Rachel, their waitress, skimmed over to tell them Blossom was closing early. They rose, and Ezra helped Claudia into her coat before buttoning his.
“Will you be visiting for a while?”
Claudia grimaced. “I have no choice.” Lest that sound rude, she added, “I’m sure Barley is a wonderful place to—visit. I can mull over the mystery of Bernice and Jezebel and why it may have prevented enjoyment of my Austrian Torte.”
She was chattering. Too late she wondered if he would think her the type of girl angling for more time with a man. A married one, at that. She reddened again and cursed her overactive facial capillaries.
Ezra evidently took the comment seriously. “Bernice provides great local color, if you don’t mind black and gray for the colors. I happen to excel as a storyteller, and since I’m responsible for rousing your curiosity, I’d be happy to tell it to you. After all, it sounds as though you’ll still be, um, visiting, tomorrow.”
“Barring a miracle, yes. Could I meet you over coffee someplace to hear about it?”
“I have to look for Jezebel first thing in the morning, and some sick animals at the pound need meds every couple of hours. Would you mind coming up to my place? It’s easy to find. Take Main Street north out of town, and just before you hit Lake Superior turn right, not that you have any other option. Mine is the only house on that road.”
“I don’t have a car,” she told him.
Ezra was speechless a moment, an infrequent occurrence, Claudia guessed. “Miss Alexander,” he responded, eyebrows high up his forehead, “you are a most unique visitor. We aren’t exactly on a mass transit route up here.”
“There’s a really good reason,” she hastened to add. “Maybe I can tell you tomorrow. If we figure out a way to meet.”
“Just ask Bud or Ann to give you a ride.” He frowned down at her, concern in the hazel eyes. “You should be careful before accepting an invitation to visit a stranger in his home by yourself. I encourage you to check me out with everyone you meet and make sure several people know where you are. Why don’t we try for eleven?”
“If I can get a ride, sure.”
Ezra addressed the waitresses, Blossom, and the few remaining customers. “This young lady is Claudia Alexander who will be staying by the Weary Traveler and is going to come visit me tomorrow morning at eleven to hear stories of local color. Please assure her my intentions are honorable and my life an open book.”
Pleasant faces turned to Claudia. Flustered, she hoisted her backpack with unnecessary vigor. It whacked the flamingo, which soared in a joyous arc toward the ceiling. A second later, the chain whipped it down to land in a pink heap atop the light fixture. Before Claudia could melt in a puddle of humiliation, Blossom puffed up alongside her and yanked the flamingo from the chain.
“Always hated that bird,” she huffed on her way to the kitchen. “Good riddance.”
At the swinging door Claudia heard Blossom growl to an unseen someone. “Burn this thing where it won’t stink up the place.”
Ezra nodded with approval. “Bless you, Ms. Alexander. Locals avoid the flamingo table like the plague. You earned a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Claudia was thankful for the attention directed at the recently departed bird. “Will that give you enough time to find the little dog?”
Ezra’s face lost its humor, and he acknowledged he’d have plenty of time. They paid their bills, exchanged goodbyes, and Claudia struggled into the snowy Barley night.
She had no trouble finding the Weary Traveler. It stood several stories high with numerous gables, lighted windows, and a wrap-around porch. To remove all doubt, a sign on the corner proclaimed it The Weary Traveler, and below in smaller letters, Barley’s Oldest Inn.
With misgiving she mounted the steps, which, though recently shoveled, looked icy. She had never stayed at a bed-and-breakfast and was unsure what to do. Walk in? Ring the bell? What bell? She hammered the huge brass knocker that, paradoxically, sounded muffled and ineffective. With bravado she didn’t feel, she hoisted her backpack, stomped the snow from her boots, opened the door, and walked in.
She was in the sort of spacious foyer often found in older homes. Her apartment could have fit inside, but only after squeezing between travel brochure racks, sideboards stacked with jam jars, and vintage cupboards with soaps and linens tucked into every corner and spilling out of drawers. In the middle of the floor sat a huge old Hoover, while an unmistakable aroma of burning rubber hung in the air. As Claudia wound past to reach an official-looking high counter, a boy wearing parka and boots burst into the foyer. He stopped abruptly when he saw her, and pausing only to catch his breath, bellowed, “Mom! Guest!”
