by CoCo, Nancy
“I didn’t realize you were a flooring expert.”
I adjusted the knee pads I wore and used the crowbar to yank on the tacked-down edges of the dusty lobby carpet. “I’m only pulling up this old carpet. I’m pretty sure there’s hardwood underneath. Mike Proctor told me the quote to refinish the floors would depend on the shape they’re in under the carpet.” I wiped the sweat from my forehead onto the sleeve of the ratty old shirt I wore. It was one of Papa’s I found in his drawer and was more than a bit big on me, but it served its purpose.
The puppy played with the edge of the carpet I had freed. She pulled on it, leaning back on her haunches. When a piece ripped off, she shook it hard and brought it to me. “Wonderful,” I muttered and took off the heavy gloves I wore and snagged the old carpet out of her mouth. She sat down and watched me with so much pride in her eyes. It was as if she said, “It’s easy, Mommy, see?”
“Why isn’t Colin doing that?” Frances took off the felt hat she wore. The hat was a lovely lilac color and matched the spring coat she had on.
I turned back to ripping up the edges of the carpet. “He hasn’t come in to work yet.”
“You need to fire him.” Frances took off her coat and hung it on the coat rack that stood behind the receptionist desk.
“Fine, if I ever see him, I’ll tell him he’s fired.”
“I heard that Colin’s son, Freddy, was on island for a visit. You should talk to him about Colin.”
“I suspect he already knows.” I blew out a breath and grabbed the edge of the carpet and pulled with all my might. “But should I run into him, I’ll certainly mention it.”
Only about six inches of carpet budged. Whoever had laid this carpet had wanted it to stay forever. “Anyway, it means that I have to do my own carpet ripping.” I picked up the crowbar and popped more staples. This was going to take me all day.
“Well, ever since Colin’s wife Karen died, he’s been useless. He needs firing.”
I stopped and frowned. “His wife died? You didn’t tell me that.”
“Oh, honey, it happened years ago. I’m surprised your grandfather didn’t fire him when he didn’t straighten up.” Frances pulled a small brush out of her pocketbook and faced the tiny mirror on the side wall and brushed out her hair until there was no sign she’d worn a hat. “If you ask me, he used his wife’s passing as an excuse to drink his life away.”
Frances patted her hair, fluffing it up. “As handymen go, Colin was good at plumbing but little else. Liam had too big a heart where that man was concerned. Whenever I complained about Colin, Liam’d shrug and tell me that he could do most of the work himself anyway.” She put her brush away and turned to me. “Do you know who you’re going to hire in his place?”
“I have no idea,” I said through gritted teeth as I yanked on the eight-inch piece of carpet in my hands. This time it gave way, popping and ripping as I went from knees to a power squat to standing. Soon I had a good eight feet of carpet in my hands. My arm muscles shook but a rush of happiness filled me. I could do this.
“Well, look at that,” Frances stood with her arms akimbo and peered at the floor where the carpet used to be. “Is that blood?”
“What?!” I moved the carpet out of my line of sight and could see the swatch of lobby floor that I had exposed. There was a large stain that was reddish-brown against the dark varnish of the wood. “Huh.”
“Maybe you should put that carpet back over it.”
“What? No.” I shook my head. “Papa never said anything about anyone dying in the hotel.”
“Hmm.” Frances moved quickly off the carpet and onto the wood floor as I renewed my ripping. Dust flew. The air filled with the scent of decades of old dirt, even older floor varnish, and fresh paint. At least the walls were dry before I started. There wouldn’t be a chance of anything currently floating in the air sticking in the paint, but I may have to wash the walls when the floors were done. Another thing for my to-do list.
I rolled the carpet as I went. It turns out it was only attached with strong tack strips around the edges. Once I wrenched the staples up, the carpet itself came up with relative ease. Of course it must have weighed one hundred or more pounds. My poor arms shook and my back strained. I had a feeling it was going to take a couple of ice packs and aspirin later tonight if I hoped to get any sleep. I was known for my candy-making skills, not my upper-body strength. But when the budget was limited, it was sweat equity that saved the day. Papa used to say I got my stubborn determination from Grammy. I’d like to think that was the truth anyway.
