Snowed Inn

by Heather Horrocks

  In the foyer, I found a woman. A guest? A thrill of excitement raced through me. My first guest?

  She was dressed in an expensive, low-cut, black sweater with brilliant colors— fuchsia, emerald green, bright red— splashed across the front, and a matching shade of fuchsia defining her lips. An outrageous zebra-print coat was draped over her arm. Her hair, brown with golden streaks, fell stylishly about her face.

  I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but her outfit was brighter than Grandma’s parrot suit. Apparently, Grandma was right in style.

  She was slender and well toned, but a few wrinkles around her eyes and on her neck hinted of fifty-something. Otherwise, she looked like a glamorous author. Like one of my expected guests, in other words.

  I smiled warmly. “Welcome to the Who-Dun-Him Inn.”

  “I do like that name.” The woman nodded approvingly. “I’m here with the Calabria party. Gregorio and the others will arrive shortly.” She pointed to the wall. “This wainscoting is magnificent. Are you the owner?”

  “Yes. I’m Vicki Butler.”

  She sighed dramatically. “Aha! So at the Who-Dun-Him Inn murder mystery bed-and-breakfast, there is a butler. That’s perfect. Who built this place? Do you know?”

  “My great-great-great-grandfather, William Ross, back in 1891. He built it sturdy and large enough to house his three wives and their families.”

  “You’ve gotta love Utah. I hope each wife got their own floor.”

  I smiled. “Apparently, his third wife didn’t play well with the others, so he built her a separate, smaller house next door.” I didn’t mention the fourth, runaway wife. Actually, no one in the family knew much about the fourth, runaway wife. She was more like a family myth. “The portraits in the common areas and up the stairs are all of family.”

  “I would definitely want my own house.” The woman slid a manicured finger along the beautiful, old china cabinet. “And these antiques. I would kill for antiques like these.”

  “I love them, too. Most of them are family pieces,” I said. Some of them I bought and the others my parents kindly let me keep and use. I motioned toward the back. “The check-in desk is new, though.”

  The counter semi-circled around the corner formed by the kitchen wall and the back of the mansion. I slid the guest book toward her. “I’d love to have you sign in. It would be a wonderful autograph for my collection. An author, and my first guest.”

  The woman laughed warmly. “Darling, I’m not one of Gregorio’s authors. I’m his sister. I told him I couldn’t make it, but managed to clear my schedule at the last minute. I’d like to surprise him with a grand entrance during dinner, so please don’t tell him I’m here.”

  That must have meant this woman wasn’t included in the count Mr. Calabria provided in the numbers for the play. I’d have to check her name against the list Stephanie had, the list I still hadn’t seen. “Your name?”

  “Martha Turner.”

  “Would you like a room on the second or third floor, Ms. Turner?”

  “Martha, please.” She shrugged. “Where will Big Bro be staying?”

  “He’s got the Magnum P.I. carriage house suite outside.”

  “Then give me a room inside.” Ms. Turner smiled. “Are all your rooms named after detectives?”

  I couldn’t help grinning. I must look like an idiot, but I couldn’t hide my excitement about my Who-Dun-Him Inn. “All famous detectives from movies, television, and books.”

  “Mata Hari?”

  “No spies. Sorry.”

  “Too bad. Okay, give me anything. You choose.”

  I looked over the list of inside rooms. Mr. Calabria reserved the entire Inn for the weekend, paying for empty rooms as well as full ones so that he and his bestselling authors could have a private party. Being a “literary guru,” as he called himself— whatever that was— must be lucrative. Since he was bringing fewer people than rooms, finding room for an extra person wasn’t a problem. “Miss Marple?”

  “Anything male, honey.” She chuckled.

  “Sam Spade?”

  “Now there was a real man. Play me again, Sam.” Martha sighed in an exaggerated manner as she misquoted the Casablanca line. Same actor, different role. “On your website—”

  She’d been on my website. Cool.

  “I read you serve chocolate chip cookies in the parlor in the evenings. Might I get a sample?”

  Our house specialty, along with our personalized line of Inn-Cense scented candles. “Sure. Come into the kitchen and I’ll grab some.”

