Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1)

by Claire Robyns

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  COPYRIGHT

  Worst Laid Plans

  A Maddox Storm Cozy Mystery (Book 1)

  Published by Claire Robyns

  Copyright © 2015 by Claire Robyns

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or resold in any form or by any means without permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations for non-commercial uses. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author.

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to people, living or otherwise, is purely coincidental. If real, names, places and characters are used fictitiously.

  ONE

  I’d driven the road from Syracuse to Silver Firs plenty, but this was the first time I’d done it like this, feeling like a fugitive sneaking into my old home town. Technically, none of that was true. I wasn’t a fugitive, at least I didn’t think so, and I didn’t even have to drive through town. Hollow House stood a good half mile north of Silver Firs.

  As soon as the tip of the lake came into view, doubt set in.

  Who was I kidding? A half mile was peanuts when it came to the Silver Firs rumor mill.

  I pressed the button to let the soft top down so I could glance up, directly into the cloud-streaked heavens.

  “Three days,” I bartered, spitting strands of wind-blown hair out of my mouth. “Give me three days to chill out and I swear I’ll start going to church again. Every Sunday…”

  I gnawed on my lower lip.

  Best to be honest in cases like this.

  “Every Sunday for three weeks. That’s one morning for every incognito day you give me. Not bad, huh?”

  A measly cloud puffed across the sinking sun, casting a shadow directly over me. I decided not to take that as my answer and hit the gas. My little yellow bug left the ominous shadow in the dust, nearly overshooting the turn-off in the process. I stamped the brakes to cut a sharp right onto the packed dirt road that led up to Hollow House.

  The Hollows were a founding family in the Finger Lakes region. The stately residence hadn’t exactly stood the test of time, but was still an impressive sight. Built in the Greek Revival style with wide front steps leading up to the recessed porch and flanked by enormous Ionic pillars. The North and South wings folded back, facing onto the lake and not visible from the driveway. Take away the latticed windows and the place would’ve been a dead ringer for a Greek Temple.

  Up close, the extent of disrepair became evident. The white washed out of the peeling paint. Chipped woodwork. The gravel driveway wrapped around a patch of dry stalks choking on thriving weeds.

  I was pretty sure there was a Hollow ancestor rolling over in a grave somewhere. First George Hollow had turned their beautiful legacy into a common lakeside inn and now he’d let it fall to rot and ruin.

  I navigated around the weed patch and pulled up beneath a papery white beech near the foot of the stone stairs. A quick check in the rear-view mirror assured me there was nothing I could do about my wind-massacred hair.

  I took a deep breath of pine-scented fresh air to lace my bones.

  “You can’t stop there,” called a croaky voice from behind.

  I glanced over my shoulder to find the familiar sight of old Mr Hollow brandishing his polished cane at me as he limped out onto the porch. Some things never changed.

  “Hello, Mr Hollow,” I shouted cheerfully as I climbed out of the car. “It’s me! Maddox Storm.”

  “I’m not blind nor deaf and I still need you to drive around the side,” he grunted, but at least he brought the cane down to thump the spot beside him. “Can’t have you taking up parking space. The front’s reserved for guests.”

  I looked around. The driveway did a wide loop with dozens of spots for cars to pull off beneath their own shaded tree. More to the point, there wasn’t a single car out front except for mine.

  My gaze swept back to the rail-thin man.

  Mr Hollow was as much a fixture in Silver Firs as the town hall, with his trademark cream linen suit, shock of white hair, thick-rimmed glasses and, as Nana Rose would say, that face as sour as the day he were born.

  Nana Rose would also clip my ear if I showed anything less than the utmost respect for a man nearly three times my age, but I was not about to let grumpy George Hollow bully me.

  We were business partners now.

  That respect could flow both ways or not at all.

  “I’ll move it later,” I called back, stooping over the rear door to haul my lumpy suitcase off the backseat.

  Mr Hollow harrumphed. Or maybe that was a growl.

  I glanced up into his scowling face and rolled my eyes. Seriously, considering I’d just wired a hundred and fifty grand into his account, you’d think the man could muster a tiny smile!

  ∞∞∞

  My clothes took up less than a fifth of the closet space. I snapped the battered suitcase shut and shoved it in along the bottom. I had a full set of designer luggage back at the apartment in New York City, of course, but I was an actress. Having a flair for the dramatic was my ‘thing.’ It seemed fitting to return home with only the battered suitcase (and however much I could stuff into it) that I’d left with four years ago.

  Finished unpacking, I crossed to the window and flung open the heavy brocade drapes. My breath caught at the spectacular beauty of the sunset reflected off the tranquil surface of the lake.

  As a stake holder in the inn, I got free board and beverages and I’d chosen a corner suite on the top floor of the south wing, much to Mr Hollow’s dismay. He’d wanted to tuck me into a drab single under the staircase, to save the grand rooms for paying guests.

  And when they come, I’d informed him sweetly, maybe we could both move downstairs to the less desirable accommodations.

