by Dale Mayer
The bread was looking good, but in no way was it done yet. At the island, she put the cinnamon buns on a rack to cool and poured herself a cup of coffee. The sourdough starter was ready to be put away, which she did, then she considered what was next on her list.
The men hadn’t arrived in time for breakfast, but she certainly didn’t have a problem offering them coffee or iced tea. It was only eleven in the morning. She’d had two groups leave this morning already, so she still had linens to change and laundry to do.
Just as she thought maybe she’d get that done before the men came downstairs, she could hear them arriving already.
As they walked in, Geir’s face lit up. “Cinnamon buns. They look delicious.”
“Glad you think so.” She put out two mugs and poured them coffee. “Help yourself.”
She grabbed two plates and handed them over with a set of tongs. Both men took two cinnamon buns each. She grinned. “I knew when Mason called to reserve your rooms that you would be big eaters.”
They slid her a sideways look, but neither could talk because their mouths were full.
She shrugged. “Now that you’ve checked in, I’ll give you the basic rules. We shut down the house at eleven p.m., so please be back by then. Breakfast will be served between seven and ten. Checkout is at eleven. Mason has you booked for three days and three nights, counting today, Tuesday, through Thursday night until check out time on Friday morning. If you need to change that, just let me know.” She gave them a brighter smile. “I have to switch out laundry from the two groups that just left this morning.”
“Do you have more coming in today?”
“I have a party coming in at four this afternoon. They’ll only be staying overnight and then heading out again.”
“That’s interesting. They stay here and not at a hotel close to the airport?”
She nodded. “I think they’re more comfortable in a house environment.”
“Do you provide dinners?”
She turned to them at that. “Not as part of the package, but I certainly will provide dinner if you can give me a time you’ll be here and some general idea of what you’d enjoy eating.”
The two men exchanged glances, then shrugged. Geir said, “Our schedule is a bit up in the air.”
“Then we’ll touch base on that concept a little later. I’m planning on making shepherd’s pie for dinner, and, if there’s any thought that you two might join me, I’ll make a bigger one. You can always warm up a plate when you come in.”
Both men brightened. “That would suit us just fine,” Geir said. “Thank you.”
She nodded and slipped from the kitchen.
There was something compelling about Geir. A sense of deep waters inside. She wanted to sit down and study him. He was a fascinating person to her. Jager was a little darker personality wise than she was used to, a little quieter, a little more stoic. Almost everyone who came to her bed-and-breakfast were friendly, family-oriented, fun-loving types. These men were more isolated—detached. For that reason, she was grateful they had each other. Life would be damn lonely if they didn’t have that.
Mason hadn’t given her any of their background information, and she hadn’t asked. Right now, questions were bubbling up to the surface. She knew it wasn’t part of her job, and, as part of the respect the patrons held for her, she didn’t ask too many questions.
She headed to the two bedrooms that had emptied and quickly changed out the linens. A washer and dryer were on each of the floors, which made her life a little easier. She started the laundry, remade the beds, grabbed the vacuum, cleaned up the rooms and then headed to the bathrooms for each. Thankfully both were reasonably clean, just needing a good wipe down.
When she was done, she returned to the kitchen to check if the men needed more coffee. The room was empty, their cups and plates washed and set on the draining rack to dry. She looked at the cinnamon bun pan. They had eaten the two each, and that was it.
She hadn’t heard them go upstairs, yet hadn’t heard them leave. They’d been incredibly silent. She frowned, wondering if that was an issue. It shouldn’t be. But she was used to friendlier, transparent guests. She shrugged and headed to her office. There was always paperwork to be done. She tried to work an eight-hour day, but that never really happened. Did any person who owned their own business get to have that luxury?
She ran this place herself, and it was only when she had multiple people coming in for breakfast all at the same time that she got a little flustered. Any other time, well, it was her home, and she just opened the doors to let the world in. Mason had chastised her more than a couple times about being too trusting. She had told him how most of her business was word of mouth. That helped a lot to ensure she had business but also that she and her guests were relatively safe, since Morning dealt with reputable people. She had a website, but she didn’t put any money into ads. So far she hadn’t needed to.
As soon as she got through her paperwork, she straightened her back, already aching from the hard chair. She glared down at the old thing. “Definitely past time to replace you,” she muttered.
The trouble was, as much as she did okay, she didn’t spend money on extras because something in the plumbing would always go awry, and she needed that little bit of saved-up money to handle it. She shrugged irritably and walked back into the kitchen. She could have brought her laptop and done some of her paperwork out here. It didn’t matter now that she was done with it for today.
She did a quick check, found the house was empty and that the men were gone. She looked out the living room window. No vehicles were parked at her curb. She’d seen the truck pull up that Geir had arrived in but had no idea what Jager had driven. And it was none of her business, she had to remind herself.
What she did have was a couple hours of free time. She headed to her bedroom, quickly changed into a clean painting smock and walked into her adjoining studio. One of the reasons she had opened her home as a B&B was because it gave her the chance to continue with her main passion, her painting. She had a gallery opening coming up in six months, and she didn’t have anywhere near enough paintings for it. And the ones she did have, she didn’t like.
