Tales from the Vienna Woods

The Affidavit of Nancy Ann Sanford

2011-02-14T09:46:00.001-05:00

The Affidavit of Nancy Ann Sanford

I Nancy Ann Sanford make oath to say

Simon Girty emigrated from Ireland to the colony of Pennsylvania about the year 1740 A.D. He married an English lady by the name of Mary Newton by whom he had four sons, Thomas, Simon, George and James. Simon Girty senior was killed in fighting a duel with a British officer. His widow married a man by the name of John Turner in 1755 A.D. They had one son. They were taken prisoner by the Indians shortly after the French and Indian war broke out when Mrs Turner was compelled to witness the death of her husband at the stake; but Mrs Turner clung to her infant son whom she named John. After some years when he had grown to manhood he, John Turner, returned to the colony and sought out his half brothers.

When Simon Girty junior left the colony he settled John Turner jun. on his property near Fort Pitts. This property was about five miles from Pittsburg (sic) on the main road. This property was known by the name of Squirrel Hill. John Turner married a lady by the name of Susannah Clark; they had no children. John Turner, Simon Girty’s half brother came to the township of Malden to see his half brother once. There was no written agreement between them that the property was to return to the heirs of Simon Girty. (Grandfather told me many times that the property was to come back to his children and he also talked of some property at a place called Beaver about a hundred miles from Pittsburg on the Ohio River.) He lived with Uncle Turner six years on the property in Pennsylvania. He wanted to stay with him but mother was not willing. Simon GIrty was born in the Colony of Pennsylvania A.D. 1744 not far from the present city of Harrisburg. He married Catherine Malott in Detroit, the daughter of Peter Malott. They had four children, Prideaux, Thomas, Sarah, and Nancy. John McClassen was a nephew of Mrs John Turner. He was raised by John Turner and was left in possession of the property at Uncle Turner’s death. My mother’s name was Nancy. She married Peter Geauvreau. They had five children Catherine, Betsy, Nancy Ann, Thomas and Caroline.

Signed Nancy Ann Sanford

Sworn before me at the Township of Gosfield North

This 5 day Sep 1893

Thomas Smith

Witness

Trails of the Templars- Chapter One

2010-05-04T21:57:00.008-04:00

It was nice to be home again. As I swung off the lakeshore road onto the drive to Tintagel, I admired the way that the landscape looked in the setting sun. There was a faint dusting of snow across the meadow and the golf course, and the trees, bare now of their leaves, stood dark against the golden glow created by the sun near the western horizon. And, as I came around the bend in the drive, there was Tintagel in all its eccentric gothic glory, its crenellated towers against the twilit sky. For a resort hotel it was certainly different: for Southwestern Ontario farm country it was downright unique. I loved it. Even the windmills which were starting to take shape in the distance didn’t detract from it.

Before the drive got to it, however, I made a right turn and took the secondary drive which led to my own personal queendom, my greenhouse and cottage. The previous year when Arthur Carruthers, under very traumatic circumstances, had offered me a job as kitchen gardener, he had turned out to be as good as his word.

I had started my research immediately, and found that more and more high-end hotels and restaurants were using the “home-grown” approach to supplying their kitchens. When I had laid this before him he was enthused, and in the midst of his own marriage plans (to my former co-worker, Sue) he quickly approved the construction of a greenhouse to get a start on the project.

So in an area to the west of the horse barn (read: manure supply) a greenhouse designed for solar efficiency went up, and raised beds were installed and filled with high-quality compost by a rapidly assembled team of labourers, who then melted away, leaving me with the garden set-up of my dreams.

I had always assisted my mother in her gardens at home (oh, for that team of labourers then!), so I had an idea of what I had let myself in for, but when you’re a university student living in an apartment in downtown Toronto you don’t seriously contemplate the planning, creation, and operation of a large organic garden. And until the previous June, my plan had been to continue my university career and downtown lifestyle indefinitely. So I had to really hit the ground running. However, I was happy. I hadn’t realized until it was gone how difficult city life was for me. I liked being alone. I liked silence. I got what I wanted at Tintagel.

The drive ended outside a small stucco cottage attached to the greenhouse by a glassed-in breezeway. Arthur and I had both agreed that it made sense for the gardener to be near the greenhouse; I had lived the previous summer in the basement of the hotel as a live-in chambermaid, but that wasn’t my idea of a long-term residence, and certainly my status was higher now than when I was just a maid. So he let me have a say in the design of the cottage as well.

I got out of my blue pick-up, shivering in the frigid February air, grabbed my groceries from the passenger side, and juggled them while I got the house key out of my pocket and unlocked the door. Once in I dumped the plastic bags on the kitchen counter.

It was a small but pleasant place to live. The kitchen was an alcove off of the main living space, with a convenient island for both sitting and working at. The living room featured a woodstove, ceramic tile floors over a an in-floor heating system, and huge windows looking west towards the setting sun and any incoming weather (I’m a weather watcher: you have to be when you’re a gardener). On the south side were french doors leading to a courtyard tucked between the cottage and the greenhouse. The ten-foot back wall of the greenhouse blocked my view to the south, but the twelve feet between the two was paved with flagstones, and although there was little to appreciate in the courtyard in the dead of winter a scant four months after it had been installed, I had big plans for it.

Off of the main living space were my bedroom and office, with a bathroom in between. It was a small space, and still needed lots of work, but I already felt at home in it. I was on the prowl for a kitten or two and a dog, for what is the use of a home in the country without pets? Besides, I wanted something that could bark at intruders in the middle of the night.

Once I’d put the few groceries away, I headed for the office to check my e-mail. I’d been gone to Guelph all day on business connected with the horticulture diploma I’d started working towards (a bit of a change from a Master’s degree in English medieval history), and hadn’t bothered to access my account from there. Buried amongst the offers for cheap re-financing and larger penises were a few messages that mattered. I clicked on Jack’s first.

Jack was one of the reasons that my life had changed so much in the past year, although if I bothered to add up the number of days that we had actually spent together, the total was pretty low. I didn’t count all the time that I had spent mooning over him while he was unaware of my existence when we both worked at the St Charles Hotel in London one beautiful English summer. Our time together actually started when I ran into him on my train trip across Canada, and the relationship really blossomed when someone tried to kill him.

Since the resolution of that situation, he’d been back home in Newcastle with his grandmother, the woman who’d raised him and his sister. She was dying of cancer, and Jack needed to be there. Luckily, my Christmas present from him had been a round-trip ticket to visit him there, where I’d been introduced to said grandmother (who appeared to be delighted that Jack had finally met someone), sister, and even his mother, with whom he didn’t have the best relationship (she’d spent most of his formative years somewhere else). Jack didn’t know where his father was. We even spent a night at the St Charles Hotel for old times’ sake. That was very nice. And then I headed back to my greenhouse, already busily growing some winter greens and onions, and he headed back to Newcastle.

Sadly, his Granny Ida had died two weeks earlier, and his e-mails had been full of the details of the funeral. But I had high hopes that he would soon be on a plane over to me, now that his obligation (a willing one, to be sure) was fulfilled. So I eagerly opened his message sitting in my in-box.

Love-

Booked for Friday- details to follow re: flight. Will you be able to meet me in Toronto? Miss you.

Jack

Short but sweet! I danced out through the mudroom to the greenhouse to check on my babies. My greenhouse was a giant experiment, but one that Arthur and I had confidence would succeed. Instead of going for the classic tobacco belt greenhouse, long and narrow, with a low-pitched peaked roof aligned any which way with the sun, I had wanted something that could more effectively use and store the sun’s warmth, as well as its light. Set away from trees, about one hundred metres from the cliff’s edge, the greenhouse resembled nothing so much as a giant lean-to without a building to lean against. Its north wall was concrete, ten feet high and a foot and a half thick, designed to capture and store the heat of the sun. I already had young tomato vines on their way to being trained over the inside of the wall to take advantage of that extra heat as the sun strengthened with the return of spring. In the meantime, the concrete wall had hot water pipes running through it to keep things moderately warm. Inside, the growing level was three feet down, taking advantage of the insulating properties of the earth. Separated from the wall by a narrow sawdust pathway, wide beds planted with young greens, baby carrots, onions, radishes, and other veggies looked neat and tidy. There was some supplementary heat, but I was trying to use it as little as possible. Like I said, it was experimental. I gave it one last happy look, and went back into the cottage. I dashed off an ecstatic reply to Jack, and then realized that I’d forgotten to check on my snow peas in the greenhouse. Back out I went, still delighted and giddy as I went to the west end of the greenhouse to check on my seedlings. As I straightened up from poking around in the rich, dark compost, I noticed that funny little guy scurrying off again.

This fellow looked like something out of British comedy- seedy-looking, short, wearing one of those cloth caps that British working men forty or fifty years ago might wear (as opposed to the ubiquitous ball cap of North America). I had had many chances to observe him, for it seemed to me that he headed in the same direction, west past my greenhouse, morning and night (sunrise and sunset, to be precise) on a daily basis. God knew what there was to so fascinate him.

I shrugged. Possibly he was a birder. Birders were known to be eccentric and obsessive. There seemed to be little reason to follow up on it- but where did he come from? He certainly did not look like a guest from the hotel- and he’d been around for at least two weeks, longer than usual for a guest, and certainly at this time of year. We were mostly busy in the bleak midwinter with cross-country skiers, business conferences, and some special workshops- cooking, exercise, and suchlike.

I decided that I was hungry, but not willing to cook, so I put on my parka and boots (did I say that it was cold? Southwestern Ontario was in the grip of a cold snap which left the humid days of summer a fond and distant memory) and headed over to the hotel to eat. I had the advantage of eating at home when I felt like it, or at the employee’s canteen when I didn’t. Tonight was a “didn’t”. Besides, I wanted to ask Jim about the guy with the cap. Oh, and tell him about Jack.

Jim and Jack were good friends. In fact, the reason that Jim had ended up working at Tintagel, and Jack had ended up visiting it, was to find out why their mutual best friend David had died there a couple of years previously. They did find out, and Jim ended up staying around because he found that hotel management agreed with him. He was currently assistant manager, living in because he hadn’t bothered to move out yet. I was pretty sure that I’d find him around, unless of course he was off changing diapers for Vicky.

Poor Jim! Vicky was the light of his life, but right at the moment, she had no time to spare for him, because, (poor Vicky), she’d had an unplanned pregnancy, the result of a very brief relationship with someone at cooking college, and the result of that was very much the centre of her attention. Young Emil was loud, demanding, and, I had to admit, absolutely adorable. Vicky had been working right until Emil burst upon the scene just before Christmas, and was currently on maternity leave and living in a tiny house she’d rented in nearby Port Burwell until some new employee housing was completed. Jim liked to help her out.

I was in luck. Jim was sitting in the corner of the canteen picking at a plate of salad. He looked up at my entrance and grimaced. “Slim pickings tonight, Nell. Are you sure you want to try it?”

“What, no leftover lobster or quail from the main dining room?” Occasionally we lucked out and got roast duck or something equally deluxe.

“Sadly, no. What was wrong with your kitchen?”

“It wouldn’t work on autopilot, and besides, there was something that I wanted to ask you. Oh oh oh- and Jack’s coming!! On Friday!”

“That’s nice- but will I get to see him?” He pushed the plate away from himself in disgust.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll help you cook. I need a walk anyway. I haven’t been out of here all day.”

“It’s cold as hell out there,” I warned him.

He shrugged. “I can take it. My jacket’s upstairs- let’s go.”

We took the staircase which took us out into the main hall of Tintagel. It was as beautiful as ever- the soaring ceiling, the rich walnut wood staircase, the muted sage and mulberry colours. It had been built by an eccentric Cornishman (hence the name Tintagel) late in the nineteenth century. However, it had needed extensive renovation and alteration, not to mention discreet additions, to become a modern resort hotel.

The heavy green curtains were drawn shut, both to conserve heat and to make the space seem cosier. Fires were blazing in both of the fireplaces, on opposite window walls. I sat down on a mulberry velvet sofa in front of one of them to toast my toesies while Jim headed off to the admin offices behind the front desk to grab his jacket. I gloated over my good luck. In my earlier incarnation here, as a lowly chambermaid, this hall had been off-limits. I was not allowed up here. Now, several things had happened. First of all, I was no longer a chambermaid. I was management, of sorts- head kitchen gardener, with some landscaping planning duties, so I had some status. Second, I was no longer under Glenda Potter’s control and supervision. She was Head of Housekeeping, and not a nice woman. She was the one who’d told me that I had to stay out of the hall. Third, Arthur Carruthers let me get away with- I was going to say murder, but under the circumstances, that wasn’t very funny. Let me say instead that he was most indulgent employer. Not that he was around much- but he and Sue did have a suite on the top floor for when they were there, and I was always welcome. Fourth, Ken Pinkerton, former assistant manager, now manager, who at first had seemed the most appalling sidekick to an appalling man, was actually a very nice, very funny fellow who liked me because I laughed at his jokes. If he found me in the Great Hall he wouldn’t kick me out- he’d start telling me mildly smutty stories and giggling. So all around, I was safe. And it was warm, and I had friends. And Jack.

Jim came back, attired for the weather. “Let’s go,” he said. “So when’s Jack coming?”

We pushed open the huge wooden front door, stepping out into the bitter cold and gathering dark. “Woof,” said Jim. “You’re right. “It’s bitchin’ cold. So when’s Jack coming?”

I danced around him in delight, and in an attempt to keep warm. “Friday! I get to go and pick him up at the airport.”

Jim grinned. “That’ll be a long ride home. Want me to check on your plants the next morning?”

I stuck my tongue out at him. “Don’t be rude. We’ll be much better off here with my woodstove than in a motel somewhere. You just stay away until we come calling for you.”

“Don’t worry,” said Jim. “I have no desire to interfere with your love life. My God, it’s cold!” The sky was clear, and as we trotted quickly across the five hundred feet or so to my place, we could see the early stars coming out, brilliantly cold and clear against the deep purply-black sky.

"It is beautiful,” I offered up.

“Too bad. Why am I not an assistant manager in Aruba?”

By then we’d made it to my door and I had the door unlocked in record time. We got in and while Jim immediately started a fire in my stove, I got some chicken wings and fries out of the chest freezer in the breezeway and turned on the stove. “Salad, Jim?” I asked as I opened packages and put their contents on baking sheets and popped them in the oven.

“Hell, no,” he answered as he wrestled with kindling and paper. “I tried green stuff already tonight. Starch, fat and protein only, thank you very much. There!” he exclaimed as the stove came to life. “That should do it.”

I came and sat down on the couch in front of the stove with two beers in hand. “Wonderful!” I said appreciatively.

Jim got off his knees and sat down on the overstuffed chair to my right, taking the second beer from me. “I have got to get out of that room in the basement. It’s worse than a college residence, because the girls aren’t as cute, and it’s not like I can’t afford a place.”

“Hasn’t Pinky offered you one of his new places? Or are you too lazy to move that far from the desk?”

“I started at seven and didn’t finish until just before you came in. With Pinkerton on vacation- in Aruba, I might add- it’s more than a full-time job. Oh, and Carruthers and Sue are coming down next week. Hopefully there’ll be snow, because he likes cross-country skiing.”

“We could use some snow cover,” I sighed. “It’s good for the plants.”

“You and your plants. Jack have anything to say aside from he’s coming?”

“Nope, but that was enough,” I smiled happily. I hopped to my feet and went to the kitchen to check on the food.

“They’ll be ages yet,” said Jim absently, picking up the clicker and turning on my television. He was right at home in my place. Well, the basement did have mighty few charms, and he couldn’t spend all his time in the bars in town or at Vicky’s.

We were in the middle of wings and fries and Jeopardy when we heard an engine sputter up the drive and come to a halt outside my door. Only one engine made that noise, and Jim knew it. He was on his feet in seconds flat and at the door to see what brought Vicky out- at least he had the sense to put on his jacket before he dashed out. Moments later he came in with a bundle of blankets which must have been Emil, and Vicky followed him with the diaper bag and an even smaller bundle, which struggled and yes, werfed.

She shut the door behind her with a bang and shoved her bundle at me. Something started licking my nose. “Take him, Nell. Jim, give me the baby!” she said sharply. Vicky was a little fussy with Emil, but he was a sweetheart. Meanwhile, I was having my ear nipped by tiny and very sharp teeth.

“Vicky, who is this?” I was rapidly losing my heart to a tan and white puppy with floppy ears and bright brown eyes. He was now nipping my chin.

“Oh, he’s yours.”

“Mine?”

“My cousin dropped him off today. I’d mentioned that you were looking for a puppy, and she found this little guy abandoned in the ditch- in this weather, can you imagine? Anyway, I brought him right over. I’ve already got him a collar and leash.” She had succeeded in unwrapping Emil from his layers of blankets and carried him over to the couch.

I was torn. I had a baby and a puppy to fuss over, but hey, I’d already met Emil (and changed many of his diapers, I might add), and he already had Vicky and Jim hovering over him. I plopped down in the chair and started talking to the dog. Baby talk, I blush to say. I can’t help it, I love dogs, and I was delighted with this little guy. He was about eight weeks old, and obviously had been somewhere warm and safe up until then- he was in perfect shape. Right now he was ecstatically licking me all over my face, recognizing a friend.

“He’s a cutie,” admitted Jim, coming over and taking the remaining wings to the kitchen. That was a smart move, as the little fellow was already starting to take an extreme interest in what he could smell. He hopped down off of my lap and started circling the living room, nose to the floor and tan tail wagging, checking out the place. By the office door, he stopped, raised his little hind leg, and officially took possession. Jim went and scooped him up, lightly smacking his nose, while I went for a cloth to clean up. “What are you going to call him, Nell?”

I didn’t hesitate an instant, as I stooped and wiped up after my dog. “Fred.”

“That’s a nice name,” approved Vicky. “What do you think, Emil?” Emil responded by burping.

“What a good boy!” she cooed.

I dropped the cloth in the garbage and washed my hands scrupulously. Jim was feeding the dog a french fry. I took Emil from Vicky. “Let me fuss over the human for a minute,” I said. You get something to eat.”

Emil was such a thoroughly satisfying baby. For someone who had come into the world under less than ideal circumstances (father denied paternity, maternal grandparents furious-casting-out-into-snow-mad, mother just starting out in new job), he seemed abnormally content with his lot in life. He smiled, he chuckled, he slept through the night. Right now he was fascinated by my earrings, which I have to admit I was dangling right in his face, so perhaps it was unfair of me to complain when he grabbed one and yanked. Meanwhile, the dog started whimpering. “You keep Emil,” Jim said. “I’ll take Fred here out. He probably wants to do some territory marking out there, too.” Out they went, Fred frisking about as the cold wind blew in.

Vicky smiled as she chewed on some wings. “He’s a cute little guy, isn’t he?”

“The baby or the puppy?” I asked, tickling Emil. “Or Jim?”

“All three, I guess,”she sighed.

My head came up, and studied her face. She looked moderately content, no blushing, and looked me right in the eye. “Really?” I asked.

She did blush a bit then, and nodded. “Probably,” she admitted. “But,” she added, forestalling my incipient whoop, “don’t get too excited about it.”

“Still too early?”

“God, yes. Emil there is barely two months, for heaven’s sake! I’m not going to go straight from motherhood into another relationship, especially one that might be serious.”

“With Jim it would be serious,” I confirmed.

“Exactly. I don’t want to be the sort of woman who jumps from guy to guy like that. It wouldn’t be fair to Jim - or Emil.” She came over to the couch and sat down beside me, taking back Emil, holding him close. “This is the most important person in my life, and I can’t afford to screw that up.”

Just then the door opened, and Jim and Fred came bounding back in. “Holy crap, it’s cold,” was all Jim said. He quickly closed the door, and Fred came straight over to me, nuzzling at my hand.

“Did he pee?” I asked Jim.

“He did everything a dog could possibly do.”

“Excellent,” I said, and let him jump up onto my lap. He leaned over and gave Emil’s ear a quick sniff, decided he already knew that smell, and settled down in my lap. Jim went to the stove to put on another log.

“Hey, Nell, wasn’t there something else that you wanted to talk to me about, aside from the simply thrilling news that Jack’s coming here?”

“He is?” asked Vicky, pulling her attention away from Emil’s charms for a moment.

“Friday. Isn’t that great? I get to go to the airport to meet him!”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Jim. “But wasn’t there something else?”

I managed to stop thinking about Jack and Fred long enough to recall my earlier question. “Oh, okay, now I remember, yes, there was this fellow, well, IS really, I suppose, because he’s there every day twice a day, morning and night.”I sounded confused.

“Every day where, Nell?” Jim asked patiently.

“Going past the greenhouse, to the west somewhere. I’m not sure. But he’s been doing this for,

like, the last two weeks, and I have no clue who he is. I was wondering if he’s at the hotel or what.”

“And he looks like...?”

“Rather odd, really. Shortish, darkish, oldish, wears a heavy cloth coat and a cloth cap, one of those old British ones working man ones, not like a ball cap.”

Jim shook his head. “Nope, doesn’t ring any bells. Not a guest, that’s for sure. He sounds a bit dodgy.”

Vicky had been listening to this with interest, while discreetly dealing with an insistent demand on the part of Emil. “I think that I’ve seen that guy in Port Burwell, Nell, wandering around a bit.”

“Any idea who he is, where he’s staying, what he’s doing?”

She shrugged. “None.”

“Hm.”

Jim got warmed up and stopped squatting in front of the woodstove, retiring instead to the comfy chair. “Care to go for a hike tomorrow, Nell? Out to the west?”

“Sure, why not? He can’t be going far- it’s only half an hour before he heads back going east, and Fred would like a walk, wouldn’t he?”

The intelligent beast perked up, although whether it was in response to the name or the shamelessly loving tone in my voice could not be determined. He did, however, start licking my nose enthusiastically, which I took as a yes.

Vicky decided to call it a night as soon as Emil had finished eating, and she offered Jim a lift as far as the hotel, which he accepted. “So I’ll come by for you and Fred about ten, shall I, Nell? What time does the Lurker go past?”

“He’s more of a Scurrier, really. Sunrise, literally, but it’s cold enough for me at midday.”

“Same here. See you sometime after ten, then- whenever I can get away. Hopefully there won’t be any crises tomorrow morning.”

He went out to warm up Vicky’s car while she bundled Emil carefully up. “I don’t have you ask you, do I, Nell?”

“Mum’s the word, Vicky, honestly. I refuse to even encourage him if he asks me.”

“Thank you,” she said in a heartfelt tone. “I don’t want to hurt him, but I also don’t want to give him false hopes. I just need time, I think.”

“I think he knows that, Vicky. In the end, I think that you’re going to have to do all the advancing yourself. He’s probably terrified of making a mistake, and screwing everything up.”

“He is a nice boy,” she said softly, and then picked up her other nice boy, wrapped in layers and

layers of blanket. “Say bye-bye to Nell, Emil.”

“Bye-bye, Emil,” I cooed, pulling aside the cloth over his face and lightly kissing his forehead. “Just remember, I get to babysit him on your first date.”

“It’s a deal,” smiled Vicky shyly, and off the two of them went to where Jim was waiting in the car.

Fred, who had been sitting patiently at my feet when all this was going on, pawed my foot

impatiently and whined a bit. “Right, Fred,” I said, leaning over and picking him up, whereupon he went mad with delight and proceeded to lick my face with wild abandon, “let’s see what I’ve got to feed you.”

Trails of the Templars- Chapter Two

2010-05-03T19:29:00.003-04:00

Actually, it was closer to eleven the next day when Jim turned up at my place. He found me in the greenhouse planting radishes and onions, with Fred very distraught at being tied up on his leash by the door.

“Dog torture, Nell?” he asked as he came through the door.

My back was turned and I didn’t see him coming, so I jumped a mile. “Geez, Jim, don’t do that! I had to tie him up- he has not yet learned the concept of garden. To him it just looked like really cool digging earth, which I would imagine in his short life he hasn’t experienced much of. Luckily he went to town on one of the empty beds.” I gestured at a rather dishevelled-looking bed, in contrast to my more carefully raked ones.

“I understand now,” he said, stooping down and unhooking Fred and picking him up, letting him lick his face wildly as he (the dog) vibrated with untamed joy. “We’ll wear him out with our walk, shall we?” Jim was dressed for the weather, in a parka and warm winter boots.

“Just let me get all suited up,” I replied, heading towards the breezeway. Jim followed me, still holding Fred. “We’ll be able to see where he goes pretty clearly today,” I said. “That snow that fell overnight will leave tracks.” We’d gotten about half an inch of snow in the night.

“Did you see him this morning again?” asked Jim.

“I made a point of getting up at the crack o’ dawn for just that reason,” I said, sitting down on the bench in the breezeway to put on my own insulated hikers. “He went past at just after seven and was headed back again well before eight.” I pulled on a good warm hat, thick gloves, zipped up my parka, and headed for the door. Jim followed me, and Fred literally leapt out of his arms and bounded off ahead of us, turning and giving us an encouraging bark before putting nose to ground and searching out the best smells. Jim and I followed along at a more sedate human pace, and refrained from overt sniffing.

“Here’s some tracks,” said Jim. “It must be him.” Two sets of identical footprints, going in opposite directions, disturbed the fresh sheet of snow. Off we went in pursuit.

Oh, it was a glorious winter day, if you like that sort of thing. The air was crisp and clear, the sky was blue, the lake that we could see off to the south was covered in ice, and the trees were frosted with ice. I had to admit that winter in the country was a lot more pleasant than winter in the city. It was an altogether cleaner experience.

However, the country was actually fairly noisy this particular season. The north shore of Lake Erie was in the process of becoming home to a wind farm, and off to the west we could see and hear the activity of the trucks and cranes and men as the windmills went up. Not much was happening right around us; there was a previously installed windmill about a kilometre and a half away from us, tall and gravely silent as it spun slightly in the wind. Once they were up and hubbub of activity was gone, they had a stately dignity which I didn’t terribly mind.

Pinky minded. He minded terribly. He saw the windmills as an attack on his kingdom by the lake, a threat to the hotel as a desirable vacation destination. He’d come up with a devious way to keep them as far as possible from the hotel’s immediate environs; upon learning that the wind farm was going to happen, and knowing that the minimum required distance from a dwelling place was 500 metres, he had immediately undertaken plans to build staff cottages around the perimeter of the hotel property before the locations of the turbines were finalized. Vicky was going to get to live in one of them. So, with the combination of the distance from the edges of Tintagel property to the actual hotel, and the 500 metre setback outside the property, the windmills were at what he deemed an adequate distance.

Jim and I walked along in a companionable silence, occasionally pointing out a cardinal in the trees or wild turkey tracks in the snow. Fred kept bounding up to us and barking, then bounding off again on the trail of a particularly exciting rabbit smell. After about fifteen minutes of brisk walking we came to the ruins of an abandoned farm, and it was by an old stone silo next to the foundations of an old barn that the tracks ended. “This must be it,” Jim said.

The square silo rose twenty five feet into the air, ten feet on each side, slightly tapering in towards the top. At the top was the remains of some old grey weathered wood which had once been part of the roof.

Once, on the side facing south over the lake, there had been three openings centred on the south face, one above the other, each six feet in height. They had since been filled in with yellow brick.

I walked up to it and peered closely at the material. It wasn’t cut stone, as it had appeared to be at a distance; that was a rare commodity on this sand plain by the lake. Rather, it was made of very primitive concrete: large pebbles cemented together with lime. The ends of the wooden frames holding it all together were visible in the top half of the structure. The pebbled construction had at some point been faced with a thin veneer of stucco-like cement, but that had flaked away in large irregular patches.

Once one saw it close up, it was incongruous. Obviously, the Loyalist-era farmer who’d built it had been unaware that round silos were more efficient than square ones, and all those openings were counter-productive. The foundations of the barn and the square tower were all that remained ; there was no trace of a house left in this overgrown clearing.

I walked around the perimeter of the barn, noting that the tracks went in through the old doorway. I followed. “I don’t get it,” I said. “This is where he comes, morning and night? It’s just an old barn, for heaven’s sake!”

“Well,” Jim said, leaning up against the interior wall, “he must have a reason, whether or not it makes sense to anyone else. Maybe this is the barn of his ancestors, and he comes to commune with their spirits.”

“What’s with this silo?” I asked, stepping back and looking up at it. “This one looks pretty old- and they aren’t usually square.”

Jim shrugged. “I’ve seen one like it in Brantford.”

Fred all of a sudden turned up again, barking in delight at seeing us. I picked him up, cuddling him close. “Is he a cold doggums, then,” I crooned to him. As usual, his response to affection was to express it in return by licking my face, but it was too cold for wet skin to be exposed. I dropped him back down, after a kiss on the top of his little furry head. He bounded right over to Jim. “God knows,” I said. “At least he’s not performing ritual sacrifice- or if he is he’s very good at cleaning up after himself.” There were no signs of any fires or any other disturbance, just the footprints of whomever the man was. It appeared that he just walked in, stood there for an undetermined length of time (for some reason I could picture him with his hands outstretched, and head thrown back), and then returned from whence he came.

Jim shrugged. “Oh well. Part of the mystery is solved. This is where the Scurrier goes.”

“But where does he come from? If Vicky sees him in Port Burwell, he must have some way of getting from there to here and back again- what does he drive, where does he park?”

“You’ve never noticed what direction he goes in when he heads back past the greenhouse?”

“Roughly towards the hotel, but I haven’t felt like following him, honestly. He seems a little bit creepy- you know, furtive in a not entirely wholesome way. I wouldn’t have come out here by myself, you know- I would have been a little worried about what I might find.”

Fred was cavorting about Jim’s legs, begging to be picked up. Jim obliged, heading back toward the entrance. I followed. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for him this evening- sunset, you say?"

“Regular as clockwork.”

“I’m a little concerned about his repeated trespass on Tintagel property. I’ll check on the topo map in the office, but I’m pretty sure we’re still inside the property line. He may not be up to anything nasty, but it’s best to know what’s going on, nonetheless. Maybe I’ll have a chat with him.”

I paused in the entrance before leaving. “So this is Tintagel property? You know, Jim, this would make an awesome walled garden. Sort of like the Secret Garden.”

He grinned. “Talk to Carruthers about it. It would make for an interesting walk for guests: ‘Walk through the wilderness to the Secret Garden.’ Something like that. Oh, and that reminds me- meeting Friday at two, Nell. Carruthers is coming down for it. Maybe you can pitch it to him then.”

Once he became manager, Ken Pinkerton instituted monthly meetings for all department heads, which included me. Carruthers liked to attend them, to keep an eye on what was going on at Tintagel. This wasn’t his only business venture, by any means, but it was close to his heart in a way that say, a steel company wasn’t- it was where he met his wife Sue, for instance, and it was certainly a more aesthetically pleasing place than the average factory.

All of a sudden I remembered something else about meetings. “Damn! What time is it?”

Jim took off his glove and checked his watch. “Just after twelve. Why?”

“I’m meeting that carpenter Peter Robinson at one to talk about the arbour Carruthers wants. Let’s get going.”

We started back down the same path we’d followed on the way in, now with two more sets of human prints, plus the in-and-out weavings of Fred. “I wonder what Scurrier will think when he sees our footprints,” commented Jim as we hurried along through the biting air. At least the light west wind we’d walked into on our way out was now behind us.

I hadn’t met Peter Robinson, just talked to him on the phone after getting his name from a satisfied customer. As I’d been tooling down the back roads of Norfolk County a few weeks earlier, I’d passed by a simply superb pergola on a country property, and had felt impelled to stop and enquire as to who had created it. After all, the first idea I’d ever pitched to Arthur Carruthers involved some sort of garden structure, and he’d mentioned to me more than once that it was a priority for him.

The homeowner had been delighted to give me Peter’s name and number, and I’d wasted no time in getting in touch with him to see if he could do some work for us. This afternoon was the first one that he was available, as he’d been south for a week in between. I’d arranged to meet him over at the hotel, as I preferred to not let strangers into my cottage, even if I did have an office there.

I was sitting behind the front desk harassing Jim when an absolutely gorgeous young guy walked into the Great Hall from the outside. He unbuttoned his heavy brown cotton work jacket as he looked around with interest at the magnificent space. Not too tall, but well-built, not overly-muscled, but definitely not flabby; short dark hair, but not buzzed off, dark eyes and a devilish smile. Everything, Goldilocks, was just right. He crossed the polished slate floor to the front desk, and I was able to appreciate the smooth and easy way that he moved.

“Hi,” he said, in a mellifluous, tenor voice (not too deep, not too high). “I’m looking for Nell Bannister.”

I should be so lucky! I slipped off my stool and came out from behind the counter, abandoning Jim. “That’s me.”

“Oh, well, hi,” he said again, holding out his hand, and taking mine in a firm grip. “I’m Peter Robinson.”

“Pleased to meet you, Peter,” said Jim, joining us. “I’m Jim Rivers, the assistant manager. Nell was very impressed by the example of your work- she showed me the pictures she took. Nice detail work.”

“Well,” said Peter, “I do my best.” He grinned disarmingly, and turned to gesture at the Great Hall. “There’s some pretty nice woodwork in this place- you can really tell the old craftsmen knew what they were doing.”

“So true,” I said. I really didn’t want to get into a discussion about the architecture of Tintagel. “Come on, Peter, let’s go back into the meeting room. I’ve got some ideas for what I want outside.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to go outside first, then?” asked Jim. “Just so Peter knows what you’re talking about?”

I sighed. “Right again, Sherlock. Just wait a minute, Peter, and I’ll get my jacket.”

“No problem,” he said, and started chatting to Jim about the walnut staircase.

I popped through the staff door into the admin hallway. It lacked the lofty ceiling and ornate woodwork of the Great Hall, but was a well-proportioned corridor which still looked more like a private house than a hotel. The cream-coloured walls and trim were a cheerful contrast to magnificent but admittedly dark mulberry, sage, and deep wood tones which predominated in the public spaces of the hotel. I almost made into the meeting room, a few doors down, when I was caught.

Glenda Potter had never really forgiven me for sticking around. As Head of Housekeeping, she had taken great pleasure in being my superior and bossing me. It was a pity, as far as she was concerned, that Arthur had made me Kitchen Gardener and thus put me into administration, and out of her reach. But she still liked to give me a hard time.

“Ah, Nell, and what are we up to?”

Like it was any of her business. “I’ve got a meeting with a carpenter, Glenda. Mr Carruthers wants his pergola this spring.”

She sniffed. “We’ve managed just fine without one for over ten years now.” And then she saw, through the open door at the end of the corridor, Peter as he stood there talking to Jim, and , well, if she didn’t drool it sure as hell was a close-run thing. Her face softened as if she’d just seen a glimpse of paradise, her mouth opened slightly and her usually sharp eyes misted over. I made a mental note to ask Jim later if my reaction had been as blatant – still, after all, there’s nothing wrong with a little lust. Although a display of lust by Glenda sort of creeped me out. “Who is that?” she breathed.

