Goodness knew why. After nearly a year of lazy Sundays, he’d seen me at my worst on a weekly basis. Sweatpants, raccoon hair, the occasional outbreak of premenstrual spots.
Maybe it was a pride thing.
He’d broken our marriage, but he hadn’t broken me.
Maybe it was simply an extra coat of armor, and Lord knew, I needed it. Living under the same roof as Joe, seeing his face every day, hearing his voice…well, it hurt.
It hurt everywhere.
Our marriage was beyond repair, I’d accepted that, but the constant reminder of what I’d lost felt like Brutus stabbing me in the back over and over again.
I pasted on a serene smile and swept out of the room. Two doors down, a quick rap of my knuckles, and I stepped into the chaos that was Joe at work. His bed was unmade. Yesterday’s clothes hung over the back of the armchair near the window. The floor around his desk was strewn with crunched up balls of notepaper.
Joe was seated behind his desk, hard at work. He shoved a hand through his hair as he glanced up, the cuff of his lucky sweater unraveled to the elbow. He was going to lose the entire arm soon if he didn’t stop plucking away at the wool.
“One minute,” he said, then went back to his typing.
Clack-Clack-Clack.
My smile almost turned genuine as I studied the fierce concentration on his brow. He’d already forgotten about me, something that had never bothered me before and didn’t now. There was nothing more beautiful than watching art in creation.
But I was on a deadline.
And that warm smile unfolding inside me? Yeah, that was a huge problem. That was the blade sharpening and twisting into what came next. And it always did. The image of Joe and Chintilly half-naked and wrapped in each other.
“I need the scripts, Joe,” I said curtly.
He glanced up at me, blinked, remembered I was here.
“Oh, yes, they’re…” His gaze dropped as he pushed around some papers next to his laptop. “I was just adding some final touches when…” He pinched his brow, looked at me with a goofy smile. “I got this brilliant idea for disposing of the body in a high pressure boiler—”
“Jenna’s body doesn’t need to be disposed of,” I clipped out unnecessarily. We both knew he’d been working on his thriller and not my scripts. “Listen, Joe, I appreciate you’re on a creative roll here and that your book’s important, but so is this. The sooner this inn turns a profit, the sooner Mr Hollow can find another investor to buy us out.”
So we can proceed with the divorce and go our separate ways. I didn’t need to add that out loud. Joe had the most expressive eyes I’d ever encountered in a human, genuine puppy dog eyes that couldn’t hide an emotion if he tried. And he wasn’t trying now. He wanted me to see the sadness darkening those brown depths.
He sighed heavily. “I’ll get it done.”
“I asked you to be finished before the guests arrived and that’s in…” I held my wrist out and tapped my watch “…less than an hour.”
“You only need the scripts for tomorrow morning,” he said. “Don’t worry, I work better under the hammer of impossible deadlines and I’ve never missed one yet.”
“Well, I don’t,” I muttered. I was an actress. Everything had to be carefully coordinated and rehearsed days before the curtain went up on the opening show.
I left the doorway to walk up to him. “Give me what you have so far and I’ll do the rest. How hard can it be? I just have to keep everyone busy for two hours and move them around like chess pieces on a board.”
“You don’t play chess.” Joe slapped a hand protectively over the disarray of notes on his desk as I reached for them. “You can’t just slap scenes together and pray they’ll stick. There has to be a cohesive flow and the timeline needs to place enough potential witnesses to make it possible to uncover clues without blatantly revealing the murderer.”
Panic fluttered in my stomach.
He made a valid point. I wouldn’t even know where to start.
All I knew was how Jenna died, since I’d had to arrange the props and would need to set up that scene. The who-dunnit and why were all locked inside Joe’s head. That’s the way we’d planned it. One less thing for me to worry about, letting any pertinent details slip out by mistake.
Now I’d be up the proverbial creek without a paddle if Joe seriously was trying to undermine me and the success of this weekend.
But why would he?
We were both desperate for business to flourish so we could both get on with our lives.
