Room At The Inn (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries)

by Bartlett, LL

  "Whoa, you don’t waste time with small talk.”

  “Sorry.”

  “The answer is, of course," she said, sounding flip. "There're lots of organisms that can live very nicely in that environment."

  "Such as?"

  "I once read about a whole cruise ship that was exposed to Legionnaire's Disease. It was airborne. They traced it to the hot tubs. If someone has chlamydia they can spread via a hot tub. I'd stay away from it if I were you."

  "Okay. Thanks."

  "Has somebody there got a social disease?"

  "Maybe. I don't know for sure."

  "Uh-huh." She didn't push for more answers. "So what's the place like?" she asked, her interest genuine.

  "Okay, but not all it's cracked up to be." I told her about the inferior accommodations that we, as unpaid help, had been given. Then I told her about cleaning up the front of the house to take the photo.

  "If that's the way they are, don't you dare set foot in that hot tub."

  "I won't. Is everything okay at home?"

  "Nothing to complain about. Is that all?" She knew me well.

  "I've got a feeling something big is going to happen. I'm getting very weird impressions."

  Brenda was well acquainted with the consequences that followed my funny feelings. Her tone changed to concern. "Be careful, Jeffy." She's always called me that. "When are you coming home?" She was starting to sound like my mother.

  "Monday."

  "Okay," she said. "Take care of my girlfriend, now."

  "I will. Say hi to Rich for me. Tell him—" I hesitated, remembered that sense of urgency I'd felt earlier when we'd passed that curve on the highway.

  "Jeffy?" she prompted.

  "Tell him ... to eat a slice of pizza for me."

  "Okay, hon," she said, not disguising her worry. "Bye-bye."

  "Bye." I hung up.

  I was glad I'd called, but talking to her hadn't reassured me. Like a kid away from home for a first-time sleep over, I found I missed Richard and Brenda.

  Was it them or the safety and security they represented?

  I took the back route through the kitchen to the stairs that led to the living room.

  What was I afraid of anyway?

  That was it. I just didn’t know.

  Chapter 3

  The Andolinas had left the living room by the time I made it back upstairs, and I realized that Susan and the elusive Zack hadn't made an appearance all evening. It looked like I was never going to meet our host, which suited me fine. But then the door to the Dawson's residence opened and they headed straight for me. I made like I hadn't seen them and took another step, but Susan's voice stopped me.

  "Jeff, this is my husband, Zack."

  I stepped down. Just looking at the guy gave me the creeps. Tall and lanky, he had a shock of pure white, perfectly trimmed hair that formed a halo around his thin, smooth face. His sly expression reminded me of a used car salesman. He extended his hand, his smile as phony as a three dollar bill. "Glad to meet you, Jeff."

  Courtesy demanded I shake hands and, as anticipated, I got another unwanted blast of emotion. Anger, tinged with desperation, boiled from him. An argument—over money. A matter of survival. The intensity startled me, and I quickly pulled back my hand, stuffing it in my jeans pocket.

  "Susan says there's a problem with the photography." There was no mistaking the challenge in Zack’s voice.

  "No problem. Except for time. We'll set up in the dining room after breakfast tomorrow. Then we'll get some shots of the common areas."

  "I spoke with Ms. Marshall," Susan said. "You can take pictures of her room tomorrow morning while she conducts business off the premises. I'll have Nadine make up her room first and you can get started right after breakfast." For all the sweetness in her voice, her eyes seemed sharp as a raven's.

  "Fine."

  "Is your room okay?" Zack asked, to taunt or to placate?

  "Not really. Do any of the other unfinished rooms have a working shower?"

  He shook his head. "Sorry. Plumbing's next on the agenda. But let me know if you have any other problems."

  As Maggie and I were just a means to an end for them—free publicity—they could have put a little more effort into assuring our comfort. What did Maggie feel she owed this woman?

  "It's been a long day," I said.

  "Even longer for us. We've been working since dawn," Zack said.

  Maggie and I were on the road long before sun up. Didn't he realize how far we'd driven? Hadn't Susan told him about the yard work we'd done? Hadn't he even noticed?

