At Any Cost

by Lauren Nichols

  Then the hang-ups began.

  By the time Fish pulled in to talk with Beau about the bullet holes in his sign, Jenna was totally on edge. Baking fruitcakes had been therapeutic yesterday. It wasn’t working today.

  She ushered Fish Troutman inside before he could ring the bell. “Hey, Jenna,” he said, removing his flat campaign hat.

  “Hi, Fish.”

  Troutman was a tall, lanky young man in his mid-twenties with an agreeable personality, fire-red hair and loads of fading freckles. He flashed her a smile full of silver braces. “You and Mrs. Jennings baking today? Something smells good.”

  “Fruitcakes. Would you like a slice?”

  He grimaced. “No, thanks. Is Beau around? He said he’d be here all day.”

  “Yes, he’s in the sitting room.” She motioned him through the doorway to the hall. “It’s the door on the right. Just follow the country music on the radio. And Fish? When you’re through talking with him, I need to speak to you.”

  A look of concern crossed his face. “Did something else happen? The chief probably told you that we haven’t had a hit on that BOLO yet.”

  “No, he hasn’t gotten back to me since we spoke. But I’ve had three hang-up calls this morning, and I’m a little anxious about it.”

  “You got Caller ID?”

  “Yes, but the only thing that comes up on the display is ‘Out of Area.’”

  “Okay,” he said soberly. “Let’s talk more about this after I see Beau.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  When he entered the kitchen a few minutes later, Beau was with him. With Aunt Molly busy upstairs in the turret room, Jenna took the last two loaves of fruitcake from the oven, placed them on a cooling rack, then pulled off her oven mitts. She spoke to Beau. “Everything okay?”

  He exchanged a long, tentative glance with Fish before he answered. “Yeah, no problem. It was probably just kids. What about these hang-ups? Fish said you were concerned.”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, wondering about that look. “The moment I answer, someone breaks the connection, or the line’s already dead. I nearly called the phone company to request a number change until I remembered that we won’t be in business long if our guests can’t reach us.”

  “Any chance the calls were from telemarketers?”

  “I don’t see how. We’re on a no-call list.”

  “Yeah, well, that cuts down on a lot of them,” Fish said, “but it doesn’t include charities. You know how these calls work, right? Solicitors use computers to dial numbers. If the computer reaches somebody, the call’s routed to a sales rep. But if all the sales reps are busy on other lines, the computer hangs up. I can’t tell you how many times last week we heard from folks who thought they were being harassed.”

  Jenna drew a hopeful breath. “They received more than a few hang-ups?”

  “One lady had five. Like I said, they’re probably from charities. With Thanksgiving and Christmas coming up, a lot of them are asking for help.”

  Beau took a slow walk toward her. “Feeling better about this now?”

  She nodded, but somewhere inside she was still uneasy. She was almost certain she’d heard someone breathing on the line before the third hang-up. Although by that time, she was already on edge, so it might’ve been her imagination. “Thanks, Fish.”

  “You’re welcome.” He went to the side door, then stepped outside. “But if you keep getting these calls, let us know. Maybe we can get some numbers from the phone company—see what’s up. “

  “I will. And if there’s any progress on the other matter—”

  “I’ll let you know.” He was heading for his black-and-white when he turned around and prepared to say something else—then changed his mind and kept walking.

  Was he questioning those hang ups, too? Jenna wondered as she watched him leave. Her apprehension rose a notch. If so, that wasn’t very comforting.

  * * *

  It was midafternoon when Beau found Aunt Molly in the foyer, buttoning her long wool coat and preparing to meet the ladies of her bridge club. “I just tapped at Jenna’s door, but no one answered. Do you know where she is?”

  “Yes, I do. She’s up in the attic. Apparently, she’s at loose ends today and needs something to occupy her mind. She’s decided to start decorating for Christmas.”

  “Rushing the season a little, isn’t she?”

