Miz Scarlet and the Imposing Imposter

by Sara M. Barton

  “This is like a private rehab,” she remarked one afternoon. “All that’s missing is a hot tub and a masseuse.”

  “Oh,” sighed my mother right on cue, “wouldn’t that be lovely?”

  That was the little seed they planted, and it soon began to sprout in the fertile soil. This was not going to be just any old inn. No. We were destined to be a specialty inn for those with mobility issues, a private Shangri La for the handicapped and health-challenged. Oddly enough, it turned out to be lucrative enough to be a viable business.

  A week after Aurielle departed, Hank Parker arrived. The elderly widower was going through his third round of cancer treatment in ten years. Childless, he lived alone with his dog, January, in a small condo nearby. Laurel and Lacey knew him from the senior center.

  “Such a nice man,” began the conversation over dinner one night. I could smell that plot a mile away, but I let the two ladies and Aurielle play it out anyway.

  “He is, isn’t he? Shame that his wife died. Now he’s all alone.” My mother made a dramatic pause.

  “Not quite alone. The relatives want to help,” Lacey announced, rolling her eyes theatrically.

  Hank’s niece and a nephew couldn’t agree on what was best for him. Julie wanted to hire people to care for him around the clock. John wanted to put him into assisted living, where Hank wouldn’t be able to keep January. The elderly man was miserable. His female friends decided it wasn’t right that such a wonderful guy should be the wishbone at the family dinner table

  “I’ll be leaving in a few days. What will you do with that bedroom when I’m gone, Scarlet? It seems a waste to let it remain empty,” she said sweetly. Auriellesuggested he stay with us. I could feel those six eyes land on me all at once, willing me to say yes to a new guest. Lacey took the ball and ran with it.

  “The man shouldn’t be alone when he’s got cancer,” she said definitively.“Come on, Scarlet. Have a heart. If he goes into assisted living, who’s going to take care of his little dog?”

  “I thought you said his niece wanted to hire help, so he could stay at home?” I pointed out.

  “Really? You think that’s the best way to do things, Scarlet?” My mother’s voice had that disappointed tone. “A man should be alone at night while he’s battling cancer? You think having someone stop by once a day is enough?”

  I had to admit she had a point. The conniving cousins would no doubt keep Hank’s mind off his troubles as he went through his treatment regimen. Personally, I suspected they were just looking for another playmate to replace Aurielle.

  Hank moved in two weeks later, renting out his condo to help cover the costs during his convalescence. Bur and I got him to and from the cancer center, taking turns. I made sure he ate as much as he could, thanks to the tips from the nutritionist. Hank always had someone around to talk to when he was feeling blue, but he really seemed to enjoy the ladies. They always made a big fuss over him.

  My seven-pound Yorkshire terrier, named after the Huckleberry Oak, got along well with Hank’s funny, feisty Jack Russell, and soon the pair got cozy together, staking out the living room as their own fiefdom. The canines knew that any time they were in need of a tickle, there was always a willing hand and a comfy lap to be found there. Since I was already Huck’s chief dog walker, what was one more pooch at the end of another leash?

  When the oncologist said Hank was fine to move home again, the ladies were distraught.

  “Oh, no! You can’t go,” my mother insisted at dinner one night. “Scarlet doesn’t know how to play bridge to save her life. She keeps throwing down the wrong cards.”

  “Are you sure you want to go?” Lacey wondered. “Where else do you get this kind of service?”

  “She’s right,” said Laurel. “Who will pamper you the way we do?” Again, six pairs of eyes lit on me at once. I studied those three eager faces.

  “What am I doing, running an inn?” I looked at Hank’s face, no longer gaunt and drawn. There was life back in his eyes. He looked so much healthier now. “That’s crazy talk.”

  The minute I said it, I realized I gave the Googins girls an opening. Hank plunked the suggested game plan on the table and sat back with a satisfied grin. I should expand my services and open up a bed and breakfast. Turns out the conniving cousins managed to bring in a ringer to close the deal.

