Murder at Honeysuckle Hotel

by Rose Pressey

  I swallowed hard. “What does he want?”

  “You’d better just go talk to him. I’m sorry,” Claire Ann said. Tiny tears collected in the corners of her eyes.

  The pathway leading to the office seemed endless. As if I was on a conveyor belt, walking and walking. Each step seemed to carry me further away. In spite of the dread in the pit of my stomach, I finally made the long walk down the center aisle. The smell of Lysol from the freshly mopped floor made my stomach turn. Box after box of cereal lining the shelf made me dizzy as I trekked to the back. This seemed worse than being called to the principal’s office. Not that I’d ever been there. (Except for the time in high school a bunch of us TPed the math teacher’s house.)

  The tiny hall had stacks of boxes on each side, making movement difficult. I reached the old wood door at the back of the store, just past the restrooms. More Lysol smell emanated from the tiny rooms opposite the office. I couldn’t stand much more. I knocked.

  “Come in.” His deep voice sounded like he needed a spot on the radio instead of behind a desk in that cramped office.

  I opened the door and poked my head in. “You wanted to see me?” I asked.

  “Yes, Raelynn, please come in and have a seat.”

  Charlie had the same look on his face as Claire Ann. Also the look my father had when he told me my cat died. In all the time I’d worked for Charlie, I’d never seen that look from him. Not directed towards me, at least. I eased around a few stacked boxes, moved a stack of papers from the seat and lowered myself into the faux leather chair. It squeaked when I sat.

  Charlie looked down at papers on scattered across his desk. I stared at him, waiting for him to speak. Was I supposed to say something? I shifted from one side to the other. Did I do something and he thought I knew why I’d been called to the office? Maybe it was because I was short fifty cents the other night with the register. No. That couldn’t be it. Claire Ann was short plenty of times and he never said a word about it. Wonder why that was, anyway? He did give her the best hours, too. Anyway, it was only fifty cents. I’d give him the money if it mattered. I must have under-charged for something, anyway. It happened—wasn’t my fault.

  I cleared my throat. “So, um, you wanted to talk to me about something?”

  He ran his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair. The lines around his eyes seemed more pronounced today. Was he sick? Was I sick? Wait, no, I’d know if I was sick.

  “Raelynn, you know I like you. I really, really do.” He let out a deep breath.

  Was he going to ask me out? This could get awkward. He’d only been divorced for two months now. But I guessed people didn’t wait a long time sometimes. Heck, my Uncle Jeb got remarried within two weeks of his divorce. I told everyone he’d been seeing that woman for months before he announced he wanted a divorce from his second wife.

  “You really, really like me?” I nodded. “And?” I didn’t like him in that way. Please don’t let him ask me out. Mixing business with pleasure was never a good thing. “What are you trying to say?”

  “What I’m trying to say is… I’m going to have to let you go.” His gaze flickered from his desk, to me and back to the desk.

  “What?” I sat up straighter. “Let me go?”

  He looked down. “Yes.”

  “You’re firing me? What did I do? If this is about that fifty cents, the register was short, but I’ll gladly give it to you.” I rushed the words out.

  “Fifty cents?” He frowned, then shook his head. “No, no. It’s not about that. Look, I know you’re a hard worker and I appreciate everything you’ve done for the store, I really do.”

  “Then why are you firing me?” I ran my hands through my hair. I’d never been fired before. “I’m never late for work and I never mind working extra hours.”

  He let out a deep sigh and ran his hands through his hair again. “You have been a perfect employee, Raelynn. This decision has nothing to do with your work performance.” He sighed. “I don’t have a choice. I’m not the most powerful person in town, you know. I just own the grocery store, which amounts to not much. Some people think you’re guilty. They don’t want to come in the store if you’re here, so I have no choice. You understand, right?”

  “I can’t believe this.” I shook my head. “What happened to innocent until proven guilty? The sheriff doesn’t think I did anything. If he did, don’t you think he would have arrested me by now?” My voice quivered. “I can’t believe this.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. I know you didn’t do anything wrong. But there are some crazy people in this town.”