  “Only by a few days.” Molly pulled a floppy purple knitted hat over her short white hair, then picked up her black handbag and dug out her keys. “We’re generally decorated by Thanksgiving day. Makes the place look festive for our guests.” She sighed. “Well, when we have guests.”

  She walked briskly to the door, then let herself out. The sun was actually shining for a change. “Go on up. I’m sure she could use some help with those boxes.”

  “Thanks. I will. Do you want me to reset the alarm?”

  “No, dear. I can do that from out here. See you in a little while.”

  Beau watched her leave, then climbed the attic stairs and called for Jenna. If she was still on edge, he didn’t want to add to her uneasiness by sneaking up on her. He’d reached the attic floor.

  “I’m over here,” she returned, and he followed the sound of her voice.

  He’d been up here before, but only long enough to deposit and drape the small pieces of furniture from the sitting room. Now he really took it in. The lack of dust and disorganized mayhem surprised him.

  She looked pretty sitting on an old steamer trunk near the window with a dozen boxes in front of her. Light from the afternoon sun lit the golden streaks in her hair. She wore simple black earrings that matched the white-and-black snowflake pattern on the thigh-length sweater she wore with black leggings. As always a gold cross hung from a chain around her neck.

  “Aunt Molly said you want to start decorating for Christmas.”

  “Only the artificial tree we put up in the parlor. I have the time, so I might as well use it.”

  “Artificial? You’re joking.”

  “Nope. No joke. There hasn’t been a real tree in the parlor for years. Between guests with allergies and the mess from the needles, I think Aunt Molly just gave up. We do put a real one up in the sitting room. It’s a smaller space, so the pine scent really fills the room. I love it.”

  A hollow spot opened in Beau’s chest with the mention of Christmas trees, but he forced himself to stay focused. He indicated the boxes in the center of the floor. “Do you want these carried downstairs?”

  “Not quite yet. I still have some sorting to do. But if you want to hang around for a few minutes, I wouldn’t mind some help with the tree. It’s huge.” She opened a box of pink glass balls and thin crystal angels—smiled as she lifted one to the light. “I always pick out my favorites first. You know, the special ornaments that have meaning.”

  No, he didn’t know, but he nodded anyway. Jasper hadn’t been big on Christmas trees—or for that matter, Christmas itself. The truth was, he could fill a book with things Jasper hadn’t liked, and his name would’ve topped the list. “Mind if I walk around and be nosy? You’ve got some neat stuff up here.”

  “Not at all. Most of it belongs to Aunt Molly and Uncle Charles.” Her voice softened. “My mom and dad had a good marriage, but Aunt Molly and Uncle Charles’s was like a fairy tale.” Rising, she walked along the outside wall, passing stacks of hatboxes, a dressmaker’s dummy and an old peddle sewing machine on the way. She stopped beside a caddy where garment bags hung, then unzipped one of them and beckoned him closer. “Take a peek.”

  Beau looked, then felt slightly uneasy—almost as though he were intruding on someone’s private life. There was a vintage military uniform inside. Coat, pants and a billed hat. Jenna’s great-uncle had been a decorated World War II officer.

  She opened another garment bag where a time-yellowed satin wedding gown and veil hung in front of a man’s dark suit. Tucked inside the jacket, an old white shirt wore a broad stripe
d necktie, onyx tie tack and matching cufflinks.

  Jenna zipped the bags back up and smiled fondly. “She saved everything of his. Old board games, golf clubs, even his favorite pair of argyle socks. She had to say goodbye to him, but she wouldn’t give up the things that meant so much to him. I love to come up here and visit their memories.”

  Beau nodded because he couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say. He picked up a tennis racket, then put it down—took a few steps and looked through a five-foot tower of pink plastic milk crates filled with record albums. Dean Martin, Johnny Mathis, Sam Cooke…somebody named Boxcar Willie. There was a turntable beside the plastic tower. “Does this record player still work?”

