Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set

by Deborah Garner

Mist stood up and turned away from the front window toward the kitchen. Paige and some of the other townsfolk stopped her before she even took a step.

  “You're not working today,” Paige said. “We won’t let you. You need to allow us to take care of you.” Half relieved and half reluctant, Mist sank back down in her chair, clearly exhausted. She resumed her silent watch out the front window.

  Paige went to the kitchen to offer help, ducking to avoid a case of eggs balanced on Clive's shoulder. Wild Bill set a sack of biscuit mix on the center table, and Betty pulled pans and dishes out of cupboards, stacked the dishes to the side and arranged the pans on top of the stove. As soon as the provisions had all been placed on the table, the men disappeared.

  “All for the better,” Betty said. “They'd just be in the way. Kitchen's not that big, anyway. Those egos of Clive and Bill alone are enough to fill this whole room.”

  Pulling up a stool, Paige sat down and scanned for directions on the back of the biscuit mix sack.

  “Don't worry about directions,” Betty laughed. “Bill's place is a galaxy away from Moonglow, no pun intended. Just throw some water into the mix and when the dough feels sticky, spoon it onto the baking sheets. Won't be fancy, but it'll fill people up.”

  As Betty dropped strips of bacon into the heated frying pans, the sound of sizzling meat filled the kitchen. All four burners were fired up, each with some sort of cooking pan hovering above the flames. Betty had relegated two of them for bacon, the other two for frying eggs.

  Paige filled a pitcher with tap water and poured small portions into a bowl of biscuit mix, pausing repeatedly to check the consistency. Pour, stir, check, pour again, stir, check again. Eventually, it felt moist enough to hold together, yet dry enough to not run all over.

  “You'll want to grease those pans first.”

  Mist had, as was her habit, appeared suddenly in the kitchen without either Paige or Betty noticing her approach. Paige wondered how the girl managed to simply materialize the way she did. Paige could barely walk across a carpeted floor barefoot without sounding like an elephant. Mist glided soundlessly across any surface, the hotel's kitchen linoleum included, even in work boots.

  “She's right,” Betty said, pausing between bacon flipping to grab a stick of butter from the fridge.

  “Hold on, now!” Bill’s gruff voice interrupted as he stepped into the kitchen and snatched the butter from Betty’s hand. “Why waste this good butter when you've got all that bacon grease? That grease is enough to keep those biscuits from sticking to the pans.”

  Betty laughed. “Yes, Bill, you're right. And that's also why no one goes to eat at your place. They don’t want to risk a coronary.” Even Mist smiled. She took the stick of butter from Bill, who threw up his hands in defeat and returned to the front room.

  “You don't have to help,” Betty reassured Mist. “You've had a terrible shock, and I'm sure we can manage at least a step up from what Bill dishes out.”

  Mist’s voice was serene. “I want to help because helping is calming. Community is calming.” She gently unwrapped the butter halfway and ran it across the surface of the pans. Paige spooned soon-to-be biscuits in mounds on top of the slick, buttery surfaces. Mist slid the trays into the oven.

  Now that the frenzy of starting breakfast for the crowd in the lobby had passed, Paige’s curiosity reclaimed her. She made sure she and the other two women were alone in the kitchen before she spoke.

  “Mist, I've been wondering...you said something about a passageway under the Timberton Trestle before. Were you serious? I mean...it would make sense if last night left you a little mixed up. I doubt you slept much.”

  As always, Mist's answer was smooth and unfettered with extra words. “I know what is around me, below me, above me.” It was as simple as that to her. Paige only wished her own, overactive mind could boil life down to such simplicity. She'd been told often that she put too much energy into analyzing everything. Sometimes an answer was just an answer, nothing more. But it wasn't the way her brain was wired. She couldn't help but admire Mist's calm way of living.

  “OK, so there's a passage and compartment under the trestle. And you take Hollister's food there if he doesn't pick it up outside the café,” Paige repeated, still unconvinced. She winced as she heard the words come out of her mouth. The café no longer existed beyond its ashen remains. “Have you been inside the compartment?” Again she cringed, hoping she didn't sound as skeptical as she felt.