“Peter Robinson,” I said breezily. “Local boy. He’s the pergola guy. Cute, isn’t he?”

She shook herself slightly, snapping to, eyes sharpening and mouth tightening right back up. “Hmph,” she sniffed. And off she went to her office in the opposite direction, heels clicking briskly on the tile floor.

I shrugged and headed back to the Great Hall. “Come on, Peter,” I said, leading the way out through the front door. We went out into the cold and to the right, following the pathway which ran around the north side of the building. “Sorry it’s such a cold day for this,” I said.

“Oh, this is nothing,” said Peter pleasantly. “Until I was fifteen I lived on Wisconsin’s Door Peninsula. That’s way north of here. We’d call this pleasant.”

“Well,” I replied, “Toronto may be north of here, but I sure as hell didn’t spend as much time outside there as I do here. Not that I’m not adjusting, but it’s taking awhile.” We passed the now-empty stone patio for the restaurant, and then the restaurant itself; I could see guests sitting at the long, polished oak bar through the large windows. Below were the basement windows of the live-in quarters.

We reached a bench which faced out over the north lawn, and stopped. “Here,” I said, gesturing outwards with my gloved hands. “This is where Mr Carruthers wants it. Actually,” I continued, “he gave me my job on the basis of what I said about this piece of lawn – he felt I had ‘vision’ or something. So now you have to do the dirty work and make it happen. I know you can – I saw Mrs Bennett’s pergola. You do nice work.”

He blushed slightly. “Thanks,” he said, looking out over the lawn. “So what precisely do you want?”

Arthur and I had discussed some preliminary ideas over the last few months. “Mr Carruthers wants broad pergolas leading in towards a central area large enough for oh, say, one hundred or so chairs to be set up, so that weddings could be held there. So we’d be looking at you building the pergolas – maybe each one fifty feet long, some sort of symmetrical arrangement, and supervising the laying of the pathways, probably flagstone. Then I get to deal with all of the resultant planting – I’m already poring over rose catalogues.”

He whistled slightly. “You know this is going to cost a lot,” he cautioned, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the afternoon sun off of the clean white snow.

I shrugged. “Like I said, this is a priority for my boss. I’ll need an estimate, of course- I’ve got some rough sketches inside that we can go over- I’ve got the exact measurements of the area too. I suppose the real question is when could you do it?”

“The estimate or the job?”

“Both. God, I’m cold. Let’s go in and get a coffee.”

“Sure.” We turned and headed back down the path to the front door. Peter was thinking hard. “I can get you an estimate by the end of next week, with some sketches. As for building it-” he stopped by the patio and chewed at his lip. “This is a big job,” he finally said. “But it sure is one that could get me some good press and word of mouth.”

“Certainly,” I agreed heartily. “We’ve got a national magazine coming in this June to do a spread on the hotel- not to mention that every customer who comes through is going to be mighty impressed- and we do get lots of locals- if you consider London local.”

“I do,” he said. “Look, the ground should be unfrozen by early April- I could have my crew out here and working by then. And I can get a lot of the woodworking done in my shop before then. If your boss accepts my quote.”

“That would be awesome!” I said, hurrying him towards the front door. We went in. It was warm. Bliss.

Jim was dealing with some guests at the desk, so I just waved at him as we went through the swinging door. We got to the meeting room and I left Peter there for a moment while I ran back out to the lobby and across to the restaurant for some coffee and cookies.

When I came back Peter was shaking his head over my admittedly amateurish sketches.

“Don’t laugh at them,” I said. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Black,” he said absently, taking the cup with a muttered thanks but not taking his eyes off the plans. He took a sip. “Hot,” he said appreciatively. “You realize I’ll have to measure again, don’t you?”

“Probably,” I said. “You wouldn’t want the estimates to be based on wrong dimensions.”

“Exactly,” he agreed. “You know, I would like to do this project. It looks really cool. What sort of wood were you thinking of?”

“Not pressure-treated,” I said decidedly. “I don’t like it, and Mr Carruthers talked about cedar.”

“I’ve got another idea,” he said eagerly, a lock of black hair falling across his lightly tanned forehead. “Cedar’s a west-coast rainforest tree, very nice, but it doesn’t fit here. There’s a Carolinian tree, black locust, that naturally grows around here, that is extremely rot-resistant.”

“Local, you say?” I was intrigued.

His enthusiasm was growing. “You’ve got so many beautiful native woods in this place- all that magnificent walnut, and oak- it would be a pity to import something alien. Now, I think that my supplier could guarantee me enough to do this project- and the price would be better than cedar. A lot of the lumbermen around here consider it a junk wood. It is harder to work with, but I’d like to give it a try.”

“I like it,” I said. “Go for it.”

We discussed details of the plan, and he sketched out many ideas in his workbook as we talked. Once or twice I saw Potter go by and slow to a crawl as she passed. At one point Jim, liberated from the front desk by an underling, stopped in and insisted that a fountain with the little boy peeing make it into the final plan, but I sent him off and told him to count sheets or something. He actually was busy with Pinky away, so he scooted.

Eventually we had come to an agreement about rough dimensions and required elements, and Peter said he’d be back the next morning to take precise measurements, and promised me a completed estimate by the following Friday. That sounded great to me, so we shook hands and off he went, shrugging into his heavy jacket as he crossed the lobby. Oh my, he had nice shoulders. Then I realized that my puppy probably really had to pee, so off I rushed to my cottage.

Can this be? A New Post???

2010-02-19T18:37:00.003-05:00

You know, I think that it's time to drag the second novel out and start posting it. I've been tweaking it, and there are still chunks of it to be completed, but the beginning is pretty solid, and I like the fact that it's a spring novel, that starts right about this time of the year. And I do so love my changing seasons here that I'm just going to plunge in!

This second novel is VERY different from the first... well, same characters, but I am now taking the series in the direction of mysteries set around historical stuff. This one is The Trails of the Templars- ooh, wonder what this is about?? Let me just say... these are not the Templars that you're used to! I believe that I have created an entirely unique set of conspiracy theories about the Knights Templar. Just wait and see... and the advantage of posting my novel online is that I can put in as many links as I want to online sources which "substantiate" my theories.

I can hardly wait!! Give me a few days and the introductory chapter will be up.

Murder at Midsummer: PROLOGUE

2009-11-21T16:49:00.000-05:00

His body was pulled from the water late in the day by police divers, and identified by his grieving widow, who had seen the boat capsize from where she stood on the shore. The autopsy showed that a blow to his head, probably from the boom of the sailboat, had knocked him into the water where he drowned. She had his body cremated and returned with the ashes to their native England, overcome by the tragic loss of her husband on their honeymoon trip. The hotel issued a statement which expressed sympathy for his family and friends, but also pointed out that the accident had occurred on a boat rented from the village marina. The owner of the marina made his own statement, saying bluntly and profanely that if the man hadn’t enough sense to follow simple safety precautions and wear a life jacket, well, he’d been told, and he was an adult capable of making his own decisions. Eventually the inquest would return a verdict of accidental death. In other words, it was the perfect crime.

Murder at Midsummer- Chapter One

2009-11-20T17:05:00.000-05:00

Later in the year, when I had a new job, a new home, new friends, and even a new vehicle, I would look back over the events of that May and June and try to figure out when everything changed. After all, for as long as I could remember I had been a city girl, with academic ambitions. Yet by the end of June, I was living in the country and staying there, and although there were events that lay between the beginning and end that I would not willingly endure again, there is no doubt that the life that I ended up with was more deeply satisfying for me than the one I’d originally envisioned. Sometimes you just need to have your horizons broadened.

At the time that my life started to take an interesting turn, I was sitting in the club car of a train, sipping at a gin and tonic (with lime) and gazing disconsolately at the scenery of northern Ontario. I had been watching it for the past hour and a half, and I was getting more than a tad bored. I had finished the last of the six books that I had provided myself with for my journey. Lady Clarissa was in the arms of Lord Stanhope – or had Elkan finally wrested control of the Star Empire from the evil Hedron? Go ahead and laugh, but you try to find deathless prose in a train station variety store five minutes before boarding the train. I'd grabbed six of the most promising, and they'd all turned out to be duds. Of course, I had still read them, but there were none left, and Nell Bannister without a book is a woman at a loose end. And there was something else preying on my mind.

I was on the train back from Victoria, where I had been enjoying a vacation after writing final exams and before starting the summer job which was to tide me over until I started grad school in the fall. I had stayed with my father’s sister, Colleen, who had loaned me her car so that I could go around the island. The scenery had been fabulous, and the break from work relaxing, but it was time that I got home and got to work. My last indulgence before getting serious was the trip back by train: I’d flown out, but wanted to be able to sit back and enjoy crossing the entire country, mountains, prairies, and everything, before I started my job. It was my Uncle Robert’s graduation present to me. It was nice having an aunt and uncle with no children of their own, and just me for a niece, because they spoiled me shamelessly.

I was sort of looking forward to my summer job. I had been hired as a chambermaid at a resort hotel on the north shore of Lake Erie. It was hardly a prestigious position, but one with no responsibility and lots of time working by myself. My idea of heaven was a job where I could work all alone all day and let my mind wander where it would, and this one filled the bill. I even had previous experience working in a hotel, so I knew that I could do it. In the meantime I was on the train, headed back for Toronto.

So here I was, nursing a gin and tonic in the bar car, and bored stiff. Northern Ontario lacks the visual interest of the Rockies, so there was little to hold my attention outside. Then he entered, and my body temperature started to rise. Damn.

I need to digress at this point, to a time three years earlier, before I had obtained my precious B.A .(Hons) in English History. It was the end of my first year at York, and like any college kid I had wanted to travel. Looking for something a little different from the standard backpacking vacation, I ended up working at a London hotel as a chambermaid. I had a wonderful time seeing all the sights, going to as many plays as my limited budget would allow, and walking in the rain in Hyde Park. Somehow, with all this and work too, I still found time to fall in love with Jack Mitchell, the hotel bartender.

English. Gorgeous Newcastle accent. Lazy smile and steel blue eyes. Sooty black hair. In fact, the perfect tall, dark and handsome. Three years ago I had spent an entire summer madly in love with him and yet we had exchanged perhaps half a dozen words. I had been very young for my age, with little "guy" experience, so I had yearned after him from afar, hoping for a miracle to bring me to his attention, while he enjoyed the more "forward" attentions of a variety of maids, waitresses, and cooking staff.

The miracle had never happened then, but it was somewhere in the Fraser Canyon that I had realized that he was, in fact, a fellow passenger. Perhaps a more assertive woman would have taken the opportunity thus presented to herself to do something about it. I was not assertive. I was terrified. I had spent the rest of British Columbia, and all of Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, and finally Northern Ontario being as indecisive as hell. I vacillated between the desire to throw myself at him and the fear that he wouldn’t respond in a manner that I would like.

Now, well into the last day of the trip, it was now or never. There he was, sitting all by himself a few seats down from me, and ordering a beer. I took myself firmly in hand, staring all the while out at the coniferous forest punctuated by the occasional river. I reminded myself that I was no longer a mere nineteen years of age and inexperienced in the ways of love. I recalled that I had two relationships with the opposite sex under my belt, so to speak. I drew for myself a moving picture of me at the advanced age of forty-five, alone and depressed, remembering the golden opportunity for happiness that I so foolishly threw away at the young and careless age of twenty-two. I assured myself that I was strong, liberated, and self-reliant. I ordered myself to lose no time in going over there and striking up a conversation.

I stood. The train stopped, grinding to a halt with a long-drawn-out squealing of its brakes. I was thrown back onto my seat, from whence I continued down to the floor, spilling my drink and generally making a mess of things.

It’s at times like this that I can’t help but feel responsible for chaos. After all, there was no reason for the train to choose that moment of all others to stop. No matter what the cause, I was not the only one who had to deal with spillage and falling down and other such problems. There was a poor woman who was trying to console her two preschool aged boys who had bonked their heads and were wailing loudly. Some of the elderly passengers were complaining to anyone who would listen about their spilled drinks. However, in this air of general confusion, someone noticed my predicament. He helped me to my feet, asking me if I was all right. I knew that I would soon have bruises in some very interesting places, but I denied all discomfort as he eased me back onto my seat and gave me a fresh drink that he obtained from a still-frazzled bartender.
An equally harried conductor burst through the car, loudly proclaiming that nothing was wrong, the train would start again and he was sorry for any inconvenience to the passengers. I heard something about a moose on the tracks. Well, train travel isn’t perfect, but it has its compensations.

I smiled at my rescuer, and thanked him for his help. Inwardly I cursed. Nice as it was to have him rescue me, I would have liked to have come to his attention in a more graceful and seemly manner. But then, grace has never been one of my strong points. I smoothed my hair with a still shaking hand. He smiled, and shrugged off my thanks. Somehow, I’d forgotten that his shoulders were one of those wonders of London that rated right up there with Westminster Abbey and Hamlet at the Old Vic. "Forget it. Glad to be of help. Drink up there, and don’t worry about your hair. It looks fine."

Trying to figure out what to say to him, I took his advice, and took a slug of my drink. Meanwhile he looked at me curiously, his brow slightly wrinkled. "I can’t help but think that you and I have met before, but I’ve only been in Canada a week. Have you ever been to England?"

Okay, Nell. Let’s be nonchalant. "Well," I started in an offhand manner, "I did spend a summer at the St Charles Hotel in London working as a chambermaid – wait – weren’t you – ?" Perhaps I was overdoing it, but I had no desire to give myself away.

"I was a bartender." He smiled. "We have a bond, then."

"The awful food in the Minster Pantry! Did you ever have the stewed oxtail?"

"The manager – what was his name – the Kenneth More clone?"

"Or how about the head housekeeper, Mrs Striker? Keep away!"

"Daniel the sex fiend from Toulouse? I understand he was once found making out with a chambermaid in a laundry trolley."

"That horrible Snoopy club in the basement, with one video game!"

"Ah yes, the old St Charles had its moments." Jack took a reflective pull at his beer. Then he looked at me again, smiling. "I’m sorry, but although I recall your face I’ve completely forgotten your name."

"I doubt that you ever knew it," I responded, a hopeful flutter barely under control in my chest. "I’m Nell Bannister."

"Jack Mitchell, at your service," he said, and smiled. It was borne in upon me with dizzying certainty that his fatal fascination had not waned with the passage of time. The keen analytical part of my brain was barely functioning, but managed to warn me that he was just bored. I ignored this warning and tuned into what Jack was saying. "Why don’t we have lunch together?"

Over the meal, we discussed all sorts of things, including books and movies, music and television. It’s always encouraging when one can agree with the object of one’s lust on one’s likes and dislikes. In other words, we got along very well. I kept wanting to pinch myself to make sure that this was reality, but I decided that it wouldn’t fit the cool image that I was trying to project.

I have no memory of the components of that meal. All I remember is looking at those blue eyes looking at me, smiling at me, talking to me. I was dizzy with exhilaration. After coffee we went down the cars to his compartment, and sat down to watch the not very exciting landscape south of Sudbury pass us by. It seemed quite natural for his arm to be draped casually about my shoulders. It seemed quite normal for his hand to be playing gently with my hair. But he didn’t seem immediately inclined to do anything more, and it was a comfortable position for talking. Our conversation turned to that summer at the St. Charles. At first he didn’t seem to remember anything about me but my face, but all of a sudden, apropos of nothing, he let out a crack of laughter and sat up. "Spaghetti!"

I blushed. I could not believe my bad luck. "Spaghetti?"

"Now I remember you!" He pointed a finger at me in triumph. "You tripped and fell with a full plate of spaghetti in the Minster Pantry one night!"

Shit. "You would remember that," I said bitterly. "One of the most embarrassing moments in my life." I had gone back to my room and cried at what a fool I must have looked like. And here, three years later, he still remembered.

"It’s okay, really. Just one of those things. Happens to all of us." He settled back down, without the arm on my shoulders, but turned to face me, chin propped on one hand and smiled at me warmly. My heart turned over. I was moving past lust into something rapidly approaching love. It never did take me long.
Jack let his hand slip down my side as he leaned over to a cupboard. "Like a drink?"

"Oh, yes!" I gasped. That seemed to be just what I needed.

He pulled out a bottle of Cointreau and poured some into a couple of tumblers. He handed me my glass and sat back down beside me. "Cheers," he said, with that blue-eyed smile of his.

"Cheers," I replied as we clinked glasses gently. I glanced inside the open cupboard and whistled slightly. "Your financial situation has improved somewhat since the St Charles days." If he could remember the spaghetti incident I could remember his money problems. Even among a mostly broke hotel staff, his chronic and spectacular insolvency had occasioned comment. I still recalled vividly the time that he had lain down in the space between the sofa and the wall in the staff clubroom to avoid being found by a former bellhop who had come back to get the ten pounds Jack owed him. However, he was obviously in a different league now. The suitcases piled on top of one another were made of leather, and his toiletries came from Harrods, not Marks and Sparks. Now it was his turn to blush.

"I’ve come into some money since then," he agreed, obviously not wanting to go into details, and changed the subject in the most distracting of ways. Taking my glass from my hand and placing it on the shelf, he pulled me towards him and started to kiss me slowly and leisurely, while his hands moved to the small of my back and pressed me up against him. I responded enthusiastically , and things proceeded in altogether gratifying manner until my eyes fell upon the gun peeking out of his jacket as it hung from the hook on the back of the door.

I pulled back sharply, tearing myself from his arms. He was startled at my sudden change of attitude. "Listen, pet, I’m sorry, but I thought..." he said as his hand slipped under my hair and caressed the nape of my neck.

I shoved it away, staring at him in shock, and reached for the handle of the door as I stood up. "I’ll let myself out."

In a moment he was by my side and trying to hold me again, trying to stop me from leaving. "Nell, please, what’s wrong?"

"Let me go!" I said through gritted teeth. "I don’t want to be here anymore."
His arms fell to his sides, and he looked honestly distressed, but I was too upset myself to stay around and talk about it. I opened the door and ran down the corridor and through the connecting carriages to my own compartment.

Assertiveness is overrated.

Murder at Midsummer- Chapter Two

2009-11-19T07:45:00.000-05:00

I stayed in my compartment for the next three hours, and Jack didn’t come looking for me. I guess that he got the message. I was off that train as soon as it stopped in Toronto that evening. If Jack was watching he didn't try to stop me. That was fine by me. I don't like guns: I never have and I never will. I had no idea what he was mixed up in, but I knew for sure that the handgun had not gotten into the country legally. Few people were allowed to possess them, and certainly Jack would not be one of those people. What was he doing with it? Drugs? Organized crime? It was no doubt something that would account for the drastic change in economic status. As I hailed a cab outside of Union Station I gently shut the book of Jack in my mind.

The taxi driver talked too much. My taxi drivers always do. At least this one didn't try to pick me up, but he did tell me a bizarre story about the time he went to pick up a fare on my street and the woman came to the door naked. He didn't tell me any more and I didn't want to know about it. I had my own problems. I will say this for him: he helped me get my suitcases out when he dropped me in front of my place. I gave him a tip, and he grinned as he sped away. Nice fellow.

I lived in a very attractive place as apartments in Toronto go. Three friends and I shared the top two floors of a three-story row house near downtown, which was good for the other three, attending University of Toronto, but not so good for me going to York. However, I preferred an 1890 row house downtown to a 1960 townhouse in far-off Downsview, so I put up with the daily commute.

I unlocked the front door, picked up my two suitcases and dragged them up the steep flight of stairs to the small landing on the second floor, where I again put down the cases and unlocked that door. Home at last! As I swung open the door the phone started ringing and I froze.

Bannister is not that common a name, and I knew that I was the only N listed in the Toronto phone book. If he wanted to get in touch with me it would not take a rocket scientist to find my number. I had thought that I had no desire to talk to him, but the temptation to pick up the phone and find out who it was almost overwhelmed my reluctance. I mastered it, however, and as I picked up those damned heavy cases and headed for the next flight of stairs the phone stopped ringing. Either Larry or Mike must have forgotten to turn on the answering machine. It was just as well. Probably.

Larry and Mike were two of my apartment mates. They also happened to be roommates. Judy, the other member of our foursome, and I thought it was great. We had built-in escorts, and the four of us often went out together when Judy and I, as we frequently were, were boyfriendless. We always felt safe from the smarmy groks out there with those guys by our side. It helped that Mike looked like a hockey player (which he had been, for two years in Junior A). I wasn't surprised to find him not around, as he was taking an evening course to help him get ahead in his new career as a stockbroker, but I was a bit disappointed not to find Larry . He kept very erratic hours, as he was early in his medical studies and still hadn't figured out how to budget his time between studying and sleeping. He appeared to live in the university library and subsisted on a diet of fig newtons and yoghourt. But as I went past their open door I saw that it was empty. Judy, I knew, was somewhere up north doing botany research on moss, so I was all forlorn.

I stopped in the bathroom, and looked at myself in the mirror. Despite my earth-shaking experience, nothing had changed. I wasn’t that bad looking, really. My shoulder-length heavy honey-blonde hair, light grey eyes and pale but clear complexion were unspectacular but easy enough on the eyes. I looked like I hadn’t been eating enough through the final exam period, but that wasn’t a problem. Jack hadn’t minded, obviously. Damn. Wrong thing to think about.

When in doubt, do laundry. I took my suitcases up to my room on the third floor, and dumped them all over the floor to sort. For once there was room on my floor, which must have meant that Mike had cleaned up for me while I was gone. The floor had been littered with assorted junk when I left for Victoria. It actually looked rather good, with my old futon rolled up neatly in the corner rather than flopped out haphazardly as I usually left it. I went to the window to open it for some fresh air, and, leaning out, noticed that the tree that had barely been in bud when I left in the first week in May had burst into a full, luxuriant leafy green canopy. I loved my little room, with its white walls and bare wood floor and dozens of bright cushions scattered all over the place. It had been mine for two years now, and so far I had had no desire to move out on my own. For one thing, I liked my friends. It’s not easy to find people to happily co-habit with, and these were people I could get along with and enjoy spending time with. And then, with grad school ahead of me I couldn’t afford as nice a place as this on my own. I didn’t have to go to laundromats, I had more than just a one-room flat to spread out in, and Mike had much better kitchen stuff than the other three of us put together.

I turned my attention to the clothes currently scattered hither and yon, and created three piles, to which I added other things that had been left piled in my closet awaiting my return, and which of course I should have cleaned before I left for the West Coast. I only had that one night to organize my things before heading off to Tintagel the next day, so I had no time to waste. It was at this point that I realised that I had carried upstairs all those clothes that I now had to tote back downstairs to wash in the laundry room off the kitchen. I cursed my stupidity and my mind, which was obviously on something (or someone) else, and grabbing the first load in my arms I headed back down the stairs to get started on my chores.

Three hours later everything was washed and folded, and I had fallen fast asleep on the living room sofa. I had been waiting for the phone to ring again, unsure if I wanted it to or not, all through the laundry. Just to be sure, I had switched the answering machine on so that I could at least screen the calls without having to commit myself to answering. Nobody called. After the laundry was finished, and a light snack inside of me, the big overstuffed couch had just been too inviting, and I sacked out. It was then that Mike came home.

He woke me up by tickling the soles of my bare feet, and I rocketed out of unconsciousness. "What the hell!" I let out as I reared up, my nerves still shot.

"Whoa," said Mike. "Chill, baby. It's just me."

I shook my head, dispersing the lingering images of Jack, who had inexplicably been folding sheet after sheet in some weird laundromat. "Shit," I muttered, "Don't do that to me."

Mike sat down beside me and gave me a hug. "Sorry. It was those dirty feet hanging over the edge of the sofa. I couldn't resist. How was your trip?"

I groaned. "Don't ask."

Mike is easily persuaded. "Okay," he said, strolling off towards his room, loosening his tie, his grey suit jacket slung over his shoulder. Mike is a very disappointing confidant. He never forces the other to talk.

I bounded off of the sofa, following him. "Damn you, Mike, ask me!"

Mike sighed. Mike sighs very often when I'm around. He perched on the stairs, running his hands through his short brown hair. "Fine, Nell. Oh, Nell, Please, oh please, what happened on your trip. Oooh, didja meet someone? Didja? Didja?"

I smacked him gently, and sat down on the step below him. "Mike, you are a jerk."

"Yes, but I have a boyfriend, and you're still looking. Who is he?"

"Mike, how much have I told you about London?"

Mike laughed. "Oh, God, do you mean Jack?"

I wilted. "Have I really talked about him that much?"

He shrugged. "For about a year, every time you were drunk, his name would come up under the topic of missed opportunities. It could have been worse. That friend Tracey of mine from back home in Chatham starts spouting German whenever she's pissed. Less resilient types than me have even been tempted to stop the car and throw her out. But continue," he said, propping his chin in his hand. "I assume that this story is leading somewhere."

"Well, Jack was on the train, and he talked to me. Actually, he did more than talk to me..."

"If he didn't this would be a very boring story indeed and I would be better off getting a shower and a cold beer."

"Shut up. But I'll get you the beer."

"Don't bother," he said, rising and stepping over me down the stairs to the kitchen. I trailed after him and accepted a cold frosty one myself, and we sat down at the kitchen table.

"So did you get some action?" he asked with a modified leer.

I took a gulp of beer before proceeding. "It depends on what you call action. First , the train stopped abruptly right after he came into the club car, and I fell down and spilled gin and tonic all over myself."

Mike's shoulders were shaking with silent laughter, and he shook his head in disbelief. "It must have been disappointing for you."

"But Mike," I wailed, "he even remembers me falling down and spilling spaghetti at the hotel three years ago! He remembered me, but for the wrong reason! And he laughed!"

Mike grinned as he drank some beer. "I would have too, honey. I do it all the time, every time you fall over those feet of yours."

"Well, things did look up when we spent the afternoon together, but took a definite turn for the worst when I saw the revolver in his coat pocket when we were making out."

He spluttered and choked on his beer. "A gun?"

"You got it."

"Shit!"

"My sentiments exactly."

"So what did you do?"

"I fled from his presence immediately."

"You just left."

"Yup."

"Did he know why?"

"Probably not."

"Good Lord, Nell, who the hell is this guy?"

"I wish I knew. Spy, drug courier, hired assassin? Who knows? However, since I cannot think of a single situation which would make me comfortable with him being in possession of a gun, I left rather than stick around and discuss it with him."

Mike rose from the table, collected the empty bottles, deposited them by the sink, and then, shaking his head, opened the freezer and got the tequila bottle out. Grabbing a glass from the shelf above the sink, he poured me a shot. He is a thoughtful and caring man, my friend Mike. "You need this."

"I need about ten hours of sleep, but I won’t get them before I leave for Tintagel."

He snorted. "I still think that name is killingly inappropriate for a place on Lake Erie, for God's sake."

"I can't help if the original owners harboured romantic dreams of Camelot or whatever. Besides, it's very attractive."

"Oh, don't tell me again. Maybe we'll get down and visit you this summer sometime. Do you have to leave tomorrow?"

I glanced at the clock. "Today, you mean." It was well after midnight. "Oh, yes. Miss Potter was very definite on that point. Their bookings increase immediately after the Victoria Day weekend. So they'll need a week to train me before the busy season starts."

From there we started discussing some new chairs we were going to buy with Mike's next pay cheque, and by the time we'd ordered in pizza and finished off the few beers in the fridge I was ready for bed, and hadn't even mentioned Jack more than once, although that had sometimes required me biting my tongue.

As we went off to our respective beds, Mike draped his arm around my shoulders and gave them a squeeze. "Cheer up, Nell," he said. "It could be worse."

"How?"

"At least you don't have to see him again."

The perceptive reader will, of course, recognize those as famous last words, and treat them with the scorn that they deserve.

Murder at Midsummer - Chapter Three

2009-11-18T13:06:00.001-05:00

In the morning Mike dragged me out of bed, poured hot coffee down my throat, fed me yogurt and granola, carried my suitcases down the stairs, and stuck me behind the wheel of my car. I don’t do mornings. This is one of the reasons for having roommates.

My red Triumph Spitfire, known as Red Emma, woke me up properly. I loved that car. It had been a gift from my uncle, Robert Winston, on the occasion of my twenty-first birthday. He was my mother’s brother, and spoiled me horribly. An architect living in London, Ontario, he made a very good living and had in fact been responsible for the renovation of Tintagel several years ago. I had visited it once with him at that time, and had been deeply impressed by it, but it was not through him that I had obtained this summer job. One of the girls from my Restoration Theatre class had worked there for the past few summers and had recommended it to me. Uncle Robert did not know yet that I would be working there. He would consider such a job unfit for his niece, and would have wanted to swing me a front desk job, or even have taken me into his own business, doing something suitably white-collar. He would be surprised, and not pleasantly, when I turned up in his neck of the woods.

But first I had to get there. I threw the car into reverse, backed cautiously down our back alley, and off I went.

It takes a long time to get away from urbanisation when heading west from Toronto. It was not until I was past Hamilton an hour or so later that the subdivisions faded away completely, to be replaced by actual farmland, not future residential developments-in-waiting. This is a part of the world that I find truly beautiful. In the past two weeks I had mooned over the fjords of the West Coast, and gawped at the Rocky Mountains, but for simple, liveable countryside, I’ll take Southwestern Ontario anytime. The second week of May was a particularly glorious time to be there, as all the trees and shrubs had just come out in leaf, and all along I was treated to the lushness of Carolinian woodlands in their fresh springtime verdancy. Trilliums carpeted the woodlands that I passed as I went through the various river and creek valleys on my way, and the delicate white blossoms of the dogwood shone from deep within the forests. Even the fields of winter wheat, brilliant green after a long winter of dormancy, delighted my eyes. So I drove along the back roads of Brant, Norfolk, and Elgin counties, with a smile on my face as I told myself that really, I was just fine, Jack didn’t matter at all, and everything in the garden was lovely. I’m good at lying to myself. I do it all the time.

I finally reached Port Burwell, and skimmed through the edges of that village on the way to Tintagel. I was pleased to see that it had not fallen victim to the gentrification which afflicted other lakeside villages. Sure, there were some nice places to eat and shop, to cater to the Tintagel crowd, but on the whole it was still just an old fishing village, with its red and white octagonal lighthouse standing guard by the mouth of Otter Creek.

I swung up the hill and around the curve out of the creek valley, continuing west, and soon found myself approaching a gateway on the south side of the road leading into a long, wide avenue between green lawns. I slowed down, turned, and drove under the arch on which the name Tintagel was displayed in bronze lettering. It was very Arthurian. On I drove for perhaps half a mile along a straight, paved drive in the direction of the lake, hidden from view by trees in the distance. The landscape designer had cleverly created the illusion of a country estate with endless lawns by seeding a strip perhaps twenty feet wide on either side of the drive with turf grass. There were quick-growing poplars lining the drive, reminiscent of European estates. They were already tall, with slower growing but more permanent species planted amongst them, ready to take their place in time. To the west was rougher meadow, suitable, I supposed, for horse riding or other pastimes. To the east was a golf course, which must have cost a small fortune all on its own to establish, but had probably paid for itself in attracting guests here. I thought that they needed more flower beds, but that was just me. Certainly plain grass was easier to maintain.

I had been to the hotel ten years earlier with Uncle Robert, and a month ago for my job interview, so I was not startled by the appearance of the main building as I came around a curve and it emerged from behind a small copse. I had been to other resorts in Ontario, and they mostly followed the pattern of being huge, sprawling modern buildings lacking in any real architectural distinction. Tintagel was certainly different.

It had been built towards the end of the nineteenth century by a man who had fled his native Cornwall for reasons which were undetermined but possibly involved an irregular attachment with a woman already wed to another. It was known that when he arrived his ‘wife’ was with him, but she died soon afterwards of that most common of female complaints, pregnancy. He and his infant daughter had at first lived in a small farmhouse on the land, which was still there and served as the clubhouse for the golf course, but he had grandiose ambitions and obviously some money too. He erected a huge Gothic mansion there on the cliff above Lake Erie, and perhaps struck by its resemblance to the coast of Cornwall (without the rock: the beautiful Erie cliffs are sand and therefore not quite as durable), he named it for the most famous castle in his homeland. It did not bring him happiness, however, as he died in the influenza epidemic following World War One. His daughter lived on in a small portion of the mansion, letting the rest of it fall into disrepair. Following her death in the late 1980's, it was purchased by Arthur Carruthers, a man with enough money to fix it up and enough smarts to see that a resort between Toronto and Detroit, with enough playthings for the getting richer and more leisured baby boomers, could make a lot of money if done right.

He knew that part of doing it right was making it unique. He hired my uncle and his friend, Robert Winston, to design and superintend the renovations, and Uncle Robert had done a superb job. New wings had to be added, and much of the original had deteriorated to the point where major work needed to be done, but in the end he created a harmonious whole which avoided looking like a shopping mall with bedrooms. Instead, it looked like a large, red-brick late-Victorian Gothic country house.

As I swung around away from the main entrance and towards the service area (read: servant’s quarters), I looked across the green lawn to the french doors which opened onto a flagged terrace where people sat having a late breakfast or early lunch. I mentally applauded Uncle Robert once again. He had made this a beautiful place. The mellowed red brick was set off with muted taupe trim around the windows and along the eaves. There were crenellated keeps where the original back of the building had been, now halfway down the east-west length, and peaked towers at the corners of the front on the west side, four stories above the magnificent tall, wooden door. It was off-beat, but its very uniqueness made it beautiful.

The service area was less spectacular but still attractive. After all, patrons might see it while playing golf off in the distance. The new wings, containing bedrooms, seminar rooms, a gym, pool, and other goodies for the guests, also had, on the landward side, a spot for the hired help. (No view for us). I pulled into the staff parking lot, and grabbing my purse, hopped out of the car, stretching as soon as I got out.

No one was outside at that hour. Obviously, the dining room staff would be busy serving food, the kitchen staff would be cooking it, and the cleaning staff would be – well, cleaning. I walked across the asphalt, which was beginning to warm up in the midday May sun, and pushed open the plain wooden door which was the service entrance.

I was almost immediately knocked down by a young man yelling up a short flight of stairs to my left. "No," he bellowed at someone out of sight around the corner, "I do not want to go there tonight. I have no – Oh shit!" he finished as he backed into me, knocking me down onto the tiled entryway floor. "Are you okay?" he asked, turning and helping me up to a sitting position with real concern.

"I think I’m alright," I said. "No, really," I insisted as he started to spout apologies, "it’s fine. I’m not hurt. Just knocked the wind out of me."

