Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set

by Deborah Garner

  “You do a good job,” Paige said. “It's very inviting, especially after a long trip.” This was an understatement. She was so tired she was tempted to curl up on the lobby floor.

  “So glad to hear that!” Betty was clearly pleased with the compliment. From the empty looks of the town, Paige suspected overnight guests were rare.

  “Now, you go on up and choose a room. There's no one else staying here tonight, so you might as well have your pick of the litter.” She waved an arm toward the staircase. “Mr. Hodges will be here tomorrow. He’s a regular, comes in from Whitefish once a week for business in Anaconda. But he'll stay in number 10, down the hall here. Doesn't do stairs very well anymore, not since a bad slip on an icy patch last winter. Messed up his hip something awful.” Betty shook her head and ran a sympathetic hand over her own hip. “Anyway, you go ahead and pick out any room you want. Then come on back, and we'll set you up with a registration card and key.”

  Burgundy floral carpeting covered the wide steps Paige climbed. The carved texture of the polished, wooden banister echoed against her skin as she skimmed one hand along it for balance. At an abrupt landing halfway up, the staircase angled sharply to the right. She followed the banister to the top.

  The second floor layout was simple. One long corridor stretched from the front to the back with doors lining both sides, most propped open with brass doorstops. The rooms were similar, though not identical. All had quilts as bedcovers, whether the rooms held one full-sized bed or two twins. Other decorative touches matched each color theme. A room with a rose and cream quilt had a dark wine colored shade on a nearby table lamp. Another room, this one with twin quilts in hunter green and ivory, was graced with a rug in a dense forest pattern; creamy Aspen branches mixed with a mosaic of spring foliage.

  At the end of the hallway, another sharp turn revealed a short extension with one additional room at the end. Unlike the other rooms, this one faced the rear of the property and appeared to be an addition to the original hotel building. Paige stepped inside for a closer look. Windows lined two of the walls, giving this room more light than the others. The window facing the outside of the building looked down on a side yard as barren and forlorn as the front of the hotel. The window on the opposite side showed a small patio with nothing more than a dilapidated table and one chair. Paige's guess was that the room she stood in was added above another that served as maid's quarters during busier times.

  Her decision was easy. The room was light and quiet, decorated in muted shades of taupe and beige. An oval throw rug, braided with strands of dark blue and ivory, covered the floor. Ruffled shams picked up the colors of the rug, as did a variety of knick-knacks on an antique oak dresser: a perfume bottle, a crystal bud vase and a comb with a mother-of-pearl handle. The room had a spacious feel to it because of the twelve feet or so between the double bed and a writing desk against the opposite wall. Paige went downstairs to tell Betty her choice.

  “Room 16, you say? All the way at the back? You sure?”

  Paige laughed as she filled out the registration card. “Yes, the quiet will be good for writing and, besides, it's a nice room. Added on after the hotel was built, I'm guessing?”

  Betty nodded. “Sometime during the early 1900s. We figure 1906 or so, according to the few records we've found. The hotel itself was built in 1896, originally to house workers for the sapphire mines. When London folk started buying up mining land a few years later, that section was added for household help. We use the room below it for laundry facilities now.” Turning to the back wall, Betty pulled a key from one of the square cubbyholes and handed it to Paige.

  “I put out coffee in the morning around seven. If you're a breakfast-type person, there's a little café down the road called Moonglow. Odd little place. Run by a hippie girl who paints watercolor landscapes. She moved out here from Santa Cruz. You know, California.” Betty shrugged her shoulders. “She's kind of a strange person, but she sure knows how to cook. Serves lunch, too. Only takes cash, but there’s an ATM halfway down the block.”

  “What about dinner?” Paige asked. The talk of food made her realize she hadn't eaten since her plane flight.

  Betty shook her head. “Not much here in the evening. Everything closes up around 7 p.m., some places even at 6. If you need anything later than that, the closest place is about nine miles down the road at Wild Bill's.”

