The Serenity Stone Murder

by Marianne Jones

  “What are we supposed to do now?” Louise asked the young woman behind the counter.

  “Well, normally I might be able to find you another hotel, but this weekend there are a lot of events in town, and most places are booked solid. If you’d reconsider a kennel—”

  “Absolutely not. We’ll make other arrangements.”

  Louise turned on her heel, trying to summon up a look of injured dignity. It wasn’t easy, with Vince licking her ear. Her suitcase squeaked as she strode toward the door.

  For an instant Margaret was tempted to take the room and leave Louise and Vince to find their own accommodations. But the thought only lasted an instant before she turned to follow.

  “This is crazy!” sputtered Louise. “No one would even know he was there. You’d think I was trying to hide a terrorist in my room.”

  “You didn’t ask them if they allowed dogs when you booked the room?” Margaret gritted.

  “It didn’t come up. Eileen was going to look after him, remember? When she got the flu at the last minute I didn’t think of it.”

  Margaret was silent. Louise glanced at her.

  “Never mind, Margaret, we’ll find a place. It’s a bit disappointing, but I’m not sure I’d want to stay in a place that’s so snooty that it wouldn’t even bend a rule for poor Vince.”

  Margaret looked at her friend through narrowed eyes and said, “I would.”

  The stillness in the car was beyond uncomfortable. They drove for several blocks in stony silence before Louise broke down and spoke.

  “Well? North or South? Where do we start looking?”

  “We’re right by the Prince Arthur Hotel.” Margaret motioned to a large, historic-looking building nearby. “Why don’t we try there, first?”

  Louise pulled into the parking lot and Margaret jumped out of the car, almost before it was stopped, striding quickly through the door of the hotel. It was barely a moment before she reappeared, climbing back into the car with a resigned, “Nothing.”

  “Did they suggest anyplace else?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, instead of us wasting time driving all over town, why don’t you use the phone in the lobby to call a few places and inquire?”

  “Fine.”

  Margaret climbed grimly back out of the car and stormed back into the hotel. This time she was gone for more than a few minutes. When she came back, her red cheeks and fierce expression promised they were in for a rough weekend.

  “Any luck?” Louise tried to sound hopeful.

  “Everything’s booked solid.” Margaret looked ready to explode.

  “It can’t be hopeless. There must be something,” Louise said.

  “You figure it out then.”

  Margaret lapsed into a dangerous silence, her arms crossed and her grey-green eyes focused straight ahead. Louise thought it wisest to just keep quiet. She turned out of the hotel parking lot and continued north along Cumberland Street, trying to figure out where to go and praying for guidance. This could turn out to be a difficult weekend if they had no place to stay and Margaret wasn’t speaking to her.

  Since letting her fingers do the walking hadn’t worked for Margaret, Louise decided to try the hunt-and-peck method. She stopped at every likely (and unlikely) place they passed. At first she was looking for something clean and cozy, but after a while she was ready to settle for anything. As the sun began to descend, and Louise and Margaret had entered and exited every hotel in the area, it became apparent that every hotel was booked solid, just as the clerk at the Harbourview had forewarned.

  Maybe someone, somewhere might have room in a stable for us, Louise thought absently, but decided not to share the thought with Margaret, who was looking grimmer by the moment. She was sending up another final, desperate prayer, when her eyes fell on a pink neon sign highlighting the name of a dubious-looking establishment called “Bubbles.”

  Well, God does move in mysterious ways, she thought, as she signalled to turn right, pulling into the parking lot.

  Margaret broke the thick, hostile silence, looking at Louise and saying in disbelief, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Do you have a better idea? Anyway, we’re looking for a bed and bath. Whatever else goes on there doesn’t have to concern us.”

  Surprised by this unusual show of pragmatism on her friend’s part, Margaret hesitated. When else would the two of them ever get to see the inside of a place like Bubbles? Still, she didn’t want to appear to capitulate too quickly. She stayed in the car, Vince snoring at her feet, while Louise traipsed inside.

