Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set

by Deborah Garner

  “Where's Mist? Doesn't she live in the back of the café?” Paige knew the answer immediately by the terror on Betty’s face. Paige let go of Betty, pushed her way through the mob of people and raced toward the sheriff, who stood with his back to the crowd and his arms extended as if he were a human barricade.

  Paige pulled on Myers’ sleeve to get his attention. “Sheriff Myers! A woman lives in the back of the café, Mist, the one who runs it! Have you seen her? Did the fire chief say anything about her?”

  Myers swiveled toward Paige and pushed her back. “Lady, get away from the fire! I don’t know nothing about anyone being in that building. Now get back, or I’ll arrest you for obstruction.”

  Paige stepped back and found the man Betty had identified as the fire chief. “Did you check the back room of the café?” She could barely hear herself shout.

  Clayton shook his head. “No, the heat was already too intense when we arrived. We're focusing on containment, keeping it from jumping to other structures.”

  “But the café owner lives in that back room!” Paige screamed. She felt sick. By the look on the fire chief's face, she wasn't alone. He raced off, shouting at another member of his department while Paige did a rapid about-face and rushed back to Betty, who collapsed into her arms as she reached her.

  Paige buckled under the hotelkeeper's dead weight, and both hit the ground. Loose gravel dug into Paige's cheek, and a searing pain soared up her arm. The shock of hitting the ground roused Betty. Her eyes fluttering, she struggled to sit up. Paige did the same.

  A few of the townsfolk turned from watching the fire and soon hovered above the two women on the ground. When Paige looked up, she could barely make out the shapes of their heads, backlit by fire and smeared from the surrounding smoke. She was grateful when a pair of hands reached down to help Betty up. A wail of thanks escaped Betty's lips. The same strong arms pulled Paige to her feet, where she found Clive standing in front of them both.

  “Mist!” Paige stammered, waving her uninjured arm in the direction of the blazing café. Betty broke into sobs and leaned over, resting her hands on her knees.

  “What about Mist?” Clive asked. His gaze flickered between the distraught women and his burning building. His face looked dark and strained against the drama of the fiery background.

  Paige struck him with both fists to get his full attention. “She's in there! Mist is in the café! We have to get her out!”

  Clive bent forward, looked Paige in the eyes and put his hands on her shoulders to help her focus. “Slow down, darlin’. Mist isn't in the café. She's at the gem gallery.”

  It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Betty let out another wail, this time of relief.

  “She's...she's at your store?” Paige was bewildered.

  “Yes, she’s fine.” Clive said. “Oh! You thought...! Oh, no wonder you two were behaving like crazed hens! Mist called me when she first smelled smoke, and I told her to get out. She ran down to the store while I called the fire department.”

  Clayton approached Clive, running the back of one forearm across his ash-covered brow.

  “I'm sorry, Clive. Not much left we can do.” Smudges of soot plastered his face, and muddy water dripped off his fire-resistant jacket.

  “You've given it your best shot, Clayton. No one was injured, that's the important thing.”

  Betty looked like she was about to head for the ground again, so Paige linked her good arm through Betty’s to help hold her upright.

  Clive glanced at Paige and Betty briefly before he turned to watch his building burn. “You two get back to the hotel. Nothing you can do here.”

  Paige was mesmerized as she watched the firefighters, who now had control of the flames. What was once a café was now a smoky mess of burnt wood and embers. When she looked at Clive to see how he was holding up, she realized he’d spoken to her. He nodded in the direction of the hotel. “Go on, now,” he said.

  Reluctantly, Paige left Clive standing in front of the smoldering café. Although Clive’s voice was calm and strong, his expression was discouraged and stricken.

  As Paige and Betty left the frenzy and heat of the fire scene, they felt the night chill return. By the time they reached the hotel, they were shivering and grateful for the lobby’s warmth.

  “I’ll make some coffee,” Betty said, heading for the kitchen. “I’m too keyed up to sleep.” If Paige hadn’t witnessed it, she never would have believed this energetic, forceful woman had fainted just a few minutes ago.

