Murder at Honeysuckle Hotel

by Rose Pressey

After my escort showed me into the house, I grabbed my purse and hurried out with him on my heels. Without saying a word to Kent, I escaped around the corner of the house and jumped in the Mustang before he noticed. A crowd had gathered in front of the old Victorian. I recognized some of the faces from town—young and old alike. A few huddled together, pointed, and whispered as I made my way to the car. What if they thought I was fleeing like a criminal? No, I couldn’t stop my life because of this. Act natural… that was what I had to do. I held my head high as I pulled away from the curb.

  Maybe decorating would take my mind off the murder. Besides, if I wanted to stay in town and keep the house, I had to get guests in there. Not only did I need to eat to survive, I needed money to keep the house up, pay taxes and utilities. Call me nuts (townspeople probably already did), but I had a feeling that everyone expected me to fail. I’d be darned if I’d let them be right. A little thrift-store shopping and a trip out of town would do me good. Maybe I’d do a little Dumpster-diving, too. It sounded gross, but I had always tried to avoid actually climbing in the containers. Bargains were to be had between the banana peels and dirty coffee filters.

  The next town over from Honeysuckle was bigger with two thrift stores. Two. Only problem was: I wouldn’t have room for much in the convertible. But at least with the top down, I could let things poke up from the backseat. After a short drive, I made it to Belleville without incident. I’d halfway expected to see a cop car behind me.

  I wedged my car into a parking spot between a minivan and a beat-up truck. With my pocketbook in hand and a discount-loving twinkle in my eye, I marched toward the first store, ready to find a great good deal. The familiar musty smell greeted me when I opened the door. I perused the aisles, taking my time going up and down each one. The next aisle over, an older woman seemed as if she might be trouble. I watched her and she eyed me. If she picked up that cute little plate before I had a chance to put it in my cart, there might be a struggle. Although she had at least twenty pounds on me, I was betting I was faster. Thrift-store shopping could be a risky venture. The old ladies meant blood when a bargain was around. Heck, half the time I thought they just wanted something because they thought someone else did.

  I lucked into a set of three decorative jars, all varying sizes. At three dollars for all, I felt as if I’d died and gone to thrift-store heaven. Jars were great for displaying items—the possibilities were endless. Plates of varying sizes with curved and scalloped edges, which I’d spray-paint a pretty cream color, called out to me. Yes, I’d paint plates. Nothing was safe from spray paint as far as I was concerned. Luckily, there were several that didn’t have chips.

  A couple of ugly wood shelves straight out of 1987 hid in the corner. I had to move the jelly shoes and shoulder pads to get to them. If Bon Jovi had been on the radio, I would have thought I’d stepped into a time warp. But a little paint would bring them into the modern world. Behind an ugly ceramic cowboy boot statue and lace-covered bookstand, I located a beat-up tray that would look great painted with the flat surface covered with chalkboard paint. I could display it in the kitchen and guests would know what was on the menu for breakfast, not that the menu would change often—doughnuts or muffins.

  The thrill of repurposing gave me a high—almost as good as chocolate. Almost. I glanced around the room to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. A pretty glass jar wept in the corner. She was stuck between a yellow crushed-velvet loveseat and an old record player from the 60s. I placed her in my cart; she’d thank me later.

  On my way to the next shop, I found a huge yard sale. Signs on the main street marked the way and I followed the arrows. It was just a teensy bit out of the way, but yard sales were worth going out of the way. Multiple families had set up their unwanted items in one fortunate family member’s yard. As luck would have it, I found an unopened container of chalkboard paint. You never knew what you’d find. Not only could I make the menu board for the kitchen, but I’d make chalkboards as Christmas gifts this year, too. At two dollars, it was a real bargain.

  Next, I found a pair of black and cream toile curtains, along with scrap pieces of burlap and red-and-white checked fabric. One of my favorite things was toile pattern. I could make great toss pillows for the sofa with the red-and-white checked fabric.