  That had been a leading statement, but if I’d held my breath waiting for Mr Hollow to dispute it, I’d be blue-faced and dead by now. Mr Hollow had just grunted and left me to settle in. I hadn’t seen or heard anyone besides us as we’d walked through the house. Maybe they were out and about, enjoying our picture-perfect town. I hadn’t expected a full house, the tourist season didn’t really pick up here until the end of spring, but I hadn’t expected an empty house either.

  My gaze settled on the fairytale castle directly across on the opposite shore.

  It wasn’t dusk yet, but the place was lit up with the soft glow of a million candle-bulb lights that spilled out onto the manicured lawn.

  Lakeview Spa Retreat.

  The exclusive spa was a favorite getaway for celebrities and lured all the usual gawkers and stalkers, all of which turned a lucrative trade for Silver Firs in addition to the regular wine touring crowd. It had turned a lucrative trade for Hollow House, too, until the budget hotel Fortune Paradise had gone up.

  That was also the reason Joseph McMurphy hated Silver Firs with a passion most men reserved for the bedroom. Oh, he hated all small towns, said they made him feel claustrophobic. But he had a special loathing for a town that thrived on invading the privacy of the rich and famous.

  I’d taken it as a testament of his undying love when Joe had given in to
me and agreed to hold our wedding in my home town last year. Hah! We should just have gone down to City Hall, squeezed an hour in somewhere between a dental checkup and a matinee show.

  So call it revenge.

  Actually, let’s call it poetic justice.

  But I thought clearing out our joint bank account to buy a significant stake in Hollow House, the evil den (his words, not mine) that housed and fed all those celebrity gawkers, had a certain dramatic flair to it. Too bad Joe had been too occupied with Chintilly Swan’s generous assets to remember his scorned wife had full signing power on the bank account.

  My purse squealed like a piglet in distress, sending me into a near-state of cardiac arrest.

  I thumped my chest to get my heart beating again and rushed over to dig out my cell phone before the next squeal. I considered my options as I turned the volume down, but she wouldn’t stop until she’d reached me and then I’d get the third-degree. As good an actress as I was, not even I could lie my way through one of Mom’s inquisitions.

  And if you’re wondering about my mom’s ring tone, just think of it as electro-therapy. A little pre-emptive heart shock did an excellent job of putting anything my mom had to say into perspective.

  That squealing piglet had done wonders for our relationship.

  I hit the answer button and pressed the phone to my ear. “Mom, how are you?”

  “What on earth are you doing at Hollow House and what time can we expect you for dinner?”

  See? My heart didn’t even stutter.

  “Um…” I ambled toward the serene view outside my bedroom window and glared up at the deceptively innocent sky.

  Half an hour, seriously? Guess who will be sleeping in on Sunday morning.

  “You’ll have to apologize to Jimmy Balkin,” Mom twittered on. “I might have accused him of smoking some of those mushrooms he delivered to the big house but Belinda Mayer was out walking and she swore that was your yellow Beetle turning into the drive.”

  “Uh, yes, but—”

  “I’m so relieved you’ve come home. I’ve been desperate to speak to you since last night but your father absolutely put his foot down. The stubborn fool insisted I give you space and now you’re here and clearly the last thing you need is space.”

  “Actually, that’s exactly…” Her words sunk in and my spine stiffened. They knew. How was it even possible? I hadn’t breathed a word to anyone, not even Jenna.

  “Anyway, I’ve chicken hotpot on the go and it’s almost done. You won’t be long, will you?”

  “I’ll see you in ten minutes,” I grumbled, giving in gracelessly.

  Five of those minutes went to untangling the knots from my hair with a wide-toothed comb. I wasn’t in the mood to bother about appearances, but my mom could spin a life tapestry out of one bad hair day and I seriously wasn’t in the mood for that.

  My phone went off twice before I reached my car. The whispered whistle of an arrow cutting through air was easy to ignore. The angelic melody of a Nightingale, however, was Jenna and best friends were forever. Unlike husbands, apparently.

  “Hey, Jenna,” I answered.

  “Hey yourself, Maddie Mad,” Jenna said in her sparkling voice. “I assume you were just about to call to let me know you were in town.”

  “That depends on whether you’ve been smoking mushrooms with Jimmy or out walking with Mrs Mayer.”

  “I probably shouldn’t ask— You know what?” Jenna caught herself. “I’m not going to. Miss Crawley shared the happy event on Facebook.”

  I rolled my eyes as I slid behind the wheel and turned the engine. “I don’t know what to be more horrified by, that Miss Crawley is posting about me or that you’ve Friended her.”

  Miss Crawley was an over-zealous snoop and a self-proclaimed spinster, although rumor had it there’d been a secret wedding back in the day.

  “She always has the juiciest bits of news. I swear, that woman knows when you’re going to burp before you do. And…” Jenna groaned, “I’ve just heard myself. Okay, we’re forgetting this conversation ever happened and I’m un-Friending her first thing in the morning.”

  “You see?” I pressed the button to raise the soft top and put my phone on speaker so I could talk while I reversed out from under the tree. “This is exactly why you should have run away with me to the city when you had the chance.”

