by Patti Larsen
She finally slipped the offending sheets, still wonky from Dad’s furious attention, back into the envelope and set them before her, little hands folding over the surface, covering my name with those familiar fingers. My eyes settled on the ridges of skin that were the proof of years of contentment cupping the wedding band and engagement ring she’d worn since she was eighteen. Coral polish shone on her perfectly oval nails, faintly blue veins showing under the thinning skin. Weird how those details came into sharp focus for me at a time like this, but I found the longer I stared at those hands I knew so well, hands I’d missed being away from this long, the deeper I was able to breathe and the more my rational thoughts returned, banishing the panic until I was able to concentrate when Mom spoke.
“John will blame himself for this,” she said, tears in her eyes. “There’s old, bad blood between him and Pete, Fee. And it has nothing to do with you, or Iris. So sad.” Mom shook her head, stared down into Dad’s untouched cake. “But don’t worry a bit, all right? Your father will get this sorted. There’s not a single thing to fuss over.” She grasped and squeezed my hand, forced a brave little smile. “Okay, sweetie? Not a single thing.”
That routine worked when I was a kid. But I wasn’t so sure Mom’s goodness and light was going to come to the rescue this time. Not that I didn’t appreciate the effort.
“What bad blood?” I reached for the envelope, hating the thing now though I personally hadn’t looked at the contents and it was just paper and ink. Soulless, impersonal. Not worthy of hate, really.
Mom sniffled and stood, taking Dad’s plate, replacing carefully the slice of uneaten cake on the glass pedestal, doing the same with her own, before setting the cover softly on the base. “It doesn’t matter now,” she said. “John’s retired. It’s Crew Turner’s problem from here.”
So this was a criminal matter turned personal? “Mom,” I said. “I’d better call a lawyer.”
She turned and smiled again, not quite so fake anymore. “Just let your father talk to Pete,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll get it all sorted out.” She hesitated before her chin dropped a little, brave face fading. “You have his mind, his passion for truth. I wish…”
I didn’t want to talk about Dad’s insistence I not follow in his footsteps, the only thing I’d ever really wanted. Too depressing.
Mom must have agreed. “Eat your cake, Fee.”
And while it was probably the last thing I wanted to do now, I did as I was told like a good girl. By the time I was done, Mom standing in contemplative silence in the slowly darkening kitchen so long my last few bites were like eating in the most uncomfortable quiet of my entire life, I had to choke down the final swallow. When I rose to take the plate and fork to the sink, turning on the light under the counters to cut the shadows, she jerked into motion again, her beaming smile firmly in place, Petunia snuffling at her feet as a few crumbs fell when Mom scooped the dishes out of my hands.
“Now, don’t forget, six o’clock Saturday,” she said, depositing the plate and fork into the sink before turning me and aiming me for the front door. So, time to go then, was it? I grabbed the envelope, Petunia trailing mournfully after me. “Dinner for my birthday. You won’t forget?”
She sounded worried. I turned and hugged her. “I wish you’d let us take you out. Or at least allow me to cook for you.”
Mom beamed then, kissing my cheek, bending to pat Petunia’s wrinkled head. “The very best gift I can receive is to cook whatever I want for my own birthday.” She nodded sharply once with a gleam in her eyes. “I can’t wait.”
Petunia grunted while Mom ushered us smoothly out the door and waved. I gave up trying to argue, impressed as always at how deft she seemed to be, the effortless way she managed to shoo me along, and finished sliding my heels into my sneakers before heading for home.
The second my feet hit the sidewalk, street lights flickering to life despite the fact on the other side of the mountains the sun still shone, a horrible thought struck me. I really was going to need a lawyer. And I knew a good one, a damned good one with tons of experience and enough motivation to represent me for free I’d likely win no matter what kind of paperwork Pete Wilkins thought he had against me.
The only trouble was that lawyer was my ex. And I just wasn’t willing to go there.
Sighing over the Pandora’s box of my history and hoping Mom’s attempt at reassurance meant I could keep Ryan Richards safely in the past, I slumped my way home to the B&B while the namesake of that same place grunted and snorted and farted beside me.
