Say No Moor

by Maddy Hunter

  “You knock it down,” Dick Stolee shot back. He gave his shoulder a gentle rub. “My rotator cuff has been sore ever since that golf pro helped me improve my swing at the driving range last year.”

  “You want me to unstrap my prosthesis?” George asked helpfully. He’d been sporting an artificial leg for decades, so he’d developed a long list of exciting alternate uses. “It makes a pretty good battering ram.”

  “Why don’t someone try the doorknob?” suggested Nana.

  The men stared at her, nonplussed. “That was going to be my next proposal,” stammered Dick Teig.

  “Sure it was,” taunted Dick Stolee, who turned the knob and pushed with such vigor that when the door swung open unexpectedly, he fell into the room on hands and knees.

  Water was gushing through the Sixteen String Jack suite like spray from an open hydrant, soaking the rug, the clothes Kathryn had stacked on the bed, the wall, the drapes, and Kathryn herself, turning her crown of silver hair into something that resembled an arrangement of wilted flowers.

  “Don’t just stand there gawking,” she screamed as she swatted hair from her eyes. “Shut the water off!”

  Which was going to be a little difficult with Dick Stolee blocking the doorway.

  “Let me help Dick,” I yelled as I tried to thread my way through the clump of onlookers outside the door. “Can you clear a path, please?”

  “Hold that thought,” urged Dick Teig, blocking my way as he focused his cell phone on the disaster unfolding in the Sixteen String Jack suite.

  “Stop hogging all the space,” Bernice snapped, muscling to the front of the pack and standing her ground against the rubbernecking horde. She shoved her cell phone in front of Dick’s and began recording the scene.

  “Oh, come on, guys,” I complained as cell phones shot out in front of me from every direction. “You have to do this now?”

  Ever since mobile phones had coupled internet access and cameras in a kind of telecommunications ménage à trois, my guys had been locked in a heated battle to be the first member of the group to post a YouTube video that would go viral. Unfortunately, from the moment they’d stepped on the plane in Iowa, it had been “game on.”

  “Who’s holding up the show?” Alice asked from the rear of the pack. “We can’t see anything back here.”

  “It’s Bernice,” accused Margi, her voice wild with frustration. “She’s stolen the best spot to record stuff, and she won’t move.”

  “Have not,” scoffed Bernice.

  “Have so,” countered Margi.

  “What is going on?” Enyon’s voice rang out in a high-pitched cry that was frightening enough to scatter the troops. With the doorway cleared, I hurdled over Dick’s legs and circled around to his side. He looked up at me with puppy dog eyes.

  “I could use a little assistance here,” he urged.

  “What’s the best way to help you to your feet?” I asked, understanding that people with knee replacements might require special care to boost them upright.

  “Why are you fussing over him?” Kathryn screamed at me. “I’m the one who needs help.”

  “Outta the way,” boomed Lance, lumbering into the room in all his muscular glory. He glanced at Kathryn. He glanced at Dick. He glanced at me.

  “Mr. Stolee has two artificial knees,” I informed him. “So we have to be very careful not to”—

  He banded his arms around Dick’s waist and in one deft motion hoisted him to his feet with a resounding thump.

  —“cause injury to his joints.” I offered Lance a weak smile. “Great. Thanks.”

  Enyon fluttered into the room in a breathless dither, sloshing through a half-inch of water. “What has happened to my beautiful room? My dry-clean-only drapes? My dry-clean-only counterpane?” He vised his head between his hands like a nutcracker crushing a nut, his face contorting as if he were posing for Edvard Munch’s Scream. “Why is my room leaking?”

  “You will send my clothes to the nearest dry cleaner,” Kathryn demanded. “You will pay the bill. And if any item of my clothing is permanently damaged, you will reimburse me in full. Are we clear on that?”

  Lance bellied up to her like a barroom bouncer and thrust his hand toward the open door. “Out!”

  “Don’t you dare presume to give me orders, mister. Do you have any idea who I am?”

