Heather Horrocks - Who-Dun-Him Inn 01 - Snowed Inn (3 page)

Shaking out of my reverie, I told him, “I’ve got to ask Great-Grandma a question, squirt.”

“Grandma Ross is here? Where?”

“She was heading for the kitchen a few minutes ago.”

He dashed toward the saloon-style doors of the kitchen. An unfamiliar beeping stopped me, and it took a second before I remembered the new walkie-talkie Kent Freestone, my handyman, gave me this morning in case of cell phone disruptions like the one we experienced this weekend. I worked it like he showed me and his voice crackled through. “Vicki? Cielo’s finished the bedrooms and is heading home. I’ve fixed the Nancy Drew fireplace and I’ll stay to shovel snow and carry bags.”

I smiled. At least that part of the preparations was running smoothly. Kent was an airline mechanic who took early retirement at fifty. When he and his wife, Cielo, moved in two doors down, halfway between here and Horse Feathers, I was the lucky recipient of their desire to stay busy. And they genuinely seemed as proud of the Inn as I was.

Part-time, Kent kept things running and Cielo kept them neat and tidy. In fact, Kent was extra busy the last few weeks, making sure everything in all the rooms and the carriage house suite worked perfectly, from toilets to televisions to fireplaces. He started yesterday on the shed and equipment, but still had more to do outside. “Thanks. What would I ever do without you guys?”

“Crash and burn,” Liz answered as I pocketed the handset.

By the time I reached the kitchen, with Liz tagging along just to see how irritated Grandma was as well as watch me grovel, I found Grandma and Zach eating ice cream cones. Grandma reached over with her cone and, when it touched Zach’s cone, made a kissing sound and smiled.

Good. Zach had managed to soften her mood.

Zach asked, “Grandma Ross, why did they stop doing the wave at the BYU football games?” then paused for effect. It was his one and only joke, passed on by DeWayne Smith, my brother’s one and only officer and an avid University of Utah fan.

“I don’t know,” Grandma said. “Why?”

“Because all the blondes were drowning.”

Grandma laughed. I had no idea what her original hair color was. Actually, no one of our generation knew, and she wasn’t telling. It hovered around subtle, strawberry-blonde most times, but today, it flared to bright red, something that happened once or twice a year.

“You look nice, Grandma,” I told her. She was still a very attractive woman, though her birthday suit was a tad wrinkled.

She narrowed her eyes and asked, “What do you want, Vicki?”

I sighed. “I need your help.”

“Seventy-eight-year-old women aren’t capable of helping. In fact, I’ve heard they can’t even walk downstairs by themselves.”

Oh, sure.
Now
she’d admit to her real age. I drew in a deep breath and told her about Sharon’s car accident and how she’d broken her leg and intended to stay with her parents.

Grandma made sounds of concern about Sharon, but didn’t offer to help me out.

“Please, Grandma,” I begged. “If I cook, the Board of Health will shut my place down before I even get started.”

She sighed dramatically. “We wouldn’t want that to happen now, would we?”

“So will you help? Please.
Pretty
please? I have all the menus planned and all the food bought.”

“Okay, Vicki. I’ll tell you what, I’ll cook this weekend.”

Relief washed over me. “Thank you so much, Grandma.”

“
If
you let me attend the dinner party tonight.”

I wavered for a moment. Grandma could always cause trouble, which was the last thing I needed this weekend. “There are a limited number of seats.”

She shot me the steely gaze of an Old West gunfighter. “We can just throw another leaf in that big, old table.”

I stared into her eyes. I knew I couldn’t win this one. I needed a cook too badly. “Okay, but the gun stays in your room.”

“Fair enough.” Grandma shrugged. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Vicki. I’ve cooked for guests for years. I’ll make sure dinner is ready by… six?”

I nodded and hoped she could still pull it off after all these years. “Thanks, Grandma.”

The phone rang and I checked Caller ID. It was Liz’s husband. “Hello, Gene.”

