Peppermint Creek Inn

by Jan Springer

  So innocent.

  So deceiving.

  It was filled with a liquid. A gray putty was stuffed into the mouth of the bottle. From the putty, sprouted a yellow plastic-looking string about six inches long, with a blackened end.

  “There were more out there. This is the only one that wasn’t broken. I checked four of the burned-out rooms. There were green glass fragments in all but one of them. And the one that didn’t contain glass, I found this bottle. Right outside the building, under some debris, opposite to where a window would have been. My guess is whoever started the fire, broke the windows, placed the bottles just inside on the ledge, close to the curtains, lit the fuses and boom. Instant fire.” He nodded to the wine bottle. “From the looks of it, the person lit this one and it went out before it could explode or somehow rolled along the window ledge, dropped outside the building and fizzled out. When was the fire? Three? Four months ago?”

  “New Year’s Eve,” she whispered.

  “About five months ago. It probably rolled into a snowdrift and disappeared. That’s why the fire marshal missed it.”

  “We don’t have a fire marshal. The fire department is on a volunteer basis around these parts.”

  Tom scowled. “Who was in charge of the investigation?”

  “Justin and Sam.”

  Tom’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why am I not surprised. They’re the ones who said it was arson?”

  Sara nodded. “They found the empty jerry cans. They’d been removed from the barn.”

  “The gas from the jerry cans is most likely what the suspects used to fill the bottles. Don’t you normally keep your barn door locked with all those supplies in there?”

  “Yes, usually.”

  “Who else has access to the keys to the barn?”

  “Practically everyone. All my summer crew. Family members. Whoever needs the keys to the barn and truck easily. The keys to the cottages and the inn are securely locked up in one of the upstairs rooms. But during open season, they’re kept under close watch behind the lobby desk at the inn.”

  “So pretty much anyone coming in through the front door could have picked up the key during the open season, made a copy then put the key back before anyone was the wiser then came back in the winter, removed the jerry cans, used them.” Tom’s brow knotted thoughtfully for a moment then he asked, “Or a better scenario would be someone could have taken the key shortly before the fire. Did you by any chance have company that day? Or maybe earlier in the week?”

  “Jo stayed for a few days around then. I can’t think of anyone else.”

  “Are you sure? It was around New Year’s. You must have had some holiday visitors dropping in around that time.”

  Sara shook her head slowly. “I don’t— Oh, my God! Cran Simcoe dropped by. He’s the town drunk. But it couldn’t be him.”

  “Why not?”

  “We never let him inside. He showed up drunk and Jo told him to take a hike.”

  Tom sighed. “Okay, so he’s out of the picture. What about Jeffries and this Sam character?”

  “Yes, they did drop in.”

  “And both were in the house? Unescorted?”

  “Yes, of course. They’re police officers. I trust them.”

  Tom shook his head in disbelief. “Why is it people automatically trust cops? They’re human like the rest of us, Sara. They make mistakes, and some are corrupt, too.” The statement was made without anger or hatred, but as if he were stating a plain fact.

  His voice grew lower, gentler. “The nearest town is how far away?”

  “Thirty minutes drive if you go the speed limit,” Sara joked.

  But Tom didn’t smile. The look of seriousness gave Sara an uneasy feeling.

  “You didn’t notice anything odd that night? Strangers in the area? Footprints in the snow? Odd smells? Noises?”

  “We called the fire crew the minute we saw—” Sara stopped mid-sentence as she suddenly realized something. “You know what? I heard something odd that night now that I think about it. I heard popping sounds. A couple of them. I was half-asleep and well—you know how it is when you’re half-asleep, things just don’t register.”

  “Jo never mentioned hearing anything?”

  “No. She sleeps like a log, especially when she’s here. She says it’s the fresh northern air. She didn’t come downstairs until I started yelling. That popping sound had woken me up. I wandered into the living room and that’s when I saw a strange light flickering against the curtains. When I looked out, I saw the inn on fire. We called and the fire department and the crew were here pretty fast.”