  His chest swelled to twice its size. Veins the size of ropes popped out on his neck. “Now!”

  Kathryn stabbed a righteous finger in his face. “You might think you’re someone special, but you’re nothing more than a lowlife bully. One day soon someone is going to cut you down to size, and it would be the highlight of my trip if I were here to witness the event in person. I might even blog about it.”

  “I’m twembling in my boots.”

  “Cretin.” Snatching her computer case off the bedside table and several stacks of wet clothing off the bed, she splashed across the room as if she were the proud figurehead on a sailing ship and tromped into the hallway.

  “Please don’t storm off in high dudgeon,” Enyon pleaded, slogging after her. “Silly misunderstandings happen all the time in moments of crisis. Lance didn’t mean to raise his voice.”

  “Yes I did.”

  Enyon spun around and skewered him with a menacing look. “Apologize to Mrs. Crabbe, Lance.”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember nothing we sorted out this afternoon?”

  “Bite me.”

  Yup. Lance had sure sorted his anger thing.

  “Are we stoppin’ this leak or not?” barked Lance, seething with impatience. “I’ve gotta get pies in the oven.”

  Nana poked her head in the door. “You fellas might as well quit tryin’ to suck up to the Crabbe woman on account of she just ducked into the potty.”

  “Brilliant,” agonized Enyon. “I might as well cross her name off our list of potential return guests.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked as the water level rose around my feet. “Call a plumber maybe?”

  Enyon tiptoed across the wet carpet to the wall-mounted sink, dancing left and right to avoid a direct hit from the gushing water. He bobbed his head for a better view of the exposed pipes and pointed a damning finger beneath the sink. “The pipes have pulled apart. How does that happen when the plumbing is all new? Lance, run to the cellar and find a tool that repairs pipes.”

  “Like what?”

  “How should I know? I’ve never had to deal with exploding pipes before.”

  “And youse think I have?”

  “How about a wrench?” suggested Enyon. “I’ve seen wrenches at the hardware store. They’re like…straight pieces of metal with curvy things on either end.”

  “How’s that supposed to wepair the pipes?”

  “We won’t know until you find one, will we?” Enyon slatted his eyes. “Sometimes I question my decision to spend the rest of my life with you. On second thought, bring the whole toolbox. There has to be a wrench in there someplace.” He arched one eyebrow. “I assume you know what the toolbox looks like? And, for the love of God, hurry before another room gets flooded.”

  With an unfriendly grunt, Lance bounded out the door, allowing an opportunity for the Iowa contingent to creep into the room with their camera phones and continue recording. I gave them a squinty look. “Really?”

  “If this video of mine goes viral, it could be worth a lot of money,” defended Dick Teig. He inched closer to the sink, capturing the cascading water from a different angle.

  “We need more enticing content,” complained Dick Stolee as if he were playing the part of a Hollywood director. “Like…like the force of the water ripping the clothes off someone.” He eyed me with anticipation. “You wanna volunteer, Emily?”

  Like that was going to happen.

  “I’ll volunteer,” offered
Bernice. “Where do you want me?”

  “Buckets!” cried Enyon, running toward the doorway. “We need buckets.”

  I chased after him as he raced to the end of the hallway and continued down another corridor to an out-of-the-way room. “I should have thought of this sooner.” He led me into a spacious utility closet that was crammed with rollaway cots, shelving, cleaning products, carpet and floor maintenance equipment, brooms, mops, and plastic buckets. “Take as many as you can.”

  I hesitated. “Uhh…you do realize they’re going to fill up as quickly as—”

  “I’m doing the best I can!” he squealed. “Why does everyone insist on being so contrary?”

  “Okay. Sorry.” If he wanted buckets in Kathryn’s room, he’d have buckets.

  I gathered up as many as I could carry and hustled back to Kathryn’s room to find the gang loitering in the hall, their wet shoes squeaking on the hardwood floor as they fidgeted with their phones. The bloggers had apparently grown bored with the spectacle because they’d all disappeared. “Did you get tired of recording the same broken pipe?” I asked as they cleared a path for me.

