Surprise Daddies (#1-4 Box Set)

by London James

  “You might be taking this a little too far,” he says. “I haven't noticed anybody having any problem getting anywhere near you. Besides, Hometown Bed And Breakfast is a bed-and-breakfast. People are there all the time.”

  I sigh and take a deep sip of the coffee.

  “You're right,” I say. “Everybody knows Eloise Jamerson is the creepy old neighbor nobody wants to get anywhere near. But, honestly, that's only because of what happened two summers ago. She swears it was an experiential art installation. Refuses to understand that one person's scathing commentary on social justice and the imbalance of the prison system is another person's astonishingly inappropriate Fourth of July display.”

  “Good,” he says. “I'm glad we got that straight.”

  "But, then why me?" I ask. "Why am I the one they are focused in on so intently?"

  "You're the only one who had anything out for him in Vidalia Isle," Owen points out. "And even if they don't know that, he died holding a caramel apple you made, and he was poisoned."

  "Not a caramel apple I made. That's the thing. Someone else did this and just wants it to look like me. And if the police aren't going to do something about it, I'm going to have to." I stand up and head away from the table. After a few steps, I walk back and snatch another piece of bacon from the platter and grab my coffee. "I'm going to need my strength."

  "What are you talking about?" Owen asks as I stomp away toward the stairs.

  I'm several steps up when he catches up with me. "This isn't just a bad review," I say. "This is my reputation and quite possibly my life. That man is dead because someone killed him. Either I figure out what really happened and save my own ass, or I lose everything."

  I continue up the stairs toward the bedroom, and Owen chases after me.

  "No," he says.

  Throwing a glance over my shoulder, I don't hesitate. "I don't believe I asked for your permission."

  "That's not what I mean. I mean, no, that's not the only option."

  This makes me pause on the landing. "What do you mean?"

  "It's not either you figure it out, or you lose everything. We are going to figure this out," he says.

  "Really?" I ask, my heart lifting.

  "Do you think I'd let you go off chasing some murderer by yourself?" he asks. "You can't even use an inflatable slide."

  Letting out an exasperated growl, I start up the stairs again, listening to Owen laugh as he chases after me again.

  "My inability to slide has no correlation to my ability to solve a murder," I say. I'm glad he's walking behind me, so he doesn't see the look I'm giving myself.

  "Do you have a lot of experience with that?" he asks.

  I climb the second flight of stairs and head into the bedroom. "Not in real life, but if Jessica Fletcher could figure out that woman at the hotel killed her husband by attaching nitrogen to his lamp and slowly suffocating him, I can unravel this one."

  "Is she that woman who owns the yarn shop? Has all the weird little octopi dangling around in the front window?" Owen asks.

  I strip off my yoga pants and t-shirt and replace them with a pair of leggings and a black sweater dress.

  "No." I walk over to the vanity to clip my hair up off my neck. A thought hits me, and I spin back around to face Owen. "That's it," I say. "I can't believe I didn't realize it."

  "I don't think Mr. Mercer died from nitrogen poisoning," Owen says. "He was right out in the open."

  He flaps his hand around to indicate all the non-nitrogen filled air.

  "Not the nitrogen," I say, crossing to the bed and bouncing onto the mattress. "This." I pull a site up on my phone and turn it to face Owen.

  "The Traveler's True GPS?" he asks. "As in, the reason people think you gave Mr. Mercer the big thumbs down?"

  "Yes, and also the reason she would," I say.

  I point to the picture of Hannah Aberdeen grinning in the corner of the blog post.

  "She looks pretty happy," Owen says.

  "That's because that picture was taken before Mercer posted his review of her bed-and-breakfast. It showed up the day you threw your apple cider at me."

  "You mean the day you smashed the door into me because you were unhappy with the sprinkle selection," Owen corrects.

  I shove the phone into his hands. "Look at this," I say. "Read the kinds of things he said about her bed-and-breakfast. This was a few weeks ago, but her place isn't too far from Vidalia Isle. She could have read the review and taken a couple of days to get out here, plan the murder, and take him out."

  Owen nods as he hands the phone back to me.

  "That's a good theory. I mean, he is pretty brutal there, and I can see people wanting to wipe him out for saying things like that about the business they work so hard for, but there's a bit of a flaw in your theory."

  "What's that?" I ask.

  "No one knew who he was. You said it yourself. He was the shadowy figure that lurked at the doors of bed-and-breakfasts all over the country."

  "I don't think I actually said that."

  "Maybe not with those words, but that's why you were so nervous, wasn't it? And why you thought I was him when I first got to Hometown Bed And Breakfast. You didn't know what to expect because he purposely stayed anonymous. So, how would this Hannah woman know to come to Vidalia Isle to get her retribution?" he asks.

  "The same way I knew he was coming. There were rumors all over the place of where he was traveling."

  "That doesn't change that he was anonymous. There aren't pictures of him splashed all over the internet. Well, I mean, now there are, but there weren't any then unless you added him to your website."

  "If I figured out who he was, she might have, too," I say.

  "So, what do you want to do? Call her up and ask if she whacked anybody with an apple recently? See if she pulled an Evil Queen?" Owen asks.

