“What’s a bed-and-breakfast in the woods without a fireplace?” Neville asked. “I’m with you, Jack. Get that chimney smoking again.”
Jack was smiling and refilling everybody’s glass of wine. “Absolutely,” he said. “We could be toasting marshmallows as we wait for dinner.”
They all laughed, except Zeke.
“What is that American custom of marshmallows and chocolate over a fire?” Priscilla asked.
“Do you mean s’mores?” Jack laughed. “Oh, sure, it’s very tasty. Melted marshmallow and chocolate between a graham cracker sandwich. Sticky, but good.”
“Sounds delectable,” Priscilla said, allowing her eyes to find Jack’s again.
His eyes locked on to hers. “Gooey, sweet, and very satisfying,” he told her, enunciating each word carefully.
Her cheeks reddened darker.
“Well,” Neville said, “if we come back next year, I hope you’ll have performed an exorcism on all the ghosts in the place.”
Jack moved his eyes away from Priscilla and found her boyfriend. “Have they been keeping you up at night?”
“Only thing keeping me up is Priscilla jabbering with herself, thinking she’s seeing spirits,” Neville replied, before reaching over for the bottle of wine and refilling his glass.
“I am seeing spirits,” she told him. “Two nights in a row now I’ve seen Sally Brown. Poor thing. She’s very confused. Doesn’t even know her name. But she comes into the room and sits at the end of the bed.”
“Oh, does she now?” Jack said, smirking, winking this time at Neville.
“She does,” Priscilla insisted. “I keep trying to tell her that it’s okay to move on, that she shouldn’t be trapped here between worlds. But she tells me she can’t leave, that they’re keeping her here.”
Zeke sat forward in his chair. “Who’s keeping her here?” he asked.
Priscilla shrugged. “She hasn’t said,” she told him, knocking back the last of her wine and setting down her empty glass, which Jack moved to quickly to replenish. “But if she comes by tonight again, I’ll ask her.”
“Just ask her quietly, okay?” Neville quipped. “I don’t like being woken up.”
“So you’ve seen nothing?” Zeke asked.
“I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow,” Neville replied. “She sits up waiting for her ghosts.”
Jack stood, taking another bottle of wine out of the cabinet. “You know, if it were up to me, I’d keep the whole supernatural reputation for the place,” he told the group as he uncorked the bottle. “I think it’s a great selling point.”
“It’s a wonderful selling point,” Priscilla said. “But it’s more than that. It’s truth in advertising. You can’t rent out rooms without telling people they might be visited by spirits in the night.” She smiled as she took a sip of wine. “Wouldn’t be fair.”
That brought another round of laughter.
“Well, Annabel doesn’t like the idea,” Jack said, sitting back down at the table, but this time taking the seat next to Priscilla, whose glass, though still half-full, he filled back up to the top. “Maybe we can work on her.”
Priscilla giggled.
27
From the kitchen Annabel could hear them laughing.
She was glad they were having fun. It was good to hear laughter from real people in this gloomy old house.
The carrot-and-lentil soup bubbled on the stove. She’d also made rosemary popovers and an enormous salad. A good meal for a snowy night.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. She had the contractors coming tomorrow. Soon they’d be opening this place up, letting in light, sweeping out cobwebs, and drying out the mold. Maybe this little adventure would be just what Jack hoped it would be, a new start for both of them. A path to success.
The wind whistled against the house, rattling the glass panes in the windows.
Annabel couldn’t wait until a fire was blazing in the parlor.
28
Tammy Morelli sat opposite Chief Carlson, her fingers massaging her temples. “Well, sure, Roger had enemies,” she said. “Lots of people wanted him dead.” She closed her eyes. “Including me, sometimes.”
She opened her eyes again. They were bloodshot from crying. Richard didn’t understand how a woman like Tammy, basically a good, decent, hardworking person, could actually grieve over a lazy bum who had beaten her and used her. But Tammy had sobbed like a baby when Richard had given her the news that Roger was dead.
