Room At The Inn (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (2 page)

Susan wasn't kidding when she said we'd have the most intimate room. Intimate as in small, and also one of the inn's unfinished rooms, although the tiny bathroom did have a working sink and toilet. The shower stall was half-built—the tiles still in a box on the floor. Freshly spackled walls awaited a fresh coat of paint. Fine plaster dust coated the sink and edges of the room that someone's hasty clean-up had missed. One battered, hard-backed chair sat next to the double bed, which was covered with a faded floral spread. The closet had no hangers. We'd have to live out of our suitcases.

Maggie held up well until we finished unloading our stuff. She looked around the tiny room and her eyes brimmed with tears.

"What wrong?" I asked.

"Everything. Susan's welcome was anything but warm. We have to fend for our meals. This room is so small we can hardly turn around and—" she bounced on the mattress, “—the bed is uncomfortable."

I sat beside her. She was right. The mattress felt like concrete. "So we'll eat cheap." I tried to sound lighthearted, like the whole thing was an adventure. I wiped away her tears and kissed her. "Of course, we could just go home."

She sniffled. "Home?"

"If the town's booked up we might have to drive another hour or two to find a room for the night, but it can be done."

"I don't want to go home. I promised the magazine a review of a Vermont inn. I can't set up anything else before my deadline."

"Okay," I backed off, "it was just a thought. We'll finish the work as soon as we can, and in the evenings we'll take advantage of whatever the inn has to offer. Okay?"

"Okay." She wiped her eyes, regaining her composure. "Susan's attitude shouldn't surprise me. She never knew how to be a real friend. After all these years, I hoped she would have mellowed."

"Let's try to enjoy the time we're here. And if we don't—we'll be home in a couple of days anyway. We can stand just about anything for a couple of days, can't we?"

Maggie nodded and I felt her tension ease, replaced by curiosity. "Why did you ask Susan about murder?"

"This place is giving off screwy vibes," I admitted.

"It happened a long time ago, right?" She sounded hopeful.

"I don't know."

For a moment she looked worried, then her expression brightened. "I'm not going to think about it. Remember what happened at the antique store?"

Did I ever. Troubled by visions of death, I'd gone back to the store two or three times. Finally, the owner told me the history behind the chalice, a prop in a long-running production of Hamlet. The actors must've been truly gifted for those dark feelings to be so strong.

I looked at my watch. "We'd better get started. But first, let's grab some cookies from the dining room.”

"Jeff?" Her voice stopped me. "I love you a lot."

I leaned over to kiss her again. "I love you, too." I hugged her and she held me tightly. "It'll work out, Maggs. It will," I assured her.

Then why didn't I believe it?

I decided to take advantage of the late afternoon light—especially since I didn't know what the weather might be like the rest of the weekend. I wanted a shot of the main entrance, but to get it we had to do some spruce-up gardening.

Nadine showed us where to find the pruning shears, a broom and bushel basket. I trimmed hedges while Maggie dead-headed the annuals. She also swept the walk and allowed me to brush away the spider webs on the shingled exterior, a job she wasn't keen on doing. Once the entrance looked inviting, I set up the tripod and snapped away, looking much more professional than I felt.

Cars came and went. While we didn't actually meet any of the other guests, we nodded a hello to the curious few who passed on their way in or out of the place.

It was nearly sunset by the time we packed up the equipment and crowded it into our room. By then all we were interested in was finding a place to chow down. We came across a convenience store in the village, bought a sub sandwich and a couple of Cokes, and feasted in the front seat of my car.

Maggie was quiet, radiating waves of disappointment and embarrassment. I feel like an emotional leech when I glom onto someone else's feelings, and I seldom tune into the more joyful end of the emotional spectrum.

I reached over and touched her shoulder. "Maggs, it's not your fault."

"Yes it is. I didn't clarify with Susan what was expected. I didn't cement the deal in writing, and now we're doing yard work and eating in your car—" She let out a ragged breath.

"Hey, we're together, that's all that matters. Next time it'll be different."

She met my gaze. "Next time?"

I gave her a smile. "I have this funny feeling...."

"Next time," she murmured, warming to the idea.

After we'd finished eating, I tossed the remains into a trash barrel outside the store, got back in the car and pulled onto the highway.

"Do you think we'll have time to take a drive and just enjoy the scenery?" Maggie asked.

I shook my head. "We knew it would be a working vacation. We just didn't know how much work it would actually be."

"What will we tell the other guests?"

"The truth. We're there to take pictures for a magazine article. We'll spend time in the common rooms and you'll get a real feel for the place. That'll make your article even better.”