  More fabulous finds: a bell jar, an old brass birdcage, which I’d paint black, and odd jars of various sizes. With my items tucked away in the trunk, I headed to the next thrift store. For a brief moment, while on my shopping high, I’d forgotten about the horrible discovery in the backyard. But no amount of shopping would erase the image of Nancy from my mind permanently.

  The store stood in a big lot beyond a large grocery store and I missed the turn, so I zipped down the back alley to take the side entrance. As I made a left to head into the parking lot, I spotted it… a roadside rescue. It called out to me. “Help me. Save me, Raelynn.” I whipped the car onto the shoulder and threw it in park.

  Chapter Eleven

  The dated oak dresser stood in its scratched-up glory, nail-polished and heart-stickered, waiting for its final fate. Next to it was a small, battered desk. The poor thing looked so sad. I hopped out from behind the wheel and examined the furniture. The dresser appeared to be solid—just needed a bath, new paint, and a hardware revamp. Only problem was, I’d never get it home in a Mustang convertible. I pulled out the drawers to make sure they worked. If I didn’t take it now, it wouldn’t be there later. A find like that wouldn’t last long.

  A cough caught my attention and I whipped around. Heat rushed to my cheeks. I didn’t like being caught Dumpster-diving, but it was an occupational hazard. A man stood near the house where the dresser had probably come from.

  “You can have them,” the old man said.

  “Thanks. I was just trying to figure out how I’d get them home.” I swallowed my humiliation.

  He looked at me, then the Mustang. “That’s a fine car you got there, but it’s sure not good for hauling.”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s not good for that.”

  “Where do you live?” He stuffed a bandana in the back pocket of his overalls.

  “Honeysuckle.” I motioned over my shoulder.

  “I could deliver them for you.”

  “You’d do that?” Wonder what the catch was? Then again, did I really want a stranger at my house? But if I was running a hotel, I’d better get used to the idea. “I don’t have money to pay you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I was headed in that direction anyway. I’m just happy to see them put to use versus going in the Dumpster.”

  “I’ll put them to use, all right.” I smiled.

  I scribbled down my address for him and headed back toward the thrift store. I felt guilty for having him deliver free pieces of furniture, but maybe I could repay him sometime. The next stop yielded a couple of grapevine wreaths, a small urn, vases, and a bag full of Styrofoam balls and cones.

  When I returned to Honeysuckle, the gawkers had dispersed. Thank goodness. The police had vanished, but the crime-scene tape still blocked off the yard. I hoped it wouldn’t stay long; I didn’t need a reminder of the horrible event. By the time I unloaded my goodies from the car and took them inside, the sound of a loud vehicle rattled in the driveway. My free pieces of furniture had arrived.

  “Hey, thanks for bringing them. I didn’t expect you so soon,” I said as I rounded the side of the house.

  “I was headed this way anyway.”

  “It’s a heavy piece, huh?” I climbed onto the back of the truck.

  “Yes, it’s sturdy. I’ll grab this end if you grab that one,” he said from where he stood at the back of the truck. “Where should we put it?”

  “On the front porch is fine. I’m going to work on it right away.”

  Thank goodness there were only three steps up onto the porch.

  “Beautiful home. You live here?” He eyed the crime scene tape as he headed around to his truck to retrieve the small desk.

 
I didn’t want to explain what had happened. Word would probably spread to Belleville soon enough. The faster he left, the better off I would be.

  The man frowned as he looked from the direction of the backyard to me. “Well, good luck.” He set the desk down, walked back to his truck, then waved as he climbed into the cab.

  “Thanks again, I really appreciate it.” I waved.

  As he drove off, he looked at the house again. He probably wondered what the heck was going on, but he’d find out soon enough. All he’d have to do was pick up the newspaper. I was just glad he hadn’t asked.

  On the way home from my little shopping extravaganza, I’d picked up paint and supplies. I planned on getting to work right away. If it would take my mind of the horrific scene I’d found under the shade of the gazebo for even a minute, it was worth it.