  She ran her fingers along the rich patina of wood on the counter. “I’d love to live in a place like this.” She glanced at me. “Or perhaps you don’t live here?”

  “I renovated the basement for my family.”

  “How wonderful. You and your husband?”

  “He died nearly a year ago.” Next month, in fact. An anniversary I was not looking forward to.

  “I’m so sorry.” She sighed deeply. “I also lost my husband not long ago. That’s why I decided to come, and take my mind off my troubles.” She shook her head as if to shake off the sadness, and smiled. “Do you really play Clue in the parlor in the evenings?”

  “It’s one of my favorite pastimes.”

  Martha grinned as though she were really enjoying herself, which made my heart swell. I held one of the full-size, swinging, kitchen saloon doors open for her. Grandma was slicing vegetables, and I was delighted to see Stephanie, Lonny, and especially Xavier, eating sandwiches at the table. Xavier must have been feeling better. Good. Great. Fantastic, even.

  I introduced Martha, who greeted everyone warmly.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Grandma said as she took Martha’s hand. “That is one audacious shade of lipstick.”

  Chapter Three

  Stephanie choked on her food. Lonny almost succeeded in suppressing a laugh. Xavier stared at Martha, his mouth open, as if waiting to see how my guest would react.

  Shocked, I wondered that myself. Grandma’d apparently reached the age where she believed it her inalienable right to speak her mind, no matter what. “Grandma!”

  Grandma nodded her approval. “Good for you, dear.”

  Martha smiled as though amused, creating a fuchsia crescent. “Do you greet all of your guests this way?”

  She didn’t seem offended, but still I grabbed a small, cellophane-wrapped and raffia-tied bag of freshly baked cookies from the dark wicker basket on the counter and handed it to her as a peace offering. “I am so sorry.”

  “It was a compliment. I prefer audacious shades of lipstick myself.” Grandma wore a bright orange shade on her lips today to prove it. “I’m sure this nice woman doesn’t mind what I said. You’re just too darn persnickety, Victoria.”

  “Nice?” Martha’s warm, cozy laugh was like an old, comfortable jacket. “A lot of people would disagree with that assessment.”

  I guess Martha could see my discomfort as I led her from the kitchen, because she patted my arm (even my guests were doing it now!) and said, “Don’t sweat it, darling. Your grandmother’s an amateur compared to my usual crowd. Besides, she’s right. I wear this shade because it makes me stand out anywhere.”

  I relaxed a bit. “Thank you for being so gracious.”

  Martha lifted the bag of cookies. “Thanks for the sample. Now I’d like to go to my room and eat them at my leisure. Do you have anyone who can bring up my suitcases and park my rental?”

  I nodded. “How many suitcases?”

  “I packed light,” she said. “Only four.”

  Four? For a weekend stay? I pulled out my brand new walkie-talkie, pressed the button, and it worked, just as Kent promised. After I told him what I needed, Martha handed me her car keys and I hung them on the hook in the “Sam Spade”-labeled cubbyhole for Kent.

  “Lead on, Mistress of Murder Mysteries. I can hardly wait to see my room.”

  I couldn’t help but grin again.

  “This staircase is absolutely beautifu
l. Is it the original? Or did you have to pay a fortune to fix it up?”

  “It’s original and I also put a lot of money into restoring the Ross Mansion.” Most of Robert’s life insurance money. I previously wanted to quit my job at the Moose Muffin Café so I could be home with Zach. He’d already lost one parent. I didn’t want to be away at work all the time, too.

  And the renovations turned out wonderfully. The guest rooms were delightful, filled with things whimsical, straight from the pages and screens of my favorite detective stories. Rooms with memorabilia from my most-cherished mystery novels, TV shows, and movies, classics, as well as newfound treasures.

  Rooms dedicated to the likes of Miss Marple, Kinsey Millhone, Perry Mason, Columbo, Sherlock Holmes, Jessica Fletcher, Charlie Chan, and more. All of them unique, and each with a bottle of sparkling cider chilling on ice. Some of Grandma’s pseudo-bubbly for all.

  I climbed the stairs, savoring what I’d done, running my hands along the rich wood banister. I did love this old house. Thank goodness I didn’t have to kill for these antiques.