  Mist sighed and remained silent for a moment. Paige figured it was probably the closest the girl ever came to being frustrated.

  “It's not necessary to see everything to know it's there. It's not necessary for everything to have a reason. Sometimes things just are.” Mist paused. “Things just are,” she repeated, as if to finalize her point.

  Paige moved to the kitchen sink, rinsing her hands under warm water. To her right, a pile of cooked bacon strips rested between layers of paper towels to soak up extra grease.

  Betty placed a pan upside down on top of the bacon to keep it warm, checked the progress of the biscuits in the oven and began cracking eggs into pans. Paige was about to drop the subject of the passageway when Mist spoke again.

  “For those of you who need to see in order to believe, there are also blueprints.” Mist's voice was as hypnotic as always, which made the logical statement seem somehow incongruous.

  “Blueprints?” Now Paige was hooked. Evidence was her drug of choice when it came to reporting. That and gossip, which always left a tantalizing trail.

  “Not exactly blueprints,” Mist clarified. “Drawings, sketches. Some might call it doodling. But it is clear to me. It matches what I feel around me.”

  Ah, here we go again, Paige thought to herself. Did everything with Mist have to be such a mystery?

  “Food ready yet?” This time it was Clive scuffling into the kitchen. Betty flipped an egg and glowered at him.

  “Five minutes. Now out of the kitchen.” Clive backed away as instructed, though Paige could swear she saw him wink at Betty.

  Paige could hear him bellow from the front room as soon as he was back there.

  “Don't mess with the folks in the kitchen. It's serious business in there.” The cooks heard a round of mostly manly laughter. Betty huffed and began to shovel food onto plates stacked on the counter. “Nothing but trouble, that one,” she said.

  “Betty, I’m sure he winked at you,” Paige teased. Betty huffed again, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. Paige pulled the biscuits, now a light golden color, from the oven and placed one on each plate.

  “One won’t do it for those hungry guys.” Betty put a second biscuit on each plate. “Oh,” she added, turning to Paige. “I found those old hotel registers you asked about. They’re in containers on the floor of the hallway closet. Musty and dusty, but you’re welcome to take a look.”

  When Mist carried plates out to the lobby, the crowd cheered. Paige took a single biscuit and headed for the hallway.

  * * * *

  Three large tubs covered the floor of the hallway closet. Paige sneezed as she moved dusty rags and cleaning supplies aside and dragged the first container into the hall. Prying the lid off, she pulled out one of half a dozen hotel registers and sat down, setting the book in her lap.

  Heavy and solid, the bound volume carried the weight of untold stories. How many hundreds of guests had passed through over the years? Each visitor had arrived and departed with a unique story, leaving a signature behind. What had brought the guests to Timberton over the decades? A family vacation? A business trip? An unexpected car problem that forced a stay over? A research project?

  Or a place to stay while tutoring a young art student?

  Paige opened the register and scanned the first page. Dated 2009, it was far too recent to interest her. Turning to the back cover, she noted the signatures spanned three years, making it the most recent volume, aside from the current register in the hotel lobby. She set it aside and removed the next r
egister from the tub, which covered the preceding two years. The next covered roughly three additional years. One by one, the registers moved backward, partial decades at a time.

  Noting the chronological order, Paige set the first registers back in the tub and replaced the lid. She reached for the next tub, her hand hovering while she estimated the years it would contain – two to three years per register, ten to twelve registers per tub. Bypassing the second batch of registers, she moved on to the third. She tossed the lid aside and searched book by book until she came to a register dated 1954 on the first page and 1957 on the last.