  With supplies at hand, I got down to work. The sooner I painted my discarded Dumpster find, the sooner I could get it inside and decorate—one of my favorite things to do. I lifted one end of the dresser and scooted newspaper underneath with my foot, then did the same to the other side. It wasn’t easy balancing on one foot while scooting paper with the other, plus folding up the dresser—I was barely able to raise it off the ground. Probably not how Martha Stewart would do it. I didn’t have to make the process pretty, just the after-product. As long as I got the job done, that was all that mattered. Lesson learned though, because I should have put paper down first, then placed the furniture on top.

  Next, I grabbed a screwdriver and removed the doors. Mr. Mathers had a toolbox full of tools and it looked as if I’d have to learn how to use them. The two middle doors on the dresser were permanent and couldn’t be removed. Painting was easier with the doors off though, not as many little crevices to try to reach. Anytime I tried anything involving screws or bolts I ended up losing half of them, so I made sure to drop them in a little jar for safekeeping until the doors were ready to go back. One time I had moved my bed around and lost the screws before I got it back together again. Ross had complained for two days about that. At least now I didn’t have anyone to complain.

  The sun had just popped out from the clouds, so the temperature would become unbearable soon. The tall oak tree beside the house was full of birds, chirping away with their sweet song. The smell of roses wafted from the nearby bush. I wanted to finish the project before Mother Nature turned on the sauna.

  “Wowza,” someone said. “Sure was a lot of activity around here this morning.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The sandpaper flew out of my hand when I jumped. “You startled me.” I held my hand to my chest. Why did my evil neighbor Judy have to creep around as if she were a spy on a mission?

  “I guess you heard what happened,” I said.

  “The police asked me questions. If I’d heard anything or seen anything,” Judy said.

  “Did you? Hear or see anything?” I walked to the edge of the porch, close to where she stood in the yard.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I didn’t hear a thing until the sirens this morning. Woke me up.” She frowned. “I thought the whole town was on fire or something.”

  “Oh.” I frowned. I hoped she wasn’t blaming me for waking her. It wasn’t as if I had any control over the situation.

  “I wanted to ask you about that sign.” She pointed to the front porch. I’d stuck the Honeysuckle Hotel sign out there on my way out the door this morning.

  “Oh, yeah.” I smiled. “I’m opening a hotel.” I pointed to my impromptu sign. “I need a way to help pay the bills on this big old house.”

  “Do you have a license for that? I’m not sure it’s legal.” She scowled.

  “Of course, I’m getting one before I open for business.” I waved a dismissive hand. She didn’t need to know the truth. It was none of her business.

  “I’d better not see a lot of riff-raff around,” she warned with her pudgy finger pointing. “You’ve been here one day and there’s a dead body in your backyard. Word has it the police suspect you. I’m making it my job to keep my eye on you.” Her brow rose. “I’ll report anything and everything I see.” She turned in a huff and stormed off.

  Fantastic. Another great conversation with my neighbor. I didn’t doubt her for a second when she said she’d watch me. I suspected she kept an evil eye on everyone. Just a hunch.

  Judy wouldn’t keep me from my decorating work. It was all I had to keep my sanity at the moment. I grabbed the sandpaper again and went to work.

  Before I knew it, I’d sanded the entire dresser. My hand looked as if arthritis had set in when I finished. Note to self: give hand a rest after a couple minutes. I massaged each finger until they took on their normal position again, then stepped back to examine the progress. It had looked as if the dresser’s previous owner had children or grandchildren. I had pried off the sparkly stickers and sanded over the areas one more time for good measure. Screams of gratitude from the dresser could almost be heard.

  With trusty black spray paint in hand, I gave the dresser a coat, then stepped back to admire my handy work. Not bad. Not bad at all. As a matter of fact, I really liked it. And when it was finished, I had a feeling I’d love it. The black color had completely transformed the dated look of the piece. Sweat trickled on my brow and I wiped it with an old rag I’d found in the closet. It was an old bandana, probably Mr. Mathers’. It had been that or an old pair of his underwear. Needless to say, I’d picked the bandana.