***
Chapter Five
This time, the walk wasn’t fueled by anger, and rather than forcing myself to stroll I took my time easily. Settling into Petunia’s waddling pace gave me the minutes I needed to sort out my head so when I at last set foot on the bottom step of the B&B’s front entry, any plans to make a hasty call to New York and the guy I’d left behind were firmly and completely squashed flat and forced into a tiny compartment of nope in the back of my mind reserved for idiot decisions that never saw the light of day.
Big girl, here.
I bent and scratched Petunia’s ears, making her groan in delight, her bulging eyes closing as she leaned into my hands. “Thanks for the company,” I said, kissing the top of her wrinkled brow. “We’ll get this sorted, pug. Won’t we?”
She snorted in my face before lolling out her tongue like she was laughing at me, cinnamon bun tail wriggling. A face only a pug lover could adore and I guess I was turning into one.
I wasn’t even in the front door when I heard Daisy’s raised voice, grateful to have her here despite her bumbling at times, just so I could have some time outside these walls. Really not in the mood for people but not having a choice, I plastered on a smile and greeted my late arriving guests while my old bestie beamed at me like she hadn’t been working all day already.
If only I could be that kind of charismatic extrovert. I think I’d choke myself.
Daisy sent off for the evening and the Jones sisters long since departed at their appointed hour, I was on my own the rest of the evening, a giant jigsaw puzzle of guests, putting out fires—figurative and literal when Petunia knocked over a candle someone left burning—and general business that tended to drop me onto my private couch in the basement apartment by 9PM every night. And though it was taking some getting used to, I wasn’t complaining.
I should have been. Being home raised a lot of old stuff, my desire to pursue law enforcement crushed by Dad not the very least of my ancient aches. Mom had to bring it up, didn’t she? And seeing Crew in that uniform, well. It wasn’t just his well-formed behind in those jeans that made me sigh. Those could have been my jeans.
Okay, that didn’t exactly come out right. “You’ll forgive my line of thinking,” I said to Petunia, amused by her head tilt and giant eyes as she quickly licked her lips of the last of her evening snack in silent plea for more food. “What I meant to say was if things were different, if I’d ignored Dad and gone for it, would I be in Crew’s place right now?” At Crew’s place, candle light, bottle of wine…
This was just too confusing, even for me.
I fell into bed a short time later, mind spinning with minutia as if to distract me from the real issue that loomed over my head. The paperwork I still hadn’t looked too closely at, the envelope lurking in my kitchen, left there to haunt me as if it could sprout legs and ease its nasty self into my bedroom, slip up onto the comforter and smother me in malicious glee in the middle of the night.
It didn’t help Petunia peered over the edge of the bed at me, those soulful eyes begging for an invitation. The padded, carpeted staircase my grandmother had left at the foot of the bed for her beloved pug had been immediately relocated to the closet night one together, about the same time Petunia thought my pillow was an ideal place to nap.
“Sorry, pug,” I said, firmly closing my eyes to her desperate cuteness. “You have a perfectly good bed on the floor. I suggest you get used to it.” Beca
use I didn’t share. Except maybe with the right man in uniform…
Oh, Fee.
Petunia sighed and stared.
“Well, what do you think I should do?” I couldn’t help but think about Ryan and the warm spot that used to be full of him. Back when I had no idea he was a cheating ass who had no regard for the fact I’d put his sorry butt through law school as a barista/waitress/office assistant/anything I could work at that would pay me while still sucking out my soul. Not his fault, I guess, I could never decide what I wanted to be for the rest of my life. But the cheating? On his conscience.
I was still trying to figure out my own path even now, though the idea I could turn into my grandmother, spend the rest of my life running this place, didn’t sound so bad, despite my old need to escape Reading’s tiny, judging clutches. “Do I call him or not?”
The pug chuffed softly, ending in a whining yawn.