  Louise was gone only a few minutes. She clambered back into the driver’s seat, her face slightly flushed, as she announced firmly, “Well, we’ve got a room.”

  Margaret’s sense of optimism suddenly receded as she re-examined the building, a slight feeling of dread overtaking her. Maybe they should have kept looking. But it was now 5:00 p.m., the seminar was scheduled to start in two hours, and they really didn’t have time to dally. Perhaps spending all of their waking hours in a church basement would cancel out any unpleasantness from their night-time accommodations.

  “Should we take our suitcases in?” Margaret asked, not feeling completely ready to face the possible reality of a room in a place called Bubbles.

  Louise looked hesitant as well.

  “Maybe we should just keep them with us for safe-keeping until after the evening session tonight. That is, unless you need to change for dinner or anything.”

  “No,” Margaret agreed quickly. “No, keeping them with us is just fine by me.”

  “So, where would you like to eat?”

  “Preferably someplace nice.”

  “Could you be a little more specific, please?”

  “Certainly. Someplace that has tablecloths—not laminate from the 50s or 60s. Something classy might help me forget where we’re staying tonight.”

  Fortunately, it was still early enough that they were able to get a table in Lorenzo’s, one of the finer Italian restaurants downtown. After downing an excellent meal, Margaret was feeling considerably more cheerful. It wasn’t the same as being able to luxuriate in a Jacuzzi, but after the meal she felt suitably pampered and filled with a sense of well-being. Eating several slices of bruschetta, sprinkled with fresh basil, and a plate of cannelloni, washed down with a few glasses of Chianti, could relax almost anyone. She felt like she might even be ready to forgive Louise for the hotel fiasco.

  “Would either of you ladies care to see our dessert menu?” the good-looking young waiter asked.

  “Oh, I couldn’t find any room for dessert, but I would love a cup of coffee,” Margaret started, but Louise glanced at her watch and interrupted.

  “I think we’ll have to pass on coffee. Just the bill, please.” To Margaret she added, “We should scoot. I’m sure they’ll have coffee at the conference.”

  Margaret sighed.

  Ten minutes later they arrived at St. Stephen the Martyr Anglican Church. The church had a small, but elegant, historic brick edifice, accentuated by a beautiful, old, oak front door. The sign on the front lawn read, “Come to our Centennial Celebration, August 30.” Margaret and Louise followed the bustling swarm of women entering through the side door that led them down a narrow flight of stairs to the basement. In the tradition of most church basements, the space was cramped, surrounded by concrete, and uninspiring; the walls were covered with the usual assortment of posters and announcements.

  As they lined up with the others to register, Margaret looked down at the name tag she had been handed; it featured a pen-and-ink sketch of a barefoot woman in a long, flowing dress, presumably representing her inner goddess.

  “Isn’t this a little over the top?” she whispered to Louise, waving the name tag under her nose.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, make an effort!” Louise growled back. She was beginning to get weary of Margaret’s superior attitude.

  Feeling distinctly ungodess-like, Margaret pinned the name tag to the front of he
r blue cardigan and looked around. The room was filled with the buzz of anticipation. The participants ranged in age from young twenty-somethings to spunky seniors and the conversation in the room was lively and excited. Looking around for a coffee urn, Margaret saw no evidence of the coffee promised to her at the restaurant by Louise. Sighing in resignation, she heard a familiar voice calling her name and she turned warily.

  “Margaret! You made it! Is Louise with you? Oh, there you are!”

  Eina Kangas pushed through the crowd and enveloped her in a warm hug.

  “I’m so excited you’re here! How was the drive?”

  “The drive was fine,” Margaret said, somewhat tersely sparing a glance at Louise, who interrupted.

  “You’re looking great, Eina. How’s Roger?”

  “Oh, Roger is Roger, same as usual. He’s supposed to be working on the family room in the basement while I’m at the retreat. More likely he’ll be sleeping in late and going out for breakfast with his buddies. When the cat’s away, as they say . . . are you going to be doing another show this year?”