"I’m old enough to look where I’m going," he said ruefully, sitting back on his heels and running his hand through his hair. He was about twenty-five, with dirty blond hair, brown eyes, and an engaging grin. His dark suit, white shirt and tie made him look classy, despite his linebacker’s build, but no one would have described him as handsome. "Are sure that you wouldn’t like to push me down the stairs?" He gestured towards the stairs which led down from the entryway to a basement corridor.

"I think that it would be a tad excessive," I replied. "Why don’t you atone by helping me figure out where to go?"

"Gladly," he said, jumping to his feet and pulling me up. "Who are you and where do you need to be?"

"I am Nell Bannister, I am a new maid, and I need to find out where my room is."

"Pleased to meet you, Nell," he said, leading me down the stairs. "I am Jim Rivers, I am a front desk guy, and I can take you to the personnel office right away. Do you have stuff for me to carry in? I’m on lunch, got lots of time."

"First help me find my room," I begged. "I’ll get hopelessly lost without you. I don’t want to sound weak and clinging, but..."

"Hey, I understand, Nell," he said with that wide grin. "This place is a zoo to find your way around at first. I’m getting pretty good at it after a couple of months, but it took me awhile. Maps would come in handy," he said, as we continued down a white corridor. And I mean white. White walls, white trim, white doors, white tile floor. There were no windows, but it was well-lit by fluorescent lamps. On my right was an entrance into another, parallel corridor; to our left as we went down the hallway were first the laundry, where I could see people hard at work folding sheets, and then a room from whence issued the hums of machinery. The increase in the volume of the clashing of pots and pans as we continued indicated that we were approaching the kitchen.

I could hear an unending stream of bellowed profanity even over the clatter. "That’s Andy," said Jim. "He’s the head chef. He’s good, I’ll say that for him, but man, he’s a son of a bitch. Nothing ever pleases him." Jim gestured to our right. "That’s the hallway where our rooms are. Not many of us live in; most of the staff are locals, but they do accommodate a few of us. Handy to have people here in case of an emergency in the night without having to actually pay them for being on call."

We reached the end of the corridor, and turned the corner. Ahead was a bank of elevators, and beyond I could see a corridor with colour on the walls and carpet on the floor. "The squash court is through there," said Jim. "And some seminar rooms. We’ve had a few conventions here. You know, corporations, that sort of thing. And here," he said, indicating an open door to our left, "is where we need to go." We walked into the small personnel office that I remembered from my interview. "Have you filled out the filthy forms?"

"In triplicate," I answered. "All done."

"Good!" He banged on the desk. "Tammy!"

"I’m here, dammit!" Out came a stocky young woman dressed in a short gauze dress. Her short dark hair needed a good brushing, but her grey eyes seemed pleasant enough. "What do you want, Jim?"

"None of your lip, young lady. This Nell. Nell, this is Tammy; she’s a mouthy young thing but nothing we can’t put up with."

"Speak for yourself, buster."

"I always do. Listen, Tammy, Nell has filled out all of your stupid forms and...."

"What am I, dumb? No, Jim, that’s you. Nell has filled out the forms, and I have her key right here. Sign, honey." She shoved the key card across the desk to me and handed me a pen. I signed on the dotted line. "Thanks. Miss Potter wants you to see her in her office at four pm, so you have a few hours to unpack and relax."

I thanked her, and we left. "Tammy’s a good sort," Jim said as we headed back in the direction from which we came, and through a doorway into the even more narrow corridor where our rooms were. "She just likes to sound tough, and she takes it too far. What’s your room number?"

"Seven," I said, stopping in front of it and unlocking the door. "Here I am! Thanks, Jim."

"Oh, I’m not finished yet! Don’t you have stuff to lug in?"

"Yes, but aren’t you on your lunch?"

"Hell, I can eat in ten minutes. I’ve got time to help you carry your gear in and then I’ll take you to the lunchroom."

"We-ll..."

"Oh, come on, let me help you. Really. Happy to do it. Keys? Thank you. Spitfire? Red? Thank you!"

"Don’t take it for a spin," I warned him, waggling my finger at him as I went in through my doorway. "Thank you!" I yelled at his retreating back.

I turned and looked around my new home. It was small, it was clean, and it was plain. White walls (again), green curtains and bedspread, a dresser with a broken handle, a chair (wooden) and not much else. By the time I’d inspected it thoroughly (approximately three minutes later), Jim was back with my three cases.

"I left your various bags for you to deal with," he announced, dropping the cases on the floor. "Now, let’s eat!" He waved aside my protestations of exhaustion and disorientation, and dragged me down the hall towards the kitchen. There was a small room off of it, which he towed me into, deposited me at a table, and then went off, leaving me alone with way too many strangers for my liking. Actually, perhaps a dozen men and women, dressed in various menial costumes were eating and talking, and talking and talking. Nobody paid much attention to me, which was fine. One or two smiled and said hi, which wasn’t too traumatic, and then Jim returned with a couple of plates. "Here you go," he announced. "Mac and cheese and salad. Plain and not too disgusting. Dig in." Which he proceeded to do. "I’ve got about fifteen minutes left," he said after a huge swallow, glancing at his watch. "Plenty of time. So, Nell, where are you from?"

I was eating at a more decorous pace, although I was hungry and the food tasted good. "Well," I started, "I’ve been living in Toronto for the past few years – school, you know..."

"U of T?" he asked, swallowing far too much macaroni at the same time.

"No, York. Don’t start the cow pasture jokes," I warned him, waving my fork in his direction.

"Wouldn’t dream of it," he said. "I studied at Queen’s, and then went to England for my Master’s, so I have no rivalries with you to speak of."

"Masters?" I asked curiously. "In what?"

"Economics. Which is why I am now a front desk clerk in a resort hotel. Welcome to the new economy."

I grimaced. "Thanks. I’m just starting my post-grad work this fall. English History . Useless but enjoyable."

"Yes, but..." Jim glanced at the clock on the wall behind me. "Holy shit, I’ll be late! What’s wrong with my watch? I’ll never make management at this rate! See you later!" He fled out the door, colliding with someone else in the doorway. This was obviously a tendency of his. Yelling apologies, he disappeared from view, and, eventually, hearing.

No one seemed interested in coming over to talk, so I put my empty dishes and Jim’s back on the tray and took them back to the kitchen pass-through from whence they came, where I added them to an already existing pile. Then I went out to my car and loaded up with my assortment of bags and stuff which Jim had left for me. This included my CD player, which I plugged in immediately so that I could listen to something as I unpacked and settled in. As I put clothes away in the drawers I regretted my utilitarian choice of possessions. In a room like this I needed some of those bright cushions and laminated artwork which graced my attic bedroom in Toronto. I started making a mental list of things which I would ask the boys to bring down if they wanted to make a trip out my way some weekend. Three months was a long time to exist without some of my favourites.

Murder at Midsummer- Chapter Three Conclusion

2009-11-17T18:50:00.000-05:00

It was a good thing that I set my alarm for three thirty before I laid down for a brief sleep, because the hours from twelve thirty until then were spent in a deep and profoundly unsatisfying sleep. There is nothing worse, as far as I’m concerned, than waking up from an afternoon nap. I moaned hollowly as I stumbled around the room looking for what I needed before meeting with Miss Potter: clothes, a hairbrush, my purse, in that order. With a brief stop at the bathroom two doors down from my room, I was on my way along that white corridor towards the service stairs, and after wandering past some seminar rooms and one of the dining rooms, I soon found myself in the main lobby of Tintagel.

Nice place. There’s an understatement. The original owner had envisioned a great hall in the tradition of British stately homes, and he ended up with an amazing space. The ceiling soared twenty-five feet, with graceful gothic arches. The entrance door on the west wall was an old-fashioned wooden beauty set between tall windows. An impressively wide staircase rose along the east wall to the second floor landing. It was built of native black walnut, polished to a soft, black-brown gleam with intricately turned banisters of the same wood. The stairs had a runner of a subtly patterned mulberry carpet which echoed the tones of the richly patterned late-Victorian floral wallpaper. It was the perfect setting for grand entrances in billowing ball gowns and white ties and tails.

The great hall itself was floored with slate, again polished and softly gleaming, with oriental carpets in a few places, surrounded by big comfy sofas. Light poured in through the windows which spanned the height of the room on the south, west and north walls , many-paned and softened by simple, heavy dark green draperies hung at their sides. This was on a grand scale indeed. I could see how on a winter’s evening, with the curtains pulled and fires burning in the large fireplaces centred between the windows on the south and north walls, it could be a warm and inviting place, but on this lovely spring day, with views out across the blue lake to the south, and woods and fields to the north and west, it was a light-filled and airy space.

The reception desk ran along the wall under the staircase. It too was built of panelled walnut, its computers tucked discreetly behind so as not to distract from the period ambience. Jim was there, looking unoccupied for the moment. He caught sight of me and popped out from behind. "Looking for Miss Potter’s office?" he asked.

"That would be correct," I said. "Time to head for the salt mines."

"Salt mines is right, if you ask me," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "That woman is a slave-driver. I don’t envy you. You sure you wouldn’t like to be in reception?"

"I’ll survive," I assured him as he accompanied me to the door tucked at the north end of the east wall. "She couldn’t be worse than the housekeeper I worked for in England."

"England? Cool! When was that?"

But I had no time to answer, for as we entered the narrow white office corridor with windows to one side, Miss Potter herself emerged from a door at the far end. "Nell, isn’t it? Glad you made it here safely," she continued briskly. Jim faded away, back to his post, and I responded cordially, although to be honest, when I first saw this woman I had not liked her, and I had no hopes of changing my opinion in future.

Glenda Potter was between forty-five and fifty, a solid woman of medium height. She was very much a management type, dressed in professional suits and moderate heels in subdued tones of beige and brown. Her hair was short and greying, simply styled, and her makeup was equally nondescript. So far so good. But she had an annoying air of superiority, perhaps acquired through years of supervising women who tended to have little education and social status. She was used to being in charge, and of being the superior intellect. She had made a point of telling me at my initial interview that she did have a B.A., just so that I would know that she was not my intellectual inferior. Not that she was insecure, not our Miss Potter. Rather, she knew that she knew more and did things better than anyone else, at least in her own mind. And she was my boss for the next three and a half months. Lord help me.

"Now, Nell," she said smoothly, leading me down to a corridor which intersected with the first, and into her claustrophobic little office, "I have here your uniforms. There are two," she continued, gesturing at the clothes on their hangers, "so that you will have a spare, but you are expected to care for them yourself. There is a washing machine and dryer available for your use in the basement, so there should be no problem."

She seemed to expect a response at this point. "Thank you," I said. "No problem."

This satisfied her, and she continued. "You will be expected to report to the third floor housekeeping room at six thirty tomorrow morning. Susan will already be there and she will show you which rooms you have been assigned." Again a pause.

"Okay," I said.

"These rooms will be yours for the rest of the summer. They will be your responsibility, as are the guests who occupy them." Pause.

"Uh-huh."

"Of course, as I explained when I hired you, you will be taking light breakfast to their rooms if they so desire, which is the reason for the early start. Many of our guests like to arise early to golf."

"Sure."

"Once that is done, you will commence cleaning the rooms, only when the guests are not there so as not to interfere with them."

"Absolutely." The less contact with people the better.

"We are very particular here at Tintagel. I inspect rooms on an ongoing random basis, and slipshod methods will not be tolerated. I don’t know what standards you had to meet in your previous job."

She really did piss me off. "Oh, I learned how to clean, don’t worry. I even vacuum under beds."

"Well, we shall see. I shall see. Your hours are six thirty am until you finish. I assume that you will be finished between two and three, and then you are free to come and go as you wish. All meals are provided for live-in staff, of course."

"Yes."

"And we enforce a strict policy of non-fraternization at this hotel."

"I see."

"You are not to socialize with the guests."

"Understood." Why argue? It wouldn’t get me anywhere, even if I felt like it.

"Very well," said Miss Potter, rising to her feet, "welcome to the staff of Tintagel."

"Thank you," I responded, likewise standing and taking my uniforms.

The interview was at an end. She walked with me the three feet to the door, and pointed down the corridor in the opposite direction to the great hall. "You will find it more convenient to use the staff entrance," she said, indicating a stairway at the far end. " That will take you back downstairs."

Well, I didn’t need that spelled out in black and white, did I? Servants stay out of the great hall unless you’re cleaning it. "Thank you," I said again, and left her there. What a delightful woman. I could tell that we would be the best of friends.

Back in my little basement room, I tried on one of the uniforms. Remember, Tintagel had a style all its own. This would be no tacky polyester gingham shapeless bag like I wore at the St Charles, oh no. This was cotton/polyester to begin with, cotton to look good and polyester for ease of care. It was designed to complement the prevailing decor, which I had already ascertained consisted of mulberry and sage, relieved by tasteful touches of gold. This outfit had a simple underdress in a warm beige, with a flowered apron over top. The bodice was cut a bit loose, with short sleeves and a collarless neckline. The skirt was slightly gathered and about knee length. Not too bad. It had no frills, wasn’t too tight, and actually looked okay with my colouring. So I hung them up until the next morning.

By now it was after five, and just as my stomach started to remind me about dinner, there was a knock on the door. Of course it was Jim, leaning in the doorway. "Hello, fellow peon," he said.

"Hey there. What’s happening?" I asked, standing aside as he entered the room.

"Dinner. It may not be good but it’s free. How was Miss Potter?"

I pulled a face. "I’m glad that I’ll be cleaning rooms and not talking to her all day."

"Dream on. She’s always popping in to see how you gals are doing. They all hate her."

"Thanks for telling me."

"And the manager’s not much better," he continued, looking over my CD’s stacked on top of the dresser. "Nice discs, by the way."

"Thanks."

"Phillip Twinett’s a pain. He’s very ambitious and takes it out on us beneath."

"Nice."

"No doubt he’ll have you in a couple of days from now to give you a pep talk. Oh, and he also sucks up to especially rich guests. Makes me want to throw up sometimes. Come on," he said, as though inspired by his last comment. "Let’s go eat!"

Dinner consisted of hot hamburger sandwiches and overcooked peas. Jim suggested a run into Port Burwell afterwards to get an ice cream cone to make us feel better, and I didn’t say no. I even let him drive Red Emma.

As I said earlier, Port Burwell is basically a fishing village with a few frills. Jim and I parked by the ice cream place and bought double cones. Mine was pistachio, his chocolate. Then we wandered around the streets. There were some beautiful houses close to two hundred years old, for this was one of the original loyalist settlements in the years following the American Revolution. Of course, one was likely to find a tacky cottage right next to a Georgian gem, but that’s par for the course in small-town Ontario.

As the sun set we headed down to the beach and sat on a picnic table, talking of this and that. Around nine o’clock we headed back to the hotel, me driving this time, and went to the staff lounge to watch TV.

As we walked in the two bodies entwined on the sofa moved apart. For their sake, I hoped that they weren’t twins, but holy, they looked alike. The young man sat up, disposing his tall, lanky frame in such a way that he could maintain maximum physical contact with the girl, who was shorter, more curvaceous, and with longer hair, but otherwise a pretty close match. Both had blonde hair, blue eyes, and deep tans. She smiled. He smiled. They acknowledged our existence, but aside from that didn’t seem to care much that we’d walked in.

"Hi, guys," said Jim with a grin. "How you keeping?"

The guy’s voice was surprisingly deep. "Hey, Jim," he said.

"Nell," said Jim. "This is Tim from Windsor. He folds laundry. Alison is from London. She works in the pool area."

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," they said in unison. They just sat there absorbing each other’s sweat.

"We only met two days ago," confessed Alison with a giggle.

They reminded me of new couples their first week at university. Neither of them could have been more than eighteen, and they were obnoxiously in love. Jim and I came in and sat down for a few minutes, but they showed no sign of ceasing to paw at each other just because others were there. Me at twenty-two and Jim at twenty-five felt positively ancient, and if he felt like emulating their mating behaviour it didn’t show. The only decent thing to do was go to bed (separately). We said good night in the hallway and I tried to get a good night’s sleep. So why the hell did I think about Jack all night?

Murder at Midsummer: Chapter Four

2009-11-16T16:58:00.000-05:00

The next morning came way too soon, but I dragged myself out of bed and dressed in one of my lovely new uniforms. I made my way down the corridor to the service elevator that Jim had shown me the night before, and went up to the third floor where Sue was awaiting me.

The housekeeping room was right across from the service elevator and stairs, at the end of the north corridor. Its uncurtained window let in lots of early morning light. Sue was sitting by the window drinking a cup of coffee as if her life depended on it. She was around thirty years of age, and was too thin and needed a haircut. She had compromised on the latter by tying her light brown hair back into a ponytail. We’d met when I had come down the month before.

"Hi, Nell," she said. "Welcome to the third floor."

"Thanks, Sue," I answered. "Where’s the coffee?"

She poured me a cup from where she sat, and I came over and perched on the table near the window. "It’s a beautiful morning," I said, looking out at the mist curling lazily over the fields in the rising sun.

"The drive in was nice," she agreed, and we sipped our coffee for a minute or two before talking again. I knew that I was going to like working with her: she appreciated both the beauty of nature and caffeine. "Let’s get this show on the road," she said after putting her cup down with a bang, and getting out of the chair. I gulped down the rest of my coffee and followed her out the door.

The carpets were mulberry and the walls were sage, where there wasn’t floral wallpaper reminiscent of William Morris. The panelled doors were of a dark wood, as was the trim. Some of the brass knobs had slips of paper hanging from them; Sue grabbed them, glanced at them, and kept on going. Sometimes she’d pull out a pencil and write something on a slip and then add it to the sheaf in her hand. "Some guests forget their room number," she explained. "There’s nothing as useless as a breakfast order with no number on it when you’re back in the service room. And then guests get mad and so does Potter. And if a guest complains to Twinett, you’re cooked, baby. Believe me, it will always be your fault." By the time we’d covered the whole floor, we had about fifteen of those slips, and we headed back to the service room.

"Okay," said Sue, "These on the south corridor are yours, and the north ones are mine." She divided them into two piles, and pushed one across the table to me. "First, put them in order by time." I looked quickly through my six. The first one was for seven am, and the last eight forty-five; the rest were scattered in between. "Now, set up trays on the counter." She waved towards the ten-foot counter with a sink at one end. "I’ll go down and get the food we need," she said, and while she left on a quick trip to the kitchen in the basement I got out trays, and looking at the orders started to assemble the coffee and tea things. When Sue returned with the croissants and fresh fruit, it was time to deliver the first one. Off I went with my seven am tray, all the way around to the south corridor, knocked on the door, entered in response to a muffled command, and left it on the table by the door. The guest yelled his thanks through the bathroom door as I left. Variations on that theme occurred five more times, and then it was nine am and time to start cleaning rooms.

The south corridor was mine, as Sue had told me; she showed me my cart in the corner of the service room, and the fresh towels and sheets on the shelves on the wall opposite the sink and window, and sent me off. It was the middle of the week so I had no departures, but most guests were out and about, golfing or whatever. I knew who was up already because of the breakfast deliveries, so I targeted those rooms first.

The bedrooms were a tasteful balance between resort hotel standard and Victorian charm. They were not filled with antiques, but with adequate reproductions. The difference between them and standard issue hotel furniture was the total absence of plastic veneer. The wood was real, and so of course it needed a bit of polishing. That meant more work for me. The beds were four-posters or sleighs or , in dark luxurious finishes, and the bedding was cotton, not polyester. The quilts were solid-coloured, not patchwork, to reflect the more sophisticated look. Most rooms had a little table with chairs by the window for sitting at and looking over the lake while sipping coffee, and the windows opened. Brocade curtains in deep colours hung at either side. There were also nice comfy chairs and a sofa in each room, and all were in those subdued late-Victorian botanical colours, with lovely floral patterns.

The bathrooms were a treat if you were a guest. This was not a hotel where guests were asked to conserve precious resources by reusing towels: each guest got a fresh big fluffy white towel each day. The tubs were oversized with jacuzzis, showers were separate and big enough for two, the floors were quarry tile, the walls were ceramic tile, the mirrors were large. Do you know how easily mirrors and ceramic tile show smudges? You would if you cleaned fourteen bathrooms full of them a day.

That first day was a tad overwhelming, not helped by the sudden appearance of two men in the third room I tackled. One unsettling thing about them was how similar they were: same height, same types of dark grey suits, same discreet but snazzy ties, same wire-rimmed glasses, same fuzzy but short hair, same pointy noses. It was like Tweedledum and Tweedledee after a year at a fat farm and a clothing make-over.

"Hello," said the one with froggy eyes, as I stood hesitatingly in the middle of the room after they barged in. "I am Mr. Twinett, the manager here. You must be Nell."

"Yes," I replied warily. I remembered Jim’s warning.

"I always make a point of greeting each new employee on their first day on the job. And this," he continued, gesturing at his sidekick (whose eyes were not froggy at all), "is Mr Pinkerton, the assistant manager."

"Hello," I said.

"Hello," Pinkerton said, coming forward and shaking my hand, which is more than Twinett had done. "Pleased to have you here, Nell. Welcome to our little family. Where are you from?"

Pinkerton and I chatted together while Twinett was cruising the room, checking things out. He took especial notice of how the mirror looked – or was it how he looked in the mirror? He seemed to preen as he stopped there, so I guess he liked what he saw. As he continued around the room after that pause to refresh himself, he ran a finger along the windowsill, and it came up with a line of grey dust on his pink fingertip. "Nell, I am very disappointed in this," he said.

This was a bit much, even for management. "Mr Twinett, I have spent approximately five minutes of my life in this room. Unfortunately, I have been unable to deal with the windowsill yet."

Twinett was not impressed. "You’re a college girl, right, Nell?"

"College woman, actually, Mr Twinett. But yes."

"I don’t usually find that your type make the best employees because of the temporary nature of your commitment. We’ll have to see whether things work out." And off they went, but Pinkerton actually winked at me from behind his buddy’s back. He wasn’t so bad a guy, but that was all I needed to do: piss off the manager on my first day on the job.

I told Sue about it later as we ate lunch together in the basement canteen. She assured me that Twinett just liked to scare the new employees, but she shook her head a bit when she heard how I had responded to him. "He doesn’t appreciate people talking back to him, Nell," she warned me. "You might want to keep out of his way for a while."

"So how do I do that if he and that buddy of his keep popping into our rooms?"

"Oh, that was just the first day intimidation. He has more important fish to fry than harassing the menials. However, we are easy prey. From now on, just make sure that none of the guests complain to him about you, and you should be safe. But watch out if someone does. He’ll have you in the office and give you the ‘professionalism’ lecture. It’s a doozy"

The canteen was busy at lunchtime, with both the day and live-in workers bustling around. I had waved at Jim, who ran in and out, and Alison and Tim were too wrapped up in each other’s wonderfulness to share their precious lunchtime with mere mortals before returning to their pool and laundry exiles. Sue said hi to several people, but she didn’t seem to have any special friends amongst the throng. "What are the people here like to work with?" I asked curiously. She’d been here for years, so she must have known the place and the people pretty well.

She shrugged. "Okay, I guess. We get a fairly high turnover. It’s not the best job. People tend to find that the factories up in Tillsonburg pay better."

"But you stayed."

Another shrug. "I don’t mind it. Straight days, which doesn’t happen with factory work. And with my two little guys that’s important. Especially since their dad’s not around anymore – which is a good thing, believe me." A young, dark-haired woman with her hair done up in netting came by with her tray at that moment, and Sue said, "Hey, Vicky, sit down, why don’t you?"

Vicky did just that, depositing herself and her tray with a thump. "Thanks, Sue. It was you or Steve."

"Anything but that," said Sue enigmatically. "This is Nell. She’s working on my floor."

"Hi, Nell," said Vicky, digging into a plate of salad. "I’m a kitchen worker."

"Don’t be fooled by that," said Sue. "She’s actually an apprentice chef. She’s just graduated from college."

Vicky grimaced. "Today, according to Andy, my diploma is fit only to wrap fish entrails in." Andy was the temperamental but talented head chef I’d heard the day before. He accounted for the high turnover rate in the kitchens – and the steady stream of visitors to the dining rooms. From what I’d already heard, someone who got a job with Andy must have had talent herself. He did not suffer fools gladly.

Sue reinforced that impression when she said encouragingly, "Vicky, he’s hired you back two summers running, and now it’s a permanent position. You’ve got it made."

Vicky sighed. "Well, yes, I know that, but it’s much harder to put up with his tantrums when I know that I can’t escape back to Toronto at the end of August. I’ve got to look around for something somewhere else."

Someone else came up to our table just then. "Well, helloo, Ladies," said a mid-thirties smarm bucket. Or at least that was my first, overwhelming impression. I looked away from him in Sue’s direction, imploring her silently for help.

"Hello, Steve," said Sue repressively.

"Who’s our new friend? Hi, I’m Steve," he said, holding out his hand, smeared with oil. I reluctantly took it. He squeezed my fingers.

"This is Nell, Steve," said Vicky.

"The outfit says maid. Which floor?" he asked, with a hint of a leer.

"Mine," said Sue. "Which reminds me, Steve, room 325 has a leaky tap in the bathroom. Can you come up after lunch and see to it?"

He backed away a bit, pointing both forefingers at us. "Sure thing, Susie. See ya in thirty." And off he went.

"God, he’s a nasty piece of work," said Vicky. "Why encourage him?"

"Believe me," sighed Sue, "I would much rather not have to deal with him. Unfortunately, he is the maintenance guy. Being called Susie is the price I pay for having my guests not complain about a leaky tap." She looked up at the clock on the wall. It was large. No one would have an excuse for being late. "Damn. Five minutes. Come on, Nell, more bathrooms to clean." She gathered up our dishes and took the tray over to the kitchen pass-through.

"Right," I said, getting to my feet with a groan. "Ouch! I’m discovering muscles I didn’t have to use writing essays and studying for exams."

"Enjoy," said Vicky. "Nice meeting you, Nell."

Vicky did seem okay, which was certainly more than I could say for Steve. He turned up outside room 315 as I as I vacuumed. Since I couldn’t hear him, he took me by surprise when I turned around, seeing him lounging in the doorway. I literally jumped.

"Hey, babe," he said.

"Hello," I said briefly, closing the door behind me as I pulled the vacuum cleaner out into the hallway. I felt much safer in the corridor than in a room with this specimen.

"Any taps that need fixing? Anything at all that needs fixing?"

I had to actually look at him now. Steve had short dark hair, mud brown eyes, and an attitude that I wanted to hit up the side of his head with a two by four.

"No, thanks."

"I took care of Susie’s problem. You sure there isn’t anything that I can do for you?"

I knew that "Susie’s Problem" was that leaky tap, but Oh Lord, anyone else who heard the way that this man spoke would leap to wholly inappropriate conclusions. He seemed to be incapable of uttering a sentence which wasn’t a come-on: his voice dripped with innuendo. Luckily, at that moment, without hearing what he said, but in time to forestall any further conversation (if an interchange consisting of his clumsy double entendres and my repressive replies could be classed as such), Glenda Potter came charging down the hall at full steam, no doubt to check up on me. Steve took one look at her, muttered "that bitch" out of the corner of his mouth, and was gone down the stairs to his left. I hated to think that there was something that Steve and I could agree about, but there it was. I wished that I could have disappeared as well.

Potter saw him, and of course she had to start off with that. "Nell, I am displeased to find you lingering in the hallway with another employee when you have duties to attend to. That is not the way that we do things at Tintagel. What would our guests think if they were to see you?"

"Don’t worry, Miss Potter," I said, trying hard not to get mad. I really didn’t think that she could help talking like that. "Steve had just fixed a leaky tap for Sue and wanted to see if there was anything else that needed fixing before he left."

That stopped her. It sounded way too reasonable to cavil at. "Well," she said. "Just watch out for Steve, that’s all. He has been here since the hotel opened, and tends to think that he can do whatever he wants, as a result. I am sorry to say that his work ethic is not all that it should be, but he is not under my supervision."

That sounded almost reasonable, coming from her. Then she turned right back into the Potter that I knew and already didn’t love. "Have you completed all your rooms, Nell? Yes? Then I shall be inspecting them now. Please return to the housekeeping room to prepare for tomorrow morning’s breakfasts. Sue will show you what is required. I will see you there when I have completed my inspection."

Is it necessary to confirm that she found a myriad of minor infractions of the Tintagel Way in my rooms? Or that she continued to do so over the next week? However, by the end of that period even she had to concede that I knew what I was doing, and mercifully left me almost alone.

The job settled down into a routine after a few days. Every day, every room got straightened up, beds made, bathroom wiped down, towels changed, and general dusting done. Sheets were changed every three days. Departures, of course, got completely done. That’s when we were expected to vacuum under the beds, polish the furniture, clean the windows, etc, etc. They took twice as long as a regular cleaning. No one liked working Sundays, the day on which most guests checked out.

But it was not a case of all work and no play. When I finished at three-ish, I was ready to have a good time, with the boundless energy of youth at my disposal. The older people on staff, with actual homes, families, and other assorted responsibilities, might be ready to call it a day, but we young’uns wanted to enjoy ourselves. We were not allowed to use the hotel facilities, of course, because the guests might be offended by the sight of us, but that did not stop us from developing a lively round of off-duty activity. As well as Tim and Alison, the live-in gang included Jennifer Brown, a phys-ed major at Western who worked in the gym, and Tom Smith, a lifeguard who was undecided about his future but leaning towards chiropracty. Jenn was very enthusiastic about tequila, so her favourite stop in Port Burwell was the bar on the main drag, unless it was the liquor store. Tom preferred the beach, both for watching others and letting them watch him. If you liked the overly-muscled torso and shaved head type of guy, he was worth looking at, I suppose. I find men more attractive if they aren’t quite so aware that they are attractive. Jenn didn’t seem to mind, but then, she probably liked the way that the two of them looked together. After all, she was the sort of tanned blonde who looks great in a bikini. Tim and Alison liked to go somewhere where they could neck. If I never have anything else to say about those two, it’s because, really, aside from being young, in love, and entwined around each other whenever possible, there was nothing else to note about them.

Jim liked to party, anytime, anywhere, with anyone, although he did seem to have a definite thing for Vicky. She didn’t live in, but life out in the middle of the country, back with her family after downtown Toronto, was hardly thrilling, and she often joined us when finished in the kitchens for the day. Alas for Jim, she showed no signs of returning his regard.

Personally, I was willing to go along, as long as I had some time to unwind. We maids got off an hour or two before the other staff, so I always had some time to sit back and relax with a good book. Sometimes I had a nap to prepare myself for the fun.

We soon settled on a routine, the bunch of us. We would go to the beach in town for an hour or two to swim and lie around, then either go back to the hotel for a quick dinner or up to Tillsonburg, a half-hour’s drive to the north, to one of the several fast-food joints which could be found there. After that, well, there were bars to visit and movies to see. Sometimes we’d rent a movie and take it back to our staff lounge to watch there if we were feeling particularly cheap (like just before payday). We went to Tillsonburg’s movie theatre on a few occasions, where we others made a point of sitting as far as possible from young love. One night we even went to see a play at the little theatre there. It’s amazing how one can waste time having fun when you’re not in a home with chores to be done, no homework, no parents , no children, and when the job was over for the day you could just walk away. We were having a good time.

Murder at Midsummer- Chapter 4 Conclusion

2009-11-15T18:13:00.000-05:00

Occasionally, however, unpleasant things occurred. There was, for instance, the time that we were in the bar in Port Burwell, and a new group of people came in. There were three men and one women, and after looking around they decided, I guess, that our side of the room was preferable, and came and sat down at the next table. Tammy was with us that night, and she took one look at who came in, snorted in derision, and got up to leave. Jim looked up and protested lazily, "You have to go?"

Tammy spat out the words. "I won’t be in the same room as that man," but she didn’t gesture at anyone. She didn’t even look in the direction of the other party.

I tried to look without looking. "Why not?" I hissed.

She shrugged. "Stay here and find out," she said, and stalked off to the bar where she paid her bill and left without a backward glance.

I found out. Before Stan had brought their beer our two parties had combined, and I found myself sitting next to a man whom I would never have chosen to be that close to, if there was a way that I could gracefully avoid it.

Len Montgomery gave me the creeps. That’s the only way to put it: I could almost feel my flesh crawl. He thought that he was pretty hot stuff, however: after all, was he not the Artistic Director (you could hear the capitals in his voice) of the Port Burwell Summer Theatre, now in its third year? Was he not the author of two of the three shows to be presented that summer? He believed that this entitled him to come on to me in no uncertain terms, but I wanted none of it. "So, Nell," he said, leaning over to grab some popcorn from the basket on the other side of me, which gave him a perfect excuse to get way too close to me, "where do you come from?"

"Toronto," I said through gritted teeth, trying to move my chair away from him a millimetre at a time. I shouldn’t have been so worried about offending him. His ego was so overwhelming that he took it as some form of flirtation. And unfortunately, I soon found myself in the corner with nowhere to go, and he took advantage of that to move his chair and himself in on me.

"Toronto, eh?" he smiled, putting his arm along the back of my chair. "Catch many shows there?"

"A few," I admitted, and he started boasting about the ones that he had been featured in, all at the smaller ‘alternative’ theatres. I’d seen some of them and knew from the character names that they were the most minor of roles. He certainly hadn’t made any impression on me; I would never have recognized him. But he went on and on.

"And of course," he continued smoothly, "I used to work at Tintagel sometimes. I’ve been around here for years."

"Really?" I asked sweetly. "As a waiter?"

He frowned, which showed perhaps I’d hit the mark. And then recovered and chuckled condescendingly. He ran the hand that wasn’t trying to achieve contact with my shoulder blade through his shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. "Nothing so mundane, my dear," he said. "I was able to organize and run several successful murder mystery weekends. That was the springboard to forming the theatre company here. Arthur Carruthers was impressed enough to give our group some financial support, and it is true that the theatre adds to the attractions available in the area for his guests."

I thought that I could figure out the real story: while working as a waiter, he weasled his way into presenting some murder mystery things (or maybe just helped out the organizer!) And managed to wangle some sponsorship from Carruthers – an ad in the program, perhaps? There is no ego to match that of an actor without enough talent to back it up. That must have been how Tammy got to know him. I wondered if she had always despised him as she so clearly did now. I knew that he was never going to be one of my favourite people.

But I was still stuck with my back against a wall and this smarmy grok coming on to me. I cursed my usual habit of sitting facing the room. Usually it made me feel more secure, sort of like a gunfighter in a saloon, but on this occasion it had seriously backfired, as it made it impossible for me to make a graceful getaway. "It must be getting late," he murmured, grasping my forearm and running his hand up and down as if to find a (non-existent) watch. "What time is it?"

Jim finally looked up and noticed my dilemma. He glanced at his own watch, and his eyebrows rose dramatically as he whistled. "Nell, it’s almost eleven o’clock! Weren’t you expecting a call from your grandmother tonight?"

