Murder at Honeysuckle Hotel

by Rose Pressey

  Mrs. Mathers had left an unopened package of saltines in the cupboard. I poured myself a bowl of soup, sat at the small wood table by the window, and contemplated my situation. I’d done more meaningful thinking in the past few hours then I had in a long time. First thing: I’d box up most of Mrs. Mathers’ belongings and donate them to charity—the dolls, the knickknacks, and her thimble collection.

  After I sipped the last drop of soup from the spoon, I rinsed the bowl and grabbed a piece of paper from the small desk in the corner of the kitchen. Things always worked better with a plan. I tapped the pencil against my bottom lip. Claire Ann really might be on to something with her hotel idea. At the top of the page, I wrote Honeysuckle Hotel. I liked the ring of it. My first obstacle: I had no idea what went into running a hotel/inn. But that was what the internet was for, right? I’d research and figure it out as I went along. I assumed I’d need a license for that sort of thing. But how hard could that be, right?

  The best and hardest part would be getting the place in tiptop shape. No easy feat, but the house was beautiful, so it would be worth the effort. With a little bit of decorating, I knew I could attract guests, but not in its current condition. I planned each room on paper—parlor, bedrooms, kitchen, bathrooms, and even the wraparound porch.

  My stomach rumbled again. Apparently, soup hadn’t been enough. With nothing much else to eat in the house, I decided I needed dessert. I’d take an evening stroll over to the only little gas station in town. Junk food wasn’t what I needed, but it would be the only place open that late.

  The black ceiling of the sky glittered with stars, a symphony of crickets chirped and a slight breeze whisked across my arms. It reminded me of summer nights as a child on my grandparents’ farm. My grandmother loved to sit under the stars, eating watermelon and recounting stories of her childhood. Too bad the produce stand was closed, because a big juicy slice of watermelon would hit the spot. Continuing my trek, I passed the stand. Flowers covered every available area outside and produce was inside. I’d have to come back for watermelon, peaches, and maybe some blackberries. Finally, I approached the gas station. No other customers were in sight. Number one rule of food shopping: never go hungry. I opened the door and a blast of cold air hit me. It nearly sucked the breath out of me.

  “Howdy,” the old man in overalls said. “What can I help you with?”

  “I’m just getting a few snacks. Thanks.” I smiled and headed toward the back of the store.

  He nodded and continued placing packages of cigarettes onto the shelf.

  “You’re Ross Perkins’ ex-wife, ain’t you?” He frowned.

  “Uh-huh. That’s me.” The lucky one. “My name’s Raelynn Pendleton.”

  He knew my name, so why he hadn’t used it, I had no idea. The last thing I wanted was to be referred to as Ross Perkins’ ex-wife.

  “Pendleton?” A deep line formed between his brow.

  “Yes, I took my maiden name back.”

  He scowled. “I heard about all the ruckus at your new home. Must be nice to get a big old house left to you.”

  How did I tell him I wasn’t in the mood to discuss it with him? I sensed an edge of hostility in his voice. What was his problem?

  “Yes, well, it was unexpected.”

  “That house is a historic fixture here in Honeysuckle. We’d hate to see it get into the wrong hands.” He ambled behind the counter and watched my every move.

  Did they think I’d trash the place? Have crazy parties and paint the outside purple? I couldn’t believe my ears. I figured it would be best if I got my junk food and left.

  “Well, it’s in good hands with me.”

  The store was loaded with delicious-looking chocolatey fatness and many other calorie-loaded items. My waist could definitely do without those. Even though my mouth watered at the thought of a sugary cake, I spied a small produce section. A large watermelon sat in front, all green and ripe. The memory of my grandmother carving away at the big piece of fruit flooded my mind and I could almost taste the juiciness. I hoisted the watermelon into my arms and carried it to the counter.

  The man eyed me up and down. “That’ll be five dollars even.”

  I handed him the money, grabbed my watermelon, and made a beeline for the door before he had a chance to badger me anymore.

