“Tabitha, what should I do?” he asked the urn.
No answer came. Nothing that could even be construed as a hint. He curled around the urn, holding it to his chest the way he’d once held her living, breathing body. He closed his eyes and waited to decide.
Chapter 8
“Wow! What a busy evening for a Tuesday,” Josephine said to Klarinda as she took off her coat and mittens. “It feels like a Friday night around here.”
“If that guy comes back, tell him we’re booked,” said Klarinda. “The purple room is actually still available, but he was slamming our bell on the counter and acting like a maniac. I don’t want him staying here.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks for warning me. That sounds pretty scary! Do you think we ought to call the police?”
Klarinda snorted. “You know about this place’s history, right Josephine?”
“Well, yessss?”
“I’m not exactly ‘in’ with the local police department. Especially after Deputy Franklin asked me out five days in a row and I had to tell him to eat his lunch somewhere other than in our restaurant.”
“Okay. It’s your inn. By the way, I’m sorry I’m late. Todd and I were decorating his place for Christmas. Time got away from us.”
“It’s fine,” Klarinda said. After all, Josephine had never been late before in the six or seven months since she’d hired her. But if her tone sounded like it wasn’t fine, that was because of the nature of Josephine’s excuse.
The night manager, who, so far as Klarinda could tell, had nothing on her looks-wise or personality-wise, had managed to catch Klarinda’s long-time crush Todd Healy in her net of flirtation.
“Aw, Klarinda, don’t take it personal; I’ll bet it’s just that he likes blondes better,” had been Myrtle’s attempt to put a comforting spin on things. “Don’t feel bad; all men do.”
The two of them had been dating for three months, and that little twist of fate had derailed not only Klarinda’s dreams of herself and Todd one day falling in love, but her plans for Josephine.
Ever since Myrtle had moved out of her little apartment in the carriage house behind the inn, and Klarinda had moved into it, her old apartment on the first floor of the inn had been empty. She’d been trying to convince Josephine to move into it—it would mean paying Josephine much less each month, not to mention, having someone on the premises all the time—but Josephine was happy to have a reason to stay at Todd’s apartment instead. Klarinda had been considering converting the empty apartment into additional guest rooms. Then again, she’d been having second thoughts about running the inn at all. And if she was going to give up on the inn and move on, the last thing she needed was an expensive remodeling project in the works.
In fact, as of late, Klarinda had been entertaining the notion of not just selling Mistletoe Manor, but of moving away from Windy Pines. Her heart wasn’t in it any longer. The only question was, where would she go? Back to Chicago? Back to Wisconsin? If only she had any connections left in either place. The truth was, Klarinda Snow was very much alone in the world.
She rubbed her temples. And, on top of having nowhere better to go, getting Mistletoe Manor ready to sell sounded like as much work as keeping it and running it. At least in the short term. So, it looked as if she’d be sticking with her job as its innkeeper until she came up with a better plan.
“Are you doing alright?” Josephine asked.
“That customer was pretty upsetting. Enough about him, though.”
“Do you want to hear about the decorating Todd and I did?” asked Josephine brightly.
“Oh, that’s okay. I’ve got a little bit of a headache,” said Klarinda.
Josephine ignored her and said, “Let me tell you just about the back hall. Todd always leaves his bike back there, so I got a little silly and put Christmas lights all along the ceiling and then wrapped them around his bike too. I plugged them all in. It was so funny!”
“Fun,” Klarinda said flatly, just as a blizzard warning came through on her phone. “They just upped the snowfall estimates from ten inches to fifteen,” she reported to Josephine, hoping that news would be enough to change the subject.
“The kitchen is just as ridiculous,” Josephine beamed. “I made a wreath out of cinnamon sticks, dried oranges, and pinecones. It smells delicious. It’s got about five yards of ribbon wrapped around it. I hung it on the front of the fridge using one of those stick-on hooks. I’m trying to come up with something creative to do to the bathroom. What would you do if it was up to you?”
“I’m not really into the holidays,” said Klarinda.
“But Klarinda, how can you say that? You own a place called Mistletoe Manor!”
The phone at the front desk rang and Klarinda picked it up. “Thank you for calling Mistletoe Manor. Klarinda Snow speaking,” she said.
“Klarinda? Hi. This is Melinda Birkus. I own that new bed and breakfast down the hill from you. The Sleepy Squirrel Guesthouse.”
“Oh! Sure, I’ve seen it. Cute place. How can I help you?”
“I just wanted to warn you, an irate customer was just here looking for a room for tonight. He said he got terrible service just now from you. When I told him we’re all booked tonight and that the whole town had probably begun filling up since that bridge that’s out means a lot of traffic has been rerouted this way, he said he was going back up the mountain to Mistletoe Manor and that you were going to find him a room for the night, even if that meant kicking someone out of your inn to make room for him.”
“Uh oh,” Klarinda said.
“He was incredibly worked up. Do you want me to send the police over there?”
“No, no,” said Klarinda. “I don’t think that’s necessary.” She took a look around to warn Josephine, but she’d disappeared with the stack of towels Myrtle had folded and left by the front desk. “Thanks for calling me, Melinda. I appreciate the warning. I’d better figure out a plan.”