Lighter footsteps followed. A small middle-aged woman with short graying hair hurried down a curved and carpeted staircase just beyond the counter. She grabbed the boy’s arm as he headed toward the front door. “Philip! Don’t even think about leaving before you change that vacuum cleaner belt. First get the monstrosity out of here!”
She turned to Claudia as her son mumbled his way down a hall towing the vacuum. “Do you have children? No? Wait ’til you do, and wait ’til you have a youngest and you spoil him rotten and spend the rest of forever paying for it. Welcome to the Weary Traveler. I’m Ann Gomer, and I heard you were coming. Claudia Alexander, correct?”
Claudia gaped.
“Small tourist town, honey. We all take care of each other. First Ezra called and then Blossom. Ezra with your name, Blossom with your ETA. I’m surprised they didn’t grab you by the arms and haul you over.” She pulled out a prodigious guest book. “Do you know how many nights you’ll be staying? No? More than just tonight? No problem if you don’t know. We have a dozen rooms and no one scheduled ’til this weekend.
“Food allergies? No? Wonderful. Eight o’clock in the sitting room OK for breakfast? Fine. Ezra said you don’t have a vehicle you need parked, so ignore the section asking for make, model, and license number. We’re happy to have you, Ms. Alexander.”
Claudia, overwhelmed by the swift responses to her gestures of affirmation or denial, filled out the register. She set the pen on the counter and looked expectantly at Ann, who led her up two flights of curving staircase and creaking steps.
“My husband can repair anything but the noise in the steps. The thick carpet isn’t just for safety. It muffles the groans that make one think it’s either in great pain or about to collapse. And here we are. We call this the yellow room. After naming six kids we got tired of coming up with creative titles.” Ann told her to dial zero on the bedside phone if she needed anything and then left, her progress down the stairs marked by an occasional pained response from a step.
The walls of her room were indeed buttercream yellow, the trim and lace curtains white, the floor some type of oak darkened by age and polishing. A fake log flickered in the gas fireplace. Not quite the ambience of a real wood fire, but none of the mess either. The room was fresh and cheerful, and she was too tired to care that she was a stranger in a strange town. It took less than a dozen minutes to change into the sweats she dug from her backpack, wash up in her tiny private bathroom, and fall into bed. She slept without dreaming.
Ten hours later she woke, refreshed, to a lively breeze and a few snowflakes cavorting outside the window. She marveled at her peaceful night, and by the time she showered and dressed back into her clothes of the previous evening, the wind was whistling while the flakes multiplied, blurring her view of what she assumed to be Lake Superior.
At the top of the staircase, in spite of all the misery of Monday, a sense of anticipation crowded out the indignation. She had slept well, her appetite demanded attention, and unknown adventure loomed. She grasped the carved handrail and made her intrepid way down the stairs. The foyer was empty, so she followed her nose along a hall and through wide-open double doors on her right. This must be the sitting room. A lovely little table sat in front of a bay window, laden with half a golden grapefruit topped by
a jaunty maraschino cherry, a basket of muffins and a covered pot from which the delightful aroma seemed to originate. She peeked under the lid. A cheery Eggs Benedict sort of concoction peeked back. The bounty gave her to understand that, at least at the Weary Traveler, she wouldn’t be ordering breakfast from a menu. She breathed a quick prayer of thanksgiving and started on her grapefruit. Philip, who she was certain couldn’t be much more than sixteen, dashed in waggling a coffee carafe in the direction of her empty mug. Claudia nodded, looking at her watch in surprise as he filled the cup within a millimeter of the brim and whisked away the pot without leaving a drip on the exquisite lace tablecloth.
“Does school start late around here,” she asked the boy. “or did they call it off because of the weather?” They both looked at the white sheet of snow blowing outside the dining room window.