  The second floor rooms circled the landing of the grand staircase. The door to the smaller staircase that led to the third floor was nestled between two rooms— the Sam Spade, where we were headed, and the Jessica Fletcher.

  “Ahh. This is nice.” Martha set her purse and coat on Sam Spade’s battered desk, and swiveled the ancient, padded, black leather office chair. A Maltese Falcon movie poster in a black frame adorned one wall, a large bookshelf unit covered another.

  “You even have the bird statue.” Martha walked to the bookshelf and touched a replica of the black statue that caused so much grief in the 1941 movie. “And the backward Spade & Archer on the window. How delightful. That movie’s one of my favorites.” She glanced around. “But this is Sam’s office. Where will I sleep?”

  I pushed a button on the bookshelf and a queen-sized Murphy bed lowered into place behind the desk.

  “I love it.” Martha’s eyes sparkled.

  As she headed for the bathroom, I called out, “I’ll check on your bags,” jogging downstairs with a happy smile on my face. My first guest loved my Inn, my rooms, my vision of this place. Stuff that in your pipe and smoke it, Pessimistic Paul.

  I found Kent outside. He parked Martha’s rental car in the large garage and was brushing snow off his coat. When he saw me, he shook his head. “This is no fifty percent chance of light snow. We had cool weathermen in L.A. Someone ought to string up this Henley guy.”

  “Get a rope.” I watched as my hopes of a light snow to set the mood died. Big, wet flakes plopped to the earth. There must have been at least three inches already.

  A serious October snowstorm in Utah’s Rocky Mountains meant a lot of snow. This wasn’t ski country by accident. There could easily be five or ten feet of snow at this elevation, which I was sure would delight the owners of Snow Haven, our ski resort neighbors on the far side of Porter Mountain.

  But I remained concerned, hoping my guests would all arrive safely before the storm worsened. The last thing I wanted was for anyone else to run off the road like Sharon did.

  * * *

  Nearly an hour later, I stood in the small entry between the double set of doors, and watched the long, climbing driveway through the large glass pane. I checked and rechecked everything until I was even driving myself crazy. At long last, I caught sight of three vehicles, their lights barely visible in the storm, struggling their way through the snow, which had intensified until the flakes were huge and wet, nearly obliterating the view and sticking to everything.

  I was glad I added an extension to the front porch roof to shelter people as they unloaded. At least, the guests wouldn’t look like snowmen. The same couldn’t be said for Kent, who was wielding the snowblower, but seemed to be falling behind.

  Excitement made my heart flutter as I watched the first vehicle slide to a stop. My guests had arrived! The Inn was truly open, and my new business venture was officially off the ground.

  I wished Robert had been there to see our dream come true. I hoped perhaps he was, at least in spirit.

  I turned on the gas fireplaces in each of the rooms so they’d be warm and inviting. Grandma was in the kitchen, cooking and singing (I could hear her faintly from where I was). Zach was playing his video game downstairs. Stephanie, Lonny, and Xavier were resting in the two extra basement bedrooms before the performance.

  My twin opened the door behind me and stepped into the small entry, having changed into very classy black slacks and a jacket over a pumpkin-colored turtleneck, highlighted by an elegant diamond pendant and matching earrings. “I thought I’d find you here.”

  I pointed out the glass pane of the ornate wooden door. “My guests are here.”

  “You’re really doing it, aren’t you? I’m proud of you, Red. You’ve done an amazing job here.”

  I laughed. “Thanks, Red.” No one could tell us apart in high school, so we both were just called “Red” much of the time. Her eyes were red today, too. I nearly asked her why she’d been crying, but thought better of it. She’d tell me what was going on between Gene and her when she was ready.

  She pointed at Kent, opening the vehicle’s rear door. “You know, he really gives this old joint some class.”

  “And he seems to be enjoying himself.”

  A dark-haired man in a dress coat stepped from the lead vehicle. Was his confident aura that of a wealthy guru? Or a bestselling author?