Except…what had Jenna said the other night? That Joe was playing me, that he wanted to stay close to win me back. I’d dismissed the notion as ridiculous, and I was pretty sure I still did, but I’d been wrong before when it came to Joseph McMurphy.
“There is one thing I’m excellent at.” I folded my arms and scowled down at him. “Improvising when things fall apart on-stage. I won’t let you sabotage this weekend.”
His jaw went slack. “I got a little distracted, Maddie, that’s all. I’m not trying to sabotage you.”
I glared at him for a long moment, but dammit, I actually believed him. After all he’d done, I still couldn’t believe he had that kind of mean streak in him.
“Maybe not intentionally,” I blew out on a breath, “but the end result will be the same when I have no murder scripted for my murder mystery party.”
“You’ll have the scripts before you sit down to dinner.” Joe slumped back in his chair. “Trust me, I won’t let you down.”
Fool that I was, I decided to do just that. Then again, what choice did I have?
The sound of gravel crunching pulled me toward the window. I’d moved Joe from his lake view suite to the courtyard side to accommodate our paying guests. The demotion hadn’t seemed to bother him nearly as much as I’d anticipated. Pity.
“Looks like we have early arrivals,” I murmured as I watched a silver BMW draw up beneath a shaded tree.
Joe came to stand beside me, peering down. “Must be the Parkers,” he said when a young couple climbed out.
Mrs Parker pushed her sunglasses into her sleek blonde hair as she breezed around to the rear of the car and waited for her husband to pop the trunk. They were both dressed casually in blue jeans and t-shirts, and seemed very much in love. A lingering kiss before they delved into the trunk, arms looped around each other as they wheeled their bags across the driveway to the wide front steps.
“I imagined them a tottering old pair of nosey bodies,” I said, laughing at myself.
Joe said nothing, just stared at the couple with an intense frown. I couldn’t help wonder—no, hope he was thinking how that loving couple could have been us if he hadn’t messed up so horrifically.
It was bitchy of me, I realized that, but it would’ve been nice to share the pain around a bit.
So far I’d gotten nothing from him.
No apology.
No reason why he’d strayed.
Not even a half-botched attempt at some lame excuse.
My laughter fizzled as I spun away from the window to stalk toward the door. “I guess I should go down since I’m the welcoming committee.”
“Maddie?”
I glanced over my shoulder, suddenly tense. Was this it? The half-botched lame excuse?
I swallowed hard. “Yeah, okay.”
He looked at me a moment, so serious, then shrugged and scrubbed his brow. “I’ll get the scripts done, okay?”
THREE
Hollow House slowly filled up over the next hours, the guests settled into their respective suites without much ado thanks to Burns, who could be surprisingly efficient in between his long naps.
By seven pm, we were all gathered in the lounge for pre-dinner drinks. Including Jenna, who’d be staying the night the same as any other guest. More than a few male gazes followed as she made her way across the room toward me. I bit down on a smile. Seriously, she was like a modern day Helen of Troy. It wasn’t just that she was tall, slende
r, blonde and beautiful. She carried that extra something, that elusive essence that could sink a thousand men.
“Here you go.” She pressed a tumbler into my hands, leaning in to whisper, “You’re going to need it with this crowd.”
My gaze scanned the room as I sipped on the whiskey. “Actually, they seem to be mixing rather well.”
I’d worried that the eclectic mixture would be a hostess’ nightmare, but the Parkers seemed to have hit it off with Miss Crawley and Mr Hollow. The refined Charles Sitter, an elderly gentleman with an apparent preference for bowties, was engaged in a spirited argument with Julie Brown, a middle-aged woman with big spectacles and big hair and a nasal drawl. The other two groups that had formed were even more unlikely.
Even Burns seemed more awake than usual from his position tending the bar. All in all, I had a good feeling about the weekend.
I turned to Jenna. “Is Jack stopping by later?”
She shook her head on a sigh. “Deputy Harvey’s ulcer is playing up again, so Jack’s basically on-duty permanently until Chief Matthews gets back from Hawaii on Tuesday.”