Philip’s sigh was fraught with martyrdom. “They never call school off up here. It would be closed all winter. And even if they did, I wouldn’t get a break. Mom homeschools me.”
Claudia stifled a laugh at his pitiful visage. She finished her eggs and realized she had forgotten to check Ezra’s antecedents with Ann and request a ride to his house. When she asked Philip if Ezra Prosper was an upstanding sort of man, he answered promptly, and didn’t seem to find the question odd.
“Ezra, or as my mom demands, Mr. Prosper, is one of the greatest people in the world, which is saying a lot up here. I’ve known him my whole life, if that helps.”
But when she asked how she could get there, Philip tried without success to hide his amazement at her lack of vehicle. “Sorry. I can’t help you. I’m not allowed to drive ’til I’m eighteen”—his voice dripped with sarcasm—“because none of my older siblings could. Mom and Dad are out right now. Maybe they wouldn’t mind if you took one of the sleds.”
Claudia pictured herself gliding on a toboggan all the way to Ezra’s house. She shared her vision, and Philip barked with laughter.
“No, no, not that kind. I mean a snowmobile. Not sure why they’re called sleds. That probably means you can’t drive one. I’ll find somebody to come and give you a ride. I know people who know people who are looking to make a little extra money in the off-season. Hey, are you done eating? I have to clean up before I start lessons.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “The only reason I’m homeschooled is for the slave labor.” Whistling between his teeth he cleared the table with quicksilver grace surprising in a teenage boy.
At half past ten, Claudia, having been assured by a now hard-studying Philip that her ride would come soon, stood on the vast wraparound porch of the Weary Traveler. A sputter and a roar and a spray of flying snow accompanied the battered snowmobile pulling up to the corner. The driver gestured with impatience as she approached timidly. He tossed her a filthy helmet and jerked his thumb toward the spot behind him. Claudia straddled the grubby seat, giving sincere thanks that Philip’s borrowed snowmobile suit shielded her from it. She adjusted the helmet and looked for something to hang onto.
The man yelled over his shoulder, “If you don’t want to end up in a snow bank lady, you better hold on to something.” Before she could find a clean spot on his greasy coat he had revved the engine and taken off.
Claudia remembered little of the ride except the ungodly howl of the motor and her sheer terror. She gripped the sides of the seat with her knees and had no idea how long the journey lasted. When the snowmobile jerked to a stop she had to use her hands to lift her shaking leg over the seat. She offered the helmet to the man but he shook his head.
“Hang onto it if you want a ride back to town. I’ll be here around one.” At least that’s what it sounded like. The machine wheezed over the man’s mumbles, but before she could ask him to repeat himself, he lurched away.
Across the drifting road, gray shores of Lake Superior dematerialized into the snow. Suddenly nervous, Claudia turned toward the house, a long single-story building with deep blue painted wood siding. The sidewalk and porch must have been cleared recently. She leaned into the wind, and Ezra met her at the bottom of the steps. He took the helmet and guided her through the door. She stood inside gasping and squeezing her fingers.
“Stick them under your armpits,” Ezra ordered.
Claudia was startled. “Excuse me?”
“Give me your suit, go stand by the stove, and stick your hands under your armpits. It’ll warm them up faster.”
Claudia pulled off her boots and struggled out of the snowmobile suit. She handed them, along with hat and gloves, to Ezra and went over by the wood-burning stove. He cleared his throat, and she stuck her hands under her arms and looked around.
The stove was set in a curved corner of the room, the arc achieved by dozens of carefully placed and mortared stones. A bowed mantle of rich wood bisected the stone wall. On top of the mantle perched a few obligatory items: a pewter mug next to a squat clock that indicated five minutes to eleven, a family photo in a pewter frame on the other end, and a vase of dusty dried flowers dead-center. The room itself appeared square, with walls plastered and painted creamy buttermilk. Large mullioned windows overlooked the lake, and heavy beams crisscrossed the plaster ceiling. The uneven wide planks of the wood floor showed off an impressive variety of knots, scratches, and gaps. The entire graceful room had been stuffed with mismatched furniture in multiple garish colors and patterns that seemed chosen for the sole purpose of clashing. Several unfortunate rugs scattered on the lovely floor appeared to have little function except as pet hair collectors.
