Bed and Breakfast and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  “They’ll be here midweek,” he said. And left. While the corner of Grandmother Iris’s strange metal box dug into my butt and I wondered if Crew would offer Dad the same warning he just handed me.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty Five

  I sat on the counter for a good five minutes after Crew had gone, pondering my next steps. When I slid forward and hit the tile, I turned and pulled the box toward me, staring down at the padlock, fingers running over the pitted metal of the rectangle. I tried a few combinations, absent and not believing their usability. My birthday, Dad’s, Mom’s. Even Grandmother Iris’s. Nothing. And still without the means to break the lock.

  I carried it into my bedroom, tucking it under the bed, sinking to the quilt. Whatever the box contained, I had other things to think about right now.

  It was an uneasy night’s sleep and a bleary cup of coffee endured with sideways stares from Mary and Betty while they served breakfast in the main dining room the next morning—a bright and sunny Monday—before I actually admitted to myself there was a real possibility Dad was in a lot of trouble. And while there was a chance something else was behind Pete’s death, I couldn’t help but go back to the property acquisitions through unethical means as the reason for the contractor’s murder. I needed to see the original document, the one my grandmother supposedly signed, with a copy of her actual signature in my hands for comparison.

  But Jared wouldn’t talk to me, nor would his mother, Aundrea. The funeral hadn’t happened yet and might be put off for some time if the state troopers had their own investigation to do. That meant going to the source myself.

  The audacity of the idea appealed to me. As soon as breakfast was over, the guests out and about for the day, I left Daisy to man the phones and, leaving unhappy Petunia behind as well, stuffed the photocopy of the paperwork and an old signed letter from my grandmother into my purse and hit the sidewalk.

  Pete’s office was just down the block from the coffee shop where Daisy claimed to have witnessed the two Wilkins’s having a fight. I stopped in to chat with the baristas at Sammy’s Coffee, but neither of the girls working had any recollection of the argument and it was busy enough at the counter I was quickly aware I wasn’t welcome if I didn’t have an order to place.

  The late morning sunshine was at distinct odds with my mood while I paused outside Sammy’s and stared across the street at Wilkins Construction Inc. Jaw about as set as my determination, I strode forcefully to the glass door and jerked it open, stepping into the air conditioning with battle in mind.

  Only to stop and stare at the blonde girl from the Wilkins’s house, the same girl in the staff photo at the nursing home. The very girl who seemed to know the supposed drug dealer working beside The Orange. Too many links and crossovers to be small town coincidence.

  She stared at me in shock, like she knew me, face paling out except for some red blotches that traveled down her throat and into her cleavage. She dressed a lot like a professional girl who didn’t understand propriety very well, or understood it on the other end of professional, if you know what I mean. Suit a bit too tight, shirt unbuttoned one too many, skirt needing two or three inches to be really office worthy. But there was an innocence to her that didn’t raise my hackles, instead calming me and giving me confidence here was someone who had information I could use.

  “Fiona Fleming,” I said, sticking out my hand with a real smile.

  She hesitated before taking it, but when she shook it her grip was firm and authentic. “Alicia Conway,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for paperwork Mr. Wilkins had in his possession, supposedly signed by my grandmother.” I pulled the copies out to show the girl who took them and nodded, swallowing hard. She suddenly seemed nervous and didn’t act surprised, handing them back after barely a glance.

  “Petunia’s,” she said. “Yes.”

  So, she was in on this whole thing? I found that hard to believe, not with the way she seemed upset by my presence but not guilty. Just sad.

  “You work at the nursing home.” I didn’t frame it as a question. Let Alicia think I knew far more than I did.

  She gulped, shrugged. “I used to,” she said. “Pete—Mr. Wilkins—hired me three months ago to be his personal assistant.” She tugged at the hem of her skirt like the length wasn’t her idea. I’d despised him pretty much right away but knowing he’d bullied this girl into the kind of clothes she wore made me all the more nauseated.

