Inn Keeping With Murder

by Lynn Bohart

  I dropped my head. I didn’t need the dictionary this time to tell me what that meant. It meant there would be a perpetual stigma surrounding Ellen’s death. People would whisper in private and speculate on why such a beautiful, wealthy woman would kill herself. They would presume that it was her husband, or her children, or a disease that had caused her to act so irrationally. Her husband would live the rest of his life with a sense of guilt and remorse, and her death would always be shrouded in secrecy when her grandchildren asked, “What happened to Grandma?”

  “I’m so sorry, Martha,” I said with a deep sigh. “I guess we can never know what another person is going through. There must have been something we weren’t aware of.”

  “But she would have told me.” Martha cried, her heart broken. “We were best friends. She would have said something.”

  “Maybe whatever was bothering her was too personal. Maybe it was something sudden, and she didn’t have time to say anything. What we need to do now is to celebrate her life,” I said with more bravado than I really felt. “We can celebrate her life and all the wonderful things she did for people. She was a great person, Martha. We won’t forget that.”

  I paused, thinking about a time when I’d attended the funeral of a doctor-friend who had injected himself with enough morphine to send him to outer space. People at the service behaved like automatons. No one knew what to say and so just didn’t say anything. There were no facial expressions, no laughter, no recounting the man’s personal life. I didn’t want that for Ellen. She had lived a generous and dignified life and didn’t deserve to have people speculate about her emotional stability, relationships, or physical health. Yes, we would plan a wonderful celebration of her life, and then we would honor her in the way we promised—we would live out our dreams.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The weekend after Ellen was buried, Rudy called a meeting at the inn to discuss her idea about horseback riding. It was the first of June by then and the inn was full, but all the guests were out for the day. Since the weather was cooperating, I put out a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies in the breakfast room for people when they returned, and then dusted off chairs on the back patio. The planters were filled with colorful annuals, and the bird feeders that dotted the landscape were filled with birdseed, bringing a host of feathered friends to share a snack.

  By two-thirty, we were seated in a set of white Adirondack chairs around the outdoor fire pit to enjoy the view and discuss Rudy’s idea.

  “So, I’ve been thinking,” Rudy began. “It sounds like all of us had dreams growing up that never materialized. As I said, one of mine was horseback riding. I’ve located a barn that has a covered arena, so we won’t even have to get wet. And they offer classes. I’m going to sign up for a six-week course, and I was hoping you guys would join me.”

  She stopped and waited with her thin lips pursed in expectation. I glanced around the circle to see what other’s reactions might be, but everyone seemed suddenly preoccupied. When Rudy had proposed this idea at the club over alcohol, it seemed completely plausible, even if we were all over fifty—maybe sixty. Now, maybe not so much.

  “Horses are big,” I said, filling the silence.

  Rudy frowned. “Yes, Julia, they are. What’s your point?”

  “My point is…they’re big.”

  Doe sighed, as she did at the beginning of most sentences.

  “I think what she’s trying to say is that we could get hurt, Rudy. My niece was thrown from a horse a few years back and ended up in the hospital with a concussion.”

  Rudy exhaled in exasperation. “I thought when we decided to name ourselves the Old Maids Club it was because we weren’t going to be old maids.” She turned to me. “So you’re scared you’re going to fall off? No one—I repeat NO ONE—is going to fall off the damn horse!”

  And then, of course, she did.

  ÷

  We began our horseback riding lessons two weeks later. My horse was a stocky gelding named, Sugar, but he was anything but sweet. In fact, he was the most stubborn thing I had ever met besides my ex-husband, and not any easier to mount.

  But the experience wasn’t all bad. I’m a bit accident prone, so the fact that I never fell off was a surprise to everyone, especially Rudy, who slid right out of her saddle at one point and landed face down in the dirt. For someone who prides herself in her athleticism, it was enough to make her blush right through her sprayed-on tan. But I have to hand it to her. She grabbed the reins, put her foot in the stirrup and swung herself back into the saddle. Well, almost. She overshot the swing part and went right over the other side, landing face down in the dirt—again.

