Room At The Inn (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries)
| Room At The Inn |
| Jeff Resnick [5] |
| LL Bartlett |
| USA (2012) |
working vacation at a quaint Vermont inn. For most people, the chance to
spend time with a beautiful woman in a romantic, isolated setting would
be a plus, but the moment Jeff crosses the Sugar Maple Inn's threshold,
his sixth sense warns him that someone is about to meet a violent
death.
His anxiety intensifies when he travels on one of the
local roads and he is nearly overwhelmed by feelings of impending doom.
Ultimately, Jeff can only find respite in his brother Richard's presence
and it is only after one of the inn's guests is murdered that Richard
reluctantly becomes a third wheel on Jeff and Maggie's trip. With their
own lives at stake, Jeff, Maggie, and Richard must use all their wits
and skill to bring a ruthless killer to justice. And if they don't, one
of them might just become the next victim.
Jeff Resnick is definitely out of his element when he and Maggie take a working vacation at a quaint Vermont inn. For most people, the chance to spend time with a beautiful woman in a romantic, isolated setting would be a plus, but the moment Jeff crosses the Sugar Maple Inn’s threshold, his sixth sense warns him that someone is about to meet a violent death.
His anxiety intensifies when he travels on one of the local roads and he is nearly overwhelmed by feelings of impending doom. Ultimately, Jeff can only find respite in his brother Richard’s presence and it is only after one of the inn’s guests is murdered that Richard reluctantly becomes a third wheel on Jeff and Maggie’s trip. With their own lives at stake, Jeff, Maggie, and Richard must use all their wits and skill to bring a ruthless killer to justice. And if they don’t, one of them might just become the next victim.
ROOM AT THE INN
A Jeff Resnick Mystery
By L.L. Bartlett
Copyrigh
t
2012 by L.L. Bartlett. All rights reserved
.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author. This also pertains to uploading to free download sites, which is considered piracy and does not recognize the labor of this author or her livelihood from that work. Please discourage piracy and purchase works (other than those offered by the Author or Publisher as "Free Books"). Thank you.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For
Dru Ann Love
My guardian angel
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For many years,
Room At The Inn
sat on a shelf. After
Murder On The Mind
sold, my then-agent deemed the book too “cozy.” She couldn’t possibly know that in the years ahead I would become known as a cozy mystery author. She was right; the book is not as gritty as the two that precede it and the books that follow, but it’s still a Jeff Resnick story and part of his history, and I’m pleased to share it with you now.
Over the years, many people read
Room At The Inn
, gave me encouragement, and shared their critical eye. Sadly, I’ve forgotten the names of some of those who gave me input; those I do remember are: Kate Doran
,
Elizabeth Eng, Dru Ann Love, Janette McNana, Gwen Nelson, Yvonne Powell, Alison Steinmiller, Liz Voll, and Ed Whitmore. Thank you, all. Thanks also go to Kate Doran and Leann Sweeney for their medical expertise. Any mistakes are strictly my own. Thanks also go to my cover designer, Patricia Ryan.
To find out more about the Jeff Resnick Mysteries, please visit my website:
http://www.LLBartlett.com
.
Table of Contents
A Jeff Resnick Mystery
By L.L. Bartlett
Chapter 1
A bell over the door jangled as I stepped into the Sugar Maple Inn's living room and smelled death. Not literally, of course. It's unsanitary, and a body in the lobby isn't a welcome sight for potential customers. Besides, I wasn't sure anybody had actually died.
Yet.
I'm not paranoid, but since a mugging rearranged my brain cells earlier in the year (leaving me with lingering, often crippling, headaches), I see—absorb—more than most people.
The phantom odor disappeared, replaced by the sickly sweet scent of potpourri. It wasn't an improvement.
I took another step inside and my girlfriend, Maggie, pushed past me. The overstuffed furniture, antiques and do-dads decorating the walls and every flat surface in the living room-lobby made the place look fussy and uninhabitable. To me that is. Maggie's wide approving eyes sucked it up. Although not swank, at an average $350 a night, it wasn't within my budget.
I followed Maggie to the cubbyhole behind a Dutch door that served as the inn's registration desk. A young blonde woman sat in front of a computer, pecking away. I had to clear my throat twice before she looked up.
"Hi. Is Susan Dawson around?" Maggie asked.
"She's not available. Can I help?"
"I'm Jeff Resnick," I said, "and this is Maggie Brennan. We're here to write an article on the inn and take a few pictures for a magazine. Is our room available?"
The young woman's face was blank. "Sorry, sir, but we're booked solid," she said, without even consulting the ledger beside her. "You might find a room somewhere else in town, but as it's coming up on a holiday weekend, I wouldn't count on it."
Was her response an omen of things to come?
"We're here as a favor to Susan and Zack," Maggie piped up. "We're supposed to stay here free."