I struggled to my feet. "Why yes, Jim, you’re right! Thanks for reminding me. Goodbye – er – Len."

Len protested and tried to detain me by hanging on to my arm. That was a mistake. Jim stood up and leaned over the table. Did I mention Jim used to be a linebacker? And still worked out? And that Len was all of five foot six? And artistically skinny? He’d probably describe himself as lithe, but it was more accurate to call him anti-muscular. "I think," said Jim, "that it would be wise to let the lady leave."

Len had already imbibed two or three beers at this point, but seemed to be a docile drunk. He shrank from the implied threat, and dropped my arm. I smiled gratefully at Jim as I squeezed out from behind the table. "Would you like a lift back, Jim?" I asked.

"Sure," he said. Smiling slightly, he watched me disentangle myself from Len’s arm, and stood aside to let me go ahead of him. What a gentleman. Outside the bar I polluted the air with a few choice swear words, while Jim shrugged.

"Assholes are everywhere, Nell. Why didn’t you knee him in the groin?"

"I’m just too nice," I sighed. "Your precious male egos are so fragile and I didn’t want to endanger his self-esteem. But don’t worry. If he gets within ten feet of me again I’m spraying him with mace. I’m going to have to go back to the hotel and shower now – I feel slimy all over."

That evening was an exception to the rule. For the most part, I found myself in congenial company when I wanted it, and alone when I felt the need for solitude. And of course, I was usually alone while I worked. Occasionally I did have encounters with the guests, although they tended to be out doing something exciting. Most of them were nice.

I had to admit that Pinkerton improved upon further acquaintance, and without the accompaniment of Twinett. He popped in one day when I was polishing the sleigh bed in Room 315, as its finish was sadly dulled. "Hello, Nell," he said cheerfully. "Glad to see you’re keeping the furniture in good shape."

I was a little wary of his sudden appearance. Many of the staff had as low an opinion of him as of Twinett, mostly based on the fact that they were rarely seen apart, and never publically disagreed, and since Twinett was such a manifest jerk, it seemed likely that Pinkerton was, too. "Hello, Mr Pinkerton," I said. "Just doing my job. And furniture like this is a pleasure to keep shining. It’s nice quality."

"I wonder how it got so smeared," he giggled, going in for a closer look at the head of the bed. "These look like hand prints to you?" he asked. For all the world he sounded like a fourteen year old making dirty jokes.

Now, if it had been Steve saying that self-same thing, I would have made an immediate excuse to leave the room in search of cleaning supplies, but Pinkerton didn’t seem threatening at all. "Not at all, Mr Pinkerton," I said primly. Then I found myself telling him about the room I’d been cleaning at the St Charles where I found magazines stuck between the mattress and box spring. They had depicted models fully clothed in school uniforms being spanked with rulers by authority figures, both male and female. He was still giggling over that when he left the room. No, Pinkerton wasn’t a bad guy at all. Too bad he hung around with Twinett.

Some events stood out amongst the room cleaning and swimming and bar-hopping. One day in early June we had the Tintagel Summer Indoor Games when it had rained for three days straight and the guests were getting restless. Swimming was included, since under the Victorian-style iron conservatory roof in the courtyard, the smaller pool was protected from the downpours. Jenn was assisting the recreational organizer, a gung-ho guy called Kevin, and when she mentioned that Tom was really good at swimming, he got roped in to spur the guests on to greater things. Tom apparently spent most of his year in a pool at his university, and although he wasn’t Olympic class he was pretty darn good. I’d seen him out in the lake, and in the pool early in the morning. Of course, the rest of the time, as lifeguard, he was out of the pool.

Kevin did not count on Twinett’s innate sense of competitiveness when he set this up. At the time announced for the swimming competition, Twinett turned up in a very small Speedo with a towel around his shoulders, for all the world like a real competitor, and proceeded to show off his adequate physique to the assembled guests, boasting to anyone who was listening about what a good swimmer and all-round athlete he was. He really should not have chosen a Speedo. Really. Tom didn’t have to strut and preen; he actually did have a good body, and he was at least twenty years younger than Twinett.

No one had told Kevin or Tom that Twinett simply could not stand to lose. I knew this: I had once heard him describe a hot-dog eating contest that he had lost, the reason given that his competitor had cheated. Seriously. Into the pool he and Tom went, and I suppose that the vibes felt wrong because none of the guests joined them, although a fair number sat down to watch what happened. Of course, it’s not as if Tom liked losing, either. He was as driven to win as Twinett, he had twenty years on the old guy, and he swam every morning for an hour. It was inevitable that he would win. What was scary was watching Twinett try so hard to defeat him, to see him slowly ground down and finally forced to pull himself, exhausted and shaking, out of the water. Tom got out at the end of his next lap, and stood there, waiting for at least an acknowledgement from Twinett that he had won.

He didn’t get it. What he did get was a look which said everything. We watched in disbelief as the man who, before the race, had bounded around and made it quite clear that Tom did not have chance against him, just walked out without saying a word. Jenn was next to me then. "Now, that’s pathetic," she muttered. "He could at least have shaken Tom’s hand."

Tom just shrugged, wrapped the towel around himself, and got a bottle of water from the vending machine before we realized that he deserved some applause. Workers and guests alike gave him a hand as he walked away by himself. Maybe he already had an inkling of what would happen next.

Within three days Tom was demoted from lifeguard to grounds crew. He would spend the rest of the summer on a noisy, hot lawnmower covered with grass clippings instead of being poolside in a Speedo. He quit. We took him out for a round of drinks before he headed back to his university to find a job there. And the rest of us kept as far away from Twinett as we could.

About a month after I’d arrived at the hotel, I was cleaning 314 after the departure of the Quarries for Toronto ( leaving behind a much-appreciated ten dollar bill). I was just hanging fresh towels on the brass rail in the bathroom when I heard Phillip Twinett oozing his way down the hall.

This had not been my day. I had already had to put up for most of the morning with Steve, who had been hanging around completing a number of small repair jobs in several rooms. He’d been putting them off for ages, and as a result it took him several hours to complete all the required tasks. He’d managed to find an opportunity to ask me out with his head stuck under the sink in 314. I was making the bed. I’d gotten used enough to Steve that I didn’t flee when I saw him coming. If I did, I never would have gotten my work done. Strangely, he never took any of my rejections as the final word. He’d already received many. "Hey, Nell, baby, is my favourite chambermaid busy tonight?" he’d inquired this time.

I was tempted to respond "I don’t know, Steve, I’ll ask her," but I doubted that he would have gotten the joke. "Sorry, Steve," I said absently as I came into the bathroom to put new towels on the brass rail, stepping over his outstretched legs. "I’m not available." I was beginning to think that if I actually accepted an invitation he wouldn’t know what to do. His ponderous gallantry and leaden flirting seemed to be an automatic reflex with him.

I don’t know if he would have continued to press his suit, but at that moment we both heard Twinett coming down the hall, with what sounded like a guest. "Here we are, sir. We’ll bring your bags up in a moment."

Twinett was notable for his shameless toadying to anyone with money, fame, and especially power. We did get a few of those at Tintagel, since the golf course was starting to gain quite a reputation, even abroad. He liked to escort the big shots to their rooms and make far too much of a fuss over them. On this occasion I closed my eyes and offered up a desperate prayer, but it was to no avail. "Oh!" I heard Twinett say outside the door. "I do hope that the maid is finished in here."

I took a deep breath and walked out into the outer room, leaving Steve on the floor. Twinett was standing there in the doorway looking irresolute, and the object of his obsequious attention lounged just inside the door, looking amused. Maybe he liked it. I ignored him, being a good self-effacing maid. "It’s alright, Mr. Twinett. I was just hanging up the towels."

Luckily he was remarkably obtuse along with his other flaws, and I doubt that he even realized how much I disliked him. "That’s so good – Ellen, isn’t it?. Are you sure that everything’s ready?" he asked. He then caught sight of his reflection in the large mirror that I had polished scrupulously not fifteen minutes earlier, and I swear that he smirked.

"Well, Steve isn’t finished with the sink, but all of my work is done," I replied. "Everything is as it should be, but if there’s a problem, I’ll be in the housekeeping room at the end of the north corridor." With that I walked out of the room.

I didn’t look back, but I could hear the guest skilfully detach himself from Twinett with just a few more words, and Steve go off with a clatter of tools. I heard the door shut as I turned the corner at the end of the corridor. A few minutes later, Jack walked into the housekeeping room to find me hard at work washing up breakfast dishes. He leaned those magnificent shoulders against the wall and looked at me, that damned smile playing around the corners of his mouth. I kept washing. He kept watching. Eventually I spoke. It was either that or scream. "I didn’t tell you I was working here, did I?"

"No, you didn’t. It’s a surprise – a delightful one, of course. We keep running into each other."

I was remembering the last time I’d seen him, as I fled from his berth on the train. I was seeing that gun in his coat pocket. And I was afraid to turn around and face him because it was entirely possible that I would turn into a puddle of goo at his feet. "So, what are you doing here? And where have you been for the last month?"

"Oh around and about – visiting the States, back again, visiting in Toronto. As to why I’m here, that should be obvious, shouldn’t it? It’s a resort, I’m on vacation.... What else could it be?"

"Beats me," I said, taking a deep breath and turning around, wiping my wet hands on a tea towel. "Jack, I feel that I owe you some explanation for...."

But he forestalled me, walking towards me and taking my hands in his. "Nell, please, I understand completely. It was a mistake..."

"You have a gun." I interrupted bluntly, pulling my hands away from him and pushing him away. I retreated next to the window, watching his face as he tried to figure out what to say.

"I’m sorry, Nell, I shouldn’t have left it out like that, but..."

"But nothing, Jack."

"Don’t I get a chance to explain?" He moved towards me, threading his way between the table and counter.

I started to feel trapped. "Jack, get away from me and leave me alone! If you do not leave, I will scream, I promise you that."

He put his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay, okay." He walked towards the door.

"The hotel has strict rules against fraternizing with guests. I don’t like the idea of losing my job, so would you please leave me alone in future?"

He bowed, his hand over his heart. "As you wish," he said, and walked away.

Murder at Midsummer- Chapter Five

2009-11-14T09:38:00.000-05:00

I was glad to get away at the end of the day without any more encounters – I think.

Let’s just say that it was easier on my nerves when I no longer tensed every time I heard a door open or someone moving along the hallway, when I could close the door on my room and no longer feel so exposed. Even better, the next two days were my days off, and I felt that it was time to get away.

I spent the evening in the basement TV room. Jim offered me a trip to Tillsonburg to see an action flick of some sort, but I passed on that particular excitement, so he went with Jenn instead. The young lovers were, I supposed, in one or the other’s room doing what young lovers do best. I wondered what Jack was up to. I have no memory of what I watched.

Strangely enough, I did not sleep well, and despite my natural inclination to sleep in, the next morning I woke up early and pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I went down the hallway to the canteen to grab a coffee, and then returned to my room and thought about my plans for the day. I wanted to put as many miles as possible between me and Jack, just for some peace of mind. It was also a good idea to check in with Uncle Robert, although I still dreaded him knowing about my humble job. Although he wouldn’t be able to talk me out of it, he could talk a lot. Still, it was time for a trip to London. Putting on a quilted silk jacket against the early morning chill, I went out to my car, and hopped in. In a minute I was flying along the lakeshore road, heading west.

It was just after seven in the morning, and the world was beautiful There was mist curling along the fields and clinging to the woodlots dotted among them, that early morning golden sun was tinging everything with a warm tone, and to my left, the lake was blue and gold, reflecting the sky and the sun. I stayed on the shore road as long as I could, revelling in the beauty that I shared with surprisingly few cars. Eventually, however, I had to turn north towards London, passing through some small villages. Some were touristy-historical, while others were normal rural places with variety stores and gas pumps rather than tea rooms and antique stores. I skirted the edges of St Thomas and then found myself in increasingly heavy traffic as I approached London, a city of some three hundred thousand people.

It was then that I realised that I was really rather dumb. After all, here I was, arriving early in the morning. If I wanted to lunch with Uncle Robert, which was a reasonable expectation, I had at least three hours to kill before that was likely to occur. However, I figured that it would be nice to give him some warning , so I stopped at a mall outlet with a pay phone and dialled his office. He liked turning up early to get work done before the hired help came into work.

Uncle Robert was delighted to hear my voice, and we arranged to meet at one of his favourite restaurants four hours hence, so I had lots of time. There was a fast food restaurant located conveniently right next to the phone, so I went in to grab some breakfast, read the paper, and contemplate the morning.

I could do some shopping. That was always nice, but it would be at least an hour before the stores opened. However, London boasted an excellent university library, so I decided to take advantage of that and spend some time there. I have always found being in close proximity to thousands of books very soothing, and I had visited the library before with friends who were students there.

Of course, it took me forever to get there through London’s Thursday morning rush hour traffic (which is approximately the same as Toronto at midnight), and once there I had to park in the visitors’ parking lot, which is about as far as it is possible to get from the library, but finally I made my way into the building, and lost myself among the stacks in the literature section. I found something I wanted to read, ensconced myself on a comfy couch looking out over the campus, and prepared to be engrossed in someone else’s life and problems.

Which made it particularly galling to look up after an hour and find Jack sitting on the sofa opposite, sitting back comfortably and smiling.

I opened my mouth to yell, when I remembered that I was in a library and people might notice. As I sat looking stupid, mouth open and wondering what to do, he rose quickly and sat down beside me, not touching but way too close for my liking. I ostentatiously moved away until I was at the far end of the sofa, and, my mouth shut by now, said through gritted teeth , "And I suppose that this is another pleasant coincidence?"

"No, I followed you," Jack easily admitted, moving a little towards me. "I’ve been sitting on the other side of the room peeking at you from behind the stacks." My response was to stand up and try to head for the elevator. I was light-headed with fury, a state which was not helped at all by him grabbing me by the arm and pulling me back towards the couch. "Dammit, Nell, I am NOT trying to murder you!!!" he said in a low but exasperated tone. "Will you please sit down and talk to me like a reasonable human being?"

I looked around. We were in an isolated corner of the floor, with no one to see us. Then I looked again at Jack, who had let go of me and sat down again, at the far end of the sofa. He was obviously being as non-threatening as possible, and I supposed that the least I could do was give him a chance. After all, not much more than a month ago I had leapt at the chance to be alone with him, and he hadn’t sprouted a third arm since then. I sat down, my back against the opposite end, and said nothing.

"Well," said Jack.

"Well," I said. And nothing more, as I crossed my arms.

"You’re not going to help me, are you?" he said, leaning forward and smiling. Good Lord, he was charming.

Still, I didn’t smile back. "As far as I’m concerned, I am not the one who has explaining to do," I replied, and waited.

Jack sighed deeply. "You probably resent me following you this morning," he started.

"Damn right I do!" I hissed back at him, leaning forward so that I didn’t have to raise my voice. "In the first place, you had no right to, and in the second, how the hell were you able to do it? What did you do, watch my room all night?"

He quickly shook his, and reached out to take my hand, which I yanked away from him. "Of course not, Nell. I was getting something from my car when I saw you roaring down the drive, and so I hopped in mine and followed. Stupid, really," he continued, "but I want to explain things to you. This whole thing has upset me."

I glared at him. "Oh, so you’re upset, are you?" I said sarcastically. "And what about me? You scared the you-know-what out of me on the train, you with that... that gun of yours, and then, when I thought that I was safe from you, not even thinking about you anymore, up you turn to give me a hard time again. And then," I went on, getting increasingly incensed with the litany of wrongs that I was reciting, "you go and follow me like some cheap hoodlum when all I’m trying to do is get away from you again! Let me tell you, buster, I’m upset!"

Jack nodded as I went through my list of grievances, and then, as I finished up, he again took my hand and moved closer to me, and for some reason, perhaps paralysed by fury, I didn’t move. Strangely enough, when he lifted my hand to his lips and lightly brushed them against it, I didn’t even flinch. He then spoke again, quietly, breathlessly, so that only I could hear him.

"Nell, I know that I must seem a bloody awful individual to you at this point in time. But I don’t mean to hurt you. You have to believe me."

Something inside was not working right. There was a constant thudding from within that seemed to make Jack’s soft voice even harder to hear. I realized that it was my heart, and wondered why should it be acting so queerly. I nodded slowly, and Jack continued.

"You want to know why I should have a gun, I’m sure." I nodded again, and he squeezed my hand slightly. "I don’t even have it any more, actually. I didn’t feel comfortable with it, and crossing the border into the States and back again is irritating enough without firearms to complicate matters. But I thought that I might need it."

"For what?" I asked, my tone less hostile than before.

He hesitated, and then said, "It’s a long story."

I looked at my watch. "I have one hour before I have to meet my uncle for lunch. Tell."

He actually did look around as if making sure that no one was listening before he moved even closer to me, bending his head over mine so that he could talk in a low tone. "Nell, I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but what I’m about to tell you can’t share with anyone, do you understand?" I nodded silently, looking up into those blue eyes and seeing nothing but sincerity.

"It all began, I suppose, when I moved into a flat three years ago with a couple of friends. Right around the time I was working at the St Charles, actually. None of us had enough cash for anything nice, so we ended up with an adequate but hardly fancy place. It was a typical bachelor arrangement, and when one of us, David, got married two years ago, we missed him very much. But I suppose he would have moved out soon anyway, since an uncle of his died who had made a bundle manufacturing widgets, and he became a millionaire."

"Nice for his wife," I commented.

"Yes, and even better for his widow."

"Widow?"

"He died within six months of his marriage, and four months of inheriting the fortune. Bloody convenient, eh?"

"Very," I said drily. "But why assume anything nasty? How did he die?"

" In a boating accident, at Tintagel," he replied.

"Here?" I said incredulously. "This Tintagel?"

"Yes, this Tintagel. He died in a boating accident on Lake Erie while he and his wife were here on an extended trip to Canada and the US."

"But what makes you think..."

"I’ll tell you what makes me think. First, she hasn’t been conspicuous for her sorrow since his death. In fact, she is very good at spending the money David left her as his sole heir."

"Well, she could be just..."

"In addition," he continued, in an increasingly savage tone which didn’t seem to be directed at me, "she moved in on him in a deliberate attempt to marry him, yet this was before he had any idea that he would be his uncle’s heir. Somehow she knew, I’m sure of it."

"But still..."

"And finally," he interrupted me again, "I know how she was able to have him killed."

"She didn’t do it?"

"Not bloody likely. She’s not the sort to dirty her hands. But that wouldn’t have stopped her. You see, my sister Mary was sitting one night in a pub in Pimlico waiting for someone, when she heard a very bizarre conversation going on in the booth behind her. A man who had had a few too many was explaining as best he could to his companion that he’d been involved with an organization that killed inconveniently living people for a price."

"And she thought of David?"

"No, actually, this fellow was so drunk that he even mentioned David by name." He paused for a moment, and his blue eyes darkened. "Mary and David had been involved with each other for a while before the bitch moved in on him, and she’d been mourning his death more than the widow. When she heard this conversation she was devastated. She wasn’t sure of what to do, so she rang me right away, but by the time I got there he was gone. I have a feeling he’s long been dead. Not a very reliable employee for an organization like that."

"So you came to Tintagel to investigate from this end?"

"Not quite, Nell. You see, Mary and I decided that the best way to deal with this would be to catch them in the act, so to speak."

"In the act? But how do you know that there will be another murder?"

"Because I’m going to be the victim," he said.

Murder at Midsummer- Chapter Six

2009-11-13T15:55:00.000-05:00

I just stared up at him in total shock and amazement. He looked back down into my eyes, no laughter whatsoever lurking in his own blue ones, anywhere. I checked. "You’re serious," I finally managed.

"Dead serious, if you’ll pardon the pun," he answered, shifting his position a little to put his arm around my shoulders. I was in no condition to protest. If anything, I moved closer to him, whether for comfort or support I’m not quite sure. "You see, that drunken fellow had mentioned how to get in touch with those obliging people, and Mary did."

"You knew she was doing this, I presume?"

"Oh, hell, yes, we planned it together. She, as my sister and sole heir, agreed that she would pay big bucks to have me eliminated. She was then given a general itinerary to encourage me to follow. She even signed a contract, if you can believe it."

"Have you been to the police?"

"Sort of. We went to see someone at Scotland Yard and he wrote us off as a couple of daft idiots, so we decided that we’d better get some evidence first. Besides, it’s turned into a very personal vendetta. I want to get those bastards."

"Won’t being dead sort of spoil the fun for you?"

"I don’t intend to die, Nell. I intend to catch them in the act and nail them to the wall."

"Didn’t you find them when Mary signed the contract?"

"Not so easy. The contract was not finalized in person, but through e-mail, and we’ve been unable to trace them."

"Why Tintagel?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Who knows? It seems an innocuous enough place, but that’s where David died, and the first ten years of the place have seen a number of unusual deaths, all of which have turned out upon examination to be the result of straightforward accidents or medical conditions. Perhaps one a year: a heart attack here, a car crash there... Unless you were looking for a pattern, who would notice? And there seemed little connection between the various victims: David was British, and we connected with the "Company" in London, but the victims have been of a number of different nationalities. Obviously, the Internet has no borders. And, if it comes to that, we don’t think that this is the only location where these things happen. Mary spent a few tedious days searching data bases and found a few other clusters of deaths at resort locations around the world. This could be a world-wide organization."

I thought for a moment and then asked a question that had continued to bother me throughout his explanation, and indeed, since our encounter on the train. "How did you get rich enough to be murdered for your money? You certainly didn’t have any in the St Charles days."

I swear he blushed. "That’s not really important," he muttered, looking away.

"Oh, come on, Jack! What was it? Drugs? Pimping? Gun running?"

"Worse," he groaned. "I invented the grump."

"What do you mean..." I started, and then illumination flooded in. I pulled away in horror. "Jack!" I cried. "You invented The Grump?" He nodded shamefacedly.

Oh, you must remember The Grump, the novelty gift item of a couple of Christmases ago. An appalling little furry toy, trumpeted by the advertising industry as suitable for adult and children alike, the perfect gift for your boss or employee, which meant, of course, that it was actually suitable for no one with any taste at all. I despised them. Mike had given me one as a joke last Christmas and I had threatened to shove it down his throat. And now I had found out that these egregious creatures had been the brainchild of Jack.

"Really, Jack," I reproached him, "how could you?"

"Believe me," he said with a rueful grin, "I’m not proud of it. A girlfriend of mine worked for the company, and as a joke I submitted a prototype I’d sewn and stuffed myself. I was so broke I’d try anything. So imagine my surprise when it took off! I sold my copyright at the right time, and invested the profits. So now I’m rich."

"Congratulations," I said. "So now what happens? You wait to be killed?"

"I wait to be killed," he agreed. "Nell, do you believe me?"

"Strangely, yes," I admitted. "But what I don’t understand is why you’re telling me all this. Why don’t you suspect me, for heaven’s sake? Good Lord, you’ve encountered me twice already on your journey! Wouldn’t that make me an obvious suspect?"

"It would," he admitted. "Except that if you were planning to kill me the mere glimpse of a gun probably wouldn’t have sent you screaming out of my compartment. And because, well..." he hesitated, looked a bit sheepish, and then he pulled me even closer, and kissed me. And I kissed him. And it was most enjoyable, until I caught sight of the clock on the wall, and pulled myself free from his embrace with an exclamation of regret. "Damn!" he yelped as I sprang to my feet, swearing, "Are you going to make a habit of this every time we kiss? Because if so – "

"Dammit, Jack, I’m sorry, but I’m supposed to meet my Uncle Rob for lunch in thirty minutes, and he’s into punctuality. I really do have to run." I headed for the nearby stairs rather than wait for the elevator, pushing through the door and galloping down the stairs, Jack faithfully at my side. When we made it to the bottom, I didn’t break stride but ran for the main door and then collapsed on a bench, wheezing heavily, Jack still beside me. "God damn this university," I swore. "Now I’ll have to sprint across half the campus to get to my car."

Jack was now hardly hyperventilating at all. "I’m in the same lot as you," he said. "Let’s do it at a decorous pace. You’re late anyway." He rose and pulled me to my feet, and then didn’t let go of my hand as we started to walk. Few things rate as high as walking hand-in-hand with the object of one’s affections on a beautiful sunny day. I suppose that it could have been better if there wasn’t a contract out on his life, but hey, one can’t have everything.

We stopped by my car. "I don’t have to tell you which car is mine, do I?"

He smiled shamefacedly. "Sorry I followed you, Nell, but I needed to talk to you."

"I’m glad that you did," I confessed, and he bent his head and kissed me lightly.

I reluctantly tore myself away and, unlocking my door, slipped into my car. He bent down beside me. "Nice car."

"A gift from Uncle Rob two years ago. He really does spoil me," I said as I started the engine and threw it into reverse. "Goodbye," I yelled as I reversed and revved away. "We’ll talk later!"

"And be careful," I added silently under my breath as I watched him stand there for a moment, and then move towards his own car further down the lot.

As it turned out, Uncle Rob had been delayed by a client with a granite countertop crisis, and so arrived only a moment before me. I was off the hook, although he did make a point of frowning as he checked his watch. I sat down across the table from him and murmured an apology anyway. He smiled and indicated my drink, a Margarita (he indulged my childish tastes, although he preferred the more expensive single-malt scotches), and continued to study the menu.

I took a sip and picked up my own menu. Uncle Rob took food very seriously, and never talked much until he’d decided what to have. But after a moment he put his menu down decisively, picked up his whiskey, and smiled at me. "So, niece, what are you doing in ‘these here parts’, anyway?"

I sighed. I had hoped for more time before I had to break the news to him of what I was doing for the summer. Uncle Rob, dear as he was, was definitely a snob. He was living the life of a well-off English gentleman, with no pesky encumbrances like wives or children to keep him from being able to do it. His life was a pleasant round of work that he loved, designing new buildings and renovating old ones in a traditional style – nothing new or innovative for Uncle Rob. When not working, he was entertaining or being entertained in good restaurants, going to the theatre here in London, Stratford, or Toronto, or spending weekends at the country homes of friends. Several times a year he went on trips. The other London was always on his annual itinerary, as was New York and sometimes Paris. He had friends at home and abroad, and had carved out a niche for himself as a noted architect in his chosen style.

He had a soft spot for his sister’s children. I was his only niece, and had benefited all my life from his judicious spoiling. My nicest jewellery had been given to me by him on the notable occasions in a girl’s life, and of course, I owed to him my Red Emma, not to mention my train trip that spring. A shameless Anglophile himself, he had been happy to encourage similar tendencies in me. The only complaint he had had about my summer in England was that I hadn’t let him arrange a job for me in the office of some English friend.

He even looked English. With his pale blue eyes and greying blonde hair, he was as Saxon as they come. He always wore impeccably cut suits for work, and today looked very dapper in a dark grey suit with a crisp white shirt and a subtly striped red tie.

I took a gulp of my Margarita, and was ready to tell him the awful truth when I was temporarily saved by the return of the waiter to take our order. That done, Uncle Rob looked at me expectantly, and I took a deep breath and told him where I was and what I was doing.

His lightly tanned brow was furrowed, more in sorrow than in anger. "Nell, why do you do this to me?"

"Oh, Uncle Rob, it’s the sort of job that I like to do. I get to work by myself and it’s a no-brainer. I can let my mind wander all I want."

"I could have gotten you a management position there, if you wanted it. You know that."

"But I didn’t want that! I don’t want to have to deal with snotty guests all the time."

He sighed. "Well, at least it’s only for the summer. You are going back to school in the fall, aren’t you?"

"Yes, to get my Master’s. I told you that. English History."

"Then I suppose that there is nothing more that I can do, except give you a nice meal now and then. I’ll be out of the country later in the summer, but until mid-August you know you can call on me if you need something. And how was that train trip of yours, anyway?"

Well, that was easier than I had expected, and it was over. And so we proceeded to enjoy our meal, as I told him all about my out-west adventures. The subject of Jack did not come up. I would never have given up my job now, no matter what Uncle Rob could offer me. I wanted to be where I could keep a close eye on Jack and anybody who might seem inclined to knock him off.

The meal took about an hour and a half. We both started with a cream of asparagus soup, and continued with a salad of fresh mixed greens and excellent grilled chicken, followed by some cheese and fruit, with a leisurely coffee and liqueur. But that was it: he had an important client to see about a new "old" house to be built somewhere up near Georgian Bay , and so we left. I thanked him profusely, of course, and he smiled as he gave me a kiss on the cheek out by my car.

"Keep in touch, my dear," he said. "And take care of this car. It looks as good as new, I’d say," he said, examining it approvingly. "I’m glad that you don’t have to park it on the street in Toronto."

I shuddered at the very thought. "Don’t worry, Uncle Rob, I love Red Emma like a child."

He smiled again, blew me a kiss, and headed off to walk back to his office. I climbed into my car and considered my options. I didn’t work for another day: I could take my time, do some shopping, see a movie, have a meal, or I could go back to Tintagel.

My chances of finding Jack, if he was still in London, were extremely low. On the other hand, if he was not yet back at Tintagel, he would be sooner or later. I put my car into gear and headed south.

Murder at Midsummer- Chapter Seven Part One

2009-11-12T16:36:00.000-05:00

Jack was nowhere to be seen when I got back to Tintagel. Before even going to my room, I went up to the third floor, tiptoed up to his door and listened for signs of life within, despite the fact that if I was caught I’d be given the heave-ho. Then I looked out at the pool from the third-floor stairwell window down into the courtyard and saw him poolside with a gorgeous redhead. He didn’t see me. I decided not to worry about him for the time being.

I was heading back down the south corridor towards the service stairs on the north side of the building when I heard someone getting off of the elevator and walking in my direction. I bolted into the ice room, afraid that it might be someone who would squeal on me. Peeking around the ice machine, I saw that it was Jim. I almost said hi when I wondered what he was doing here, because he was finished for the day, and had no more reason for being up here than I did. He’d even changed into jeans and t-shirt, so was obviously off-duty. He walked past where I was hiding and continued down the corridor. And then he stopped in front of Jack’s door, and knocked. When there was no answer, he looked around, got out a key, unlocked the door and went in and shut it behind him.

I did not know what to think, except that what Jim was doing had nothing to do with his duties as a front desk employee. What I did know was that I was not leaving the corridor for any consideration, but I knew an even better hiding spot: there was a supply cupboard across the hall and two doors down from Jack’s room. In the ice room I was in danger of being found by the first guest who needed to cool a drink, but in the supply closet I would be undiscovered as long as necessary, and I had a key for it. I had borrowed it from Sue the day before and forgotten to return it.

I flew down the hallway, terrified of Jim emerging from Jack’s room before I could take cover. Quickly I fumbled for the key in my purse and inserted it in the lock, praying under my breath that I would be in time. The door opened, and I huddled down on the floor under the lowest shelf. There was barely room for me to fit. I heard voices coming down the hallway and I held the door almost shut, barely daring to breathe as I strained to see out through the narrow crack I had left myself. It wasn’t Jack. I leaned back and sighed.

I still don’t know how I managed to fall asleep , but that is what happened next. Perhaps I was knocked out by the fumes of the cleaning supplies, or overcome by emotional turmoil. What I do know is that I woke up with a start, in agonizing pain from being curled up in an awkward ball on the floor of the supply cupboard. I straightened up, unaware of where I was, and hit my head on the bottom of the shelf. Not surprisingly, I cried out in surprise and pain, and then realised where I was and why I was there. Swearing under my breath, I peered out through the crack in the door. There was no change. I wondered how long I had been asleep, and feared even more what might have happened in the interim. I looked out again, and not seeing anyone, slowly crawled out, getting to my feet and trying not to groan too loudly as my muscles protested at how I had been mistreating them. I made my way down the hallway to the window at the end, looking out to the east over the golf course. It was not yet dark, but a week before midsummer it stayed light until well after nine. I still had no clue as to the time.

I took the staircase there down to the second floor, and made my way quickly along the corridor to the entrance to the grand dining room’s gallery. This ran around the inner two walls of the two-story space, and was a ten-foot deep balcony which was barely used. It was easy to keep out of sight of the diners below by keeping close to the wall. I looked around for a clock, and saw none, of course. But I did see Jack. He was sitting at a small table in a secluded spot, across from that redhead. He was leaning forward on his elbows, listening to something she was saying, his wineglass loosely cupped in his hand, and that lazy smile on his face.

My face flamed red. It was intimately dim in the dining room, and up in the gallery it was downright dark, so I knew he couldn’t see me, but I ducked as far back into the draperies hanging on the wall as I could. I reminded myself that it was, of course, possible that he was just using her as a cover. I also noted that he was very much alive and in perfect health. Whatever Jim had been doing in Jack’s room, it hadn’t resulted in Jack’s death – yet. I didn’t really feel that I was needed right then, so I opened the door and slipped out into the corridor again.

This time I got right out of the forbidden areas. In fact, I left the building. I quickly walked around to the service stairs, not even allowing myself to think, and went down and out into the parking lot. For a minute I stood beside my car, considering my options. Perhaps another person would have headed for a bar, but in moments of stress I preferred to get away from humanity. I walked west from the parking lot, past the building and its lighted windows, towards the now setting sun, which was turning those tall, narrow windows on the west wall of the hotel a brilliant orange-red. I struck out across the driveway and guest parking lot towards the rhododendron wood, one of the inspired creations of whoever the landscape designers had been. In the understorey of the oak forest they had planted dozens of rhododendrons. Ten years ago they had already been fair-sized plants; now they were quite large and when in season they were covered with brilliant blooms of all shades of red, pink, purple, and white. They had been in bloom when I had been hired and it had been a delightful sight. It was gloomy in the forest now. The light was going rapidly and the flowers had all faded, which perfectly suited my state of mind. I wandered around on the paved paths that wound through the woods, absently-mindedly twisting off the spent blooms when I felt like it, as I’d been trained to do by my granny, a rhodo fanatic.

Then I wandered down a pathway cut into the sand cliff by erosion and reinforced by man, and found myself on a secluded part of the beach. I had heard rumours of nude bathers at this end, but there was no one at all to be seen. I sank down onto a convenient piece of driftwood to let my senses be lulled by the absolute calm and silence of the place and the time.

The sun was disappearing behind the trees atop the cliff. I could barely see its molten red through the leaves. The sky over the lake was like a Monet painting, with its impossibly subtle gradations of shading from pale aqua to faded salmon pink. Clouds that looked softly brushed in ringed the horizon of the lake. There was nothing as definite as a break between the water and the sky, just a whisper of a line where the greenish undulating lake merged with the bluish motionless sky. It was incredibly serene and peaceful, and had no effect on my mental state whatsoever.

