Her “room” was actually a small, pretty suite on the second floor, complete with a sitting room, bath and tiny kitchenette. Jenna had pleaded with her several times to move to the first floor so she didn’t have to use the stairs so often. But Molly wouldn’t leave the quarters she’d shared with her late husband.
“I take it there’s no news,” Molly went on.
“Unfortunately, no. But as they say—whoever ‘they’ are—no news is good news.” Jenna walked around the desk. “Detective Caspian assured me that if the status of the case changes, he’ll call me.”
“As he should. In the meantime, we’ll keep praying that the police find that horrid man and lock him up.” Sighing then, she changed the subject. “I filled both coffeemakers and set the timers, and the table’s ready. The McGraws and their granddaughter will be leaving early, so they’d like to have breakfast at seven-thirty, and Mrs. Jackson will join them.” She frowned. “Mrs. Bolton said she prefers to skip breakfast.”
“Yes, I know. She wants to sleep in since she only has to leave for her audit around eleven. I offered to fix her a late breakfast, but she insisted that coffee and a bagel is all she usually has in the morning—if that. I’ll offer her something again when she comes downstairs.”
“Very good. All of our ducks are in a row. Did she say who she’s auditing? One of the businesses?”
That stopped Jenna for a moment. “I don’t know. She didn’t mention it. The information’s probably confidential anyway.”
“Probably.” Molly eased up on tiptoe for a hug. “And now that our guests are tucked in for the night, I believe I’ll scoot up to my little nest, brew a nice cup of tea, and do some reading before I close my eyes. I’ll see you at six-fifteen.”
Jenna shook her head. “No, stay in bed for a while. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ve already made the pie shells for the Quiche Lorraine so most of the prep work’s finished.”
Molly chuckled softly. “You talked me right into it. I’ll see you at seven.” She’d nearly made it to the curve in the staircase when she turned around. “Have you given any more thought to the self-defense classes Rachel mentioned last week?”
Actually she had, but until today, she’d decided against it.
“Do it,” Molly said. “It would be good for you. You girls should spend more time together.” Before Jenna could remind her diminutive aunt that attending classes meant leaving the inn unattended, she added, “I don’t know how long classes run, but business is always slow in the winter, and if we have guests, I’m perfectly capable of holding the fort for a few hours.”
Jenna blew her a kiss. “I’ll think about it. Sleep tight, Aunt Molly.”
“You, too. And don’t worry. I’ll be having a talk with the Lord tonight. He’ll see us safely through to morning.”
“I know He will,” Jenna murmured. “Good night.”
“Good night, dear.”
Jenna watched her disappear, then double checked the doors and security panel, made certain the exterior lights were still throwing a radiant halo around the inn, then dimmed the chandelier in the foyer and one of the parlor’s Tiffany lamps. Despite her nightly routine, she felt slightly better about the events of the day after speaking with Detective Caspian.
No news was good news.
Jenna’s rooms were smaller than Molly’s, but like several of the Blackberry’s fussy bedchambers, her dusty-peach-and-cream quarters had a small bath and sitting room. She’d just taken her Bible from her nightstand, when her personal line rang. She recognized the low masculine voice on the phone instantly, and a few happy butterflies took flight in her stomach.
“Jenna, it’s Beau Travis. I hope it’s not too late to call.”
“Not at all,” she returned. “What can I do for you?”
He laughed softly. “Actually, I was hoping I could do something for you.”
“Oh? What?”
“Make you feel better about what happened this morning. It’s kind of a misery-loves-company thing. There’s a news magazine show on TV right now doing a story on how widespread identity theft is. It’s nearly over, but you can still catch the last few minutes. When they come back from the break, they’ll be talking about ways to prevent it.”
She had a small flat-screen television set in her room, but there was nothing to gain from watching the program because she had no intention of getting another credit card. “Thanks, but I think I heard every tip imaginable from the rep who phoned this morning. She was very thorough.”
“Right. I didn’t think of that. I just thought… Well, that this was information you should probably have.”