“He still has to eat and sleep.”
“He spent last night on a sofa at the station even though Deputy Harvey assured him he only has to make sure his cell is on at all times.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “He’s freaked out at being left in charge.”
“I don’t blame him,” I said. “He’s only been out of the academy a couple of months.”
“Yeah, well, he’s going to have his own ulcer to deal with if he keeps this up.”
I placed a hand on her arm. “You guys okay?”
“More than okay, otherwise I wouldn’t bother worrying so much about him. And that’s enough about my life, let’s talk about my death.” Jenna glanced around, her mouth twitching mischievously. “Which of these dastardly folk are about to murder me?”
I laughed. “I have absolutely no idea, but do me a favor, will you? I’m about to kick off the event and my mother wanted to hear. She’s in the kitchen.”
She eyed me over the rim of her glass. “You seriously don’t know?”
“Cross my heart and pray not to die young,” I said solemnly, our version of a pinkie-swear. “At this point, I doubt Joe even knows.”
“He’s still scribbling away at it?”
“We can hope.” I shooed her off, then set my glass on a pedestal table and clapped my hands together to get everyone’s attention.
I’d met and greeted our guests individually on arrival, but I opened my speech with a formal welcome before launching into, “Now, I’m sure you’re all dying to know what format this weekend’s murder mystery will take.”
My weak joke got exactly one giggle, from Lydia Fieldman, and I’d already pinned her as an odd one. My first impression had been retired librarian. Grey bun, pointy spectacles dangling from a chain, bubble-knit cardigan worn over a printed frock, sturdy lace-up shoes. But on closer inspection, her face was completely unlined and her hair was the kind of silver that came out of a bottle.
Curious indeed.
Jenna stepped into the room with my mom in tow. I sent them a quick smile before continuing.
“The format is actually pretty relaxed, allowing you to participate as much or as little as you wish and to enjoy the amenities of Hollow House and our delightful town.” My gaze swept the audience as I spoke, trying to gauge the reaction, but all I got was a sea of poker faces. “The only real formality is tomorrow morning between nine and eleven, during which time the murder will occur, and where everyone is required to play their part. You will each receive an envelope at breakfast which will contain your script and I ask you to please follow it strictly.”
This evoked a low murmuring and I waited a beat for the room to quieten.
“At eleven o’clock, you’ll each be handed a second envelope which should only be opened in private. This envelope will detail your specific relationship to the victim and it will also indicate if you are, in fact, the murderer. The rest of the weekend is up to you, questioning and snooping to your heart’s content. There’s only one rule. You may lie, but if you’re called out on it with any proof or another witness statement, then you’re obliged to tell the truth in that particular instance. Does everyone understand?”
Plenty of nods and some excited chatter. The format Joe and I had come up with didn’t totally suck.
“At Sunday lunch we’ll collect your conclusions, do the reveal and award certificates.” I looked around, smiling warmly. “Well, that’s about it.”
Joe appeared in the doorway, attracting stares as he waved a thick wad of red envelopes at me.
He’d come through for me.
I released a slow breath of relief and gave him a nod, holding up a finger to indicate I’d be right there. “Dinner will be served shortly. Meanwhile, it’s a lovely evening and the terrace doors are open if you’d like to take your drinks outside. The view is spectacular.”
Another smile, and then I made my way over to Joe.
My mother reached him first. “Hello, Joseph,” she said coolly. “How are you?”
“Um, good, Mrs Storm, and how are…” He trailed off as he realized he was speaking to himself. My mother was already hurrying down the passage to the kitchen.
“I really appreciate this.” I plucked the wad of envelopes from his hand. “Thanks, Joe.”
He shrugged. “No need to thank me. We both have as much to gain if the inn starts looking good to potential investors.”
When he turned toward the stairs, I called him back. “Aren’t you joining us for dinner?”
“I’ll grab something later.” He pressed the base of his palm to his temple. “You know what I’m like when there’s a scene running loose inside here.”
“Yeah, I do,” I said softly, feeling that twang of familiarity pull at my heartstrings. I shook it off with a silent curse. “I’ll send Burns up with a plate.”
