Dread and Breakfast

by Stuart R. West

  Kyra hung her head, her guilt-induced reaction saying more than words.

  “Kyra, is this true?” Although Rebecca’d already covered Kyra’s sneaking off to the kitchen, it concerned her Kyra hadn’t mentioned the man. It made her wonder what else she might be withholding.

  Harton said, “Sorry. Blame me. I just thought it might be fun for Kyra. You know, ‘secret pal’ and all.”

  A forest of beard obscured a bit of his smile, but he seemed genuine. Rebecca relaxed her guard. But not by much. “Okay, fine, whatever. So you’re the other guest on the second floor?”

  “That’s me. Driving across the midwest on business. Got stuck here. But it seems like a nice place.”

  “Mm-hm. We’re stuck as well. Any idea when the storm’s gonna end?”

  “No clue. But I’m anxious to get home.”

  “You have family waiting?”

  Harton’s face wrinkled. He said nothing, appearing pensive. Rebecca suspected a fellow “divorce” survivor. “Nothing but a cat and a coupla goldfish. But I’d better get home before they officially meet.”

  Rebecca said, “Sounds like you better hurry.”

  Kyra had been watching their exchange, remaining wisely silent. Probably relieved the attention had shifted from her.

  “Yep, the sooner, the better. How about you? Family?”

  Rebecca tilted her head toward Kyra and lifted a conspiratorial eyebrow. “Not really. We’re going to see my sister. I think we’ll stay with her a while.”

  “Gotcha. Well, you’ll be there soon, I’m sure of it. Weather can’t stay this way forever. Isn’t that right, Kyra?” She smiled, her trust in the man uncomfortably apparent. “Hey, you look like you’re freezing, Rebecca. Take my coat while we head back inside.” Before she could object, he shrugged off his overcoat and draped it over her shoulders. While she considered throwing it right back at him, she had to admit it felt damned toasty.

  “Going inside sounds like a great idea.”

  Kyra ran ahead of them, trailblazing a path through the snow. Harton strolled alongside Rebecca, apparently oblivious to the cold.

  “So, what do you do, Rebecca? Besides raising a great kid, that is.”

  “Not sure yet. Starting over, I guess.”

  Harton — Dave — smiled at her, nodding like he’d mastered the secrets of the universe. “That’s fantastic. I think … everyone needs a second chance sometimes.”

  Dave hadn’t yet won her trust, not completely. But he was growing on her.

  *

  As he sat on his bed, Harold watched the wall clock tick away, every click like a torturous drop of water falling into a steel sink. Time had slowed. And anxiety gnawed at him like a rat through rope. He felt hopelessly trapped, caught between a stupid, inconsequential town and his future. Unable to do anything about it. For all he knew, Domenick could be tracking him while he was forced to look at doilies and other cutesy crap.

  And the pendulum swung, taunting, then teasing, choking out every agonizing second. At 4:00, he decided to kill time, rather than let time kill him.

  In front of the dresser mirror, he combed through the remainder of his hair, spreading the strands across his dome, patting them into place. He still had hair, didn’t look bad. Besides, he’d read women like prematurely balding men, found it sexy.

  After he threaded the tie through his collar, he studied it. Incredibly wide and vibrantly yellow; a “power tie” the smarmy clerk had proclaimed it. Outrageously overpriced, Harold jumped on it anyway. Power didn’t come easy in his world and, at the time, it seemed worth every buck. Of course, the tie hadn’t brought him any power, too good to be true. Only money bought true power. Sort of a Mobius loop, wrapping around itself. Money buys money. But even millionaires have to start somewhere.

  He slipped into his jacket. One last time, he admired his reflected appearance. Not too shabby at all. Running through his repertoire of smiles, he settled on one: seductive, confident, handsome. Just had to remember how to pull it off when he visited the woman in Room Number One. Since breakfast, he’d been thinking about her. Those ski-slope curves, her chocolate-rich brown eyes, perfect white teeth. Almost a fantasy woman. With briefcase in hand and a kick to his step, he hurried down the stairs.

