by Tim Myers
Innkeeping With Murder
By Tim Myers
Book 1 in the Lighthouse Inn mysteries
Praise for the Lighthouse Mystery series by Tim Myers
“Entertaining ... authentic ... fun ... a wonderful regional mystery that will have readers rebooking for future stays at the Hatteras West Inn and Lighthouse.”
—BookBrowser
“Colorful... picturesque ... light and entertaining.”
—The Best Reviews
Praise for the Candlemaking Mystery series by Tim Myers
“Excellent storytelling that makes for a good reading experience…(Myers) is a talented writer who deserves to hit the bestseller lists.”
---The Best Reviews
“An interesting mystery, a large cast of characters, and an engaging amateur sleuth make this series a winner.”
---The Romance Reader’s Connection (four daggers)
The Lighthouse Inn Mysteries by Tim Myers
Innkeeping With Murder
Reservations For Murder
Murder Checks Inn
Room For Murder
Booked For Murder
The Candlemaking Mysteries by Tim Myers
At Wick’s End
Snuffed Out
Death Waxed Over
A Flicker Of Doubt
The Soapmaking Mysteries by Tim Myers
Dead Men Don’t Lye
A Pour Way To Dye
A Mold For Murder
The Cardmaking Mysteries by Tim Myers written as Elizabeth Bright
Invitation To Murder
Deadly Greetings
Murder And Salutations
Innkeeping With Murder
by Tim Myers.
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2001 Tim Myers
All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For Patty, who never stopped believing.
Chapter 1
“Alex, we’ve got a problem.”
At the sound of the maid’s voice, Alex Winston jerked his head up, cracking his skull on the steel pipe placed treacherously just above the opening of the furnace he’d been working on. Alex had been crouched in an awkward position staring at the mysterious workings of the inn’s antique boiler, trying unsuccessfully to figure out what was wrong with the blasted thing this time.
For a moment, all Alex could see was a dancing whirlwind of flashing white lights.
“Damn!” he said as he rubbed the crown of his head. No blood came away on his hand, thank God for small favors.
“Are you cursing at me?” Marisa Danton’s tone implied that an improper response from Alex would send her fleeing to her room in tears yet again. It had happened too many times to count over the past three months she’d been housekeeping for him at The Hatteras West Inn, an exact replica of the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse nestled on forty acres of land in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
With a forced smile, Alex said, “No, of course not, I would never swear at you.” He’d become quite adept at soothing Marisa’s ruffled feathers. Alex needed his maid’s goodwill, but he also needed a working furnace. Without it, they would both be out of work. Worse yet, Alex could lose the only home he had ever known.
Marisa stared at the mechanical workings of the boiler, a slow smile coming gently to her lips. “It’s broken again? That’s the third time in two weeks.” She looked absolutely delighted by the misfortune.
Alex couldn’t figure out what there was to smile about. The cantankerous boiler supplied the heat and hot water for all the guest rooms in the two buildings that made up the inn. It was difficult keeping up two guest buildings as well as the lighthouse, but there really wasn’t much choice. The arrangement and construction of the buildings had been determined long before Alex Winston had been born, one stormy Halloween night nearly thirty years before.
Alex kicked the cast-iron base, cracking his big toe with the impact. “I can’t believe how ungrateful this mechanical nightmare is. I should have thrown it out years ago.”
He looked at the boiler with disgust. He could usually coax the antiquated system back to life with a judicious whack from his monkey wrench, but even his verbal threats to dismantle the oil eater and sink it in the lake down the road had met with no response. On second thought, he realized it wouldn’t do to pollute one of the features that drew guests to the inn. The lake, though small by some standards, was large enough to allow visitors to fish from the banks or from a canoe. Alex had gotten a good deal on four battered aluminum canoes from a summer camp that had gone bankrupt the year before. After giving each boat a fresh coat of green aluminum paint, he began offering them to his guests, for a slight fee, of course. Alex used every angle he could think of to generate more income, but no matter how much money he brought in, there never seemed to be enough.
The boiler was a case in point, nothing more than a big black hole waiting to swallow what was left in his dwindling bank account. Still, he had no choice but to have it fixed immediately. Lacking basic amenities, his guests would disappear faster than cotton candy in a thunderstorm. The weather in the foothills of North Carolina could suddenly turn cool during the fall months, and they were now in the heart of autumn.
As gently as he could, Alex asked, “What problem were you talking about when you came in?” Marisa started to answer, but Alex held up his hand to cut off her response. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Marisa, if something’s wrong, you’re going to have to deal with it yourself. I have to call Mor or Les.” The two men operated the town’s combination handyman service and fix-it shop. Unfortunately, both men were on intimate terms with his troublesome boiler.