  “Wild Bill's?” Paige raised her eyebrows. The name conjured up a variety of images.

  “Oh, don't you worry,” Betty laughed. “Wildest thing that ever goes on in there is the waitress yelling at the cook to hurry up with an order. And that's not very often, seeing as customers are few and far between.”

  Stifling a yawn, Paige decided settling in for the night was more appealing than a nine-mile drive. A granola bar would have to suffice. In the morning she could make up for it at...what was that funny breakfast place called? Moonglow. She thanked Betty for her help and went up to her room.

  It didn't take long to unpack her suitcase and hang her clothes in the antique walnut wardrobe that served as a closet. She'd packed light, checking only one bag with the airline, all casual clothes, plus a few sweaters. In addition, she'd worn a heavy coat on the plane, keeping it folded and on her lap for most of the trip. A carry-on bag held her laptop, notepaper and miscellaneous items ranging from toiletries to snacks.

  Paige sat on the bed and settled back against the floral shams, fatigue from the long day of travel catching up to her. Even if she'd been in the mood for a full dinner, she wouldn't have had the energy to eat it. Checking email could wait until morning. She was tempted to call Jake, but she was sure she’d fall asleep on the phone, so that could wait as well. She used what felt like her last bit of strength to change into a nightshirt, fold down the quilted bedcovers and sink into the soft pillows, an area travel magazine spread open across her chest as her eyes closed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Beneath the hotel's soft comforter, Paige awakened shivering. The crisp morning air stung her face. Half asleep, she pulled her body into a fetal position and tucked her head under the covers. This wasn't enough. She tried breathing out forcefully, hoping her warm breath would delay her inevitable departure from the bed. A few choice words tumbled from her lips. She'd fallen into bed without thinking to turn on the heater. Now she was paying the price.

  Still cursing, she slid out from under the bedcovers. A rush of chilly air wrapped its fingers around her bare shoulders and crawled up her neck; she shuddered. She pulled a woven afghan from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her. Better, but not by much.

  She tiptoed to the window, chastising herself. She'd never developed an affinity for socks or slippers. The throw rug alongside the bed kept the first steps tolerable, but the slick wooden boards beyond were like sheets of ice against the soles of her feet. Her breath fogged up the glass pane immediately, giving her just a few seconds to see the frost on the roofing outside. Temperature in the low 30s was her best guess. She pulled the afghan more snugly around her body and buried her chin in the knitted bundle her hands grasped.

  She searched the wall near the light switch, but found no trace of a thermostat. A check along the floorboards for heaters also proved useless. Her teeth were chattering by the time she finally saw an ancient radiator alongside the far wall. Approaching it quickly, she dropped to her knees and fumbled around, running her hands over the cold metal in search of a way to turn it on. Eventually she felt a round knob protruding from the far side. She twisted the round dial as forcefully as she could. It took a few tries, but it finally turned. A soft clicking gave her hope for warmth soon.

  She held her hands out in front of the metal spirals and waited for heat. At first there was nothing, but then slight warmth began to radiate out. Or did it? Tempted to jump back into bed, she waited, letting her hands hover expectantly. She reached behind the radiator to check for warmth from the wall-facing side, but felt only cold air. She sighed. A one-sided radiator would take ages to he
at the room.

  Her knowledge of antique heating methods was sketchy. She'd lived in modern housing with central heat all her life. A twist of a thermostat control was all it had ever taken for her to warm up a cold room. Now she found herself examining the metal contraption in front of her like a sculptor might assess a block of clay, pulling here, pushing there.

  She leaned over, inspecting the back again, still seeing nothing attached to the heating unit. Yet, a square of peeling wallpaper caught her attention. That was it, she thought, her confidence growing. A switch must control the radiator, enclosed behind a decorative wallpapered panel.