  “You’re not going to throw any wild parties, are ya?” he called when I reached the door.

  Yes, ’cause I had so many friends in this town. “No parties planned.” I glanced over my shoulder.

  “Uh-huh. We’ll see about that,” he said as he placed the money in the register.

  The conversation was over as far as I was concerned.

  Next thing I knew, I was strolling home with a large watermelon in my arms. What was I thinking? The walk back to the old Victorian wasn’t all that close and my arms soon ached from the weight.

  “Late night snack, Rae?” the silky male voice asked.

  Chapter Seven

  I recognized the sexy southern drawl—it slithered across the night air and tickled my ears, making me melt just a little. Sheriff Kent Klein pulled his cruiser alongside the curb. His chiseled features always made me stare just a little too long. I wondered if he noticed. If he did, he never let me know.

  He sure was easy on the eyes. A tall glass of water, as Claire Ann would say. The soft light from the console of his car shone against his face, revealing a bright white smile and highlighting his short blond hair. Long, thick lashes outlined his gorgeous brown eyes.

  We had talked on occasion when he’d come into the store. He used to be best friends with my ex. I’d never been sure what had happened between them. I’d never had the chance to ask, and Ross hadn’t volunteered the information.

  Kent was probably wondering why I was carrying a giant watermelon down the street at night. “It’s such a beautiful summer night. There’s a slight breeze and I wanted to enjoy it, although looks like there are storm clouds are moving in.” Why was I blathering on about the weather? With a tilt of my head, I gestured toward the watermelon. “I thought I’d have something sweet.”

  “You have a sweet tooth?” He winked.

  I knew without looking into a mirror that my face had turned bright red. Lucky for me it was dark and I prayed he hadn’t noticed.

  “I heard about the house. Are you doing okay there? Do you need any help?” he asked.

  “It was a bit of a shock, but I guess I’m okay.”

  He stared for a beat, then said, “Well, you let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.”

  I wasn’t sure what came over me next. “Would you like to join me?” I gestured toward the watermelon.

  “You need help carrying it? Let me carry it home for yo—” Radio static cut off his words. A voice announced something that I didn’t understand. He replied, then turned to me and frowned.

  “I’ve got to go. I’m sorry. There’s been an accident over on highway fifty-eight.”

  “Go. Go.” I motioned. “Hurry.”

  He gave a half smile, flicked on his lights and siren, then sped away.

  I’d dodged a bullet. What had I been thinking inviting him over? Perhaps the heat was getting the better of me. The last thing I needed was the complication of another man. Kent in my kitchen would not be a good thing. So why had I been fantasizing about sitting close to him on the front porch of my new house? I could almost smell his spicy scent at the thought. The feel of his hand caressing mine was almost real. The fantasy stayed with me the rest of the way down Main Street.

  After struggling with the watermelon the rest of the way home, I heaved the big sucker onto the countertop, selected the biggest knife in the drawer, and carved a gigantic piece. Juice from the wedge covered my hands and arms as I devoured the sweet fruit. To avoid eating another piece, I shoved the rest in the refrigerator and retreated to the living room. I sat on the ugly sofa, daydreaming and plotting out my plans for the house. If I was opening a hotel, I’d need a sign out front. People would
have to know I was open for business. Occasionally I had enjoyed painting as a stress reliever. Sure, I wasn’t very good, but I tried. Flowers, fruits, and landscapes were my best work.

  My few art supplies would come in handy for making a sign for the hotel. I grabbed my bag with the paints and brushes. In the hall closet, I remembered seeing a medium-sized piece of wood—perfect for a sign. What it was there for, I had no idea, but I was glad I’d found it.

  After setting out my supplies, I painted a honeysuckle flower in the left corner, then wrote the words Honeysuckle Hotel with ‘open’ underneath. Simple, but it would do until I could afford better. The pale yellow, cream, and green with a little red matched the outside of the house perfectly. After it dried, I’d put it outside under the porch light. That way, potential customers could see it at night. I’d worry about getting a license to run the hotel later. No time for bureaucracy now, I had bills to pay.