  For minutes, he stood in the hallway before her room, scrounging up the courage. He tossed his shoulders back, sucked in his pot belly, and threw caution to the wind. Confidently (but not too powerfully — he didn’t want to frighten the woman), he hammered at the door. Even his knock sounded self-assured, he thought, proud and impossible to ignore. After no one answered, he knocked again. Where was she? It’s not like she’d be “antiquing” on a day like this. God, he hoped she didn’t “antique.”

  In fact, the entire inn seemed quiet, a heavy hush smothering the place. Nothing but settling floorboards or various clocks still counting down his wasted seconds. He knew the young, ridiculous couple was probably rutting away over in the carriage house. But the old owners, the host, the guy on his floor, even the brat — and surely he’d hear her even if he couldn’t see her — were nowhere to be found.

  He thought he may as well take advantage of the quiet time. It’d been some time since he’d eaten. The old woman said he could come down any time for a snack. Accommodating in the worst kind of way, just like his mother, pampering via a still-attached umbilical cord. Memories of his mother turned his stomach. Still, breakfast had been good, much better than the crap he’d been shoveling down his throat lately.

  Outside the kitchen door, he heard voices. Hushed whispers. Obviously someone with secrets. Maybe they were talking about him, the sexy mystery man with the briefcase. Or maybe Rebecca was inquiring about him. Sweat greased his palm, the briefcase handle uncomfortably loose in his grasp. He had to hear the conversation, though, just had to. Whispers didn’t exactly build a man’s confidence.

  He opened the door a crack, leaning in. And he listened.

  The voices sounded a little louder now, more defined. He couldn’t see the speakers, couldn’t pinpoint their identity due to the anonymous nature of whispering. But he thought he distinguished a male and female voice.

  “… what do you think?”

  “Not sure.”

  “How ‘bout we try them first …” Something shuffled, a chair leg, possibly. Then a rattling sound, metal clunking down onto wood. Harold barely contained a startled yelp. “… move on to the others.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “I think it’s gonna be our best date night ever.”

  More scraping across the kitchen floor. Footsteps coming his way. On tiptoes, he scurried across the floor, picking up speed as he went. Once on the stairwell, he hit the steps hard. He didn’t stop running until he slammed the door to his room.

  Out of breath, he sat down in the depression the bedding had shaped around his ass earlier.

  What the hell was that about?

  Something sounded wrong, unnatural. Date night. Planned around the other guests. Good God, he’d stumbled upon swingers. Then he thought, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe it’s why Rebecca was here. She did have a kinda wild energy about her, her sexuality barely contained. Hell, he’d even settle for the skinny, little, blond hippy chick. Just as long as the men left him alone.

  Harold didn’t swing that way, 100% man.

  *

  Not an ideal situation, certainly not the disaster it could’ve been. Now Winston had met four people at the Dandy Drop Inn. But he’d learned, once you’re on the radar, stay on it, just blandly so. Going into hiding after a social encounter raises people’s suspicions like a polka-dotted flag rippling in the wind.

  Rebecca had caught him, outed him. He hoped his “secret buddy” pact with Kyra didn’t raise any warning signs. Suspicion mounts, creeping around inside like cancer, until it’s diagnosed. And any parent’s gonna eventually diagnose “secret pal” as malignant.

  Actually, he liked Kyra and her mom. Reminded him of home. But thinking like that
did nothing but carve another notch out of his soul.

  After escorting Rebecca and Kyra inside, he’d chat a little longer, then make a gracious getaway. “Exhausted” always works wonders as an excuse, something no one questions, something everyone experiences. But he had to strive to be more boring than white bread. He grinned, thinking his wife wouldn’t find that too much of a stretch.

  Kyra led the way through the snow, no doubt enjoying every minute of helping the adults in her wake. Once they reached the porch, Winston told them he’d follow in a minute.

  Something caught his eye, something out of place, like one of those puzzles in his children’s books. Down the street, a steady cloud of smoke rose, too low, too small to originate from a chimney. Exhaust from an idling car. Winston’s eyesight not being what it used to be — Jules had been on him for a year to get contacts — he squinted, making out what looked like a truck. Dark, either blue or black. Surprisingly clean and snow free given the storm, possibly a local. Not someone who might’ve traveled from Kansas City. Like Domenick. Or one of his men. He didn’t recognize the vehicle, but that meant nothing. No one could connect him to his current car, either. But he saw a figure behind the wheel, little more than a shadow. Unmoving, or so he thought. Watching?