He drew a breath—one of those deep intakes of air that usually signaled a caller was about to sign off. Then he didn’t.
“If you belong to any social networks, they’re going to discuss ways to discourage hackers from messing with those, too. That might be helpful for your business.”
Jenna smiled against the receiver, not only because he’d called, but because he seemed to want to stay on the line. “Thanks, but I don’t belong to any of them. Most of our guests are repeat customers or people who’ve heard about us through word of mouth.” Despite all the assurances they touted, even Facebook’s creator had been hacked, so no one’s security was a hundred percent dependable. Social networks were for people who wanted to share. Not for those who wanted to remain hidden. “We don’t even have a webpage.”
“No? Then you’re hacker proof. In that area, anyhow.”
“I just don’t understand why men do such idiotic things.”
“The same reason they create computer viruses. Because they can.” He paused, and when he spoke again, there was a smile in his voice. “And who says they’re all men?”
“They have to be. No woman would do something like that.”
Laughter rustled in Beau’s throat, and Jenna warmed to the sound of it. “Anyway, as long as we’re talking… Thank you again for humoring my aunt this morning. I hadn’t been out to lunch in a while, and it felt good.”
“Did it?”
The question surprised her. “Well…yes.”
“Good. I only asked because toward the end, you seemed uneasy. And to be honest, that’s really why I called tonight. I was concerned about you.”
It had been a long time since a man had expressed concern for her. A very long time. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wanted to explain—about the flowers, about the limping man, about the assault that had nearly taken her life. But she couldn’t do it. “I’m fine,” she said quietly, “but thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome. Now I’ll say good night and let you get some sleep.”
“Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yep, see you then.”
Jenna hung up, then slowly eased back against her pillows again. Talking with Beau had been nice, and talking with Detective Caspian had been encouraging. But Beau’s mentioning her uneasiness opened a cold spot of fear in her chest. Needing their joyful reassurance, she opened her Bible to the Psalms. She’d read many of them so often that the pages were worn and she could quote the verses, verbatim. Especially Psalm 23. But tonight, she turned the page to Psalm 27:1.
“The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life. Of whom shall I be afraid?” She continued to read, eventually coming to a verse that gave her the most comfort. “In times of trouble He will shelter me; He will keep me safe in His Temple and make me secure on a high rock.”
“No one,” she whispered, thinking of the first verse again. “I shouldn’t fear anyone, Lord, because I know that I’m not leaving this world for the next until You say it’s time.” She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. “But if it’s Your will, I’d like to stay for a while. I love it here with my friends and family. Please bless them and keep them safe. Keep us all safe.”
Gentling her voice then, she put the Bible on the nightstand and turned off the lamp to finish her prayers in the darkn
ess. She felt more connected to her Creator without the distractions of light and color.
“I’ve thanked You many times for the gifts You’ve given me,” she murmured. “Especially the gift of life after the attack. But forgive me, in some ways I feel empty. I don’t mean to be envious of my friends, but You’ve given Rachel and Margo good men to love, and some days I feel short changed because I can’t let anyone into my life when there’s a man out there who might want to finish what he started two years ago. So please… If it’s Your will that I have a loving home and family some day, help Detective Caspian find him, and put him in a place where he can’t hurt anyone ever again.
“One more thing,” she whispered. “There’s a new friend I’d like to remember in my prayers. I suspect You already know and like him. He’s a good man, Father—a carpenter like your Son, Jesus. Please bless him, too.”
* * *
Night passed swiftly, and at 6:00 a.m. on Friday morning, Jenna awoke from a deep sleep, thoroughly rested and surprisingly calm. Silencing her alarm clock, she quickly showered and dressed in a white T-shirt and powder-blue fleece tracksuit. She was in the dimly lit kitchen twenty minutes later. Turning on the light over the butcher-block work island, she gathered Swiss cheese, eggs, cream and crumbled bacon, and started the quiche.
When the pie shells were filled and in the oven, she pulled out the recipe for the caramel latte crunch cups she’d received from her friend Richard, a fellow bed-and-breakfast owner who hailed from New York.