Murdered.
“Anyone hate him enough to cut off his arm?” Adam Burrell asked her.
Tammy shuddered. “I have no idea,” she said, massaging her temples harder.
Richard felt sorry for her. “I don’t want to keep you any longer, Tammy. But if you can think of anything, like maybe the symbolism of his right arm . . . like maybe he did something to someone and they were cutting off his arm for revenge. . . .”
Her eyes snapped open and she was looking directly at Richard.
“But Roger was left-handed,” she said. “If he did anything to someone, he’d have done it with his left arm.”
The chief nodded.
After Tammy was gone, Richard and Adam sat in silence for a while. Outside the snow squall was ending. It had been a light winter so far, but that could change. It was still early. They could yet be buried in seven feet like they’d been last year.
“Tell me something, Adam,” Richard said. “You grew up here. The cold case files tell me that there were a number of unsolved murders in this town before I took over as chief.”
The deputy was nodding. “They stretch way back, more than a century.”
“The last big flare-up was a little more than twenty years ago,” Richard told him, remembering the files he’d perused. “So you must remember that.”
“Sure do,” Adam said. “I was around seven years old at the time. My parents were terrified. Kept me in the house, wouldn’t let me go outside to play. There was even stuff on the news about the Woodfield Serial Killer.”
“I seem to recall from the files that four people were killed in a matter of a few days.”
“Well, four people went missing, never to be seen again. But only one body was found. The police chief at the time presumed there was a link.”
“And why was that?”
“Because they’d all either been living or working at the Blue Boy,” Adam told him.
The chief stood, walking over to the shelf and retrieving several folders. Placing them down on the table, he thumbed through the top file.
“Yes, here it is,” he said. “A man and his wife had been staying at the inn. He reported she went for a walk and never returned. No body was ever found. But murder was suspected given the fact that the very next day Cynthia Devlin, the owners’ granddaughter, also went missing. Although again no body was found, the little girl’s blood was discovered all over the grounds. There was speculation a bear might have killed her.”
“It wasn’t a bear,” Adam said. “Because there were two other guys as well.”
Richard flipped forward a few pages in the file. “Yes, here they are. Contractors. They’d come up from New York to do some work on the place.” He read further. “One would be reported missing by his wife. He never returned to New York. The other was found in the woods outside the Blue Boy, a bullet through his heart.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
Richard couldn’t figure it out. “There doesn’t seem to be a pattern, except that they were all connected somehow to the Blue Boy Inn.”
Adam shuddered. “My parents always told me to stay away from that place, that it was haunted,” he said.
The chief was still reading through the file. “It says here that the owners were all questioned and were cleared of any suspicion.” He read a little further into the report. “Cordelia had just taken over the place, her husband having recently died. Her son was questioned, it says here, but having lost his daughter, the poor guy wa
s pretty shaken up, and he moved away soon after that.”
“Hey, chief,” Adam asked, leaning back in his chair, his hands behind his head, “are you thinking that Roger Askew’s death might be somehow connected to those deaths twenty years ago?”
“I can’t see how it’s possible,” Richard said, closing the file. “Roger was killed half a mile away from the inn. But I’d like to look into those cold cases regardless. The file left it all a complete mystery, saying no suspects or motives could be found, especially since only one body was ever found.”
Adam smirked. “It’ll give us something to do. It’s been pretty boring around here lately.”
“Don’t let anyone know we’re reopening those cases,” Richard told him. “Officially, we’re only investigating the death of Roger Askew. I have a feeling that one will be easy to solve as soon as we start talking to Roger’s cohorts. But as you’re talking to people, ask what they remember about the Blue Boy twenty years ago.”
“Will do, chief,” Adam said, bolting out of his chair, replacing his cap, and heading out the door.