  “How fast?”

  “I’d guess maybe ten to fifteen minutes. I don’t think they were following the speed limit though if that’s where you’re going.”

  Tom managed a thin smile. “What I’m getting at is how did these volunteer firemen get suited up so quickly and get to the station house and then here in ten to fifteen minutes from when you called if the town is thirty minutes away.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t the first one who called the fire crew that night. Justin was cruising down the highway when he saw a suspicious-looking vehicle racing out of the road onto the highway. When he came into the road, he saw the orange glow in the sky and called the fire department.”

  “How convenient,” Tom whispered snidely under his breath. “Can I ask you a question about your husband’s murder?”

  Sara bit her lip and nodded.

  “How did you get help for yourself that day?”

  “Thankfully Sam and Justin were on their usual rounds and found me.”

  “Did they find you before or after you heard the gunshot?”

  Sara’s mouth dropped open in shock at the horrible question.

  Tom frowned and placed a calming hand on hers.

  His delicate, caring touch didn’t feel one bit like Justin’s cold, clammy hand. His hand felt warm and soothing, and Sara suddenly felt safe.

  “I’m not sure. Things are jumbled like I mentioned.”

  “I’m sorry.” He attempted a weak smile. “I shouldn’t be so callous. It’s just that someone murdered your husband and bombed your inn, and both times the cops were here in the nick of time to help you out. I just find everything a little too convenient.”

  “I can see why you may want to suspect them. They probably know how to make bombs. But why would policemen want to bomb my place and kill my husband?”

  “It might not even be them. Practically anyone can make a bomb. The ingredients are in our households, in our stores, on the Internet. Everywhere. A bottle, a fuse, gas, a little putty. It’s so simple a three-year-old can make one given the instructions.” He threw her such a serious business-like look—it suddenly made her think he was some sort of professional himself.

  “As to why they would want you out of here, I don’t know. It’s not like you have any competition out here. There has to be another reason. We just have to find it.”

  Sara shook her head slowly. “You’re way off on this Tom. Way off.”

  “You said Jeffries got suspicious and called the fire department. How did he know to call them? Your place is situated in a valley surrounded by high hills and so far off the beaten track. How could he see the smoke? Or flames? Or a glow when there are so many trees along the road hiding everything from view? It just isn’t possible.”

  As Tom spoke, Sara began to realize he was right. Everything did seem too convenient. “Okay then, if Justin set the fire why would he call the fire department to put it out?”

  Tom shrugged. The question had apparently caught him off guard. “Good question.”

  “And why would they not kill me after killing my husband if they wanted this place so bad?”

  Tom chuckled. “Another good question. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am way off base. Oh, and before I forget, I checked out the office.”

  Sara swallowed at the chunk clogging up her throat. “Did you—find anything?”

  “I have a theory. Wh
en you saw the flash and movement at the window, the lights and phone went dead soon after, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The window sill is pretty wide. It could easily be used to hoist someone up allowing them to climb onto the sill to disconnect the line to the phone. The line to the lights is just a reach away.”

  Sara shuddered.

  “Did the cops mention anything about the wiring?”

  “No.”

  “Then if my theory is right, whoever disconnected the wires, reconnected them either before or during an investigation.”

  Sara’s head spun. “You mean the murderer might have hung around. He could have been watching me as I was miscarrying. God, that’s sick.”

  “Whoever shot your husband is sick, and you’re in danger out here all alone if he’s not caught. And Sara…the flash in the window could have been the refection off someone’s belt buckle or someone’s glasses. Maybe even Jeffries’ glasses.”

  Sara couldn’t say a word as she let the information absorb into her mind. Tom leaned forward in his chair and said softly, “I’m sorry but like I said it’s only a theory. It might not be him. Could have been anything flashing. A knife. A button. It’s just that this morning when I saw the flash on the hill alerting me to his presence, I just kind of thought of what you’d said about seeing a flash in the window.”