My brain was working in overdrive. First of all, there was Jack. My feelings about him were all churned up. My sympathies had been aroused by his story, and my affections seriously re-engaged by what had happened that morning at the library. Given a choice of anywhere that I would like to be at that moment in the world, I would opt for being with him, preferably in his arms. It was that simple. Considering how he had treated me that morning, I would have thought that he would have felt the same way. So I didn’t like how contented he had looked in the company of that redhead. Also, I was wondering how I was going to get to him to warn him about Jim. There was no way I was sneaking up to his room in the middle of the night. Aside from the possibility of being caught, I didn’t want to take the chance of not finding him alone.

Then there was Jim. He wasn’t going into Jack’s room to fix the radiator. Not bloody likely. I hated not being able to trust Jim. One of the reasons I was wandering among the rhododendrons and hiding on the beach was that I didn’t know how to act when I saw him again, or how to keep him under observation.

I stayed out there until the light was almost totally gone, and then made my way back to the lawn through the gathering dark. It was a beautiful June evening, with the stars beginning to appear in the darkening night sky. The hotel looked gracious and welcoming in the purple twilight, with its windows glowing soft yellow, and I could see people moving about in the dining rooms and lobby. Others were out and walking about, enjoying the beauty of the night on the lamplit drive and pathways. I had no clue where Jack was by now, and didn’t know whether to care.

I headed back over towards the staff quarters, thinking that it might be a good idea to get out for a while and maybe grab a bite to eat in Port Burwell, or at the pizza place in Straffordville. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch with Uncle Rob and it was getting on for ten o’clock. Avoiding strolling guests, I cut across the lawn towards the parking lot, but before I could get there I was hailed from a picnic table outside the staff door where several people were sitting.

"Nell! There you are! Where have you been?" Jim got up and walked towards me, his once-comforting bulk looming large in the gathering dark. I stood there, not knowing what to do. This is the man, I reminded myself, who rescued you from Loathsome Len. This is the man who laughs at all the right spots in movies. How could this man be a killer?

I gave myself a mental shake. I couldn’t trust him. I couldn’t let him know that I had seen him going into Jack’s room. I had to consider him a suspect. However, neither could I change my behaviour towards him, because then he would get suspicious of me – that is, if he if he had any reason to be suspicious.
This was all way too weird. I moved in Jim’s direction. "Hi, Jim," I said as levelly as possible. "Where have I been? Where the hell have you been? I was looking for you around dinnertime to see if you wanted to go to town, but I couldn’t find you anywhere." I congratulated myself on introducing the topic of where he’d been that easily.

Jim reached me and, putting his arm around my shoulders, gave me a friendly hug. I steeled myself not to recoil. "You okay, Nell?" he asked anxiously, peering at my face. "I had some business to take care of. Is it too late to go to Tillsonburg now? I’m starved."

"Hey, me too," said Jennifer, coming over in time to hear the last line. "And Vicky just got finished in the kitchen. I’ll go grab her."

"Meet you at my car!" Jim called out. He turned back to me. "Nell, are sure that you’re okay?"

I was shivering a bit. "It’s a bit cool," I confessed. "Let me go and get my jacket."

As I ran into the building to get my silk jacket, I thanked my stars that I would not have to be alone with Jim. I hated wondering what his game was, and I was beginning to be scared as well. Whom could I trust?

An hour later I was still asking that question as I sat at the end of a table filled with a variety of known and unknown inebriated revellers. There was Jim, halfway through a pitcher of draft and mesmerized by the baseball game on the big screen tv. He seemed not to have a care in the world. Jenn was doing tequila shots, egged on by some big bald guy who laughed far too loudly. We’d seen him in the bar before, and this time he’d decided that we looked nice and sat down to party with us. Vicky would have to drive herself home later and was sipping at a glass of ice water as she sat next to me. If anybody looked preoccupied, it was she.

"What’s happening, Vicky?" I asked.

Vicky’s thoughts had been far away. She literally jumped as I spoke her name, and turned to face me, pushing a strand of straight black hair out of her grey eyes. Freed of its kitchen netting, it fell to the middle of her back. "I’m sorry, Nell," she said, trying to speak calmly. "What was that you said?"

"Nothing much," I replied, wishing that I knew what was going on with her. Something was eating away at her big time. "Do you like baseball? Jim sure gets wrapped up in it, doesn’t he?" I nodded down the table, where Jim, oblivious to our attention, was loudly arguing the merits of the Yankees with another loud bald guy, this one wearing a blue camp hat and obviously a little inebriated himself. "Who are these guys at our table, anyway? You’re from around here - any idea? "

She shrugged. "God knows. They just turned up. They’re loud, aren’t they?"

Just then the two strangers exploded with laughter over some unexplained joke, and when I glanced back at Vicky she was getting out her wallet preparatory to leaving. So much for a heart - to - heart talk. I don’t even want to talk about my drive home as Ms Coffee with Mr Beer and Miss Tequila. I was glad to get to bed and enjoy some peace and quiet - is it necessary for those who have drunk too much to sing quite that vigorously? Especially the lesser hits of the 1980's?

Friday morning came far too early again. One thing was for sure, my sleep patterns were being totally wrecked by my emotional turmoil. I lay in bed, staring balefully at my clock radio which cheerfully glowed five thirty-seven. I swore, and rolled over and stared at the ceiling. What the hell was I going to do?

Murder at Midsummer- Chapter Seven Part Two

2009-11-11T07:25:00.000-05:00

I had no idea how I could find Jack and talk to him, and warn him about Jim. I wouldn’t be able to "casually" talk to him in the course of my work until the next day, because I was off again, and I simply could not think of an adequate excuse for being found outside (or inside) his room on a day off. With tendency of both Twinett and Potter to haunt the hallways at all the most inconvenient moments, that was a risk I did not want to take. So instead, I stewed over the possibility that something could happen to him before I would have a chance to talk to him again.

I got up and pulled on my pajamas before nipping down the hall to the washroom. How I wished that I was working that day! In the first place, it would keep me busy. Plus, it would give me a chance to see Jack. I had no idea of what to do all day. I didn’t want to go too far away from the hotel in case – in case of I didn’t know what. It was stupid, because there was nothing really that I could do. Certainly, it was out of the question to skulk around after Jack, keeping an eye out for suspicious characters. At least Jim would be working at the front desk all day, so I wouldn’t have to worry about what he was doing. Except at lunch. And on his breaks. Damn.

In the hallway I almost collided with Jenn, who was coming out of her room, wearing running gear. "You should join me, Nell. You’d feel great!" she said as she leaned against the wall and stretched. I had lost track of the shooters she had thrown back last night, and I had to listen to her drunken singing on our way home. How dared she be so perky?

"Don’t you ever get hangovers?" I asked in a justifiably aggrieved tone. Jenn was far too golden-girl perfect. Blonde hair, tanned skin, flat stomach – sure, she worked at it, but it was irritating, nonetheless. I went back into my room, where I sat cross-legged on the bed, and hugged my pillow close to me, leaning my chin on it, wondering what could I do.

One can think too much, and still not accomplish anything. Frustrated, I got up, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, and went out to commune with nature.

It was early yet, barely six in the morning, and only a few hardy souls were out and about, running or power-walking. I could see Jennifer on the path around the perimeter of the meadow, keeping up an admirable pace. I had no desire to emulate her. The mist lay low on the lawns, and I headed towards the lake. I found a quiet spot amongst the underbrush at the top of the cliff (I checked first for poison ivy), and sat down, my knees drawn up to my chin, and stared out at my favourite lake.

I really don’t know why we don’t call Erie and the other Great Lakes inland seas, because the term "lake" conjures up the image of something with cottages along the opposite shore. You can’t see the other shore of Lake Erie: it’s beyond the horizon, meaning that when looking out you see boundless water, which this morning changed from grey to azure blue as I sat and watched the sun rise and strengthen. For a while I managed just to empty my mind of everything, and focussed instead on the mesmerising lake. Then, once I had calmed down, I attempted to organize my scattered thoughts and figure out a plan of action.

I couldn’t cling to Jack. Yesterday he had indicated that he liked me very much, and I still believed his story of the contract, but his behaviour at the hotel showed that he didn’t need me or want me near him. I tried to assure myself that all that was in the nature of a cover-up, because we certainly couldn’t meet in an open manner without occasioning comment and possibly losing me my job. But in the meantime, before I was back at work the next day, or ran into him quite by accident, I couldn’t take the risk of trying to get in touch with him. What he chose to do from his own end was his call.

I also couldn’t drop Jim. I had to string him along so that I could keep an eye on him in case he was up to something. Try as I might, and I really wanted to, I could not come up with an innocent explanation of his actions the day before. I would be going over Jack’s room with a fine-tooth comb when I finally did get back into it the next day.

So I was in wait-and-see mode. I would let things develop and deal with them as they came up. Feeling better after this quiet sorting-out, I disentangled myself from the underbrush and started back towards the main building, skirting the pavilion by the edge of the golf course.

I had been longer than I had thought. The sun was well up and the early golfers were out on the course already. And among them, not a hundred feet away, was Uncle Rob, with another man who looked vaguely familiar. I waved at Uncle Rob and kept on walking, not wanting to interrupt his game, but he said something to his partner and came towards me, a smile on his face. The least that I could do was walk in his direction as well. "Nell," he said, reaching me, "I’m glad to see you, although I didn’t think it would be here. Were you out for a walk?"

"Yes, I couldn’t sleep," I said, as he turned back towards his partner, steering me in the same direction. "What are you doing down here?"

"Oh, I like to play the course every couple of weeks, and Arthur," he waved over at his companion, whom we were rapidly approaching, "phoned me yesterday afternoon to say that he was coming down last night. I thought I’d get in an early round before heading down to Port Rowan for a ten o’clock with a client there who’s renovating a cottage out on Long Point." So this was Arthur Carruthers himself, Tintagel’s owner. This was his first visit to the hotel since I’d started working. I wondered if he had come down to supervise anything in particular, like possibly Jack’s murder. "I was going to check in on you before I left. Why did you have trouble sleeping?"

I shrugged. "Too much coffee last night, I guess. I went out with some friends to a bar in Tillsonburg."

He chuckled. "At least it was too much coffee and not too much beer."

"I was the DD," I said grumpily.

"Good," he said absently, not really listening. We had reached Arthur Carruthers, who turned and smiled, holding out his hand. "Arthur," said Uncle Robert, "this is my niece who is working for you, Nell Bannister. Nell, this is Arthur Carruthers."

"Pleased to meet you, Nell," Carruthers said heartily, shaking my hand. He was of medium height and middle age, in excellent shape, with graying slightly receding light-brown hair, and light hazel eyes. Continuing the brown theme, he was evenly tanned, as befitted someone who had the time and money at his disposal to boat and golf regularly. He had the manner of someone who always knew what he was doing, without being obnoxious about it. Well, he probably did know what he was doing; it would have been hard to be as successful as he was in his various enterprises without extreme competence.

"And you, Mr Carruthers," I answered meekly.

"Arthur was just about to try a shot, Nell. Stand back," commanded Uncle Robert, and without another word Carruthers swung smoothly and his club connected with the ball, sending it sailing up into the air and back to the ground at what appeared to be an acceptable distance. The fine points of golf are lost on me, I’m afraid.

"Excellent!" said Carruthers with pleasure, and turning to me he smiled brightly, saying, "I hope to see you again, Nell," and walked off in search of his ball. Since he could definitely afford a golf cart I assumed that he wanted the exercise.

Uncle Robert lingered for a moment after his friend had left. "Listen, Nell, Arthur just gave me a few tickets for Tuesday’s Midsummer Ball. Do you want one? It might be fun."

"Well, yes, uncle, it might, but I don’t think that Miss Potter would approve – "

"No one will know who you are," he assured me. "It’s a costume ball, remember? Hell, Arthur wouldn’t mind. You’re my niece, after all!"

Truth be told, the Midsummer’s Ball was something I had wanted to attend since I had first heard of it. It was the big event of the summer at Tintagel, and I heard that people from all over the eastern states and Canada made a point of coming up for it, even when it fell in the middle of the week. Tintagel had decided that it mattered that ir be on June 21 every year, not on the most convenient weekend. The party planners and decorators had already been in and out a dozen times, measuring and discussing things, and the kitchens had already started the process of making special delicacies. Vicky had been put onto tart duty, and grumbled a lot about the sheer quantity of pastry that she was expected to produce. Andy, of course, was even more profane than usual. A costume rental company had made an computerized catalogue available in the front lobby for the guests. Jim had taken me up in the wee small hours the week before so that I could see it, because I hadn’t believed him. I had resigned myself to being a Cinderella on Saturday night, but now I had my chance, and it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to be able to watch over Jack that night from closer quarters than the servants’ hall. A costume ball, with everyone disguised, seemed like a perfect opportunity to get rid of someone. "I’ll take it. Thanks, Uncle Rob," I said, giving him a quick hug. He took the ticket out of his wallet and handed it to me. I held it in my hand, careful not to crease it, because it was too nice-looking to wreck. It was a piece of pasteboard, the size of an index card, and elaborately decorated with late-Victorian curlicues.

"No problem," said Uncle Rob. He patted me on the cheek and turned back towards Carruthers and his game. He called over his shoulder, "Take care, and if there are any problems – "

"Just call me," I finished for him, waving goodbye. I felt better just seeing him. My mood changed a little for the worse when, looking across the course, I saw Jack and the redhead also engaged in a game of golf. If he noticed me he made no sign. It was just as well. I went back into the hotel to have breakfast.

I ran into Jenn in the hallway as she emerged from the shower room, vigorously towelling her hair. She still looked too healthy. After a run like that I would have been whining with what little air I had left. "Is this your day off, Nell?" she asked.

"Yeah," I answered.

"Vicky just called. Her car won’t start and she’s got no way of getting here. Can you go and pick her up?"

"Sure," I said, heading towards my room to grab my purse. Then I realized something, and turned back to Jenn. "Where does she live, anyway? I have no clue of how to find her place."

"Jim knows," said Jenn. "He’s on duty upstairs already, so we could get him on the house phone."

"I’ll take care of it," I promised. "No need to worry your pretty little head about it. Get ready for work instead."

"Thanks!" said Jenn, and disappeared into her room.

I nipped into the laundry room, which didn’t get up and running until eight, and picked up the receiver of the in-house phone, punching the front desk button. Jim answered, saying, hardly originally, "Front desk. How can I help you?"

"Jim," I said. "It’s Nell. I’m on an errand of mercy. Vicky’s stranded at home so I have to go and get her, but I have no idea where she lives."

"Did that piece of junk she drives break down again?"

"Oh, I don’t know," I said. "Jenn took the message. Just tell me how to get there."

He gave me the directions and I scribbled them on a piece of paper with a pen off the counter beside me. "Thanks, Jim," I said. "Catch you later."

Five minutes later I was out on the road headed east. I turned north when I had to because of a roadblock. The sand cliff along part of the shore road had deteriorated so badly that the road itself was in danger of falling into the lake. A week or so earlier I’d actually been warned away from the cliff edge near there by a farmer when I’d stopped to look at the hundreds of cliff swallows at sunset. Luckily, Tintagel’s position was not as precarious. On I drove, turning to the east again and then to the south, meeting up with the shore road again until I reached the tiny hamlet of Troyer’s Corners. It consisted of an old brick church perched above the lake, a variety store on the opposite corner, and three houses with perhaps a few too many retired and rusting cars strewn about their yards. I saw no people.

I turned north again and went half a mile before reaching a place set a hundred feet back from the road. There were no other houses nearby; instead, fields of small tobacco plants stretched off in all directions. This property did not differ too wildly from those places that I had just passed. It was a "raised ranch", the predominant architectural form of the area, mainly because of the high water table. This one was a smallish box of a place, sided in grubby white vinyl with a black roof. There was a large shed off to one side, covered in the same red tar paper used for tobacco kilns in the area, and behind it was a rusting water tower. A large garden planted with straight rows of onions, tomatoes, beans and squash plants on the other side of the house was impeccably weeded, the neatest thing on the property. Several aged vehicles were scattered around; I recognized one of them as the clunker that Vicky usually drove, so I knew that I had the right place.

I turned into the drive, and as I did Vicky came dashing out, ready for work, locking the door behind her. "Thank you!" she gasped, as she opened the door and jumped into the passenger seat. "I thought I was screwed. There was no way that I could get that wreck started, and my dad left for work a half hour before I got up. If I was late or couldn’t get there at all, Andy would have bitched to Twinett, and I’ve have been up on the carpet for sure. They’ve got me working overtime this week making all that damn pastry for the ball, as well as the regular stuff. You’ve saved my life, Nell."

"Pas de problem," I replied. "Red Emma likes to go out for a spin, don’t you?" I said lovingly, patting the dashboard. "We’ll get you there on time." I reversed down the drive and onto the deserted road, and headed back the way I’d come. "It’s a tad desolate around here, isn’t it?"

Vicky grimaced. "I hate it," she said. "There’s nothing here. Just those damn fields."

"Is it just your parents there?"

"Oh, no, there’s also my two brothers. Dan’s at school and John’s working in town. So I was definitely stranded. You’d think with four damn cars sitting in the yard that I’d be able to get out of there, but nooo, those are for working on. And revving. And then taking apart again. And then maybe taking out on the road to drag a bit."

"That explains the tire marks." I had noticed that someone had laid down a fair bit of rubber down that stretch of road.

"They’re idiots," said Vicky succinctly. "I want out of there so badly I don’t know what I’d do to make it happen. No one in my family realizes that there’s anything more out there than working in a factory or in tobacco and fooling around with old cars and going to bingo on Tuesday nights. Oh my God, I have got to get away from it."

"Well," I said, "you’ve chosen a good way to go about that. They’re screaming for good chefs out there."

"Don’t I know it," said Vicky. "This is the last summer I’ll be spending in Troyer’s Corners, you can count on that."

Well, there was a powerful motive. I really hoped that Vicky wasn’t involved. I liked her too much as a person – but then, that applied to Jim too, and I certainly couldn’t rule him out. I got Vicky to the parking lot with two minutes to spare, she yelled her thanks again and dashed in the service door, barely avoiding a maid with her arms full of pillows. (Tanya from the fourth floor). I followed more sedately and went downstairs to have breakfast.

Murder at Midsummer - Chapter Seven Part Three

2009-11-10T16:23:00.000-05:00

When I went back to my room after breakfast I promptly fell asleep and stayed that way until the middle of the afternoon. This time when I opened my eyes the clock told me that it was three fifty-six. "Shit," I said, rolling over and grabbing my clothes. With nothing better to do, I went out for another walk. It was a beautiful day, and the breeze off of the lake cooled me off, despite the strong sun.

I was sitting on a bench overlooking the broad green lawn to the north of the hotel, mulling over a variety of matters, when Arthur Carruthers came briskly walking along from the direction of the lobby. I had a perfect right to be sitting where I was (this was considered part of the staff area, being next to a set of stairs coming up from a basement door next to the lounge), so I didn’t bother getting up or anything, but said "Hi, Mr Carruthers," as he came by.

He stopped by the bench. "You seem wrapped in thought," he said. "Nell, isn’t it? Robert’s niece?"

He seemed inclined to talk, so the least I could do was keep the conversation going. However, I thought that I wasn’t quite up to sharing with him my thoughts on the murder ring that he just might be a part of, so I dredged up some pre-Jack reflections that I had indulged in whilst sitting on the same bench a week before. "Um, that’s right. I was just looking out at this lawn and imagining what it would look like as a garden instead."

"A garden?" he asked, sitting down beside me and looking intently at the lawn himself. "What sort of garden?" This was a man who listened to ideas. That’s how he had created this amazing hotel in the first place. I wondered how many ideas he had listened to.

I tried to block that speculation and focus on explaining my vision. "You have to understand," I said hesitantly, "that I spend a lot of time imagining gardens, so I tend to get a bit silly about them. And I was out in Victoria at Butchart Gardens last month, so I’ve got lots of ideas that probably wouldn’t work here."

He shook his head. "Never put down your own idea before you present it," he said. "First thing you learn in management training. What sort of garden?"

I plunged in. He’d asked for it. "Well, a Victorian house or estate like this lends itself to a variety of gardens. There’s the formal garden, with lots of annual bedding plants. That’s rather outmoded right now."

"Yes, aren’t perennials the thing?"

"Yes, and that’s an alternative design suitable to this house. Something with lots of arbours, vines, a mixture of shrubs, roses, perennials, some old-fashioned annuals, with a good selection of garden sculpture, perhaps a pond..."

"Sounds lovely!"

"Yes, and also," I said, warming to my topic, "you could have a wonderful old-fashioned kitchen garden here, to supply the kitchen with much of its produce. Just like those old English estates- and more and more hotels and restaurants today. It could become a selling point for the place. You could run garden seminars – organic, of course – it could be quite an attraction!"

Carruthers listened intently, and then, with a decisive nod of his head, stood up. "Thank you, Nell," he said, and was gone off down the path, back towards the lobby. There seemed to be no reason why had he walked this way, just to turn back again. As I looked in the direction of his retreating figure I saw Jack walking in the direction of the terrace restaurant, and sighed. I really wanted a chance to talk to him.

Jim came by my room around four thirty and insisted that I go to the beach with him and the others. I went, but spent most of my time lying face down on a towel on the beach under the umbrella.. It was a hot day, and the breeze off the lake felt good.. Jim came over at one point and sat down beside me. "Nell, what is wrong?" he asked calmly.

I reluctantly sat up, resting my arms on my knees. "Jim, I don’t really want to talk about it," I started slowly.

He put a comforting arm around me. "Don’t, then. I don’t want to force you. But listen, if there’s anything I can do to help..."

I smiled up at him. It was very hard to picture Jim as a bad guy. "Jim, it’s just one of those things a girl’s got to work through. You know."

He nodded understandingly. "If there’s any guy who needs to be roughed up, just to give his head a shake, all you need to do is tell me."

I laughed weakly. "That’s great, Jim. Thanks."

"Now lie down again and get a tan, Nell."

"Thanks, Jim," I said again, and he got up and left me alone. Life just kept getting more complicated.

We went back to the hotel for dinner, and afterwards the others sat down in the staff lounge to watch sitcoms. Although they wanted me to stay there with them, I declined and went back to my room, where I flopped disconsolately on my bed. Staring up at the stains on the ceiling, I wondered where Jack was, and what he was doing, and with whom, or if anything had happened to him. I was powerless to do anything, but that didn’t stop me from worrying. I couldn’t wait until the next morning to talk to him about Jim, but I would have to, so I got undressed, crawled into bed, and turned the light out to try to sleep. It might have worked, too, if I hadn’t heard voices outside my window.

The first voice made me want to hide under the covers, even though I knew that he couldn’t see me. Loathsome Len’s oily tones were unmistakable, and he made my flesh crawl, even with ten feet and a thick wall between us. "It’s good to see you again," he said. "You’ve been avoiding me."

The next voice had me sitting straight up in the bed. Subconsciously I had been expecting Tammy, after that incident in the bar, but, "What the hell are you doing here?" Vicky asked savagely.

"Temper, temper," chided Len. "Did you just get off work, then, love?"

"Don’t call me that," she said through what sounded like gritted teeth. It seemed that she was as fond of him as I was. I remembered that she had not been at the Port Burwell bar with us that night that Len had slimed all over me.

"As for why I’m here, I have some business to attend to. Are you sure you don’t want to be involved?"

"I’m finished with that, Len. You know that. Do you want me to get the cops in on this, or are you going to clear out?"

"Wouldn’t the cops be interested in your role in all of this, my dear? If I recall correctly – and I have an actor’s memory – "

She swore bitterly at him and must have left, for all I heard after that was Len’s unctuous chuckle, and then his footsteps along the brick path towards the lobby. I certainly had a lot to talk to Jack about in the morning.

Murder at Midsummer: Chapter Eight

2009-11-09T19:31:00.000-05:00

When the alarm went off Saturday morning, I groaned reflexively, but then I remembered, and I was wide awake. I rushed up the stairs to the third floor housekeeping room well before it was necessary. I already had the coffee on when Sue came in, yawning a bit. "God, it was hard to get up this morning," she muttered, as I poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her. She collapsed into her chair by the window. "Why the hell are you so peppy today?"

"I’m rested after my two days off," I said. "You sit here and I’ll pick up the orders."

"Whatever," she shrugged, and off I went down the hallway. I didn’t waste any time on the orders because I wanted to get to Jack’s room as quickly as possible. If he had any sense he would have an order on his doorknob so that I would have an excuse to knock on his door as soon as possible.

There was nothing on his door. The corridor was empty, so there was no one to see me have a full-out panic attack. I had absolutely no idea of what to do. If I knocked on the door without an invitation I might not like what would see. Jack could be dead. There was a contract on his life. On the other hand, there was that redhead. I knew which room she was in: also on my hall, also without an order. There were no clues as to what might lie behind Jack’s door. There was also no noise, nothing to indicate what might be going on. I swore long and hard under my breath, mostly at Jack, and then turned abruptly away and started collecting orders from the other doors.

It seemed like an eternity, but it was actually only about five minutes before I got back to the housekeeping room. We quickly sorted through the orders and Sue went down to the kitchens to get the fruit and rolls we needed for the trays. As soon as she was gone, I headed back to the south corridor. God knows why. I felt as useless as tits on a boar hog (as my Grandpa Joe the farmer used to say), but I did not know what else to do. For a day and a half I had counted on this morning being the time to see Jack again, and talk to him about my suspicions, and do whatever else might seem worthwhile to do with him, and I was just as far away from him as I had been in the staff quarters.

I hovered by the east window at the end of the corridor as long as I thought was reasonable, and then, thinking that Sue would be back any second, and worried that guests might emerge from their rooms and wonder what the hell I was up to, I started down the hallway. I was almost to the elevators when I heard a door open and close behind me, and forced myself to casually look behind me. It was Jack, looking absolutely wonderful in jeans and a dark blue t-shirt, with a black casual jacket. He stopped when he saw me, just for a moment, and then kept walking, very deliberately, towards me. There was no smile in his eyes. I was perplexed, but did not hesitate. "Jack," I said, running back towards him, "I have so much to tell you."

We were right next to the doorway into the ice room. He took me by my arms, so hard that it hurt, and pulled me into the alcove. Still with that stony expression on his face, he pushed me up against the wall in the space between the ice machine and the corner, where no one walking past could see us. For a moment his implacable blue eyes stared down into mine, and I was too dumbfounded to say anything. I could hear the ice rattling inside the machine, and my heart seemed to be thumping in time with it. Then Jack spoke. His voice was ragged with anger, with large gaps between his words. "Don’t you ever come near me again," he said, and then let go of me. His hands had been the only thing keeping me upright, and I quickly slid to the floor, staring up at him in shock. Without another word he walked out, leaving me there in a heap on the floor, clutching my arms where the imprint of his hands still hurt.

"Jack!" said a bright, lilting voice with American overtones. "Ready for breakfast?"

"Jessica, my dear," he said pleasantly. "So nice to see you so soon. I was just waiting for you." And off they went, chattering and laughing.

I could not have stayed there for more than a few minutes, for I did not want Sue to start to look for me, so I fiercely told myself that I was not going to cry, I would get up and get a cup of coffee and get to work, and that everything would be okay. I pulled myself to my feet, and waited until I heard the elevator "ting" and then close again, so that the coast would be clear. I had no desire to run into them.

When I got back to the housekeeping room I had no memory of walking down the hallway, but I must be a better actor than I thought, because Sue didn’t notice anything wrong, even though she was now wide awake. She was sorting out the fruit and rolls onto the trays, and looked up as I came in. "What took you so long?" she asked, counting out croissants.

"Washroom break," I muttered, heading to the coffee maker and pouring myself a cup. "Sorry, Sue."

"Don’t worry about it," she answered. "Here, pour a pot of coffee for 310, and then you can take it. It’s all ready to go."

I brought over the coffee and, putting it on the tray, picked it up and went out the door. I stopped for a moment there, just to psyche myself up. It’s okay, Nell, I told myself, you don’t have to see him now. He won’t be up here. He’s downstairs having breakfast with Jessica. And off I went.

I didn’t see him then, or at any other time that morning, actually. I hated having to unlock his door and walk in, just in case he was in there. It was with a great sense of relief that I found his room to be empty. I hoped that if he did come along, seeing the cleaning cart in the hallway and his door wide open, he would have the sense to stay away, and indeed if he did come up while I was there he must have turned around and left.

I had gone to his room first, since I knew that he had gone downstairs. And I got out of there fast. Considering how he had treated me that morning, I no longer cared if he dropped dead that afternoon. I made the bed, wiped down the washroom, changed the towels, and got the hell out of there. The rest of the morning I worked like a demon, trying to forget what had happened, but of course that wasn’t possible. I kept playing that scene over and over again in my head, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. I couldn’t do it, but the conclusion was inescapable: Jack now hated my guts. I even forced myself to reconsider the murder story. Maybe he had been lying: maybe he had come up with that to explain the gun and convince me not to squeal on him to the police. The other possibility was equally unpleasant. It was possible that the murder story was true, and that somehow Jack now thought that I was involved. His anger had seemed convincingly genuine, and it had certainly been directed towards me in particular. Either way, there didn’t seem to be much that I could do about the situation.

By two o’clock I had finished all of my rooms and achieved a sort of equilibrium. As I locked the door of 311 behind me, I was able to congratulate myself on working through my confusion and anger and reached a sense of inner peace.

And then Jack strolled around the corner, chatting amiably to Jessica, who was hanging onto his arm. He paused only to throw a candy wrapper into the garbage bag hanging from one end of my cleaning cart, with a brief, false smile in my general direction, suitable for lowly maid from guest. They continued down the corridor, halting in front of his door. He let go of her and unlocked it, the two of them laughing over some private joke. Then he swung it open and gestured for her to enter before him. As he turned to shut the door, he saw me standing there at the end of the hallway, unable to move away. But it was as if I didn’t exist. He stepped into the room with her and shut the door behind him with a slam.

All of my calm and self-possession was shattered, but my overwhelming emotion at that moment was a strong desire to kill. I felt betrayed and used, and it was all Jack’s fault. The sooner he was dead the better. I turned away and pushed the cleaning cart back to the housekeeping room, barely able to see because of the tears pouring down my face. Sue was still cleaning her rooms: she didn’t look up as I rattled past the open door where she was vacuuming, which was just as well. I was trying to figure out how I could get from the third floor to my basement room without anyone seeing me, because I didn’t want to be seen. I shoved my cart against the wall opposite the door with a vindictive crash, and dried my face on a dish towel, which I threw in the pile of dirty laundry in the corner. That would be picked up later by Tim. Then I ran through the stairwell door and down I went, as quickly as I could. I did pass a couple of people on the way down, but I just ignored them. I wasn’t even sure who they were. Once in the basement, I swiftly made it to the sanctuary of my room, where I wasted no time in throwing myself down across my bed and bawling my eyes out.

It’s amazing how long you can cry when you really put your mind to it. I lost all track of time, and eventually, worn out with the emotional wringer I’d been through that day, I fell asleep, only to be awakened by someone pounding at my door. I opened one bleary eye and stared at the door. "Who the hell is it?" I asked.

"Jim. Who else?"

He was right. There was no one else it would have been. He was the social convenor of our little gang. Groaning, I got to my feet and staggered over to the door, and unlocked it. Jim was there, one hand hanging onto the top of the doorframe as he leaned in. "What do you want?" I asked.

"Nell!" Jim was shocked. He came into my room and shut the door behind him, leading me back to my bed, where he made me sit down, brushing my hair back from my face. "You poor thing, what’s wrong? You look terrible."

"Is it that bad? I’ve had a shitty day, Jim. That’s all."

"You’ve been crying," he said accusingly, putting his arm around me and letting my head rest on his nice, strong shoulder.

"It’s just that girl thing I was telling you about the other day. I’m having – " there was no way I could tell him the truth – "trouble with a guy in Toronto," I finished lamely. "I phoned him today and he broke up with me."

"You’ve kept him awfully quiet up until now," Jim said suspiciously.

"There was no reason to tell you about him. And when I came down here we were on the verge of splitting up. I don’t like talking about things like that. I was just really bummed out about it finally happening, that’s all. It’s out of my system now."

"Really?" Jim pushed my chin up with his free hand so that I had to look him in the eye.

"Really," I lied bravely, looking in those brown eyes without flinching.

"Okay," he said, giving me a last quick squeeze before letting me go and standing up. "Now get yourself cleaned up and I am going to take you into town for dinner."

"All right," I said, rising from the bed, and moving over to my dresser and looking into the mirror. "Good Lord," I exclaimed, "do I look that bad?"

Jim came over and stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders. "Nothing a quick touch-up won’t solve." His glance fell on the ticket for the Midsummer Ball, which I had carelessly tucked into the corner of the frame. "How did you get one of those?" he asked suspiciously.

I turned to him, wondering at his tone. "My uncle gave it to me," I said quickly.

"Your uncle?" he asked, looking down in surprise. "Who’s he?"

I turned back and fiddled with the stuff on my dresser. "I don’t know why I kept it a secret, but I felt a bit self-conscious about the whole thing. My uncle is Robert Winston, the architect who designed this place."

"Your uncle is Robert Winston?"

"You’ve seen him around, no doubt. He was down yesterday, in fact, and I ran into him while he was playing golf with Arthur Carruthers, and he gave me a ticket. Carruthers had just given him some, and he thought that I might enjoy it. And I would, Jim. Don’t weasel on me, okay?" I pleaded.

He shrugged. "We lackeys must stick together, Nell. I won’t tell on you. Actually, I’ve been roped in to help that night. I’ll be taking tickets at the door, and then just keeping an eye on things. I won’t give you a hard time when you come in."

"You won’t even recognize me," I promised him, "because I’ll be so well disguised."

"Hah!" he laughed. "Until the first time you trip on your own feet!"

I hit him, and he shied away in mock terror. "Come on, Nell, get ready and I’ll take you out to dinner."

"Who else is going ?" I asked.

"No one," he said. "No," he said, as I started to protest, "You are my friend and you have had a bad day, and I want to treat you to a nice dinner – or as nice a dinner as we can get there. I’ll be back for you in half an hour. Get busy."

And he left, and I was at a loss for what to do. The more I saw of Jim the less that I could believe that he was capable of doing what was going on there – if it actually was going on. My confidence in Jack’s veracity had plummeted with his behaviour that day. And Jim was being a lot nicer to me than Jack, so I decided to go with Jim and enjoy myself.

Jim came back in half an hour to find that I was cleaned up and ready to go. He insisted on driving , but in my car. We sped up to Tillsonburg along the highway, not talking much because it’s not too easy in my car with the roof down, but I was glad of the opportunity to let the wind blow away some of my heaviness of spirit. When we reached the stop light at the south edge of Tillsonburg, Jim glanced over at me. "Feeling better?" he asked.

"Oh, yes!" I smiled brightly. "Thank you, Jim, for being so nice to me. I needed this today."