The young woman blinked. "Susan didn't mention this to me. You're welcome to wait for her if you'd like." She indicated the porch.
I forced a smile. "Thanks.”
So we headed for the door, and once again I caught that sense of impending doom. I'm not a mind reader. Sometimes I know things about people and places. I tap into strong emotions—whether I want to or not—and sometimes knowledge just follows. It's a real kick when you're making love—except on those occasions when your partner's heart isn't into it. That comes across loud and clear, too.
Maggie accepts this personality quirk of mine as one would a minor disability; she overlooks it. But I figured until I knew what was going on, I'd better not mention my premonition.
We settled on the porch swing and watched the intermittent traffic whiz by, while I tried not to think of dead bodies. "Just how sharp is this old high school buddy of yours?" I asked. "So far, I'm unimpressed.”
Maggie squirmed. "Susan was voted most likely to succeed."
"Then why does she need our help?" Help, in the form of a magazine article. Maggie had been selling freelance for just over a year.
"I suppose she'd welcome any publicity." Maggie sighed and looked away.
The afternoon sun highlighted the fine lines around her blue eyes, hinting at years of smiles. As always, she looked beautiful to me. I sensed her nervousness at seeing her old school friend again. I'd say she was three sizes more nervous. Not that Maggie's overweight. She's just about right for her five-six height. I stroked her shoulder-length auburn hair and felt bad for laying a guilt trip on her. At forty, she was older than me by four years, but her joys and insecurities made her seem—and occasionally act—years younger.
I'd known Maggie for about six months, and this was our first weekend trip together. We left the grim skyline of Buffalo behind us for a long Labor Day weekend in Stowe, Vermont for a working vacation. Maggie's editor wanted pictures to accompany her story. After losing her job some months before, and relying only on contract work since, Maggie wasn't in a position to pay someone to do it. I'm a pretty good amateur photographer. So I borrowed my brother's camera and we filled the trunk of my car with rented equipment, some of which I had only the most basic knowledge.
My gaze traveled to the large sign along the road, which announced the Triple-A sanctioned Sugar Maple Inn. True to its brochure, a towering Sugar Maple tree stood to one side of the place. In another couple of weeks it would be a magnificent example of Vermont's famous fall colors.
Built into a hillside, the inn's weathered, shingled exterior looked charming, if a little unkempt thanks to the surrounding, overgrown shrubs. Not quite a Tyrolean ski lodge, Maggie had called its gabled roof and pine green shutters on each window "quaint."
Eventually a burgundy Dodge Caravan pulled up the gravel driveway with a woman at the wheel. She got out of the van and hurried toward us. "Maggie!"
"Susan?" Maggie sounded uncertain.
With an unexciting name like Susan Dawson, I'd expected a nondescript woman, not the tall, lithe redhead with elegantly lacquered nails and a perfect body. She wasn't beautiful, but she knew how to accentuate her personal positives.
She gave Maggie a perfunctory hug, then turned to me. "You must be Jeff," Susan said, shoving her hand in my direction. Her grip was as strong as any man's, and I was relieved when it wasn't accompanied by a flash of insight I sometimes get when I meet someone.
"Sorry I wasn't here when you arrived."
"There seems to be some kind of mix-up," I said. "The girl inside said we didn't have a room. She suggested we try somewhere else."
Susan frowned. "Nadine's new. But don't worry; I've got everything ready for you. You're going to love the Sugar Maple, and you'll have the most intimate room in the Inn. Come on inside.”
We followed her into the cool interior.
"This is the living room. We have five public areas available for guests," she said, which sounded suspiciously like a rehearsed speech. "This is a totally non-smoking inn. Please remember that this is our home, and we ask that you discourage friends from just dropping by. The front door is locked at midnight, but you can arrange for a key if you plan to stay out later."
"Was there ever a murder here?" I asked.
Startled, Susan blinked at me.
Maggie's glare was the visual equivalent of a kick under the table. "He means a ghost. Are there any ghosts at the inn? It could be the article's focal point.”
"Oh, yeah," I agreed. "A ghost."
"No," Susan said, her eyes flashing, "we
don't
have a ghost."
One of the guests, a handsome older woman with salt-and-pepper hair, in beige slacks and a vibrant pink print blouse, ambled into the living room. She sat on one of the matching loveseats in front of the fireplace and grabbed a magazine from the cocktail table. Her arrival gave me a chance to break into Susan's spiel.
"Have you decided what rooms you'd like to feature? Or we—"
"Why don't we talk about this elsewhere," Susan interrupted me, then motioned us to a side door marked PRIVATE. "Nadine, there're groceries in the van. Please take them down to the kitchen," she said, without waiting for a reply.