“This is definitely blood.” Frances stood over the large spot and several smaller spots that trailed off toward the front door. “Maybe we should contact the police. You might have uncovered a crime scene.”
I pursed my lips and tried to catch my breath. Sweat tickled the back of my neck. “Will it keep us from opening on time?”
“Oh, I doubt it. This carpet and padding were laid back in the fifties. It’s not like this is a fresh scene. But reporting this and having it documented and tested is the responsible thing to do. There might be an open case, you know.”
“Oh, right. Go ahead then.” I waved her toward the desk phone. I looked at the giant roll of carpet and knew there was no way I was going to be able to carry it out to the Dumpster by myself. I eyed Frances. The woman was five foot six when she was young but age had caused her to shrink down to five foot two. While she wasn’t exactly scrawny, it would be too hilarious to picture the two of us trying to muscle the carpet out of the building. I blew out a deep breath and watched the dust dance around in the sunlight.
There was nothing to do about it. I was going to have to cut the carpet up into smaller pieces. Before I could do that I’d have to go to the general store and purchase a box knife. If Papa had one, the police had custody of it. I imagined it was in a lab somewhere being swabbed for blood.
Chapter 11
“Yep, what you got here certainly looks like a crime scene.” Officer Manning had come in about an hour after Frances called. He stood in full starched blues. His expression was serious as stone. I studied the breadth of his shoulders and the muscles in his arms. I bet he could have lifted the entire carpet up and carried it out for me.
Too bad I’d already got it cut into pieces.
Officer Manning took photographs of the floor. He used my crowbar to bring scale to the spots. My puppy wanted in on the pictures. She kept sitting beside the crowbar and looking up at him as if to figure out her best side for photos.
“I need the dog to not be in the crime-scene photos,” he said.
“Right,” I scooped her up and handed her to Frances. The puppy whined when I let her go. “You’ll get a treat when he leaves,” I whispered. She cocked her head, looked at me, rested her head against Frances’ chest as if to say that waiting would mean suffering, but she’d do it if she had to. “Good doggie,” I said.
When I turned back, Officer Manning was bent down, scrapping a bit of each stain and placing them in separate marked baggies. “I’ll send these to the lab to see what they are, but it looks like it might be old blood to me.”
“I’ve got Mike set to come in and refinish the floors tomorrow morning.” I wiped the sweat and dust off my forehead with my sleeve. With Papa’s thick leather gloves in my left hand, I studied the stains. “Will that be okay?”
“Yes.” Officer Manning stood. “I’ve got the pictures and samples. If this stain is as old as you say it is—”
“That carpet was laid in the early fifties,” Frances said. “We’ve got the documentation in the back office.”
“We do?” I asked, although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Papa Liam documented everything. It was family tradition.
“We do.” Frances tapped her toe, her sturdy shoes making a slap-slap sound on the wood. She gave me an impatient glance as if I should not be questioning her in front of the cops. Perhaps she was right.
Officer Manning wrote in his report book. “The
n there’s no reason not to refinish the floors.” He ripped off a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Here’s the case number and my card. Be careful. Feel free to call me if anything else comes up.”
“Right, okay.” I was caught by his baby-blue eyes. They were ringed with black lashes. Why was it when blue-eyed men wore blue it made them even more attractive? My eyes, on the contrary, were hazel, a blah mix of muddied green and brown. There wasn’t really a right color to make anything in them pop.
I must have stared a second too long because he smiled and I swear gave me a tiny wink. The heat of embarrassment rushed up my cheeks and I stepped toward the door. “Thanks for coming out. We wanted to make sure we could continue with the remodel.”
He stepped outside and put on his hat. “The place is looking good. When are you planning on your open house?”
“Excuse me?”