  Again he patted down his back, force of habit, knowing full well his gun remained in the car. Something he needed to correct. Even though he didn’t plan on using the gun until after he left, he would feel safer carrying it. Experience taught him Domenick didn’t listen to reason. Only bullets spoke to him. And it scared the hell outta Winston where that trail might lead, and the possible fallout for his family.

  Maybe when he’d pick up his gun, he’d take a closer look at the truck’s inhabitant. Assuming he was still there. He knocked on a wooden post three times, then entered the house.

  After tromping the snow off his feet, Christian magically appeared to take his scarf and hat. “Thanks, Christian.”

  “My pleasure, Mister Harton. I didn’t know you’d left the premises.” Christian nearly looked hurt that Winston hadn’t informed him of his smoke break. And it concerned Winston the host seemed to know all, see all, hear all.

  “Just for a bit. Smoker’s habit.” He feigned a cigarette between his fingers. But Winston had no doubt Christian smelled the smoke on him. He probably had a heightened sense of smell to go along with his other superpowers.

  “Ah.” Seemingly appeased that Winston’s jaunt hadn’t been a personal insult, Christian hurried off down the hallway, the wet scarf and hat held out at arm’s length.

  He heard Kyra’s laughter coming from the kitchen.

  “You ladies make it back safely?” he said, poking his head through the door. “Kyra, maybe you should bring a compass next time. In case you get lost.”

  With a giant muffin covering most of her face, she shook her head. “I don’t get lost.”

  “First time for everything.”

  Rebecca appeared half asleep, head propped up on a palm, a vigorous redness to her cheeks. She showed him a toothy smile, the only animated thing about her. After sipping from a steam-topped cup, she gestured toward the counter. “Pot’s nice and hot.”

  He rubbed his hands and blew into them. “Don’t mind if I do.” The coffee smelled good and strong, the mug thawing his hands. Then he noticed the snow on the rug by the kitchen door. Boot treads marked several clumps, very little of it melted. Someone had just been there. “Where’re the Dandys? Haven’t met them yet.”

  “Dunno. Maybe sleeping. Seems to be the thing to do on a day like this. That’s where I’m headed soon as I warm up.”

  “Sounds like a good idea all around. Everyone hibernating like bears.” Kyra giggled, then continued on her dog-minded muffin obsession.

  “So you sell insurance?”

  “Yep.”

  “Like it?”

  “Nope.”

  She snorted, her mouth full of coffee. Very unladylike, and very endearingly human. He thought she no longer perceived him as a threat; he just didn’t want to add memorable to the list, so no more humor. “Sorry.” He sat down across from Rebecca.

  “Then why do it? I mean, why sell insurance if you don’t like it?”

  He shrugged. “Pays the bills. Living the American dream.”

  “‘The American Dream’. Like to experience that someday. I feel like an immigrant just reaching the shores.”

  He hefted his mug her way. “Keep hope alive.” She glanced at his ring finger, at the indentation his wedding ring had left. He always took it off while on a job. Wearing it felt like a betrayal to his wife and daughters, their not knowing about his “work.” It probably really didn’t matter; only to him.

  “To hope.” She drank to his toast. “Have any kids, Dave?”

  “No. Just an ex-wife.”

  Rebecca gave her daughter a sad look, so mournful Winston suspected Kyra’d been put through life’s wringer. “I guess everyone has their problems.”

  “I guess.”

  Kyra, having destroyed the muffin, had long lost interest in their conversation. She stretched her arms, reaching for the ceiling and delivered an award-winning yawn. “Mommy, can I go take a nap?”

  Stress lines marked Rebecca’s face as she hesitated. An easy question like that shouldn’t be that hard to answer. Finally, she said, “Sure, honey, I’ll be along shortly.”

  “Pleasant dreams, kiddo.”

  Kyra trudged out of the kitchen, smiling contentedly, on her way to recharging her high spirits.

  “I worry about her.” Rebecca looked down at the coffee cup, then at Winston with sad, full eyes. Winston knew the look well. Confession time.

  Winston didn’t want to get involved, didn’t want to absolve. He offered something innocuous, the best solution to avoid a tough problem. “You won’t let anything happen to her. Don’t worry. You seem like a good mother.”