"Like I said, Nell, you are my friend." He reached over and squeezed my hand, smiling at me warmly. I smiled back. Then the light changed, and we headed into the town. Jim asked me, "Where do you want to go?"

"It’s your treat," I said. "You choose."

He chose the upscale sports bar which we hadn’t yet visited with the gang, and once we’d ordered drinks and appetizers I excused myself and went to the washroom. It would be on the far side of the restaurant from where we were sitting, so I had to make my way through a maze of tables and many people, because this restaurant was always busy. Over in a corner I was surprised to see Arthur Carruthers, sitting against the wall and facing a tall, slender woman whose back looked familiar. They didn’t notice me, and I ducked into the washroom corridor, wondering what was going on. This was not the sort of place one expected to find Carruthers, who could afford to buy much better restaurants. For that matter, he already owned one: the hotel’s food was excellent, so there was no reason to bring this woman here. After emerging from the washroom I carefully did not look in their direction again, because I did not want them to notice me, and scurried back over to Jim and our drinks.

The dinner with Jim was very nice. I was still fixated on Jack, but even with that lurking always in the back of my mind I was able to enjoy my normal banter with Jim. I had decided that Jack was lying about the contract and Jim had had some obscure reason for visiting Jack’s room connected with reservations or something, and the sooner I put the whole foolish thing out of my head the better. The two Margaritas I had helped with this line of thinking, I will admit, since a certain absence of logic was necessary to make it work.

Jim got me back safely to the hotel, and delivered me to my room by ten o’clock, at my request. I didn’t want to go back up to that third floor corridor the next day, with whatever unexploded bombs, courtesy of Jack, which would be awaiting me, but since I had to, I wanted a good night’s sleep under my belt first.

Murder at Midsummer: Chapter Nine Part One

2009-11-08T13:09:00.000-05:00

The Margaritas did a good job of helping me sleep, but that made me no happier about going upstairs on Sunday morning. This day it was I who was in danger of being late, and it was Sue who made the coffee, but she asked me to pick up the orders, so I reluctantly set out to do so rather than make a fuss about it. I made my way down the north corridor, pulling off the forms from their knobs as I went. As I turned the corner to the elevator area, I slowed down even more, and came to a total halt before turning down the south corridor itself. Then I literally slapped myself on the face (lightly). "Shape up," I said sternly under my breath. "Just do what you have to." I took a deep breath and turned the corner, my eyes going immediately to Jack’s door. My heart sank: there was an order hanging there. Ignoring the others as I passed, I went straight there, not wanting to look at it, but unable to resist. I tore it off quietly, and backed away from the door before looking at it – and then swore viciously under my breath. That bloody rooster couldn’t resist crowing over me: this was an order for two breakfasts!

I had no idea why he would be acting like this. It was not as if I had pursued him. On the train he had taken the initiative, and the other day he was the one who had followed me to London and into the library. He had no reason to turn on me like this.

Sue was surprised when I banged back into the service room, still muttering and swearing. "What’s wrong, Nell?" she asked in surprise, as I started tossing the orders into their two piles.

"Men are bastards," I answered curtly, handing over her orders and sorting my own by time. Jack’s was in a scant fifteen minutes. Very cute. I supposed that he (and she) would like it if I turned up late, apologising for the delay.

"Not all of them," Sue answered with a little smile, but I wasted no time on that possibility. I snorted contemptuously, and, grabbing the basket, went down the stairs to collect the rolls and fruit. I think that if anyone had felt like talking to me they would have veered away once they saw the expression on my face. I made it back upstairs in record time, put the tray together, and, gritting my teeth, headed out. I reached his door and knocked.

The door opened, and I walked in. Jack, dressed in jeans and a unbuttoned denim shirt, his feet bare, closed it behind me and took the tray from me, setting it down on the table by the window, before turning back and facing me. He had opened the curtains and behind him I could see Lake Erie in the early morning light. Jack smiled tentatively, which was odd: in my experience Jack was not tentative. There was no one else in the room. I turned to leave.

"Please, Nell," he said, his voice husky. "Let me explain."

That did it. "Explain? You want to explain? You set me off like a firecracker, and then treat me like public enemy number one, and now you want to explain?" I was furious. "I am out of here, Jack." I turned to open the door, but he was across the room before I could reach the handle, and caught me by the waist. "Don’t you lay a hand on me," I spat out. "I’ve got bruises from the last time." I pulled away from him and pulled up my sleeve, showing him the clear marks of his fingers, faint blue against my pale skin.

Jack turned white. "Oh, God, Nell," he muttered, bending his head and brushing his lips against the bruises. "I had no idea what I was doing. I thought..."

The touch of his lips set my heart pounding. I reached out to touch his hair with a trembling hand. "Jack, what is going on?" I asked weakly.

He raised his head and pulled me close to him, leading me over to the sofa by the window. "Nell, there’s no excuse for it, but God help me Nell, I thought that you were involved in this thing."

I stared at him in shock. "You thought that I was part of this thing?" He tried to get me to sit down beside him, but I resisted. "Jack, what the hell kind of idiot are you? You tell me your whole story one day, and think that I’m one of the criminals the next? Why would you still be alive, if I was?" I stood there in front of him, my hands on my hips.

"There was that, of course," he admitted. "And truly, I felt like an idiot when I saw you with the man who I think is running the operation." I tried to say something, but he shook his head. "No, Nell, I felt worse than a fool. I felt betrayed. I had trusted you with my story, and maybe something more, and there you were chatting with the man behind it all."

"You saw us together?" I said. That meant it had to be Carruthers.

"Sit down, Nell, please," he urged. "I need to tell you." I let him pull me down, and put his arm around me as he drew me close. "That’s better," he said, his lips next to my ear. "Nell, I was furious with you after that. I knew that it wouldn’t help matters, but I wanted to punish you for listening to me. I thought that you must have been laughing all the time at how gullible I was."

"So you flaunted Jessica in front of me," I said slowly.

"And hurt you, and I there’s no way I can undo that now. Nell, can you forgive me?"

"That was pretty ruthless, the way you used Jessica," I pointed out, my hands against his chest, holding him away from me.

"Jessica," he laughed quietly. "She was throwing herself at me. Jessica was trying to play me off against her husband in Pittsburgh. Don’t worry about Jessica. She’s leaving this morning for home." His hands moved mine out of the way and held me closer, his voice changing to a gentle murmur and his arms tightening around me.

I raised my face to his, and our lips almost met when I said "Damn!" and turned my head to look at his bedside clock. I wriggled out of his embrace, and started desperately to straighten my clothes. "Jack, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ve got breakfasts to deliver."

He stood up, smoothing my hair for me, and dropped a kiss on my forehead. "Can we meet later, Nell? There’s still so much to talk about."

"Oh, Lord, Jack, I have a lot of leads for you. We’ll have to get together."

"For more than leads," he promised me, following me to the door. Just before I opened it, he grabbed me in his arms and kissed me, hard and fast.

"Later," I promised him, and got out the door, not too dishevelled in appearance. It was unfortunate that there was a couple walking down the hallway, who must have wondered at my precipitate departure from the room, but I gave them a brief, courteous smile and dashed down the corridor as decorously as I could.

Sue hadn’t even missed me. It seemed that I had been away for an eternity, but I still had fifteen minutes before I had to deliver the next breakfast tray, so I sat down in the chair by the window and tried to stop shaking.

Jack was very good at upsetting my equilibrium, no matter how he treated me. The only thing that I could reasonably do now was to try to push him to the back of my mind and get through the hours until I could be with him again. I had another cup of coffee and a handful of fresh local strawberries, and set to work.

Why Steve felt that it was the perfect morning to bug me, I don’t know, but about ten o’clock, as I was bringing some dishes back to the housekeeping room, there he was, carrying some electrical apparatus. "Room 316," he informed me with a smirk. "Got an important job to do. The infra-red light in the bathroom’s out. Can’t have that in the middle of June, can we? The guests might get a wee bit chilly coming out of the shower."

"Who told you?" I asked curiously. That was one of my rooms, and I hadn’t noticed the problem the day before.

"Oh, Potter’s already been in there after the guests’ departure this morning. She never misses anything. I found the note in my mailbox. No doubt she’ll be bitching to you about missing it." He hoisted the equipment up on his shoulder, and headed off down the hall. "See you later, baby."

Somehow, I managed to avoid Steve after that. I left Jack’s room to the last, which showed a pretty extreme degree of control, if you ask me. I didn’t go down for lunch: I wasn’t hungry. I was too damned happy. To be thrown down to the pits of despair one day, and then raised back up the next, was very bad for the appetite.

Shortly after one I came to Jack’s door. I hadn’t seen him since I’d left his room that morning, so I had no idea where he was. There was an older man walking down the hallway as I stood there, so I knocked quickly on the door, as usual, called out "Maid!" and when there was no response, unlocked the door and entered, leaving my cart against the wall opposite the door. So far, this was normal procedure. I left the door open when I entered, because of course a maid does not shut the door of the room while cleaning it. But as I set down my pile of clean towels on the chair next to the bathroom, the door swung shut behind me, someone grabbed me, and I was swept over to the bed in someone’s strong arms.

Jack threw me down onto the still-unmade bed before I had a chance to respond. "Jack," I gasped, my arms reflexively going around him as he tightened his embrace and moved his mouth along my throat towards my chin. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

"I’ve been waiting for you in here all morning," he responded softly. "Nell, I’ve been thinking of nothing but you and how much I wanted to do this – and this – ", and then our mouths met, and there was no talking for quite a while, although there was the occasional sound.

Time and other minor considerations ceased to matter as hands shifted, clothes were loosened, and mouths never stopped moving. At one point Jack started chuckling softly, and he propped himself on his elbows to one side, his head resting on one hand, while the other stroked my hair. We needed a break to breathe: not much of that had been going on. "I’ve never tumbled a chamber wench before," he observed, smiling lazily at me.

"Don’t stop," I begged, and he rolled back on top of me, his mouth exploring the hollow at the base of my throat while I nibbled at his ear. That’s when there was a knock at the door, and we heard Miss Potter’s voice ask, "Nell, are you in there?"

Jack jerked his head up suddenly, and we stared into each other’s eyes in horror. "God damn!" said Jack under his breath. He leapt off the bed while I rolled off of it and underneath. I thanked myself fervently for being a scrupulous vacuumer, because it was relatively pristine under there. There was little chance of a tell-tale sneeze. Virtue was, obviously its own reward. Virtue in vacuuming, that is. I heard him walk across the room, and then open the door.

"Oh!" said Miss Potter. "I’m sorry, Mr – ?"

"Mitchell," said Jack in his most demure tone. "And you are – ?"

"Glenda Potter, Mr Mitchell, the housekeeper. Did you just hear a thump?"

"No," said Jack. "What sort of thump?" he asked helpfully.

"Oh, it’s nothing, I’m sure. I’m sorry to have disturbed you, but I was looking for one of my maids, and as I saw her cart here by your room I thought that perhaps she was cleaning in here. You haven’t seen the maid, have you?"

" Not since she delivered my breakfast this morning. I hope there’s no problem. I have no complaints about her – er – work."

I stifled a giggle under the bed, while she answered, "Oh, no, Mr Mitchell. It’s just a question about scheduling. I wonder where she could be." She was incapable of being irresolute, but she got about as close as she could. She must have been looking up and down the corridor for me, in vain.

"Perhaps," Jack suggested helpfully, "she’s gone for a – well, you know –. Or she could be in the housekeeping room."

"Possibly," she said, probably nodding briskly. That was her style. "Thank you, Mr Mitchell."

"No problem, Miss Potter," he responded smoothly, and the door shut. "You can come out now," he said, as I crawled out from under the bed. "Wait until she’s around the corner and then you’d better get out of here."

I stood up, adjusting my clothes. He walked over to me, and, standing behind me, helpfully did up my zipper. "We have to meet somewhere away from this place," he said, taking advantage of his position to move my hair aside and kiss the nape of my neck.

"Stop that," I said, twisting around to face him, "or I’ll never get out of this room." He bent his head, and we kissed again, quickly but intensely, before I pulled myself away and ran for the door. "Where?" I asked, as I stood aside for him to open the door and peek out.

He pulled his head back in. "All clear. Five o’clock at the ice cream place in Port Burwell."

" Done," I said, slipping out past him without a backward glance. He shut the door gently behind me, and I ran for the southeast stairwell, confident that I could fool Miss Potter. Once through the door, I came right back in again, and had gone no more than a few paces when she came steaming back around the corner like an ocean liner on the high seas.

"Ah, Nell," she called out, pleased to have actually found me, "I need to talk to you."

I approached her, looking suitably servile. We met by my cart. I was acutely aware that Jack was on the other side of the door opposite, which made it a little difficult to concentrate on what she was saying. "I’ve been trying to plan the schedules for the next two weeks. Would it be possible for you to take Tuesday off, and then work eight straight days? I know that it’s a lot to ask, but I can’t make it fit any other way."

I thought quickly. Tuesday was the Midsummer’s Ball, so if I had that day off I would be able to go to London in the morning and find a costume. I had been wondering about what I could wear. I nodded, and told her that would be okay. She smiled in a satisfied way – once again, Glenda Potter proves her organizational abilities – but made no move to leave.

"I assume that your next room is Mr Mitchell’s here?" she said, indicating Jack’s closed door.

"Yes, Miss Potter, it’s my last one, before I go back and clean up the dishes and trays."

"You are a very efficient worker, Nell. I appreciate that in an employee. Mr. Mitchell is in his room right now. Perhaps you should go and clean the dishes now and come back later."

I had no choice but to accompany her as she started down the hallway towards the elevator. However, when we were halfway there, Jack’s door opened behind us, and we turned to see that he was dressed for swimming, wearing the hotel’s bathrobe. Theoretically there was a bathing suit under there as well. He waved at us. "Going for a swim," he called.

Miss Potter nodded, satisfied. "Very well, then, Nell, you can straighten his room now."

Like I needed to be told. "Yes, Miss Potter," I said, and went back to my cart, unlocking Jack’s door.

I lingered over his room, half hoping that he would return, but I reluctantly realized that it was best that he did not. I little hope of being able to show any more self-control than earlier, and I didn’t want to get caught in a compromising position. This was not the time to get thrown out of the hotel. So I was not particularly pleased to find a note in the housekeeping room from Twinett, telling me to go to his office when I had finished for the day. This on a Sunday, when he should probably have been at home mowing his lawn. This did not bode well. No one got called in to be patted on the back. That wasn’t his style. Could it be the lamp in 316?

That gave me something extra to think about while finishing up the dishes.

Murder at Midsummer: Chapter Nine Conclusion

2009-11-07T21:43:00.000-05:00

Once I was done on the third floor, I took the stairs directly to the office corridor on the first floor. Twinett’s office was the nice one, with a window looking out onto the pool courtyard. It seemed a bit noisy to me, but he probably appreciated being able to check out the bathing suits. He was sitting at his computer when I knocked at the door. "Ah, Nell, is it?" he asked, swinging around to the big desk, which had one neat pile of papers in a corner and that was it. I could see Pinkerton’s adjacent office out of the corner of my eye, and his desk was awash with paper. It was easy to see who was doing most of the work around here. At that moment, however, Pinkerton was in Twinett’s office, in the comfy seat to the side of the desk. Twinett, of course, was firmly planted directly behind the desk. He knew his psychology. "Come in, won’t you, and take a seat." The words were cordial but the tone was not. He had the bully look on his face. I’d seen it when he looked at Tom when the race was over.

I sat down on the hard chair in front of the desk. It looked like it got used a lot. Pinkerton smiled quickly, but said not a word. This was Twinett’s show. He picked up a sheet of paper from the top of the pile in the corner and frowned at it. "Nell, I have received a complaint about your behaviour."

It wasn’t the lamp. It was worse. If there was one thing that Twinett loved reminding us, it was that the guest was always right. My heart plummeted. I did not want to be fired or even demoted to the laundry right now. He continued to frown as he read the paper in question. "You have been rude to a guest in this hotel, and I want it to stop." He was using his hectoring voice, the one I had heard the day that he was giving Sue the gears about too many croissants being used in the breakfasts on our floor, as if it was our fault that our guests seemed to like breakfast in bed. The truth was that he rarely actually knew what he was talking about, but liked to take any opportunity given to wield his authority over us.

I swallowed. I wasn’t scared of him, but I was worried about possible short-term consequences. It was likely that I could play Uncle Robert as a trump card, but I didn’t want to have to involve him. "I would like to know what I’m accused of, Mr Twinett," I said.

He pointed the paper at me like a giant accusing finger. And then he hesitated. He seemed to have forgotten what he was supposed to say next. For a long moment he was at a complete loss, and then he continued smoothly, once again in command of the good ship Tintagel and all who sailed in her. "Naturally I cannot tell you who has complained, and about what, for that might make it uncomfortable for that particular guest, given what I have seen of your attitude."

I reviewed the possibilities. There was the fellow from Detroit with a surprise "roomie" that I’d refused to give an extra breakfast to – because it broke Twinett’s own precious rules. Or the elderly woman from Oakville who had wigged out on me a few days earlier when I didn’t change her sheets every day. (I gave in and did it , just to keep the peace, but she still wasn’t happy with me. She, like Twinett, thought that I had an attitude). "However," continued Twinett, "I am warning you. The next thing that you do that is not in strict accordance with your duties as a maid, and believe me, I will be watching, will result in your immediate dismissal." There. He’d said it. He leaned back, a smug smile of satisfaction crossing his face, but never touching his slightly froggy eyes. Man, he gave me the creeps.

I had a choice, of sorts. I could piss him off, get fired immediately, and then not be in a position to help Jack when he needed me. Or I could swallow my pride, even if my gorge rose within me, apologise, and be kept on. "I apologise, Mr Twinett, for whatever I may have done that has upset a guest. I know that their satisfaction is our primary concern. I promise to be more careful in future."

Twinett looked nonplussed. I was sure that he had wanted to fire me. Probably that was why Pinkerton was there, to be a witness of my unacceptable behaviour when I got mad. But I hadn’t done what he expected, and now Twinett was caught by his own cleverness. He muttered something and waved for me to leave, turning to Pinkerton and saying in a confidential tone, "Now, about the costumes for the ball..." I got up and fled, realising that my position at Tintagel was hanging by a thread, and wondering why Twinett had chosen this moment out of all others to try to get rid of me. Was it just his love of being the guy with the power, or did he see me as a threat to his other line of work?

I barely knew what I was doing, but I managed to shower, get changed, get in the car, and drive into Port Burwell and appear to be a reasonably normal human being. I sat down at one of the picnic tables on the lawn outside the ice cream place, and waited patiently, watching the people thronging the streets on this hot, sunny June Sunday afternoon. In my mind I can still clearly see what happened next.

I saw him coming down the street from where he had parked, and rose from the bench to watch him approach. He saw me, and smiled and waved. I enjoyed just watching him move as he swung down the street. Then, suddenly, out of the parking lot by the bank, a van screeched out and cut off my view of Jack. The next thing I heard was a scream, and the van roared off , leaving me a clear view of Jack prone on the road, people gathering about him. I raced there, my feet pounding on the hot pavement, unable to think coherently. I skidded to a halt by his body, and fell to my knees, bending over his face. His eyes were shut, but I could see the rise and fall of his chest, and sobbed with relief. It seemed that his arm was bleeding. "Jack," I begged. "Say something."

His eyes flew open, and eyes as hard and as blue as sapphires stared into mine. "I do not know you," he said, and turned his head away.

I sat back on my heels, sobbing as the shock wore off. Someone moved me out of the way so that the doctor, hastily fetched from his home in the village, could examine him. I ended up being pushed back through the crowd of interested onlookers, until I was on the outside of the group, standing alone.

I had told no one of our assignation. Surely he had not either, or he would not leap to the conclusion that I was involved. I had carefully avoided being followed, going to the trouble of first driving north to a village up the highway and losing any followers there before heading back to Port Burwell by a circuitous route. I doubted that Jack had showed any less caution. There was no way to know how Jack been targeted that day.

I began to hear what the people nearby were saying, as if the volume was slowly being turned up on a radio. "Did anyone get the license plate?"one woman asked.

"Covered in mud," someone said in disgust. "Typical."

"Couldn’t the police look for that make anyway?"

"A brown van with a tan stripe? There’s a hundred of those around here."

I saw Jack being helped into a car and driven off, probably to the doctor’s office. His injuries didn’t look too serious. He didn’t even look around to see where I was. I raised my clenched fist to my mouth, whimpering slightly. I was very scared. Without realising it I had backed up, and suddenly I found myself against the wall of the hardware store. I glanced to my left and saw the owners standing there, watching the melee and shaking their heads. To my right I saw a phone booth.

I ran for it, suddenly realizing that I needed to talk to someone who trusted me and whom I trusted, and there was no one nearby who qualified for that position at this time. I pulled my phone book out of my purse, and with trembling fingers found Uncle Rob’s number, put in my quarter, and dialled.

There was no answer. I knew that he would be at the ball in two days’ time, but I needed to talk to someone immediately.

Then, with a blinding flash, I knew whom to phone. No need for the phone book: I quickly dialled my own apartment, and impatiently punched in the calling card numbers when told to by the automatic operator. The phone rang, and I prayed and prayed that Larry or Mike would be home. I couldn’t wait any longer to hear a safe voice.

The answering machine didn’t click in after seven rings: one of them had forgotten to set it. I was about to hang up and try their cell phones when the ringing stopped, and a sleepy voice said, "Yeah?"

"Larry," I said, breathing a huge sigh of relief. "Am I glad to hear your voice!"

"Nell?" he asked, audibly yawning. "You woke me up."

"I noticed," I said. "Sorry, but Larry, I’m in real trouble and I need help."

That woke him up in a hurry. "What is it, Nell?"

I started to cry all at once, probably from the relief of finding someone reliable. "Larry, I can’t tell you, not on the phone, but tell Mike it’s connected with what I told him about when I got home from Victoria, and I need you guys to – well, I don’t know what you can do, but I want to see you as soon as possible. Please, Larry?"

I heard a voice in the background, and Larry said, "It’s Nell, Mike. Sounds like she’s in trouble, and she thinks you know something about it. Here, you talk to her."

Mike came onto the line and said, "What’s wrong, Nell?" There was an urgency in his voice.

"Mike, I don’t want to say too much on the phone, but there’s something going on down here and I’m scared and I don’t know who I can trust..."

"What can we do, Nell?"

"Please," I sobbed, "Come here. Soon. Very soon."

"God," he groaned. "I can’t miss work tomorrow, but I can swing a couple of days after that. Is late afternoon okay?"

I hated the thought of waiting another twenty-four hours, but I nodded before realizing that he couldn’t see me. "Yeah, that will be okay, Mike. Listen, Mike, phone Tintagel, see if you can get a reservation for you and Larry, and tickets for Tuesday night."

"Tuesday night?"

"Yes," I said impatiently. " I can’t explain, but just do it, please!" I quickly read off the phone number of the payphone where I was, told him to phone me back to confirm when he had it arranged, and hung up.

It seemed an ice age until the phone rang. I spent that time with my forehead against the glass, just saying over and over again, "Please." When it did ring I snatched it , saying breathlessly, "Yes?"

"Mission accomplished, Nell. There was a last-minute cancellation. A costume ball?"

"Yes. Oh, please, Mike, get me a costume in Toronto before you leave, please! I have to be there on Tuesday night, and I can’t run the risk of being recognized. I need a good costume."

"Done. Listen, Larry says this has something to do with the train? Jack?"

"It’s bad, Mike," I said. "I’m nervous about talking too long on the phone, but it’s bad."

"We’ll be there," he promised, and we arranged a rendevous far away from the hotel for the following afternoon. When I hung up, I looked around to see that the crowd had entirely dispersed. But Jim was standing across the street. He didn’t look at me, but walked down the road to a an expensive-looking sports car, which he unlocked and got into, and drove away in. I stayed in the relative obscurity of the phone booth until he was gone.

Things were getting weirder and weirder, and I was very glad that I had reinforcements coming. I bent to pick up my purse from where I had dropped it on the floor of the phone booth, and as I straightened up the swinging doors were pushed open, and my only exit was cut off by any girl’s worst nightmare, Loathesome Len, who was lounging in the opening, looking quite satisfied with himself.

"Hey there, Nell," he said in a complacent tone, "I haven’t seen you in the bar lately."

"I’ve been busy," I said warily. There was no way he was going to move until he felt like it, so I thought that I might as well humour him.

"Well, so have I, now that you mention it. When I’m not at the theatre working on the shows, I’ve been out on my boat. Did I tell you about my sailboat – The Swan? She’s a beauty. I bought her second-hand and fixed her up myself. You should come for a sail with me sometime."

"Thanks, anyway, Len, but I tend to get sea-sick." That was true, but I would have lied anyway. I was trying to figure out a way to get past this creep without actually having to come into physical contact with him.

He straightened up as he reached into his pocket for something, and handed me a ticket. "Just to show how much I like you, here’s a freebie for our show tomorrow night." He managed to turn the simple act of handing it to me into a grope- there’s no other way to describe how his hand felt on mine.

I took it from him, thinking that maybe I should keep an eye on him, since his appearance so soon after the "accident" was raising my hackles. "Thank you," I said.

He showed no inclination to move, instead looking down. "Gold?" he asked quizzically.

"Possibly," I said, having no idea what he was talking about, and then followed his downward gaze to my sandalled feet and painted toenails. "Oh, copper actually," I replied, the mystery over. I was in no fit state to exchange gallantries with Loathesome Len. I really wanted out of that phone booth.

"Sweet," he smirked. "Try to bring some friends with you – but they’ll have to pay," he called, as he finally swung out of the doorway and swaggered away.

I shoved the ticket in my pocket and got out of the phone booth before anyone else could come along to harass me. Looking both ways, I dashed across the street, and was headed to my car parked in behind the ice cream shop when I heard my name being called. Turning, I saw Sue in her old blue and rust Toyota, groceries in the passenger seat beside her and two wrestling boys in the back seat.

"Nell," she repeated. "Did you see that accident?"

"Yes," I said flatly. "It was one of my guests. I hope he’s okay."

Loud wails were heard issuing from the back seat. Sue turned her head and growled, "Joey, Isaac, cut it out!"

"Yes, Mom," said two little voices, and the tangle of limbs resolved itself into two little boys with big blue eyes and curly brown hair as they sat up. I knew already that they were five and six years old. Sue talked about them a fair bit, but then, they were all she had, what with the deadbeat dad out in Alberta.

"Are your seatbelts done up?" she asked in a threatening tone.

"No, Mom," they said in chorus.

"Then do them up!" she said impatiently.

"Yes, Mom," they said, scrabbling around for their seatbelts. The urchin in a Blue Jays shirt looked at me and asked,"Who are you?"

"I’m Nell."

"She works with me at the hotel, Joey."

"Just like Mr – "

"That’s enough, Joey," said Sue hastily, fishing an apple out of the grocery bag nearest her and throwing it to him. "Eat. You too, Isaac," she added, lobbing one in his direction. They happily crunched away.

I smiled. "They’re cute, Sue."

She grimaced. "They’re exhausting. I left them at the sitter’s until I finished the shopping, but now I’d better get them home before they destroy the car." She put her car into gear. "See you tomorrow, Nell."

I waved as she pulled away from the curb, wondering who the mysterious ‘Mr’ she didn’t want mentioned was. Slowly I returned to my car, and drove reluctantly back to the hotel. On my way out of the village I passed that sports car, sitting outside the doctor’s office. There was no sign of Jack or Jim.

No one at the hotel seemed to care about the accident. I went to the kitchen to get my dinner tray. Andy was in fine form. I could hear him at the far end of the kitchen, chewing out some poor sous-chef for what I believe was inferior dicing, although his rant was so interlarded with words that had nothing to do with cooking that it was difficult to tell. The yelling got louder and louder as I waited, and then, stomping around the corner, was Andy.

Andy was of medium height and fairly trim for a chef. With his swarthy skin (rumour was that he was tanned ALL over) and short greying hair, he could have been quite attractive if he had ever smiled. He had great bone structure, if you didn’t mind big, beaky noses, and large hazel eyes set under strong brows. However, manners maketh the man, and Andy had none whatsoever. "What the fuck does that dipshit think that he’s DOING, anyway? I can’t believe that he can’t even make a simple fucking salad without fucking it up royally.!"

"Hi, Andy," I said mildly. The great thing was that Andy’s anger was never directed towards me. I was not of his kingdom over which he ruled with a tyrannical and despotic hand. And his food really was fantastic.

"Hi, Nell," he growled, pushing past me, already pulling out his pack of smokes as he went out through the door, headed towards the staff stairs by the lounge. "Stupid fucking dipshit," he muttered as he went.

I giggled. Terry, one of the sous-chefs, came around the corner with my dinner tray at that moment. "You can laugh," he said despondently. " I’m the one who has to put up with him day in and day out."

"Darn right I can," I said with a grin, and went and sat down in the deserted canteen. There never was a big crowd around the dinner hour, and I seemed to have hit a particularly slow time. Halfway through my meal, however, Jim came in with his tray. He stopped for a moment when he saw me sitting there, but recovered himself and came and sat down with me. It almost seemed as if he had to brace himself to do it.

"Hello, Nell," he said in a subdued tone as he started to shovel food onto his fork. He took a big bite of potatoes, and then shook his head. "Lord, I was hungry."

"Where have you been?" I asked, as if I hadn’t seen him earlier. It occurred to me that he might not have seen my car, which of course he would have recognized: it had been parked in behind the ice cream place.

"Oh, I was just getting off work when we got a call from one of our guests. He’s on your floor, I think – Jack Mitchell?"

I muttered an affirmative as I speared a piece of lettuce on my fork, not looking up.

"Well, they asked me to help out. He had an accident – a van knocked him down. Phillip Twinett ran me into the village and we stopped at the doctor’s office, where he’d been taken. Twinett fussed over him – which Mitchell didn’t appreciate, from the way he looked at him – while I took his keys and picked up his car from where he’d parked it. Anyway, I went back, politely suggested to Twinett that he go home, and held Mitchell’s hand, figuratively speaking, while the doctor patched him up. He’ll be okay."

"Is he back at the hotel?" I asked, looking up but trying not to appear anxious.

Jim was busy deboning his piece of fish. "Oh, yeah. I drove him back, and saw him to his room. He’s got some really good drugs to kill the pain. His arm isn’t broken, but it got chewed up pretty good. He’s going to have to use a sling for a few days."

"Poor guy," I said faintly, wishing I knew what to do next.

"Well, the weather’s nice for hanging by the pool, and he doesn’t seem to have any trouble acquiring females to fuss over him. I’m not too worried about him. He’s not in a rush to leave, anyway. Says we might as well take care of him before he hops on a plane home."

"Oh," I said vaguely. Talk about a useless comment, but I was all tapped out of inventiveness. I felt like I’d been beaten with a two-by-four, and I hadn’t even been the one who was injured.

"Yeah. I’m just going to flop and veg tonight. How about you?"

I followed him to the tv lounge, and we watched reruns for a few hours, when we both decided that it was time to go to bed. I had never spent an evening with Jim where we talked less, and it was not a friendly silence. Neither of us seemed to be comfortable with the other, whether it was suspicion or a guilty conscience that made us feel that way. We said goodnight in the hall, and he didn’t even give me a friendly hug.

Murder at Midsummer Chapter 10 Part One

2009-11-06T12:50:00.000-05:00

There was no breakfast order on Jack’s door Monday morning. I had hardly expected it, since he was probably all whacked out on painkillers, and obviously not in the mood to open his door to me. What I would have given to have been able to minister to his needs! But he wouldn’t let me anywhere near him, I knew that.

I was worried that he was in an especially vulnerable position right now. Incapacitated by his arm, he would be an easier prey for whomever was trying to kill him, and all I could do for him was to keep an eye out for any suspicious characters I might happen to see. I cleaned distractedly, trying all the while to watch over the door to his room. Coward that I was, I was apprehensive about actually having to knock on his door and go in and clean it. That problem was taken out of my hands, however; as I was changing the sheets in 312 I heard a door softly open and close, and when I came out a moment later I found a "Do not Disturb" sign, still swinging slightly, hanging from his doorknob. The message came through loud and clear.

I went on to 315, my last for the day, and finished it in record time. Then, turning my cart around, I started pushing it back towards the housekeeping room. I was halfway down the corridor when I heard the stairwell door open and close, and, glancing over my shoulder, I saw Arthur Carruthers standing by the window there. He didn’t look best pleased to see me, but now that I’d seen him I guess he felt that it would look bad to turn around and leave, so he walked towards me.

"Ah, hello, Nell," he said awkwardly. "Finished for the day?" He glanced at his watch: it was just after two.

"Just have to clean up some dishes, Mr Carruthers. Then I’ll be done," I said, as he came up beside me. He moderated his habitually brisk pace to match the slower progress of the ponderous cart.

"Good, good," he said absently. "Glad to see you work efficiently. Er – who else works on this floor?"

I was surprised that he was going to this much trouble to manufacture conversation, and wondered what he was he doing up there, anyway, so close to Jack’s room. "Sue Green," I replied. We turned the corner, passed the elevators, and turned down the north corridor, headed towards the housekeeping room at the end.

"Oh, yes, Sue. She’s been here for a few years, hasn’t she?" Then, having exhausted that fascinating line of conversation, he switched topics. "And how long have you been here, Nell?"

"Six weeks, Mr Carruthers," I answered patiently. "This is just a summer job for me. I’ll be going back to grad school in the fall." Like he cared, but I felt the need to keep the conversation going, to avoid awkward silence.

"Of course, of course," he said, nodding his head. He then fell silent for a moment, looking around at the corridor, and then abruptly said, "Did I say it was after two? Good heavens, I’ve got a squash game in five minutes! I really must ..." he was about to turn around, but that made little sense, since we had reached the far end of the corridor, where Sue was washing up dishes in the housekeeping room. It would have been much more convenient for him to take the stairs right there.

"All done, Nell?" she asked, her back to us as I walked in. I was busy pushing my cart into its accustomed corner when I saw that Carruthers had disappeared. Sue was looking a bit flustered, and said distractedly, "I forgot to put towels in 305. I’ll be right back..." and she fled out the door. I glanced at her from behind as she went, and all of a sudden lights started going off in my head. Usually Sue’s hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail, but today, she had it twisted up at the back, just as she had at the restaurant the other night with Arthur Carruthers.

This served only to depress me more, since I was very suspicious of Carruthers’ involvement in the whole murder thing, and I liked Sue. I also knew that her past history with men was not a good one, with one broken marriage and a few loser boyfriends messing up her life. She deserved someone better, and I doubted that Carruthers would be it. Considering how rich he was, and the social circles that he moved in, he was unlikely to be serious about a maid at his hotel. I couldn’t see, for example, Uncle Rob being delighted at his friend’s choice.

