Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1) (6 page)

“Did anyone?” I shuddered. “You wouldn’t believe the things she did.”

“Try me.”

Okay, he’d asked for it.

“You know how it’s impossible to flunk Home Ed? Well, Ms Daggon overheard me saying that to someone in class and guess what? She flunked me! Senior year. She was spiteful that way. And maybe I did suck at Home Ed, but I couldn’t possibly have been the worst in the history of Silver Firs High and yet I was the only student who’d ever been failed. I checked the records.”

Detective Bishop flipped to a fresh page. “You had access to the school records?”

Uh oh.

“That’s not important right now,” I said quickly. “The point is, Ms Daggon had a mean streak. Take last Christmas when she ran down Mrs Colby’s pooch. Poor Mrs Colby, that little dog was all she had since Mr Colby passed away, but do you know what Ms Daggon did? She climbed out and kicked Muffins to make sure he was dead, then she called, ‘Good riddance,’ to Mrs Colby, climbed back into her car and continued driving, straight over what was left of Muffins. I saw it for myself. Mrs Colby was in such a fluster, they had to rush her to the hospital in Syracuse. I didn’t blame her one bit that she vowed to put Ms Daggon out of her misery for once and for all.”

I put my head against the back of the armchair, watching the detective scribble away. Jack Daniels on an empty stomach had certainly loosened my tongue, and my guilt. But as much as I’d tried to think nice thoughts of the dead, or none at all, these were the memories that had pressed on my chest all morning and it felt so good to get them off.

“Are you saying Mrs Colby had a vendetta against Ms Daggon?” he said.

“Not at all,” I assured him.

Detective Bishop’s brow still hadn’t un-knitted.

If anything, he looked more confused.

“Ms Daggon was the one with all the vendettas,” I said. “And boy, could she carry a grudge. I’m sure Mrs Biggenhill will sleep easier tonight.”

“And why is that?”

I shared what I knew about the Daggon-Biggenhill saga, but I kept it short since the detective was beginning to show signs of strain around the mouth and besides, I didn’t know all that much. It had started long before I was born, although I was pretty sure Ms Daggon had chewed on that bone until the bitter end.

After that, Detective Bishop steered me back to re-tracing my early morning footsteps.

“Let me get this straight,” he said flatly when I was done. “You smoked out the kitchen, flooded away any evidence, then you further contaminated my scene by throwing your jacket over the body.”

I pursed my lips. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“And all before you even realized Ms Daggon was dead?”

Time to move the conversation forward. “It was her heart, right?”

“We won’t know anything until the autopsy report.” Detective Bishop flexed his wrist, probably writer’s cramp. “Did Ms Daggon have a heart condition?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” I said. “They showed us a heart diseased from alcohol abuse in Anatomy class once.”

Detective Bishop looked at me.

That was it, just looked at me with those gray, gray eyes.

“What?” I said. “It was so enlarged and weak, apparently it had just stopped pumping one day.”

“Are you studying medicine, Ms Storm?”

I laughed. “I’m an actress.”

“Is the subject of anatomy a hobby, then?”

My spine prickled. Some people just couldn’t appreciate the hard work and commitment that went into acting. It wasn’t all fun and games.

“Anatomy was a required class in the acting school I attended in New York,” I informed him. “Our bodies are the tools of our trade,” I quoted from the schedule pack.

“I see.” He scribbled a bit, then set his pen down and stood. “We’re done for now, thank you for your time, Ms Storm. You’ve been very, um, informative.”

“Happy to help.” I unfolded my legs and scooted off the comfy chair.

“One more thing,” he said nonchalantly. “If you plan on leaving town, would you mind stopping by the police station first and letting them know?”

I frowned at him. “Why can’t I leave town?”

“You can leave town,” he enunciated slowly, that endless patience apparently nearing its end. “If you could just let one of the officers know.”

“I heard you the first time,” I clipped out. “But you said Ms Daggon’s death wasn’t being treated as suspicious.”

“I didn’t say, actually.” He stepped out from behind the desk and came closer. “It’s standard procedure, Ms Storm. Until we know more, I can’t rule out anything, but you needn’t worry. You’ve implicated yourself on too many counts to be considered a serious suspect.”

Suspect? Implicated myself?
Okay, Ms Daggon might not have been my favorite person, but that wasn’t a crime, was it?

“Unless that’s all part of your master Freudian plan,” he said lightly. He scrubbed his jaw, his mouth softening into a hint of that gorgeous smile. “You didn’t happen to study Psychology 101 in that acting school of yours, did you?”

I dropped my eyes, suddenly very interested in the grain pattern of the hardwood floor while I contemplated my answer. I had no problem with a white fib for the sake of a little harmony, but I thought an officer of the law might.

“Oh, God,” he groaned.

I raised my head to glare at him. “It’s important for an actor to delve deep into the psyche of characters they play.”

“Of course it is.” He shoved a hand through his hair and showed me to the door.

FOUR

It was time to acquaint myself with my new temporary home.

Ms Daggon’s body had been removed from the premises and the cops, both local and otherwise, had cleared out. Mr Hollow had retired upstairs, I presumed to change out of his sleeping robes. Despite breakfasting on Jack Daniels, Jenna had gone to work. Her family owned The Vine, a connoisseur delicatessen and wine tasting bar just off the square.

Which left only me and… I glanced around for Burns, but he’d vacated the throne-like wing back chair without me noticing.

He hadn’t gone far. I found him napping behind the reception desk in the foyer, his large body crammed awkwardly into a spindly wicker chair. I leaned my elbows on the high counter, wondering if this meant he doubled up as the inn’s receptionist.