“No problem! Say, Klarinda, you’ll have to come down here once the storm passes and have some coffee. I’d love to get to know you.”
“Great idea. I’ll call you. But for now, I’d better run. Nice talking to you,” Klarinda said, hanging up the phone. She raced to the front door and locked it, and then ran upstairs to find Josephine.
Chapter 9
Barney and Jean Philman were sitting in their glassed-in side porch, each smoking a pipe, their dinner plates stacked in front of them on the coffee table. They’d eaten out here on the porch since their kitchen table was covered in neat, orderly stacks of paperwork.
“It’s warmer than I thought it’d be out here,” said Barney.
“It’s double-paned glass,” said Jean, snippily, glaring out at the rugged Idaho landscape. Night was falling. Soon the picturesque scenery would be covered in a blanket of darkness.
“We ought to eat our dinner out here every night,” said Barney, belching and picking up the binoculars on the end table to his left. “That spaghetti was wicked good,” he added, attempting to scan the distant mountains for wildlife. “It was those veal meatballs.”
“We could do that,” said Jean, sounding distracted. “Eat out here more often,” she added.
“Are you happy we moved here?” asked Barney.
“I don’t know.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“What do you think’s on my mind?”
He nodded. He understood.
They had two meetings scheduled for the next couple of days. Tomorrow’s was with someone named Dave Sommerset. That one was a mistake and they both already knew it. The following day’s meeting—the one they were banking on—was with a guy named Neil Prescott. If that one didn’t pan out, they’d continue reaching out to oceanfront property owners from Port Elspeth, Connecticut. At least, if they could find another candidate who didn’t have long-running ties to the town, or many close friends, and who owned the right stretch of land like they were looking for. They only needed one person to say yes in order for their p
lan to work. The fewer people they involved, the better.
Jean knocked a couple of garlic bread crumbs from her cheek and said, “It’s not going to happen. I can feel it. We were barking up the wrong tree when we started looking at Port Elspeth. Let’s go back to the drawing board.”
“Would you stop? You’re so cynical,” said Barney. “They’re both coming all the way out here to meet with us. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”
“That they’re as lonely as you hoped, I suppose. Or that they’re bored. Or just plain money-hungry. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter what their reasoning is, because we need to pull out of this. I’m just listening to the feeling in my gut.”
“Take an antacid,” joked her husband.
“Laugh all you want, but are my feelings ever wrong?”
Barney didn’t reply. He and Jean had been together for forty-one years—ever since he was thirty and she was a much-younger woman of nineteen. He knew by now that when Jean got a feeling about something, she was usually right.
“We need to find someone who has less to lose,” she continued.
“They’re both on their way out here. Let’s see what happens.”
“I don’t like this,” she said. “Those two are both as rich as they can be. They’re not going to take big chances.”
“You don’t know that,” said her husband.
“I do, though. We should have done more research before we picked ‘em.”
Barney sighed. He’d been in charge of ‘research’ and nothing he did lately was ever good enough for his wife. Not to mention, his memory wasn’t what it used to be. He knew both men were mixed up in some murder case in the town, but it seemed everyone in the town was involved. Even with the notes he’d taken, he still didn’t feel like he could wrap his head around it. The good thing was, as far as he could figure, that didn’t really have anything to do with what they had planned.
“I’ve been looking them up online, too,” she continued.
“Your favorite hobby,” he said, turning his binoculars to a different hill and zeroing in on some mule deer.
“Neil Prescott just retired,” Jean reported. “He was going to do it earlier, but they gave him a million-dollar bonus to stay on with them another eight months. Honestly, Barney, I don’t know why he’s even getting himself involved with us.”
“It’s because you’re a persuasive letter writer.”
“The other one… Dave Sommerset? He’s not hurting for cash either. If anything, we’re going to get ourselves in trouble dealing with these two.”
“You’re not the only one who’s done research. Dave’s out. Okay? I can admit that we never should have gotten tied up with him. He’s in with the Port Elspeth Men’s Club.”
“The what?”
“Some local club made up of bigwigs,” said Barney, trying to remember the notes he’d written down.
Jean grunted in disgust. “I thought you said he was from Arkansas and hadn’t even lived there long? Recently divorced. What about all of that?”
“All that’s true, but I guess he found a way to get in with people. And we don’t want anyone who’s tight with the locals.”
“No shit,” said Jean, puffing on her pipe.
“But the other one. Neil Prescott. He’s even a better choice than I first thought. His property’s bigger, more secluded, and he has much more shoreline than that Sommerset guy.” Shoreline. This Barney could picture perfectly. People weren’t so interesting, but property and potential profits certainly were.
“Okay,” said Jean, “so he’s got the right property, but what it’s really going to come down to is finding the right person.”
“That’s the best part,” said Barney. “Neil Prescott is a broken man. You said you wanted someone with nothing to lose? Well…” He pictured his own handwriting and the note he’d written to himself at some point in the online stalking process, that read simply:
Neil Prescott. He’s the one. Broken man. He has nothing to lose.