  “Yup,” said Osmond. “Show’s over.”

  I crossed the threshold and stopped short, my mouth falling open. Even though the floor had turned into a wading pool, water was no longer spewing from the broken pipe. I wheeled around toward the hallway. “What happened?”

  Osmond shrugged. “We cut the water off.”

  “How?”

  “I turned off the valve,” said George from his vantage point between Nana and Tilly. “There’s always a turn-off valve.”

  I shot him an exasperated look. “George! If you knew what to do, why didn’t you turn it off ten minutes ago?”

  “And interrupt the filming? Oh, sure. You can imagine the blowback I woulda gotten for that one.”

  Enyon banged into the room like a burro packed down with mops, rags, and more buckets—all of which fell with a splash when he saw that the faulty dike had been plugged. “Jolly good!” He raised his arms in a celebratory V. “I knew Lance could come through if he put his mind to it. Did he find the wrench?”

  I lowered my voice to an undertone. “George Farkas turned the water off.” I gestured toward the area below the sink. “There’s a valve.”

  “Really? Wasn’t that clever of someone to think of that.” He cast a desperate look at the tiny waves rippling over the carpet. “How does one go about drying a flooded bedroom? Oh, dear. I suspect this might involve firing up the furnace at an exorbitant cost.” He gnawed his bottom lip. “I can’t authorize any financial expenditure without Lance’s approval, so I’ll need to discuss this with him first. Stay right where you are. I’ll be back straightaway.”

  I wasn’t sure what good his talking to Lance would do, other than prick the guy’s ire again. Better him than me.

  Helen raised her phone in triumph. “Ta-da! My video has been successfully uploaded on YouTube. I’m calling it Mini Niagara.”

  “Major yawn,” Bernice wisecracked. “You’ll get zero hits with a title like that. You need something with more punch. Something like”—she held her phone close to her face and read the words off her screen—“Life-or-Death Rescue in Hundred-Year Cornish Flood. That’s what I’m calling mine.”

  Tilly eyed her with disapproval. “Does it upset your code of moral standards that your video depicts neither a rescue nor a hundred-year flood?”

  “Nope. I’m practicing a long-standing American tradition. Bait and switch.” She smiled smugly. “Bet I’ll chalk up more views than Helen.”

  “Will not,” sniped Helen.

  “Will so,” bragged Bernice.

  Margi stood in the doorway, concern in her eyes. “Water damage can lead to life-threatening mold problems. If those two men bungle the cleanup, they could be putting all our lives at risk.” Her face grew woeful. “I didn’t pack near enough sanitizer to obliterate an infestation of mold.”

  “Speaking of problems.” Bernice nodded toward the two windows facing the inn’s parking lot. “Alice and I want to change rooms.”

  Alice looked stunned. “We do?”

  “Yeah. Our room supposedly faces the ocean, but the only thing we can see is the crud that’s caked on the window panes. We want a room without the crud.”

  “Me and Til might not mind switchin’ rooms with you,” offered Nana.

  “Does your room face the ocean?” asked Bernice.

  Nana shook her head. “Nope. We got the same view as this one.”

  Bernice rolled her eyes. “Right. Like I’d be dumb enough to exchange my potentially spectacular view of the ocean for your crummy view of the parking lot.”

  “Whoever’s stuck next door to us might want to change, too,” Helen spoke up. “Dick is going to be up all night flushing because he forgot to pack his medication.”

  “I have a confession, too,” Grace apologized. “Dick’s CPAP machine has developed some kind of glitch. So whoever is next to us, if you’d prefer not to move to another room, maybe you could just hang in there until he stops breathing.”

  A hair-raising cry echoed through the house, mimicking the howl of a wounded animal.

  “Oh my God,” shrieked Helen, clinging to Dick’s arm. “What was that?”

  I ran into the hallway, trying to gauge the direction from which the sound had come—and whether it was animal, human, or something else.

  Nana pointed down the hall toward the lounge. “I think it came from thataway.”