“I understand you’re putting the hotel up for sale.” He shrugged one broad shoulder. “As a local, I’m curious whenever a business changes hands, especially one that’s been in a family this long.”
“I’m not selling,” I stated. “I don’t know where everyone is getting that idea.”
“Huh, really?”
“Really.” I placed my hands on my hips. “We’re opening in three weeks, like always. In fact we plan a grand reopening over Memorial Day weekend. I’ve got a full booking. Isn’t that right, Frances?”
Frances studied the spots on the floor. “It’s true.”
“Well, then, best of luck to you, Ms. McMurphy.” He tipped his hat.
“Thank you.” I felt only slightly mollified. I wondered if he was patronizing me. “If anyone asks, tell them I’m not selling. Okay? The McMurphys are here to stay.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He said it with that flat cop seriousness. It didn’t make me feel any better.
“Call us with the test results,” Frances demanded. “I’m dying to know what caused those stains.”
“Will do.” He grabbed his bike from the rack and rode off.
“Why does everyone think I’m selling?” I asked as I watched him ride off.
“Maybe because you’re the first girl to inherit the place,” Frances said with a shrug. She held the door for me. “Or maybe because your dad swore to everyone he wasn’t coming back to the island. People have always assumed that meant your granddad would be the last.”
“They assumed wrong.” I stepped into the lobby and listened to the echo of my voice. Hardwood floors were pretty but failed to absorb the sound like wall-to-wall carpet. I glanced at the stains. “Do you really think those stains are blood?”
“It might be to our advantage if they are blood stains.” Frances handed me the pup and pulled her lilac-colored coat off the rack. “Think about it. If it’s blood, we could say the place is haunted.”
I made a face. “Haunted?”
“It sells rooms.” She set her hat on her hair and adjusted it in front of the mirror. “Our reservations are down this year. Everyone’s waiting to see what the new management does. Having the place declared haunted like the Island House might help our business.”
“We are not haunted.” I put the dog down, knelt, and pulled at the last piece of carpet, revealing 150-year-old floors that didn’t need too much refinishing if you ignored the big stains and the trail near the door.
“How do you know?”
“Come on, all those years I spent summers here as a kid, I’d know. Besides, Papa Liam was such a storyteller, if there were ghosts in the hotel he’d have told me . . . happily . . . with scary elaboration and gusto.”
“Hmm, well, I suppose there’s some truth in that. Liam loved to tell a good story.” Frances stopped in the doorway and eyed my growing pile of oddly shaped but manageable rolls of carpet. “What are you going to do with all that?”
“I’ll haul it out to the Dumpster.” I tore up another hunk of carpet and sliced it along the width, then rolled it up. “They have to take it if it fits in the Dumpster, right?”
Frances raised her right eyebrow and twitched her mouth. “I guess you’ll find out.”
It occurred to me suddenly that Frances was a townie and could help me identify people. “Wait!” I said as she turned to leave. I hurried over to pick up my cell phone from the counter. “Before you go, I wanted to know if you can tell me who this is.”
“Who what is?”
“The man in this photo I took.” I thumbed through my phone’s photos and found the one I surreptitiously took at the power office after Susan Goodfoot had gotten up. I had taken it of Pete Thompson and the man wearing the polo shirt. They left the power office together and stood out on the street talking. I figured I needed to start sorting out who belonged on island and who were tourists if I ever hoped to fit in around here.
Frances was my ace in the hole. She could tell me who each and every person on island was. Once I knew everyone’s names, they had to accept me. Right?
“What are you doing taking pictures of strangers?” Both of Frances’s eyebrows rose stiffly over her red glasses.
“I need to get to know the regulars on island.” I stepped toward her and showed her the photo. “Now, I know this is Pete Thompson. Who’s the man he’s talking to?”
Frances took the phone from me and studied the picture through the bifocals in her glasses. “Well, look at that. That’s Emerson Todd. I heard he was back on island.”
