The Purloined Letter Opener

by Leah R. Cutter

  The Purloined Letter Opener

  A Lake Hope Mystery

  Leah R Cutter

  Knotted Road Press

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  About the Author

  Also by Leah R Cutter

  About Knotted Road Press

  1

  Lydia Marsh sighed as she looked out over her customers that morning who sat in her teashop-restaurant, Nip and Bud. Over half of the dozen small round tables were empty, despite it being June and the height of tourist season in the heart of wine country in Central Washington.

  Of course, Lydia’s mind leaped to the worst possible scenario—that she’d received a scathing review on Instagram and that no one would come to her restaurant, teashop, or B&B ever again. She forced herself to take a deep breath, smelling the rich coffee as it were, stepping back from the edge, telling herself that she was being silly, everything was just fine.

  Despite the lack of customers that morning—there would be a line out the door if all her fantasies came true—Lydia couldn’t see one thing that she’d change in the dining room. It was a reflection of her as well as her place, a mix of old-fashioned, modern, and eclectic.

  Brilliant morning sunshine streamed in through the restored store-front windows, opposite from where she stood behind the counter, giving the original hardwood floors a warm, golden glow. To the right, chic white- and rose-colored graphic wallpaper highlighted the area, making it a focal point for the room. Floating shelves set asymmetrically continued the modern theme. They were filled with modern as well as antique teapots that Lydia had collected over the years. A cozy fireplace (currently unlit) was tucked into the back corner on that wall, the brick mantel painted white, giving it a bright yet homey appearance.

  A set of stairs leading to the two upper floors rose up on Lydia’s left, with a tiny (but always spotlessly clean) restroom built under it. Directly across from the stairs was the tall glass door, leading to the quiet street outside.

  Tucked in past the staircase was a small gift shop where Lydia sold tourists maps and books about the area, as well as knickknacks, like hand-painted coasters, Nip and Bud branded coffee mugs and wine glasses, beautiful tea sets, small bottles of local honey in hand-blown glass bottles, as well as other things that made her heart happy, cute collectables that no one else in the area had. She also had a small collection of local agates and crystals that had been found in or near Lake Hope itself. Some of the trinkets she sold—like the letter openers or the key chains—were partially made out of the gorgeous purple agates found in abundance in the area.

  Lydia took another few moments from behind the counter, a nice barrier between her and the few customers, a place where she could collect herself and just breathe. Behind her was the coffee maker filled with a dark roast that she adored. Built-in shelves were behind that, part of the original store that had been here back in the 1900s. Glassware, mugs, cloth napkins, little pitchers for cream, drawers for silverware, everything conveniently placed, no wasted space or items, just what she needed for the finger food she served.

  Beyond the wall was the small kitchen which had been converted from a storage area sometime in the 1950s. It had a well-worn single counter for prep to which she’d added a built-in cutting board, a finicky flattop grill that she was going to have to replace one of these days, an industrial sink and sanitizer in the corner, and a walk-in refrigerator at the far end.

  Looking out over the dining room again, Lydia tried to content herself with what was there. More than one of the empty tables showed signs of having been recently occupied. Maybe more people would come by for lunch. It wasn’t even ten yet. She didn’t need to worry.

  Lydia gave herself a shake, feeling her long dark braid swinging between her shoulder blades. She readjusted one of the bobby pins, making sure that any wisps of hair were firmly in place. Lydia’s hair style was practical for the work she did, as was the rich blue polo shirt she wore that fit comfortably across her wide shoulders and chest. As Lydia was all leg, she only tucked in her shirt when she wanted people to notice her. Today she wore comfortable khaki shorts that came to just above her knee, with comfortable sneakers and cute green-and-black tiger-striped socks. (Life was too short to ever wear boring socks.)

  Two of her favorite locals were sitting in her restaurant. They’d both paid “table rent” as it were, ordering more than just coffee and giving her a good tip.

  Dennis Solomon, the local investment broker who always dressed as if he were on his way to the golf course, sat reading his morning paper beside the fireplace, in one of the comfy wing-backed chairs. He had on a pale-orange argyle knit-sweater vest that looked as though he’d special ordered it from a vintage shop. Of course he would—he excelled at making money, not just for himself but for his clients. Lydia was quite pleased with the fact that despite running a B&B that was always needing repairs, she still had something of a nest egg, as well as emergency funds.

  Tracy Stevenson, another local, typed furiously on her laptop also against the far wall underneath the teapots, out of reach of the sunlight, pounding on the keys as if they had somehow offended her. It was much better on the mornings like this than when she sat and stared out the window morosely, as if mourning the unfaithful lover she frequently compared her muse to. She was a carrot-top, with pale skin that she claimed would burn under a 120-watt bulb, and always wore unfortunate red tops or red dresses. Lydia frequently had to fight off the urge to pull the other woman to the side and point out that just because she was a redhead didn’t mean that she should necessarily wear red.