  I sprinted toward the front of the house. The lounge and dining room were empty, but I heard a suspicious mewling sound coming from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen.

  I barged through the door.

  The mewling grew louder.

  I skirted around the butcher block island toward an open door.

  “He’s dead!” Enyon’s gut-wrenching sobs drifted up from the bowels of the house. “Help! Someone, help!”

  I stood at the top of a steep flight of stairs and peered downward into a hovel of a space that looked more castle dungeon than basement. Lance lay at the bottom of the staircase, huge and unmoving, sprawled face-down, his neck crooked at an impossible angle. Enyon was collapsed on his knees beside him, wailing uncontrollably.

  Oh, no.

  Enyon looked up at me. “I warned him,” he sobbed, his voice cracking. “But he wouldn’t listen. Stupid, stupid man.” He bent protectively over Lance’s body, awash in tears. “Whatever will I do without him?”

  four

  “There, there,” I soothed, patting Enyon’s hand as he rested his head on my shoulder. “Tears are good for the soul.”

  “But it’s so unmanly.” He dabbed his eyes with a crumpled tissue. Both sockets had grown so swollen that his entire face looked like a mound of yeast-raised bread dough. “Lance wouldn’t have approved.”

  “I’m sure Lance would be touched that—” I bit off the rest of my sentence, wondering how to complete the thought without refocusing on Lance’s recent demise, which would prompt a fresh round of tears.

  A fleet of emergency vehicles had arrived at the inn after we’d made the 999 call—rescue squad, ambulance, fire department, and eventually the coroner, who’d performed the sad task of loading Lance’s body into his van a little less than an hour ago. I’d been with Enyon ever since, trying my best to console him. The lounge was deserted save for the two of us, the majority of the group having decided to camp out in their rooms to allow Enyon some privacy.

  All except practical-minded George Farkas, who’d decided to nose around the place and ended up discovering a couple of emergency exit doors, the cluttered utility closet, a stash of floor fans, and a large capacity wet/dry vacuum that he wheeled directly to the Sixteen String Jack suite. Upon firing up the motor he was joined by the two Dicks, who begged to help him—not so much out of generosity of spirit
or a burning desire to quell Margi’s fears about an outbreak of deadly mold, but because they didn’t want to miss out on a chance to operate a noisy piece of machinery. Between the three of them they managed to suck up all the water and place a half-dozen fans around the room to dry it out, but I figured the carpet would still have to be ripped out and replaced before the suite would be ready for occupancy again.

  “What were you saying?” Enyon sniffed.

  “I’m sure Lance would be touched that he…that you…that the life you shared affected you so profoundly.”

  He nodded as he reached for a fresh tissue. “That’s nice of you to say. He could be such a wanker, but he was my wanker, and I loved him, surly disposition and all. I really did.”

  “Do you need to call anyone to let them know what’s happened? His family? Your family? Close friends? Anyone?”

  “I don’t know,” he sobbed, his bottom lip curling outward. “I’m…I’m torn. He’s estranged from his family—hasn’t spoken to them for years. I doubt they even care whether he’s dead or alive.”

  “They’re his family, Enyon. Of course they care.”

  He shook his head. “They went completely off their trolleys when he took up with me. They’re such manly men, you know. They forced him to choose: them or me. He chose me, so they disowned him on the spot. And that’s the last we ever heard from them.”

  “There’s a picture of his family hanging in the dining room, so he must have held out some hope for reconciliation.”

  “Wishful thinking on his part. It was never going to happen.”

  “What about your family?”

  “My parents died years ago.” His voice cracked with emotion. “Lance was my family. And now…I have no one. I’ll never be first with anyone ever again.” He burst into tears once more, making me wonder if I should fetch him a cold pack for his eyes before they swelled shut.

  “I’m so sorry, Enyon.” The coroner determined that Lance had probably sustained a broken neck when he fell down the stairs and had died immediately. The upside was that Lance hadn’t suffered, but it seemed the height of insensitivity to point that out.