  I squelched my anger. "Good night," I said, and turned back for the stairs. I wanted to close my eyes and lose myself to eight blessed hours of unconsciousness. Something told me it wouldn't happen that easily.

  The door to our room was ajar. I closed and locked it behind me—a useless gesture, as the flimsy lock could probably be opened with a toothpick. Maggie was on the bed, lying on top of the spread, reading her book. Clad in her filmy satin nightgown, she looked far more charming than any of the surroundings, making me wish I didn't feel so tired.

  Maggie turned the page of her novel, not bothering to look up. "Are you sure you don't want to use the hot tub? It's a great way to relax."

  I leaned against the door. "I don't want to smell like chlorine. Especially since we don't have a shower."

  "Oh ... I guess you're right." She sounded disappointed.

  I was tempted to blame her for everything that had gone wrong. But how could I when she was just as much a victim of the place?

  "I met our host."

  She looked up, my tone warning her of my mood. "You don't sound impressed."

  "Let's just say he and Susan deserve each other."

  She closed her book, tensing for a fight. But that's not what I wanted.

  "There's some serious anger going on between them, only I can't tell where it's directed," I said. "I hope you don't mind, but I don't want to spend a lot of time with either of them."

  "I'm sorry."

  I pushed away from the door and sat on the edge of the hard bed, kicking my shoes off. "Don't keep apologizing." It came out sounding a lot sharper than I'd meant. She glanced away, her eyes filling with tears.

  "I'm sorry, Maggs. Please don't cry. There's so much emotion spilling out of every corner of this place, it makes me feel sick."

  She wiped a hand across her eyes. "It doesn't take a psychic to know we're not really wanted here."

  I winced at her use of the 'p' word.

  "Hey—" I pulled her close. "I want you. I think you're the prettiest, most desirable, nicest person here."

  She blinked back tears as mirth brightened her eyes. "You're only saying that because it's true."

  I pulled back. Her funny, little-girl smile made me laugh. "No more apologies. We'll make the best of it. We'll go home, and next weekend we'll go on vacation in my loft. I'll cook you wonderful dinners—" Her eyes rolled at that boast. "—and pamper you, and we'll take long showers together in my fully functional bathroom.”

  Her smile broadened. I kissed the tip of her nose and rose from the bed, peeled off my shirt, and headed for the bathroom.

  "It's not fair," she called. "You've got a shortcut to knowing if you should trust or even like people."

  "I can't read everybody. I can't always read you. I can't read Richard at all. Just sometimes I know some things about some people. Unfortunately, I seem to know a lot of things about a lot of the people here."

  She padded to the bathroom door, watching me as I finished undressing. "If you know so much, tell me just one thing about one person."

  I turned to the mirror over the sink. "No."

  "Why not?"

  "It'll not only change the way you think about that person, but the way you act toward him or her, too. And you can't do that. You have to give people their privacy."

  "Why?"

  "Because it's just good manners." I wasn't getting through to her. I squirted toothpaste
on my toothbrush. "I don't feel comfortable blabbing what I know about people. It's not stuff they'd want you to know. It's like Big Brother watching. Nobody should have to worry about that.”

  I began to brush my teeth, but I could see she wasn't appeased. I spit and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. "Just what do you know about Laura Ross?" I asked.

  "Only her name. Not that I'm a fan of that magazine. It's a bit pretentious for me."

  "Pretentious? With a name like American Woman?"

  "More like the American Woman Snob. It's not something this American woman can relate to." Her eyes were wide, and I could see my diversion wasn't successful. "Come on, Jeff. Tell me something about one of the other guests," she pleaded as I put my toothbrush back into my travel kit. "Please, Jeff?" She sounded like a little kid.

  I tried not to meet her gaze, because Maggie's blue eyes can bore right through to my soul, I weaken and almost always regret it.

  "Jeff?"

  I looked at her and let out a weary sigh. "Okay. Eileen Marshall isn't here for just a business trip. She came here to meet her married lover."