He couldn’t even remember why he was so sure, but if he’d written it, it must be true.
“Go on,” said Jean.
“That’s all there is to it,” said Barney, setting down the binoculars since it had gotten too dark to see. “Case closed,” he added, with the authority that came with being the man of the house. “He’s going to be our guy.”
Chapter 10
Myrtle and Rod had just sat down at their dining room table, mugs of hot peppermint tea nestled on crocheted snowflake coasters and Christmas music playing in the background, the lighthouse-themed jigsaw puzzle spread out in front of them with just the border in place, when Myrtle realized she’d left both her pairs of reading glasses at the inn.
“Oh, bother! How did I manage to do that? I can’t see a thing without my glasses,” she said.
“You don’t have a spare pair you could wear?” asked Rod.
“My spares are there too. I hate to have to go back out there, but I want to do this puzzle. I dreamed about clicking pieces in places all night long last night.” She got up and picked up her old, thick cardigan from the chair next to her and put it on.
“You really want to go back out in this weather?” asked Rod.
“No, but tomorrow’s my day off. If I don’t go today, I’ll have to go tomorrow. And, with my luck, then I’ll get roped into working. I think it’s better to just get it over with.”
“Alright,” said Rod. He stood up too.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to drive you.”
“I can see fine to drive.”
“I know that, but I’m not going to make you go out in the cold night all by yourself.” He put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “Come on, let’s go.”
Chapter 11
Every inn Dave and Tiffinie had stopped at was booked solid, and this had made Dave angrier and angrier and angrier… with that innkeeper from Mistletoe Manor.
“I could tell they still had empty rooms,” he insisted, as he made his way back across the small town, his eyes set on the inn on the top of the hill, its sleigh and twinkling reindeer on its roof beckoning him in like sirens on the seashore calling sailors. “She’s going to give us one and this little song and dance is going to be over.”
“Okay,” said Tiffinie, frowning.
“What is it with you women?” asked Dave. “Did the good Lord ever invent a happy one of you?” He pulled into the Mistletoe Manor parking lot, wedging the Chevy Spark between two big SUVs, and then having to wait for Tiffinie to get out so he could crawl through her side since he hadn’t left himself enough room to open the driver’s side door. This, of course, amped up his angry mood to a place of full-blown furiousness.
All the cars in the parking lot were now covered in several inches of snow, except for a truck that had just pulled in ahead of him. Best Showers in Town! it said in giant letters on the driver’s side door. And Sinks! And Toilets! it said beneath that in smaller letters. Then, in even smaller letters, it said Rod Showers, the Plumber Who Cares. A woman who looked like she was about sixty was getting out of the passenger side of the truck. She had three big curlers peeking out from beneath her wool stocking cap.
“I could have parked there if they hadn’t gotten here first,” Dave said to Tiffinie. “Look at her! The last time I saw anybody wear curlers in their hair, it was my granny and she’s been dead since 1996. These little hick towns! Everybody in them’s a joke. Get back in the car and stay there until I come and get you,” he said, waiting for her to crawl back inside and then slamming the door after her.
The woman with the curlers was fumbling at the front door, pulling some keys from her pocket to open it. She slipped inside. Dave was right behind her, strolling across the snowy parking lot, pulling open the heavy old door, and then stomping up to the front desk. The innkeeper he’d had to deal with earlier was nowhere to be seen, but the woman with the curlers was standing up there, rummaging around under the counter.
; “Do you work here?” he asked her. She must, since he was fairly certain he’d seen her use a key to open the door. Then again, she didn’t look like an actual employee. He decided she must be a cleaning woman.
She stood up and patted her curlers. “Well. Errrmm. I’m not sure where everyone has wandered off to. Do you need a room?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She opened the book on the counter, took a quick look, and said, “Lucky you. You can have our last room. I’ll trade you.” She passed the check-in sheet across the counter to him and said, “Credit card and driver’s license, please.”
Dave was overcome with giddiness. He’d known that bitchy innkeeper had been lying to him. He’d just known it. He quickly filled in the paperwork, accepted his room key, and rushed back outside to tell Tiffinie the good news. The woman with the curlers was getting back into the truck as he and Tiffinie walked inside with their luggage.
He half wondered whether she even had the right to rent out rooms, but he didn’t care. This was all too delightful. He had to wipe at the frothy corners of his mouth again. The best part of all was that he was going to see more of Neil Prescott. What a coincidence! Wait until the guys from the Port Elspeth Men’s Club heard about this! He couldn’t wait to corner that poor sucker in the dining room. They had so much to talk about.
Chapter 12
Neil was taking his time, picking at his dinner. Why make applying a pat of butter take just one or two flicks of the wrist when it could be made into a three- or four-minute-long project? Sitting in this fire-lit dining room, applying butter to a dinner roll, was far nicer than being alone, up in his room.
He reached for the book on the table and opened it. For a couple of minutes, he tried focusing on a paragraph about rebuilding self-esteem, but when even reading it seemed like more of a task than he could handle, he gave up. Esteem-building was going to have to come another day.
In the Heart of Windy Pines Page 4