“This is a nice house. Very, um, cozy.”
Ezra sighed. “I like to think of my decorating style as more eclectic. Cozy isn’t necessarily what I was going for.”
“Do you live alone?” Heavens, she thought, I’m sounding nosy. But there is that wedding band.
“I do, except for the animals in back in the pound. This was my folks’ home, and I grew up here.”
A widower. She wouldn’t ask about his wife but wondered about the parents. “Are they still...” She paused delicately.
“Alive? Oh, sure. They just moved down to Weary. It’s bigger, it’s the county seat, and most importantly, their grandchildren live there.”
“I see.”
“I’m not exactly shining as a host, am I? Please sit down. The rocking chair is good. Not too close to the fire, not too far. Say, did Felix Rich drive you here?”
“Is that his name? Philip—you know, the Gomer’s son—said he’d call someone who knew someone. But only after he gave a glowing report of your character. He even lent me this snowmobile suit, without which I’m sure I would have frozen solid, by the way. I guess Felix Rich is who he called. The gentleman wasn’t interested in introductions.”
Ezra didn’t respond but moved to sit on an orange plaid recliner and then appeared to change his mind. He settled in the corner of a pink and blue flowered sofa draped with a lime green afghan. He must take his seating options seriously, Claudia thought, to look so preoccupied during the selection process. Embarrassed to find her hands still in her armpits, she pulled them out. Ezra grinned, and Claudia said the first thing on her mind.
“I haven’t known many people named Felix. Ezra either, for that matter.”
“Northern Wisconsin is not in the mainstream of trendy names. I don’t know about Felix’s parents, but my mom was dead set on giving us all unusual Bible names. I narrowly escaped being called ‘Tubal.’ It almost went on the birth certificate. Mom proudly explained to the nurse that Tubal was a grandson of Noah, to which the nurse explained it also named a female medical procedure. Mom scrambled for something else unusually biblical. Their pastor was preaching through the book of Ezra at the time, and she sort of grabbed the name in desperation.”
Claudia laughed. “I think I’m Claudia because she was the heroine in a movie my mom watched during the pregnancy. I like it except when people call me Claude.” She broke off as she thought of the last person who had called her Claude.
Ezra leaned forward, opened his m
outh with a question or comment and, noticing her sudden change of mood, leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.
Claudia switched topics. “I really want to know about that little lost dog. Did you find her?”
“I found her.”
“I hope she’s all right?”
“She’s dead.”
Claudia gasped. “Oh no. What happened?”
“She was probably poisoned.”
“Poor thing. Who would do that?”
“I’m guessing Bernice,” Ezra answered soberly. “Yes, seriously. Jezebel was an old dog, and not too healthy. If we ran autopsies for fourteen-year-old schnauzers we’d maybe find mistletoe, or part of an amaryllis bulb, or some dried rhubarb leaves in her. Whatever it was that killed her, it caused a relatively painless death, and it would be impossible to prove it wasn’t accidental.”
“Could it have been accidental?” Claudia asked hopefully.
“With anyone but our local mass murderer—yes. I told you hers is a disturbing story. Sure you want to hear it?”
A good disturbing story was perfect medicine to take Claudia’s mind off yesterday. “Sure,” she told him, “as long as you skim over any possible blood and guts.”
“All right, but first you’re going to have a good hot cup of coffee and one of these cream-filled cupcakes.”
“I thought it was a story you couldn’t tell over dessert.”
“I did say that, didn’t I? It’s all right. These frosted monstrosities hardly qualify as dessert, but they are filled with sugar. You’ll need something sweet to get you through.” He surprised her by echoing her thought from a moment ago. “Unwrap it and eat your medicine while I tell you about our charming Bernice.”
Winter Watch Page 2