Inn at Last Chance

by Hope Ramsay

  Gabe shrugged. “I remember Granddad wanted Luke to turn off the video game and practice with his new gun. I remember watching y’all leave, and then getting my BB gun and tagging along after you. That’s it.”

  “You’re lucky, then. Don’t go looking for sorrow, son.”

  “It seems to me that sorrow finds me even when I’m not looking. I need to know what happened.”

  “No, you don’t. Trust me on this. You don’t.”

  “Granddad said you were responsible. Did you shoot my brother? Is that what I can’t remember?”

  “Not intentionally.” Zeph’s words came out slow and careful as if he’d rehearsed them, and his eyes tracked to the left, a clear tell that he was lying.

  “You’re not telling the truth.”

  The old man shrugged and went back to applying varnish as if they’d been speaking about the weather and not the central mystery of Gabe’s life.

  “I need the truth.”

  And he did, for his book’s sake. He wasn’t stupid. He knew the ghost was making him write stuff that was intensely personal. And the ending of the story was heading toward a terrifying place that Gabe didn’t want to go. But he had to go there. And it might be helpful if he knew what he had to face before it happened.

  He stood there munching his sandwich while the old man painted until he couldn’t stand Zeph’s silence for another instant. “Zeph, did you hear me? I need the truth.”

  “All right, son, if you want the truth, here it is: I shot your brother right through the heart. He died instantly, and you saw it happen.”

  Gabe stared at Zeph. This time the old man’s eyes hadn’t tracked to the left, and his voice had gotten kind of cold and hard. He might be telling the truth. “But why?”

  Zeph closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t know why it happened. It was an accident. Son, you know this. I’m sure your granddaddy told you this.”

  Yes, he’d been told this story dozens of times. But it never pierced that haze of amnesia that he carried around with him. Surely if this story were true, he’d remember something. Wouldn’t he? “Why can’t I remember?”

  “Because watching your brother die wasn’t pleasant. And you don’t want to remember.” Zeph turned back to brushing on varnish.

  Gabe wasn’t satisfied. Something didn’t add up, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. But before he could open his mouth, a car came up the gravel drive, its tires crunching. He walked down the hall to the front windows and looked out.

  It was Jenny. And damned if it didn’t feel like the house let go of a big sigh, as if it had been holding its breath, waiting for her return.

  The Jonquil House wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

  Mr. Raintree and his editor had a shouting fight in the early afternoon. They each sulked in their rooms for about an hour, and then Ms. Ianelli came down to Mr. Raintree’s room and apologized. They made up. She kissed him again. He seemed to enjoy it. And then they left the house around six-thirty with plans to have dinner at the Red Hot Pig Place.

  Jenny had to hold her tongue when she saw the silk ensemble Ms. Ianelli wore. Boy, she was going to be in for a big surprise when she realized that they didn’t use cloth napkins at the barbecue joint.

  Jenny ate a salad for dinner, and then she wandered into the living room, drawn there by the piano. She opened the bench seat and was delighted to find sheet music. She found a book with easy practice pieces and sat down to refresh her memory.

  The piano was slightly out of tune, but that didn’t diminish the joy she felt in moving her hands across the keys. Once, a long time ago, she had practiced regularly on Granny’s piano. Mother had insisted that she learn hymns, but whenever she wasn’t around, Grandpa would wink and hand her sheet music with old-time songs, like “Bicycle Built for Two.” Gramps loved old songs like that. He used to whistle them when he worked his fields and the orchard.

  She missed him with all her heart. And Granny, too. And even Mother, who had spent her whole life judging Jenny and finding her wanting. She was used to being alone, but sometimes it was hard not to feel lonely. Like right now. She’d gotten used to having people in the house with her, so when it was empty, she seemed to know it down in her bones.

  She practiced for a long while and had almost lost herself in the music when Bear headed to the front door and started barking. A moment later, her doorbell rang. She checked her watch. It was almost eight o’clock, and her doorbell had been more than busy enough for one day.

  She peered through the spy hole and was shocked to find Reverend Lake standing on her porch wearing a camel-hair coat and looking solemn and as handsome as ever.