Richard sat back down at his desk. He thought of that woman who’d just moved to the Blue Boy, the one he’d met at Millie’s store. Such a pretty woman. Annabel, she’d said her name was. Richard hoped he wouldn’t rattle her too much asking questions about the Blue Boy’s bloody past.
29
Annabel wasn’t pleased by how drunk everyone was. Even Zeke seemed to have had too much beer. The other three, including her husband, had polished off three bottles of wine. Her dinner had been a hit—Neville had asked for three helpings of the soup—but now Annabel wished she’d served something more substantial to soak up all the alcohol everyone had consumed. Everyone but herself, of course.
She was disappointed in Jack. He’d still had the occasional glass of beer or wine even after Annabel had come home from rehab. She didn’t expect him to go sober just because she’d had an addiction. But he’d never gotten drunk in all that time.
Until tonight.
And he was flirting shamelessly with Priscilla.
Annabel stood. “I’m going to clean off these plates and make some coffee,” she said, scooping up her plate and Jack’s.
“Coffee?” Jack blurted. “I don’t want coffee. How about we open another bottle of wine?”
“I think you’ve all had enough,” Annabel said, piling the three other plates onto the two she held in her hand.
“Aw, come on, Annabel,” her husband said, “don’t be such a spoilsport.”
“No, she’s probably right, Jack,” Neville said. “I’ve had plenty. And Priscilla is such a lightweight.”
“Pretty girls usually are,” Jack said, winking openly over at Priscilla, who blushed a bright scarlet.
Annabel carried the plates out to the kitchen.
All she could think of was Rachel Riley. Her bleached hair and big tits filled up Annabel’s mind.
She placed the plates into the sink. Neville came in behind her, carrying soup bowls.
“Thank you,” Annabel said.
“You’re a marvelous cook,” Neville told her. His cheeks were flushed from drinking, his mosaic of pimples redder than usual. “Really, I’m usually a meat-and-potatoes sort of bloke, but this was superb.”
“I’m pleased you liked it.” She kept her eyes averted, focusing her attention on filling the sink up with soapy water.
“I do think it’s a good idea to get the house fixed up and fireplace cleared. I wish you all the luck with that.”
Finally, Annabel turned to look at him. She smiled. “I appreciate that, Neville,” she said.
“You know, I’ve heard some rustling sounds from down there,” he added. “I’m afraid you might have some vermin to deal with when you pull up those bricks.”
“Yes,” Annabel agreed. “I’ve heard it as well. Maybe just a couple stray squirrels. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.”
“Yes, well,” Neville said, and he seemed suddenly at a loss as to what else to say.
They looked at each other awkwardly.
“Can I help you here?” he asked finally.
“No, thank you.” Annabel nodded toward the door to the dining room. “I’m fine here. Please go back and keep Priscilla company.”
Neville smiled, nodded a little, and then headed back into the dining room.
Hadn’t he seen the way Jack had been flirting with his girlfriend? Was he blind? Clueless? Or maybe he didn’t care.
Annabel sighed, dropping her hands down into the soapy water. She couldn’t go back out there quite yet. She hoped that Neville would take Priscilla off to bed. Then Annabel would tell Jack that they, too, should call it a night. She wouldn’t mention his obnoxious behavior. No need to play the jealous wife. She and Jack needed to be united in the morning, when the contractor arrived and Cordelia started throwing up roadblocks to the renovation. Besides, Neville and Priscilla were leaving in the morning. They had to get down to Hartford to catch a flight to Florida late tomorrow afternoon.
But as Annabel washed dishes, the laughter from the dining room only continued and got louder.
She brought out the coffee. Zeke’s head had dropped down onto his chest and he was snoring lightly. Jack was regaling Neville and Priscilla with a story about the time he’d been at some fancy restaurant in New York right after his book came out, and people as diverse as Anna Wintour and Mayor Bloomberg and Lady Gaga were coming up to him to congratulate him. That had never happened.