  “If only,” she replied, her voice hushed.

  *

  Bitch. Goddamn cheating, lying bitch!

  Brad knew it. As easy to predict as to what his partner, Steve, brought for lunch to the job on any given day. She lied to him, cheated on him. Shacking up in a bed and breakfast with some low-life scuzzball.

  He supposed he knew it all along. His detective instincts had never let him down. Should’ve listened to the inner voice earlier. And it made everything clearer now, all the puzzle pieces locking together, his mind focusing like a microscope.

  The proof he’d just witnessed sealed the deal. Frolicking with some bearded bastard, her lover. Taking his daughter along for a romantic stroll in the snow. His family.

  Son of a bitch!

  After the punk-ass deputy — whose invitation to meet he fully intended on accepting once he cleared the air with Rebecca — had hung up on him, it was a snap to find her location. No hotels in Hilston, but three B&Bs. After checking out the first two locales, he arrived at the Dandy Drop Inn. The biggest, nicest looking one of the bunch. And no doubt the most expensive. Her choice, so obvious. She thought he owed her the world and damn near took it out of him, dollar by dollar.

  How long had it been going on? Did they screw in his bed? Laughing at him behind his back? He’d show them how to laugh soon. Even his daughter was in on the little tryst. No one could be trusted, not a damned soul. And now he had a third member to add to his list.

  Fuck!

  He drew back a fist and slammed it onto the dash. Then he did it again. And again. He didn’t stop until the dashboard material cracked, a jagged line of lightning. He needed that. Didn’t give a damn about the dash either. As he sucked at the blood on his knuckles, he stared at the inn, every light ablaze on the lower two levels. The party raged inside, while he suffered outside, a goddamn, frozen cuckold.

  Bitch, lying whore …

  He needed to settle down, let his anger simmer from the boil. Something he’d use later. When the lights went off, he’d make his move. The fewer witnesses, the better.

  *

  The
house was cool; big, dark, and fun, like a carnival ride. The kind Mommy wouldn’t let Kyra ride.

  She had every intention of taking a nap, she really did. She didn’t like lying to Mommy, especially after the way Daddy had treated her. But the stairwell rose before her, practically inviting her. She’d never even seen a stairwell like this before. Certainly, she’d never climbed one.

  The adults were talking boring stuff, leaving her out of the conversation. And Mommy was taking her secret buddy away from her. She didn’t mind, though, not too much. She knew Mommy was lonely, heard her cry at night sometimes. Unlike Kyra, Mommy didn’t have many friends. Didn’t even leave the house very much. So she really hated lying to her.

  But the stairwell. Like a ladder leading to something exciting, something unknown; each stair big enough that she could sleep on one.

  She listened. Mommy and Dave were still talking. Probably would forever, the way adults do. So boring.

  Exploring was fun. Her teacher, Mrs. Tidwell, had told her class it’s good to explore; you never knew what you might discover. Kyra decided to do it for Mrs. Tidwell. Maybe even talk about it during Show and Tell. If she ever went back to her school. Sometimes she didn’t think she would. Mommy hadn’t told her much about what would happen after Christmas vacation.

  Actually, she’d already discovered something cool in the house. Something secret, so secret she hadn’t even told Mommy or her new pal, Dave, about it. It felt more special that way. And it made her wonder what other cool stuff she might find.

  The first stair groaned beneath her boots like a sour tummy, her soles still wet from the snow. With a hand on the railing — how fun it would be to slide down it, the way she’d seen kids do on TV — she climbed the steps to a landing that twisted up to yet another floor. Darkness threatened to swallow her. Who knew what might be hiding in the shadows? She’d actually seen parts of spooky movies before. Sometimes when Daddy came home and fell asleep in front of the TV, she watched them. She knew about vampires and masked killers; oddly enough, they never scared her. What happened in her home scared her more. Watching Daddy hit Mommy. Hearing them fight, always ending with Mommy so sad, always crying. So whatever waited for her on the second floor didn’t frighten her at all. Not like Daddy. The kids at school thought she was brave; she thought she was, too. Going up the stairs felt like a test of courage, like the boy in the civil war book her teacher had read to them.