“Who’s Emerson Todd?” I ran the name through my mind a few times to try to memorize it for future reference.
“Why, his great-grandma and -granddad owned and ran the Shangri-La Resort. It was one of the biggest attractions here on island. That was back when rich families would come up from Chicago and Detroit to vacation here and get away from the city heat. They made a lot of money, but never really lived on island.” She handed me my phone. “The Todds were RBs from Chicago. They sold the Shangri-La in the early seventies when air-conditioning became popular and family resorts went out. The family still has a cabin here. I heard tell the old lady died and Emerson lost all the family money when the real-estate bubble burst. He must be spending the summer on island.”
I studied the picture as Frances left for the day. “Emerson Todd.” The name sounded familiar. Maybe he’d come to the fudge shop before. I’d have to check Papa’s scrapbooks.
My memories of summers on island didn’t contain too many kids. I’d spent a great deal of time with my grandparents and their friends. Between helping with the McMurphy, our day-trip picnics around island, and evenings playing cards, there wasn’t much time for locals my own age. In fact I’d grown up believing only old people lived here.
I knew now that keeping the island going took a lot of young people. My perceptions had been wrong. I glanced at the stains on the floor. Perhaps it didn’t hurt to know the old people. They remembered things that most people forgot. I decided to schedule a trip to the library. Someone I know might remember what happened all those years ago. At the very least it might be listed in the newspaper.
Maybe Frances was right. Maybe it would help to be not only a historic hotel but a haunted one as well.
Easy Piña Colada Fudge
5 cups white chocolate chips
4 tablespoons butter
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1 8-ounce can crushed pineapple
1 tablespoon coconut milk
1 cup shredded coconut
1 ounce spiced rum (to taste)
Butter an 8” × 8” × 2” pan. Line with wax paper or plastic wrap. Drain pineapple, reserving juice. Combine pineapple juice, rum, and coconut milk—mix well. Using a double boiler fill of the bottom pan with water and heat on medium high until the water is boiling. Then you can turn the heat down to low and in the top section, melt chocolate, butter, and sweetened condensed milk until smooth. Be careful not to burn. Add liquid 1 tablespoon at a time, stirring after each. (Use more or less to your taste.)
Remove from heat. Add crushed pineapple (I add only half the c
an) and coconut. Pour into pan. Cool. Tip: let cool outside of the refrigerator for 30 minutes so that no condensation mars the top. Refrigerate overnight. Remove from pan. Cut into pieces. Store in a covered container.
Chapter 12
“How can you not know how to use a microfiche?” asked the library volunteer with the cantankerous scowl and the impatient glint in his eyes. “What kind of education are they giving young people today?”
“Well, Mr. Devaney.” I used the name from his name tag. “We use the Internet.”
“And what happens when the Internet fails? Ignorant kids, I tell you.” He was crabby, but it didn’t keep him from rolling up his thick brown cardigan sleeves, revealing competent strong forearms, and threading the machine with the newspaper reel. Mr. Devaney might have been six foot tall when he was young, but now he leaned forward a bit and stood five foot ten. He had a bald head with gray hair around the sides. He wore corduroy pants in a darker brown than his sweater and a nice checkered dress shirt under the sweater. I think it was his shoes that gave him away. They were well-worn brown dress shoes. The kind you slip your feet into. The kind I’d seen a million times where my mom worked.
“If I had to guess, I’d guess you’re a high school teacher. Am I right, Mr. D? English, maybe?”
His mouth made a thin line of disapproval. “History.”
“Ah.”
“And I was a high school teacher. I’m retired now. That’s why I can volunteer here on a Monday afternoon.” He finished fixing the machine and hit the light button. “Now, you move the handle. Note it goes faster when you crank faster and slows down when you go slower.”
“Thanks.”
He grumbled and put his big hands in his pockets. “I’m at the desk if you need me. At least that’s what they tell me I’m supposed to say. Don’t ask me anything about the computers. I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a fork than figure out one of those plagiarism machines.”