Marisa’s lower lip quivered in a rapidly increasing tempo, a sure sign she was fighting back a crying jag. Her teary spells had concerned Alex at first, but he’d soon learned that the girl would cry at the slightest provocation. Barely in her twenties, Marisa had the look of a wild doe, from her long thin body and matching oblong face to the biggest set of brown eyes Alex had ever seen.
Marisa stifled back the tears and mumbled something Alex couldn’t understand. He tried to bury his irritation with the girl before he spoke. She hadn’t done anything to anger him, but the throbbing ache in his head from the boiler collision was hard to ignore.
In a voice calmer than he felt, Alex said, “Relax and take a deep breath.” She did as he suggested, and Alex could see the quivering recede. “There, that’s better. Now what’s the problem you wanted to tell me about?”
“You said I should handle it myself.”
Alex coaxed her gently. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’ll take care of whatever’s wrong.”
“It’s Mr. Wellington,” Marisa said. “He asked me to wake him from his nap, but he won’t come to the door no matter how hard I knock. It’s time for him to take his medication. I just know he’s forgotten again.”
“Where’s Junior?” It was a ridiculous moniker for a fifty-year-old man, but that was the name Reg Wellington insisted everyone call his
grown son. Although the senior Wellington had been vacationing at the mountain lighthouse for as long as Alex could remember, he had never brought his son with him before this trip.
Marisa said, “I can’t find him anywhere either. I don’t know what to do.”
Great, just great. For the hundredth time that day, Alex wished his dad had left him anything but the inn. After his father had died, Alex’s brother Tony had opted for cash, and in a burst of sentimentality that Alex had often regretted since, he’d volunteered to take over the ten-room inn and connecting lighthouse where the two of them had grown up.
Rubbing the crown of his head, Alex asked, “Marisa, would you like me to take care of Mr. Wellington myself?”
The maid’s face lit up. “Oh would you?” With the glimmer of a smile, she added, “I’ll be happy to call Mordecai for you.”
So that was the reason she’d been pleased about the boiler trouble; it was another chance for her to see Mor. It was obvious by the way Marisa doted on him that she had a crush on the handyman. Marisa was the only person in Elkton Falls who didn’t call Mor by his nickname. Les was the founder and older partner, Lester Williamson. Everyone around town had called them Mor or Les for years, so the two men finally decided to adopt the name officially for their business.
“You do that,” Alex told her. “Tell him it’s the boiler again.” As an afterthought, he added, “You might want to mention that if he doesn’t get over here soon, there’ll be no money to pay last month’s bill.”
Alex used every weapon at his disposal to keep the inn open. He’d robbed Peter so many times to pay Paul, Pete was getting absolutely gun-shy.
He followed Marisa out of the mechanical equipment room and walked to the inn’s front desk. The check-in space was located in the annex lobby, an area devoted to padded easy chairs, a television and a welcoming fireplace. There were game boards set up along the expanse of front windows where guests could try their hand at Checkers, Chess, Backgammon and Scrabble, though the letter game had become a true challenge ever since an eight-year-old had taken every “E” in the set home with him after his family’s visit to the inn.
Marisa stopped to primp her hair in front of a mirror that hung behind the desk before making the call to the handyman. Alex shook his head in bewilderment and took out his master key as he walked to room 10.
Reginald Wellington Senior had been staying there since the days when Alex’s father had first opened the inn. For the last two weeks of every September as long as Alex could remember, the older man had occupied the replica of the main keeper’s room, lording over the lighthouse like a formidable station master. Alex had a soft spot in his heart for the kindly man. Reg knew more about lighthouses than anyone Alex had ever met, and he hadn’t been stingy with his knowledge while Alex had been growing up. The two of them were great friends, sharing a passion that transcended the difference in their ages. This year the senior Wellington had finally persuaded his only son to come along with him on his annual sojourn. Alex didn’t care for Junior’s stuffed-shirt disposition, but he tried to be polite for Reg’s sake.
Alex tapped on the guest room door with a knuckle. “Reg? Are you in there?” He was certain the board members of Wellington Senior’s company would be shocked to hear anyone refer to the patriarch as Reg, but it had been a tradition between the two of them since Alex first began to talk.
A hint of concern swept through him. Alex suddenly realized that he had no idea how old Reginald Wellington was. Like the ancient pines and oaks surrounding Alex’s land, the man was ageless in his eyes. Reg was as solid and enduring as the granite of Bear Rocks, a conclave of boulders that abutted the lighthouse and was part of his property.
Another knock, and still no response. Alex raised his
voice, as Reg had most likely removed his hearing aid before lying down for his nap. “Get decent. I’m coming in.”
Alex slid his pass key into the lock.
Reg wasn’t there. In and of itself, that didn’t mean anything, but Alex was still concerned. The older man took a nap every afternoon at precisely the same time, and according to Alex’s watch, Reg should have only just awakened. He looked carefully around the room. The bed was neatly made, due more to Reg’s fastidiousness than Marisa’s. As a housekeeper, Marisa was an excellent crier.