  “Hush, Bear,” she said, but the dog refused to be quiet. Where was Mr. Raintree when you needed him?

  “Just a minute,” she called through the door and hauled the disobedient dog down the hall to the back bedroom. She shut the dog up, surprised to discover that the baseboard heating in the back room was on the fritz again. Mr. Raintree hadn’t said one word about it. She closed the door behind her and noticed that Mr. Raintree’s sticky note had fallen to the floor. She picked it up and pressed it to the door where it managed to stick, its edges curling.

  She made a mental note that her guests would be needing “Do Not Disturb” doorknob hangers as she headed back down the hall and opened the door.

  The preacher strode into the house like he owned the place, and for some reason, this bothered Jenny a great deal.

  “What brings you to the swamp this evening?” she asked as she took his coat and hung it on the bentwood coat rack that stood in the foyer.

  He pulled a piece of paper from his suit jacket and handed it to her. “I trust you’ve seen this?”

  It was another one of those nasty flyers that Lillian and Maybelle had been handing out at the BI-LO.

  “I have.”

  “Sheriff Rhodes came by to see me today. He told me about what happened at the store, and he practically demanded that I preach something from the pulpit this Sunday about tolerance. I can’t tell you how deeply upset I was by this. I don’t let anyone tell me what to preach, and in this instance, I can’t preach tolerance, Jenny. I won’t be goaded into doing the devil’s work. You understand this, don’t you?”

  “Preaching tolerance is the devil’s work?”

  “You know good and well that’s not what I mean. I’m happy to preach tolerance and kindness, but this is an altogether different situation. Your so-called guest is a threat to this community. Sheriff Rhodes is not a regular churchgoing man, so I don’t expect him to see it the way I do. The way you should.”

  “How should I see this situation?”

  “Goodness, you were there the night the china cabinet fell. You know what happened. It wasn’t an accident. You didn’t throw that chicken on purpose. You saw the claw marks on your wall. Gabriel Raintree was responsible for that with all that filth he writes.”

  “Uh, I hate to contradict you, but the china cabinet was aimed at Mr. Raintree’s head. If I hadn’t pushed him out of the way, he would have been seriously hurt. So, given that fact, how do I know that he’s responsible? It could just as soon have been me hurling things around. Or maybe it was you.”

  “Jenny, your sarcasm is not appreciated.”

  She sucked in a deep breath and reached for calm. Mother would be so ashamed of her for speaking that way to a minister of God. But he was sanctimonious in the extreme. And it didn’t matter how handsome he was on the outside. The stuff on the inside wasn’t pretty at all.

  “I think you should go,” Jenny said.

  He didn’t budge. “Jenny, I fear we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. We both know you have a demon here, and I want to help—”

  He never finished his sentence because the demon, who seemed mostly benign except when Pastor Tim showed up, chose that moment to tip over the bentwood coat rack and send it, and the pastor’s coat, toward Reverend Lake.

  The preacher screamed and assumed a defensive p
osition. The coat rack missed by a mile but his coat ended up draped over his head. He cowered there for the longest moment, before peeking out from under the camel hair and looking around like he was expecting the ceiling to fall or something. It was slightly comical, and Jenny had to suppress a laugh.

  “Reverend Lake, I think the ghost of Jonquil House is letting you know that he would like you to leave.”

  “Ghost?” He straightened but didn’t put on his coat.

  “Yes, we have a ghost, not a demon.”

  “Jenny, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I don’t think you are qualified to know the difference. We need to schedule an exorcism right—”

  The preacher couldn’t finish that sentence either because he stumbled backward toward the door, which opened, even though it had been closed against the winter cold outside. He stumbled over the threshold and tripped, landing flat on his back on the front porch.

  Jenny finally let go of big sigh and looked up at the ceiling. “Ghost, you need to stop acting out, now. The minister is well intentioned, and you might think about letting us know what you need so that you can cross over to the other side.”

  By this time, the preacher’s eyes had grown as big as saucers. He scrambled to his feet. “You!” he said as if that meant something.