  How I missed all the plotting and planning that surely went on behind my back? How long had they hashed out this plot before springing it on me?

  “Consider the possibilities, Scarlet. The house is close to the major highways, near enough to four medical centers. The house is architecturally interesting, on a beautiful piece of land. Guests can walk down a charming Main Street or enjoy the hiking trails in the nearby park.”

  “We’re hardly on the tourist map,” I pointed out to him. “What are guests supposed to do for fun?”

  “Theater, museums, and shopping. It’s less than an hour from the Connecticut shore and the Berkshire mountains,” he shot back.

  “Hardly enough to keep people interested in coming here.” I was skeptical that we could find enough guests to make it work.

  “Why not make some improvements?”

  “What kind of improvements, Hank?” Lacey and Laurel asked their cohort, feeding him his opening. He went to town with it.

  “Make it an inn for people with special needs. Add some outdoor entertaining space that’s accessible for wheelchair users. You’ve got a dock, so utilize it. Guests can fish or just sit by the water. Think of the possibilities and do it up right. It’s a wonderful place to recover, Scarlet. You’ve already got the elevator and the exterior ramp built.“

  Lacey was a big advocate from the first mention. I think it’s because she planned on playing hostess and greeter. Laurel initially had some reservations. After all, it meant she would share her elevator and her main caregiver with paying customers. Hank and Lacey talked her into it, promising that it would all work out fine, and in the end, it did.

  My mom has lifetime use of the house, but Bur and I inherited the house with my other two brothers, Palmer and Emory, as part of my dad’s estate.. Palmer is a television producer who lives with his wife, Carolina, down in Miami. Emory is chemical engineer out in Oklahoma. He and his wife, Rebecca, have a small ranch where they raise American paint horses. We all get together a few times a year for a big family reunion. That’s when all the bedrooms come in handy. The rest of the time, they sit empty. It made sense in this economy to put them to good use.

  “What are we going to call the place?” Emory wondered as we gathered for a family meeting to discuss it.

  “The Four Oaks?” Bur thought it was a nice tribute to the mill and the two families whose fortunes were intertwined.

  “The Four Acorns?” Emory suggested, reminding us of Grandpa Randolph’s nickname for us.

  “More like the Four Nuts,” Rebecca remarked. She thought it was a crazy idea. “You’ll have to put a lot of money into this place to make it luxurious!”

  “Nonsense,” I scoffed. “A little paint, some stain....”

  Carolina, a professional interior designer, came through for us, providing the Four Acorns Inn with a three-year development plan, contingent on its success in turning a profit.

  “I would start with the projects that give us the biggest bang for our buck first,” she decided at the next family meeting. “We should focus on what makes the most sense.”

  By the time the plan was handed over to our contractor, we had pallets of discounted floor and wall tiles stored in the garage of the carriage house, furniture selected for the rooms, and I became so masterful at painting walls and woodwork, I got a discount at the local Benjamin Moore store.

  Bur was willing to put his fair share into the project, but only if he could claim his own space on the grounds, which he would rent from the family trust. He sold his condo in West Hartford and supervised the renovation of the carriage house apartment over the garage. He kept it as a three-room bachelor pad, w
ith a tiny galley kitchen, a large living room with that “single guy” oversized leather sofa and enormous flat-screened TV. Carolina helped him plan his master bathroom, with the ridiculously large shower and manly touches of contemporary hardware. The eight-hundred-square-foot space seemed small until you factored in the entertaining and storage space he used at the inn.

  My older brother actually likes hanging around the big house, especially at dinner time. Occasionally, he brings his lady friends for breakfast on the weekends or for dinner during the week, impressing them with the array of foods served at the old massive family dining table, where his dates rub elbows with the paying guests. I’m afraid the Googins girls spoil him rotten. That’s especially true whenever they need a fourth for bridge. Shameful, really.

  It benefits me to have my brother living on the property, enough so that I don’t mind feeding him. Bur has an office in his apartment, and that means that when I have to dash out, I can call on him to pitch in and play host to inn guests. What’s more, my mother gets the benefit of seeing her son every day. He’s available to drive her to and from appointments. Bur, it turns out, is a pretty nice son.