  The old diary entries had started in the 1920’s, but Paige knew Silas could have come to Timberton at any time, bringing the diary with him. Halfway through the book she held, she found what she was looking for – an entry with Silas Wheeler’s name, registering him as a hotel guest on February 25, 1955. His signature matched the handwriting that placed the initials in the diary’s front cover. Even better, it confirmed what she’d suspected: he had stayed in Room 16, the same one she occupied now.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Clive was sweeping the floor of the gem gallery when Paige stepped inside, and he didn’t hear her enter. Afraid to startle him, Paige stalled before saying hello. Sensing the presence of another caused Clive to break his concentration and look up.

  “I stopped by to ask how you're doing,” Paige said. The well-intentioned gesture was unnecessary. Clive's face revealed his frustration. He was not taking the loss of his building well.

  “Not sure I feel too much like entertaining.” He returned to pushing clusters of dust and small pebbles into piles for discard. He had too much on his mind to put energy into being social.

  “You don’t have to entertain me, but maybe talking would help? The café building was insured, right?”

  Clive leaned the broom against the gallery wall, stuck both hands in his pockets and sighed.

  “If it wasn’t maybe the town can pull together and hold a fundraiser or something,” Paige suggested.

  “I've kept it insured. But it won't cover the entire cost to rebuild. Or replace the sweat equity I've poured into it over the years. And then, there's the history. Those things can't be replaced, with or without money. Buildings aren't the same once they're rebuilt. I've seen so many go down in flames over the years. Sometimes it's hard to believe any of the originals are still standing.”

  “So, will you rebuild?”

  “Oh, sure. But not right away. Snow's gonna get heavy soon. Building will have to wait until spring. Gives me time to get the insurance and additional costs straightened out.” Clive's discussion of practical plans couldn’t mask his depression.

  “So, how about having a fund-raiser, then?” Paige was always up for a challenge.

  A small smile eased Clive's solemn expression. “Young lady, there aren't enough people around this town right now to raise ten bucks.” He paused, watching Paige, as if to gauge what else to say. “Besides, I think I've got a plan.”

  Paige jumped to guess. “Your jewelry? Your designs are original; I'm sure they’d sell if they got out to the right markets.”

  Clive shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. I know one of the jewelers back east said he'd be interested in buying some. Real talkative guy – blah, blah, blah. Seemed less interested when I said I used to have a lot more. I had a big stash of loose stones stolen decades ago.” He paused rubbed his chin. “That was a mistake, telling him that,” he said. “Never tell someone what you don't have. Just tell 'em what you have. Anyway, I wasn’t talking about selling my jewelry.”

  “OK, what's your plan, then?” Paige noted the empty gallery as well as the quiet streets outside. Clive’s business was hardly busy enough to pay bills, much less to finance the reconstruction of the café, she guessed.

  “I'm thinking about selling that painting, the one you noticed the other day.”

  “Seriously? Wouldn’t you hate to part with it?” Paige turned to look at the piece hanging on the gallery wall.

  Clive shook his head. “Not really. It doesn't have any sentimental value. I mean, it's a nice painting, and I like the way it represents the area. But someone who collects art might appreciate it more, and I'd rather have the funds to put toward the café.”

  Paige crossed the room and stood in front of the artwork, leaning forward to take a closer look. “What do you think the piece is worth?” Her knowledge of the art world was severely lacking, but she hoped Clive wouldn't fall prey to a dishonest buyer. Some con artist might be tempted to take advantage of a down-to-earth guy in need of money.

  “I haven't the foggiest idea.” Clive's answer was exactly what Paige feared. It was all the more reason to step in and help out.

  “Someone at my office is sure to know an art appraiser who can give you an honest answer,” Paige offered. “I’ll see if anyone recognizes the name Silas Wheeler.”

  “Old Silas, meanest son-of-a-Winchester to ever wield a Western paintbrush.” Clive had resumed sweeping the gallery floor and was now leaning down, pushing the broom under the worktable and dragging it back repeatedly. A few loose pebbles rolled toward him with each sweep.

  “We could email a photo and get a rough estimate. Otherwise we'll need to ship it back east.” Paige knew Clive might be hesitant to send the piece across the country. The look he gave her confirmed that.