“You’re right,” I said, turning over, punching my pillow with vigor and determination. “We can handle it, can’t we? Best to let that particular dog lie.” I looked up, winced at her scrunched expression. “No offense intended.”
Another chuff and a deeper sigh. She finally turned and sank to the floor, ignoring the expensive bed I’d gone out and acquired for her so I didn’t have to feel guilty not letting her sleep with me. Because I didn’t feel badly she spent her every night with my grandmother on this very bed but had been doomed to an existence on the cold, hard floor for the rest of her life because I was selfish.
At least, that’s what I imagined she was thinking. Not me. Nope. No guilt here.
I faded out to the sound of her high-pitched barking as she chased something in her sleep.
***
I woke briefly, disoriented and cotton mouthed, blearily raising my head, eyes settling on the clock next to my bed. 2:34, far too early to be getting up just yet. What prodded me awake? Only then did I see Petunia standing next to the bed, staring up at me. The whites of her eyes showed, gleaming in the low light of the clock’s red glow. Refusing to be freaked out by the demonic appearance of my grandmother’s portly pug, I turned over, snuggling my pillow again even as Petunia woofed once, softly and questioningly, before I fell into deep slumber again.
***
Surely 5:45 was early enough to catch the two Jones sisters not yet at their posts. I’d added an extra five minutes each morning the past two weeks just to see if I could catch them before they arrived. But sneaking up the back stairs to the kitchen proved my attempt to win this particular battle was foiled again.
There they were, both of them. Looking about as perky as they ever did. Standing by the stove, drinking coffee like they’d been here for hours. I knew they both left. I watched them go each evening—if missing their departure last night—at precisely 5 o’clock like they had things to attend to and not a second later. Maybe they both snuck back in the middle of the night and slept in a closet just so they could beat me to the kitchen every damned time?
I forced a smile on and entered like I owned the place. Which was in question, wasn’t it? “Good morning, ladies.” At least I sounded chipper if I didn’t feel it.
Petunia bypassed me, huffing toward the back door and the garden to do her business. I held the screen open for her while the sisters in dourness stared at me over the rims of their mugs.
“Miss Fleming,” Mary said for both of them. Just like every other morning. The corner of my right eye twitched and I suddenly wondered if they were the cause of my grandmother’s death. Their relentless humdrumness finally killed her and would be the end of me, too, wouldn’t it? I had a horrible, lurking terror in that moment I’d wake up twenty years from now with the doldrum sisters, wrinkled and shaking, still staring at me like they’d never, ever accept me.
Coffee would save me. I lunged for the pot only to have Betty hand me a cup. I knew before I sipped it not only was it still hot, but perfectly flavored to my exact specifications. Which just made me want to throw it in the sink and drink tea.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to sound like I meant it.
“Funny she’s barking.” Mary nodded to silent Betty. “She never barks.”
I glanced at the back door, freezing in place. I’d missed it in my descent into irritated misery, the sound of Petunia through the kitchen door. They were right. Curiosity lured me, drew me out into the garden, following the path and the sound of her puggy protesting. The old English garden feel made the place a bit of a maze at times. I circled the pond and the towering grasses waving in the breeze and froze as the view cleared, my eyes and brain having a bit of a cha-cha for a moment while someone screamed.
I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me.
Nope, not me. Mrs. Sprindle, in fact, her pink slippers wet at the toes as she stared down into the water, the trio of fat, orange fish poking the swollen, staring face of Pete Wilkins beneath the surface. A thin stream of blood flowed from beneath his thin hair like a flag of crimson that slowly faded away as the water diffused it.
The very man I wished would burn in hell for all eternity. Dead. In my koi pond.
Was it wrong I instantly wondered what this meant for his claim on Petunia’s? And that the look on the now silent pug’s face as she panted and squatted nearby gave me the impression she was delighted with this turn of events?
***
Chapter Six
In a normal, well-adjusted and orderly world, Petunia’s would have been shut down in about a heartbeat, the place swarmed with cops, my week of income ruined and a plethora of furious and frustrated guests hammering me with their unhappiness with the fact my bed and breakfast was no longer available for their vacationing needs.