She should probably show them to the gallery owner and see if they were even a possibility. The owner was doing this as a favor for a mutual friend, and she kind of hated that. She wanted to be offered a show on her own merit, but her friend had been very clear, telling Morning not to be too stupid or too proud to accept the gift horse offered. And that was right, but, at the same time, it was wrong.
She stared at the painting on the easel in front of her and frowned. “You look like shit,” she said in disgust. Instead of picking up her brush, she threw herself on the futon she kept here and stared up at the canvases around her. They were all touristy-looking scenes. They were all pretty, but she didn’t want to do pretty. She wanted drama. She wanted the painting to tell her something, to have the viewer look at it and get sucked in for the ride. These didn’t do that. They were gift-shop paintings. And that was so not where her heart was. The trouble was, she was running out of time.
Her phone rang. She pulled her cell from her pocket and groaned. Of course. It was the gallery owner. With a wince she straightened. “Hi, Leon. How are you?”
“Still waiting to see samples of what you’re bringing in for the show.”
“Right. I have a busy day today.” She thought about that white lie, not happy with herself. “Today is Tuesday. … How about Friday?”
“Friday, it is. Make sure you’ve got something good. I’m looking forward to seeing this. You come highly recommended.” And he hung up.
She glared at her phone and then tossed it on the futon. “No pressure though, right?”
The trouble was, she had put the pressure on herself. She could take these paintings to him, but she knew he wouldn’t like them. Hell, she didn’t even like them. What she needed was something that showed who and what she was on the inside, and that wasn’t necess
arily anything she could do. Not yet. Too risky. She wasn’t ready.
She sat for a long moment, hearing her father. He was a voice in the back of her mind. Really? You’ll give up so easily?
She shuddered. She’d spent a lifetime being a people-pleaser personality. Somewhere in her early or late teens, she realized she was a sunny kind of person. She sat up straight as she stared at the painting she’d already shot down. She got up, took it off the easel, set it on the floor against the wall. “Okay, so these are all right. But they don’t show my true personality. They don’t show the sunshine within. The light, that sparkle I feel attuned to,” she muttered.
She put a clean canvas on the stand and pulled out the yellow tube of paint. She stared at it for a long moment and then frowned. “Okay, so maybe not quite so yellow.”
She closed her eyes. “I need to trust I have what it takes to do this. The fear is crippling me. Show me the way. I trust in me. I trust in myself. Please help me find what I need to do right now.”
She opened up two tubes of paint, a winter white and a pale lemon, then turned back to the canvas.
Chapter 2
“Hello? Anyone here?”
Morning jolted with a start. She froze as she stared at the canvas, her gaze narrow. “Sorry. I’m coming,” she yelled.
“No problem. Just wondered if you were here.”
Dimly, in the back of her mind, she recognized the voice of one of her new guests. Just then Geir popped his face around the doorway. She stared at him in surprise. “Guests aren’t allowed in here.”
He nodded, but, instead of backing up, he stepped into the room. He looked at all the paintings she had set aside, potentially for the gallery, and he didn’t look quickly. Instead, he picked up each one, studied it, put it down, picked up another one.
She could feel herself not breathing, waiting for his comment, whether it was disparaging or complimentary. But he didn’t say a word. He studied them all, put them back, turned to look around, saw the futon, then came up behind her. She froze. She hated for anybody to see her paintings in progress. She knew it came from her well of self-doubt, worrying how each wasn’t a masterpiece. She could see what she wanted in her mind’s eye, but she hadn’t been able to get her fingers to match that same image on a canvas. Yet.
She stepped back until she stood beside him and turned her gaze to the canvas on the easel. She frowned. What the hell? Had she done that? Just then her grandfather clock chimed downstairs, and she realized it was four o’clock. She gasped. “It can’t be that late already.”
Geir slid her a glance. “Well, it is.”
Horrified, she looked at him, glanced back at the painting but couldn’t comprehend what she saw. She walked to the sink, cleaned her brushes and washed her hands.
When her hands were paint-free, she pulled off her smock and returned to take another look at the painting. It wasn’t just good. It was stunning. She knew it wasn’t finished, but, for the first time, she knew what was supposed to go next. It was an early morning sunrise, peeking through the clouds, adding light and lightness to a cherry blossom tree opening its buds. It was mostly done. She had a few more highlights to add. Several more hours probably because she always slowed down at this stage. But it was everything she could have hoped it to be.
At the same time she wondered if she was just caught up in the euphoria of a new project and not seeing it clearly. Then she turned to look at her nice paintings and knew there was no comparison. This wasn’t so much nice as it was demanding. It sucked you in and held you there.
And still Geir hadn’t said anything. He stood silently at her side, staring at the painting.
She walked to the door. “I’d like you to come out of there now please.”