  Lydia was proud of the restraint she’d shown so far. It really wasn’t her place to give fashion advice, as much as she might want to. The world had not seen fit to make her queen of everything. Not yet.

  She did know that she had a good eye, however. She’d been taught by the best—her two gay uncles, Ed and Alan, who were heavily into all things fashionable and who followed the pulse of all the trends. She’d spent every summer with them in New York while she’d been a teenager. They still sent her articles about the latest designer collections, complete with bitchy commentary. They also regularly sent her photos of the latest antics of their cat, Poe.

  In addition to the locals in the dining room, a tourist couple also sat there, directly in front of Lydia, still mooning over each other. They had spent the night in one of the rooms Lydia rented upstairs and had reserved a spot on the local winery tour bus that would leave at ten. They were on their honeymoon. Lydia had a bet with herself that they wouldn’t actually make the tour, as they’d be back in their room celebrating their new love.

  That left one other customer. Schooner Thomas, the retired principal of Lake Hope High School, who had taken up grouchy residence in the very center of the room. Lydia frequently wondered if his wardrobe had been inspired by men’s suits of the 1930s, with the double-breasted vests and jackets, the wide ties, and the suspenders. Unfortunately
, none of it looked good on Schooner. He was tall and scrawny as an old-fashioned scarecrow, his bald head and wisps of white hair around the edges just adding to the effect. The wide black tie he wore looked more like a bib. His suspenders were old, yellowed, and frayed, and looked as though they might suddenly break, at which point, Schooner’s pants would hit the floor, as he had no butt or hips to speak of.

  He sipped loudly at his coffee, probably too deaf to hear the noise he made. He never ordered any food. He just got plain brewed coffee and filled his cup at least a dozen times if Lydia left the pot out. Though his attention was fixed on the book in front of him, he radiated displeasure like a dark cloud.

  There wasn’t anything Lydia could do or say to him, though she was certain that he’d started coming to her shop in the mornings this year just to drive away her customers. According to her best friend Patrice Skahonish, who ran the bakery down the street, Schooner had no use for “loose” women like Lydia, women who were not only divorced but still single and not under the proper control of any menfolk.

  While Schooner was unpleasant to most people, he’d never been discourteous to Lydia to her face, so she couldn’t just kick him out.

  Though some days, like this morning, she’d really like to.

  The door leading outside opened, the bell hanging above the lintel ringing merrily. Three tourists walked in tentatively, all in their early twenties, two men and a woman. They looked first to the right, at the little gift shop, then to the left, toward the dining room.

  Misty abruptly popped up from behind the counter in the gift shop, where Lydia hadn’t seen her. Good. While Lydia was okay with people, even with tourists, the primary reason she’d hired Misty was so that she didn’t actually have to deal with them most of the time. Whereas Misty actually seemed to like everyone.

  Misty cheerfully greeted the visitors, asking about their morning and putting them at ease, as she always did. Seemed they wanted coffee to go—they were going on the winery tour bus as well.

  Misty gave Lydia a wink as she walked past, heading to the coffee bar behind the counter. Misty was barely five foot tall, with coarse brown hair, light-brown skin, and a perpetual smile. Though Misty was fifteen years older than Lydia, which made them fifty-three and thirty-eight, respectively, Misty felt even older, and the comfort she gave always felt grandmotherly. She was the opposite of svelte, being round everywhere, but she wasn’t overweight, or not grossly so. She was comfortable in her own skin, and made everyone else feel the same way.

  However, Misty also gave Lydia a hip check as she’d passed, getting Lydia to move and start clearing tables. If Misty was doing her job, it was probably about time Lydia actually went about doing hers as well, instead of complaining about the lack of customers, even if she was only doing it in her head.

  Lydia picked up her empty dish bucket, then checked in on the honeymooning couple, reminding them of the time the bus was leaving. They blushed and sighed and left promptly, probably to sneak in a quickie before their bus departed.

  Ah, young love. It was one of the reasons why Lydia offered honeymooners special deals. Though Lydia had no prospects herself, that didn’t mean she couldn’t live vicariously off other people’s relationships.

  Lydia filled her dish bucket with the debris from the formerly occupied tables, nodding at Schooner when he raised his coffee cup, obviously wanting her to fill it yet again.

  Maybe she should raise the price of just a cup of coffee by a quarter, but then offer a quarter discount when coffee was purchased with a muffin or some other pastry, all lovingly baked by Patrice.

  Though that wouldn’t stop Schooner from coming in. He’d just complain louder about her prices behind Lydia’s back. He was one of the original investors in a local winery and had accumulated quite a bit of money over the years, never spending any of it. His house up on the hill was a disgrace, the roof needing repairs, the drab wooden shingles needing paint, and the yard a mass of dandelions and weeds.