His neck was strung back over the top of the chair, mouth hanging open, his pale jowls quivering from his soft (thankfully) snores. I considered nudging his shoulder to wake him, maybe suggest he’d be more comfortable on the larger chair back in the lounge, but who was I to mess with the well-oiled machine that was Hollow House?

Instead, I leaned further over and nabbed the leather-bound guest register resting on the lower tier of the desk. Not that I had any plans of involving myself in the management of the inn, but I was curious.

The blue ribbon attached to the spine opened the register on today’s date. The embossed cream page was blank except for the thin black lines that delineated three columns. Thank goodness. In light of certain recent events, I wasn’t sure we could accommodate new arrivals, not if they expected to be served breakfast and dinner.

I flipped forward a couple of pages and kept going, blank page after blank page right through to the end of the summer months.

Strange.

I would have thought Hollow House survived mainly on pre-bookings via travel agents and vacation planners. It was premium accommodation, not a motel where weary travelers pulled up out of the blue for a quick stopover.

I changed direction, flipping all the way back to January 1
st
without coming across a single entry. Business had been floundering, everyone in town knew that, but this was… Well, not to be callous or anything, but Hollow House was dead.

Not my problem.

I slammed the book shut—Burns acknowledged the small thud with a disgruntled snore—and went exploring.

The first door across the foyer opened into a narrow dining room. The solid table was nearly as long as the room and seated an impressive dozen on ruby velvet-cloaked high back chairs. Heavy curtains kept a firm rein on any stray sunbeams that might otherwise have dared to slip through. The room was dim, dark and stale.

I moved on and stood in the next doorway, puzzled. This room was much larger and square, and unfurnished. The floor was hardwood, not a rug in sight. A fancy chandelier hung from the high ceiling, dripping diamond clusters that were dull with dust. Two of the walls were draped in black cloth from ceiling to floor, as if the room were in mourning.

With a sigh, I closed the door behind me and gave up on my tour. This day was depressing enough without it.

∞∞∞

The sun peeked at me through wisps of darkening fluff. I squinted up into the sky, made a couple of deals with the weather gods, and set off at a brisk pace along the lake trail that started around the back of the house and hopefully went all the way to town. The path meandered, but I was in no hurry with nowhere to go.

Fresh air and exercise were going to be my new regime, I’d decided while pacing my bedroom and wondering what to do with myself, but I did not need another drenching. Some people could pull off the plastered-hair, water-spiked lashes and wide eyes, cute-as-a-button look. Others just looked like a drowned-rat. You didn’t need two guesses to guess which group I fell into.

The reeds along the shore hummed with insect life. There was a flutter and a warbled call from a nearby tree as a Goldfinch took flight. The sounds and sights I missed like crazy when I was in the city. I really was a small town girl at heart—with big town dreams.

I laughed at myself, stopping a moment to gaze out over the lake and enjoy the serenity.

My back pocket chirped with the chorus of a hundred crickets. I’d left my purse behind, shoved my phone and some dollar bills into my pocket instead.

I pulled my phone out and checked the caller id before answering. The cricket chorus was my generic ring tone for unrecognized numbers. It was a cell number, so could be anyone from here to Syracuse to New York City.

Syracuse.

I’d looked up a couple of divorce lawyers while I’d been there and was waiting for a callback to arrange an appointment.

“Not today.” I ended the call without answering and stood there another moment, inhaling deep breaths of unspoiled beauty and carefree solitude.

My phone went off again in my hand.

Crickets.

So much for solitude and serenity. I turned the phone off, returned it to my back pocket and resumed my ‘brisk-paced’ amble in the general direction of town.

The rain held off and the day had warmed up nicely by the time the path spat me out at the foot of the North Pier. A man sat at the far end, legs dangling over the side, line cast into the shallows. If he wanted to catch anything, he’d have better luck at the South Pier on the other end of the boardwalk, which reached deeper into the lake. But he probably knew that.

The restaurants and shops along the boardwalk were prime location, double-facing onto the boardwalk as well as the town square. The Vine, however, had forged its own prime spot one road back from the square on Birch Street, right beside the long parking bays reserved for the tour buses that passed through on their way to the vineyards.

I cut through the alley between Eclipse and Patty’s Pancakes onto the green, happy to see the bustling throngs of unfamiliar faces milling about. Tourist Season was kicking into high gear. Given the sad state of the Hollow House register, I’d been a little concerned.

I crossed the green and pushed through the pink and yellow frosted door of Cuppa-Cake.

A bell tinkled above the door and Lily glanced over the heads of the three customers waiting in front of the counter, caught my eye and smiled before going back to her serving. She was a pretty blond in her early thirties, married with an adorable little girl. She’d also caused a town riot two years back when she’d opened Cuppa-Cake directly across the green from Mr Bellaney’s Cuppa-Cheeno. Mr Bellaney had petitioned the town council, but both parties had firm roots in the community and staunch supporters.

Sides had been taken, lines drawn, but no blood had been spilled. Yet.

“I heard you were visiting,” Lily said when it was my turn to be served.

I smiled and nodded. The smell of freshly baked goodies tickled my good intentions and before I knew it, I’d ordered a half-dozen assorted cupcakes with my cappuccino and Jenna’s skinny latte.

“Is it true you’ve bought Hollow House from George Hollow?” Lily called out loudly to be heard above the hissing machine. “Will you keep it as an inn, or make it your primary residence?”

My lips twitched. Primary residence? As opposed to what? All the other residences I’d accumulated on my road to fame? “You do know I ran off to Broadway, not Hollywood, right?”

She threw me a
‘so what?’
look over her shoulder.

The money side of Broadway sucked, that was what. Well, unless you were some rich and famous big screen star slumming it in the name of art. I guessed they did okay.