Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1)

by Claire Robyns

  I flipped forward a couple of pages and kept going, blank page after blank page right through to the end of the summer months.

  Strange.

  I would have thought Hollow House survived mainly on pre-bookings via travel agents and vacation planners. It was premium accommodation, not a motel where weary travelers pulled up out of the blue for a quick stopover.

  I changed direction, flipping all the way back to January 1st without coming across a single entry. Business had been floundering, everyone in town knew that, but this was… Well, not to be callous or anything, but Hollow House was dead.

  Not my problem.

  I slammed the book shut—Burns acknowledged the small thud with a disgruntled snore—and went exploring.

  The first door across the foyer opened into a narrow dining room. The solid table was nearly as long as the room and seated an impressive dozen on ruby velvet-cloaked high back chairs. Heavy curtains kept a firm rein on any stray sunbeams that might otherwise have dared to slip through. The room was dim, dark and stale.

  I moved on and stood in the next doorway, puzzled. This room was much larger and square, and unfurnished. The floor was hardwood, not a rug in sight. A fancy chandelier hung from the high ceiling, dripping diamond clusters that were dull with dust. Two of the walls were draped in black cloth from ceiling to floor, as if the room were in mourning.

  With a sigh, I closed the door behind me and gave up on my tour. This day was depressing enough without it.

  ∞∞∞

  The sun peeked at me through wisps of darkening fluff. I squinted up into the sky, made a couple of deals with the weather gods, and set off at a brisk pace along the lake trail that started around the back of the house and hopefully went all the way to town. The path meandered, but I was in no hurry with nowhere to go.

  Fresh air and exercise were going to be my new regime, I’d decided while pacing my bedroom and wondering what to do with myself, but I did not need another drenching. Some people could pull off the plastered-hair, water-spiked lashes and wide eyes, cute-as-a-button look. Others just looked like a drowned-rat. You didn’t need two guesses to guess which group I fell into.

  The reeds along the shore hummed with insect life. There was a flutter and a warbled call from a nearby tree as a Goldfinch took flight. The sounds and sights I missed like crazy when I was in the city. I really was a small town girl at heart—with big town dreams.

  I laughed at myself, stopping a moment to gaze out over the lake and enjoy the serenity.

  My back pocket chirped with the chorus of a hundred crickets. I’d left my purse behind, shoved my phone and some dollar bills into my pocket instead.

  I pulled my phone out and checked the caller id before answering. The cricket chorus was my generic ring tone for unrecognized numbers. It was a cell number, so could be anyone from here to Syracuse to New York City.

  Syracuse.

  I’d looked up a couple of divorce lawyers while I’d been there and was waiting for a callback to arrange an appointment.

  “Not today.” I ended the call without answering and stood there another moment, inhaling deep breaths of unspoiled beauty and carefree solitude.

  My phone went off again in my hand.

  Crickets.

  So much for solitude and serenity. I turned the phone off, returned it to my back pocket and resumed my ‘brisk-paced’ amble in the general direction of town.

  The rain held off and the day had warmed up nicely by the time the path spat me out at the foot of the North Pier. A man sat at the far end, legs dangling over the side, line cast into the shallows. If he wanted to catch anything, he’d have better luck at the South Pier on the other end of the boardwalk, which reached deeper into the lake. But he probably knew that.

  The restaurants and shops along the boardwalk were prime location, double-facing onto the boardwalk as well as the town square. The Vine, however, had forged its own prime spot one road back from the square on Birch Street, right beside the long parking bays reserved for the tour buses that passed through on their way to the vineyards.

  I cut through the alley between Eclipse and Patty’s Pancakes onto the green, happy to see the bustling throngs of unfamiliar faces milling about. Tourist Season was kicking into high gear. Given the sad state of the Hollow House register, I’d been a little concerned.

  I crossed the green and pushed through the pink and yellow frosted door of Cuppa-Cake.