  “Did you know what your boss was up to?” I tucked the papers back into my bag, leaving that open question hanging between us.

  Alicia shook her head, blonde curls trembling, color flooding her face to her perfectly drawn eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “But you said you did,” I said. “Petunia’s.”

  She hesitated, clamped her lips shut. “Please,” she whispered. “I can’t help you.”

  Frustrated irritation cut through my kindness and even knowing I was suddenly playing the bully didn’t stop me. “I need to know what’s going on.”

  Alicia shook her head again, a quick movement, eyes averted. “I’m sorry.”

  Well, it wasn’t like I could beat information out of her or anything. Could I? Sigh. But I could try a threat. “If I find out you were part of this—”

  She gasped softly, face falling, sorrow returned. It was a long time before she spoke, hands clasping her elbows as if that grip was all she had to hold herself together.

  “Pete didn’t keep any important papers here,” she said, voice shaking and just loud enough to hear. She looked up, eyes catching mine, hers full of tears, long lashes thick with mascara sticking together thanks to the heavy moisture. “If you want to find what you’re looking for, check the site trailer at the equestrian center he was building. Near Carter’s Creek.” She licked her lips. “That’s all I know.”

  I could have prodded her further, but Alicia gave me more than anyone I’d talked to so far. And the poor girl really looked like she’d just put herself in genuine danger.

  “Thank you,” I said, pulling back on the mean girl attitude. “Are you okay?”

  Alicia sobbed once, wiped at her nose with a shaking hand. “If you leave.”

  Okay then. “Call the sheriff if you’re in trouble.” It was the best I could do if she wouldn’t take help from me. “Alicia.” If Ruth was involved as Grandmother Iris suggested in her letter, was she threatening the girl?

  She bobbed a nod before laughing softly. “You have no idea.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have left her there. Whatever trouble she was in, she’d likely put herself in it. That didn’t mean I should be heartless or care less about her. But if she wasn’t willing to help herself… still, maybe she was trying, giving me the directions she did.

  One more person to worry about.

  I exited the office, back into the rising heat of the July day, and looked up to spot the last person I expected hustling past on the other side of the street. And followed Simon Jacob, knowing where he was going, unburdened with a pug this time and determined to tie up his particular part of the puzzle one way or another.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Why was I not surprised we ended up back at The Orange? I did a bit better job hiding my intentions this time, tucking in beside a waste barrel and a light post, watching Simon repeat his routine. The young man was in the same place and after a brief conversation and exchange of what I assumed was money for goods, my quarry knocked on the gray side door and was again admitted without preamble.

  Knowing it was probably a stupid thing to do but not really having much impulse control around this whole situation, I drew a breath and crossed the street, smiling at the young man who instinctively smiled back. He straightened from his crouch, cigarette burning between his lips, leering at me as he had at the nursing home.

  I waved in greeting, pausing next to him in the dim alley, sunlight missing the mark thanks to the
three story buildings surrounding us. I felt like I was in some bad movie making a clandestine buy while, at any point now, the police would show up and arrest me for a variety of illegal acts.

  Instead, to the sound of traffic easing by and someone’s dog barking in the distance, I inhaled the faintly rotten scent from the dumpster at the end of the alley while the young man winked at me.

  “You in the market?” He didn’t move other than to look me up and down. The tight t-shirt I wore over my knee length running pants wasn’t exactly a fashion statement but he wasn’t complaining about the view. Creeped out by this junior taking a long, hard look, I fought to keep my friendly smile.

  “Sure am,” I said, a bit too brightly, wincing inwardly at my nerdy response. His eyebrow leaped, grin tightening. At least I hadn’t scared him off. “Sorry,” I went for pathetic, glancing around nervously. “I haven’t done this before.”

  He unwound from where he leaned against the wall, skinny and cocky and trying to look dangerous while a giggle tickled the back of my throat. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen, the punk. I was enough my father’s daughter the idea of running him in for selling was at the top of my mind when he spoke.