  “Who specifically wants me out of here? Was it Martha Murdoch? Heck, I bet she wants me out of town altogether.” I threw my hands up. “She’d be happy to never see me again.”

  He gave a half nod and I took that to be an agreement. “I don’t think I should say who. I’ll let you come to your own conclusions.”

  “Well, at this point, I’m guessing not only Martha, but the whole town.”

  “I’ll pay you for the vacation time you have coming. And the sick days, too.” He placed his hands on the desk.

  “Thanks, Charlie. I know you will. You’ve been a good boss.”

  “What are you going to do?” he asked as I stood.

  I turned and looked at him, then shrugged. “I have no idea. I have the house now. I need to pay the utilities and stuff. I guess I’ll look for another job in Belleville, or something. I can drive back and forth if I have to. But there’s no way I’m letting anyone drive me out of this town for good.”

  He grinned, then winked. “I know they’ll have a fight on their hands with you.”

  “I know I just got the house, but I love it too much to give it up.” I looked down.

  “I understand. I’d probably feel the same way. Just be careful.” His brow pinched together. “I know you were attacked at the fairgrounds.” His gaze met mine. “I’ve heard the rumors that you made the story up, but I know you didn’t. Like I said, there are crazy people in this town. Obviously they are capable of doing some very nasty things.”

  “You can say that again. Must be something in the water around here.”

  “Someone murdered Nancy and someone attacked you. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the same person.” He quirked an eyebrow.

  “So you think we have a serial killer in Honeysuckle?” A chill ran down my spine. Had I been that close to being murdered? Twice?

  He frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know, but it’s a scary thought, huh?”

  “Yes, it certainly is.” I nodded, lost in thought.

  “Call me if you need anything, Raelynn. I mean it, anything at all. When this all blows over, and I know it will, I’d love for you to come back to work for me.”

  I gave a half-hearted smile. “I’d like that. Thanks, Charlie.”

  “You promise, you’ll call?”

  “I promise.”

  I couldn’t believe I was thanking him for firing me. But it wasn't his fault. He didn't need to deal with the nutjobs in this town just because I worked for him. Charlie was a nice man and didn’t deserve the harassment. But he was firing me. Why didn’t he stick up for me? He wouldn’t stick up for the new girl in town.

  I closed the door behind me and didn’t look back. Talk about a walk of shame. A couple of women stood beside the bread section and watched me, looks of disdain on their faces. I expected them to brush their fingers together in a motion of shame.

  With the door closed behind me, I leaned my shoulders against the wood and let out a sigh. I hadn’t seen that coming. I’d find another job, right? If only I could sneak out the back door. Although Claire Ann would throw a hissy fit if I didn’t speak to her after my little talk with Charlie. If I thought the walk to his office was hard, this was even worse. A man and woman shopped at the back of the store, staring as they pretended to search for canned peaches. They whispered. I didn’t need to know what they said. Their eyes said it all.

  Forcing one foot
in front of the other, I reached the front of the store. Claire Ann stood behind the counter, waiting on a customer. She looked up at me and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged, as if it was no big deal, but I wanted to cry. A lump formed in my throat. If I cried, so would Claire Ann. I swallowed my tears. There were other jobs, right? I’d find something else. Jobs like these were a dime a dozen. Claire Ann watched me as I walked past the checkout counter. I wanted to talk, but she had a growing line. Well, technically three people, but in Honeysuckle, that was a considered a crowd. Besides, I wasn’t sure if I was even allowed in the store now. Being an ex-employee and having customers who hated me wasn’t a good mix. Oh yeah, I definitely had to find another place to purchase my frozen dinners. If I found another job in Belleville, I’d buy my groceries from there. All my money would be spent on gas—so much for walking everywhere. Thank goodness I still had the car.

  “Call me,” I mouthed to Claire Ann and held my hand up to my ear.