  When I peered up at the clock, I realized it was after midnight and time had slipped away from me. I had to work in the morning and my afternoon and evening would be spent continuing to plan my strategy for this place. If I wanted to be on time at the supermarket, I needed to get some sleep. After grabbing my pen and paper, I stood, stretched, and then walked toward the hall. Then a loud crash rang out making the back door rattle.

  Chapter Eight

  My pen went one way and paper flew the other. I froze in my spot. The noise sounded as if it had come from the back porch. I swallowed hard, cursing myself for not pulling the shades down. Was someone outside my window peeping in? Visions of various slasher films ran through my mind. I refused to be the woman hacked to death.

  Chills prickled along my arms and down my back at the thought. I hurried over and pulled down the shade on the back door. It would take a whole lot of nerve to go outside and investigate, and I wasn’t sure I had enough guts for that mission. So instead, I went around to all the windows, checked each lock and pulled down the shades. Then I paced—back and forth. Finally, I made my way over to the chair and sat, waiting for the noise to return.

  After thirty minutes of fidgeting in the corner chair, and no further disturbances, I slipped into my pajamas and crawled into bed. I tucked the covers up under my nose. The noise must have been a stray cat or a rabid raccoon. Yes, it had most definitely been an animal. I stretched out in the middle of the mattress, confident that I was safe from any further disturbances.

  A big lump poked me in the back, so I slid to the left side. A spring gouged my calf, making it impossible to sleep, so I shifted again. The right side wasn’t much better, but at least no sharp coils jabbed me. It would have to do until I could buy a new mattress. One good thing: the sheets smelled like lavender.

  I pulled the covers up tight under my chin again and listened for more mysterious sounds. Nothing like being in a strange house to bring out the odd rackets and visions of the boogieman. Rain pounded against the window as thunder crashed in the distance. I’d been right about those storm clouds and wondered if Kent was out in the mess. I wasn’t sure how long I listened, but I drifted off without another unexplained noise disturbing the peaceful night.

  Footsteps woke me. With my eyes wide and body frozen, I glanced at the clock. The time read three a.m. My breath caught in my throat as the steps echoed along the hallway. The clomp-clomp sounded like boots. Was someone inside with me or was it just the clattering of an old house? It sure sounded like a person. I climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the door. Of course, I didn’t have a weapon. The knives were in the kitchen. If I was going to live alone, I needed to think about security. Maybe I should get a dog. Before I contemplated life with Fido, the steps stopped.

  Did I have a ghost? Was Mrs. Mathers’ spirit hanging around? First the bang outside, and now this. Maybe it was a burglar. Yes, probably a burglar. They’d find me bludgeoned to death in the morning. Everyone would talk about such a sad end to a young, lonely life. My parents would be devastated.

  After a couple of seconds with no noise, I knew I had to find out where the noise had come from—I couldn’t stay in the bedroom forever. I’d have to take my chances with the killer or ghost. I hoped it was a ghost; I could handle a spooky mist floating around. A crazed killer? Not so much. I eased the door open an inch and poked my head out enough to see down the hall. No one was in sight. When no one lunged out at me, I mouthed a silent prayer.

  I opened the door the rest of the way and tiptoed out from my safe haven. In the hallway a right turn led to the kitchen; if I turned to the left, it went into the dining room and living room. I decided to check the kitchen first. The only light shone from the cracked powder-room door. Ross had always complained about the electric bill and me “leaving the damn lights on.” Now I was thankful for my bad habit. I had never liked the dark.

  I peered around the open space. Nothing seemed out of place, so I turned and walked down the hallway toward the dining room—each step calculated so as not to alert my intruder. The only sound in the room was my heavy breathing. There were no ghosts or predators and the same went for the living room. The grandfather clock ticked in time to my heartbeat. Easing up the stairs in the dark, I checked the upstairs rooms, looking under beds and in closets, but I didn’t find a soul. My hands trembled every time I lifted a bed skirt or opened a closed door. Maybe an animal was in the house? The crazed raccoon or cat had returned? Okay, it would have been a very fat cat. The noise sounded very much like human footsteps.

