Authors: Pamela Grandstaff
“The rumor is she needs the money,” Bonnie said. “Evidently she lost a lot of money in the stock market crash and you know how stingy Knox is.”
“Yet she acts like it’s beneath her to take money from customers.”
“She’s one of those Yank bahookies that trace their ancestry back to the Mayflower, like that’s something to brag about,” Bonnie said. “Being related to them that were kicked out of one country only to do mischief in another is naught to be proud of.”
Aunt Alice came in for her shift and said, “I went over to see your mother, Claire, and she’s very ill; she really shouldn’t be alone. I’m afraid of what might happen.”
Claire grabbed her coat and ran all the way home, only to find her mother dressed, sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of tea and reading a newspaper.
“You know how
Alice exaggerates,” Delia said. “She loves to stir up trouble.”
Claire took a shower, dried her hair, and then looked through her carry-on for something suitable to wear to work at the Eldridge Inn reception desk. The fashionable designer clothes that were perfectly suitable for LA,
New York, and London seemed too showy for Rose Hill. All of a sudden they looked to Claire like costumes from a chick flick shot in Manhattan. It would be about a fashion magazine editor who’s engaged to a Wall Street barracuda but ends up falling for the irritatingly charming, scruffy musician/artist/writer whom she is accidently handcuffed to/trapped with/rescued by after a ludicrous series of unlikely mishaps. They were not clothes for a real person with a real life in a small town with no dry-cleaner.
Out of the time-traveling closet of dated fashions she pulled a pair of black wool pants and a charcoal gray twin set she could wear with her mother’s pearls. Her swollen feet refused the heels she tried to push them into, so she wore black ballerina flats. She applied and then wiped off her favorite bright red lipstick. As soon as it was on she realized it just didn’t work here. It looked garish, not glamorous.
When she was finished getting ready she looked in the mirror. She looked like someone’s spinster aunt, she decided. Not the hip, fun kind, but the sensible, dependable kind; the kind of person who could be counted on to do the right thing. This was the person she seemed to be turning into whether she liked it or not.
“The only thing missing is a black velvet headband,” her mother said when she saw her.
“The better to cover my new lobotomy scar,” Claire said.
“You’re getting your sense of humor back,” Delia said. “That’s a good sign.”
“I’m hoping it will make me more popular in prison,” Claire said. “If I make the tough ones laugh they might not shiv me.”
“Scott and Sean both say you have nothing to worry about,” Delia said.
Claire thought but did not say that Scott and Sean didn’t know what Pip had done the night of the accident. If that bit of information came to light she’d probably be charged with conspiracy to commit murder.
“Curtis is taking your father over to the bar at noon and Patrick will order him some lunch,” Delia said. “Just pick him up there on your way home after five.”
Claire looked askance at her mother, to see if she was secretly enjoying seeing Claire struggle through her daily schedule, but Delia hugged her and kissed her cheek.
“Thank you for staying,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Claire’s feet were so sore she drove her rental car to the Inn rather than walk the five blocks.
The Eldridge Inn sat on
Morning Glory Circle at the end of Morning Glory Avenue. It was the northernmost street in Rose Hill, where the more well-to-do people lived. The Inn was a larger version of the Eldridge’s Edwardian home at the end of the cul-de sac, and was situated between that residence and Rose Hill City Park.
The grounds also adjoined those of
Eldridge College, an obscenely expensive private school where rich people sent their offspring after more prestigious schools kicked them out. The effect of so much manicured splendor was intimidating to most Rose Hillians, and before she’d seen the rest of the world Claire had been intimidated by it too.
Claire came in through the side entrance and found
Inn owner Gwyneth Eldridge at the front desk, berating a woman dressed in a maid’s uniform.
“I don’t care if she’s sick, we need her here,” Gwyneth said. “I’m certainly not going to wash bed linens all day. Either she comes in or you will have to work her shift.”
Gwyneth Eldridge was around ten years older than Claire. She was the eldest of the Eldridge siblings descended from the college founder. The younger brother Brad had drowned under mysterious circumstances when they were all teenagers. After the older brother Theo was murdered a few years ago, Gwyneth and her flaky sister Caroline had inherited the Inn along with many other properties and assorted trust funds.
Gwyneth had the anorexic look Claire had come to accept as the television and film industry standard, and her clothes were classically tailored and expensive looking. Her blonde bob was expertly streaked and beautifully cut. A simple looking haircut is not always the easiest, and Claire had seen many butchered bobs, much like Meredith’s at the tea room.
‘The trick is you have to account for the ears,’ Claire thought. ‘You have to leave the hair that falls over the ears a little longer so it will hang perfectly even when it’s dry.’
The edges of Gwyneth’s bob were razor straight, dead even, and perpendicular to the line of her shoulders. The length was exactly where it should be on her neck; any shorter and it would widen the line of the jaw; any longer and it would look too youthful. This was an admirable haircut, professionally maintained. Claire was impressed.
Claire could tell that Gwyneth’s face had been surgically enhanced by a skilled surgeon. She’d had a facelift and some eye work done, but it was subtle. The only give-away to her real age were her hands. It was almost impossible to combat aging in the hands. Sloan had tried everything, only to end up with something much worse than what she started with. You rarely saw her hands in editorial spreads, and if they were visible they were digitally manipulated to appear flawless or replaced by someone else’s via digital trickery.
When Gwyneth turned and saw Claire she smiled a chilly smile, no doubt assuming Claire was a guest.
“How may we help you?” she asked.
Claire recognized the affected British accent that seemed to afflict particularly keen anglophiles of a certain financial standing. Her previous employer was susceptible to the same inclination. Claire doubted they ever fooled anyone.
“I’m Delia’s daughter Claire,” she said. “I’m here to cover her shift.”