  “Me?”

  “You’re the evil one.” And with that, he turned and fled like a rabbit with a fox on his little white tail.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik being played on an out-of-tune piano was audible from The Jonquil House’s front porch. The music brought a smile to Gabe’s lips, even though Jenny was playing the piece rather badly.

  “Oh, my God,” Barbara said in a loud, obnoxious voice as they entered the foyer. “Are we required to sit in the living room and endure recitals from your mousy landlady? Really, Gabe, in my opinion innkeepers should be neither seen nor heard. I mean, I want my linens clean and my coffee hot, but beyond that they have no other entertainment value.”

  Gabe had no doubt that Jenny had heard Barbara’s unkind comment, because his editor had a loud, throaty, New York kind of voice. And she was forever expressing her opinions on everything.

  The piano stopped in mid-arpeggio, and a moment later Gabe heard the hinges on the piano bench squeal as Jenny put away the score she’d been playing. He was helping Barbara out of her black cashmere coat when Jenny wandered into the foyer, looking pale as a sheet of untouched paper. She was dressed as usual in a white turtleneck, her little blue cardigan, and a pair of baggy corduroys.

  “There’s coffee in the kitchen, and I put out some chocolate chip cookies in case you wanted a little after-dinner treat. I hope you don’t mind my playing the piano. I know I play badly, but I haven’t touched any piano keys in a good ten years.”

  “Maybe you should continue to avoid them,” Barbara said before Gabe could tell Jenny that he’d brought the piano so that someone would play it. It had been sitting untouched for longer than he cared to admit.

  And then Barbara continued in her clueless, rude fashion, “Jenny, I would love some coffee and cookies. Gabe and I are going to sit down and discuss his book, so bring them to the living room.”

  Barbara had obviously not gotten the message that this was a bed-and-breakfast.

  And Jenny would have been entirely justified to tell her to go the kitchen and get the cookies for herself, but she didn’t do that. She behaved just like the sweet, generous, hospitable southern woman that Gabe knew her to be. She turned and headed down the hall to the kitchen as if it were her job to serve Barb.

  “Jenny, don’t bother,” Gabe said as he followed her down the hall. “I’ll get the coffee and cookies.”

  Jenny didn’t stop. He wasn’t surprised. But he wasn’t about to let her wait on him, either. In truth, he’d been putting Barb off all evening, and the last thing he wanted to discuss was his book.

  When he got to the kitchen, Jenny was reaching into a cabinet for a couple of coffee mugs. Her back was toward him. “You don’t have to wait on us,” he said.

  She turned, mugs in hand. “Oh, it’s all right.”

  He stepped farther into the room. “No, it’s not. Let me do it.”

  “No, it’s all right. I don’t wish to disturb your book discussion with your editor.”

  “I wish you would. Have you played the piano all evening?”

  She looked down, her face pale as the moon. “A little. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I play badly.”

  “You play better than I do. Are you all right? You look very pale tonight. You aren’t coming down with something, are you?”

  “No. I’m fine.” She didn’t look up.

  “What’s the matter? Has something happened?”

  She looked up then, her eyes bright behind those big eyeglasses. “No. At least not something terribly important.”

  He knew she was lying. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. You should go. Ms. Ianelli is waiting for you. I’ll bring a tray with coffee and cookies.”

  “I don’t want any cookies. What the hell is the matter, Jenny? You didn’t let Barb’s obnoxious comments bother you, did you? Because you don’t have to listen to her endless opinions. Heck, I don’t even listen to them, and she’s paid to pass judgment on my work.”

  Jenny shrugged her shoulders in a gesture that was the opposite of nonchalance. She would not look him in the eye.

  “Tell me, Jenny. You look depressed. What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said with an emphatic shake of her head. She continued to stare off into space. “I’m not the least depressed.”

  But she was. And he knew why. He’d caused that look in her eyes, and he hated himself for it. It was easy to say that she’d be better off staying clear of him, but it was much, much harder to actually accomplish. He wanted to gather her up into his arms and hold her the way he’d done the night of her disastrous dinner party. He wanted another kiss. But a kiss was forbidden, for her sake. Of course, she didn’t know that.

