Cranberry Bluff

by Deborah Garner

  CRANBERRY

  BLUFF

  A Tale of Scones and Scoundrels

  Deborah Garner

  Cranberry Cove Press

  Copyright © 2014 Deborah Garner

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  First Printing – November 2014

  ISBN: 978-0-9960449-2-9

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  EXCEPT FOR BRIEF TEXT QUOTED AND APPROPRIATELY CITED IN OTHER WORKS, NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM, BY PHOTOCOPYING OR BY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS, INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE OR RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS, WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE COPYRIGHT OWNER/AUTHOR.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Also by Deborah Garner

  Above the Bridge

  The Moonglow Cafe

  To Carol Anderson

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Molly Elliott plucked a cranberry jellybean from a crystal bowl in the parlor and looked out the front window. Fog hovered above the town, smothering shingled rooftops and beheading water towers. It was a typical morning along the Northern California coast, just as subdued as the day would be. Nothing ever happened in Cranberry Cove.

  If things hadn’t turned out so badly, she would have stayed in Florida. The humidity had been a drawback, but at least most days guaranteed sunshine. Still, she had welcomed the chance to take over Cranberry Cottage Bed and Breakfast. Not that she was glad to see Aunt Maggie pass away, but she had inherited the quaint business at the perfect time. Staying in Tallahassee had felt too dangerous.

  She stopped her train of thought before memories began to kick-start her anxiety. Turning away from the window, she headed for the hall closet. Daily tasks calmed her down. There were plenty of chores to tackle, too, with five guests booked for that night – one couple and three singles. Four of the inn’s eight rooms needed to be ready by mid-afternoon.

  Aunt Maggie had taken reservations online, finding it easier than handling phone calls. Molly had changed that. Bookings could only be made by phone now. Molly checked the answering machine several times a day, selectively returning calls. She’d always had good instincts. The arriving guests had all been clear of red flags.

  The Jensens, coming in from Boston, were a honeymoon couple. Molly smiled, remembering the excitement in the young bride’s voice when she made the reservation. Their plans involved flying into San Francisco and taking a leisurely drive up the coast, stopping along the way in small towns and ending up in Seattle. The newlyweds would stay in the Cottage Suite, an elegant accommodation set in a renovated barn behind the main house. The antique four-poster bed, river rock fireplace and private hot tub on the suite’s enclosed patio were perfect for a romantic stay. Molly made a mental note to put a vase of long-stemmed roses in the room, as well as imported chocolates on each pillow.

  Not nearly as luxurious or spacious, but equally appropriate, the River Room would be ideal for Mr. Miller, a salesman from Bakersfield. He’d requested an accommodation with a desk and good lighting. That would cover his needs for writing up orders for the local business’s office supplies. The hunter green décor and cherry wood furniture suited a single man, as did the old fishing equipment displayed on the walls. The banker’s lamp on the desk cast a bright light. Charlie Miller’s voice had been clear and precise. The room would be a good match.

  Sadie Kramer had been a little harder to read and Molly almost used her “I’m so sorry, but we’re full that evening” speech. But the elderly woman’s voice pulled at Molly’s heartstrings. Plus she had to hand it to the woman, traveling alone as a senior citizen. The guest reminded her of Aunt Maggie, who wouldn’t have wanted her turned away. The cozy Battenberg Room would fit this guest nicely, with its white lace dresser runner and cool, blue bedding. The ground floor room would give Ms. Kramer easy access, plus the bay window offered a sitting area and partial ocean view.

  Bryce Winslow would be the other guest checking in that evening. As much as Molly hated to admit it, his rich voice and suave manner on the phone had charmed her immediately. He’d asked for the best view available, not bothering to question prices. That was an easy request for Molly to fill. She had a weakness for smooth-talking men with big egos and big wallets, a type she knew well. The red and navy themed Lighthouse Room had an exquisite ocean view and was conveniently located at the very front of the bed and breakfast on the second floor, farthest from her innkeeper’s room behind the kitchen. Temptation was the last thing she needed, especially of the male variety.

  Molly looked at the clock and calculated a schedule for the day’s work – beds made by noon, bath amenities and finishing touches done by one o’clock. A local maid service handled deep cleaning after checkouts, so that kept the list shorter than it might have been. She’d had no guests the night before, so that saved her having to work around their crew. She’d make a round of last-minute room checks by two, in case anything needed touching up.

  A batch of scones – cranberry, of course – needed to be prepared and popped in the oven by three o’clock. That would take care of partial breakfast preparations, as well as filling the inn with the welcoming aroma of baked goods. She'd use a favorite recipe from Aunt Maggie's “Cranberry Cottage Cookbook,” a short collection of recipes. Her aunt had always sent a copy home with each guest at checkout, a tradition Molly had continued. At four o’clock she’d set out a tray of imported cheese with English Water Crackers, accompanied by a selection of Napa Valley wines. She made another note to herself – check Aunt Maggie’s crystal wine glasses for water spots.