  In August, we went skydiving with Doe, which apparently triggered my latent fear of heights. I went through the training, geared up, and got on the plane, only to panic when it was my turn to jump. When the instructor reached out a hand to me, my inner hysterical bitch took over, and I yanked my arm away, nearly pulling him off his feet.

  He smiled reassuringly. “It’s okay. I’m right here. You’ll be fine,” he said.

  I gazed at his plastic smile and thought I saw my short life flash before my eyes—okay, maybe not so short, but it flashed before my eyes nonetheless. Next thing I knew, I was threatening to rip his arms off. When we made it back to base camp, the company owner called me over and informed me that I would never be allowed to come there again.

  It was the week before Thanksgiving by the time we could schedule Blair’s adventure. She wanted to sing karaoke. I remember Rudy pausing when Blair suggested it.

  “Uh…you mean we each have to get up and sing?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Blair said with a toss of her head. “You made us ride horses, I want to sing.”

  Rudy’s tan was looking a little green around the edges at this point.

  “I’m good,” I said with confidence. “If I can go skydiving, I can sing karaoke.”

  Rudy turned to me with a sneer that could have made my mother cry.

  “You didn’t go skydiving,” she said with a snap. “You went up in a plane, something you do every year for vacation, and then you came down again.”

  “Well, I meant to jump out,” I said.

  “Not exactly the same thing as actually jumping,” she said.

  “What are you afraid of, Rudy?” Blair pinned it.

  Rudy puffed out her inadequate chest. “I’m not afraid,” she said with earnest. “I just…”

  “What?” Blair prodded her.

  Rudy stared back at us as we all waited. Finally, she said, “I’ll go. It should be fun.”

  On the first night of karaoke, I reasoned away any fear I had by reminding myself that there was alcohol available, something I noticed Rudy was taking liberal advantage of. By the time it was her turn to go on stage, she turned to Doe, our designated driver.

  “Hey Doe,” she said with a conspiratorial tone. “Why don’t we do it together? I was thinking of doing an Everly Brothers song. Better if there were two of us.”

  Doe took a moment to consider her idea, shot me a glance and then said, “Okay.”

  You would have thought the thirty-something crowd that night actually knew who the Everly Brothers were. They all joined in to sing Hello Mary Lou. I sat back with a smug look, knowing full well that Rudy had planned that all along.

  I received a hearty response to my version of Killing Me Softly, probably because by the time I made it on stage I’d exceeded my normal limit of two margaritas and had begun to slur. The line, ‘killing me softly with his song’ kept coming out as ‘killing me softly with his thong.’ An awkward visual image to be sure.

  Martha’s rendition of Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Wanna Have Fun was a big hit. And the surprise of the night was Blair, who really wasn’t half bad. As she crooned the lyrics without once looking at the screen, I realized what a good memory she had. But then I remembered that Blair always knew recipes by heart and could recite street addresses and birthdays on cue. Her performance elicited c
heers from the mostly male crowd, although I thought more from the sight of her oscillating breasts than her ability to carry a tune.

  Around the same time we began horseback riding in June, Martha stopped by the inn one afternoon. I was in the entryway rearranging a pair of antique chairs I was hoping to sell.

  “I want to volunteer,” she said. “At the shelter where Ellen worked.”

  “Really?” I said, angling the Queen Anne chair away from the door.

  “Yes. Ellen used to talk about the shelter a lot. During the last month or so, she was actually volunteering in the office. She met a number of the women there and talked about how sad they were. It made her feel good to volunteer for an organization that helped them. I’d like to do that, too. Will you do it with me?”

  If Rudy was born with a silver tongue, Doe with brains, and Blair with confidence, Martha was born with none of the above. It wasn’t that she was scared of life, but she was overly cautious. So, I recognized what a big step this would be for Martha. I also realized that volunteering sounded good to me, too. She wasn’t the only one who had thought about what Ellen had said just before she died. I loved my life, but it was pretty self-centered.