The main keeper’s chamber, like every other guest room at the inn, featured floors, walls and ceilings made entirely of rich yellow Southern pine. The wood had mellowed over the years to a golden patina, making the space warm and cozy. The windows, large and abundant to catch the cooling breezes of the mountains, were trimmed in white, offering an instant cheery vista to the outside world. Each guest room sported a brightly decorated quilt featuring lighthouses from all over the world. To fight the chill of night, they covered the inn’s plain pine Shaker-style beds. Alex’s mother and grandmother had made every quilt in the inn, adding to the overall effect that Hatteras West was a home away from home for its guests. All of the furniture sported sleek, clean lines, complementing rather than competing with the textures of the wooden walls. Large floor-to-ceiling fireplaces of faded brick adorned every room, but only the flue in the main lobby downstairs actually worked. One more item on Alex’s list of improvements was the restoration of the guest-room fireplaces, but it would have to wait for another, more prosperous day.
Alex locked the door quietly behind him, wondering where his friend could be. The only other place Reg went during his visits was the top of the lighthouse. That’s where Alex would look next.
Alex left the guest building and headed for the lighthouse next door. To him, the lighthouse’s older sibling on the Outer Banks was the structure that looked out of place. It appeared downright naked sitting among the scrub pines and the sand dunes. Alex had taken a rare break from the inn to watch them move that lighthouse away from the sea’s ever-reaching grasp. Seeing the work the professional crew had undertaken, he’d been darned glad his lighthouse was safely tucked away in the mountains.
Alex stroked the granite base lightly as he entered the stairwell and headed up the two-hundred-sixty-eight steel steps that led to the top. Nine landings matched nine windows, offering Alex an excellent view of the nearby mountains.
He peeked out the fourth landing’s window and spotted Barb Matthews, a guest of the inn, scurrying along one of the wooded hiking trails that surrounded the property. The one thing Alex had was land, and plenty of it.
He watched Mrs. Matthews dart up the trail, pausing now and then to investigate something on the ground at her feet before hurrying on. She would stoop to pick up small rocks from the path, study them for a moment, then most likely cast them aside into the woods. It was like watching an ardent ant in search of food. Her walking stick stayed firmly in one hand the entire time, though he noticed that the older woman walked perfectly well without it.
Somehow she must have sensed Alex’s eyes upon her. Mrs. Matthews tilted her head back and stared directly into the window opening. There was a look of scorn on her face that Alex had grown used to seeing since she’d first started coming to the inn in early May. She was now on her third visit this year, and Alex supposed he should be happy for the business, but truthfully, he didn’t care for the grumpy woman.
Alex leaned back out of the window’s line of sight and finished his climb toward the watch room and the lantern above.
Great-grandfather Adlai had installed the original Fresnel lens that supplied the lighthouse’s strong beam, but he’d rarely used the beacon himself. Alex’s father had run it so often at night that the local townspeople had complained about the midnight strobe. The county government acted, passing a special ordinance limiting the operation of the lantern to situations of emergency in the valley.
The commissioners did make one exception to their ruling. A yearly test of the lantern’s light had evolved into a celebration for the area. People from seven counties came to picnic at the base of the lighthouse in the growing dusk, and there was always a hushed awe a
s the current Winston lighthouse keeper flipped on the electricity that now powered the slowly rotating beam. It was one of the moments Alex lived for since taking over the inn from his father.
The closer Alex got to the watch room and higher observation balcony located directly below the lens area, the more certain he became that something was wrong. He felt a kinship to the tower, as if they shared a common pulse. Something was screaming inside his head that the sentinel was out of balance. When Alex noticed that the door to the lens itself was slightly ajar, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
There was no sign that the lock had been forced, but Alex owned the only key, and the door had been securely locked the night before. He climbed the last few steep stairs carefully, then looked out on the narrow walkway that surrounded the top part of the tower.
There was a body lying face up on the catwalk, the head lolling eerily toward Alex.
Reginald Wellington Senior wouldn’t be needing his pill after all.
Somehow, he’d managed to get into the highest observation point of the lighthouse on his own. But it appeared that the climb had killed him. One look at Reg’s pallid, lifeless face and hollow, empty gaze told Alex that there was no real hurry to call Doc Drake.
His friend had obviously been dead for some time.
Chapter 2
“Sheriff Armstrong, I need you out at the inn right away.” The sheriff had been hanging out at the second place Alex had phoned, a diner called Buck’s Grill. To Alex’s credit, he’d tried to reach the sheriff at his office in town with his first call.
“Is that you, Alex? What’s the rush?” Armstrong asked. In a lower voice, he added, “Is it anything we can handle over the phone? I’m doing a little campaigning at the moment.”