  "Of course, not," I say. "That would be ridiculous."

  "Good. Now that we've…"

  "I think we need to go talk to her."

  "Are you serious?" he asks, sounding dumbfounded.

  "Why not?" I ask.

  "Do you remember you are wanted by the police?"

  "Yes, but only in Vidalia Isle."

  "I know I'm not from around here, but I'm fairly certain murder is illegal everywhere," he says.

  "It's not all that high-profile yet. A few other news stations have gotten it, but Seb says he hasn't seen a picture of me or anything. As long as I stay out of Vidalia Isle, I'll be fine."

  "Well, now I'm definitely going with you."

  He takes out his phone, and I tilt my head at him.

  "What are you doing?" I ask.

  "Calling Calidonia," he says.

  "You're tattling on me to your mother?" I ask.

  "Not exactly."

  "Then what are you doing?"

  "Do you have a plan for getting to Willow Springs?" he asks.

  My mouth opens to reply before I realize there aren't any words to come out of it. It closes, and I shake my head. "Nope," I say. "I hadn't thought it all the way through."

  "Well, the bay is a touch chilly this time of year, and I don't think you packed a scuba suit, so swimming to Virginia is probably not the most viable option," he teases.

  "You are very mean. Has anyone ever told you that?" I ask.

  "You." Owen leans down and kisses me. "And while I may be mean, I also happen to have a plane at my disposal."

  "A... plane?" I stammer.

  "Yes. I usually don't use it when not on official duty, but this seems like time to break the rules a little bit," he says.

  The next morning we are on a private plane heading to Virginia and the tiny town of Willow Springs, where I hope to suss out a murderer and confirm my cinnamon rolls are the best. Maybe not in that order.

  Probably should be in that order.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Avery

  “It isn’t cuter than mine, right? You don't think it's cuter than mine?”

  “No,”
Owen reassures me. “It's not cuter than yours. Nothing is cuter than yours.”

  He takes me by my wrist and curls me into him, leaning down for a kiss. The depth and slight roll in his voice tells me he probably isn't talking about the bed-and-breakfast the way I am.

  “We are here on a mission,” I tell him when I pull away from the kiss, but I'm tempted to go in for one more before we take our luggage out of the trunk of the rental car.

  “Does it include a climb of Everest?” he asks. “We're going to be here one night. Maybe two. What could you possibly need with three suitcases? It looks like you brought everything you had on the island with you.”

  “I've never confronted a potential murderer before, okay? I don't know the proper protocol. The best way we're going to be able to get in close enough to Hannah to find out anything is if we blend in with the rest of her guests. What does that mean? Are guests who come to Willow Springs, Virginia, jeans people? Or do they prefer khaki? Are there going to be any hands-on activities that may require outdoor clothing? Could there be a cotillion?”

  Owen eyes my bags suspiciously. “Which one of these has your dinner gown and shoes in it?” he asks.

  I hold up the one I'm carrying. “This one, obviously. Speaking of which, we should probably get into the room as soon as we can. Gowns don't tend to like to be folded.”

  Much like Hometown Bed And Breakfast, this bed-and-breakfast was opened in a converted private home. The architecture is far more contemporary, with a layout more spread out than vertical, but the blue shutters against the white wood are welcoming, and late-blooming flowers add pops of color to the landscaping. They remind me of the rose garden Owen brought me through on my first morning on the summer island. I don't think any flowers will ever look as beautiful as those did.

  “Stop it,” Owen says under his breath as he leans sideways toward me.

  “Stop what?” I ask in the same low, hissing tone.

  “You're comparing yourself,” he says. “I can see it in your eyes. We are not here to see if her bed-and-breakfast is better than yours, though, if we were going to start doing rankings, yours would already have some points on hers.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  We step up onto the small front porch and approach the blue door.

  “Are you going to go in?” Owen asks.

  “I don't know,” I say. “I've never been on this side of a bed-and-breakfast before. It feels strange.”

  “Well, what do you like your guests to do when they arrive?”

  “Not splash me with water and ruin my cocktail dress?” I tease.

  He makes a playful growling sound and nips the end of my nose. “You're never going to let that go, are you?”

  I pretend to be thinking, turning my head to an angle, and making a hmmmmmm sound.

  “Nope,” I tell him with a shaking my head. “Probably not.”

  He smacks me on the ass, and I giggle as I reach up to knock on the door.

  “You like when people knock?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I don't know. Just trying something.”

  “Just trying to get our dear friend Hannah to answer the door so you can see if she's carrying around a syringe full of poison,” he says.

  Before I have a chance to respond, the door opens, and Hannah smiles out at us.

  “Hi there,” she says. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” Owen says. “We were actually wondering if you have any vacancies.”

  “How long do you think you’re staying?” she asks.

  Her eyes move up and down Owen, and all the sweet-as-pie persona in the world can't cover up the desire in them.

  “We'll be with you for a night or two,” I tell her, possibly putting a little more emphasis on the 'we' than I need to.

  “Well, it just so happens I have a room available.” Her eyes sweep over him again before coming back to me. “Two, actually.”