I was walking across the service room with a tray full of dishes when a scream of terror echoed down the hallway. The tray fell with a crash, dishes shattering on the hard tile floor, and I ran down the hallway. That is, I assume that I ran down the hallway because very soon I found myself in the little conversation nook next to the elevators, but I have no recollection of the actual journey.

Jack appeared at the same moment from the other corridor, panting slightly, his right arm supported in a sling. He saw me and his face turned to stone. My heart sank like one. We both turned to see what was happening, and I was then able to breathe, since Jack was still alive.

A middle-aged woman in running gear was standing by the love seat across from the elevator, pointing with a shaking finger at a corner by the window. "A - mouse," she said disjointedly. Sue stood to one side of her, trying to calm her down, while Carruthers was on the service phone asking for someone from maintenance. With the release of tension, my muscles turned to rubber and my legs could no longer support me. I fell into the chair against the wall, knowing that Jack was aware of my every move, just as I was of his.

"What a relief," said Jack smoothly and sarcastically. "I thought that at the very least someone was dead."

Carruthers turned impatiently away from the phone, saying impatiently, "Really, now, there’s no call for that! This woman has had a severe shock," he said, gesturing at the victim, being led back to her room by Sue. Then he looked at Jack, and said with quick compunction, "I’m sorry, Mr Mitchell. I didn’t realize that it was you. Naturally, your nerves must be on edge after what happened yesterday."

"Naturally," agreed Jack, a bite to his voice. I got up to leave without a word, having a feeling that I would not like what I was about to hear. I was right. "However, my injuries, although painful, are healing fast. I expect to feel nothing within a brief period in time. That is, if I can avoid any further such incidents."

I heard that as I left, murmuring that I had better go clean up my broken dishes. I was halfway to the housekeeping room when I realized that I had left Jack in the sole company of Arthur Carruthers, who could very well be under contract to kill him.

I fled back down the corridor towards the corner, wondering how I could possibly come up with a reason for being there. Jack would be furious, I knew that. Carruthers – well, it depended on what he was up to. If he was just looking after the welfare of a guest, so be it. If, however, he was trying to finish some business, that was something else again.

I decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. I turned around again, ran to the housekeeping room, and grabbed an armful of towels. I reasoned, as I sprinted back once again towards the elevators, that since I had not had an opportunity to straighten up Jack’s room that day, the least I could do was offer him some clean towels. I knew that he wasn’t asleep, and Carruthers knew that I knew that he wasn’t asleep. Of course, I reminded myself as I turned the corner, if Carruthers was in on it, and planning to do something, he would be seriously pissed off by my sudden appearance. However, if he was not a bad guy, he would be impressed by my attention to detail and the comfort of his guests, and it never hurts to keep on the good side of the boss.

No one was left in the nook by the elevators. The crisis was past. I turned into the south corridor. Still no one. I hoped that Jack was safely back in his room, but wondered where the heck Carruthers had gotten to.

I quickly walked up to the door of 314 and knocked. The door swung open. Jack was standing there, and I could see no one else. His face was coldly furious. "Clean towels, sir?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral. There were new guests coming down the hallway, trying to find their room, loaded down with luggage.

"Thank you," he said as levelly as me, but he couldn’t take them, with his one arm in a sling, so he stood aside to let me in. I went swiftly into the bathroom, left the fresh towels on the shelf, picked up the damp towels (some of which had bloodstains on them) from the floor, and bundling them in my arms, went back into the bedroom. He had seated himself by the window with a book, ostentatiously ignoring me. I left him there, shutting the door quietly behind me, thanking God that he was still alive, and trying to figure out how to get him to trust me again.

This was not a good time to see Steve, but of course he was the maintenance guy who came up to investigate. "Baby!" he cried as he approached me down the hallway. "Show me where the mouse was. Although I don’t know what the hell I can do about it."

I sighed resignedly. That was my automatic response to Steve’s appearance by now. "By the elevators, Steve. I’ll show you." He turned back and headed in that direction, with me not far behind. I could have sworn I heard a door open and close quietly behind me, but there was no way that I was going to turn around and check. I had my pride. Sort of.

I showed Steve the spot that the wimp of a guest had indicated, turned down an invitation to go to the drag races with him on Saturday ("Funicars, baby, it’ll be sweet!") and left him there as I headed back to the housekeeping room with the dirty towels.

The housekeeping room was a safe harbour that I was obviously never going to reach. The next person to appear was Pinkerton, looking harassed as he emerged from the stairwell at the east end. "Nell," he said distractedly as he approached me, "what’s all this about a mouse?" He stopped as he reached me and his voice dropped to whisper as he looked down at me. "I’ve had an irate guest on the phone telling me I’ve got vermin in my hotel. Vermin! I can’t have people talking about vermin in my hotel! Are mice even vermin? Or is it just rats? Why would she say vermin if it’s just a mouse? What if people hear? Should we get an exterminator? But what if people see him? Would that make it worse?"

"You’re starting to babble," I said firmly. Obviously I had a much friendlier relationship with Pinkerton than with Twinett. "Steve’s already looking into it. Why don’t you just go and soothe the nerves of Mrs Turner? She’s in room 318."

"I’ll go back to my office and phone her from there," he decided. He continued around to the elevators to talk to Steve and head back down.

Back in the housekeeping room, I kicked the towels into the corner by the door with a very improper oath, and grabbed the broom and started sweeping the broken shards into a pile. I was in the middle of that task when Sue came back in, looking considerably flustered. "Let me help you," she said, picking up the dustpan. She got down on her knees and shovelled loads off of the floor and into the garbage can.

"What a bitch of a day," I articulated clearly, with a last flick of the broom.

Sue dumped the last load into the garbage can and sat back on her heels, wiping the sweat off of her forehead. "It took me forever to get that woman calmed down," she said resignedly. "Personally, I think that mice are rather cute, but try to get her to see that point of view!" She shook her head as she slowly got to her feet and hobbled over to the chair. "I feel old today," she groaned. "There’s a storm moving in. My joints are acting up."

There were a ton of things that I would have liked to ask Sue about – like why exactly she was having dinner with Arthur Carruthers. But somehow, I did not think that it was a good time. For one thing, despite the fact that I really liked Sue, I now had to wonder if she was a part of this whole conspiracy. After all, she’d been around long enough to have been involved in other murders. Perhaps it was just as well to pretend that I hadn’t figured out about her and Carruthers. They may not have even seen me at the restaurant. So instead, I recommended some aspirin, straightened everything around, and got the hell out of there. I’d had enough of the third floor for one day.

Downstairs, I locked myself in the bathroom and had a good long soak. I tried to forget the look on Jack’s face, which wasn’t successful, but at least I got very very clean. I washed my hair, and trimmed my nails, and shaved my legs, and did every possible thing that I could think of to avoid emerging again and facing the world. Eventually, however, I did, and drove to Tillsonburg for my five o’clock appointment with the boys..

When I pulled into the lot behind the bar I was glad to see Mike’s car parked by the door. I practically ran in, making my way down the long, narrow passageway into the bar itself. The boys were sitting towards the back, watching some sports thing on the big-screen tv. As soon as they saw me they jumped to their feet and gave me big hugs, before sitting me down and getting me a stiff drink.

I took a sip of my tequila and feasted my eyes on them. Nothing had ever looked as good to me as they did at that moment. They made a striking couple: Larry was dark-skinned, with buzzed-off hair, large brown eyes, and amazing cheekbones. Next to Mike’s very wasp-y features and colouring, he looked downright exotic. To me the two of them represented security, trust, strength, and whatever else was warm and fuzzy and safe.

Larry put his arm around me and whispered in my ear, looking around conspiratorially, "Nell, I don’t want to alarm you, but there’s a magician here, and quite frankly, he scares me."

I looked up in annoyance. "Dammit, I forgot about that!" I could see and hear him up by the front of the bar, doing tricks to amuse the patrons during happy hour. "He’s irritating at the best of times, and we certainly don’t want anyone listening in. We need to get out of here – now." I threw back the rest of my drink, and hastily got to my feet, the boys following suit.

"Where can we go, Nell?" asked Mike, as we started towards the back entrance.

"I know," said Larry. "I saw some sort of gazebo thing sticking out into the lake in the middle of town. Let’s go there. We’ll be able to see anyone coming from quite a distance. We can talk in peace and quiet."

They wouldn’t let me drive: instead, we all piled into Mike’s car and soon found ourselves sitting on a bench in the gazebo. "Tell," said Larry.

Seated between them, with nobody to disturb us, I was able to summarize the events to date with what I hoped was a fair degree of coherency.

"So, Nell, what do you want us to do?" asked Mike when I was finished.

"Quite frankly, Mike, I haven’t the slightest clue," I sighed. "I phoned you because there was nobody else I could trust. I’m sure that not everybody in the place is in on this – I mean, what is this, The Village? But I don’t know who is and who isn’t, and making an error in judgement could be fatal."

"So you believe Jack’s story," said Larry.

"Larry," I said earnestly, turning towards him, "I saw that van conveniently charge out of the parking lot just as he was crossing. That was no accident."

"The problem is," said Mike, "how did the van know to be there right then?"

"If I knew that," I said, "Jack might be willing to acknowledge my existence."

Larry sighed in exasperation. "Nell, you and I watched that talk show together about those hidden cameras in people’s bedrooms, didn’t we? Don’t you remember?"

"Oh dear," I said, realization slowly dawning. "I remember." A couple of months ago Larry and I had hooted in disbelief while watching people describe how their sex lives had been filmed by nefarious high-tech peeping toms with new, undetectable cameras which could be hidden in any piece of electronic equipment, like clocks or fire alarms. "Oh dear," I repeated, as my face flamed bright red.

"Did the camera catch interesting footage?" asked Mike with a wicked grin.

I quickly reviewed the events of that afternoon. "No flesh, I think," I said with a sigh of relief. "But still! Certainly nothing that I would have wanted to share with anyone else."

"The question now is," put in Mike, "who was that someone else?"

"It was Glenda Potter who – um – interrupted us," I said. "If she’s the one who was keeping an eye on us, she’s not much of a voyeur. She could have waited for some more interesting stuff. Given time, I’m sure we would have gotten there."

"Interesting," said Larry. "But considering that we’re looking for someone who wouldn’t balk at murder, I doubt that she’d be a prime suspect. Hard to imagine delicate sensibilities on the one hand, and murderous intent on the other."

"Probably," I agreed. "But that leaves us no farther ahead."

"Exactly," grinned Mike. "I like a challenge. Well, Watson," he said, addressing Larry, "Are we on the case?"

"Yes," said Larry, "except I insist on being Holmes."

"Please be serious," I begged. "Jack is in real trouble."

"So are you," Mike reminded me.

"Me?" I asked.

"Nell," he said patiently, taking me by the hand, "figure it out. Jack may think that you are one of the enemy, but the bad guys know quite well that you are not one of them. They also must know that you at least have some sort of inkling of what’s going on. If they are determined to carry out the contract and kill Jack, what hope have they got of you keeping quiet?"

"Oh, God," I said, panicking at this sudden realisation. "I thought at least that I could concentrate on looking out for Jack. But this..."

"You will stay in our room tonight," Larry announced. "No," he said as I tried to protest, "I won’t be able to sleep a wink if I know that you’re down in your room without anyone to protect you. Right, Mike?"

"Right," he agreed.

"But if someone sees me – " I began.

"Oh, to hell with that! How many supervisors will be around at midnight?
You’re staying with us," Larry insisted.

"Thank you. I’ll feel much better with you as well," I admitted. "You guys are great."

"What are you doing this evening?" asked Mike.

"Loathesome Len – "

"Who?" asked both of them in bewildered unison.

"Oh, sorry," I said. "Len, that slimy director I told you about. You know."

"Ah, yes," said Larry pedantically. "Suspect number three. You remember, Mike."

"Of course," said Mike. "Continue, Nell."

"Well, he gave me a free ticket for his production tonight. I considered going to it and seeing if I could find out more about him. I’d love it if he was involved," I confessed. "And there was that weird conversation with Vicky. There’s something suspicious there."

"And where would we be likely to run into our fellow guest, Jack Mitchell?" asked Larry.

"God knows," I sighed. "Certainly he’s not going to keep me informed of his plans. At least he’ll be easy to spot. As far as I know, he’s the only gorgeous, dark-haired English guy with his right arm in a sling to be found at Tintagel."

"That simplifies matters," said Mike. "Okay, Nell, let’s do it this way. We drive back separately, because obviously we don’t want to act like we know you."

"Check," I said.

"Then, we will get our room and go for a quick meal."

"Sounds good."

"If we see Jack, we will strike up a harmless conversation with him, and find out what he’s got planned for the evening. Hopefully he won’t think that we’re hitting on him."

"Okay."

"Then Larry," said Mike, "will go to the play, as will you, but not together, and I will try to stay in the vicinity of Jack. Thus we can keep an eye on both of you."

"That would be great," I said with a sigh of relief. "You don’t know how wonderful it makes me feel to have you two here."

"We love you, Nell," said Larry, giving me a quick hug, "and would hate to have anything happen to you. After we get back from the theatre, you can sneak up to our room – I’ll have to tell you which one at the theatre, somehow – and then you’ll be out of harm’s way for the night."

"What about Jack?" I asked.

"Let’s leave that for later," Mike suggested. He looked at his watch. "Six o’clock. We’d better motor, children."

Murder at Midsummer Chapter 10 Part Two

2009-11-05T00:59:00.000-05:00

They dropped me off back at my car, Larry promising to turn up at the theatre by seven thirty. I drove back to the hotel several minutes behind them, rejoicing at my luck in having such good friends. On my return I ate a quick dinner in the company of Tim and Alison, who once again were too busy being in love to notice anything the matter with anyone else. Jim was nowhere to be seen. I did not dare to go near the third floor. If Jack saw me he would be furious, and if anyone else saw me I could be in a different sort of trouble.

There was no necessity to dress up for the theatre, so I just put a cardigan on over my sundress and went into the tv room to kill some time before I could reasonably leave for the play.

To my surprise, Jim was there, slouched on the old sofa with his feet up on the battered coffee table. He glanced up as I entered. "What are you up to, Nell?" he asked. Somehow, over the past few days the impetus for going out and partying as a group had dissipated.

"You’ll never believe this," I said, sounding as sprightly as I could, "but Loathesome Len gave me a free ticket for the theatre tonight. I don’t know if he’s trying to make up or make out, but I thought that I might as well catch the show and see how bad it really is."

"You’re going to the theatre?" he asked in an odd tone.

"Yes, I know that Len is the last person that I’d want to spend any time with, but I’m hoping to avoid actual contact – although I suppose that at some point I’ll have to thank him for the freebie."

"Just be careful how you do it," Jim grunted. "Maybe I’ll go along with you. You mind?" he asked, as though for the past month we hadn’t been socializing together almost every night as a matter of course.

"Fine by me," I shrugged. "I don’t know if we’ll be able to get seats together. Maybe I could exchange my ticket for another one."

"Whatever," said Jim, and we left together around seven fifteen. It was a quiet, almost morose drive into the village and up to the theatre. After parking in the lot next door, we entered the small lobby. This was my first time there, and I was not terribly impressed. The walls were painted white, with the marine paraphernalia that Len obviously considered appropriate for this lakeside settlement strewn across them: anchors framed a ceiling-height painting of Port Burwell’s distinctive octagonal lighthouse, and fish swam around the opening for the bar, which was framed by ship’s rope tacked to the wall. I suppose it was okay, but it lacked imagination.

Jim asked me for my ticket without enthusiasm, and took it over to the box office (a desk in the corner, with a girl with a pierced lip sitting behind it) He had seemed so tired the last few days. After a moment’s consultation, he handed over a ten-dollar bill, and got another ticket. Returning to me, he handed me back my ticket. "I had no trouble getting one next to you," he said. "That is not terribly encouraging. Want a drink?" The bar window was being opened as he spoke: the wooden shutters swung out and against the wall, revealing none other than Len himself.

"Not right now," I said. "Maybe at the intermission, but thanks anyway." He went up to get a beer for himself, while I looked at the pictures from the play displayed on the back wall. It looked atrocious. The plot seemed to involve love at a resort, with songs. On the whole, I would have preferred Chinese water torture, but I would have to grin and bear it.

People started to trickle in as eight o’clock approached, and I found myself alone in the corner by the bar. Jim had stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. Then I was no longer alone, for Len found someone else to man the bar, and he came to see me. He seemed to specialize in trapping me (maybe in his experience that was the only way he could guarantee the attention of members of the opposite sex). By leaning against the other wall, he left me with less than foot of breathing space. While close proximity to certain other members of the male sex would not have induced the same reaction, with Len it made my always-lurking claustrophobia very active.

"So, Nell," he said. "Glad to see you here. All alone?"

"No," I said. "I came with Jim. He stepped out for a moment." Over Len’s shoulder I saw Larry come in, closely followed by Jim. I was relieved to see that Larry had made it, but my relief turned to concern when I saw Mike enter too, and I was furious that he wasn’t keeping tabs on Jack. I didn’t dare even look sternly in their direction, but the problem was solved when Jack himself entered, accompanied by another good-looking woman. He seemed to have an endless supply of those on tap. This one was thirty-ish, which seemed old to my twenty-two year old eyes, with shoulder-length dark-brown hair cut into straight, thick bangs practically in her large brown eyes. She wore too much eye-liner. Her form-fitting red tank dress clung to an excellent figure, which had a couple of prominent features which Jack seemed to be very interested in. To do him justice, they were hard to ignore. Len was going on about the writing process, hardly an enthralling topic, and I was getting increasingly restive, although I threw him the occasional word to make him think that I was really listening to him. Jack looked up from the foci of his attention for a minute, and since I had been unable to keep from looking at him, our eyes met. His face hardened, and it was I who looked away, because it hurt too much to see that look on his face.

Jim finally came over. "Excuse me," he said to Len. "I suppose you’d like us to take our seats."

"Oh, of course," said Len, moving nervously out of the way. He hadn’t forgotten Jim. "Er – I’ll see you at the intermission. You can share your impressions of the show," he said, with an attempt at a leer.

"What a dweeb," Jim snorted, with a return of some of his old spirit. "Let’s go," he added, and we entered into the theatre itself. It was cramped and stuffy, its walls painted matte black, and there was a stage at one end, about three feet off the ground, hidden from view by stained black curtains. "God," Jim groaned, as we found our seats in the half-full audience space. The seats were marginally comfortable. "What the hell possessed you to take Len up on his offer?"

"It was free?" I proffered, glancing around. Jack and his new woman were sitting towards the front, and Mike and Larry were studiously ignoring me from five seats away.

"For you," he complained.

"I can’t help it if Len isn’t attracted to you," I pointed out.

"All of a sudden I feel better about having to pay," he admitted. Our conversation, the warmest we had enjoyed in days, was terminated by the dropping of the lights and the opening of the curtain. The play began.

It was as tedious as I had feared. The dialogue limped along, with the occasional flash of leaden humour which some members of the audience chuckled dutifully at. The songs were bad. The choreography was non-existent.

Up at the front, Jack and his date appeared to be having a delightful time. His arm, still in a sling, seemed to be improving, or maybe he was just strung out on analgesics. Really, it was hard to decide which was more painful to watch, Jack enjoying himself or that terrible play.

At the intermission I scraped together a few tepid words of praise to throw in Len’s direction, which seemed to satisfy him (he couldn’t seriously think that it was any good) and tried to stay away from Larry and Mike. Larry did bump into me at one point, spilling my drink slightly, and as he apologised he murmured "410".

When the show was over Jim and I went for a beer at the bar down the street, and then drove back to Tintagel. We’d gone in his car, and as we pulled into the staff parking lot, lit by nothing but the almost-full moon, he told me to go ahead as he had some stuff to get out of his trunk. I asked him if he needed a hand, but he told me not to bother. So I turned towards the building, thinking how much it looked like a stage set, bathed as it was in the cold white moonlight. It was as I stood at the door for a minute, holding onto the handle and looking back to see if Jim was coming, that something whizzed right past my cheek and buried itself in the wood frame of the door.

Murder at Midsummer Chapter 11 Part One

2009-11-04T18:30:00.000-05:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN
I spun into a complete and utter panic. I flung open the door and threw myself in and onto the floor. For a minute I lay there on the landing, unable to breathe, let alone think. Then I huddled against the far wall, thinking of nothing but getting to a safe place. I instantly rejected the thought of my room, because if someone wanted to kill me badly enough to use a rifle with a silencer, then my room was the next place that he would try. Half of me wanted Jim there right now, but the other half wondered what the hell he had been doing over there by his car. While I was still cowering there in panicky indecision, wondering what to do, Jim walked in.

"Nell," he exclaimed, walking towards me, "what’s wrong?"

I shrank away from him, and, I am ashamed to say, I whimpered. I pointed towards the door. "A bullet almost hit me," I said.

Jim’s jaw literally dropped. If it was a performance it was magnificent. "I don’t believe it," he said.

"Believe it," I replied, getting my spunk back as I got to my feet, walked past Jim, and opened the door. It would have been very stupid indeed if someone had been waiting for a second chance, but then, I wasn’t thinking very straight. I pointed at the bullet embedded in the taupe-painted wood of the doorframe. The hole was fairly deep, but the cold glimmer of the metal could be seen in the bright moonlight.

"Good God," breathed Jim. He swung around in one fluid motion. "Who the hell..."

"Don’t ask me," I said.

He looked off along the likely trajectory. His car was close to being along it. He glanced at me quickly, but I only saw that out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t want to look him square in the eye, given that particular fact. He looked back towards the wooded area beyond the parking lot. There was a narrow band of trees, perhaps fifty feet in width, separating the staff parking lot from the golf course. Usually we could see a few dim lights that gently illuminated a gazebo tucked in among the trees, but tonight the lights were out. Jim muttered something and started off. I grabbed him by the sleeve of his light cotton jacket.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"Find out if anyone’s hanging around that conveniently darkened gazebo," he answered, shaking me loose. "You stay here." And off he went with a purposeful stride across the lot and into the woods.

If he was a bad guy, he was of course safe. But if he was my friend Jim, then he was putting himself at some personal risk. I wished that I knew what to believe, but I didn’t, so I didn’t do anything decisive. I crept back into the building, and sat down on the stairs leading up to the first floor and whimpered again.

He was back in five very long minutes, during which I jumped at every sound. Nobody seemed to be around in the service area at this hour; although a few staff would still be manning the bar, the dining rooms were closed and certainly all of the housekeeping staff were long gone. Even the live-ins were not up and around. When Jim banged open the door as he entered, I leapt to my feet.

"Well?" I asked impatiently.

He grimaced. "I’m either going to be fired or my job is very secure."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked. "Did you find the thug or not?"

"I found Mr Twinett in the darkened gazebo, with a guest from the hotel"

"So? Oh – " I stopped as the implication hit me. "A female guest?"

"Very female. And he is, of course, very married, with a loving wife and three charming children. Perhaps you have seen their pictures on his desk, or heard him speak of how important his family is to him."

"I see what you mean about job security," I said slowly. Wheels were turning. I had two alternatives now: Jim on the one hand, Twinett on the other. With, of course, the possibility that there was a third and unknown party still frolicking about out in the woods.

I took a deep breath and looked Jim squarely in the eye. "It must have been some random thing," I said.

"Of course," he replied.

"Some kid goofing around or something. No doubt he’s fled in panic by now."

"Certainly," said Jim.

"I’d feel very silly phoning the police about this. What are they going to do – arrest everyone with a rifle? That’s half the township."

"You have a point there," Jim admitted.

"And we could both do without any grief from Twinett vis-a-vis – well, you know what."

"A definite yes there," Jim agreed.

"So why don’t we just – you know – forget it? Is that stupid?"

"If that’s what you want, Nell," he said, and we started down the stairs towards our rooms.

I halted outside the washroom. "I think I need to nip in here first," I said.

He said, "Are you sure?" and I nodded. He shook his head and said in an odd tone, "I still don’t believe it," as I went through the door. "Good night," he said, and continued down the corridor.

I was in there for approximately five seconds. I took no chances on going back into the hallway. I ran to the open window, banged out the screen, and squirmed through the narrow basement window, thanking heaven that I was skinny, and was back outside. Throwing restraint to the winds, I ran around the corner to the south wing, up the stairs to the fourth floor, paused only to make sure that no one was in sight, and ran to room 410. I tried the door; the handle turned and I was in. Mike and Larry were sitting by the window, obviously just back from the theatre, and looked at me with considerable surprise. I glanced in the mirror by the bathroom door, and could understand why. My hair was mussed, and my sweater was covered with grass clippings acquired from the lawn when I crawled out the window.

"What the hell happened?" they asked simultaneously, as Mike crossed the room to me, giving me the big comforting hug that I’d needed ever since that shot whistled past me.

After I explained the whole episode to the boys, they were at least convinced that something was going on. An encounter with a runaway van could be misconstrued, but there is nothing ambiguous about a bullet. There was a definite agreement that Jack needed to be watched too. It was decided that I should scoot down to Jack’s corridor and unlock the closet door so that Larry could slip into it in a little while to keep an eye on Jack’s room that night. Frankly, I volunteered. I needed to see if everything was all right.

Everything went smoothly at first. I unlocked the door, and quietly shut it again, and with a last glance at Jack’s closed door moved back towards the east stairs which would take me to the boys’ room. I was halfway there when I heard a door open and close behind me, and I stopped in my tracks. I was sure before I heard his voice.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?" It was scarcely more than a whisper, but it cut through me like a scream. I took a deep breath and turned. He was pacing slowly towards me, his powerful frame tensed in anger. "Who the hell do you think that you’re fooling?" His voice shook with barely controlled rage.

I stood still, not knowing what to say in the face of his fury. He was so sure that he was right, that I couldn’t possibly be on his side. What could I say? How could I convince him? Once, I thought that I had done a pretty powerful job of convincing him that I had his best interests at heart, but it had not taken long for him to distrust me again. It wasn’t worth trying to argue with him. But neither could I just turn and run, as part of me wanted so badly to do. He was right in front of me by then, those icy blue eyes looking at me with nothing but contempt.

"I can’t imagine that you think that you’ll be able to bump me off now. Surely your cover is blown when the intended victim has figured out that you’re involved? " I tried to say something but he raised one hand. "Is this a double-blind? Am I supposed to trust you again because you couldn’t possibly be this stupid and be involved? Or could it be that – "

I slapped him. I couldn’t help it. At least, I tried to. He had amazing reflexes; with his one good hand he caught my wrist in a punishing grip before my palm could connect with his cheek. "You don’t like hearing these things about yourself, do you, Nell? Or is that really your name?"

"Damn you, Jack," I spat at him, twisting to try to get free. "Do you really think that I’d be here, right now, if it was my intention to kill you? Do you?"

"I don’t know what to think. Once I thought otherwise. But I had to change my mind."

"Oh, you think that you’re so god-damned smart, don’t you? Has it occurred to you that if I wanted you dead I’ve had half a dozen excellent opportunities up until now?"

"Oh, agreed," he said easily, still holding me by the wrist. "But I doubt that your masters, whoever they may be, actually let you do that sort of thing. That would require more ability than – " There was only one way to get myself free. I sharply raised my knee, and as he let go of my wrist, bending over and swearing inarticulately, I stepped back, turned, and ran.

On my return to the boys’ room the boys had to calm me down all over again. We spent some time tearing apart the play we’d seen, and after about a half hour of gently bitchy chit-chat, Larry slipped away to take up his post in the closet, armed with his cell phone, and Mike and I laid down on the bed, and he made me go to sleep. I’m not quite sure how it happened, but within ten minutes of him putting his arm around me and me resting my head on his broad shoulder, I was fast asleep.

I woke up at six on Tuesday morning as Larry crept in quietly through the door, saying that all was well on the third floor, except that someone snored very loudly and for my sake he hoped that it wasn’t Jack. He hadn’t slept, and was distinctly grouchy. He hit Mike until he woke up. "It’s your turn to be vigilant," he said. "I need to sleep."

Mike rolled over and grunted, but one eye was open. "What about Nell?" he asked.

"Nell has to get the hell out of here until this evening. Then she can come back and we can patrol this ball tonight."

"Larry," I said nervously, "what about Jack? Someone really is trying to kill him, I know that, and if we just walk off and leave him..."

"He’s told you to leave him the hell alone, hasn’t he?" Larry demanded, throwing himself down into the chair by the window, through which we could see a beautiful, if rather hazy, sunrise.

"Yes, but..."

"And he refuses to have anything to do with you, right?"

"Yes, but..."

"Yes but nothing. You don’t owe him a damn thing. If he can look at you and see a killer, then he’s an idiot and you’re better off without him. And if someone’s shooting guns at you, you definitely shouldn’t be here."

"But I don’t want him to die, Larry," I almost wailed. "You just don’t get it!"

"Oh, I get it honey. I’m just overly bitchy because of my night in the closet. But honestly, I do worry more about you than him. Just because."

I stopped. "Fine. We’ll see what happens tonight. The place will be crawling with strangers in masks. If anything’s going to happen, it’s likely to happen then."

Mike rolled over in my direction and gave me a big hug. "Get the hell out of here today, Nell. Go somewhere where you will be with people. Lots of people. And make sure you’re not followed on the road, even at this hour. Especially at this hour." He picked up his cell phone from the bedside table and handed it to me. "You know Larry’s number."

"Of course."

"Phone us to check in every hour on the hour. I’ll keep an eye on this guy you like so much while Larry sleeps."

"I’ll just slip down to my room and get – " I hopped off the bed and headed for the door.

Larry tackled me before I could reach out for the knob. He may not have had Mike’s size, but he was very strong. "Oh, no you don’t," he said.

"Why not?" I asked as I wriggled free. "Stop that. I won’t go then, Larry, since you feel so strongly about it."

"You are at risk down there. Listen, you get out of this room, scoot to your car," he said, handing me my purse, "and get the hell out. You’re not safe here." He gave me a quick hug and pushed me out the door, and shut it behind me.

I scooted. It was just after six, and few people were stirring as I quickly went down the stairs at the south-east end. This meant that I had to round the building on the east to get to the staff parking lot on the north-east, but the most likely place to encounter people at that hour was on the stairs leading directly from the service corridor. The south side of the building had a basement corridor with meeting rooms, and a squash court, and gyms on the first and second floors, and those were not going to be as busy as the laundry, kitchen and housekeeping areas.

I ran past the pool area and made it to the car without being intercepted, and got in and got it started in record time. I was vrooming up the drive within five minutes of leaving Mike and Larry’s room, which was pretty darn good.

But here I was, before seven in the morning, with literally nowhere to go and nothing to do until about five in the afternoon. Even with my elementary math skills I figured out that was at least ten long hours. What’s a girl to do?

I drove to Tillsonburg. Even the name sounded safe. First, I went to a coffee shop on the main street and had a long, leisurely breakfast, with three cups of coffee and three different newspapers to read (local, really local and national). I figured that if anyone tried to do away with me there, at least the waitress would notice. She was very nice and kept coming over to refill my cup, and never even hinted that maybe it was time for me to move on. Well, it wasn’t busy, anyway. I forced myself to slow down and relax, linger over the coffee and the muffin and the eggs and the toast and the fruit, read all of the papers in their entirety, even the local one, even the minor ball results. This sort of thing was not easy for me at the best of times, and with danger hovering over Jack primarily and to a certain extent me as well, and with Jack’s current attitude towards me, it was a miracle of patience on my part to spin this out until eight thirty. I left the waitress a nice fat tip. She deserved it after putting up with me so long.

I left the restaurant, looked up and down the main street, and realized that there was nowhere open yet, so I just aimlessly cruised the streets of the town. At least I was able to establish that no one was following me. By the time that it was nine thirty I decided that it was safe to go to the downtown mall. I pulled into an angled parking spot conveniently placed close to the front door of the mall, and locked my door, although even with the roof up it wouldn’t stop someone who really wanted to break in. In I went to the mall.

I figured that I needed to spend about seven hours in the place if the boys wanted me back around five to get ready for the ball. I wondered grimly what sort of costume they had managed to find for me. They had a nasty sense of humour when they chose to exercise it; a clown costume was not out of the question for them.

However, I had a long time to kill before I could find out what they had planned for me.. I ran up the broad steps and entered the building, noting that there didn’t seem to be anyone very much behind me. Then I cursed. My car might as well be an advertisement of my presence, as there weren’t that many red Triumph Spitfires in Tillsonburg. I considered moving it to a corner of the underground parking garage, but then realized that would be equally futile. If someone wanted to find it, they would, and they could do a lot more damage to it if they wanted to stop me from getting back to the hotel if it was in a dark, obscure corner. It was much better for it to be out in public where any tampering with it would draw attention. I was glad that I had locked it, as at least that would make it harder for a thief/vandal to be unobtrusive.

I turned and entered the mall. It was not yet opening time for most of the stores, but I could tell from the people gathered at the tables at the end of the corridor that the small food court was already operating. I went straight there, ordered another coffee from the nice old Greek man who ran the fish and chips booth, and sat down to sip it while looking around, in what I hoped was not a hunted fashion. I still saw no familiar faces.

Murder at Midsummer Chapter 11 Conclusion

2009-11-03T22:49:00.001-05:00

I had to figure out what to do next, and for the rest of the day. There was not a huge selection of stores at this mall, but I decided that there were enough to keep me busy. I knew that it would not be a good idea to go into the large department store, because there were too many narrow aisles with tall shelves and it would be too easy for someone to take me aside and do – something. I had no idea what to expect, or from whom. So I would stick to small stores, clothing stores, and just try on lots of clothes. From where I sat I could see two clothing stores; I strained my memory and recalled at least three more around the corner on the other corridor. That meant five stores in about six hours, with a nice long break for lunch back at the food court, which worked out to an hour a store. I’d worked in retail clothing, and I knew how much the sales people would resent me dawdling and trying on item after item, but I didn’t know what else to do. I did know that I would have some new clothes by the end of the day. I hoped that there would be some nice stuff that I actually wanted.

The cell phone in my purse beeped discreetly. I grabbed it before it caught the attention of too many people. "Hello?"

"Nell," said Mike’s voice. "Still okay?"

"Fine. I’ve made it to the mall and I’m going to do the clothes stores all day. Pray for me and my wallet."

"Clothes stores? Sounds okay. Everything’s quiet here. Gone to breakfast and now sitting by the pool."

"Thanks, Mike." I hadn’t wanted to ask, but I sure as hell had wanted to know how Jack was. "I’ll see you around five."

"Check in every couple of hours, will you?"

"I will," I promised, and turned off the phone and put it away. I could hear the rumble of store doors being pushed open, which meant that it was ten o’clock and time to shop.

