Despite her dark glasses, I can tell that Sarah is giving me a look of distaste. For some reason, she’s not pleased to see me. What did I ever do to her?
“Are you here to see the bloody paw print, too?” I ask.
Dawn did say that she was calling in any help she could think of, so my question makes sense.
From somewhere in the back of my mind, I recall that Sarah is on the town council, and was just elected to the position of director of tourism. I’m not entirely sure why Dawn would have called in the director of tourism—heck, I’m not even sure why our small town has a director of tourism in the first place—but it seems possible.
“Who told you about the paw print?” Sarah asks. “You’re Penny Banks, right?”
I tuck my bottle back into my bag, and swing my leg over my bike. As I wheel my bike towards the picket fence that lines the inn’s property, I answer. “Yep. Penny Banks. Private Investigator. And you’re Sarah Pelletier?”
I lean my bike against the fence and then stick my hand out as I approach Sarah.
She nods as she shakes my hand. “Correct,” she says curtly.
“Dawn called me and told me about the print,” I say, to answer Sarah’s question. “She wants me to see what I can find out, I suppose. She said something about a strange man, too.”
Oops. Did Dawn mean to tell me those things in confidence?
Oh well. It’s too late to worry about that now.
“Did she, now?” Sarah asks, pulling her dark sunglasses up and propping them on top of her head. She narrows her eyes. “Well, you might be disappointed, Miss Banks, if you think there’s private investigative work for you here. There isn’t. You might as well turn around and go home.”
She’s now standing in the middle of the last step, and hasn’t moved to either side to let me go by. It’s as if she’s blocking me from the inn’s entrance.
I’ve only ever really seen Sarah from afar, and we’ve never had a proper conversation. She’s usually bustling around town, putting up fliers for the town council, too busy for small talk. Now that we have a reason to talk, I’m not sure that I like her.
I’m getting a very stand-offish vibe.
“I think I’ll go in and talk to Dawn,” I say, ignoring her advice to turn around and go home.
I step forward. She doesn’t budge.
“Excuse me,” I say.
She glares at me, and stays rooted to the spot.
I step forward again. I’m so close to her now that I can smell her hairspray. It’s keeping her chestnut brown, straight hair neatly in place in her coiffed updo.
Finally—while I look at her foundation-caked face from just inches away—she steps aside.
I brush past her.
“Nice to officially meet you,” I say, as I pass. “I’ve seen you around town many times. You have a black Poodle, right? I’ve seen you walking him.”
“Hermes,” Sarah says. “He’s a Bernedoodle. Part Bernese, part Poodle.”
Despite the pleasant topic of conversation, she still looks sour.
“And you’re on the town council, too?”
This is what I really want to know. I was just buttering her up with talk of her dog. People usually love talking about their pets. Myself included. I have an eleven-year-old calico cat named Turkey, by the way.
“Yes, I am,” Sarah says. “I’m the director of tourism.”
I thought so!
Sarah seems to have had enough of our chit chatting. She’s finally surrendered her position at the base of the stairs, now that I’ve gotten around her, and she’s making her way towards the sidewalk.
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask “Did Dawn ask for your help, as a council member?”
Sarah reaches the sidewalk. Her back is to me. She doesn’t turn as she answers, but instead calls out over her shoulder, “Yes. I’ve already given her my take on things, so you really don’t need to bother. But if you insist on going in, I can’t stop you.”
She walks off, without so much as saying goodbye.
Well! Her panties sure are in a twist!
I reach the front door, which has swung closed, and pull it open.
The Hillcrest Inn lobby is spacious, clean and well kempt. I know that the owners, Dawn and Neville, make cleaning a priority because I worked here myself for a short while during high school.
I was working here when my mother died, during my senior year. Dawn and Neville helped me out a great deal during that time—which might be one of the reasons I’ve agreed to work for jam. It feels nice to finally be able to return their kindness.
I look around the lobby, remembering all of the times I swept, vacuumed and dusted the space.