He glanced at her, his gaze piercing as he said, “If you can paint like this”—he motioned to the canvas on the easel—“why do you paint like that?” He pointed to the pictures on the floor.
She stopped and looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“The level, the intensity, it’s tenfold in this painting. This one draws you in. I want to be there on that cherry blossom branch, watching the sunrise. It’s full of possibilities. It’s full of hope. Those others are flatter, still pretty, but this …” He returned his gaze to the canvas in front of him. “It’s stunning.”
Inside she felt some of the walls she’d built over her art dissolve. Some of her own insecurities came crumbling down. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I have to come up with some paintings to take to a gallery owner on Friday. And I was unhappy with what I’d already done. I was looking for something that defined me, who I am. And I honestly don’t remember very much about the last few hours. I got so caught up in the painting.”
He walked toward her. “So that painting is going in a gallery. It’ll be for sale?”
She nodded. “Hopefully. If he likes it.”
“If he doesn’t like it, I would like to buy it.”
She turned and looked at him. He nodded. “I’m serious. It’s really beautiful.”
Her heart bursting with happiness, she practically danced her way downstairs into the kitchen.
As Geir followed her, he said, “Tell me about the gallery showing.”
She shrugged as she pulled out the preparations for her shepherd’s pie, knowing she had to work fast. While she talked, she got the meat cooking, chopped up vegetables and put on the potatoes. “Not a whole lot to tell. A friend of a friend got me the invitation, and I was feeling uncomfortable, thinking I didn’t earn it on my own.”
“Some of the best breaks in the business world come from word of mouth,” he said neutrally. “You can’t let that stop you from taking advantage of it.”
She shrugged. “I’ve always been self-conscious about my art. I felt like I couldn’t quite connect to that part of my soul that needed to express what was in my head and in my heart. But with that painting, the most recent one, I feel like maybe I finally made a tentative step in that direction.”
“It shows incredible promise.” He looked around. “Any chance of a cup of coffee?”
She nodded. “Absolutely.” She put on a pot and returned to chopping the vegetables.
Twenty minutes later, she had the meat browned, all the vegetables collected, and a thick gravy just waiting on the potatoes. He saw what she was about to do and said, “Let me drain those.”
He took the pot off the stove and drained out the moisture, took off the lid, and, while she poured in cream, butter and spices, he mashed the potatoes into a nice thick topping for the vegetables and meat. It took another ten minutes to get it all assembled into the pan and into the oven.
She exhaled and smiled. “Phew! That’s done.” She turned the temperature up on the oven. “Dinner will be in an hour.”
“Absolutely,” he said with a smile.
“How did your afternoon go?” she asked.
“Actually I wanted to ask if Jager was here. I haven’t seen him since this morning.”
“I haven’t seen him either.” She turned and looked at Geir. “Is that a problem?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I headed off to meet someone, but he didn’t show. Now I can’t connect with Jager.” Clearly Geir was frustrated. “So far it feels like today has been a complete waste. I was hoping Jager had better luck.”
“I’m not sure I can do anything to help you in your reason for being here, but I haven’t seen Jager since you left. Then again, I didn’t hear you leave, so …” She held out her hands. “Did you check his room?”
Geir nodded. “He’s not there.”
“Vehicle?”
“Not there.”
“Did you call him?”
“He hasn’t answered his phone.”
She leaned her hands on the edge of the counter and stared at Geir. “Is this serious? Do we need to call the police?”
He shook his head. “It wouldn’t be the police I’d call because what we’re doing here is private, for lack of a better
word. I need to give Jager time to get back to me.” Then his phone rang. He smiled and held it up. “Jager. Hey, where are you?” Instantly he froze. “I’m on my way.” He walked out of the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “You may have to hold plates for us.”
She trailed behind him. “Why? What happened?”
“Jager just called. He was tracking somebody we know.”
“And?”
Geir turned to look at her. “He found a body.”
Geir hopped into his truck, pulled out into the traffic and headed downtown. His phone rang again. He clipped it on the dashboard and hit Talk. “Jager, I’m on my way.”
“Good. So are the cops.” His voice was dry. “I’m not in a very good position here.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“No, but, according to somebody I just talked to, he was a friend of Poppy’s.”
Geir’s back stiffened. “How good a friend?”
“That’s the thing, isn’t it? Apparently Poppy is well-known for his friends.”
“And that would include Mouse, I presume?”
“I asked him about Mouse, and he said he’d seen him around. But not for a few years.”
“Well, he’s been dead for two. He was in our unit for a third so how many does a few years mean?”
“He disappeared before he could answer anything else,” Jager said. “I have a good idea where he went though. It might be worth our while to give him a good shakedown, see what else he might have for information.”
“Was he close to the body?”
“Yes, but he took one look, then tried to bolt. I grabbed him, told him that I didn’t have anything to do with it.” He shrugged. “That body has been here for a while.”
“And of course he didn’t call for help?”
“Pretty sure he figured there was no point in trying to help because there was no help to be given.”
“According to the GPS, I’ll be there in seven minutes.”