  “That makes two of us,” Paige said. “I’ll join you.” She followed Betty and took a seat at the kitchen’s center table. As they were starting into refills, someone knocked on the door. Clive.

  “Saw the lights on,” Clive said, taking a seat alongside Paige. “You two took a good tumble back there. Thought I’d see how you were.”

  “I’m fine,” Betty said, her back to Clive as she turned to retrieve the coffee pot.

  “Just sore and bruised,” Paige said, as she rubbed her arm then stretched and bent it to show she was fine. “Nothing compared to what you’ve suffered.”

  “Well, I appreciate everyone’s sympathy, but the building isn’t the only thing we lost tonight. A piece of Timberton’s history went up in flames.” Clive shook his head as Betty handed him a mug of coffee.

  “It was one of the original structures, wasn't it?” Despite her fatigue, Paige had a ream of questions in her mind.

  Clive nodded, his face solemn. “You bet it was. Old as the hotel. You know how people say 'if walls could talk'? That building was a perfect example. Been a part of this town just about as long as there’s been a town to be a part of.”

  “Lots of history, then,” Paige mused. “What was it before?”

  “Oh, it was lots of things over the years.” Clive ran a hand from his forehead back through his hair, as if trying to dig up old memories.

  “Before Mist came to town, the building was empty. Had been for a while. But there were a few other businesses in that building over the last few decades: an antique store, an appliance repair store, a soda shop. Nothing that lasted very long. Most just stayed a season, then closed up and moved on. There's just not much in Timberton to keep a business going year-round.”

  Paige's curiosity wasn't about to stop at that. Decades were tidbits of time compared to a century of existence.

  “What was the first business in the building, do you remember?”

  “No, I don’t remember. It was vacant for a long time. When I bought it, it needed repairs badly. Probably why it sat empty for so long. The walls were pretty well built, thank goodness, but the roof might as well have been a showerhead when it rained. Some of the plumbing needed to be replaced, and the front steps had cracked and crumbled. It was boarded up for at least fifteen years before I was able to gather up enough cash to buy it.”

  “I'm surprised it even withstood that much time, the upkeep ignored as much as it sounds.”

  Clive nodded. “Well, they built things nice and sturdy way back then. Put in some elbow grease and used good, solid wood. Not like nowadays.”

  Again, Clive paused, staring down at his coffee. The reality of the calamity continued to sink in.

  “It wasn't always neglected,” he added. “At least I don't think it was. I know that old coot never kept it up any. But other tenants over the years must have treated it better, or it would’ve been gone a long time ago. Many of our old buildings are gone, most to fires.”

  “What old coot?” Paige couldn’t stifle her curiosity. And maybe talking would ease Clive’s understandable distress.

  “Huh?” Clive looked up. “Oh, that artist, the one who painted that piece you like so much at the gallery.”

  “Silas Wheeler, right? He lived there?” Paige took a sip of coffee, tilted her head to the side and waited for Clive’s answer.

  “No, he just used it as a studio, gave lessons there now and then. He lived here in the hotel. Like I said when you first saw that p
ainting, he kept to himself, which was just fine with folks around town. He threw fits if things didn't go his way. Probably a good thing he left town not long after I set up shop. If he'd ever thrown one of his tantrums in my place, I would've given him a piece of my mind and probably a tad bit more.”

  Paige touched Clive's arm gently. “I'm so sorry about your building.”

  “Well, like I said, no one was hurt.” He stood, downed his coffee, set the mug on the table and headed out. “I’d better get back to the gallery and check on Mist.”

  Paige and Betty cleared the mugs from the table as Clive left.

  “Betty, I was just wondering, do you have old registration files for hotel guests?”

  “Oh, gosh, yes.” Betty’s eyes were half-mast with fatigue. “There's a stash of old registers that go way back.”

