Let Slip the Dogs of War: A Bard's Bed & Breakfast Mystery #1 (19 page)

A Plague on Both Your Houses:

A Bard’s Bed & Breakfast Mystery

by Sara M. Barton

Published by Sara M. Barton at Smashwords

Copyright Sara M. Barton 2012

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Chapter One –

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a messy
guest at the Bard’s Bed & Breakfast. Oh, I’m not talking about
the people who leave wet towels on the floor of the bedroom, when
there’s a perfectly good linen hamper in the ensuite bathroom, any
more than I’m talking about the guests who like to spice up their
romantic interludes with whipped cream between the Egyptian cotton
sheets I launder for them. I’m talking about the visitors who bring
their plug ugly baggage with them when they come to stay.

Linda Romano was one of those who managed to
both fascinate and repel me at the same time. Squat, cantankerous,
and physically unappealing to all but the hardiest of souls, she
arrived with a black cloud above her head and a trail of stink that
permeated my guest house long after her body was removed in a body
bag.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking -- that yet
another guest was murdered at the Bard’s Bed & Breakfast in
some foul plot to rule the world. Hardly the case here, my friend.
No, Linda died of natural causes -- she needed hospice care at the
end of life and the CIA was concerned that some hostile
intelligence service would take advantage of a dying woman to
extract national security secrets from her as she took her last
breaths. That’s how she came to be a guest. The CIA used Ben as
both watch dog and wet nurse. He oversaw her nursing care team,
vetted each Florence Nightingale and Dr. Kildare that came to the
house, checked her medical equipment for signs of tampering, and
supervised her round-the-clock palliative care.

I once met an old woman who shared her New
England folk wisdom over a cup of tea one day as she fretted about
her problematic adult son. She explained that people just got “more
so” as they grew older. If you were kind and good as a child, with
a sense of humor, you kept going down that road as an adult. If you
were given to temper tantrums and stubborn as the day was long, you
became a royal pain in the arse as you aged. Linda fit the last
description. She was bitter to the end.

As a chemist, she was brilliant. She had a
knack for discovering synthetic and natural compounds that could be
mixed to create biological and chemical weapons ranging from the
harmless to the most potent of toxins. Her actual job was to
develop antidotes, but in order to do that, she needed to know how
to manufacture them.

A lifelong spinster, Linda lived alone right
up until the time she arrived at the Bard’s Bed & Breakfast. In
other words, she was an unyielding, demanding, self-absorbed
curmudgeon. And before you go putting your fighting armor on and
getting on your high horse to defend the dying, lance in hand, save
yourself from embarrassment. We care for all our guests, from the
very genteel to the very grouchy. We make them comfortable and see
to all of their needs and demands. That doesn’t mean I have to love
each of them, does it? And let’s be honest, while we’re at it. Not
everyone is noble when facing a certain death. Some remain in
denial right up to that last breath. Some rage at the injustice of
having their lives cut short too soon. Some discover God or find
inner peace, spending their last moments in gentle goodbyes and
healing old wounds. Linda spent hers trying to find ways to punish
those who had crossed her in life. It was her final mission to
impede the lives of those who got away from her, who fled her
tyranny and thrived as a result.

“Bea, can you please make a pot of tea and
take it up to Linda? I’ve got to call the on-duty nurse,” said Ben
as he passed through the kitchen. My husband ignored my rolling
eyes and grabbed the medication box from its shelf. “She seems to
be hallucinating. I’m hoping it’s just a matter of
dehydration.”

Six minutes later, mug in hand, I trudged up
the long staircase of the Bard’s Bed & Breakfast and headed
down the hall to the Padua Room. The antique English oak bed had
been temporarily replaced by a motorized hospital bed with
adjustable sides, rubber bed sheets, and more suitable lighting. No
longer one of our most romantic accommodations, the room still had
plenty of charm. The soft blue walls and floral window treatments
were still elegant, but the Aubusson rug Uncle Edward found in a
little Montreal shop had been rolled up and removed, to make it
easier to care for the patient.

The CIA, in its infinite wisdom, had the good
sense to send Ben a certified licensed practical nurse to help out
with the sponge baths and the effort to soothe the savage breast in
the form of Manie, a six-foot-tall, dark as night Jamaican woman
with a great sense of humor and a laugh that echoed through the
house. As much as Linda was a dark cloud that came to rest on the
Bard’s, Manie was the clean breeze that blew in after a terrible
storm. I liked her so much, I put her in the Milan Suite. It was,
like Manie, full of life -- colorful, sumptuous, I thought it the
perfect choice for a woman who spent her days wiping the ornery
chin of a cantankerous woman. The attached bathroom offered a
rather large soaking tub, in addition to a shower, perfect for a
long, hot bubble bath when the day was through. There was a small
sitting area with a plump loveseat, a flat screen TV that hung on
the wall above an antique writing desk, and a balcony with a view
of the distant Adirondacks, where Manie could sit at the end of the
day and enjoy a sunset. I deliberately put her on the third floor,
despite the extra flight of stairs, because I knew that it would
make it harder for my noble husband to assume Manie would handle
every little crisis that popped up. Had she been in the Padua
Suite, she would have never had a moment’s peace, and I knew caring
for the dying was hard work. I had no idea it would prove dangerous
for Manie.

I once heard a spy say that if you want
personal information on a target, just chat up the hairdresser.
People reveal a lot when they’re in the chair. They gossip. They
confess. They ramble on about what their spouses, kids, and bosses
do to annoy them. They rant and rave about hearth and home, about
the jungle they call work. Poor Manie was a captive audience, and
when Linda decided to get things off her chest, she used her
licensed practical nurse as her witness.