  He took a step forward. “Look at me, Jenny.” It was a command.

  She looked up.

  “You’ve got tears in your eyes. Why?”

  She shook her head and put the mugs down on the counter with more force than was necessary. “I do not, Mr. Raintree. I’m not one of those weepy females, no matter what kind of impression I gave the other night when the china cabinet went flying. Please, help yourself to the coffee. I hope you enjoy my cookies. I’m going to bed.”

  She turned and fled the kitchen. He heard her steps sounding up the stairs, and he longed to follow after her.

  But he didn’t.

  Jenny had another restless night filled with the same dream of canoeing on the Edisto and not making any headway against the vicious current. The house seemed as restless as her dreams. Perhaps the ghost knew that he’d bitten off more than he could chew with Reverend Lake. Jenny had no doubt that the preacher would be back, probably with buckets of holy water and crosses and hymns and prayers and whatever else one needed to exorcise a ghost.

  Jenny wondered what the altar guild would think about this. She wondered what all the matchmakers in town would say. She didn’t have to stretch her imagination. She knew they’d tell her that she’d blown another great chance with a handsome man. They’d say she was crazy to choose a ghost over a living, breathing guy.

  But like Mrs. Muir in that old-time movie, she was ready to choose her ghost over the preacher. Of course, it wasn’t exactly the ghost that she wanted, but that was her big secret. It was worth being humiliated by a ghost and a preacher just to make sure that no one discovered she was having hot flashes over Gabriel Raintree—a man who was entirely out of her league. He was rich. He was the grandson of a governor. He was a celebrity. And he obviously belonged to someone else.

  To make it worse, Barbara Ianelli was beautiful and powerful, with great hair and a designer wardrobe. She also ne
eded a personality transplant, but most men wouldn’t even notice that. Gabe had probably learned to look beyond his editor’s inner imperfections since he’d been working with her for so many years. And he obviously enjoyed kissing her.

  Jenny brooded about that for hours while she tossed and turned. Finally, at about two in the morning, she gave up on the idea of sleeping. Her stomach was rumbling, and she needed a snack. And since she was up, she might as well do something useful, like getting a jump on breakfast. It took a while to make an egg-and-cheese casserole. And she could make some biscuits to go with it, too.

  She didn’t bother getting dressed. She padded downstairs in her fuzzy slippers and flannel PJs. She went into the kitchen and hit the light switch.

  And screamed.

  The moment Jenny screamed, Bear started barking like the house was on fire. There was no mistaking the absolute terror in that sound. Gabe bolted upright, immediately awake and alert.

  He was out of his bed in a nanosecond and limping across the hallway as fast as his bad leg would allow him. He didn’t take the time to put on his ankle brace. Or his clothes. He snagged a robe off the back of his door, and that was his one concession to modesty.

  Bear beat him across the hall, only to be intercepted by Jenny who stood at the kitchen’s threshold. She grabbed the dog’s collar and yanked him back. “No, no, no, Bear, stay here. You can’t go in the kitchen.” Jenny’s voice sounded strained.

  Gabe hurried up behind her and took control of the dog’s collar. “Sit,” he ordered the dog, and he obeyed. “What is it?”

  Jenny turned away from the kitchen and pressed her head against his chest. “It’s horrible.” He wrapped his left arm around her. His right hand still held the dog in place. Bear may have stopped barking, but he was still whining and agitated.

  Gabe pressed Jenny’s head into his chest as he simultaneously looked through the open archway to the kitchen.

  The scene was horrific and eerily familiar because it had been ripped right from the pages of Black Water. A beheaded chicken, with all its feathers attached, sat on the counter, where it had been left to bleed. The meat cleaver that had done the deed sat right beside the bird in a pool of blood that had been there long enough to turn brown. Blood had dripped down the counter and onto the floor, leaving rusty trails. On the far wall, someone had used the blood to write a litany of foul words on every single one of Jenny’s beautiful new cabinets.