  “One will be just fine, thank you,” Owen tells her with a charming smile.

  “Very well,” Hannah says. “Come on in, and we'll get you settled.”

  I look around as she leads us through the foyer to a small office. “Your place is lovely,” I comment.

  “Thank you,” she says cheerfully. “Now, this is my office where I do all the checking in and checking out and paperwork, and all that boring stuff. But I'm always available for my guests. Anytime you might need anything, you just come on and talk to me.”

  “We will,” Owen says.

  I notice a picture on the corner of her desk and point to it. “Is this today?” I ask.

  In the picture, Hannah is wearing the same pink dress with tiny red flowers that she's wearing right now, but she's standing at a vintage white stove, stirring what might be a pot of oatmeal as she grins at the camera. Tiny interchangeable plaques set into the bottom of the picture frame spell out today's date.

  “Yes, it is,” she tells me. “I want my guests to feel like friends or family just coming over for a visit, and I want them to know that I'm dedicated to taking care of them throughout their stay. So, every morning, I put a picture of myself making breakfast right in that frame."

  She looks beyond me for a moment, and then she looks back into my eyes. "In the afternoon, when I start the desserts, I serve with coffee each night in the parlor, I post a picture of that too. Guests can come in here first thing in the morning and check the menu, and know that even before they were awake, I was thinking about them and getting them started for a beautiful day.”

  “How nice,” I say.

  “Who takes the pictures?” Owen asks. “Do you have someone else working here with you?”

  “Just a sweet lady who comes in here once a week for a deep clean and a gentleman who tends the lawn. I take the pictures myself with a timed camera app on my phone. I might look sweet and sheltered, but I'm up on my technology.”

  Her sudden, wider smile brightens up the office, and Owen and I exchange glances.

  “This is a really unique way to communicate with your guests,” I tell her. “It's also kind of like a scrapbook of your bed-and-breakfast. Do you keep the pictures from day to day?”

  If Hannah's eyes light up any more it's going to look like she used incandescent bulbs as cotton swabs.

  “I do!” she gushes. “When I'm done displaying them, I tuck them away in a file, then at the end of each month I add them to an album. With all the menus and little notes from my guests, it's a record of the seasons and everything I've put into this place.”

  Guilt is starting to creep up the back of my neck and twisting my stomach, but I can't let myself get distracted.

  WWJFD. What Would Jessica Fletcher Do? I might need to look into some more relevant entertainment options. But that's later. For right now, I'll be taking my cue from all the murder that she wrote.

  “I'd love to look through them,” I say.

  “The ones from the last few months are displayed in the parlor,” Hannah tells me. “I leave them out on the coffee table for people to flip through.”

  “Do you have any of the pictures from this month?” I ask. I try to assume as innocent an expression as I can. “This is just my very favorite time of year, and I'd love to see how it inspires your meals and desserts.”

  “Absolutely,” she says.

  She reaches into a drawer in her desk and pulls out a manila folder. Out of another drawer, she takes an old-fashioned guest registration card and slides it toward Owen. He accepts it and picks up a pen to start filling out the tiny lines.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, taking the folder from her hand. “I'll just be over in the parlor, looking through these.”

  Owen glances over his shoulder at me. “I'll meet you in there,” he tells me.

  I leave the office as quickly as would seem dignified and make my way into the parlor. It's positioned at a slight diagonal from the open door of the office, so Hannah can't see me when I sit in one of the overstuffed green corduroy chairs and lean to spread the pictures out on the
table.

  The feeling of the corduroy fabric sends a chill down my spine as I remember the horrible gold pants Mr. Mercer wore three times during his visit and will wear for all eternity if popular-media ghost rules prove true.

  I'm still scouring the pictures a few minutes later when Owen makes his way into the room.

  “Good to see you made it out of there,” I tell him. “Even if she isn't a murderer, she was looking at you like she wouldn't mind turning you into a late-night snack.” I glance back at the pictures. “What do you think of these?”

  “I think they're weird as hell, but that doesn't prove anything. She explained it well enough. I'm not sure how many of her guests actually notice the picture changes every day and how much she's deluding herself, but we have to admit it's a pretty nice touch.”

  “It is,” I agree.

  “Did you look at the pictures from the day Mercer died?” he asks.

  “They were the first ones I looked at.”

  “And?”

  “They're there,” I say. I sift through the pictures and pull out the ones from the day before, the day of, and the day after the murder. “Look, right here. The date is written in the corner of each of the pictures. It's like that on all of them. Here's the whole week leading up to Mr. Mercer dying, and here is Hannah in her kitchen the morning he died.”

  “And here she is that evening,” Owen says, pointing out another picture. “There's no way she'd be able to get all the way to Vidalia Isle after making breakfast, kill Mr. Mercer, then get back here in time to make cupcakes. There just isn't enough time.”

  I look closer at the pictures. “You can even see her date book. It shows up in a few of the pictures. I guess she likes to write down ideas for what she's going to make for breakfast or her evening desserts and keeps it open while she's making them. It's sitting right there with the date and her plans.”

  “Are you enjoying the pictures?” Hannah asks as she comes in the room.