She’d just flicked on the light over the sink and started to gather the ingredients when she spotted a moving speck. Startled, she grabbed a napkin from the holder nearby and squashed it. She released a soft cry when another one scurried out from behind the row of clear glass canisters on the countertop. Chills peppering her arms now, Jenna reached out to slowly move the canister away from the wall. And recoiled!
Ants! Dozens of them, racing and scurrying over the spilled sugar behind the canisters—crawling along the wall, marching upward toward the oak cupboards!
Dear God, where had they come from? The Blackberry didn’t have an ant problem—had never had a pest problem of any kind!
Grabbing more napkins, she fought her revulsion and dispatched those she could see, then quickly strode to the broom closet off the kitchen for the vacuum cleaner. Minutes later, the ants and spilled sugar were gone, the floor was vacuumed, and the sweeper bag was stuffed inside a plastic bag and tossed outside.
Shuddering, rubbing the goose bumps on her arms, she went back inside to disinfect the countertop. Then she checked the seals on the canisters and searched every drawer and cupboard. The ants appeared to be gone, but that didn’t calm her rattled nerves. She knew there could be more lurking, unseen. But she didn’t have the luxury of continuing her search. The clock was ticking; she had to start breakfast for her guests.
“Please, God,” she prayed shakily. “I won’t ask for another thing this week if You’ll just keep them off the dining room table.”
Abandoning the crunch cups that would take too long to prepare, she pulled frozen blueberries from the freezer, threw together her favorite muffin recipe, then added a streusel topping and slid them into the oven.
She’d just found a classical music station on the radio when Aunt Molly came into the kitchen. The dread on Jenna’s face stopped her cheery “Good morning” before both words were out.
“What’s wrong?”
Jenna shook her head. Now wasn’t the time to discuss what an ant infestation could do to their business—especially when she was battling time. “Tell you later. The McGraws will be coming downstairs in a few minutes.” She nodded toward the small footed crystal bowls on the countertop and tried to keep her voice from trembling. “For now, could you fill the juice and milk carafes while I wash and load the fruit bowls?”
“Of course, dear,” she replied uneasily. She didn’t press Jenna for an explanation or ask why her niece had opened new bags of flour and sugar when there were filled canisters on the counter. She didn’t ask why Jenna had to wash perfectly clean bowls. She simply went to the refrigerator in a rustle of burgundy taffeta and lace, and got to work.
* * *
“Ants?” Molly whispered as she and Jenna watched their smiling guests through the kitchen’s pass-through window to the dining room. Six-year-old Matilda “Mattie” McGraw had been regaling her graying grandparents and middle-aged sales rep Sylvia Price with riddles ever since they’d sat down, and the mood in the dining room was warm and festive.
“The Blackberry has never had ants,” Molly went on nervously. “We must call someone. Preferably someone who’ll be discreet. I shudder to think of a van with a big ugly bug on the roof parked outside the inn for the world to see.”
Jenna couldn’t agree more. It was no sin if a few of God’s less desirable creatures found their way into a clean home, but that philosophy changed when it came to running a business where food was served. Gossip thrived in Charity like kudzu in the south. “There’s someone in town,” she replied, keeping her voice low. “I’ll call as soon as he opens.”
“Good,” Aunt Molly whispered. “Please ask him to park in back and use the kitchen entrance—if possible, after our guests have gone.”
Nodding, Jenna met her aunt’s eyes, then reluctantly brought up something she’d wondered about for the past hour. It was difficult to ask the question without hinting at blame, but she had to know. “Aunt Molly, forgive me, but when you set the table and coffeemaker for breakfast last night, did you happen to fill the sugar bowl, too?”
“No,” she returned quietly, “it was already full, and if I’d spilled sugar, I would have cleaned it up.” When Jenna winced, she rushed to put her at ease. “I’m not offended. You had to ask.”
