The Deeds of the Deceitful

by Ellery Adams

  “Mama, the twinkle in Grammy’s eye wasn’t for volunteering at the rescue. Besides, it’s seven o’clock on a Monday night. The rescue shelter isn’t even open.”

  Maggie laughed. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “What if they decide to get married?”

  “What if they do?” her mother answered.

  “Grammy can’t cook for one thing.”

  Earl Lee popped his head up from behind the newspaper. “What makes you think your grandmother can’t cook?”

  Cooper’s mother turned to her father. “Grammy cooked all the time when we were dating. Some of my best memories are of holidays at the Lee house, especially since I lost my own parents after your daddy and I met.”

  “Those were good times,” Earl said. “Then my sister, Patty-Jean, needed her when she lost her husband, and Grammy went up to Nashville to live with her.” He frowned. “I guess you and Ashley were little ’uns then. My mother went from Patty-Jean’s house to ours. So maybe you haven’t ever seen her cook.”

  Maggie reached for the rolling pin. “Your grandmother is an amazing cook. Don’t let her fool you.”

  “I’ve never once seen her at that stove,” Cooper said.

  “That’s because she understands that there’s only room for one cook in the kitchen,” Earl said. “Anything else is courting trouble.”

  “Are you saying Mama and Grammy butted heads?” Cooper asked.

  Earl’s lips twitched as he looked at his wife. “Let’s just say things were a bit touch-and-go around here for the first few months until your mama had a come to the Lord meeting with Grammy.”

  “I can’t hardly believe that,” Cooper said. She stared at her mild-mannered mother for a moment.

  “Cooks are very territorial about their kitchens, Cooper. This is serious stuff.” Earl stood and wrapped an arm around his wife and landed a loud smack on her lips. “I was never prouder of her.”

  “Oh, you two. Cut it out,” Cooper said with a groan.

  “Nothing wrong with a man kissing the woman he loves. You’ll understand someday, young lady.”

  “Seriously? I’m thirty-five years old. I understand. I just don’t want to visualize what I understand.” She grabbed her bowl of ice cream from the table and headed to the door. “I’ll catch you two lovebirds later.”

  Her mother’s giggles followed Cooper as the screen door gently slapped shut.

  The air was cool as Cooper stood outside on the blue flagstone. As she walked down the path, the lemony scent of bee balm foliage tickled her nose. A few more steps and the small greenhouse her father had built for her came into view, its pitched glass roof silhouetted against the night sky.

  She took a deep breath, inhaling the loamy scent of earth. Though she couldn’t see them, she knew that the seedlings her father had planted in the vegetable garden had already pushed their tender green shoots through the soil. Soon they’d have fresh produce to share with the food bank.

  From across the yard, her grandmother’s red-tailed hawk, Columbus, rustled in his new and improved aviary. It was set a bit farther from the house to allow him a better view of the beautiful landscape provided by the Lee’s backyard.

  Another spring. Everything was the same, yet different.

  In that moment, the familiar ache again settled in her chest. Where was she going with her life? What was the plan?

  A verse from Sunday’s lesson in Proverbs drifted into her mind: A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.

  Her attention went to the sky, where a shot of light streaked across the velvet darkness. A shooting star. Grammy always said that seeing a shooting star meant that you would achieve your destiny.

  Cooper smiled, and then she made a wish, though she knew in her heart wishes weren’t going to direct her future. That was how she’d ended up where she was today.

  No. From now on, Cooper Lee vowed to stop walking aimlessly through life. Instead, she would let the Lord direct her steps.

  Chapter Three

  Following a hectic workweek, Cooper felt a sense of excitement and relief as she and the Sunrise Bible Study members followed Mindy Atwood from the spacious foyer of the Atwood Inn, which was large enough to hold a party, up a wide marble staircase to a second-floor landing. She led them to the right and into a great room filled with inviting plush leather chairs and couches in muted tones of burgundy. The furniture faced a rustic stone floor-to-ceiling fireplace, with a patterned rug of burgundy and green spread in front of the hearth’s glass doors.