  “Your parents bought your bus ticket and covered your rent for the first six months,” Jenna scoffed. “I’m not sure that counts as running away.”

  “I ran away.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” Jenna said. “So, I’m meeting Jack at Seefies after I close up. Do you want to meet me here or should I swing by your place on the way to collect you?”

  “Rain check?” I was dying to meet the new man in Jenna’s life, but I didn’t want to buzz kill their second (or was it third?) date. “I’ll be around for a while.”

  “Did Joe come up with you?”

  “No,” I said, a little too sharply.

  Jenna never missed a thing. “Everything okay?”

  “Not really,” I sighed.

  “That’s it,” Jenna declared. “I’ll ditch Jack and—”

  “No, don’t,” I said quickly. “I’d like to at least meet the poor guy before you blow him off and seriously, Jenna, I’m just going to crash early. It’s been a long day.”

  It had been a long week.

  “Oh, of course,” Jenna said, clearly thinking I’d just driven all the way up from New York.

  I hadn’t. I’d been staying at a motel outside Syracuse these last two days, but I didn’t correct her.

  We arranged to catch up over breakfast the next morning. When Jenna suggested the Silver Boat, a diner on the edge of town, I slyly countered with The Terrace at Hollow House to ease the cat halfway out the bag.

  “Ha ha,” she snorted, with good reason.

  Rumor had it the famous (around here, anyway) terrace restaurant had been closed since the French cordon bleu chef had departed in a snit last year. We couldn’t know for sure, since the restaurant had never been open for day traffic. No one was allowed past the reception desk at Hollow House unless you checked in for the night and the going rate was exorbitant.

  “Did you hear,” Jenna went on, “George Hollow went to Little & Little in Syracuse, looking for outside capital? He probably wanted to do it on the hush hush, but how did he not know Miss Crawley’s niece works as a legal secretary for the brokerage firm?”

  “Yeah, my mom mentioned something about it,” I said vaguely. “Anyway, I’m staying at Hollow House. I can’t promise you French cuisine, but I’ll see what I can do about breakfasting on the terrace. See you at about seven?”

  “Wait… Back up. Say what?”

  “I’ll explain everything tomorrow.”

  “Don’t I get a hint?”

  It wasn’t really a hint kind of thing, but that didn’t stop Jenna from making up her own hints as I cruised down the valley road.

  “Your house has termites.”

  “You’ve had another fight with your mom.”

  “You’re down here for a dirty weekend with a delicious co-star.”

  “No, no, and hell no.” I slowed down for the Brewer intersection on the edge of town. “Stop obsessing. Everything’s fine, I just needed my own space. Have fun with Jack and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I ended the call and turned inland from the lake to skirt the town square, a pretty green that backed up onto the restaurants and quaint shops of the tourist zone. On the opposite end of the lawn stood the white-washed town hall that housed the mayor’s offices, the small library and even smaller police station.

  The weather was unseasonably warm for this early in spring and folks were taking advantage of it before the sun blinked out completely for the day. An impromptu baseball game was in play, a handful of parents chatting or texting as they fielded, while their little tigers and tigresses exhausted their energy with an impressive record of home runs. The Blue Rinse
Ladies were taking their evening turn around the green; I was surprised to see Beatrix Salmer without her walker.

  The bandstand in the middle of the green drew my attention and a wave of nostalgia swept over me at the memory of my first kiss on a wintry evening. Snuggling up to Billy Dover with his coat wrapped around us both and a million diamonds twinkling down on us from a crisp black sky. The kiss had been a horrid mess, but everything else had been quite romantic.

  I shook off the nostalgic feeling at my little detour down memory lane. Stupid. I’d been back for plenty of visits since I’d left. But I guess this was the first time I’d returned home with the intention of staying a while. Maybe the first time I’d allowed myself to admit how much I’d missed the place.

  I’d never wanted to leave Silver Firs.

  Not really.

  I’d even taken an on-line drama course after graduation. But the community theatre that leased the Presbyterian Church hall on Thursday evenings wasn’t going to launch my name in bright lights and that was the only showbiz in town. So I’d jumped onto a bus and chased my dreams. To Broadway, not Hollywood. They say cameras put on ten pounds and who needed that?

  Anyway, I’d bussed tables at Caffe Laffe, attended proper acting classes and auditioned until my feet stained the streets of New York City.

  Then one day Joseph McMurphy walked into my coffee shop, sandy hair flopping all over his cute puppy-dog face. I was struck, there and then. My heart stopped dead and never beat quite right again after that.

  Back then, Joe was still a professor of English Lit although if you asked, he’d tell you he was a struggling writer. It took three weeks of dating and half a bottle of cheap whiskey before he’d finally admitted he had a legitimate job that paid the rent.

  Six months later, we were married and I’d moved into his two-bedroom rent stabilized apartment. The year that followed had been utter bliss. We could do no wrong. Joe’s crime thriller got noticed and went to auction on a three-book deal. I landed a part on Broadway, a dramatic play called The Rambler about an abused husband, although the star of the show was his shrewish wife. I was only the understudy to Chintilly Swan, but she played the lead role and it was my first paying gig.