  Smiling, Jenna crossed the floor to him, then pulled a folded extension cord down from one of the rafter braces. “What would you like to hear?”

  He wanted to hear Sam Cooke, and he wasn’t disappointed.

  He was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and his knees pulled up as “Twisting the Night Away” ended and “Wonderful World” began. Then he had to say it. “I envy you this.”

  Jenna closed the lid on a new box of ornaments and sent him a soft look. “You envy me…the attic?”

  “Yeah. There’s so much family history here. I’ll never have that. Anything that was important to my mother either left with her, or stayed behind for Jasper to sell.”

  She seemed to know that he didn’t want her to ask questions or comment, and he appreciated it.

  “We had this small china platter once. It was rectangular, about eight-by-twelve inches and was kind of translucent white. The edges were sort of ruffled.” He studied his kneecaps. “There was a scene in the center of it—a meadow with pale green grass and pink wildflowers. It was the only material thing I ever felt an attachment to because my grandmother brought it with her from Ireland.”

  He looked up. “I’m not sure why I know that because Travis is French in origin. Maybe Jasper told me. Anyway, as heirlooms or family history goes, that was it. One day there was a link to the past, the next day it was gone.”

  Sam Cooke sang for a few minutes longer, then Beau rose to shut off the turntable and slide the record back in the album jacket. Jenna unplugged the extension cord and slung it back over the rafter brace. She didn’t mention the story he’d shared until they were downstairs stringing white mini lights on the eight-foot tree. Then she stood back to assess their work and said casually, “Genealogy’s a hobby of mine. If you want to trace your roots sometime, I’d love to help you.” Then she handed him a crystal angel from a box and smiled. “I like to put these on the tree first. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

  Beau felt his chest swell with so many emotions, he couldn’t sort them all out. She knew he couldn’t handle pity, so she’d kept any hint of sympathy from her voice. She’d just stated a fact and moved on.

  Clearing his throat, he took the angel and reached high to hang it on a short branch near the top. Then he looked down at her and smiled. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Every angel in this room is beautiful.”

  * * *

  Jenna rose on Wednesday morning feeling a warm glow. Though he hadn’t said it, she sensed that Beau had never decorated a tree before, but she knew it had made him happy. And that made her happy. There’d been no reply to her offer to trace his roots, but that was okay. If he ever wanted to do it, she’d help him. There was a need in some people to know where they’d come from. Beau seemed to be one of them.

  She got out of bed and started her day. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and she and Beau would be leaving for Coudersport this afternoon. Today, she vowed to leave the wolf at the door, regain the mindset she’d adopted when he invited her to go geocaching, and have a good time.

  It wasn’t easy. Periodically, the doubts and fears crept back in, and she’d had to calm herself with prayer, logic and fact: Fish had provided a plausible reason for those hang-up calls, and “Mrs. Bolton,” could have been acting alone for reasons known only to her. The funeral flowers had been more difficult to explain away. But as she and Beau had discussed, there were hackers who delighted in making trouble for people just because they could. She wanted desperately to believe that.

  When they were in his truck and underway, Beau glanced across at her and smiled at the way she was dressed. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in jeans since we were in high school.”

  “When you live with a Victorian fashion plate who wears taffeta and lace most of the time, jeans seem a bit casual.” But jeans, boots and a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt suited Beau perfectly. His leather jacket lay in the backseat. Now, as they passed the busy Quick Mart, he turned down the volume on the country-rock music coming from his speakers. The song matched her new philosophy: “Live Like You Were Dying.”

  “Are you excited about the self-defense classes?”

  “Yes, I’m really looking forward to them.”

  “Good. Fish thought it was a good idea, too.”

  Jenna glanced over at him. “You told Fish I was considering the classes?”

  “It came up.”

  She suspected that a lot of things had come up while they’d talked yesterday. She unzipped the light blue parka she wore over her white sweater. The sun shining through the windows was heating up the cab. “I’ve been wondering about something.”