  Claire Ann nodded. Customers frowned as I brushed past, so I turned and rushed out the door. No looking back. I knew I’d cry if I did.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Now what? With no work what would I do? I’d have plenty of time to read now, but that wouldn’t pay the bills. More decorating needed to be completed at Honeysuckle Hotel, plus cleaning, but I really needed a job. As I passed the newsstand on the corner, I stopped and grabbed a copy. Maybe I’d find a classified ad for the perfect job—better than the grocery store. A few chocolate-chip cookies, a tall glass of lemonade and searching for another job would do wonders for my mood. Maybe a miracle would happen and I’d find something.

  I trudged home, deflated. It seemed as if when one good thing happened, I got knocked back two steps. If only the murder hadn’t happened, then I’d still have my job. Okay, that was selfish of me to say. A woman had lost her life and I was worried about my minimum-wage job. But without the job, I wouldn’t be able to buy food, which might end my life as well. What a way to go, starving to death. Maybe I’d plant a garden in back? Yeah, I could plant pumpkins for fall, too. Although the thought of working in the backyard creeped me out now.

  Poor Nancy, there were no second chances for her. What had happened? Who could have done this to her? As far as I knew she was a nice person. But apparently nice didn’t stop her husband from cheating on her. I thought about all the mystery novels I’d read over the years. What would the sleuths do? Would they take the treatment the town gave me? Or would they try to figure out the murder and clear their names? Then it hit me over the head like a metaphorical hammer. I needed to do my own investigating—not just curious snooping, but full-fledged sleuthing. I trusted Kent to do his job, but would everyone else do theirs? If Kent told them I was innocent, would they believe him? And would it be fast enough? It couldn’t hurt to have someone else on the case. Obviously, I was no expert, but it couldn’t hurt, right? I wouldn’t make things worse by searching for a few answers.

  So, at least for now, I had the beginnings of a plan:

  Chocolate-chip cookies to help ease the sting of being fired.

  Search for a job.

  Investigate murder.

  Decorate old house.

  Plant garden.

  Easy-peasy.

  I reached the house, and in spite of my sour mood, I couldn’t help but smile. The tall Victorian made me giddy inside. The rooms waited for me to make them warm and inviting. I loved decorating, but I had never had a place to do it before now.

  After eating one too many chocolate-chip cookies with a cold glass of lemonade—just like my Grandma used to make it—I gave up on the classified ads. If I wanted to work in the medical field or as a telemarketer, I was set. Since I didn’t have a medical degree and I was terrible with phone calls, I figured I’d better start asking around. As I tossed the paper on my desk, the phone rang.

  “Hello?” I brushed my hair from my forehead.

  “Hey, I can’t talk long, but I just wanted to say how sorry I am. I didn’t know earlier, I promise. I knew he wanted to talk to you, and I suspected, but I didn’t want to say anything if I didn’t know for sure.” Her words rushed out.

  “Calm down, don’t worry. I believe you. I’ll figure something out.” I sighed and slumped down in the overstuffed chair.

  “I have an idea,” Claire Ann said.

  “Oh no, this can’ t be good. Not another idea. Please.”

  “Hey! It’s good. I think you’ll like it. It's not much, but it’ll be something.”

  “How about you let me be the judge of that. Now spit it out, what’s the idea?”

  “Well, when Joan Shreveport died, that left an empty space in the paper for a column. I didn’t want to continue what she was doing, so I have an idea...”

  “I’m listening, go ahead.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest and propped the phone under my chin against my shoulder.

  “What if you wrote an article about budget decorating? You’re so good at it. I think people would love it.”

  I didn’t say a word. I let the idea whoosh around in my head for a bit. Sure, it wasn’t the New York Times, but it was better than not writing at all. Finally, I said, “I like it. I think it’s a good idea. Actually, perfect. How often?”

  “Once a week, you can talk about anything you want. Well, anything with decorating and crafts and stuff.”

  “You really think people would be interested?” I asked.

  “I think people are always interested in ways to save money.”

  “Good point. Okay, I’d love to do it,” I said.

  “I’ll tell my boss.” I heard the smile in her voice.