Yes, she did. But Molly’s answer brought disturbing thoughts to the surface again. Even if one of her guests had wandered into the kitchen last night for a snack or a beverage, there was no reason for anyone to touch the sugar canister. If they’d wanted coffee or tea, the buffet in the dining room held carafes and plenty of condiments.
On the other side of the pass-through window, Mr. McGraw had drained his coffee cup and was glancing around. Grabbing the decaf pot from the coffeemaker, Jenna went into the dining room where the little comedian with the long silky bangs and waist-length strawberry-blond hair had just offered up another riddle. She was a darling little thing in a fuzzy pink sweater, and she seemed to have an incurable case of the giggles. The sprinkling of freckles across her nose belonged to her alone, but her green eyes had come from her grandfather.
Grinning, Max McGraw thanked Jenna for the refill, then turned to his granddaughter. “Maybe you should ask Ms. Harper that one. She has to be better at this than Grammy and I are.”
“Okay,” Mattie said, giggling. “How do you get an elephant in a matchbox?”
Jenna had to laugh. How secure the very young were. She could use a big helping of that today. “I don’t know, Mattie. How do you get an elephant in a match box?”
“You dump out the matches. How do you get a tyrannosaurus rex in a match box?”
Thoroughly enchanted now, Jenna guessed, “Dump out the matches?”
“No,” she said, full of giggles again. “Dump out the elephant.”
What a wonderful way to start the day, Jenna thought a few minutes later as she carried the coffeepot back into the kitchen: sharing breakfast and laughing with a child. But as that thought gained strength, her warm mood evaporated. Because children were a gift she might never have. And that was so much worse than finding ants in her kitchen.
By nine-forty-five, the McGraws and Ms. Price were on their way, and Jenna had spoken to Jim Gannon of Surefire Pest Control. He’d agreed to come by around ten-fifteen. The next thirty minutes couldn’t pass quickly enough.
Visibly distressed, Molly reentered the kitchen, fresh from her second trip to the top of the stairs. “There isn’t a sound up there,” she said. “No rattling water pipes, no TV. If M
rs. Bolton doesn’t come down soon, she won’t even have time for a bagel before she leaves for her audit.” She fiddled nervously with the cameo at her throat. “What if she’s ill?”
Jenna hesitated for several moments, during which her great-aunt’s questioning gaze remained on hers. She hated to wake a guest who wanted to sleep, but Molly had a point. Three points, actually. She wanted their guests to be well, and she wanted them to enjoy the full hospitality of the Blackberry. But she was also adverse to someone showing up with a wand and a pesticide canister while a guest was enjoying her morning coffee in the next room. “I’ll tap at her door. Maybe she forgot to set the alarm clock, or shut it off and fell back to—”
A pitiful groan issued from Aunt Molly’s throat when a quick series of raps sounded at the kitchen door. Jenna sighed. It wasn’t Beau; he always came to the front door.
The bug man was here.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Gannon stared curiously at the nearly half-inch long, reddish-brown ants he’d removed from Jenna’s vacuum cleaner bag and placed in the empty jar she’d supplied—three skittering little cretins that made Jenna’s skin crawl. Turning it this way and that, Gannon watched them scale the inside of the glass jar.
He was a short man somewhere between thirty and forty with a slight build, hazel eyes, thinning brown hair and a nice smile. His denim jacket has seen better days. After another moment, he turned to Jenna. Aunt Molly was in the foyer, guarding the desk and preparing to steer Mrs. Bolton away from the kitchen door if she came downstairs.
“Okay, I’m stumped,” he said.
“Stumped?”
“Yeah. I’ve only been doing this for a couple of years, but I’m very familiar with the types of ants we have in the area. Pavement ants are the culprits that generally invade houses. They’re the little buggers that make small mounds of sand near sidewalks, driveways and the sides of houses. We also have carpenter ants, pharaoh ants and thief ants in the area. But these guys—these guys are different. I’ll need to do some research.”
“Research?” Jenna repeated, startled. She didn’t want him to research the ants, she wanted him to terminate them. Right now.
At Any Cost Page 5