  The man held out his hand toward the open shuttle door. Two slender, black-nylon-wrapped legs slinked down, down, down, ending in high-heeled pumps. Following the sexy legs was a young, blonde woman who clung to the man’s arm, smiling up at him. She was bundled in an obviously expensive fur coat; faux or real, I couldn’t tell, but either way, I was really glad I extended the roof line to provide extra cover.

  The man waved imperiously to the people in the next vehicle driving toward the Inn, but didn’t wait for them.

  My heart pounded with excitement. My guests were here.

  As the couple drew closer to the main door where I stood, I noticed the blonde appeared to be all of sixteen, very pretty, but overly made up, with shiny, blonde hair and long, red nails. Heaven only knew what word Grandma might use to describe her.

  With a full head of jet-black hair and Mel-Gibson-with-a-moustache good looks, the man appeared to be in his fifties. Oh, well, life in the fast lane, I supposed. Second trophy wives and all that.

  The other shuttles slid to a stop as the couple reached the main doors. I pulled one open and cold air followed them inside. “Welcome to the Who-Dun-Him Inn.”

  The blonde said, “Hi,” and smiled.

  Liz held open the second set of doors.

  The blonde nodded to her before making a beeline toward the large, old-fashioned, framed mirror on the wall. She used the tip of her little finger to wipe a mascara smudge from beneath her eye. Unbuttoning her coat, she revealed a snug-fitting, short, red sheath dress.

  The man smiled fondly at the young woman, set his valise on the floor, and looked at me. At Liz. Back at me. Déjà twin.

  “I am the owner, Vicki Butler, and this is my twin, Liz Eklund.” I smiled. “And you must be with the Calabria party.”

  “Signora, I am the Calabria party.” The dark-haired man motioned to himself with a flourish. He spoke with a light Italian accent. “You have made arrangements for me to have the private outside suite, no? The nicest in the Inn?”

  “Yes, sir. You will be in the Magnum P.I. carriage house behind the Inn. It’s our wedding suite. With this storm, though, I’d suggest you reconsider. I do have another luxury suite on the third floor.”

  “No, no, no. I prefer the privacy of the carriage house.”

  “All right.” I motioned toward the check-in counter. “I’ll get you registered.”

  “Uno momento, per favore. First, you must meet my authors.”

  I preferred to deal with the second half of the payment due at this time, but he
already paid half in advance. I’d register him later, after the introductions. Having been part of an innkeeping family for too long, I knew not to leave a bill unpaid.

  Another blast of cold wind blew five more people inside. I asked them to set their suitcases along the wall and hang up their coats on the row of large brass hooks before I led them into the parlor. The group warmed themselves around the fireplace, talking quietly among themselves.

  Mr. Calabria motioned toward Liz and me. “This is our hostess, Vicki Butler, and her sister, Liz Eklund. I hope Signora Butler will now give us a tour of her Who-Dun-Him Inn.”

  “Call me Vicki. Please.” I took great pleasure in showing off my creative handiwork in the Inn. Except for the Sam Spade room, which I gave to Calabria’s incognito sister, of course. “I would like to welcome all of you world-famous authors to my soon-to-be-world-famous Who-Dun-Him Inn for our first official mystery weekend, entitled Too Many Men Spoil the View.”

  “You can say that again.” The speaker was a short, chunky, dark-haired woman.

  “First,” said the guru, who apparently needed to be in control at every moment, “I will make the introductions.”

  The authors were certainly an eclectic group. Some didn’t look like my image of famous authors at all, more like an ordinary housewife or the guy next door. Others were sophisticated enough to match my most glamorous expectations. The guru’s wife looked darned expensive. And the rocks on several of her fingers must have cost a bundle.

  “First, I will introduce the man who became my first client when I opened my agency fifteen years ago.” He turned to an older man in a costly suit who exuded class. Older than my mother, but younger than Grandma, his hair was seasoned with more salt than pepper, but styled to perfection. He smiled graciously as Calabria continued. “He has sold millions of medical thrillers from his writing loft in Trenton, New Jersey. Perhaps you have heard of him. May I present Dr. Nicholas Ray.”

  I could feel my eyes widen. His books always hit number one on the New York Times’ Bestseller List. Feeling like a small-town hick— I supposed that’s what these people thought of me— I almost gulped. “The Nicholas Ray? Nice to meet you.”