  “Hope to. The art club is working on a combined exhibit this year that should be pretty good. We’ll both be involved with that, even if I don’t get enough stuff together for a solo showing.”

  “Ladies. Ladies! We’re going to be starting in a few minutes. Could I ask you to find your way to a table, please?”

  The voice calling them to attention from the front of the room belonged to a middle-aged woman dressed in a long, embroidered denim skirt and quilted jacket. Her grey, shoulder-length hair was cut in a blunt bob and sported a few daring red streaks that matched a set of dangling, beaded earrings worn by the speaker.

  As the cheerful hubbub of meet-and-greet subsided and the participants settled into their seats, the speaker finally stood and introduced herself.

  “I’d like to welcome you all tonight and congratulate you for choosing to accompany me on this journey. My name is Dr. Ellen Bradshaw-Cooke. If you’ve read the brochure, as I’m sure you all have, you are aware that I am a Creative Mentor with a doctorate in Spiritual Psychology. It’s my belief that everyone—every woman—has a creative goddess within them. Helping you to meet her and set her free is my privilege. This is going to be a weekend of discovery. Be prepared to be both challenged and inspired. Most of all, I invite you to put on your playful hats, because we’re going to have fun.”

  An appreciative chuckle arose from among the audience.

  “Is that an order?” murmured Margaret, but Louise elbowed her to be quiet.

  “For starters, let’s play an ice-breaking game. I’d like each of you to introduce yourselves by your first names and then name an object or animal that you identify with. I’ll go first as an example of what I mean. My name is Ellen, and I am an antelope. I picture myself bounding and running swiftly, exploring new territories and horizons. So, who would like to go next?”

  “I will,” a pretty young woman with long blonde hair said. Judging by the dark circles under her eyes, Margaret thought she looked like an exhausted mom, just thrilled to get out of the house for something besides groceries.

  “My name is Amanda, and I am an egret, because they build their nests high up in the rocks.”

  Seeing the confused looks around her, she explained, “I’ve always wanted to have a home high up on a mountainside.”

  “Thank you, Amanda. That’s very good,” Ellen said. “Anyone else want to be brave?”

  Silence. Nothing but the shifting of chairs and avoiding of eye contact.

  “It doesn’t have to be an animal,” Ellen coaxed. “It could be an object, or a scene—anything that gives you good feelings. If you’re having trouble, try closing your eyes and visualizing something that has special meaning to you.”

  After several seconds, a white-haired lady said timidly, “I’ll go next.”

  “Good for you! Tell us about yourself.”

  “Well,” the lady began, clearing her throat, “My name is Gladys, and I am a gladiator because I’ve been through many battles in my life, and I’m still here.”

  A ripple of applause went through the room.

  “What is this—an AA meeting?” Margaret whispered. She thought the applause would cover her voice, but Ellen must have caught her last two words, because she pinned Margaret with a tight, narrow-eyed smile.

  “What about you? Margaret, is it?” For a moment Margaret thought Dr. Bradshaw-Cooke must be a psychic, in addition to her other gifts, until she remembered the name tag pinned to the front of her sweater.

  “Yes.” She wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “What are you, Margaret?”

  At that moment Margaret was wishing she were anywhere else in the world, but found herself murmuring, “I really don’t—”

  “Don’t be shy, Margaret. Just close your eyes and say the first thing that comes into your head.”

  Feeling as though she had been demoted to grade school, Margaret closed her eyes obediently. They flew open again a moment later.

  “I’m not really comfortable with—”

  “That’s alright, Margaret. Most of us are not encouraged to be in touch with our creative voices. But just try to relax and say what you see.”

  Margaret closed her eyes again. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out, and she closed it again.

  “What is in your head, Margaret? Let yourself go.”

  Margaret was fervently wishing she were back in Jackpine, but again Ellen urged, “Don’t think, just say it. ‘My name is Margaret and I—’”

  “I’m a little teapot!” she blurted out.