I also remember sitting in the stuffed armchairs, just after getting news that my mother’s illness had returned. I had just finished dusting the mantle. The feather duster was in my lap. Dawn served me tea spiked with whiskey even though I was only seventeen at the time. I remember that I thought it tasted awful—but I appreciated the kind gesture nonetheless.
The polished pine wood floor is scattered with throw rugs, and a fire cackles in a hearth across from the front desk. The lobby is empty at first, but as I look around Dawn comes bustling out of the dining room, which is to the left of the lobby. She has large jar of jam in her hands.
“Penny!” she says, as she spots me. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long? I just went to the kitchen to get your jam.”
“Not long at all,” I assure Dawn. “I just got here. I talked to Sarah outside for a minute or two.”
“Oh! You saw Sarah. Wonderful.” Dawn holds the jam out to me. “Isn’t she such a pistol?” she says.
Pistol. That’s one word for Sarah Pelletier. Another one that comes to mind is ‘ice-queen’. I’m still feeling chilled by our encounter. However, now that I’m standing within the presence of Dawn, one of the friendliest women in Hillcrest, I’m beginning to warm up.
I smile. “Yeah, she’s a pistol all right,” I say, accepting the jar of jam that Dawn is holding out. It’s nice and heavy.
As soon as I’m holding the jam, Dawn wraps me in a warm hug. She squeezes me tight.
“Thanks for coming,” she says into my ear.
When she releases me, she gestures towards the door. “She has a real head on her shoulders, that Sarah does. I’ve been working with her to get our inn listed on some travel websites. Marketing has never been my strong suit, you know. Websites? Pff!” Dawn waves her hand. “What do I know about that nonsense? But Sarah’s a wiz.”
“It’s nice that she’s helping you out,” I say.
Dawn nods. “We both benefit from it. Sarah wants more people to visit Hillcrest. She keeps telling me that she’s working on our town’s reputation. Imagine that... a town having a reputation!”
“I guess it makes sense,” I say.
“I don’t know. People have reputations—of course. That makes sense to me. But towns?” Dawn shrugs. “But what do I know? Like I said, I’m no marketing expert. She wants people to see Hillcrest as a welcoming, friendly place to visit. She thinks our inn can help with that reputation. We are offering the only overnight accommodations in town!”
“True,” I say.
“But enough about that. How are you doing these days, Penny?”
“I’m great,” I say.
“Still at the apartment?”
“Still at the apartment,” I say.
“And Turkey? He’s holding up fine?”
“Just fine,” I confirm with a smile. Then, still baffled by my experience out on the front steps, I steer the conversation back to Sarah Pelletier. “So, she’s been helping you out with your marketing—Sarah has?” I ask.
“Unofficially,” Dawn says. “You know—we didn’t hire her or anything. She just seems to want to help us out. She really is on a mission.”
“I wonder why,” I muse. “She just moved to Hillcrest. Why does she care about our reputation? Why does she want more people to visit our town?”
Dawn shrugs. “I suppose that’s just the sort of person she is. You know, some of us like to have a cause. She’s very serious about her mission. Sometimes it’s a bit of a headache—when she talks about marketing and all that.” Dawn shrugs. “But Neville and I would be thrilled to have more income from overnight guests.”
“How has business been?” I ask.
Hillcrest is a very small town, nestled at the foot of three mountains in Colorado. There is only one main road into town, and we’re hours from any other town. Melrose is our closest neighbor, and it’s an hour and a half away. People don’t travel here—at least not usually—though it sounds like Sarah wants to change that.
“We had a good wedding season,” Dawn says. “And of course, working with the Historical Society to host the Bonfire Dance is always a big to-do for us. It’s a wonderful celebration of the founding of Hillcrest. Not to mention it accounts for almost all of our fall revenue. It’s coming up this Saturday, like I said on the phone.”
“Right,” I say. “Two days away.”