  “Well, Pitch is your man, gorgeous,” he said, yellow teeth flashing as he smiled, dropping his still burning butt to the ground and stepping on it carefully with the toe of his dirty sneaker. “Saw you lurking yesterday, figured you’d be back for a buy.” He coughed a laugh around the exhale of smoke from his final drag. “You middle class ladies just need to ask and I got what you’re looking for.”

  I wondered if he was either inexperienced enough to trust a stranger or if I really was that vanilla I didn’t seem to be a threat. Yeah, probably the latter.

  “Let me guess,” he said, easing closer, eyes on my chest. “You’re not here for the happy plant, right? More a vike kind of girl? Or a bit of the old cotton got you going?” He tugged at the back pocket of his jeans. “I got the kicker you’re looking for, if that’s your speed, sweetness.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but when he produced a little baggie full of what looked like prescription pills, my mind stuttered to a halt before zooming into fast forward. Making all kinds of connections. To nurses and nursing homes and young men who had access to pills they shouldn’t have.

  And realized maybe this whole thing had a far bigger ream of implications than signatures and property acquisition.

  Whatever his instincts, it seemed I’d finally triggered them. Gaping at his stash couldn’t have helped because it only took him a second to disappear the baggie before backing away from me, smile fading, frown appearing.

  “Wait, you’re right.” I had lost him, desperation making me stupid. More stupid. Stupider? Whatever. “Please, don’t leave.”

  He shook his head, hands in his pockets, scowling now like a dog preparing to bite. “Beat it, lady,” he said. Sniffed the air. “You smell like pork.”

  “Just tell me what Simon was buying.” The young man who called himself Pitch leaned against the wall, looked away.

  “I’m just standing here having a smoke,” he said, the butt on the ground still emitting a thin trail into the air. “Get lost.” He jerked forward then, spun from me. “On second thought, I’m outta here.”

  I watched him go, frustration and annoyance winning. When I turned around to go back to the street, I stopped dead and stared at Vivian, her little red convertible parked at the end of the alley. Met her narrowed eyes and took in her sudden grin of glee as she waved her phone at me. And then drove off like she’d won the lottery.

  Whatever Vivian was up to, that was her problem. Right now, I had another issue to deal with. No Pitch to tell me what Simon was doing here. Which meant I had to go into the bar, right?

  I seemed to be on a do all the stupid things roll today, so why not?

  Without thinking straight or even really considering anything aside from bubbling irritation, I knocked on the gray door and waited. It swung open, a big man in a suit with a buzz cut and a clear plastic wire running from his ear into the collar of his white shirt looked down at me with a frown to match his bad boy appearance.

  “Yeah?” His voice sounded like he gargled cheap whiskey for a living.

  “I’m here for Simon.” I had no idea what prompted me to say that, but it made the man grin for an instant.

  “He just got here. In the back, as usual. You bring the bankroll?” He eyed my outfit.

  I didn’t comment, not sure what to say. Sure he was going to send me packing. But instead of chasing me off, he stepped aside and waited for me to enter.

  Some security. Again, I guess I must have appeared innocent enough if he let me pass. Pretty dumb of me to feel insulted by that, right? I was a badass. In a t-shirt and running shoes and a ponytail of dark red hair. Yeah, such a threat to big, tall and looming.

  I walked past him. So, had Simon promised something he couldn’t deliver? Blamed it on Terri, maybe. My mind flickered to Vivian. What had she been doing out front? Was she part of whatever this was? Didn’t matter now, not really. Whatever the case, I’d strolled into the lion’s den and now I could either beg him to let me out again or pretend I knew exactly what I was doing.

  Guess which one I picked?

  I made it about ten feet to a half open door with a table on the other side, crowded with men and the sound of poker chips being clicked together, a sound I knew well enough from my own days of playing. I could spot an illegal game when I saw it, had taken part in a few back in New York. But was shocked to find one here.