  A bell tinkled above the door and Lily glanced over the heads of the three customers waiting in front of the counter, caught my eye and smiled before going back to her serving. She was a pretty blond in her early thirties, married with an adorable little girl. She’d also caused a town riot two years back when she’d opened Cuppa-Cake directly across the green from Mr Bellaney’s Cuppa-Cheeno. Mr Bellaney had petitioned the town council, but both parties had firm roots in the community and staunch supporters.

  Sides had been taken, lines drawn, but no blood had been spilled. Yet.

  “I heard you were visiting,” Lily said when it was my turn to be served.

  I smiled and nodded. The smell of freshly baked goodies tickled my good intentions and before I knew it, I’d ordered a half-dozen assorted cupcakes with my cappuccino and Jenna’s skinny latte.

  “Is it true you’ve bought Hollow House from George Hollow?” Lily called out loudly to be heard above the hissing machine. “Will you keep it as an inn, or make it your primary residence?”

  My lips twitched. Primary residence? As opposed to what? All the other residences I’d accumulated on my road to fame? “You do know I ran off to Broadway, not Hollywood, right?”

  She threw me a ‘so what?’ look over her shoulder.

  The money side of Broadway sucked, that was what. Well, unless you were some rich and famous big screen star slumming it in the name of art. I guessed they did okay.

  I would have enlightened her on the economic inequalities of my chosen profession, but I had a rumor to nip in the bud.

  “Actually,” I told Lily, “you were right the first time, I’m just visiting. And I only invested a tiny amount in Hollow House, a couple of shares, that kind of thing. Mr Hollow still owns the place lock, stock and—” sinking “—barrel.”

  Lily placed the two take-out coffees on the counter and leaned across, her voice dropping to a whisper as her eyes widened on me. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but it’s awful about Ms Daggon, isn’t it?”

  I wasn’t surprised she’d already heard. Bad news traveled faster than the sound of thunder in Silver Firs. I was worried she hadn’t listened carefully enough to my detailed explanation. “Absolutely awful, but about Hollow House, you should know I didn’t buy—”

  “Yes, you said, but did you really find her in the kitchen when you came down this morning?” Lily grabbed a flat-pack container and boxed it for the selection of cupcakes. “What a horrible thing to wake up to, even if it was Ms Daggon. What was she doing when you found her?”

  I scratched the corner of my eye. “Um, she was, you know…?”

  Lily’s brows perked expectantly.

  “Dead,” I spelled out.

  “Oh, yes, but I mean before,” she said as she filled the box with pieces of frosted and sprinkled heaven. “I read once about a woman who tripped while emptying the dishwasher and skewered herself on a carving knife, can you believe it?”

  She shuddered and slid the cupcake box next to the coffees.

  I reached into my back pocket for cash while Lily rang it up, only she didn’t. She folded her arms on the counter, looking at me, waiting.

  Oh.

  “What was Ms Daggon doing?” I frowned quizzically, my best impression of thinking real hard, and reached back again for my phone and held it up apologetically. “Sorry, I should probably get this.”

  “Did it go off?”

  “Buzzed, the volume’s turned down,” I assured her, deftly turning the phone on.

  Born and raised in Silver Firs, I could gossip with the bes
t of them, and I didn’t know why this felt wrong, only that it did. I disliked the woman intensely, but I didn’t want to pick apart Ms Daggon’s last minutes either.

  Maybe it was all that venting I’d done this morning before her corpse was even cold. What was the matter with me? I was no angel, but I believed in reserving a little respect for the dead whether they deserved it or not.

  Lily was still watching me with those rounded blue eyes, so I put the phone to my ear and engaged in a vivid catch-up with my city friend Patricia whose basset hound was littering pups even as we spoke.

  Did I know any Patricia?

  Of course not, that’s just how good I was and a minute later I was walking down Main Road, phone hooked between my ear and shoulder, coffees balanced precariously on the lid of the cupcake box.

  I cut through the small playground on the corner of Birch and Main and crossed the road to The Vine, where I had to butt-bump my way through the gnarled wood door. The Vine took its name seriously when it came to the décor. Knotted branches framed the windows and wound along the glass display counters and long bar. Throughout the floor area, strategically potted vines (thankfully artificial) twined up wood poles and crept along the low ceiling in a tangle of spidery twigs and leaves.