  Sara nodded, trying hard to still the chills ripping through her. The last person she would ever think would harm Jack was Justin. They were best friends. “I understand, but I still can’t believe Justin could do something so sinister.” She focused her attention back to the green glass fragments and the wine bottle.

  “What do we do with all this stuff now?”

  Tom removed his hand from hers, grabbed his mug of coffee and took a thoughtful sip before answering. “We’ll give this evidence to Jo and Garry.”

  “What do we do until then?”

  “We wait and see if anymore shadows turn up.”

  —

  Three days later Tom yawned as he flopped wearily onto a comfortable living room armchair. It had been a tough day and his muscles screamed for relief. Thankfully, the days had passed without any more unexpected visitors and he’d spent most of his time working alone while Sara filled more orders for her peppermint business.

  He’d constantly looked over his shoulder as he tackled the various odd jobs of reshingling leaking roofs on a couple of old cabins, doing some plumbing, repairing the porch, rebracing the front wheelchair ramp and replacing the glass in the kitchen window.

  He’d been surprised to find everything he needed in the workshop inside the barn. Sara’s husband Jack had been a planner. He’d stocked his workshop with everything imaginable.

  From kegs of roofing nails, shingles, glass panes, right down to the exact size of washers fitting a bathroom tap. And when he’d bought something, he’d bought it in bulk, taking advantage of quantity discounts.

  Tom had been here more than a week and because the phones were still out, there’d been no word from the two people Sara said might be able to help him. He was beginning to wonder if they’d ever be able to return Sara’s calls. Not that he was in a hurry to find out about his true identity.

  Far from it.

  The intense physical labor during the day seemed to be exactly what he needed to keep his sexual urges about Sara in check. By the time he ate supper he was too pooped to pursue her the way he wanted.

  Nights, however, were another story.

  There were dreams. Lots of them. Some of ripped him awake and he’d lie in bed drenched in a chasm of fear and cold sweat, torturing himself, racking his brains, trying to remember what the dreams involved. Then there were dreams he remembered, erotic dreams of Sara that left his body heated with carnal desires, his groin hard and aching and demanding satisfaction from her.

  God, did she know what effect she had on him? Did she know every time she looked at him with those luscious chocolate eyes, his cock remembered how perfectly her mouth had slid over his shaft? Or how his mouth watered at the thought of wanting to suck the warm pleasure cream from her body again?

  She’d cast a spell over him the moment he’d first seen her, and he didn’t have the foggiest clue as to how to remove it.

  Quite frankly, he didn’t want to remove it.

  If only he didn’t have this awful black cloud hanging over his head. He wouldn’t hesitate to be near her. To kiss her. Make love to her. But until everything was cleared up and he was a free man, all he could do was think about any excuse to stay away from her.

  “The tea’ll be ready in a minute. Do you want some cake with it?” Sara called from the kitchen.

  “Sure,” he answered back.

  His weary gaze wandered around the rustic living room. He never got enough of looking around the place, rugged yet romantic, cozy and comfortable. A place where a man could kick off his shoes and relax after a hard day working outside.

  Most of the wood furnishings were made of knotty pine by Sara’s late husband Jack. The pine blended warmly with the cinnamon brown paneled walls. Bright colorful Navajo blankets with rich looking paisley were draped casually over the stair railing and the sofas, adding cheer throughout the room.

  Twig birdhouses, wicker fishing baskets overflowing with a variety of wild flowers and more of those tin kettles were strewn casually here and there. Snowshoes, canoe paddles and fishing rods hung on the walls. A very cozy outfit, indeed.

  Tom yawned again.

  Boy, was he ever tired tonight. He’d spent the entire day, chain saw in hand, walking the various hiking trails, clearing debris and fallen timber off the pathways.