Dawn nods. “That’s why I’d like to get this whole mess sorted out. I want the dance to go smoothly. You know how particular the Historical Society is—speaking of reputations...” Dawn raises her eyebrows at me.
“I know,” I say, with a nod. Dawn doesn’t have to spell out what she’s alluding to. I’m reading between the lines. Rebecca, our town librarian, also heads up the Historical Society. She has quite a reputation around town as being a perfectionist. That’s putting it kindly.
Dawn continues. “One little thing goes wrong, and she starts dropping hints about changing the venue next year. It’s awful. I really do want things to go smoothly.”
“No wrinkles,” I say, nodding. “Then let’s get this sorted out. Start from the beginning. Tell me everything.”
Chapter Two
“Where to start?” Dawn looks around the lobby. “Let’s sit,” she says, motioning to the two stuffed armchairs by the fire. “I’ve been on my feet since six this morning.”
I follow Dawn over to the two red-and-white striped armchairs situated by the cackling fire.
As we sit, I open up my messenger bag and take out a piece of paper and pen.
Everyone knows that PI’s are supposed to take notes. I may not be the most skilled investigator out there, but at least I can try to get started on the right foot.
“Go ahead,” I prompt Dawn, as I cross one leg over the other and place the sheet of paper against my knee.
“Well, it all started two days back; Tuesday. We don’t get many overnight bookings, you know. We’ve only had two, actually, in the last year, so it’s quite a big deal when they come through.”
“Of course,” I say.
Dawn nods. “Well, on Tuesday morning I was setting up the dining area for the Garden Club’s weekly brunch. All the ladies bring a dish, and I make the coffee and tea. I was fussing over the coffee set-up when one of the ladies came in and said there was a man standing out at the desk.”
‘A man at the desk’, I write.
Shoot.
My pen keeps poking through the paper. A notepad would be better than this single sheet... or perhaps a clipboard. At least my tights are black, and will conceal the ink.
Dawn continues. “I went to the desk to see what he wanted, and he said that he wanted to rent a room!” Dawn raises both of her brows.
Now, in any other town but Hillcrest, an innkeeper might expect to rent out a room. But Hillcrest is an exception. I raise my brows too, empathizing with Dawn’s surprise.
“Imagine that!” I say.
“I know!” Dawn says. “It was the darndest thing! Of course, we had vacancies and I put him into our nicest room. You know, the one with the king-sized bed and the big window looking out over the front yard? I felt a bit strange about the booking because I wasn’t getting the best impression from this man.”
“Why not?
“Well, for one thing, he wasn’t very neatly dressed. And he smelled as if he hadn’t showered in days.”
“No shower?” I frown, and wrinkle my nose. “That’s not good.”
“I know, dear.” Dawn shakes her head. “For another, he wouldn’t meet my eye. It made me feel like he was hiding something. I don’t trust people who won’t meet my eye.”
Dawn looks at me then, and I make eye contact with her through the thick plastic lenses of my fake glasses.
You see, my personal development guru Jumper Strongheart says that if you wear fake glasses, you can actually feel smarter. I’ve been doing it for years now, and guess what? It really works. When I put my glasses on in the morning, I feel like my IQ jumps up 20 points.
I give my glasses a little adjustment as I look at Dawn.
She nods. “Like you,” she says. “You always look me in the eye.”
“Of course,” I say.
“And then there was the fact that he wouldn’t tell me what brought him to town. He said that he was just ‘passing through’.”
“No one just ‘passes through’ Hillcrest,” I say.
Dawn nods. “Exactly.”
“So you didn’t trust this guy, but you rented him a room?”
Dawn nods again. “I couldn’t turn him away. Neville would have had a fit. And besides that, where would he have gone if I’d refused him? We’re the only inn in town.”
“He could have camped in the park,” I say.
“In October?” Dawn shakes her head. “It’s freezing at night. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. I had to say yes.”
I jot down, ‘freezing at night’. My black tights get several more decorative ink-dots as I write.