  Once his cancer went into remission, Hank decided to sell his home and do some traveling while he still had the strength to get out and about. His niece wanted him to come and stay with her down in Georgia. The elderly man went for August and September, and then scheduled a six-week cruise through Europe for late fall. We got busy with the construction in his absence. Laurel was relocated to the front parlor on the first floor and Lacey to a temporary bedroom in the dining room while the second floor was torn up.

  The renovations we undertook to transform the house into an inn were more than successful. Laurel already had her own en suite bathroom connected to the master bedroom at the front of the house. My parents had put that in right after her accident back in 1998. Lacey took over the Jack and Jill bath that went with her bedroom. We closed it off to the adjoining bedroom. The smallest bedroom of the six was transformed into a pair of spacious, handicapped bathrooms, one for the Black Oak Room and one for the Red Oak Room. The hallway bathroom at the foot of the stairs became a part of the White Oak room. I gave up my beloved pond view on the second floor in favor of a couple of pokey little attic rooms that used to house the servants back in the days when this was a grand mansion. A renovated bathroom on the third floor made the transition a lot easier for me.

  For the last two years of his life, Hank wanted the flexibility to visit friends and family across the country, in between stays in the White Oak Room. He listed the Four Acorns Inn as his permanent residence. We collected his mail, Bur handled his business affairs when he was traveling, and we rented Hank a storage room in the attic for all his belongings. January stayed with us while he was gone, becoming a beloved member of the inn. I made sure our treasured guest had what he needed whenever he was in town.

  When his cancer returned, so did Hank. Laurel and Lacey read to him every afternoon as his strength began to wane. I wheeled him into the dining room each evening when he was up to it. The hospice nurses came to the inn weekly to check on him. They arranged for pain medications and instructed me on what we should do to make him more comfortable. Bur popped in for breakfast with Hank every day. They both drank their energy shakes as my brother read articles from the Hartford Courant aloud. As the end drew near, we called his family. Hank’s niece and nephew stayed with us for the last three days, taking turns sitting by his side. He died in his sleep, at peace, eight months ago. I still miss him.

  Chapter Four --

  Between the renovations on the inside and the improvements on the outside, it took us the better part of three years to reach this point. We built up a clientele over time and started to have return guests. The inn was just beginning to turn a profit. Can you understand why I was so upset, not only by the note left pinned to the post by a pocket knife, but also with the worry that what was going on in Wallace’s house was going to destroy all that hard work? I, for one, had no intention of letting anyone ruin what we had built. Our guests should feel safe and secure at the Four Oaks Inn. No crazy guy with a gun was going to steal that from us. I was still angry that my family money went up in smoke in that financial fraud. I made up my mind right there and then to do whatever it takes to protect the Four Acorns Inn.

  Bur and I had reached the bird garden, tromping through the snow, when something smacked the back of my head. I knew it wasn’t a prank by my brother. He was four feet in front of me.

  “What the hell?” I turned around to find a tiny chickadee flopping pathetically on the frozen ground. As I bent over to take a closer look, the desperate writhing of frantically fluttering black wings reached a crescendo and then abruptly stopped. The little bird lay still. “Oh, poor thing.”

  Taking out another poo-poo pouch, I slipped it onto my hand and scooped up the tiny creature. I could tell by the unnatural flop of its head that the neck was broken.

  “Dead?” Bur wanted to know. I nodded. “I wonder what made him fly into you like that, Miz Scarlet.”

  “Heaven knows,” I sighed. I tied the plastic bag containing the feathery corpse as I uttered a silent prayer for the tiny songster to rest in peace. I hate it when birds die. Of course, I also hate it when I get smacked in the back of the head by one unexpectedly. I couldn’t help but feel that it was rather odd to have a chickadee cream me like it had been shot out of a cannon.