  Titters came from all around the room and Louise shot her a black look. Dr. Ellen stood staring at her for a moment with a thin smile stretched across her face.

  “I guess it’s harder for some people than for others,” she said at last.

  Mercifully, it was soon break time.

  Chapter Two

  What is the matter with you?” Louise hissed, as they lined up for refreshments. “Why do you always have to be the class clown?”

  “She put me on the spot. My mind went blank,” Margaret protested. “Anyway, it was her own fault for pushing me like that.”

  “I don’t know why you agreed to come to this thing in the first place if you’re just going to keep acting like this. You’ve had such a lousy attitude about everything ever since we got into town.”

  Margaret just stared at her friend, speechless. Fortunately, before she could collect herself enough to respond, Eina joined them.

  “Hey, you two. Enjoying yourselves?”

  “Very much, Eina,” Louise said tightly, shooting a glare at Margaret.

  “Great. Listen, it’s still warm out. Why don’t we take our drinks outside and stroll around the grounds? It beats milling around in the basement.”

  “What a lovely idea,” Louise said.

  “Uh . . . where’s the coffee?” Margaret asked, staring at the refreshment table, where there were cups, urns of hot water, and five varieties of herbal tea, but no caffeinated beverages in sight.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t seen any. I guess they want to keep everything natural, in keeping with the theme,” Eina said.

  That was just too much.

  “You have got to be kidding,” Margaret said in frustration. “How in heaven’s name can my inner goddess be expected to perform without coffee?”

  “I don’t think there’s too much hope for your inner goddess anyway,” Louise snapped.

  “Don’t worry, Margaret,” Eina said, seemingly oblivious to the tension between the two women, or perhaps hoping that feigning ignorance would diffuse the situation. “We’ll make a Tim Horton’s run in the morning. I’m on your side about the coffee. It’s a nice idea, this healthy and natural living and all, but you can’t separate a Finn like me from her coffee. Oh well, I suppose it’s better for our sleep if we stick to herbal tea in the evening. Let’s see what they’ve got. Would you rather have peppermint, c
hamomile . . .”

  “What difference does it make?” Margaret said in a melancholy voice more reminiscent of someone going to the gallows than choosing a beverage. She grabbed a disposable cup filled with hot, pink liquid and followed Eina, who led them through the crowd to the back of the room, then up a narrow flight of stairs that opened into a breath-taking garden behind the church building. Framed by caragana hedges, it had two archway entry points: one facing toward the church and another on the east side. The archways were overgrown with climbing roses.

  “This is gorgeous!” Louise exclaimed. “I had no idea.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? Our church has been blessed by one of our long time members, Thomas Greenfield. He’s been here forever. He’s in his seventies, and his father was a loyal, long-standing member of the congregation, as was his father before him. Fortunately for us, Thomas just happens to be a master gardener. His two passions in life are gardening and this church. What you see before you is the combination of both passions.”

  “Wow!” said Margaret, genuinely impressed. What they were looking at was a masterfully created serenity garden that made it easy to forget for a moment that they were near the downtown core of a large city.

  “Come on, let’s walk down the path,” Eina said. They strolled along the footpath of finely crushed, red gravel that wound between flower beds, finally arriving in a peaceful little arbour occupied only by a bench. They sat down together on the bench, sighing deeply at the peaceful surroundings, and sipped their tea.

  “We should have the place to ourselves. Most of the people at the conference don’t attend St. Stephen’s, so they don’t know about the garden,” explained Eina.

  “At least one other person does,” Louise said, lowering her voice and nodding in the direction of a woman disappearing down a path partly obscured by lilac trees.

  Eina squinted, trying to identify the short, jean-clad figure.

  “I thought we were the first ones out here,” she commented. “I don’t remember seeing her inside.”

  “I feel as though I’ve been transported to the country,” said Margaret. “It even sounds quieter here. The traffic seems muffled.”