The motels, restaurants, and small shopping plazas petered out the further north we went. As we rounded a bend in the road, I suddenly thought of my brother, Richard. With the thought came an unsettling sense of urgency. Was it tied to that premonition of death I'd experienced earlier?

I didn't want to think about it.

A Mercedes, a Cadillac, a BMW, and a red hot Camaro lined the Sugar Maple's driveway. When the Dawson's completed renovating the other rooms, they'd need to come up with better parking arrangements. I left my aging Chevy sedan in back, noticing how shabby it looked in comparison.

Maggie went back to our room to freshen up and I headed to the lower level for coffee and a couple of cookies. I sat at one of the tables, scoping out the warm, pleasant dining room. Unlike the overdone lobby, here the antiques, cheerful wallpaper, and lamps with candle-like flicker bulbs, lent an air of comfort.

A miniature Christmas village sat on a wide table at the room's perimeter. Ceramic houses, shops, and churches flanked a plastic paved road. Working stoplights and street lamps glowed while porcelain skaters, whirling on a mirror pond, gave the pseudo town life. Susan had big bucks tied up in the display, which played on the beauty of the area, reminding guests that ski season was just around the corner. With blazing logs in the fireplace and a hot toddy in hand, the inn would indeed be a very romantic setting. Too bad when winter arrived we'd be back in snowy Buffalo, which had none of Stowe's ambiance.

I could set up the tripod just about anywhere in the room and get pleasing shots—that is if I could light it properly. Digital cameras are great in low-light situations, but what the average person considered great and a photo editor considered print quality were two different things. After the breakfast rush, and with a little help from either Susan or one of her staff, Maggie could dress the tables to give the appearance of a sumptuous feast. Maybe if we moved the village display a little to the right....

I was still pondering various photographic scenarios when Maggie arrived. She'd brought the novel she was reading, as well as a pad of paper and a felt-tipped pen.

"You must be a mind reader," I said, as she handed me the tablet.

"I figured you might want to sketch the placement of the lights."

"It sounds like you think I know what I'm doing."

"We can at least go through the motions," she teased, taking a seat across from me at the table.

An older, silver-haired woman, dressed in gray slacks and a bulky turquoise sweater, entered. Her sweater's bright color only emphasized her waxy complexion.

"Ah, good, coffee," she said, with a trace of an English accent. She poured a cup, snagged a napkin and a couple of cookies, and turned. "Would you mind?" she asked, indicating an empty chair at our table.

"No," I said.

She sat and offered me her hand. Warm and dry to the touch, the woman broadcasted a flood of conflicting emotions—excitement, trepidation, and a sense of anticipation. I took a ragged breath and forced a smile. God, I hate when that happens.

"Eileen Marshall," she said.

"Jeff Resnick," I managed. "And this is Maggie Brennan."

She shook Maggie's hand, too. "I saw you and your photography equipment outside earlier. Susan says you're doing an article on the inn."

"Yes," Maggie said.

"Where will it be published?"

"I freelance for Country Lifestyles," Maggie said, not mentioning her day job as a contract secretary at one of Buffalo's banks.

"I work in the publishing field and am always on the lookout for new talent," she said.

Maggie brightened. "Oh?"

"I worked for Hearst Publications for many years in their New York office. I'm currently a consultant and still have many contacts in Manhattan. Occasionally I help authors and photographers place their work." She took out a business card and handed it to Maggie, then took a bite of cookie. "Hmm. Very good. You'll mention these in your piece, won't you?"

"Yes," Maggie said, studied the card, and then tucked it in her book before she got up to pour a cup of decaf and grab a cookie.

"Are you here for business or pleasure?" I asked Eileen.

"Both. Still, I can use a few days holiday," she explained. She did look tired. As I studied her thin face, I got the feeling she really wasn't well at all.

"Have you met any of the other guests?" Maggie asked, taking her seat once more.

"A few," Eileen said. "I've been here before. People trickle in all evening. They seem to congregate downstairs between nine and ten. Susan and Zack leave a bottle of sherry out on the bar. It helps break the ice."

"Too bad Brenda's missing this," I said. "My sister-in-law," I explained for Eileen's benefit. "She's the sherry drinker in the family."

"I've visited many New England inns, but I have a special affection for the Sugar Maple," Eileen said. "We had a splendid time in the hot tub last spring. Very relaxing."

We?

"I guess I must've missed it during the tour," I said.

"It’s out by the pool," she said.

"It sounds heavenly," Maggie said wistfully.

The conversation waned. I sipped the last of my coffee while Maggie nibbled her cookie. Footsteps descended the stairs, accompanied by laughter. Eileen looked at her watch. "Right on time. Shall we meet some of the others?"

I was content to sit on my ass and be thoroughly antisocial, but Maggie looked hopeful. "Why not," I said, and pushed back my chair.