  Even as my brother and I stood there, I could hear a rustling noise a few feet away. Scrub Oak sauntered out from behind a rhododendron, walking like a kitty cowpoke in spurs, and rubbed against me. My mother long ago nicknamed him Duke and said he reminded her of John Wayne, all legs and attitude. “Then again, maybe the answer is right in front of us.”

  “No more birds,” my big brother instructed the purring puss as Scrubby found a new scratching post in the form of Bur’s pant leg. “You’re a house cat, buddy.”

  “One of our guest must have let him out.” Scrubby was the inn’s resident fur ball, who walked the halls like he owned the place and catnapped wherever he could snag some rays. Because we had an array of wild predators in the woods -- everything from coyotes to fisher cats to even the rare little bear, Scrub Oak lived his life indoors. We had posted a notice at each exterior door, as a reminder that our pets were not to be let out. Perhaps Scrubby had scooted past some unobservant guest.

  “What’s that?” I caught sight of something odd on the top of the snow, something that seemed to glint in the sunlight. I traveled the half dozen steps to retrieve it. The miniscule metal orb was cold to the touch. Rolling it between my fingers, I felt a chill go through me. I held it out to my brother. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Hmm...looks like slingshot ammo.” Suddenly Bur’s attention was on the edge of the woods. I saw his intent eyes studying the tree line. He seemed to tense up. Ravenous coyotes? Sasquatch? I didn’t get to find out. In one quick motion, he scooped up Scrub Oak in his unexpectedly impatient arms. “Come on.”

  “What should I do with the dead bird?” I asked, scurrying to catch up.

  “Bring it with you,” was the terse reply he tossed over his shoulder. As we crossed the twenty yards or so to the carriage house, I had a sudden flashback to the days when I tagged along with my big brother, Cousin Boynton, and their buddies to explore White Oak Hill. Even then, Bur was Mr. Big Shot, barking out orders. Funny how some things never change. “Hurry up. I’ve got to make a phone call.”

  “Oh?” I waited while Bur unlocked the entry door, and then followed him up the stairs and into his living quarters. He dumped the cat on the sofa, took the bag with the dead bird from me, and then looked inside. There was a spot of blood on the back of the bird’s neck. He held it out for me to see.

  “That was a deliberate shot.” Bur carefully put the bird back in the bag, washed his hands, and grabbed an empty margarine container. He tucked the bagged chickadee inside, added the shiny silver ball, and snapped the lid on. A moment later, h
e dialed a number and waited for a response on the other end.

  “Someone wanted to kill that chickadee?” I asked. How did that make any sense?

  “Either that or it was meant for you.”

  “Me?” Even as I gasped, the thought hit me. Had the shooter tried to kill two birds with one stone? Or rather one metal pellet? I felt the back of my head and found a small lump. No wonder it hurt so much. The second I opened my mouth, my brother’s hand went up to silence me.

  “Tolly, how’s it going?” he asked with an exaggerated cheerfulness. “Have you talked to Boy Wonder lately?”

  Tolly? Bur called Tolly? What was going on?

  Kenny Tolliver was an old childhood friend of Bur and Boynton’s, a guy who grew out of that awkward pimply teenager stage and became a hunk just when I was coming of age. It seemed like the moment I fell hard for him, his family up and moved to Saddle River, New Jersey. Last I heard, he married, had three kids, and worked as assistant director of public safety at Princeton University. Why was Bur calling him now?

  I shooed Scrub Oak off the kitchen counter, where the feline was letting his curiosity get the better of him as he nudged the margarine container with his nose. The cat obviously wanted a closer look inside. Probably thought it smelled like “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Goldfinch”. I had my own curiosity to satisfy.

  “Yeah, sure. That would be great. I’ll have Scarlet handle that. Right. Just call me back and give me the details. Okay. We’ll see you then.”

  I lasted only as long as it took Bur to hit the “end” button. “Was that Kenny Tolliver?”

  “He’ll need a room, Scar. What’s available?”

  “Nothing for the next two days. Why does he need a room? Is he coming here?” You’d think I was fifteen all over again, wouldn’t you? I was positively gushing like a school girl with “major crush” written all over her face.