As soon as I said his name, Liz shook her head and fled the room, leaving me surprised.

He wished me good luck and asked if Liz was around.

“I’m not sure where she’s at,” I lied, uneasily. “I’ll tell her you called.” I said goodbye and followed Liz into the foyer, but she’d vanished. What was going on? Did they have a fight?

A wave of longing hit me. I wished Robert was still here for me to fight with once in a while— just so we could make up afterward.

* * *

Zach tugged on my blouse. “Mom, can I get out the pretty glasses?” He was all boy, but loved drinking his favorite cherry Kool-Aid from goblets.

I shook my head. “The table’s already set, sweetie.”

He shrugged and grinned. “Then can I go downstairs to play my new video game?”

I ruffled his hair again, tenderness welling up inside me. “Sure. But you have to take Charlie with you.”

His eyes sparkled. “Charlie wants a friend, Mom.”

I knew where this was going, and didn’t have time for the “Can we have a real dog?” discussion he wanted. “We’ll talk about it later, okay, squirt?”

“
Mom
!” He pouted.

“But you can play your game later than usual tonight.”

“Cool.” He perked right up.

I followed him across the lobby to the door hidden on the back side of the ornate, main curved staircase. Marked with a brass plaque announcing “PRIVATE,” it opened onto a narrower staircase that led down into our living quarters; hence, the “private.”

Laughter burst from the exercise room a few steps away. The actors were supposed to be rehearsing their lines for the mystery dinner. Sounded like I needed to help them refocus.

Closing the door behind Zach, I turned toward the exercise room, which was my brother, Paul’s, reluctant suggestion. I had it built on the main floor so the noise wouldn’t disturb anyone, and situated in a room that lay partially hidden behind the main staircase.

Now— two bicycles, three treadmills and a big weight machine later— I had an official exercise room even Paul approved of. He still thought I’d gone “too far” with the renovation. That this “new scheme” wouldn’t pay off. So I just had to prove it would.

In amongst the machines, Stephanie was ordering around the actors, just as she’d always done with everyone except Liz. Stephanie’d been our friend since she showed up in the third grade at Silver City Elementary. She was the first person I’d ever seen with skin the color of milk chocolate. The three of us became inseparable, getting into all kinds of trouble, usually instigated by my bossy sister.

In high school, Liz and I turned heads as fair-skinned, carrot-topped twins. When Stephanie walked, sandwiched between us, her beautiful skin and black hair attracted even more stares.

“Hey, everyone,” I called out in greeting.

Stephanie glanced at me. “You look great. New outfit?”

I looked down at my salmon blouse and rust-colored slacks. “Yeah. Liz bought them for me last week as a grand opening present.” I tried to remember why I was here.

“So…” Stephanie waited for a beat. “Checking on us, huh?”

“Just nervous. Probably because of the guests.”

Stephanie smiled wickedly. “Think they’ll be too critical?”

“Maybe just a bit more than if they were carpenters, insurance salesmen or programmers. You’re an awesome writer, Stephanie, but I have no clue how picky published authors will be.”
New York Times
bestselling authors, most of them. I hoped the mystery would be good enough for these pros and the so-called “literary guru” who rented the entire Inn for the weekend.

“Well, relax. Everything’s going to be fine.” Stephanie put one hand on her hip. “In fact, take a few deep breaths. Right now. That’s an order, my friend.”

I did as she instructed and smiled. I did feel better.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” she said.

“Hey, Vicki!” My other friend, Lonny Singer, raised a hand in greeting. He wasn’t as skinny now as he was fifteen years ago, when he dragged his tattered teddy bear, trailing me around the Ross Mansion whenever his parents visited mine. He’d sprouted a good three feet since then, towering over the rest of us at six-foot-two. He grinned and teased, “Good to see you. Again. So soon.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny.” I smiled back. I’d already checked on them twice.