  “This place is amazing,” Trish murmured. Her fashionable heels clicked on the oak flooring as she examined the space with a Realtor’s trained eye.

  Cooper could only nod in agreement while trailing along behind Mindy, who continued the group’s tour through the inn. The place was as elegant as any of the homes in Ashley’s neighborhood and far above Cooper’s pay grade.

  Mindy, a petite woman with long brown hair and sad brown eyes, turned to face the group. “The original building was constructed in 1915 and is on the National Register of Historic Places. The library was added on years later, and of course, the kitchen has been expanded to accommodate our current needs.”

  “How many guest rooms are there at Atwood Inn?” Cooper asked.

  “Ten,” their hostess said as she turned to the French doors that led to a balcony. “There are nine regular guest rooms and one suite.”

  Outside the tall shuttered doors, crisp white wicker furniture beckoned guests to relax and enjoy the view of the flower garden and vast lawn, whose emerald green expanse rivaled any golf course.

  “I understood the inn had been closed for five years,” Trish said. “That garden certainly doesn’t look neglected.”

  “It was my mother’s garden, and my father has always kept Tony Mancuso, the gardener, on to maintain the grounds since we lost her.”

  Cooper nodded in appreciation. She had great respect for anyone who worked with their hands. All of her family took pleasure in planting and gardening, and she did as well.

  “Isn’t that an Austin Deveraux painting on the wall?” Bryant asked.

  The group turned to look at the painting of vibrant earth tones that hung over a polished cherrywood table.

  “It is.” Mindy’s face brightened. “We are fortunate to have two early Deveraux hanging in the inn. They are a set, but I chose to hang them in different rooms to spread the beauty.”

  “I love that sentiment,” Trish said.

  Savannah moved closer. “This is one of those times when I wish my vision were better. I’m a huge Deveraux fan. His brushstroke technique is one I’ve emulated with only limited success. Which is why I stick to folk art.”

  “Austin Deveraux?” Cooper asked. “I’m not familiar.” The only paintings on the walls in her home were from the time Grammy took classes at the local senior center.

  “Deveraux was a local artist who died much too young. Channel Six did a documentary on him last fall,” Bryant continued. “He’s known for his rustic watercolors. Many depict autumn scenes.”

  “Are you saying that this one and the other are originals?” Trish asked.

  “Oh, yes. Austin and my father were very close. They were gifts long before Austin’s work came to notoriety. They’ve hung in the inn as long as I can remember.”

  “That’s amazing,” Bryant said as he eyed the painting.

  “I’ll say,” Trish agreed.

  Cooper made a note to look up the artist later. She agreed that the painting was beautiful.

  From the great room, they followed Mindy to an adjacent dining room. “We offer breakfast, served buffet style, in here each morning through eleven a.m. since we do not have a lunch service.” Mindy turned to Cooper. “I am pleased to say Magnolia’s Marvels will be featured on the sideboard all day long for our guests.”

  “My mother is excited about this opportunity.” Cooper nodded with pride toward the artful display of Magnolia’s Marvels in cellophane bags decor
ated with gold stickers and tied with gold ribbons, placed next to the coffee and hot water urns.

  “I’m sure this is going to be a great partnership,” Mindy said.

  “Speaking of food,” Quinton said. “What time do you open for dinner?”

  “Seating begins at six p.m. daily. We’re located a little off the beaten path from the downtown Richmond eateries, which is why we offer a fine dining option.”

  “I’d love to meet your chef,” Quinton said.

  “We actually have two chefs. Chef Eason and Chef Mayberry.” A pained expression crossed Mindy’s face. “I’ll be sure they come out to your table and introduce themselves.”

  Two chefs for one kitchen. Recalling her father’s comment earlier about kitchens being territorial, Cooper made a mental note to follow up on that bit of information.

  A moment later, the diminutive, mousy receptionist who had checked them in earlier appeared at Mindy’s side, her thin hands trembling. “Excuse me, Ms. Atwood.” She cleared her throat and grimaced. “Mrs. Atwood wants to talk to you.” She leaned in closer. “About Dax.”