I went into the first store, and amazed myself by being able to stay there for an hour and a quarter. There was a big sales rack, and there were enough things in my size for me to make it possible to spin it out that long. A very talkative salesgirl helped, and I left with several items in a big bag. I shuddered as I contemplated the condition of my bank account, but I had a feeling that being broke could be the least of my problems for the next little while.

I sat down on the bench opposite the store and pulled out Larry’s cell phone, and dialled Mike. He answered after one ring. "Yeah?" he asked.

"It’s me," I answered. "How are things?"

"Everything’s cool. How about you?"

"Aside from the fact that I won’t have any money left by the end of the day, I’m doing okay. I haven’t seen anyone suspicious yet. Maybe they don’t care about me."

"Maybe they’re still looking for you. Be careful, and stay in public."

"Right. Talk to you later."

"Bye."

I flipped the phone shut, and put it back in my purse. Feeling the need for something wet, I moved back to the food court and got a quick orange juice. I had a feeling that any more coffee would turn me into a jittery mess even without the current state of affairs. Turning away from the muffin counter, I was rocked back on my heels to see Vicky sitting by herself, and looking terrible.

After the first shock of recognition and disappointment, I gave my head a metaphorical shake. It was possible that she just happened to be at the mall. Besides, if she was following me, she was doing a pathetic job of it. Instead, she looked like someone in trouble, so, since I really liked Vicky, I went over and sat down across from her. She didn’t even look up until I said, "What’s happening?" Then she raised her grey eyes from the Styrofoam cup of coffee that her hands were wrapped around, and I was hit by a jolt of misery. "Whoa," I said. "What’s wrong?"

"Most things," she said, looking like death warmed over. "Make that everything. For me, anyway."

Any thought that I could be in danger from Vicky evaporated. This was a young woman with serious problems, and all I wanted to do was help her. Although I did wonder if what was wrong was a part of the whole mess down at the hotel. "Is this anything.... um.... illegal?"

Vicky grimaced and took a swallow of her coffee. "Not any longer," she sighed. "Was once."

"I don’t understand," I said.

"I don’t mind you knowing that I used to do... drugs. That’s behind me now. But Len likes to remind me of it."

"Pot?" I asked, surprised that she was so serious about it.

She shook her head and took another sip from the foam cup. "Cocaine," she said succinctly, and waited for my reaction.

I whistled slightly. That did surprise me, because she didn’t seem the type. "And you kicked it?"

"I had to. I couldn’t afford it, and Len was pretty nasty when I couldn’t pay, and he always had suggestions for alternatives to paying. I stopped."

"Now I understand!" I said. "I’m sorry, Vicky," I said as she looked at me, confused, "but one night you and Len had a chat outside my window. I couldn’t help but hear you two. And I had to confess that I wondered..."

"Wondered what?" she asked a little too quickly.

"What do you think?" I asked, wanting to hear what she had to say.

"There’s something going on," she whispered, looking around as if she expected to be overheard.

"What?"

"I don’t know, but once or twice Len’s dropped hints of something very big that he knows about. He loves acting like he’s in the know – I’m far too aware of that from the past – but this was something different, something he didn’t intend to let me in on but wanted to flaunt anyway."

"But you don’t know what it is?"

"No idea. I’ve got my own problems anyway." She grimaced and took another sip of coffee. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked like she hadn’t eaten properly in days – or as if it just hadn’t stayed put long enough to help her.

Female intuition clicked. "Vicky," I whispered. "Are you – you’re not?"

She nodded despairingly. "I am. And when my father finds out –" she shrugged a little too nonchalantly. "Let’s just say I’m not looking forward to it."

"Oh, Lord," I said sympathetically. "Vicky, this is awful! I mean – who’s the – sorry..." Obviously, I was at a loss for words.

"That doesn’t really matter," she said. "It’s not as if he’d take responsibility. Someone from college," she added, "nobody you know. It’s my problem, I know that."

"Well, yes, but surely..." I floundered around in disjointed sentences, not knowing how to comfort someone trapped in a clearly comfortless situation, and one which I certainly didn’t want to find myself ever. There were a couple of scares when I’d been planning where to put the crib, and wondering if the boys would help change diapers, but I’d been lucky. And here she was faced with the real thing. And I knew she was thinking about Jim, and she knew that I was thinking about Jim, but I had a shrewd idea that her thinking about Jim did not include the possibility that he was involved in a commercial murder operation.

"I’m not looking for anyone to step in and solve my problem by taking responsibility for someone else’s lack of it," she informed me crisply, starting to get to her feet. "That’s not the way to deal with it. Listen, I’ve got to get going."

I grabbed her by the hand and forced her to stay down. "What are you doing right now, aside from obviously barfing a lot?" I asked.

She shuddered. "Don’t remind me. It’s been brutal. Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve been hiding from my mom, because she’d guess in a flash, I’ve been keeping away from my dad, and I’ve been working like hell because I’m going to need all the money I can save in about six months."

"Are you working tonight?" I asked.

"Yes, I’ll be keeping an eye on my pastries in the kitchen, what else? If I don’t see another tart before I die it will be too soon."

"Vicky, I might need your help," I said slowly, measuring her with my eyes, wondering how much use she might be. "I might need an extra set of eyes tonight at that ball. Something’s going to happen, I’m afraid, something connected with whatever Len might have been boasting about, and I’m going to be trying to stop it from happening."

Her eyes were round and afraid. "What’s going to happen?"

"I don’t really know for sure, but Vicky, it could be serious, so could you just stay alert? I don’t know who to keep an eye on, or what’s going to happen. But I’m worried."

"I’ll try," she promised, and with that she grabbed her bag and left, heading for the washroom very quickly. "Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine," she called back over her shoulder. "I’ll be there."

I looked after her, wondering if I had done the right thing. But she was so sincere in her distress that I just couldn’t see her as a bad guy. And my heart went out to her in her current situation. One thing was good: at least it looked like Len wasn’t the father of her child. That would be a nightmare. But I wondered how Jim would react – that is, if Jim wasn’t a bad guy himself.

That line of thought made it particularly disconcerting an hour later when I emerged from the next store on my itinerary with a new jumper and sweatshirt in another bag to see Jim idling in the bookstore down the corridor. I retreated back into the store I’d just left, and sat down on a conveniently placed seat behind a rack of sweaters, and pulled the phone out of my purse. Mike answered almost immediately.

"S’up?" he asked.

"Jim is here."

"Define ‘here’ more precisely."

"He’s in the bookstore. I don’t think that he knows that I saw him. I just caught sight of the back of his head, but it’s him. The thing is that I was talking to Vicky an hour ago, and now here’s Jim. I don’t know what to think!"

Mike was silent for a moment, thinking. "Where have you got left?"

"Oh, there’s a couple more places I can dink around in legitimately."

"Nice, open places with nowhere to hide or get trapped?"

"Perfect for that."

"Well, it doesn’t matter if he sees you, obviously. Your whole purpose is to remain in clear view. Of everybody. So keep doing that. And phone me again in an hour or so."

"How’s everything there?"

"Lunch and a long stroll with some female."

"The brunette?"

"Yup. Vaguely Cleopatra-ish?"

"The one who was at the theatre with him last night?"

"Just so. Take heart, Nell. Oh, and buy yourself a pair of silver sandals somewhere. You’ll need them."

"What the hell is my costume?"

He just chuckled, "Wait and see, my dear," and cut the connection.

Well, I thought, at least my costume was unlikely to be a clown’s if silver sandals were meant to coordinate with it. I was still not happy about Jim’s presence, but I tried very hard not to look in the direction of the bookstore as I exited that store, smiling apologetically at the saleswoman who had been hovering at a distance as I spoke on the phone, and turned towards the discount shoe place.

The narrow aisles with tall shelf units made me nervous, feeling that it would be too easy to get trapped, but I was able to quickly find a cheap pair of silver sandals in my size which looked fairly nice, and the heels were good and low. Maybe I’d have to do some running tonight, and I didn’t like high heels at the best of times.

As I came out of that store with my bag of sandals added to the rest I took a quick glance around – no Jim. I contemplated food, but rejected the thought almost immediately. My stomach was churning with the stress of the day. I turned back towards another store. It was still only one thirty, and I had a lot of time to kill.

As luck would have it, the next store had a nice selection of clothes and accessories from which I could choose, and I actually managed to spend an hour and a half in there without seeming weird. I also really made the saleswoman’s day. She got a chance to tell me all about her grandkids and her dog and a few other things. Twice I saw Jim wander unobtrusively by. Each time I was newly freaked out. But at least he made no attempt to come near me, and didn’t seem to want me to see him. Not that that made me feel any better, but at least then I could pretend not to see him, too, because I didn’t know if I could deal with talking with him. It was easy enough to "avoid" seeing him, because the mall was busy with shoppers. Something very strange was going on and I didn’t know what it was. All I knew was that for Jim to be involved went against my every instinct of what he was like, which just confirmed my impression that I was a really lousy judge of character. I bought two skimpy sundresses and a few t-shirts and made it as far as three o’clock before having to leave that store. My burden was starting to get a little unwieldy: I was up to four bags by then.

And then I didn’t see Jim anywhere, and for some reason that freaked me out even worse. I sat down in plain view in the middle of the corridor, and dialled Mike once more. This time Larry answered.

"Mike’s gone swimming in the pool," he informed me. "I’m just sitting here poolside watching him. God, it’s hot."

"Is it?" I asked absently. "I’ve been in this damn mall for six hours, and I’ve forgotten what weather’s like."

"Humid as hell, too," he assured me. "There’s one big storm coming, I think, although so far there’s no clouds. Just hot, hot, hot and humid. When are you heading back?"

"Soon, I think," I said. "I can’t take this much longer. I feel very exposed."

"You’re safer there than almost anywhere else," he said. "Even locked in our room would be less safe than out in plain sight the way you are."

"Yes," I replied miserably, "but..."

"He’s fine," he said. "Very much alive and his arm seems better, even. He was in swimming a bit, although he’s now just lying on a deck chair with – "

"With the brunette?" I asked desolately. "I know. Same old girlfriend. At least this week. It was a redhead before."

"Yes, well, actually she’s applying sun screen, which is probably far too much information for you, but you know what my opinion of him is. Stupid, if nothing else. Not that he isn’t attractive in his own way..."

"Forget it, Larry," I interjected. "I’ll tell Mike on you."

"Mike lets me look," protested Larry. "Enough of this idle chatter. I expect a call from you in no more than an hour telling me that you’re on your way back, but I don’t want to see you much before five."

"It’s only a half hour from here to there. Why allow an hour?"

"Figure it out," said Larry. "You need to take a roundabout route to throw off any followers."

"Won’t they just assume that I’m on my way back anyway? Surely they – him – whoever would be better off just waiting outside the hotel for my return."

"They don’t know when you’re returning. And, of course, we assume that they don’t know that you won’t be going anywhere near your own room when you get back. Did you get those sandals?"

"Yes, but I’ll need..."

"I’ve got everything else you need," he assured me.

"You scare me," I said. "But I’ll trust you."

"You have to. Remember, one more store, then into your car, then an indirect route back here. Talk to you in an hour. Bye." And he hung up.

I hated the idea of food, but I hated the idea of going into yet another store and trying on more clothes worse, so I headed back to the nice old Greek man and got a gyros with lots of garlic sauce, and some fries and a coke. Between the garlic, fried starch, and coke, I had three of the basic food groups right there. I guess that I had been hungry after all, because I was surprised by how quickly I wolfed down the food, all the while keeping an eye open for Jim. There was no sign of him, and this continued to freak me out. If he had been following me, why had he stopped, and if he hadn’t been following me, what the hell had he been doing?

The meal took half an hour. I still had half an hour to kill. I gave up on clothes completely and went into the book store, where I invested in the most detailed local map which I could find. I thought that it might be handy to have. After buying it, I sat down on the bench in the middle of the mall where everybody could see me, and studied it closely until I had come up with a route which I thought would work. Then it was finally time to go.

Murder at Midsummer: Chapter Twelve

2009-11-02T07:54:00.000-05:00

The damp heat hit me like a wall as I swung the door to the outside world open - I gasped in shock. I could feel my hair frizzing as it came in contact with the humid air. My car was still sitting in the same place as when I arrived, and to my nervous eye it looked just fine. The question was, was it fine? It unlocked easily, and started right up. I hadn’t even gotten a ticket, although theoretically I should have for staying parked in one place for so long. Dropping my bags on the passenger seat, I looked around, saw no one that I didn’t want to, pulled out the phone one more time, and hit the redial button. This time Mike answered.

"Hello," he said.

"Glad to hear from me?" I asked.

"Overjoyed," he replied. "The gentleman in question has repaired to his room, no doubt to prepare himself for an evening of frivolity and delight, and Larry and I are taking a well-deserved break in our own room, waiting impatiently for your return. Where are you now?"

"Sitting in my car in front of the Town Centre, just about to head back."

"Indirectly."

"Yes, I’ve got a good map and I’ve planned out a route which should theoretically lose anyone, but do you really think that someone would be fooled into thinking anything but that I’m headed back there?"

"Why take the chance? Listen, start now, and if nothing goes wrong, call back just before you get here so that I can see you safely to our room. Okay?"

"Check," I said, and cut the connection, dropping the phone onto the passenger seat. The next big hurdle was waiting for a break in the traffic to back out into from the angled parking spot. After a few minutes I managed to edge out. I swung the car to the north, and started driving, but came up to the next intersection just as the light was turning red. I sat there fuming with impatience, anxious to get out of the town and onto the open road, and unable even to turn right because of a car ahead of me blocking my way. Eventually, however, the light turned, and I got to make my right turn, heading east. The problem with Tillsonburg is that at the south end you have to go across the one bridge crossing the Otter Creek, so it would be easy enough for anyone waiting for me to spot me there and just start following. So I turned north again instead, and started on a round-about route to take me far to the east before heading south, thus avoiding the direct route from the town to Tintagel. By the time that I reached something called Church Road I was all alone, and had been for miles. That is, unless you counted the occasional tractor.

I pulled over to the side of the road and checked my new map. I decided that it was safe to try driving south again, and by taking this road I could get down towards the lake without getting on main roads. With a glance around to make sure that I was still alone, I put the car into gear and roared off around the corner.

I had to stop at an intersection with a busy highway until the traffic let me through, but that was my only pause as I headed south. I sped along, approaching the large old red brick church smack in the middle of the country that the road was obviously named for, and on an impulse slowed down and turned right, towards the west. I figured that it was time to start moving back that way as well.

There was no traffic on this road, and I mean none. It was great. I had no fear of being followed, as the road was straight enough that I would be able see any pursuers at a great distance. There was no one. After passing by lots of farms, and after stopping decorously at all the stop signs, I found that the road turned abruptly to the left and I soon found myself at the highway leading directly to Long Point.

I crossed the highway onto the continuation of my current road, which was a gravel ( more like sand) road, lined with forest. I turned into a little drive leading to a small field of baby trees, and again checked the map. Taking the route to Long Point, and then turning west along the lake road was tempting. It would get me back there as soon as possible, and I was beginning to think that this was all a big waste of time after all. Certainly nobody seemed very interested in me. But then I remembered the incident the night before, and Jim at the mall. I was certain that he had better things to do of a Saturday than cruise the mall pointlessly for a couple of hours.

Still, I was tired of this diddling around, and it was already almost five. So I turned the car around and turned south at the highway.

Now there was traffic. There was a steady stream of cars headed south with me, no doubt going to the beaches and cottages of Long Point. The downside was that it would be relatively easy for a car to follow me all the way there, and beyond, without me noticing. The upside was that it would be difficult for anyone who wanted to do bad things to me to do them with this volume of traffic and number of witnesses.

I made it without incident to Long Point, trying to keep an eye on the rear-view mirror. The majority of the traffic continued south onto the point itself, but I took a turn to the right and started driving west. Soon Lake Erie appeared to my left. It was hazy and blue in the intense afternoon sun, and dotted with pleasure boats. The humidity was oppressive. As long as the car was moving I was okay, but whenever I had stopped on my journey since leaving Tillsonburg, it was like coming to rest in a large wet hot sponge. It was most unpleasant.

What was even more unpleasant was that there was now hardly any traffic on the road, and I had become aware that one car had continued behind me since shortly after I had turned to the south off of the dirt road, or so it seemed to me. As the other cars had evaporated, it was still there, always the same distance behind me, whether I accelerated or slowed down. I picked up the phone, flipped it open, and hit the redial button.

Mike answered immediately. "Where the hell are you?" he asked. I glanced at my watch. It was already five fifteen.

"I’m heading west towards Port Burwell, and I’m being followed," I answered promptly.

"Shit. Are you sure?"

"Well, it’s possible he’s just taking the same roundabout route as me, but naturally, I’m suspicious."

"How many others are on the road?"

"The occasional car. Not enough traffic. Mike, I don’t like this."

"Where exactly are you?"

"Not that it will help you any, but I just passed through the bustling metropolis of Troyer Centre. I’ve got maybe twenty minutes more on the road."

Mike sighed heavily at the other end. "If one of us drives out in that direction it sort of blows our cover. I don’t know if it’s worth the risk. Try your best to keep ahead of him, and frankly, I think that if you stay on the main road you should be okay."

"Then why is he following me?" I wailed.

"Maybe just to freak you out. Listen, I’ve got lots of minutes left. Leave the phone on, just put it down so that you can concentrate on driving. I’ll stay on this end. If you want to talk, pick it up. And tell me when you get past Port Burwell so that I can be ready to see you up the stairs and into our room."

"Check. Thanks." I put the phone down carefully on the passenger seat and kept on driving. I was glad to have the other hand back to drive with. Both my hands gripped the wheel convulsively without any consultation with my brain, and it was hard to keep my eyes off of the rearview mirror long enough to watch the road ahead. I didn’t like the feeling that was developing in the pit of my stomach. I started to regret that delicious gyros and fries.

He was gaining on me. It was a he; I could see that much, although nothing more. It was a plain black sedan, nothing flashy, and I couldn’t have told you what the make was. All I knew was that he seemed to have been able to pick me up on the road just like that. He’d been behind me for quite a while, I was sure of that now. It hadn’t seemed suspicious on the road to Long Point, just one of many going in the same direction, but now it was just too obvious.

I was into Elgin County, and took the detour north. Good. Getting closer to the hotel and – what? Safety? Well, at least people whom I knew I could depend on to be on my side, bless them. Mike and Larry were the best. And with a swift uprush of relief I realized that Uncle Rob would be at the ball that night, that he was probably already there. Better and better. I glanced into the mirror again. He had fallen back a bit, so I sped up to see what would happen. He sped up too. There was no point in turning onto a side road and seeing what happened: either he’d follow me and have an isolated spot in which to ambush me, or he wouldn’t and either turn out to be an innocent crop tourer or just be waiting for me back at the hotel because he knew where I was going after all.

The detour ended and I was back on the shore road. As I drove west along the lake, swallows by the hundreds swooped and dipped across the road and back again, flying out over the misty, insubstantial lake and back again. They also lined the hydro lines, no doubt worn out after their aerobatics. The occasional red-winged blackbird sat more soberly amongst them, shaking their heads over the giddy swallows, bronze and grey and white flashing in the sun. I went past field after field of small tobacco plants just taking hold in the sandy soil. Elsewhere, the winter wheat was tall and yellowing, sometimes cutting off my view of the land to the north, and sometimes to the south. At one point hundreds of swallows exploded off of a wire as I came around a bend, scattering in the windless air.

There were no towns or villages along this stretch of road, just houses here and there. No one seemed to be out and around, probably because of the suffocating heat, even right here by the lake. Every once in a while I picked up the phone for a second, just to hear Mike’s voice and reassure him that I was okay. The car still hung back, not approaching me. Then, with a sudden release of tension, I saw what was just behind that car: the distinctive red cherries on the roof of a police cruiser. I couldn’t be safer. I came up the hill into Port Burwell, turned and went up to the road leading across the bridge and up the other side of the Otter Valley to the home stretch to Tintagel. The black car was gone, and the cruiser was right behind me. I did not speed.

I picked up the phone. "Mike, you still there?"

"Where are you now?"

"West of the village. I’ll be in the drive in a couple of minutes."

"The car?"

"Gone. I’ve got a cop behind me instead."

"Excellent. I’m lingering outside the pool area right now. When you come in and park, go straight for the north stairs. I’ll follow you as closely as I can without looking too obvious. Our door is unlocked and Larry’s in there. Just walk in, and I’ll be right behind you."

By then I was at the gates. "Right. I’m about to turn, so I’ll put down the phone. See you there."

"Bye."

I crawled at a decorous pace down the drive, swung to my left and parked. Pausing only to remove my keys from the ignition, and grabbing my purse, the phone, and the sandals, I hopped out of the car, and walked but barely didn’t run in the northeast entrance. It was with a huge internal sigh that I saw the large and comforting bulk of Mike out of the corner of my eye. Controlling an overwhelming desire to throw myself onto his broad chest and weep, I reached out for the door handle and opened it without breaking stride, and briskly walked up the stairs. The only person behind me was Mike, but we said not a word to each other. Reaching the fourth floor, I quickly entered the corridor. Looking around, I was relieved to see no fellow workers, or, worse, management, and made it to room 410 without once breathing after leaving the stairwell.

Larry was on his feet as soon as I was through the door, and Mike was right behind me, and they let me cry for a couple of minutes while they rubbed my back and uttered soothing noises, although I think that the shot of brandy that Mike made me toss back probably helped more than anything.

"Well, said Larry. "It’s a quarter to six. What do we do now?"

"We dye Nell’s hair," said Mike, rummaging in a bag on the dresser.

"Oh, no you don’t," I said, retreating behind a chair. "You aren’t touching it."

"Nell," said Mike patiently, as if instructing a child, while he removed the package from the bag and started to open it, "you don’t understand, obviously. You are a target of somebody’s ill-will."

"Yes."

"Yet you refuse to be sensible and just leave."

"Oh, like I’d be safe then?"

"Who knows? Still, you have decided to stay put and go to this ball thingy tonight."

"Of course."

"So, those bad people who are looking for you will be looking for a honey blonde. If your hair is say, red," he continued, displaying with a game-show prize girl flourish the picture on the front, featuring a model with dark red hair, "it will be harder for them to identify you and do something bad to you. Do you understand now?"

I sighed in defeat and came out from behind the chair. Larry just sat by the window and grinned. "Fine. Do what you will to me. Just let me use the washroom first." And in I went. It had been a long drive from Tillsonburg, and I’d drunk a lot of coffee.

Mike leapt to his feet as I came out. "Excellent!" he cried. "Sit down right here," he continued, pulling out the desk chair for me.

I settled myself in, noticing that Larry was no longer there. "Where’s Larry gone?" I asked.

Mike hovered over me with the squeeze bottle poised. "He’s gone to get us a snack of some sort. I’m starving. How about you?"

I shuddered at the thought as he started squirting the oozing liquid all over my hair. He had on those cheap plastic gloves and starting working it in. "Ouch!" I said. "That stings."

"Sorry. But are you hungry?"

"I had a late lunch at the mall. I’m fine," I answered, watching the process in the mirror with fascination and foreboding. "I’m going to look very different, aren’t I?"

"You’ll look great," Mike assured me. "I’ve always thought that you had the makings of a redhead."

"Thanks," I said, absently, my mind wandering from my hair to the bigger issue at hand. "Mike, what the hell do we do?"

"Smart people would call the cops," he said , and continued to work in the smelly stuff as we talked. "But I guess that we aren’t very smart, and I guess that it is a fairly unbelievable story."

"We need a list of suspects," I said. "Like in all the books."

"Number one. Jim," said Mike, squeezing out the last of the colouring solution with a rude noise. "Pardon me. Now," he continued, with a final massage of my scalp, "we leave this on for fifteen minutes and then you get to take a shower."

"Jim?" I said, turning around in the chair to look at Mike as he gathered up the paraphernalia and dumped it in the wastepaper basket.

"You know he’s a suspicious character. He was right there last night when you were shot, he was at the mall today – those other things you mentioned – you have to put him on the list." He finished his task and sat down in the middle of the sofa, arms along the back.

"I hate having people I like on the list," I said, going over and sitting down next to him. He let one arm drape around my shoulder in a loose hug. "Either it’s not fair to them, or I’m a terrible judge of character. How about Loathesome Len?"

"He was right there when Jack was hit. He’s been around forever. He could have followed you back last night. He’s slimy. I agree with you on that after meeting him. Definitely on the list."

"I don’t mind that," I said more cheerfully. "Carruthers?"

"Do you have strong feelings for him one way or the other?"

"No – he seems harmless, but how harmless can a very successful businessman be? He seems to be nuts about Sue, which seems an odd choice, but that doesn’t eliminate him. Even bad guys fall in love, I guess."

"What about Sue?"

"She’s been here since the place opened. But if she’s involved, it’s not a very lucrative business. You should see her car."

"Smart people making money like that don’t flaunt it; they squirrel it away and then just go somewhere else some day, and are never seen again. She should be on the list. I mean, how likely is it that the owner of the place and a chambermaid would get well enough acquainted to fall in love – or whatever?"

"Maybe," I admitted reluctantly. "Look, we’ve got to have Phil Twinett on the list as well – the manager. He was in that gazebo last night, Jim said."

"Which is only reliable if Jim is not involved."

"True, but we need to consider all possibilities." I got up and walked over to the window, and looked out at the misty blue lake. The humidity was at least creating a very romantic setting for the midsummer ball.

"Fine. Twinett’s on the list. I’ve never seen him but I’ll take your word for it."

"If you saw him you’d suspect him too. He has froggy eyes, and preens. I loathe and despise him, as all right-thinking people do." I paused. "Damn. I suppose that means Pinkerton should be on there, too."

"Who?"

"The assistant manager. They’re always together. I don’t see how Twinett could manage to be a criminal without Pinkerton knowing. Unfortunately, I do not loathe and despise Pinkerton. He has occasionally shown signs of humanity and posseses a rudimentary sense of humour."

"How about Glenda Potter?"

"How about her?"

"Been here forever, interrupted me and Jack..."

"Possible, then."

"And then there’s Steve-o"

"Who?"

"He’s this really irritating maintenance guy. He comes on to me with all the subtlety of an eighteen-wheeler, and doesn’t get discouraged by constant rejection, so I don’t know how smart he is, but he has been here since the place opened, and has every opportunity to go into rooms whenever he wants."

"Add him to the list, then. You realize we have way too many suspects. Some have motive, some have opportunity, and who knows how many have both? And just because they don’t have the opportunity for one murder doesn’t mean that they weren’t the "perp" on another. The other problem is that their motive doesn’t have to be directed towards the actual victim, just towards making some money, and there isn’t anyone who doesn’t belong on that list."

A knock at the door indicated Larry’s return. Mike got up and let him in, while I sat down again on the sofa. I really was feeling very tired. "Room service," Larry announced cheerfully if unoriginally, dropping his package on the table by the window. "I couldn’t face chips and chocolate bars, so I ran into Burwell and got some subs. Why Nell, you look lovely. It’s a real improvement."

"Hah, hah," I said. "Very funny. Do you mean to say that you didn’t get any chocolate bars?"

"I lie, I knew you’d whine without your daily dose," he said, and threw me my favourite mint chocolate bar. "Enjoy."

I blew him a kiss with one hand as I deftly fielded the bar with the other.

"Thank you, Larry. You are very sweet, and I love you both."

Mike sat down on the arm of the sofa, and leaned over and dropped a kiss onto my cheek. " Now get into that bathroom and rinse out your hair. If this doesn’t work right we’re screwed – or at least you are."

I got up, trying to not inhale the bar but not succeeding very well. "I go, I go," I said. "When next you see me I shall be gorgeous."

I spent a good ten minutes in the shower, letting all the goop rinse out of my hair and down the drain. I nipped out at one point and peeked in the steamy mirror to see what I looked like – damned unfamiliar! Then I went back to work and shampooed and conditioned and then finally emerged, swathed in the hotel bathrobe, a towel wrapped around my head.

Mike jumped up from eating at the table by the window. "Take it off," he begged, coming towards me. "I can’t wait to see how it looks."

I unwound the towel as I sat down in front of the mirror again. "This is freaking me out, guys," I said. "I’ve always been a blonde."

"Yes, and it’s a nice change," said Larry briskly. "Have I not tried to talk you into this before?"

"True," I admitted. "It’s taken the threat of violent death to make it finally happen," I continued, as Mike started playing around with my still damp and now very red locks. "What are you planning for it?"

"Nothing fancy," said Mike. "In the first place, you well know that neither Larry nor I is any good at hairdressing – thank God, because that’s one stereotype I can live without."

"Yes," I said, "But I’m worse, as you also well know. Besides," I continued, "I still don’t know what you have planned for me to wear, and until I do I’m not sure of what would look right..." I then stopped talking because my jaw had dropped. My jaw had dropped because Larry had gone over to the closet and pulled out a dress which looked like something out of a dream. When I finally got my jaw to respond to commands again I said as much. And then let the jaw drop again.

"Dream is, actually, technically right," said Mike. "It was from a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Titania’s dress, apparently. Nice, isn’t it?"

Nice was not the word. It was an eye-popping combination of greens and violets and blues, in translucent silks shaped like the petals of some giant flower, layered and overlayered in a bell-shaped skirt, which curved out of a forest green dull satin bodice. There was no hem as such: the individual panels created a irregular line at around the mid-calf. A train made of a fine silvery chiffon, lightly spangled, flowed from the back of the bodice. "I want it," I finally managed to get out.

"Then put it on," said Larry, holding it out to me. I took it gingerly, and then just sighed. Have I mentioned that my three passions are food, clothes, and men, not necessarily in that order? If Jack was the ideal man for me, and chocolate was the ideal food, then this dress completed the triumvirate perfectly. I had found all three archetypal models now. Holding it tenderly, I rushed back into the bathroom, and promptly put it on. It fit perfectly. I turned slowly in front of the still steamy mirror, marvelling in its beauty. Out I came from the bathroom again, this time feeling like I was floating as lightly as a thistledown.

"This is amazing," I said. "Truly, truly amazing. But what about a mask?"

"That was easy," said Larry. "The costume rental place had some great ones." He pulled a feathery mask out of a bag. It was mostly green and deep blue, with feathers arching up and away from the eyes like an exotic bird from a mythical land.

"Excellent," I said.

"Perfect," said Mike. "Now let me deal with your hair."

Despite his disclaimer, Mike did a very nice job on my hair. By the time he was finished, I had a mass of dark auburn curls gathered together at the back of my head, and allowed to fall in artless confusion to just below my shoulders. They left me primping in front of the mirror and changed into their own costumes, emerging together from the bathroom. "Oh God," I said. "What did you do, raid a production of Pride and Prejudice?" They were nattily attired in Regency garb, complete with skin-tight pantaloons, long-tailed tight-fitting jackets, with snowy-white shirts and ornately tied cravats. They looked great.

Larry smirked slightly as he stood beside me and bent over to adjust his cravat at the mirror. "I’ve always had a fancy for Mr Darcy," he said, turning to Mike. "But I thought it would be a bit much to dress as Elizabeth Bennett."

"So you’re Charles Bingley?" I asked. "That puts a whole new complexion on the relationship between those two."

"Well, it certainly explains why Darcy tried so hard to stop Bingley from marrying Jane," suggested Larry.

"Cut the chatter," said Mike, as he turned around to check out the set of his jacket across his broad shoulders, for all the world like a Corinthian hero in my favourite Regency romances. He looked at his watch. "It is now seven o’clock. People who decided to dine in style downstairs are still dining, so there’s not much point in heading down now. It would not do to be unfashionably early."

"Oh, no," I agreed. "Beau Brummel would never approve, would he? Don’t forget that I’m just a little concerned about keeping an eye on Jack."

"And who says that he’ll be down there already? Listen, if we turn up before things get going a bit, it will be too easy for the – shall we say ‘bad guys?’ to figure out who the stunning redhead really is."

I involuntarily turned back to the mirror. I didn’t have the mask on yet, and the makeup I had applied was light, and I looked paler even than usual. My eyes were bare of any makeup. Since I certainly didn’t plan to take the mask off I hadn’t bothered. "Does it look all right?" I asked uncertainly. The red was just so bright to someone used all her life to dull blond.

Mike dropped a quick kiss on the top of my head. "Nell, you look smashing. It looks perfect, really. Never go back."

I looked at Larry. "Agreed," he said. "And even better, no one will guess who you are. I’m sure of that. Unless you manage to trip over your feet in the classic Nell manner."

"You will notice that I purchased low-heel sandals," I said indignantly. "And besides, I don’t always trip."

"No," agreed Larry in a soothing tone. "Sometimes you run into things- like doorways or tables. I really don’t know how you can be such a consistent klutz."

"Oh, well," said Mike tolerantly. "It’s a part of her charm, Larry. But try to control yourself tonight, Nell, eh?"

I sighed. "So what do we do while we wait?" I asked forlornly. I wandered over to the window and looked out while Mike switched on the television. We were still a long way from nightfall, but dark clouds were piling up ominously in the west. Being inside in air-conditioned comfort, I had forgotten about the oppressive heat and overwhelming humidity outside, but the clouds reminded me of what the weather was like.

We settled on the home network and watched decorating shows, but although faux finishes usually got me very excited, and the boys were busy having a spirited discussion about how they could use various techniques in our living room, my mind was nowhere near the television. I allowed my mind to focus on the one person I couldn’t stop thinking about.

Jack. Was he still alive? I scolded myself for being silly, but my experience of the afternoon was way too real. Sitting there in that room, I could smell the hot asphalt of the roads and the baked smell of the dying grass by the side of the road, see the shimmer of the heat mirage rising off the road ahead of me, and feel the gun that I was so sure had been aimed at my back as I drove along.

I couldn’t understand why Jack was still alive. If they knew that he knew, and that I knew, why hadn’t they eliminated us already? Of course, they were counting on us not yet knowing who they were, and Jack suspecting me must have been an unexpected bonus for them, but they surely could have knocked him off by then. Couldn’t they manufacture a convincing enough accident? It was so frustrating to keep referring to "them" as "they". I wanted names and faces, dammit!

It felt like forever since he’d walked down that hallway with Twinett, but I reminded myself that it had, after all, only been a few days since he’d arrived. I supposed that dying immediately upon arrival would be a little suspicious.

"What do you think, Nell? Sage green or aqua?" asked Mike, breaking into my train of concentration.

I shook my head. "What are you talking about?"

Mike stared at me. "Nell, for the past fifteen minutes you have been carrying on a discussion with us about painting the living room. Didn’t you know that?"

"Seriously?" I asked in amazement. "Really, Mike, I had no idea. I’ve been thinking about..."

Larry came over and pulled me to my feet. "We know what you’ve been thinking about. Let’s go. It’s time."