  The wine tasting sessions didn’t start until lunchtime and Phillis appeared to have everything under control, serving a customer at the gourmet cheese counter while keeping a sharp eye on the pair of teenagers browsing the wine racks. Phillis Adams was Jenna’s aunt and she usually helped out during the busy season or family emergencies. I hoped today didn’t fall into the latter category.

  “Everything okay?” I asked as I made my way around the counter.

  “Maddox, I heard you were in town.” She flashed me a quick smile, her hands full with the wedge of blue-veined cheese she was wrapping and her attention on the underage browsers. “Everything’s fine. Jenna has a meeting with the Bilby winery, so I’m minding the store for her. But she hasn’t left yet. Go on through, she’s in the office.”

  “We’ll save you a cupcake,” I promised and pushed through the hanging vines that curtained the entrance into the back.

  My neck was developing a cramp from keeping the phone at my ear and I almost lost the latte on the cranky steps leading from the storeroom to the office. Jenna was on her laptop at the desk. She’d changed into a pointed-collar white shirt and pale lemon jacket, her blonde hair scraped into a high ponytail.

  “Don’t you look fancy smart,” I chirped.

  She looked up and grinned. “We’re renegotiating the Bilby contract. My first time flying solo and I intend to smack a punch.”

  “You will,” I assured her. “Do you need me to leave you alone?”

  Jenna shook her head. “I’ve been preparing for weeks.” She cleared a stack of folders from the corner of the desk to make space for my load. “Who’re you talking to?”

  “My new BF Patricia,” I said, sliding the box gingerly onto the edge of the table.

  Well accustomed to my wacky ways, Jenna merely rescued both coffees from the lid and laughed. “I assume that means I’ve been upgraded to your new BFF.”

  “Of course.” I finally had a free hand. I brought my phone down and un-cinched my neck.

  Jenna delved inside the box. “Cupcakes for brunch?”

  “You fed me Jack Daniels for breakfast,” I reminded her.

  “Point taken.”

  I swiped my phone to check for messages, and did a double-take. “I have twenty-eight missed calls.”

  Jenna whistled. “You need an assistant.”

  “I need a life,” I groaned, pulling up a chair across from her. “Twenty-two are from my mother.”

  Another three were Joe, and there was a local land line I didn’t recognize.

  “I bet it’s Miss Crawley,” Jenna said when I told her.

  I tossed the phone onto the desk and reached for my cappuccino. “I gather by now she knows I found Ms Daggon.”

  Jenna rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “Everyone knows by now.”

  “But how did she get my number?”

  “This town ain’t what it used to be since Miss Crawly got techno-savvy,” Jenna drawled in her terrible Annie Oakley impersonation.

  She tapped on her keyboard, then turned the laptop around so I could read the Google results. Top of the list was my portfolio on the Broadway Bits and Parts Billboard. You didn’t even need to drill down to get to my cell number, it was right there in the hyper-linked summary.

  “That’s for talent agents,” I protested grumpily.

  “Talent agents and talented snoops.” Jenna sipped her latte, giving me a sympathetic look. “It gets worse.”

  “Worse than Miss Crawley stalking me?”

  “Maybe just more of the same then,” she conceded. “Tab to Facebook.”

  I tabbed and the page opened onto Miss Crawley’s timeline, the banner across the top welcoming me to Miss Crawley’s Blotter. I wondered what the county sheriff’s office had to say about that.

  “Miss Crawley must have been gabbing with her niece last night, you know the one who works at Little & Little,” Jenna said. “That popped up first thing this morning.”

  The post in question was a one-liner designed to grab you by the short and curlies. It was also an outright lie.

  Maddox Storm buys Hollow House.

  “Well, this explains Lily’s source,” I said. And Jenna’s. I’d assumed Mr Hollow had told her this morning, but nothing pinned a source more accurately than quoting misinformation. “Mr Hollow’s going to pop an artery. I really hope he doesn’t think I’m going around telling everyone I bought his family mansion.”

