current dogs, Winston, who seems to sense the presence of an entity they and their other dog, Harry, do not.

Finally, stuffed to the gills, we made our way to the parlor to turn out the lights and begin our period of communication with the spirits. The downstairs vibe was companionable, but, slowly, we sensed any ghostly interest begin to flag. Finally, with only one of Matt and Gloria's Gauss-meters (a ghost gizmo that measures magnetic fields) doing much of anything, we decided to move upstairs to the location we'd all been talking about earlier in the evening. We wanted to set up shop in the Pansy Room, a restful nook with a rocking chair that likes to rock without benefit of human locomotion.

Most of the Tanagers and Stewarts had decided to hit the hay, and Gloria had turned in as well; haunted locations are the only places where she doesn't suffer from insomnia, so she was looking forward to a full night's sleep. There were just a few of us now, and those who remained were looking for a place to sit in the cozy room. (It might come as no surprise that nobody wanted to sit in the rocker, both in the interest of science and because it would have felt like walking over to sit on the lap of someone's invisible great-grandma.)

I recall I stepped around the bed but felt suddenly uncertain about sitting down. It was a combination of thinking I shouldn't grab what was clearly the comfiest seat in the room and feeling like an interloper in someone else's space. It was a feeling I'd never had on an investigation.

We settled in and spent some time beckoning to whatever or whoever might be available to "talk." As I remember it, someone made a noise and acknowledged it — it's a good idea during a quiet investigation to admit when a low-register sound is your work, rather than a message from the spirit world. "That's me — my stomach just growled" or "That's me — I just accidentally hit the window casement." Someone else commented about how the weather had turned so cold, and that reminded me of a Proctor, Vermont haunt I'd visited with Vermont Spirits called Wilson Castle, probably the coldest night I've spent in my life. I began to say that and got as far as the words, "Coldest...