  “It’s all right, Helen.” Mindy patted the young woman’s arm before she turned to her guests. “I’m afraid I have to deal with this.” She waved a hand around. “Explore the facility and the grounds. Make yourselves at home. I’ve provided welcome bags in your rooms as well as feedback forms. I’m looking for your detailed thoughts this weekend, so please be honest. We launch in three weeks, and I’d like everything perfect for our guests.”

  “Thanks so much, Mindy,” Cooper said.

  “My pleasure. If you need anything, notify the front desk. We are operating with a skeleton staff until the grand reopening, but all of your room phones connect immediately to my office after nine p.m., when the front desk closes. Feel free to contact me for anything. We want to make sure your visit is memorable.”

  Mindy and Helen’s heads were together as they spoke in concerned murmurs and hurriedly departed.

  “What do you think that was all about?” Trish asked.

  “I suppose there’s bound to be last-minute emergencies involved in opening a business,” Cooper said.

  “Sure enough,” Jake said. “And when you have invested as much as has obviously been poured into this place, one small emergency can spell disaster.”

  “No doubt you are right, Jake,” Cooper said.

  “What do you think about that painting?” Trish asked.

  “It isn’t representative of Deveraux’s most popular work,” Bryant said. “But it would still bring in a pretty penny, I’m sure.”

  “I agree,” Savannah said. “Which is why I’d like to see the other painting.”

  Cooper glanced around. “I’m going to look around the office area. How about if we all meet back here in, say, one hour for dinner? Plenty of time for those who want to freshen up as well.”

  A chorus of agreement followed.

  “Anyone up for a stroll outside?” Bryant asked. “As a weather geek, I can tell you this is the sort of day meteorologists live for. Moderate temperature, winds, and humidity. And the barometric pressure is holding steady.”

  “I’m in.” Trish raised a hand. “I’d love to see the roses. As I recall, in the day there was talk that the Atwood Inn roses rivaled those at the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden.”

  “I’ve never been to the botanical garden,” Cooper said.

  “Cooper, we have got to get you out of the house more,” Trish said.

  Savannah flipped her thick black braid over her shoulder and looked up at Jake. “Care to wander around the library with me?”

  “As you wish, milady.” He placed her hand on his arm, his eyes twinkling as he looked at Savannah and led the way.

  Quinton glanced longingly through the doorway to the recliners in the great room. “I’ve been on the go since six this morning. I’m going to make a cup of tea and help myself to one of your mother’s treats. Then I plan to put my feet up and relax.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Cooper said. She turned and headed down the stairs and toward the inn’s massive foyer. Helen Everett, the fretful-faced receptionist, stood behind the marble-topped cherrywood reception desk staring at a laptop screen, her brow furrowed and her hands clasped tightly. Dressed in pale brown from head to toe, she reminded Cooper of a wren. Even her brown shoulder-length hair was pulled into a nondescript twist at the back of her head. She hovered over the computer furtively focused on the screen.

  When Cooper’s footsteps on the tile floor announced her approach, Helen quickly closed the lid on the laptop with a snap and straightened. “May I help you?”

  “Hi, there. Mindy said I could look around.”

  “Yes, Ms. Lee. Please do. Let me know if you need anything. We’re here to make certain that your stay is memorable.”

  Cooper nodded toward the hallway behind the reception desk. “What’s down there?”

  “The business center is to your right, across from the restroom, and the supply room is farther down the hall on the left.”

  “And the last room on the right?”

  Helen frowned. “Oh, that’s just a storage room. We keep extra furniture and such. Nothing to see in there.”

  “Do you have a break area for staff?”

  She nodded. “Yes, that’s off the kitchen.”

  “I see. Thank you so much, Helen.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am. We’re all delighted to have you here.”

  As Cooper strolled down the long hallway, the banging of a machine caught her attention. She peeked into what was certainly the business center. Two desks held computers, and a large floor-model copy machine stood in the corner.