  “What’s that?” He slowed at the intersection of Maine and Sassafras, then continued on.

  “When Fish came to see you yesterday about the bullet holes in your sign, you said kids were probably to blame.”

  “Yes, I said that.”

  “But before you answered, there was a look that passed between you and Fish. What was that about?”

  “A look?”

  She sighed. “Beau, please. You know what I’m talking about. You don’t believe it was kids. Why not?”

  After a moment, he turned down the Tim McGraw song, then trained his gaze on the road again. “Because the slugs Fish dug out of the wall behind my sign had some size to them. Kids don’t usually carry nine-millimeter handguns.”

  A chill moved through her. “Who does?”

  “Thugs, cops…someone with a grudge.”

  Jenna released an uneasy breath. He had someone in mind. She could hear it in his voice. “I imagine we can rule out the police,” she said. “And I don’t think Charity has a large contingent of thugs.”

  “Which we can be thankful for.”

  “Yes. That leaves someone with a grudge. Who?”

  “When Fish asked if I’d ticked off anyone lately, the only person I could think of was Frank Killian.”

  “Frank?” she repeated. “You and Frank are having problems?”

  “No. Actually, we get along. At least we did. But that look he gave us after church on Sunday could’ve curdled milk. Maybe he resents my replacing him at the Blackberry.”

  “Even if he does, I can’t see him shooting at your shop. He’s an intelligent man. Besides, if he wanted to retaliate, I’m a more logical candidate. I fired him.” The connection he’d apparently wanted her to make hit her hard and Jenna released a soft “Oh.” She shifted on the bench seat to face him. “Fish thinks Frank’s responsible for the bullet holes and the vandalism at the inn?”

  “No, he’s saying it’s a possibility. I phoned him a while ago. He tried to see Killian yesterday, but apparently, he’s out of town.”

  Jenna shook her head. It wasn’t Frank. “Hiring someone to vandalize the inn would require money, and he’s having financial problems.”

  “Maybe he had a friend who was willing to help for free.”

  “If that’s so, he would’ve needed a friend with some serious skills. Someone who could hack into my password-protected computer. My credit card, too, if everything is connected.”

  “Do you know what Frank’s sister does for a living?”

  Knowing he wouldn’t have asked if the answer wasn’t relevant, Jenna hesitated. “I thought Barbara managed the cell phone store in the mall.”
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  “She does. But she also has a successful side business building and repairing computers. If Frank needed a loan, he might’ve gotten it from the Bank of Barbara.”

  Ahead on the right, two flags snapped in the wind near a white-sided convenience store—the Stars and Stripes in the superior position, and an NFL banner beneath it. Beau flicked on his turn signal, pulled off the road and coasted to the pumps. He shut off the truck and released his seat belt. “Give me a minute to fill the tank, then we can head inside for coffee or a soft drink. We still have an hour of road time left.”

  Jenna was barely aware of him outside. Suddenly the chance that Frank and Barbara Killian were to blame was almost calming because they were basically good people who wouldn’t take this any further. This could be over! She wouldn’t even press charges. She’d just count her blessings and go back to living without fear. At least in the immediate present.

  She was still feeling relatively good about that two and a half hours later when they left the Haskells and started for home. Snow fell, accumulating on the berms where the salt trucks couldn’t reach. Warm air from the vents melted big, fluffy flurries as soon as they hit the windshield.

  “I enjoyed meeting the Haskells,” she said. “They seem really happy together, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, they do.” Beau flicked on his wipers. “I hope they stay that way.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  He shrugged. “People change. Sometimes things that make them happy at first, aren’t quite good enough later on.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Things.”

  Obviously, he wasn’t talking about the Haskells now. But respecting his privacy and realizing how difficult it was for him to share personal information, Jenna remained silent.

  Beau nodded through the windshield. “There’s a little place a few miles up the road that’s geared to kids, but the food’s good. When’s the last time you had a great bowl of chili?”