  "Mr. Andolina?" she guessed. They were roughly the same age.

  I shook my head.

  She turned away. "What a bitch, trying to steal someone’s husband." Maggie’s marriage had been destroyed by an interloper, only her husband had been attracted to another man—not a woman.

  "See, I told you it would change the way you think about her. A couple of minutes ago you thought she was a charming woman, and probably hoped she'd help you sell your writing."

  "That was before I found out she's trying to destroy someone's marriage."

  "Maggie, you don't know that."

  "Why else would you come to the same inn as your lover and his wife if you didn't want to break up the marriage?"

  "I don't know. And you don't know. If Eileen's lover was a cheat, he was a cheat before he got here."

  "Who? Who is it?"

  "I don't know, and I don't want to know. Besides, Eileen's lover may have nothing to do with anyone at the inn. It could be someone who lives in the area."

  "Well, if I knew, I'd tell the wife. She deserves to know."

  "It’s not fair to judge people without knowing all the facts."

  "Now you sound like Richard."

  "Thanks for the compliment." I switched off the bathroom light. "Can we just go to bed?"

  "To sleep?" she asked, disappointed, but she was still radiating anger as she folded down the bedspread.

  "If you don't mind.”

  Maggie wouldn't look at me. She turned off the overhead light, got into bed and pulled the sheet up to her shoulder, her back toward me. I crawled in and stared at the darkened ceiling, counting to ten. Rolling onto my side, I put my arm around her and we lay together like spoons. Her anger had cooled, and her hand snaked down to clasp my arm. "'Night, Jeff."

  "Good night, love."

  Time dragged.

  Maggie's body relaxed as she drifted off to sleep. Tired as I was, my mind refused to shut down. I found myself analyzing all the odd emotions I'd encountered from the people I'd met that day.

  And I wondered which one of them was going to die.

  Chapter 4

  "Hot water," I groaned, staring at the ceiling the next morning. I literally had to pull myself out of that bed, which would've been right at home in a medieval torture chamber. The fact that I couldn't linger under a shower to ease the ache in my back and shoulders didn't improve my mood.

  Maggie straightened painfully, her lips tight. She didn't complain, although I could tell she was hurting as much as me.

  We took turns at the bathroom sink. I heard water running in the other bathrooms on the floor below us, and swallowed a pang of jealousy. With the liberal use of deodorant, I was sure we wouldn't offend any of the other guests. Maggie had a hard time rinsing the shampoo from her hair. We only had two small towels and I was determined to get more, even if I had to strangle Susan.

  By the time we ventured down to the dining room, two other couples were already there. We hadn't met them the night before, but I waved a perfunctory hello to the young couple closest to the entrance. They looked as out-of-place as Maggie and me. Their clothes said they couldn't afford it, and they looked too young to appreciate the experience. The well-tanned, muscular guy had a huge plate of food before him, shoveling eggs into his mouth, while his blonde companion applied ruby polish to her nails. An empty muffin cup sat on a napkin before her.

  The other couple, probably ten years older than the first, seemed engrossed in each other—perhaps they were there on a romantic get-away as Susan's brochure suggested. The pretty, longhaired brunette gazed into her companion's eyes, enraptured.

  Maggie and I headed for the coffee pots. Pouring our own, we settled at one of the empty tables. "Now what?" I asked, looking toward the kitchen. "Do they serve us like in a restaurant?"

  "Some inns and larger B and Bs have a buffet," Maggie offered.

  Revived by the aroma of bacon and sausage, I knew food had to be nearby.

  A beefy kid in his early twenties, with sandy-colored hair and dark eyes, came out of the kitchen and placed a pitcher of orange juice on the sideboard next to the coffee pots. A tattoo of a large pink rose, pierced by a dagger dripping blood, decorated his bulging bicep.

  He noticed us and strolled over. "Hi, I'm Adam."

  "Nice tattoo," I said.

  The kid actually blushed and yanked his sleeve down. "Not really. I’m saving to get it removed. Laser treatments aren’t cheap, though." He cleared his throat. "Our buffet has scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, home fries, fresh fruit, strudel, and three kinds of muffins. Zack's making blueberry pancakes or omelets. What'll you have?"