  Pressing herself against the wall, she slid her hand along its surface, twisting her body in order to feel for a discrepancy in texture. Her fingers felt a rough edge of wallpaper that had separated from the panel next to it. She slipped her fingers underneath, expecting to feel a switch. Instead, she felt an unsteady block of wood. Changing positions, she inspected the area with her other hand. The unstable section shifted again. She adjusted her body once more and tried to pry the loose panel forward with her fingers. After several unsuccessful attempts, the wood gave way, revealing a cavity in the wall.

  Paige’s investigative nature was a near-compulsion, especially when she felt she was on the edge of a discovery, so despite visions of an expensive repair bill looming, she explored the interior of the wall with her fingers. Half-expecting an unpleasant encounter with spiders or termites, she was grateful to find these fears ungrounded. But she caught her breath anyway at the unexpected feel of leather against her fingertips.

  The room's temperature forgotten, Paige worked her way around the object, feeling a smooth surface, with light scratches. A sharper texture followed that–wrinkled paper, barely attached to the leather. Her anticipation grew. Determined, she grasped one edge and pulled it forward, trying to remove it from the cavity. It resisted. Repeatedly, she tried to extricate it. Yet each time she adjusted her angle, the wall blocked its removal. Holding the object with one hand, she tried to enlarge the hole by pulling on the adjoining wall panel. Even another inch might do the trick. But the solid wall would not budge. She maneuvered the object again, hoping to adjust the angle so it would fit through the opening. Still no luck.

  She adjusted her stance and used her body weight to pull harder. The increased force helped some. Half of the object protruded from the wall, while the rest remained wedged securely inside. When she slid her fingers behind the leather, she realized crumpled pages were loosely attached. It was a diary and, from the looks and feel of it, it had been enclosed in the wall for a while.

  She braced one foot against the wall and clung to the diary securely, pulling back with the weight of her body. To her delight, she felt the book move forward. But to her dismay, a rough, tearing sound accompanied the motion. A hollow thud echoed from inside the wall as she fell backwards onto the floor.

  Paige held the fragile notebook and blew lightly across its surface. Dust motes floated out into the chilly room. She blinked, to keep the dust from her eyes, and rubbed her nose to block a reflexive sneeze. Setting the tattered, partial book to the side, she pushed herself up off the floor and reached inside the wall, hoping to find the remaining pages wedged against a crossbeam or caught on a nail. Nothing. The rest of the old diary had fallen beyond her reach.

  She retreated to the warmth of the bed, wrapped the afghan around her and slid as far under the covers as possible. Only a portion of her face and the hands holding the notebook remained exposed to the chilly air.

  The cover was dull, brown leather, slightly scratched, but otherwise in good condition. Stitches held the pages together, at least the few warped sheets still attached. The notebook as a whole measured around four by six inches. It was impossible to estimate its depth in view of the missing pages. A ragged tear ran from the upper edge of the binding to the bottom.

  A sharp ping caused Paige to jump, until she recognized the origin of the sound. The radiator was starting to work itself up. As were her nerves. Holding the book in her hands, she had the childlike sensation of being caught doing something she shouldn't be doing. Feeling foolish, she realized she had glanced over her shoulder at the sound.

  Paige opened the notebook, taking care not to damage the faded pages. The faint initials “SW” were neatly penned inside the front cover. Dust drifted downward as she turned from one page to the next. Words in tiny penmanship filled page after page. At times the lettering was neat and precise. At other times it appeared scrawled and agitated. Raw emotions seemed to burst off the paper like flames, all depending upon the handwritten scroll of the text.

  Paige was pleased the entries were dated. She turned first to the front page, then leafed through interior pages and, finally, scanned the last page that still clung to the ripped binding. Several years passed between the entries. Enough time to document something in detail – the development of the town, perhaps, or the history of the old hotel.

  Thoughts of the room's chilly temperature disappeared as Paige focused on the notebook. She flipped to a random page and scanned a few lines.