“Here,” Annabel said, pouring some coffee for her husband and pushing the cup over at him. “Drink this.”
He ignored her, continuing on with his story, which now had turned into how he turned down an offer to write a Broadway show because they wouldn’t pay him enough. He described the way he’d told off these imaginary producers and he had Priscilla and Neville laughing so hard that tears were popping out of their eyes.
Annabel sat back and watched them. Drunk people were so ridiculous. She hated to think she’d once been like that, at some public function and as high as a weather balloon. She kept noticing the way Jack winked over at Priscilla when he was finished with one of his stories. She decided she couldn’t watch any more, so she got up from the table and walked out of the dining room and into the parlor.
And suddenly the whole room was different.
It was as if someone had slipped a mickey into her coffee. Some sort of hallucinogen. The room seemed to sway and vibrate. Annabel had to reach out and touch her hand to the wall to steady herself.
From behind her the laughter from the dining room continued, only now it got absurdly louder and then seemed to disappear entirely for a few seconds, as if the merrymakers were holding their party underwater. Annabel tried to clear her head. She stood in one spot, holding on to the wall, taking long, deep breaths. She closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, Tommy Tricky was standing in front of her.
Gnashing his sharp blue teeth.
Annabel let out a small scream.
But the creature was gone. A figment of her imagination. The room continued to spin. What was happening to her?
The laughter surged. Annabel felt as if her legs would give out from under her. She made her way across the room by holding on to the wall. She reached the fireplace and looked down at the bricks that sealed off the opening.
She heard scraping coming from below.
Scraping, scraping, scraping.
A hand was on her shoulder. Annabel gasped.
Turning, she saw Neville, as if in a dream.
“Vermin,” he said, his eyes crazy. “Vermin.”
Annabel thought she’d pass out. She nearly fell onto the fireplace, holding on to it to keep from falling to the floor. Neville was gone. Had he ever been there?
Once again, Annabel made her way around the room, her right hand against the wall to keep herself steady. She turned the corner back into the dining room.
And there was Jack fucking Rachel Riley on top of th
e table.
Annabel closed her eyes and opened them again.
No, not Rachel. Jack was sitting very close to Priscilla and they were about to kiss. Her husband looked over at her and smiled.
His mouth was full of sharp, broken teeth.
Annabel cried out and ran upstairs, shutting herself in her room.
But it wasn’t her room. She was in a closet. A very small, cramped, dark closet.
Daddy Ron had put her in there.
“Turn around, Annabel,” her stepfather’s horrible, jagged, drunken voice rasped through the door. “Turn around and see who’s behind you!”
“He’s not real!” Annabel shouted, her hands in her hair.
“Aw, Tommy don’t like it when people say he’s not real. Gets him real mad.”
Annabel spun her head from side to side, looking into the darkness.
“Hear him sharpening his teeth?” Daddy Ron asked.
She could. She could hear the devil’s teeth gnashing, anticipating the moment he bit down into her flesh.
“He’s right behind you, Annabel!” Daddy Ron shouted, and then he laughed.
She had to get out of there. All around her, linens were stacked neatly on shelves. Her mother’s linens. There was a hamper beside her filled with dirty clothes. It was a tight space. So small. She was stuck there, using up all the air. Pretty soon there would be no oxygen left and Annabel would die.
She had to break free. She began pounding on the door, swinging her arms out, knocking all the linens off the shelves.
Annabel was trapped! Her claustrophobia took over and she screamed.
That was when she saw the little boy’s hand resting upon her shoulder.
30
Priscilla staggered up the stairs to her room. What had happened down there? She was drunker than she had ever been before. She had allowed Jack to keep refilling her glass because he excited her. Excited her far more than Neville had ever done. More than any man had ever done.
But now she was lost in a fog of her own thoughts and desires. What had happened? Her blouse was unbuttoned. Where was everybody?
The Inn Page 9