  “Sure, I’ll volunteer with you,” I said, beginning to dust off an old secretary’s desk I’d placed in between the chairs. “I’d like to do something useful, too. Are you sure you want to volunteer at the shelter, though? What about someplace like the YWCA or the food bank?”

  “No…the shelter,” she said steadfastly. She took a deep breath. “I don’t think Ellen killed herself.”

  I stopped and looked up. “Okay…I…uh…what?”

  She shrugged her rounded shoulders. “I know what Ellen said at the end, but there wasn’t anything really wrong in her life. You all think that she was unhappy because Ray controlled her, but she loved him. And I think she loved her life.”

  “But the police said… I mean, they said…”

  “I know what they said, Julia. I just think they’re wrong. The only thing wrong was that she couldn’t sleep.”

  And then Martha farted.

  She often did that. But usually when she bent over or laughed too hard. This time it was like the exclamation point at the end of her sentence.

  I chose to ignore it.

  “But not being able to sleep wouldn’t cause Ellen to…you know,” I said.

  “To drive off a cliff?” She finished my thought with a slight toss of her head. “Yes, I do know. So I want to walk in her shoes. Maybe I’ll understand then. I think something changed in her life, and I want to know what it was. So, what day do you want to volunteer?”

  It took a moment for my brain to shift gears. But finally, I said, “Probably Monday mornings. Those are usually our slowest days since most people check out on Sunday.”

  “Okay, good. That works for me.”

  The Good Shepherd Women’s Shelter was part of a large regional nonprofit that ran several homeless shelters in the area. It was affiliated with St. Martin’s Catholic Church on Queen Anne Hill in Seattle, where Martha, Doe and I attended services. Our priest, Father Bentley, provided chapel services at the shelter and was on site once a week for private consultations.

  Martha and I participated in a half-day of training and then began volunteering three to four hours every Monday morning. I had to admit that after only a few weeks, I stopped complaining about the little inconveniences in my life. These women had it tough.

  Martha enjoyed volunteering with the women as much as I did. In fact, when another volunteer left, she began volunteering in the office just as Ellen had done. Volunteering seemed to give her an enormous sense of purpose, so much so that Father Bentley even approached her about joining the board of directors.

  And then, the weekend before Thanksgiving, Martha’s niece came to visit and Martha brought her along to the shelter. She was thrilled to show her niece the good work we were doing. But the Monday after Thanksgiving, she called to say she wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be going. Then she missed volunteering the first Monday in December, as well as our regular book club meeting. These absences raised questions in my mind, but at the time, I was busy getting the inn ready for the holidays and ignored them—something I would later regret.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was two weeks before Christmas, and Seattle was in the middle of a cold snap. The meteorologists had even gone so far as to predict snow. The inn was all decked out for the holidays, with an antique sleigh out front draped in garlands and bows, three big Christmas trees inside, and my collection of vintage Santa Clauses scattered throughout the ground floor.

  The state Democratic Party had scheduled a reception at the inn on Wednesday evening of that week to honor Senator Joe Pesante, a state Senator from Walla Walla who was in town promoting raising the minimum wage. As a life-long Democrat, I was looking forward to the evening and had even decided to give the senator a gift.

  On the Saturday before the reception, I’d grabbed a box of my homemade chocolate fudge from behind the reception desk, where we sold it to guests, and wrapped it with my favorite candy cane wrapping paper and a big red bow. Several of the guests happened to stop by as I was doing this, including Sybil, who came in to drop off the animated Santa Claus I’d asked to borrow for the reception.

  When I was finished, I left the gift box under the registration desk, thinking I would give it to the senator as he was leaving the party the following Wednesday. He was well-known for his sweet tooth, and I suspected he would rip open the box and sample the candy on his way out the door.

  But two hours before the caterers were scheduled to arrive that day, the senator’s aide called to say that he had been taken suddenly ill and couldn’t make it. I spent the next forty-five minutes hurriedly calling local dignitaries to cancel.