  "I'll take the blueberry pancakes."

  "May I have a Western omelet?" Maggie asked.

  "Sure thing. While you're waiting, you can check out the buffet." He pointed toward the kitchen. "Follow me."

  The kitchen radiated warmth and hospitality. Whatever hostility I'd sensed from Zack the night before was either suppressed or gone. Stationed at the big commercial stove, he wore a ratty old sailor’s cap while flipping pancakes and nursing omelets along. He kept staring at yet another picture of the Sea Nymph that was taped to the stove hood, while across the way Nadine, the young woman we'd spoken to on our arrival, washed dishes. Adam gave Zack our order and resumed chopping vegetables at the counter.

  Maggie and I each took a plate and perused the stainless steel warming trays on the center island. Just as Adam said, there was enough food to feed an army. And as Susan had promised the day before, we wouldn't go hungry at breakfast. If I ate enough, maybe I could save on a lunch tab.

  Maggie chose carefully—a carrot muffin, two sausages and a single pat of butter. Since I wasn't getting paid for my labor, and still suffered from that rock disguised as a bed, I loaded my plate with bacon and a piece of strudel, determined Zack and Susan would pay for our services, if only in food. My eyes were bigger than my stomach, however, and I was stuffed by the time Zack brought my pancakes and Maggie's omelet to the table.

  The daytime Zack was different from the hard-nosed businessman I'd met the night before. He stopped at the other tables, chatting with the guests, refilling coffee cups. Jovial, he was the positive yang to Susan's dour yin. Confusing, but I decided to concentrate on the pancakes before me instead of our host. Even though I could only eat half of what was on my plate, by the time Adam cleared the table I was so full I could barely move. Maggie's smile of contentment gave me warm fuzzy feelings.

  "We have to get to work, love," I said. "Susan said we could take pictures of Eileen's room this morning. Then we can do the dining room.”

  "Do you think she's already gone for the day?"

  "Let's find out."

  We headed for the living room and the reception area. Susan sat in front of her computer, half glasses poised on her nose, looking older than she had the day before.

  "Hi," Maggie sa
id. "When's a good time for us to take pictures of Eileen's room?"

  Susan looked up at us over her glasses. "About eleven o'clock. Ms. Marshall has already left for her meeting. Once breakfast is over, Nadine will make up the room and you can set up."

  I glanced at my watch: it was already 9:30. Oh well, that gave us a little time to check out the countryside. "Sounds good. After that, I'd like to shoot the dining room. Can Zack save muffins or anything else to approximate breakfast?"

  "No problem," Susan said, sounding almost affable. With a little work, maybe she'd be a decent human being. I pushed my luck.

  "Great. By the way, could we have more than two towels? Even though we don't have a working shower, we need—"

  "Yes," she said curtly, and turned back to her computer. So much for being a decent human being.

  More or less satisfied, I turned to Maggie. "How about a short tour of the town?"

  "I'd love it."

  I went back to the room, grabbed the camera, and off we went.

  We were about a mile from the inn when I slowed the car and took special note of the countryside. Something about it bothered me. Maggie looked around, puzzled. A car horn blasted behind us, so I stepped on the gas.

  "Did I miss something?" she asked.

  I was still in a fog. "What?"

  "Why'd you slow down?"

  "I don't know. There's something about—"

  "Uh-oh, you're not getting one of those funny feelings of yours, are you?" She knew that meant trouble.

  "No. It's just—" I groped for a plausible lie. "I was wondering why Susan and Zack didn't buy a place closer to the village?"

  "That's easy. Money. The farther from the village you are, the less the price. Also the less you can charge your guests. But if you think about it, in the winter they're actually closer to Mt. Mansfield. If you're a skier it all works out; and maybe they can squeeze more out of those guests."

  I nodded, concentrating on the road, but I could feel her eyes on me—studying me—until she finally looked away. I knew my lie hadn't fooled her, but she chose not to mention it.