  “We'll try a photo first,” Paige said. “Maybe there's a history of Silas Wheeler's later paintings being worth more than his early pieces. You've said they improved a lot. An expert might know more about that.”

  Paige pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and snapped a quick shot. She could do a basic photo edit on her laptop later and send it to the office. Maybe this would give Brandi something more challenging to do than write up obits or inspect her nails.

  “No hurry. Like I said, I'm not planning to get started on rebuilding for a while.” Clive's muffled voice floated up from behind the worktable. “Besides, you have your own work to do. How's that article coming along?”

  Paige sighed. “Not much progress on it recently. I don't tend to do my best work while buildings are burning down.” Paige bit her lip. It wasn’t the most sensitive thing to say. “I mean, I’ve been so concerned about everyone. A story about sapphires seems trivial. But I hope to make some headway tonight. I have everything I need for an outline, thanks to the history of Yogos you gave me the other day.”

  “Well, I hope you have a gift for blocking out distraction,” Clive laughed. “I hear Betty's planning to cook up a big kettle of stew and another hefty batch of biscuits. I think you'll see a lot of townsfolk stopping by the hotel in search of a meal.”

  “You're probably right.” Paige had to agree. She hadn't thought about it, but there weren't any other options, unless people wanted to eat in their own homes or head down to Wild Bill's. And, aside from the fact they were used to being spoiled by Mist's cooking, the drama of the café burning had provided fodder for everything from gossip and speculation to the sentimental sharing of memories. The hotel was likely to be a central gathering place for a while.

  “Now that you've pointed that out, I'd better get back there and see what I can get done before the ruckus starts up.” She waved at Clive and left the gallery for the hotel.

  Thankfully, the lobby was empty, though she could hear Betty humming in the kitchen. Confident that she'd nabbed some uninterrupted time for herself, she hurried up the stairs and settled into her room. Her yearning to continue searching for the rest of the old diary was fierce, especially after her conversation with Clive about the painter, Silas, but she forced herself to concentrate on the assignment. She sat down at the writing table and looked over her notes.

  Clive had done a decent job of explaining sapphire mining to her on her first visit to the gallery. But sticking to the basics would only make for yawn-worthy reading. She needed an angle that would tie in with the international aspect of the upcoming New York conference – perhaps the rumored use of Montana
sapphires by the English in the crown jewels or Princess Diana's ring, something that would show the United States played a little-known role in the international gem scene. Or was that necessary? Maybe the fact that Yogo sapphires were only mined in that particular Montana area was the real story. They didn't need to compete with sapphires from Sri Lanka, Ceylon and other gem-producing countries. They were unique to Montana. Not only would that be of interest to regular readers and those attending the conference, but it could draw ads in from jewelers, especially those with Yogos in stock.

  Switching gears, Paige narrowed down her focus to the mining of Yogo sapphires. This eliminated the need to research Montana’s other mining areas and sidestepped the tedious task of comparing Yogos to stones from different areas of the world. There was no reason to get too technical. She would use the rumored tie-in with British royalty as a hook, then move into sapphire mining in Montana, specifically. She'd wrap it up with another quick British reference. It would work.

  A plan formed, she pulled a yellow marker out of her bag and started to highlight details specific to Yogos in her notes. She would call Susan in the morning and run the idea by her. In turn, Susan could set the ad department to work soliciting ads from jewelers whose inventory included items with Montana Yogo stones.

  Paige sighed. Now she was thinking more like a businessperson than a journalist. She preferred to take a more objective, scholarly approach to reporting, but the potential for advertising dollars would appeal to Susan, no doubt. She could already feel her editor patting her on the back.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When Paige returned for yet another visit to the gem gallery, she found Clive hunkered down over a stack of bills and insurance forms at a desk toward the rear of the store.

  “Clive, is this the only painting by Silas Wheeler that you have?” Paige asked.

  He was concentrating so deeply she had to repeat her question twice before he looked up.