Beyond the door was the Dawson's residence, a combination office-attached apartment. A file cabinet and desk crowded their living space. The sterile room had none of the country charm we’d found in the lobby. Susan ushered us to sit at the worn Formica kitchen table. She could have at least offered us a cold drink.
"When can you start?" asked the hardened businesswoman.
"Tomorrow," I said, suddenly realizing how tired I was from the long drive.
Her lips grew tight. "Zack's not going to be happy about that."
"What did you and your husband have in mind?" Maggie asked, her tone indicating she was open to negotiation—while I was not.
"There's still time before check-in. You can take the pictures of the bedrooms today, and—"
"Today?" I interrupted.
"Is that a problem?"
"Yes. It'll take hours to set up the lights."
"Doesn't your camera have a flash?"
She didn't have a clue what photographing interiors involved. Hell, I wasn't really sure I did.
"The magazine expects professional quality photos. It takes time to get everything just right," I said.
"But I'm booked solid for the weekend. I can't ask the guests to move out of their rooms while you—"
"Then I don't see how we can do it," I said. I didn't like her attitude and was already willing to say good-bye and hit the road for home.
Susan's eyes narrowed. "What's this all about, Maggie? You said you could help me."
"Without good pictures—" Maggie began, but I tuned out her explanation, waiting for an opportunity to speak.
"Let me guess. You went into hock to refurbish the place, you're having problems filling the rooms on a regular basis, and now the bank is breathing down your neck, right?"
Susan's gaze was icy. "Exactly."
"If we photographed one bedroom, we could concentrate on the other public areas. Is that acceptable?" Maggie asked.
Susan didn't look happy. "I suppose."
"Is your best room available in the next couple of days?"
"Ms. Marshall will be checking out Monday morning, but I've got another couple checking in later that afternoon."
"What's the time frame?" I asked.
"Check out is at eleven. New guests check in at three."
"How long does it take to make up a room? Ten or twenty minutes?" I asked.
She nodded.
"That leaves us less than four hours."
"Why is that a problem?"
"While I set up the lights, Maggie will dress the room—" I started.
"Dress the room?"
"We might need to rearrange furniture and borrow props from other rooms," Maggie explained.
"A real photo shoot would have a stylist," I explained, trying to sound knowledgeable—and feeling like a con man. The sum total of my information had come from a Google search and a magazine article only days before. "The memory card in my camera holds about three-hundred exposures."
"Why so many? I've never seen an article with more than five or six pictures."
"We’ll want a number of variations on each shot, and while we can Photoshop the brightness and contrast, you want your basic exposure to be the best possible."
"After you see the results, you might want to revamp your brochure, too," Maggie put in, perhaps to get double use from my photography.
"All that costs money. Which we don't have much of."
"The girl out front said you were fully booked."
"For the five rooms that are finished. We've got seven more in various states of renovation. We'd planned on having them done before the fall colors and the leaf peepers arrive, but we've had contractor and cash-flow problems. Besides, the guests object to the constant sounds of hammering and power saws.”
"We'll do the best we can," I offered, which apparently wasn't going to be good enough for Susan.
"Let me show you the rest of the place," she grum
bled and gestured toward the door that led back to the inn.
She continued the grand tour of the public areas, oblivious to the fact we'd had a long drive and might be tired. All I wanted was to kick off my shoes, use the bathroom, and catch a few Zs before dinner.
The inn's lower level was decorated in the same—although somewhat more restrained—country charm as the lobby above. Eight or ten tables were scattered throughout the large dining room. Two picture windows, one to the south and one to the east, overlooked the vast gardens outside. A professional coffeemaker, with a full pot, and a glass jar filled with homemade chocolate chip cookies beckoned guests.
The game room boasted a stately old pool table. Game boards decorated the walls, and shelves filled with books, puzzles, and a large-screen television could entertain bored guests. As we walked through the maze of rooms, Susan rolled out the rest of her canned speech.
"What time is dinner?" Maggie asked innocently.
"We only serve dinner during ski season," Susan said.
Maggie gave me an uncertain glance, then looked back at our hostess. "I just assumed that since we weren't here as guests—"
"There're a lot of nice restaurants in town. We have a blackboard by the kitchen where guests rate them. Take a look before you go out tonight. Breakfast is served from eight until ten. You won't go hungry," she said.
As we hadn't had lunch, and weren't going to be offered dinner, I had my doubts. Our freebie weekend was beginning to look like an expensive venture. Would Susan present us with a bill when it came time to leave?
We followed her back to the cubbyhole where Nadine had given us the brush off. She grabbed a key from the desk drawer. "Follow those stairs to the second floor. You're in number six. I'll be here in the office if you need me."
Guests had to haul their own bags. Maggie and I went out to the car and grabbed as much as we could carry for the first trip, leaving the bulk of the camera equipment in the trunk.