  Paige hesitated. It had been a long, stressful night. But she'd never been able to resist following a hunch. “If it's no bother, I'd like to see them. Not now, of course,” she said quickly.

  “No problem, dear. I’ll look for them in the morning.”

  Paige shooed Betty toward her room and headed up the stairs to her own. Pulling off the jeans and other clothing she'd thrown on in her rush, she paused to glance behind the radiator at the cavity in the wall. Tomorrow promised to be a day of research.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Paige slipped down the stairs the following morning, half-awake and barefoot. She shouldn't have been surprised to find Mist, Clive and half a dozen other townsfolk sitting in the lobby of the hotel. Yet, she was. The café fire had haunted her night like a bad dream, just a dream. But the sight of the gathering in the lobby brought her back to reality. Of course people had come to the hotel. Where else would they go? Moonglow had been the morning meeting place for the entire town. Seeking coffee and consolation, it was natural everyone would turn up at the hotel.

  Paige found Betty behind the hotel counter refilling coffee pots as fast as she could. The women exchanged a look that acknowledged last night’s disaster. Paige filled a mug with the steaming java, and Betty went back to the kitchen to continue brewing.

  The mood in the lobby was somber, like the gathering for a funeral. And, in essence, that's what it was for many of the residents – the realization of a sudden and unexpected goodbye to a part of town life that they had loved.

  Mist, the most upset among them, sat near the hotel's main front window. Her eyes, normally serene and peaceful, were glazed and red-rimmed. Her hands, the same ones that had glided plates onto tables as lightly as feathers floating from the sky, grasped each other nervously. Paige placed a light hand on Mist's shoulder.

  “Mist, I'm so sorry.” What else was there to say?

  Clive tried to hand Mist a mug of coffee. She ignored it. Clive nodded, glanced at Paige and took a sip of it himself. Tapping Paige's elbow to lure her out of Mist's earshot, he moved across the room and settled against a wall opposite the front window.

  “She's devastated,” Clive said.

  The hotel door opened quietly, and Paige watched Sheriff Myers slip in. He saw Mist at the window and went to her immediately.

  “Miss? I’d like to talk to you about what happened to your café.”

  Mist looked out the window as if he were not only silent but also invisible. Clive left Paige briefly to speak with Myers.

  “I can't get her to talk, either,” he said.

  “Well, if she starts talking, have her call me,” Myers said. He left the townspeople to grieve on their own.

  Clive rejoined Paige.

  “She's in shock, Clive. I mean, I'm in shock myself, and I didn’t just lose my entire business, not to mention ….” Paige paused a second, letting the full picture sink in. “What about her artwork? I didn't even think of that before.” A shudder ran down Paige's back. Mist had likely lost both her business and years of work.

  “Most of that is at my place,” Clive said. “That little back room was barely big enough for a bed, much less storage room for artwork. Good thing, it turns out.”

  “There were a few pieces on the walls.” Paige's memory scanned the lost café's interior.

  “Well, those are gone, unfortunately. But it could have been much worse.” Clive took another sip of coffee and closed his eyes, resting against the hotel wall.

  “Hollister!” A voice broke the lull. Several heads snapped around, searching for the source.

  “I said who will feed Hollister?” said Mist.

  “What do you mean, who will feed Hollister?” Clive asked.

  Mist looked around the now silent room as if its occupants spoke another language. It was so clear to her. The homeless needed food, just like anyone else.

  “I always put a plate out for him, every morning and every night. On the back steps because I can’t get him to come inside.” She turned back to the window.

  “Heck, forget that old guy. Who'll feed me?” The comment came from the same young man who'd spit out rash theories about the fire the night before. A couple of his buddies snorted with laughter.

  “Tommy, shut the hell up,” Clive barked. “Where’s your compassion? This isn't about you. This young woman just lost her livelihood. And I lost a building, and the town lost a piece of history. There's a lot of heartbreak going on here and your breakfast ain't a part of it.”