Gwyneth’s smile contracted into pursed-lip disapproval.
“Do you have any qualifications?” Gwyneth asked, while giving her a merciless up-and-down appraisal.
“I was the personal assistant to a celebrity for many years,” she said. “You may have heard of her: Sloan Merryweather.”
Gwyneth’s face lit up and she preened a little.
“I have often been told that I look just like her,” Gwyneth said.
Without hesitation Claire said what she always said to the delusional people who claimed this distinction.
“I think you’re much prettier.”
Gwyneth was delighted with this answer. She was even more delighted when Claire demonstrated her expertise with Gwyneth’s smart phone and personal computer.
“You’re hired,” Gwyneth said after Claire was through organizing her day.
“Just until my mother feels better,” Claire said.
“I’d actually prefer you,” Gwyneth said. “Nothing against your mother but I do think a younger person smartly dressed makes a better first impression.”
‘Just like in show business,’ Claire thought, but she held her tongue and smiled.
The
Inn didn’t have many guests, and Claire spent most of the afternoon drinking coffee, eating the shortbread that had been put out for guests, surfing the Internet, and occasionally answering the phone. It was a nice, quiet break after spending the morning toiling in a hot kitchen. She slipped off her shoes, sank her toes into the thick wool carpet under the desk, and struggled not to fall asleep.
Gwyneth had done an excellent job restoring the inn. It looked as though no expense had been spared on the renovation and redecoration. The most impressive thing to Claire was that every piece of furniture was the real thing; there was not a reproduction antique in sight. There was a gas fire in the fireplace, soft classical music played over a discreetly installed sound system, and the air was perfumed by many expertly styled floral arrangements. Claire had stayed in many four and five star accommodations, and in her opinion the Eldridge Inn could definitely compete on that level.
At four o’clock an extraordinary thing happened: Sloan Merryweather came through the front entrance. Claire was struck by a sense of time having slipped sideways, of parallel universes colliding, and half expected a loud crack of metaphysical thunder.
“Hello, darling,” Sloan said. “Miss me?”
Sloan was in full on movie star mode. She made a grand entrance, and the force of her personality radiated out and bounced off the ceiling and walls. The room seemed suddenly brighter. Claire reflected that Sloan instinctively knew how to find the best light in any room, and would do whatever it took to be the only one standing in it.
She wore a Calvin Klein traveling outfit of black pants, a slender black tunic sweater, and a matching cashmere wrap. Her Louboutin platform pumps were six inches high, but she was still shorter than Claire in her flats. A heavy gold necklace in a modern design rested against her bony chest, and a thick gold cuff bracelet hung on her delicate wrist. A large dark emerald ring overwhelmed her slender hand, but exactly matched her eyes. Claire couldn’t see what earrings she was wearing but she guessed they would be the heavy gold ones that matched the necklace and cuff.
Sloan’s famous mane of thick auburn hair was the only jarring note in her otherwise flawless appearance. Claire knew Sloan’s hair issues better than anyone on the planet, and things were not looking good. It looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a while, for one thing.
Behind her, the pro linebacker turned fashion stylist nicknamed Teeny struggled with a mountain of bags and the small, harried-looking Juanita carried her employer’s bottle of spring water, carry-on tote, and an umbrella. That used to be Tuppy’s job.
“What are you doing here?” Claire asked as she stood up.
“I heard about Tuppy, darling, so of course I came as soon as I could. I’m devastated, naturally, for his family’s loss, and if there is anything I can do to help with arrangements, I would be only too glad. I can’t believe they could think you had anything to do with his death. I’m fully prepared to make a statement to that effect to whatever law enforcement agency is keeping you here, plus any media outlets.”
“There’s no media here, Sloan,” Claire said. “What’s going on with your hair?”
“It’s your fault,” Sloan hissed. “You know I can’t do it myself.”
“Are you looking for a room?” Claire asked, and made a point of looking at the almost empty reservations page.
“I can’t believe this is where you’ve ended up,” Sloan said. “I keep expecting to see barefoot pregnant women dressed in overalls holding corncob pipes. No wonder you got the hell out of here as soon as you could. Don’t worry about the police, darling,
Stanley’s coming and he’ll clear up everything.”
“I have an attorney,” Claire said. “Do you want a suite, or do you want to rent the entire second floor south wing?”
“Yes, dear, but the kind of attorney you could get here, well, let’s be serious. Stanley’s the best. This unpleasantness will all be resolved in no time, and then you can come home with us, where you belong.”
“No, thanks,” Claire said. “I don’t work for you anymore and I don’t want to accept any favors that might obligate me. I like things just the way they are.”
Sloan leaned over the desk, way too close to Claire’s face for her comfort, put her mouth next to Claire’s ear, and made a profanity-laced threat in a very low voice no one else could have heard. The gist of the message was that if Claire knew what was best for her she would stop being so obstinate and cooperate, and if she refused Sloan’s help there would be dire consequences. Within this message, anywhere Sloan could insert a profane word as an adjective or a noun, she did.
Along with the verbal venom Claire also received a huge dose of Sloan’s signature scent, created especially for her by a famous Parisian perfumer. It was called “Petit Renard,” which meant “little fox” in French. Tuppy had called it “Urine de Renard,” and on that point Claire had to agree.
“Do you understand?” Sloan said as she straightened back up, and despite her resolve, Claire felt her knees wobble.
“Luckily the whole south wing on the second floor is available, and the suite at the end is very nice,” Claire said. “It certainly doesn’t meet the demands made on your contract rider, but you can have an empty room on each side of you, just as you prefer. Teeny, Juanita, and Stanley can have the next three and that leaves three rooms. Will anyone else be arriving?”