  Wiping my forehead, I studied the dresser. I needed to finish before it got hotter; the heat was getting to me already. An icy glass of lemonade would help. I stepped inside to pour myself a tall glass. Around these parts lemonade or iced tea were the drinks of choice. Lemonade so sour it might give you chest hair and tea so sweet it made your teeth ache.

  When I returned to the porch, I found an unexpected surprise. Sheriff Kent stood on the porch, gazing down at my handiwork. His uniform hugged every muscle. It was a nice look for him. Although I’d never seen him out of uniform—that mental image brought a whole other set of thoughts to my mind. Did he own street clothes? Kent in a tight pair of Levi’s. Oh my. Perhaps a short-sleeved muscle-exposing shirt. Boxers or briefs? No, I had to clear my mind.

  He smiled, exposing his perfect white teeth. Was it common to smile at a person you thought might be guilty of murder? Maybe that meant he really did believe me.

  “I heard you were opening a hotel out of this old place?” He tilted his head toward the front door, then down at the sign.

  “Where did you get that idea?” I avoided his gaze.

  He leaned against the porch railing. “So you’re not? Is the sign decoration?”

  “I didn’t say that.” I set my lemonade on the small wicker table. It wobbled from the measly weight of the glass. “Can I get you some lemonade?” I asked.

  “No, thanks.” He paused. “I went to the store looking for you. I thought you’d gone to work when you took off in a hurry. Claire Ann told me about your plans.” He studied me for a reaction.

  A big piece of duct tape had Claire Ann’s name written all over it. That would shut her up.

  “Not sure your new business will go over so well right now.”

  “With everyone thinking I’m a killer, right?”

  He looked down at his shoes.

  “Well, I’m doing this for out-of-town guests, anyway. Townspeople will have to think whatever they want.”

  Kent stared. “I leave you carrying a watermelon and the next thing I know I’m called to your house because of a murder scene. In the course of twenty-four hours, you inherited a house and discovered a dead woman. That’s a bit odd, don’t you think?”

  “I’m complex, what can I say?”

  He chuckled. “I knew that the day I met you. Remember that day?”

  “How could I forget? You pulled Ross over for speeding, then arrested him for driving on a suspended license. We’d just come to town, I hadn’t even unpacked yet.”

  Kent nodded, then leaned again
st the porch column again.

  “What happened between you two?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Ross and I don’t see eye-to-eye.”

  “But you were best friends. How do you just turn that off?”

  “You were married to him, how do you turn that off?”

  “Good point. Ross makes it kind of easy, huh?” I took a sip of lemonade.

  “Things change when you grow up, we aren’t in eighth grade anymore. Ross changed and so did I.” He paused. What could I say? He was absolutely right. “You know there will be questions. Things may get a little crazy around here until I find out who did this, and I will find out who did this. We may be a small town, but I’m not incompetent.”

  “I never thought you were incompetent.” I picked at an invisible piece of lint on my shirt. “So you don’t think I had anything to do with her murder?”

  “You have to admit things are suspicious. You can see why people would talk.”

  “I can see that, but you didn’t answer my question. Do you think I had anything to do with this?”

  He paused and looked down again. “No, no, I don’t.”

  I let out a deep breath. By the look in his eyes, I believed him. At least I had one person on my side in this town, a very important person to have on your side in a situation such as this. Actually, two people on my side counting Claire Ann.

  “By the way, how long will that tape be in my backyard? It’s kind of a huge reminder of what happened.”

  “Just a day or two. We’ll want to make sure we didn’t miss anything and I’d rather people stay out of the yard.”

  I wondered if that applied to me. After all, it was my yard now.

  Kent stepped down from the porch. “I’ll be in touch.”

  After watching Kent drive away, I went back to the dresser. I had never known what to say in front of Kent. The conversation always seemed awkward. Was he judging me because I’d married Ross? It was one of the most embarrassing situations ever. Almost as bad as my entire four years of high school combined. There wasn’t much I could do to change his opinion of me, though. And adding murder suspect to the list didn’t help much, either.