  “Arrgh.” A tall man slammed a palm on the lid of the machine. “Gladys, you’re not being cooperative,” he said.

  “Maybe I can help you with Gladys,” Cooper said.

  When he turned toward her, Cooper found herself mesmerized by calm gray eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes. The man’s caramel hair was tousled, and a lazy grin touched his mouth.

  “I’ll take any and all assistance,” he said with an unmistakable Southern drawl. “Machines like to malfunction around me.”

  Cooper forced herself to focus and began to inspect the copier. “Xerox 6515/DN. Very nice. Copy, print, scan, fax, email‎.” She looked at him. “Which task were you trying to do?”

  “I’ve got to print the daily special inserts for the evening menu.” He narrowed his gaze and stared at the machine. “Gladys isn’t having it.”

  “Gladys has a paper jam.” Cooper examined the machine. She opened the front, removed the toner cartridge, and then carefully pulled out crumpled paper. “This window tells you what the problem is. See those little icons?”

  “I don’t speak printer.”

  Cooper couldn’t help but laugh as she restored the machine to order and pressed the Print button. “It’s your lucky day because I do. Fluently.” She shook her head. “Hmm. It appears there’s still something jamming things up.” Pulling a small flashlight from her pocket, she removed the toner again.

  “Do you always carry a flashlight?” the man asked.

  “I do. Job hazard.”

  “Oh? Are you Dax’s replacement?”

  “Dax?” That was the second time she’d heard that name. “Who’s Dax?”

  “Dax Wilson. The maintenance guy.”

  “Does he need replacing?”

  “If Loretta Atwood has anything to say about it.”

  “I’m not Dax’s replacement, but I do repair office machines.” Cooper inspected the recess of the copier, her beam of light reflected on an offending bit of metal.

  “This really is my lucky day, isn’t it?”

  When Cooper glanced up, he had leaned closed to watch. A waft of spices teased her nose. Cinnamon? His gaze met hers, and he offered a laughing smile.

  “I, um . . .” The man had her stammering and her heart racing. Cooper took a deep breath and concentrated on the job literally at hand. Moment
s later, she pulled out a large paper clip and turned to face him. “Yours?”

  “Guilty.” He offered his palm, and she dropped the weapon into his hand.

  “A word of advice,” she said. “Remove all paper clips, binder clips, and staples before putting paper through the copier.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” This time his expression was contrite, which only made him more appealing.

  Cooper once again returned the toner cartridge and closed the doors of the copier. The machine began its initialization cycle before it started spitting out the print job. “All fixed.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “We haven’t officially met, have we? I’m Jon,” he said.

  “Cooper Lee.”

  “Interesting eyes, Ms. Lee.”

  “Ocular transplant.” Cooper was accustomed to questions about her eyes and found it easier to simply provide the minimum of information and hope the person moved on. She didn’t like talking about herself.

  He peered at her, and once again the scent of cinnamon drifted to her. “Which one?”

  Cooper blinked at the question. “No one has ever asked me that before. The green one. The other is a rather ordinary blue.”

  “Not at all,” he drawled. “I suspect there isn’t anything about you that’s ordinary.”

  She couldn’t resist smiling, more pleased at his response than she probably ought to be. The man was clearly a charmer. “You must be a Southerner with that drawl.”

  “You mean more Southern than Virginia?” he asked with a laugh.

  “You tell me.”

  “Born and bred in the great state of Georgia. And you?”

  “I’m local. Four generations.”

  He looked her up and down. “Do you work at the inn too? How is it that our paths have not crossed before today?”

  Cooper too looked down at her clothes. Did she look like she worked at the inn? She sighed. Maybe so. She hadn’t changed after work and still wore black slacks and a crisp white blouse.

  “I’m part of the guest entourage evaluating the soft launch before the grand reopening,” she said.

  “Ah, I see. You’re one of the VIPs we were told about.” His expression became contrite. “Pardon me. Here I was confusing you with the staff.”