  “You could leave an indignant comment,” suggested Jenna.

  Tempting as it was, I was no fool. “I’ll put my mom on the case. She’s better equipped to take on Miss Crawley. There should be a law against spreading utter nonsense on the internet.”

  “Maybe there is.” Jenna fluttered her lashes at me. “You should definitely call that dreamy detective and ask.”

  I just looked at her.

  “Too soon?”

  “To be planning my next wedding?” I selected a double chocolate fudge cupcake and licked at the frosting. “I need a touch longer to put myself back together.”

  Jenna hesitated, then spoke her mind. “Except…you haven’t fallen apart. You didn’t even phone to talk when it happened.”

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t keeping you out—”

  “Don’t be sorry,” she cut in softly. “You do whatever you need to do and I’ll be here, always. I’m glad you haven’t fallen apart, but I’m also kind of worried that you haven’t, that’s all.”

  “If I do, you’ll be the first to know about it,” I told her. “But don’t get out the brush and dustpan yet, I’m perfectly fine.”

  ∞∞∞

  My mother took up the rest of my day. She labored under the mistaken impression that I’d give up this silly business with Hollow House now, because who would want to stay where someone had just given up the ghost?

  In an ideal world, no one.

  But I was on a tight budget and to be totally honest, I was scared of moving back home. As much as I moaned and groaned about my parents, Dad was my rock and Mom was my safety net. If I moved into my old bedroom upstairs, I might never leave again. I’d gotten my first look at the world out there and it was big, bad and nasty.

  Thankfully, I had a good cause to divert Mom’s focus. “Do you read Miss Crawley’s Blotter?”

  “Every Sunday morning, honey,” Mom said, smiling at me over the lasagna she’d just finished layering. “I’m subscribed to her weekly digest edition. Why?”

  My mind boggled at the stream-lined efficiency Miss Crawley had introduced into the Silver Firs gossip grinder. “She’s got her facts wrong about me and Hollow House and it would be great if you could set her straight.”

  “She has, has she?” Mom looked delighted. She drizzled cheese and carried the baking dish t
o the oven. “I’ll have a word with her on Monday. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she issues a retraction.”

  “Is Miss Crawley out of town?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Then why wait till Monday?” I said, confused. “I’d rather it was sorted before that digest goes out to the masses on Sunday.”

  “It’s just…” Mom turned from the oven, faltering at my perplexed gaze.

  “Just what?” I prompted.

  “Well, you know I like to pop in at Betty’s for tea after church?”

  Betty was Mom’s long-time friend and my godmother. I loved her to bits, but any explanation that started with ‘Mom and Betty’ generally didn’t end well.

  “And?” I capped my bottle of water and went to put the kettle on the stove for coffee. I was going to need something stronger for this conversation.

  “We read the digest together,” said Mom, “and pick out everything Miss Crawley miscalculated during the week.”

  I read between the lines and blurted, “You keep score of Miss Crawley’s blunders so you can rub her face in it, and that’s more important than the trouble her lies are causing me?”

  “It’s become something of a tradition.”

  I threw my hands up. “How long has her blotter been up?”

  “Since the week before Easter.”

  “That’s less than two months.”

  Mom folded her arms defensively. “Every tradition has to begin somewhere.”

  “I’m your daughter,” I reminded her. “That beats a two-month-old tradition.”

  “It’s not a competition, Maddox, just a small delay.”

  “Mom!”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll fix it with Miss Crawley first thing tomorrow, even if this mess is all of your own making. Why you’re living at Hollow House when you have a perfectly good home with us, I’ll never understand.”

  “I need to be independent right now,” I said firmly.

  Although I didn’t object when Mom made up a foil-wrapped parcel of freshly baked lasagna and hot garlic butter rolls and insisted on driving me back. I was sure Mr Hollow wouldn’t either. We were minus a cook and our kitchen had been drowned.