He tipped his head at me and turned again to climb the stairs.
Mom hadn’t run off to the kitchen. She emerged from the shadows alongside the staircase as soon as Joe was out of sight.
My mouth gaped open. I loved my mom to bits, I really did, but this was precisely the kind of thing that drove me nuts. “Where you spying on us?”
“Of course not, honey.” She wrung her hands together, her expression pained with the injustice of the wrongly accused. “I was just waiting for Joseph to leave. I don’t know how to talk to the man. I want to hate him, but that doesn’t seem right. And I can’t like him, not after what he’s done, can I?”
The irritation washed out of me. This was her first encounter with Joe since he’d moved in and to be fair, the situation was rather confusing.
“Joe is still Joe, he’s just not my Joe anymore,” I told her. “You don’t have to hate him. You don’t have to like him. And I don’t expect you to ostracize him for the sheer hell of it. As you may have noticed, Joe and I are getting along perfectly fine.”
“Yes, I certainly did notice,” Mom said, that hopeful lilt in her tone a dead giveaway.
I blew out a grumpy breath. “That is not going to happen, ever.”
How had I not seen this coming? According to my mom, there was one thing worse than a cheating husband: the scandal of divorce.
“If you say so, honey,” she said sweetly. “Now, are those the secret envelopes?”
A blatant re-direct, but I took it. With a spit of luck, Joe would be long gone before Mom’s meddling became a real issue.
“Yes, they are.” I slapped the wad into one palm with a grin and crawled into the alcove beneath the stairs to drag out the wicker basket I’d stashed there earlier.
Mom peered over my shoulder as I unlatched and raised the lid. “Is that a rope? Oh, my, that’s the murder weapon!”
I uncoiled the length of rope to show her the clever clasp on the noose. “This snaps open with the slightest pressure. Even if something went awfully wrong, which it won’t, there’s no way this
could strangle Jenna.”
“It’s all so morbid, but I must admit, intriguing all the same. Should we take a peek inside the envelopes?”
“Absolutely not.” I nestled the rope back into the basket, dropped the envelopes in and closed the lid firmly before shoving the basket into the dark depths of the alcove. “No one can weasel information out of you that you don’t have.”
FOUR
Dinner was an interesting affair with lively conversation that circled and then finally centered on the psychoanalysis of a serial killer’s mind. Not exactly light small talk, but I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised given the common interest that had drawn my guests.
Tomorrow we’d eat under starlight on the terrace, but I’d decided on the dining room for tonight so everyone could sit at one table and get to know each other. Sticking to my theme of loose structure, I’d forgone place cards and somehow found myself seated between Miss Crawley and Jonas Mayer, a weathered looking man with a thick crop of salt and pepper hair and a toothy smile.
Jonas was pretty harmless, an accountant who’d apparently driven up from Scranton in Pennsylvania. Miss Crawley, on the other hand, sent my table manners into a nervous flutter. The bird-like woman could put the fear of God into you with a simple disapproving smile, and she disapproved a lot. For the life of me, I suddenly couldn’t remember which knife was the butter spreader and which one to save for the pink salmon starter.
I reached for my glass of wine, deciding I didn’t really need that crispy bread roll anyway.
Halfway down the length of the table, Jenna shot me a sympathetic smile. She, naturally, had snagged a spot between the vibrant Ella Parker and the only eligible—entirely too suitable—male. Mason Sash was not the kind of man I would have pegged for an amateur sleuth. Early thirties, strong jaw, dreamy dark brown hair, dreamy darker eyes.
“That was an interesting twist, my dear.”
I snapped my stare from Mason to Miss Crawley. “Sorry?”
She gave my inattention a disapproving tut, but didn’t comment further. “Your rule on permitting lies until called out on it. It adds an extra depth of sleuthing that sounds quite appealing. Usually, in my experience that is, one may only evade when asked directly if they’re the murderer, which renders the question obsolete.”
The Butler Didn't Do It (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 2) Page 2