But this was Reading, Vermont. And I hadn’t forgotten just how little this town I grew up in followed anything resembling ordinary.
About three seconds after my morning-addled mind processed the dead guy in my water feature, another two or so seconds following the end of Mrs. Sprindle’s echoing shriek that told me she likely had a history in theater or professional music, and maybe about a heartbeat before I could draw a breath and utter the horrible thought out loud this was probably the best way my morning could have gone, Mary’s graveled voice echoed toward me from the kitchen door.
“Better call the sheriff,” she said. Dear God, did she actually sound bored?
I stumbled to the main house and dialed the requisite 9-1-1 before collapsing onto a stool and hugging myself briefly, a chill passing over my entire body though the morning was already warm. How long I sat there I have no idea, except the first thing to shake me out of my guilty near hysteria that the man who wanted to take Petunia’s from me was now all kinds of dead wasn’t a deputy or the sheriff or even my dad.
No. The firm hand on my arm with the crisp, nude nail polish and the tasteful diamond ring squeezed with the kind of attention one attributed to a politician. I looked up, dazed, lost, into the professionally concerned and yet kind face of Mayor Olivia Walker.
“Darling Fiona,” she said, guiding me to my feet with her continuing grip on my elbow. We’d met once, so when I became her darling I have no idea. It was nice to have the comfort, though. I staggered upright, nodded to her, gulped. “Are you all right?”
Considering there was a dead man in my koi pond and, now that I thought about it, I was probably a suspect, wasn’t I? Yeah, not so all right.
“What are you doing here?” Not that I meant to be rude, but you can imagine my confusion. I’d called the police, not the middle-aged, pant suited and perfectly put together leader of our fair little town.
She didn’t seem to take the question personally, kind smile refusing to quit past her precise lip liner. “I was in the sheriff’s office when the call came in, my dear,” she said. Finally released my arm and patted my shoulder with efficiency and charm that only made my confusion worse. “I’m here for you in this terrible time.”
“I didn’t know you were a lawyer.” I stared mournfully at the deputies and paramedics who, I now notice
d, trundled past, nodding to me or ignoring me on their way by.
“You won’t be needing a lawyer, Fiona,” Olivia said with a crisp kind of command that perked me up despite my disorientation. Petunia grumbled a bit and only then did I notice she’d come to sit at my feet, watching with her black ears cocked. “Petunia’s is a valuable addition to this town’s tourism economy and I will not see you closed down for one instant. No matter the circumstances.”
She what? I gaped while Olivia half turned and nodded brusquely to Crew who came to a halt next to us. I could barely meet his eyes, breath held so long black spots danced in my vision while he scowled down at her like I wasn’t even there.
“Police procedure,” he said through gritted teeth. “I can’t have guests trampling the crime scene.”
“And I won’t have you sully the good name of this bed and breakfast or its host in the eyes of the world.” I shook my head as Olivia tucked one arm through mine, her pale yellow suit jacket making my skin look sallow. I just didn’t have her olive complexion, black hair or dark brown eyes. It worked really well for her, though. And clearly I’d lost my mind because instead of worrying about the dead dude I was comparing skin tones and color combinations.
Marvelous start to a Friday. Well, at least I wasn’t plunging a toilet. Yet.
“Madam Mayor,” Crew said, still completely ignoring me, his brow pulled into lines over his eyes, tan doing nothing to hide the redness of his face as his temper visibly grew. Damn, he was cute when he was pissed. “You do realize a man has died here.”
“A most unfortunate event.” The mayor tugged me closer, shaking her head and tsking her sympathy. “Was he a tourist?” That was the first time she seemed even remotely worried for real.
“No,” I managed. “Local.”
Crew scowled at me at last while Olivia’s faint, sympathetic smile returned, grip all the tighter on my arm. “Well, then I’m sure you’ll agree, Sheriff, any local would want our economy to thrive and grow, not be affected by their passing. Especially considering this is a big weekend for Reading and the lodge is full to capacity.”