Dawn continues. “He said that he wasn’t sure how long he’d be needing the room. I said that was no problem—that he could have it for as long as he liked. I’m sorely regretting that now.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Well, he’s not good for business. Rebecca’s been the president of the Hillcrest Historical Society for three years, and as I said, every year when we host the event she drops more and more hints about changing the venue.”
“Where else would she have it?” I say, frowning. “There’s nowhere else in town.”
“Nowhere suitable,” Dawn agrees. She furrows her brow. “She’s been hinting that she wants to reserve the yard behind town hall. She thinks she can get a permit to build a fire there.”
“That would be awful!” I say. “That yard is so small and bare.”
“Utilitarian,” Dawn agrees. “No ambiance.”
“It’s much nicer here. You and Neville put up the tent in the backyard, with those fancy little lights and everything...”
Dawn shrugs. “Last year she got so upset when our sound system didn’t work properly. Mayor Haywater had to make his speech using a bullhorn—remember? Rebecca said it was tacky. There could be worse things, you know.”
“The bullhorn did the job,” I say. “I heard him just fine.”
Dawn sighs. “Thank you for saying so, Penny. But I know that it wasn’t the best Harvest Bonfire Dance we’ve hosted. I promised Rebecca that everything would be just right this year. If things go awry again, I’m afraid we’ll lose their business and never get it back. Neville and I need that account. It keeps us afloat each fall. Our purse strings are rather tight, if you know what I mean.”
I know a thing or two about tight purse strings. “I completely understand.” I say. “It’s very hard to be a business owner in this town.”
“There you go,” Dawn says. “You know all about keeping customers happy. You see how important it is that this stranger doesn’t cause any issues on Saturday. I just don’t know where that print came from. He didn’t say anything about having a dog with him.”
“Do you allow dogs?” I ask.
“Sure,” Dawn says. “We charge a ten-dollar pet fee, because it means we have to steam clean the carpets after the guest leaves. But we allow it. I asked this gentleman if he had a pet when he first checked in, and he d
efinitely said no. But then why would there be a paw print on the carpet of his room?” She shakes her head. “And bloody, at that. I don’t like it.”
“You’re right,” I say. “It’s definitely odd.”
“And why would he have a visitor, if he was just passing through town?” she muses.
A visitor?
Before I can ask her about this, she goes on.
“No, I don’t like it one bit. I don’t want any trouble at the dance. Not with Rebecca so on edge, as she’s—”
“Hold on,” I say, holding up my pen to stop her before she can fret more about Rebecca. “Let’s back up for a minute. I want to know about this visitor. But first, what’s this guy—your strange guest—what’s his name?”
“Raul,” she says. “Raul Rivera. He’s in his early thirties—that’s my guess. He’s short and well-built. Rugged, you know. Like he might do something physical for a living. Lots of muscles, and all that. He has dark hair and kind of tan skin. His clothes are always smudged with dirt.”
I jot that down and then say, “Raul checked in on Tuesday morning. When did he have a visitor?”
“Well... let’s see... it must have been Wednesday—yesterday. Yes, that’s right. Yesterday, very early in the morning. About six-thirty. It was another man, about Raul’s age.”
“Who?” I ask. Since I know everyone in Hillcrest, I’m expecting Dawn to supply me with a name.
She surprises me by shaking her head. “I don’t know who it was,” she says. “I didn’t recognize him. He wore a grey knit hat snug on his head, and a navy sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. He had a beard that was dark—almost black, and trimmed in close to his face. Very intense eyes. Handsome. I know I’ve never seen him before.”
“Hmm,” I say, intrigued. I’ve never seen anyone matching this description either. “He came into the inn through the front door?” I ask, pointing with my pen to the front door across the lobby.
“Yes,” Dawn says. “That’s the only way for the public to come in and out. The back door only goes to our house—it’s private. You know that.”
A Hillcrest Witch Mystery Collection Page 18