  Murmurs of agreement circled the room, including many from those who'd wondered the same thing about breakfast but had held their tongues. Common decency made it clear that a couple of slices of toast at home would be on the menu this particular morning.

  “I'll take him some coffee,” Betty said, sharing a sudden communal shame. Had it never occurred to anyone to wonder how Hollister was getting food? She poured a mug from the freshest pot and headed for the front door.

  “He won't be out there yet.” Mist's voice was little more than a whisper. “Not this early.”

  Betty paused at the front door.

  “He'll be down by the trestle, at least until it warms up later this morning.” The townsfolk suddenly realized that Mist had been taking care of all of them, not just those who frequented Moonglow.

  “It's no warmer under that trestle than it is in the square, stupid fool.” More snorts and laughter.

  “Tommy, I'm warning you, this is your last chance to zip yer lip, or I'll throw you out of here myself.” Clive glowered at Tommy. The young punk and his sidekicks laughed off Clive’s threats but left on their own.

  The room’s focus was back on Mist, who continued to stare out the front window. Clive rubbed his chin then spoke.

  “Mist, I hate to agree with that young jerk, but it's no warmer under that trestle than anywhere else outside. Why would he be there?”

  The muscles in Mist’s face relaxed into something resembling a smile despite her sadness. “Because he's not outside.”

  “Not outside? I don't understand.” Confused discussion circled the room, one theory following another. It was Clive who came up with the closest guess.

  “You're not talking about that old grate in the concrete, are you?” Clive scratched his head. “That thing's been rusted shut for decades. It was some sort of drainage pipe, I think.”

  The room erupted with the sound of confused voices.

  “How can it be a drainage pipe? It's not on the ground; it's on the wall.”

  “Yeah, that grate is under the trestle, but up against the south side.”

  “Nothing can drain into a wall. That's ridiculous.”

  Comments came from all directions.

  “It is not a drainage pipe,” Mist explained. “It never was. It just looks like one.” She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “It is actually a passageway.”

  “A passageway!” Surprised chattering made the rounds of the room. Clive looked more confused than anyone. “A passageway to where? “

  Exhausted, Mist sighed. “It does not lead anywhere. It ends about twelve feet in, widening at the end, like a small room. The space keeps him out of the wind. He has b
lankets. Sometimes I take him food from the café. That is, I used to.” Mist’s eyes filled with tears.

  “What?” Clive rubbed his chin again, a sign of hard thinking, Paige decided. “I don’t know anything about a passageway or room under that trestle, and I’ve lived in Timberton all my life. You sure you’re not imagining some metaphysical room or something, Mist?”

  “Too much herbal tea and maybe a few of those California brownies, if you know what I mean,” a bystander whispered.

  Tires crunching on gravel outside caused the conversation to pause. A sharp metal slap signaled the slamming of the vehicle's door, and, a few seconds later, the oldest, gruffest cowboy Paige had ever seen walked into the hotel. Dust covered every inch of the man, from his scuffed hat down to his weatherworn boots. Scruffy eyebrows and a matching beard added to his bizarre appearance.

  “Well, now,” Clive exclaimed. “If it isn't William Guthrie himself!” A few murmurs floated around the room.

  “Better known as 'Wild Bill' around here,” Betty whispered to Paige.

  “What brings you up into town today?” Clive asked.

  The old cowboy aimed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his truck. “I heard about the fire. Mighty sorry about it, ma'am.” He turned toward Mist and tipped his hat. “And I was thinkin' you all might need some breakfast. So I loaded up what stock I had of eggs and bacon and biscuit-makings and headed on out here.”

  Betty stepped forward and held up a hand. “You're not planning on cooking, are you Bill?”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd.

  “No, ma'am, I know better than that,” Wild Bill nodded, acknowledging the good-natured jab.

  “Well, in that case, bring the supplies on in, and turn them over to the experts,” Clive said. He pointed toward the kitchen and grinned slightly at Betty. “I'll help you bring the supplies in, Bill. Anyone else want to lend a hand?” A few hungry and willing volunteers joined them.