  I sighed. “You mean you haven’t told him yet? He’ll never go for the idea. Especially when he finds out Raelynn Pendleton, suspected murderer, is writing it.”

  “Hey, not everyone in this town is nuts. He likes you, and I bet he’ll love the idea. Just leave it to me. I’ll talk to him.”

  “If you say so.” I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see me.

  “I say so. Of course, it doesn’t pay much, but every little bit helps, right?”

  “Yeah, you’re right, it will help, thank you. I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me.”

  “By the way, things have been crazy and I haven’t had a chance to ask you about your date,” I said.

  “Oops, I’ve got a customer, gotta go. We’ll talk later, promise.”

  The line went dead. Hmm, now my curiosity was getting the better of me. Who was this mystery date? Did she have another evening out on the crazy streets of Honeysuckle planned with him?

  I pulled out a pad of paper from the drawer and jotted down some ideas for a column, just in case her boss said yes. I liked to be prepared. First, I’d write about my dining room redo, then maybe the living room.

  As I tapped the pen against my bottom lip, my mind wandered away from decorating and to the grisly crime. I decided more brainstorming was in order—if I wanted to attempt an investigation, I needed to be prepared. Who was the real Nancy Harper and who would want her dead? Was it a random murder or a serial killer in Honeysuckle? I’d make a list of people I wanted to talk to—maybe starting with her husband. But how would I talk with him? What would be the pretense for stopping by for a little tête-à-tête? We were basically strangers. Offering my condolences might be a nice gesture.

  Maybe if I worked on decorating, an idea would come to me, I thought. It was like my creative outlet and relaxed me—somewhat. There was one project in the dining room I hadn’t changed—the ugly brass chandelier. It desperately needed a makeover. I grabbed another can of black spray paint and the painter’s tape.

  Because I was lazy and in a hurry for a least one room to be finished, I decided to paint the light while it still hung from the ceiling. Again, not something Martha Stewart would do, but whatever. I opened the window for air, then climbed on top of my newly constructed table, right underneath the light. After I unscrewed the bulbs and taped over the t
op of the electric sockets, little by little I sprayed primer, coating the entire chandelier.

  Next, I added a coat of paint to the hideous brass. Someday, it might be my style again, but right now, I hated the golden hue. It might have been the way the light reflected across the room and onto the chandelier, but two coats would be in order. I smiled, thinking of the finished project. Finally something I was proud of—my home. I hoped the light would dry quickly—I wanted to finish the room badly.

  After cleaning up my mess, I prepared a quick dinner—peanut butter and jelly sandwich. What could I say? I was a simple girl. As I finished the last bite, Claire Ann called back to give a thumbs up on the column. I couldn’t believe it. How exciting! Who knew I could get a job writing in Honeysuckle? I’d given up my dream of creative pursuits to be with that deadbeat Ross. At the time I had no way of knowing I was making such a big mistake. My mother had known, though. And so had Claire Ann. I hadn’t listened to their warnings.

  I’d write my column tomorrow, and hopefully if they liked that, I could do many more. Things had a way of working out for the best sometimes. If I hadn’t married Ross, I would never have gotten this house. A small price to pay, I guess.

  The gentle moonlight bathed the area with an eerie silence. My watch read eleven p.m. and Mr. Littlefield hadn’t returned. Leaving the front door open for him wasn’t an option. Not with a killer running around like some real-life version of the Halloween movies. I’d just have to listen for him to knock. An inconvenience for my guest, but what could I do? I stacked my dirty dishes in the sink, then trudged back to the dining room. My stomach did a little tumble as I neared the window. Time had slipped away faster than I’d realized. I hadn’t meant to leave the window open after dark. As I lifted the blind to close the window, I knew if anyone was out there, they could see me. Darkness covered every inch outside. Anyone could be right next to the window and I wouldn’t know it.

  I wanted to air the paint scent out, but I couldn’t afford to leave the window open all night—that was like sending a pretty printed invitation to the killer. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I shoved the window down and flipped the lock in a hurry.