  So much so I froze in full sight of the players. And found myself surrounded by a trio of big boys that told me whoever owned this place had a matched set of bullies to do his bidding.

  “And who, exactly,” a voice said, faint threat in the lilt of his Irish accent, “are you?”

  It was that moment I realized I was in a lot of trouble that had absolutely nothing to do with Pete.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  The dark interior of this bar felt about as authentically Irish as The Harp and Thorn screamed tourist attraction. Gone were the sparkly mirrors and the white painted walls, the big screen TV’s and the tall ceilings. Instead, this place felt like traveling to the Emerald Isle as I’d had the good fortune to do, though frankly I would have preferred to not feel like I’d fallen into the dark and much worn den of the Irish mob here in Reading, Vermont.

  Because that’s exactly what I’d done, from the handsome, if older, man in the black t-shirt and jeans, his lean body tight with muscle, gray hair left long and wavy around his square-jawed face. Traces of old, faded freckles and green eyes that matched mine watched me with careful caution as I was seated by a pair of bullies—the hands on my shoulders bigger than the parts of me they grasped—with gentle if insistent pressure.

  I sank into the heavy wooden chair at the low table and swallowed my fear, hands tightly clasped in my lap while the man before me observed me with those piercing eyes.

  “You look familiar,” he said in that accent that did nothing to make me feel more at ease. Though he sat with the kind of relaxed confidence that said any kind of smart mouthing might get me deeper into trouble than I could get myself out of. “But I don’t know from where.”

  “I own Petunia’s,” I said with more haste than I intended. “The B&B on Booker Street?”

  “Ah!” He perked immediately, a huge smile crossing his face while he leaned forward and saluted me with his beer. “Iris’s kin. And John Fleming’s daughter, I dare say.”

  Why did the atmosphere suddenly lighten? Things shifted from cut the air with a knife—quite literally—to jovial humor as the man before me nodded with good nature. “You must be Fiona. Fee, aye? Good Irish name for a lass.” He seemed to hesitate as if he wanted to say more, but instead just shrugged and grinned.

  I nodded, looking around at the now happy faces of his bullies to the low sound of international soccer piped from the television be
hind the bar. The owner—he had to be—reached out and pumped my hand when I accepted his offer to shake, enthusiasm as real as his attention.

  “You caught me for a fright, little girl,” he said with a wink. “But John Fleming’s daughter, you be welcome here at The Orange any day of the week. Even during special business hours.” He laughed then and his boys laughed with him.

  “Nice to hear it,” I said, totally thrown by his attitude. “Can I say hello to Dad for you?”

  “Malcolm Murray,” he said, green eyes glinting, grin tightening to almost feral. “You tell him I took good care of his wee lass, won’t you?”

  So things weren’t as friendly between him and my father as he said. Okay then, I could work with that. “I’ll make sure he knows.” Whatever dealings Dad had with this man during his days as sheriff, it was pretty clear Malcolm still thought of my father as someone he needed to keep on his good side.

  That made me wonder what kind of agreement he’d made with a man who’d clearly found the laws of our town and country to be flexible and not applicable to him. That didn’t sound like Dad at all, quite honestly. But I was grateful, at least, he wouldn’t find my head in a box on his front step or anything. Discovering my remains would really upset Mom.

  “Fetch Miss Fleming a drink,” Malcolm said, gesturing to one of his boys. I waved off the offer and smiled, hoping it was an endearing expression despite my lingering nervousness.

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I’m obviously in the wrong place at the wrong time. I should just be going.” I made no attempt to rise, waiting for permission while Malcolm’s face fell a little.

  “You’re here for a reason,” he said. “Maybe I can help?”

  I never expected that response. “The man I followed here. Simon Jacob.” I glanced toward the door where the game was on despite my intrusion. I guess Malcolm would have dealt with me if he needed to. Gulp.