  He groaned, and leaned over to throw another log on the dying fire, the ache in his back signaling a warning to take it easy when from the corner of his eye, he spotted a thick book, a photo album actually. It was stuffed under a pile of magazines on a twig table. He pried it out and flipped it open to a picture.

  Sara had been slightly plump. A tomboy. Short surf cut. Auburn curls tangled warmly about her heart-shaped face. And so goddamn cute.

  Her husband Jack had been a tall man with wheat blond hair and a droopy, bushy mustache. A towering good-looking man who’d dwarfed over Sara.

  And the way they looked at each other… So much love in their eyes. Tom found himself wishing Sara would look at him in much the same way.

  He continued to leaf through the pages at a leisurely pace, thoroughly enjoying the photographs of Sara and her husband doing various chores around the inn. Pictures of a vacation in Niagara Falls. And a few of Sara paintings. She always looked so cheerful.

  So happy. So in love.

  He flipped to another page. A family portrait. Of five people. Three women and two men. Standing in front of the log house. There was Sara and her husband Jack. An attractive woman who looked a lot like Sara. Must be Jo, Sara’s sister, the private investigator. Beside Jo stood a striking elderly woman, who Tom guessed as Sara’s mother-in-law and also an elderly man sitting in a wheelchair. Garry? The father-in-law. That accounted for the wheelchair ramp out front.

  “Why you look like the hounds of hell are at your heels?” The gruff voice came out of nowhere crashing into Tom like a torpedo. Before he could orient himself as to where the voice was coming from, violent bursts of flashing lights blinded him.

  “You’re losing your touch, little buddy!” It was the same man’s voice and Tom tried fiercely to see who was yelling at him. But there was only the white lights, pain in his temples and the man’s gruff voice.

  The flashes of light stopped as abruptly as they started, leaving him shaken to the core. He let the photo album slide to the floor. The room tilted awkwardly. A sick feeling knotted his stomach, twisting hard.

  Oh, shit!

  More visions were coming!

  Burying his suddenly fragmenting head in his hands, he gasped as another volley of bright searing lights slammed into him.

  He sat inside one of the numerous circus tents,
sitting opposite the toothless old gypsy woman. He tried to read her leathered-up face as she lay out the tarot cards, but it remained expressionless. A few months ago, he would have laughed at anyone who suggested he come here and see a physic or card reader, but here he sat. Eager. Desperate. Hopeful.

  The old lady turned over the last card.

  A deep frown burrowed across her face. She shook her head.

  He shuddered. His heart sank.

  A skeleton card lay on the table.

  Death called.

  The vision dissipated and before he was able to catch his breath, another volley of white flashing lights crashed into him almost knocking him sideways.

  More pain.

  More voices.

  Dammit! It was happening again!

  —

  “Here’s your tea and cake,” Sara called as she entered the living room carrying a tray, stopping abruptly when she discovered the room was empty.

  A slight trace of fear slipped around her.

  “Tom?”

  No answer.

  Maybe he’d gone off to bed. He’d looked beat when he’d come in for supper. But he wouldn’t go off without saying goodnight, would he?

  “Tom?” she called a little louder. Fright edged sharply into her soul.

  “Out here.”

  As soon as she stepped onto the side veranda, she knew something was wrong. He stood at the railing, his body tense as a coiled spring—his fingers kneading his right temple. A bottle of aspirin sat on the porch swing. A half-full glass of water shook crazily in his hand.

  “Are you—?”

  “I’m okay,” he said shakily as he turned slightly toward her.

  There was something in the dismal look of his eyes that frightened her. They were filled with pain. Tremendous pain. He’d lost someone very near and dear to his heart.

  “You’ve remembered something.”

  “It’s nothing,” he muttered irritably and returned his attention to the darkening sky.

  Lightning flickered crazily over the trees.

  Sara jolted. Her heart began to pound wildly.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ve remembered, if you’ll stay out here for a couple of minutes. You can leave any time after that.”