We cut through the large, bright, utilitarian kitchen, depositing our dirty cups in the deep porcelain sink. Various sized skillets hung in orderly fashion over a center island. Plates, bowls, and glasses lined open shelves within easy reach. Antique cooking utensils decorated open spaces on the walls, including an impressive array of heavy, wooden mashers, standing like toy soldiers on a shelf over the sink. Several pictures of a large sailboat were taped to the stainless steel shelving. Its name:
Sea Nymph
. Exiting to the barroom, so called because of the large, knotty pine bar dominating one wall, we followed the voices into the next room.

An attractive woman, maybe half a decade older than Maggie, barely noticed our entrance. She wore the clothes of a twenty-something—a form fitting mini skirt and a low-cut blouse—and had the body to go with them. She held a pool cue in one hand, her eyes fixed on a much younger man, who racked the balls for a game. She looked at him with a restless hunger that her air of sophistication couldn't disguise.

"Hi," he said. Tanned and good-looking, he had an athlete's physique. His sun-streaked brown hair and even white teeth were perfect, and his vivid blue eyes were almost as striking as Maggie's. He looked like he belonged on a billboard somewhere. He was probably twenty-four—twenty-six at the most—and at least twenty years younger than his companion.

"Hello," Eileen said. "We were having coffee in the dining room when we heard you come downstairs. I'm Eileen Marshall."

The woman turned away, her face filled with sudden anger, but the younger man shook Eileen's offered hand. "Ted Palmer." He indicated the woman. "This is my friend, Laura Ross."

"How do you do," Eileen said good-naturedly.

Laura eyed her coldly, and then let her gaze fall back to the table.

I finished the introductions and Ted thrust his hand at me. I grasped it and the floodgates opened once again. Emotions and sensations burst upon me—chief among them was boredom.

I hate when that happens. Time seems to stop and I never know how long I've stood there with my mouth open, looking foolish. I yanked my hand back and glanced at Laura. Despite the age difference, I knew these two were lovers.

Ted scrutinized Eileen's face. "Were you here Fourth of July weekend?" At Eileen's nod, he said, "I thought I remembered you."

"Laura Ross..." Maggie repeated. "Aren't you the editor of American Woman magazine?"

"Former editor."

"She's taking a well-deserved break," Ted finished for her.

"Did you arrive today?" Laura asked stiffly, her gaze riveted on Maggie.

"This afternoon.”

"They're doing a magazine article on the inn," Eileen volunteered. "I'm sure we'll all be interested in reading it when it comes out.”

Why did she suddenly sound so snide?

Laura ignored her. "Is this your first time here?"

"Yes. It's very nice," Maggie said.

Laura glanced around the room. "Not as exclusive as some of the other inns in the area, but there's a peacefulness here that fills your soul."

As one sensitive to such things, I could've disputed that claim, but I kept my mouth shut. Eileen merely rolled her eyes.

"It sounds like you've been here many times," Maggie said.

"I've been coming to Stowe since I was a child. I've known several of the inn's past owners. Susan and Zack have done a marvelous job renovating the place. It really is lovely." The words were perfect—it was the delivery that sounded sour.

Ted set the rack aside and grabbed a cue from the wall. "Don't let us hold you up," I said, feeling the need to escape.

"We’ll see you later," Maggie said brightly.

Neither of them seemed particularly sorry to see us go.

"Let me show you the hot tub," Eileen offered, sliding back into her friendly persona, and led us through another quaint room. "This is the sun room.”

And aptly named because of the bank of windows on three sides. The rustic woodwork looked and smelled spanking new. Comfortable overstuffed chairs were grouped for conversation. An old maple table, refinished and suitably distressed, held a checkerboard. Shelves filled with old books and collectibles lined another wall.

Eileen walked us out the French doors into the backyard. Spotlights were trained on the pool and the swirling waters of the oval hot tub, which looked large enough to seat six. Clean, white towels were draped over patio chairs. The whole setup looked inviting.

"Can I tempt you?" Eileen asked, looking at Maggie.

"I'm game," Maggie said.

Something in my gut held me back. Besides, getting naked in front of strangers isn't my idea of a good time. "I don't think so."

"Oh, come on, Jeff, it'll be fun," Maggie insisted.

"Maybe tomorrow night."

"Suit yourself," Eileen said, disappointed. "Perhaps tomorrow you'll want to check out the trail that circles the property. It goes past the creek and through the woods. It's a pleasant walk."

"Sounds great," Maggie said.

It was almost ten o'clock and I was tired. "What say we call it a night?" I asked Maggie.

"All right," she said, and smiled at Eileen. "See you at breakfast."