  List prepared, she pulled a broom from the closet and moved to the front porch. Grey clouds hovered above, casting shadows that warned of an eminent change in the weather.

  It wasn’t easy to keep the entrance tidy in September. Wind swept in off the ocean with a pestering regularity, rustling golden leaves off branches and scattering them on the ground. As soon as she collected one batch, another fluttered down into its place. On rainy days, leaves stuck to the roof like scraps of flypaper, weaving into the old Victorian’s gingerbread trim. From the top of a ladder, Molly would pry them out by hand and toss them aside, leaving her palms and fingertips slick with grime. Climbing back down, she’d gather them into one soppy heap and shovel them into a wheelbarrow, moving them to a compost bin behind the building.

  It was easier on days like this, when the air was dry and still. She could quickly sweep the porch, b
ag the leaves and haul them away. A few forceful shakes dusted off the wicker furniture’s cushions. A quick spray from a hose perked up the containers of primrose that lined the steps from the walkway. It took only a short time to spruce up the outside of the inn. “What a beautiful place!” guests would say as they arrived.

  Which is not at all what happened on this particular day.

  After Molly neatened the yard, checked the guest rooms and laid out cheese, crackers and wine, a sharp rap on the door signaled the first guest’s arrival. In spite of the open door and welcome sign to usher guests in on their own, Charlie Miller stood on the front porch and tapped his knuckles against the doorframe until Molly appeared. A sullen man, he stood at attention, silent, briefcase in hand. His brown hair was parted low and combed to the opposite side of his head. A toupee? A bad comb over? A pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. If he hadn’t spoken, she would have guessed he was a solicitor.

  “I am Charlie Miller,” he said. “I have a reservation tonight. Please show me to my room.”

  “I’m Molly. Welcome to Cranberry Cottage Bed and Breakfast.” She motioned him in and handed him a registration card. Without putting his briefcase down, he pulled a fountain pen from his front jacket pocket, leaned forward and signed the form with precision. Straightening up, he returned the pen to his pocket and addressed Molly again.

  “Please show me to my room,” he repeated.

  The River Room had been the perfect choice for him, Molly concluded, not that his expression showed any reaction one way or another. Situated on the second floor, at the far back of the inn, it was quiet and removed. She led him to the room and pointed out the closet, bath, light switches and heater. He placed his briefcase on the desk and turned to face her as she stepped back into the hallway.

  “Thank you,” he said. He took the room key from her and closed the door.

  Returning to the main floor, Molly filed his registration card away in the office. Mr. Miller was not exactly a gracious and friendly man, but he was a paying guest; she would make his stay as pleasant as possible. She walked to the kitchen, poured a mug of coffee and looked over a frittata recipe for the next morning. Making a quick note to pick some basil from the herb garden, she set the recipe aside and checked her appearance in an oak mirror on the back of the kitchen door.

  Her five foot five stature and thick brown hair were just two of many features she’d inherited from her mother. In fact, Molly bore such an uncanny resemblance to her that younger pictures of her mother were often mistaken for pictures of her. In addition, Aunt Maggie had been her mother’s identical twin, which often turned family albums into fodder for guessing games. Which picture was of which sister? Or were the pictures of Molly?

  Bending toward the mirror, she turned her head from side to side. She’d inherited her slender face and high cheekbones from her father’s side of the family, along with a light sprinkling of freckles that had been the source of much teasing in elementary school. As Molly approached adulthood, she attempted to cover them with makeup. Now, in her late twenties, she felt they embellished her relatively simple features.

  Stepping back, Molly adjusted the simple tortoise shell headband that kept her hair away from her face. Determining she looked presentable, she returned to her desk in the front alcove and waited for the other guests.

  Sadie Kramer was the next to arrive, bustling through the entrance thirty minutes later. A plump woman in her mid-sixties, she wore a floral dress in fuchsia tones that clashed violently with her red, bouffant hair. Knitting needles stuck out of an oversized tote bag that hung from her left arm. A bit of yarn drizzled alongside. In contrast to the first guest, Sadie was outgoing and friendly, fawning over the inn’s décor. She complimented Molly on everything from the vase of fresh snapdragons on the registration table to the soft jazz that flowed from overhead speakers. She wasted no time scurrying to the appetizer table, demonstrating uncanny dexterity as she wedged a Brie-covered cracker between her lips while pouring a glass of wine.

  Had Molly been able to hear the effervescent personality in Sadie’s voice on the phone, she might have put her in a more flamboyant room – the Tulip Room, for example, with its multi-colored throw pillows or the Bistro Room, with its wine-labeled wallpaper. But a last-minute switch would be difficult. The Battenberg Room would have to do, white lace and all.