  The girls were set to come for our annual holiday luncheon the next day, Thursday, when we would plan out the next year’s reading list for the book club. I moved the gift box from under the front desk to the pantry that morning, thinking I would give it to the senator at the Governor’s New Year’s Eve party. Then I set about making my award-winning sugarless peach cobbler for the luncheon. It was Blair’s birthday, and since she was a diabetic, I was making it in her honor.

  By noon, the girls arrived in a chatty, light-hearted mood—even Rudy, who had just gone through her annual colonoscopy the day before. Martha had called to say that she would be late. Everyone was dressed in their best casual holiday attire: Rudy in a crisp denim shirt embroidered with poinsettias, Doe in an elegant red cashmere sweater and green scarf, and Blair in a pair of tight black pants and a glittery stretch blouse designed to accent her best feature—so, not her smile. I had on my favorite Christmas sweater with dogs embroidered all along the bottom wearing antlers.

  It was a potluck, so we’d each made a special dish. I’d made the dessert. Doe had brought chicken curry over rice. Rudy had made a fabulous three-bean salad, and Blair had stopped at the store and bought bread.

  After lunch, the girls retired to the living room, where I had a roaring fire going. I was just about to get the wine, when Martha showed up. She stopped in the doorway to the living room with her hand resting on the wall, a faraway look on her face. She was dressed as if she were going to wake instead of a holiday luncheon—black shirt-waist dress and a gray cardigan, buttoned wrong.

  “Julia,” she murmured, “do you have anything sweet? I didn’t have lunch.”

  “Uh…how about something to eat? There’s plenty of food left,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “Something sweet.”

  “Okay. How about a mint? They’re on the table.”

  I started to take her into the dining room, but she waved me away and went in alone. Doe was just coming back from the bathroom and stopped to watch with me as Martha went to the table and grabbed a whole handful of mints and began stuffing them into her mouth. Doe was a disciplined eater who maintained her tall, elegant figure by carefully monitoring everything she ate.
She turned to me with a slightly horrified expression.

  “Martha,” I called to her. “I have peach cobbler for later.”

  She turned to me with a mint stuck halfway between her teeth.

  “That’s okay,” she said, sucking on the chocolate-covered mint.

  I turned to Doe. “I’ve got a bottle of Chardonnay in the refrigerator. I’ll grab it. You grab Martha.”

  “Okay,” she murmured.

  While Doe guided Martha into the living room, I headed to the kitchen to get the wine and some glasses. As I passed through the breakfast room, a voice stopped me.

  “Mama always said life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”

  I turned to find Captain Ahab, the African Grey Parrot I bought at an estate sale a few years back, bouncing around on the perch in the middle of his cage. Ahab had been a spontaneous buy, something I don’t usually do. I was at the estate sale to buy an antique Chippendale bar cabinet and came home with him instead. But in my defense, I saw Ahab as a rescue. African Grey Parrots are notoriously good talkers, and this one had a large vocabulary, having lived with an older woman who liked to watch movies on HBO all day. The only person bidding on him was a scraggly-looking kid dressed all in black, that I’d overheard to say he was going to bid on Ahab so that he could teach him the lyrics to a song called I Drink Blood. Since that was enough to curdle mine, I valiantly stepped in to bid against him. And voila!

  I turned away from Ahab and went into the kitchen for the wine. I took everything out to an old marble-topped side table that sat up against the wall. Blair was seated in a tanned leather chair, next to an end table I’d made out of stacking antique suitcases one on top of the other. The girls had been tossing around reading ideas, and Blair was in the process of suggesting a new romance set in Greenland when Martha got up and began to wander around the room. The living room windows are tall and white-mullioned, while the floor-to-ceiling bookcases are painted barn red to match a variety of red accents. Martha stopped in the corner to finger a collection of old apothecary cans on one of the shelves. Everyone glanced up to watch her for a moment, but Blair continued, and I poured the wine.