“Hi, Xavier.” I turned to Xavier Xee, an intense, dark-haired man a few years younger than I, probably mid-twenties. He was an extremely attractive and standoffish man. I knew most of the people in Silver City, but I’d never met him before I approached McCann Theater to line up actors. Stephanie raved about how talented he was, so I was glad to hire him.

“Hi,” he said, waving his script. That surprised me. He hadn’t used his script in days, and Stephanie mentioned his near-photographic memory. As he unrolled and rerolled it, I wondered if this was how he dealt with stage fright— just as I checked and rechecked every detail of the preparations until I got on everybody’s nerves.

Lonny said, “You look nervous, Vicki.”

Stephanie, who
never
got nervous, studied me. “You do.”

“Maybe just a little,” I admitted.

“Climb aboard,” Lonny said, with a tight smile, swinging a leg over the stationary bicycle, seating himself, and pedaling furiously, which I knew was
his
way of burning off opening night jitters. “It always helps me relax.”

“To burn five-thousand calories? I bet it does,” said Stephanie.

Lonny looked past me. “Wow. Look at that snow.”

I followed Lonny’s gaze out into the arboretum, where the spectacular view of the mountain revealed big, fat, white flakes falling. Lots of them. Oh, oh, oh, dear. My stomach sank. “This looks like a bad storm. It wasn’t supposed to snow this much today.”

“You should never believe what Henley says.” Stephanie stepped beside me and shrugged. “The snow will add charm and mood to the weekend, and make for a fantastic setting. Your guests will love it. They’ll gather in the parlor, play a game of Clue, and enjoy the warmth from the fireplace.”

“If they can make it up Porter Mountain.” There might not be anything I could do about the weather, but maybe having the actors rehearse once in front of me would calm me. I read the script several times so I knew the basic order. Partway through dinner, Lonny would stage an attack on our guest of honor, the guru, and that’s when the play would get interesting.

A few drops of sweat appeared on Xavier’s suddenly pale forehead. He mumbled, “Excuse me,” and rushed into the bathroom. Even with the door slammed shut behind him, we heard the sounds of him being sick.

Lonny asked, softly, “What if he can’t go on tonight?”

“It’s probably just stage fright,” I said, trying to convince myself more than anyone else. We were already stretched far too tight on the actors, with each of them playing two roles, one with a mask. We couldn’t afford to lose even one of them.

A soft buzzer sounded, signaling that someone was entering the Inn. It was a little early for the guests.

“Go,” said Stephanie.

“Right. Okay. Look, Stephanie, there’s Pepto in the downstairs medicine cabinet, if Xavier needs it. Please, please,
please
, whatever it takes, talk him into getting better.”

“What am I supposed to do?” She raised one arched eyebrow. “Wave my magic wand?”

“Please. You’re very persuasive.” I knew I sounded illogical, but I was desperate. “Just do the best you can. The show must go on and all that.”

As I stepped toward the lobby, Lonny said, “While you’re at it, Stephanie, talk him into not being contagious.”

* * *

In the foyer, I found a woman. A
guest
? A thrill of excitement raced through me. My
first
guest?

She was dressed in an expensive, low-cut, black sweater with brilliant colors— fuchsia, emerald green, bright red— splashed across the front, and a matching shade of fuchsia defining her lips. An outrageous zebra-print coat was draped over her arm. Her hair, brown with golden streaks, fell stylishly about her face.

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but her outfit was brighter than Grandma’s parrot suit. Apparently, Grandma was right in style.

She was slender and well toned, but a few wrinkles around her eyes and on her neck hinted of fifty-something. Otherwise, she looked like a glamorous author. Like one of my expected guests, in other words.

I smiled warmly. “Welcome to the Who-Dun-Him Inn.”

“I do like that name.” The woman nodded approvingly. “I’m here with the Calabria party. Gregorio and the others will arrive shortly.” She pointed to the wall. “This wainscoting is magnificent. Are you the owner?”