  Oct 24, 1922

  C. has insulted me again. Is it my fault that Running Fox was not wearing red the last time he rode through here on that horse of his? I see what I'd like to see, not necessarily what is there. Realism? It's what's in my mind's eye that matters. He says my brush strokes lack vigor. It is paint, not electricity! I am a poor student, C. repeats over and over again. It’s not true; I lack only his belief in me. More likely, he is a poor teacher and can't admit it.

  Paige paused and glanced back at the newly exposed cavity in the wall before returning to the bound pages in her hands. Perhaps a child, based on the reference to being a student, kept the fragile notebook. Then again, the penmanship was an adult’s, at least the passages that were neatly executed. The scrawled entries might indicate an elderly person, or maybe someone with occasional tremors. There was no way to know without reading further. Paige didn't need an invitation. She thumbed back to the first page and started in.

  November 17, 1921

  I am growing tired of not getting the recognition I deserve. C. is applauded everywhere he goes. One would think he creates each aspect of the actual scenes, not just the images. Does he give birth to the horses themselves? Of course not! He merely combines tints and hues and canvas, yet is accorded the respect of the Good Lord Himself. It's absurd adoration and not in the least bit merited. I have had superb education and speak properly. I dare say my talent exceeds his. Yes, C. has exhibited in London, but we have no royalty in the West. Why should he receive such praise here? I grow weary of sitting by while all roads lead to C.

  April 4, 1922

  I've been studying with C. for two years now. He is never pleased with me and it is high time I receive recognition of my own. I do believe he would like me to quit. Utter nonsense! What sort of a man does he think I am? Does he have a right to decide what my life should be? I hardly think so!

  September 10, 1922

  C. finished a new painting last week. It is striking, admittedly, with blue tones as deep as local sapphires and red specks the color of late sunset. What rage a piece like this stirs up in me! Is this really talent? Perhaps it is simply luck. I toil as hard, if not harder, yet his paintings are more vibrant. I will never give him the satisfaction of admitting it to his face.

  Paige arrived at the entry she’d first scanned and flipped past it. The following two pages were illegible, one blurred – spilled coffee, perhaps, from the brown tint of the smudge – and the other, a short passage obliterated by sharp, manic X's, as if the writer had been so angry at his own words that he'd attempted to stab the page into oblivion. Why not just tear it out, Paige wondered. Was the process of creating, then destroying, therapeutic somehow? Or could the frustrated hands that spewed the words and slashes onto the pages simply be those of a man consumed with rage? Whether due to lack of recognition, lack of talent or simply the inability to convey his messages clearly, the writer'
s fury was undeniable.

  A childhood memory hit Paige out of the blue, an early sign of the perfectionism she'd fought all of her life. She'd written a composition for elementary school. It was only a page long, but hand-written and single-spaced. Always slow and cautious with her printing, it had taken a good part of an hour to transcribe it from note cards. On the last line, she'd misspelled a word. Correcting it in pen, changing “n” to “m,” it looked crowded, imperfect. In tears, Paige had torn up the paper and started from scratch. It would not be the only time she did that throughout her years of schooling.

  The radiator rumbled. Paige turned the destroyed pages over and secured them under her left thumb. She moved her attention to the next page, dated almost a full year after the last one that had been legible. The lettering on this particular entry was precise and controlled, compared to others. If written letters themselves could be described as haughty, that was the appearance these gave. Had they been typed, they would have merely formed angry words. But the physical strokes of the hand that wrote them gave them emotionally charged life.

  August 26, 1923

  I've been thrown out of C's studio. He has refused to give me future lessons, claiming that he's taught me everything he could. His pseudo-attempts to be kind while informing me of this were pitiful. He does not recognize my talent and clearly views me as a waste of his precious time. Must he also be so prolific? How selfish of him! He seeks only fame, while I seek true artistry. I loathe him.

  Only three entries remained, dated years later, with long lapses in time between each.

  October 26, 1926

  I hear word that C. has departed this earth. I suppose I should feel sadness, but not an ounce courses through me. What more could an artist ask for, other than what he achieved? And now he is gone. Well, of course, that's the natural order of things. I shed no tears.