by Connie Myres
Mandy and Sis smiled as they breathed a sigh of relief.
“Let’s get inside,” Gramps said, zipping up his coat.
Benny stood up as everyone began leaving their seats. “I’ll get your things from the baggage compartment if you need it tonight. But first, Johnathon, if you don’t mind. Can you help me check the bus? I think I ran over something.”
Johnathon nodded, agreeably.
The Connor’s were the first ones off the bus, followed by Dennis and Walter, and then the Malones. They fought their way through the whipping wind and snow as they approached the porch. When they reached the—somewhat—shelter it provided, they saw the sign on the door.
Mr. Connor read the sign aloud. “Closed for maintenance.” He tried to open the door, but it was locked. He began banging on a glazed pane of glass.
“The lights are on inside. Hopefully, someone can let us in,” Mandy said, turning her back to the wind.
Moments later a brittle old man came to the door. “I’m sorry, but we’re not open.”
“Have you seen the weather?” Mr. Connor said, sounding like the banker he was. “There’s a blizzard happening, and we’re stranded here with no place else to go. Can you make room for us until the storm clears?”
The man thought a moment before opening the door and welcoming them inside. “I am the innkeeper. My name is Harold Thomas, and that’s my wife, Helen.” He pointed to an elderly round woman, tightening the belt of her housecoat, as she walked up to them.
“Please come in,” she said, walking to a tall window that faced the road. “Just don’t bring old man winter in with you.”
Mandy looked back at the bus. She saw Benny open an outside compartment. He reached inside, took out a tire iron, and handed it to Johnathon before grabbing a shovel. Obedient Violet was standing at the front of the bus apparently waiting on her boyfriend. Her long strands of hair whipped in the wind as she stood in the glow of the bus’s headlights, so sweetly. Violet tightened the collar of her cheap fur coat as Alison walked away from them and approached Mandy who held the door open for her.
“I can’t believe this weather,” Alison said to Mandy. “I’m glad we won’t be spending the night on the bus.”
“Yeah, I guess we made the right decision coming here,” Mandy said, closing the door behind them, stopping the wind and snow from entering the grand foyer. She looked up at the soaring ceiling and at the elaborate wall paintings and the stained glass. There was no way she would be able to afford the guest rooms for the three of them.
The smell of fresh paint and the sight of white drop cloths in a nearby room—probably a parlor—made it clear the innkeepers were in the midst of remodeling. When she looked closer, she noticed dolls in glass cabinets, dozens of them. It was hard to see without going into the room, but they were of all sizes. Dolls taller than a child, to ones the size of Barbie dolls. The innkeeper’s wife must be a collector.
Harold walked behind the front desk. “As I said, we are not open for business, but I will make the guest rooms on the second floor available to you . . . due to the inclement weather. We will not be serving breakfast, but you are welcome to make yourselves simple meals in the kitchen. Other than the kitchen and the foyer, the rest of Cedar Lake Mansion is off limits.” He looked over the rim of his glasses. “Safety concerns due to the remodeling. I’m sure you understand.” He slid the register across the counter. “There is wireless internet—it’s not very fast out here in the wilderness—and all the guest rooms have a television.” He picked up a pen and held it out for Mr. Connor, who was first in line. “Oh, and don’t go near the lake, the ice is not safe. People have died when they fell through the ice, thinking it was okay to walk on. Something about the springs and a current, I’m not sure of the surrounding science.”
Mr. Connor took the pen. “I don’t think anyone’s going out in this weather.”
When the Connor family moved out of their way, Gramps stepped up to the desk. “I want a room next to these two,” he pointed, “my lovely granddaughters.”
“We’ll share a room,” Mandy said, giving a nod towardSis. “But how much are they?”
Harold gave her a pleasingly discounted price. Then he handed them keys he took from a wall rack. “The gentleman will be in room two-o-six and the ladies will be across the hall in two-o-seven.”
Gramps took the key and laid an elbow on the counter. “Do you have hot tea here? I love hot tea.”
“Yes we do, in the kitchen over there. You will need to help yourself though.”
“Don’t worry, I like to help myself.” Gramps picked up his satchel and walked ahead of Mandy and Sis, making his way up the floating staircase to the second floor. He craned his neck left and right deciding which way to go.
“This way, Gramps,” Mandy said, walking to the right. “Looks like we’re going to be at the end of the hall.”
When they reached another flight of steps—barricaded with a thick red velvet rope—they put their keys into the locks of the guest room doors.
“I’m glad your room is right across from ours,” Sis said.
“And I’m glad those Connor people are way down at the other end,” Gramps said, winking at Sis before walking into his room.
Mandy looked down the hall. Alison waved at her before walking into her room at the head of the stairs. Dennis and Walter were near the Connors.
Sis walked into the room. “This is nice, Mandy. I feel like a princess. And look, there’s even a desk where I can work on my project.”
The room was like a fairy tale. Two four-poster beds, lace curtains, and a chandelier looked antique. Even the gas fireplace and the claw-foot tub in the bathroom fit the rich atmosphere.
Mandy walked to a window hoping to see the lake, but it was too dark to see outside. She closed the silky fine fabric and went to the other window, the one that faced the driveway. The bus’s lights were a blur through the sheets of blinding snow.
“I’d rather stay here than go to the ski lodge,” Sis said, opening her laptop.
“Me, too.” Mandy sat on the bed closest to the door and opened her handheld luggage. There was a long T-shirt for sleeping and a change of clothes, enough things to get her through the night. She did not want to go back outside in the storm and get the big suitcase.
After walking around the room, pretending she was part of the elite class and lived in the mansion, she lay down on the bed and watched Sis work. If anyone would make it to the upper echelon of society, it would be her sister.
Sis turned and looked at Mandy. “I want to get my suitcase from the bus.”
“Can’t it wait until morning?”
“No, my clothes are in it. My backpack only has things for my project.”
“Okay, let’s go before Benny comes inside.”
They put on their coats and walked down to the entrance. The innkeeper and his wife were nowhere to be seen. They must live on the other side of the mansion. Noticing that the bus lights were still on, they pulled up their hoods and walked outside toward the bus. Then Sis stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Mandy said.
“The bus hit an animal. Look.”
Mandy looked to where Sis was pointing and walked toward where snow was drifting over a mound of fur. Then breath left her when she realized that it was Violet’s fur coat. She ran up to it and saw Violet’s still body in a snowdrift. Mandy shook her shoulder. “Violet are you all right?”
Violet did not move. Then she noticed the blood on the side of Violet’s face and a deep gash to her head. There was no pulse or respirations as she began chest compressions and yelled for help. But it was too late, sweet Violet was dead.
Find Who Killed Sweet Violet? (A Black Water Whodunit) at your favorite online retailer.
About the Author
CONNIE MYRES writes books and short stories in the horror, mystery, suspense, and science fiction genres. She is an author, developer, and registered nurse. Sometime in the future—whether by choice or by arm-t
wisting—she will join the digital nomad movement.
Born and raised in Michigan, she has been creating stories since childhood. Children she had babysat as a teenager loved to hear her mystery stories, especially since she carefully included all the children listening into the storyline, causing suspense for everyone.
Read more at Connie Myres’s site.