  “I love every inch of this place!” Sadie exclaimed. Her tote bag smacked the cheese and cracker tray as she twirled around, causing her knitting needles to click together. “Are there other guests staying here tonight?”

  “Yes, a few,” Molly said, reaching out to catch a wine glass that Sadie’s elbow had nudged. She placed it back on the table. “Let me set the tote bag aside for you.”

  “No, dear, that won’t be necessary.” Sadie pulled the bag in closer to her side as she reached for another cracker. “I’ll just have a couple more bites and then settle in for the evening.” She flashed a bright smile at Molly.

  Sadie embraced the Battenberg room eagerly; she gushed over its details with enthusiasm that equaled what she’d exhibited in the parlor. “What lovely trinkets! What sweet doilies! What an adorable miniature tea set!” The woman patted the quilted bedding with one hand, nodding in approval. Molly watched the wine sway in the glass Sadie still clutched in her other hand. Sadie poked her head in the bathroom and popped back out. “I love that claw foot tub! And who would have thought to put teapots on a shower curtain? It’s delightful!”

  Leaving the exuberant woman to get settled, Molly returned to the kitchen. She dumped the coffee in the sink and poured herself a glass of wine. It was going to be a long evening.

  Twilight had fallen by the time the next guests arrived. Had Molly not already known from the bride’s initial phone call, it would have been clear the Jensens were newlyweds. They stepped through the front door with fingers intertwined and rosy glows on their faces. Dan Jensen looked like a schoolboy, shuffling from one foot to the other. Mid-twenties, Molly thought, married straight out of the home he grew up in. Susan, who introduced herself as Susie, was petite and soft-spoken, with shoulder-length blonde hair held back with a pink headband. She lifted her free hand to wave a coy hello. Barely out of her teens, Molly assessed at first glance. No, she corrected herself, mid-twenties with a young face.

  Dan signed his registration card with the dignified manner of a young man eager to show he was an adult. They’d booked a reservation for several nights and had suitcases to unload from their rental car but declined help. Molly handed them a key and pointed toward a cobblestone path, well lit by low garden lights shaped like tiny gnomes. They’d have no trouble finding the private Cottage Suite.

  Molly closed the door and checked the grandfather clock in the hallway. Solid mahogany and six feet tall, it had been in the family for four generations. Shipped across the country three times during its lifetime, it bore only one tiny scratch that stain concealed.

  Seven o’clock.

  Molly loved the details of her daily routine as an innkeeper. Up by six each morning, she made a small pot of coffee for herself while a larger one brewed for guests. By six-thirty, she set out coffee, cream and sugar in the front hallway. She finished most preparations the night before – biscuit batter made, egg casseroles assembled, fresh fruit cut. She served simple but delicious, attractively presented homemade food, none of that complicated fare that looked great in magazines, but didn’t always suit everyone’s taste. She’d never win a spot on a cooking show with her philosophy, but guests always seemed pleased with her focus on a welcoming morning atmosphere.

  Serving breakfast never felt like work. It was more like throwing a party, except the guests were sober. Usually, that is. Every now and then someone would stagger to the morning meal after a late night at Paddy’s Pub House, not quite recovered. But a few cups of java down the pipe did a lot to improve that person’s coherence. Most guests conversed with each other over their servings of cranberry pancakes or scrambled cheddar
eggs. Molly enjoyed hearing stories of where the travelers had been or where they were headed next.

  In the hour after breakfast, she cleaned up, washed dishes, said goodbye to departing guests and prepared for later arrivals. Sometimes a day would pop up with no stay-overs and no incoming guests. Those days were rare, but freeing. Molly would set up a couple of rooms “just in case,” check the answering machine and head out to walk on the beach. She both loved and dreaded those particular days. The Pacific Ocean breeze was misty and cool, a refreshing change from the heat of Florida. But the free time also had a down side. Memories knocked against her mind, demanding to enter. Usually she could fight them off, but not always.

  The ringing phone snapped Molly out of her reverie. She set her wine glass down and moved to the answering machine. Perhaps the last guest was calling to say he was on his way? But no, it was a request for a reservation the following month – two couples traveling together, asking for two rooms. The Starboard Room and the Port Room could be combined with an intersecting sitting area to form the Captain’s Suite, a perfect set-up for friends who wanted to visit, but still wanted privacy. Molly returned the phone call, marked the reservation on the inn’s calendar and checked the time.

  Eight o’clock.

  Technically, check-in time ranged from four in the afternoon to eight in the evening. But life didn’t always go according to plan, as Molly knew. The drive up the coast from San Francisco was winding and difficult to navigate after dark. On a map, it appeared shorter than it actually was. Guests often ended up apologizing for late arrivals they didn’t anticipate.

  She returned to the parlor and picked up the cheese and cracker tray with one hand, grabbing the open bottle of wine with the other. The last guest would have to settle for one of the cranberry white chocolate chip bars that she set out at night.