  Stumbling through the dark, I slipped back to the kitchen. With still-trembling hands, I poured water into a glass, then leaned against the old Formica countertop. What had I heard? As I gulped my water, I studied the back door. My gaze traveled down to the knob, then the lock. The door was unlocked. Had I forgotten to secure it? I thought I’d checked every window and door, but I must have forgotten that one. An open door was just asking for someone to come into the house. I walked over and flipped the lock.

  Pushing back the dread that overwhelmed me, I peeped out through the corner of the shade. A strange feeling came over me, as if eyes were watching me. The back yard was one big black blob. Darkness blanketed the trees and bushes until nothing stood out—only the golden flicker from fireflies. I couldn’t have seen my hand in front of my face out there. I needed to get a bright porch light as soon as possible. Staring into the darkness wouldn’t solve anything, so I placed my glass into the sink and wandered back to my room, closed the door behind me, jumped into bed and pulled the covers back up under my chin again. I prayed whatever I’d heard wouldn’t return.

  For what seemed like forever, I tossed and turned, thinking about everything—the noise, sleeping in Mrs. Mathers’ bed, my ex. I wondered what Ross would have said if he’d known I was the owner of this place now. He’d probably want to be involved in some way. Over my dead body. Mrs. Mathers had come into the store my first day on the job. She had asked who I was and where I was from. Mrs. Mathers didn’t beat around the honeysuckle bush, that was for sure. Even though I was an outsider in tiny Honeysuckle, I was still a Kentucky girl and okay in her book. Most people in town wouldn’t give me the time of day since I hadn’t lived there all my life. But she had known what it was like to be an outcast. She’d moved to Honeysuckle fifty years ago with her husband—like me. I imagined she had gone through the same prejudice as me, too. She’d never been completely accepted, even after all those years.

  We’d talked for a long time that first day and almost every day after. Some days I had brought a little stool around for her to sit on and we had talked about recipes, her life, and mine, my ex. She had known Ross and had never liked him. He had stolen veggies from her garden as a little boy. She said she knew he was trouble then. Too bad I hadn’t known that before I had married him.

  After a while, I’d convinced myself I’d only heard the old house settling. As I relaxed and forced myself to stop flipping from one side to the other, I started thinking about decorating the house. I needed a plan for that, too. How did I get myself into such a hu
ge undertaking? I’d start with one room, finish it, and move on to the next. It was the only way. First thing: I needed at least one bedroom to rent out. I didn’t want a long-term renter, though. I wanted someone who wouldn’t stay more than a month. I had never wanted to be a landlord. A bad taste formed in my mouth just thinking about the word. Adele Wilkins had scared me for life. Post-traumatic stress for renters.

  Next, I’d move on to the living room, since that was the first room people would see. The floors didn’t need anything, but the walls could stand new paint. I’d need a new sofa for sure but the end tables I could work with. I loved the bookcases, floor, and ceiling; they added character to the room. Only the minor details needed changing. Decorating possibilities were endless, really—a little paint and distressing. I’d need a couple of chairs, too, and I’d love a coffee table. One small problem though: money—my lack of.

  ***

  I woke the next morning when the sun peeked through the window shade and across my face. I wasn’t sure what time I’d drifted off, but I knew it was right after thinking about the coffee table. My dream consisted of furniture and boots. The sound of strange footsteps flooded back into my memory. It hadn’t been a dream.

  I jumped out of bed, grabbed my suitcase, and pulled out shorts and a tee along with my shower items. After a quick shower and dressing, I put on a pot of coffee. I poured the liquid into my mug and added a little sugar—the milk in the fridge had turned chunky at this point. I lifted the shade and stepped out the back door. The porch extended all around the house. Thankfully, the light of day made everything less scary.