  Part of why Schooner had no use for “loose” women was because his own wife had divorced him when Lydia had been a teenager, leaving him alone to raise their poor son, Bernard.

  Lydia had gone to school with Bernard. He’d been one—maybe two?—years behind her. He’d never really registered with her, except for her to feel sorry for him.

  No one deserved Schooner Thomas as a father, let alone as their single parental figure.

  After Lydia bussed the dishes to the kitchen, she wiped her hands off before going back out into the dining room, carrying the coffee pot and offering refills to her remaining guests. Tracy barely registered that Lydia was there as she conducted her invisible orchestras before pounding on the keyboard some more. Dennis gave her a quick smile and a quiet, “Thank you,” for her offer.

  Schooner merely sniffed at her, as if to say, “About time.”

  Lydia kept her smile firmly in place. Everyone else who came to her establishment regularly was a delight. And it wasn’t just Schooner keeping people away that morning. No one in town had had a full complement of tourists that week. It was just how the season went. Sometimes you were astonishingly busy. Sometimes, even when you were supposed to be full, you weren’t.

  Lydia went back into the kitchen to start cleaning and getting everything prepped for lunch. Misty could handle the front. She’d come back and ask for help if she needed. And Lydia would hear the bell on the door if anyone else came in.

  The hum of the industrial washing machine/sanitizer and the smell of lemon soap soon had Lydia smiling again. Despite Schooner and the vagaries of her business, she really was lucky. She had good friends, a good career, and if she got lonely some nights, that was okay.

  She had tools for that, as well as sound advice from Ed and Alan regarding self-care.

  2

  “And then there was a buck!” Alice exclaimed as she started folding one of the sheets. “Six points! I counted them all. All by myself,” she assured Lydia.

  “Good for you!” Lydia said, nodding in encouragement. Alice was developmentally disabled. It showed in her round face and constantly surprised expression. She was sweet and a really hard worker. She’d grown up on a farm just outside of town with parents who adored her and did their best to take care of her. They were some of Lydia’s most frequent customers, stopping and having lunch, even on the days Alice didn’t work.

  Alice helped Lydia clean the eight guest rooms on the top two floors of the B&B. Alice worked Thursday through Monday, coming at 1 PM like clockwork. It had taken Lydia a bit of time to train Alice, but once she’d learned the routine, Lydia couldn’t have asked for a better cleaner. Though Alice was in her late twenties, according to her parents she was developmentally somewhere between the ages of eight and ten.

  It helped that Alice was really strong. She’d always helped her parents out on the farm. She could effortlessly switch piles of wet linens between the washer and dryer, even when Lydia was doing a deep clean and washing all the blankets and covers.

  They stood that morning in the laundry room, which was on the first floor, down the hallway past the stairs. The laundry, along with Lydia’s rooms next door, weren’t part of the original building. When Lydia had originally bought the place four years before, she had taken out a second loan to cover the additional building costs. Then she’d splurged and put in a double set of industrial washers and dryers.

  It had been one of the best investments she’d ever made. They were huge, easily four feet across, front loading, and stacked one on top of the other in the small room. They hummed loudly, making it impossible to listen to music when she was doing laundry. But having two sets meant that it only took a couple of hours for her to wash and dry every linen in the entire establishment. Being able to turn over the rooms that quickly meant that she could frequently accommodate guests who checked in early.

  That was one of the things that always delighted Lydia, and why she enjoyed running a B&B. While she wouldn’t call herself a “people person,” it gave
her a great sense of satisfaction to provide good hospitality to her guests. Her B&B was highly rated on all the tourist sites. Guests frequently commented on social media about the little touches she provided for them, such as the welcome basket in every room (complete with complimentary coffee, tea, and chocolate), the flights of wine that she’d offer at the restaurant once a week during the summer (so people could continue to taste some of the best of the local vineyards), as well as local handmade soaps.

  When Alice and Lydia finished doing laundry, they climbed the stairs to change over the rooms. It was Friday afternoon and all but one of the rooms was rented that evening. Lydia wasn’t worried about that one last vacancy—chances were someone would just drive by and ask if they had any rooms available. That happened all the time in the summer.

  Alice cleaned the bathroom while Lydia made the queen-sized bed. The two larger rooms on each floor had an ensuite, while the other two shared a bathroom. They were in the Cornflower room, which was done in shades of blue. (All the rooms were named after edible flowers that Lydia frequently served in teas.) The bed took up most of the space, with a small armoire in the corner with hanging space on one side and drawers on the other. A flat-screened TV hung from the wall above the cute, antique desk that Lydia had refinished herself, removing the ugly sage-color paint and letting the natural cherry wood shine.

  “My cousin Mitch is coming for the weekend,” Alice announced as she finished moping the bathroom floor.