"Hot water," I groaned, staring at the ceiling the next morning. I literally had to pull myself out of that bed, which would've been right at home in a medieval torture chamber. The fact that I couldn't linger under a shower to ease the ache in my back and shoulders didn't improve my mood.
Maggie straightened painfully, her lips tight. She didn't complain, although I could tell she was hurting as much as me.
We took turns at the bathroom sink. I heard water running in the other bathrooms on the floor below us, and swallowed a pang of jealousy. With the liberal use of deodorant, I was sure we wouldn't offend any of the other guests. Maggie had a hard time rinsing the shampoo from her hair. We only had two small towels and I was determined to get more, even if I had to strangle Susan.
By the time we ventured down to the dining room, two other couples were already there. We hadn't met them the night before, but I waved a perfunctory hello to the young couple closest to the entrance. They looked as out-of-place as Maggie and me. Their clothes said they couldn't afford it, and they looked too young to appreciate the experience. The well-tanned, muscular guy had a huge plate of food before him, shoveling eggs into his mouth, while his blonde companion applied ruby polish to her nails. An empty muffin cup sat on a napkin before her.
The other couple, probably ten years older than the first, seemed engrossed in each other—perhaps they were there on a romantic get-away as Susan's brochure suggested. The pretty, longhaired brunette gazed into her companion's eyes, enraptured.
Maggie and I headed for the coffee pots. Pouring our own, we settled at one of the empty tables. "Now what?" I asked, looking toward the kitchen. "Do they serve us like in a restaurant?"
"Some inns and larger B and Bs have a buffet," Maggie offered.
Revived by the aroma of bacon and sausage, I knew food had to be nearby.
A beefy kid in his early twenties, with sandy-colored hair and dark eyes, came out of the kitchen and placed a pitcher of orange juice on the sideboard next to the coffee pots. A tattoo of a large pink rose, pierced by a dagger dripping blood, decorated his bulging bicep.
He noticed us and strolled over. "Hi, I'm Adam."
"Nice tattoo," I said.
The kid actually blushed and yanked his sleeve down. "Not really. I’m saving to get it removed. Laser treatments aren’t cheap, though." He cleared his throat. "Our buffet has scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, home fries, fresh fruit, strudel, and three kinds of muffins. Zack's making blueberry pancakes or omelets. What'll you have?"
"I'll take the blueberry pancakes."
"May I have a Western omelet?" Maggie asked.
"Sure thing. While you're waiting, you can check out the buffet." He pointed toward the kitchen. "Follow me."
The kitchen radiated warmth and hospitality. Whatever hostility I'd sensed from Zack the night before was either suppressed or gone. Stationed at the big commercial stove, he wore a ratty old sailor’s cap while flipping pancakes and nursing omelets along. He kept staring at yet another picture of the
Sea Nymph
that was taped to the stove hood, while across the way Nadine, the young woman we'd spoken to on our arrival, washed dishes. Adam gave Zack our order and resumed chopping vegetables at the counter.
Maggie and I each took a plate and perused the stainless steel warming trays on the center island. Just as Adam said, there was enough food to feed an army. And as Susan had promised the day before, we wouldn't go hungry at breakfast. If I ate enough, maybe I could save on a lunch tab.
Maggie chose carefully—a carrot muffin, two sausages and a single pat of butter. Since I wasn't getting paid for my labor, and still suffered from that rock disguised as a bed, I loaded my plate with bacon and a piece of strudel, determined Zack and Susan would pay for our services, if only in food. My eyes were bigger than my stomach, however, and I was stuffed by the time Zack brought my pancakes and Maggie's omelet to the table.
The daytime Zack was different from the hard-nosed businessman I'd met the night before. He stopped at the other tables, chatting with the guests, refilling coffee cups. Jovial, he was the positive yang to Susan's dour yin. Confusing, but I decided to concentrate on the pancakes before me instead of our host. Even though I could only eat half of what was on my plate, by the time Adam cleared the table I was so full I could barely move. Maggie's smile of contentment gave me warm fuzzy feelings.
"We have to get to work, love," I said. "Susan said we could take pictures of Eileen's room this morning. Then we can do the dining room.”
"Do you think she's already gone for the day?"
"Let's find out."
We headed for the living room and the reception area. Susan sat in front of her computer, half glasses poised on her nose, looking older than she had the day before.
"Hi," Maggie said. "When's a good time for us to take pictures of Eileen's room?"
Susan looked up at us over her glasses. "About eleven o'clock. Ms. Marshall has already left for her meeting. Once breakfast is over, Nadine will make up the room and you can set up."
I glanced at my watch: it was already 9:30. Oh well, that gave us a little time to check out the countryside. "Sounds good. After that, I'd like to shoot the dining room. Can Zack save muffins or anything else to approximate breakfast?"
"No problem," Susan said, sounding almost affable. With a little work, maybe she'd be a decent human being. I pushed my luck.
"Great. By the way, could we have more than two towels? Even though we don't have a working shower, we need—"
"Yes," she said curtly, and turned back to her computer. So much for being a decent human being.
More or less satisfied, I turned to Maggie. "How about a short tour of the town?"
"I'd love it."
I went back to the room, grabbed the camera, and off we went.
We were about a mile from the inn when I slowed the car and took special note of the countryside. Something about it bothered me. Maggie looked around, puzzled. A car horn blasted behind us, so I stepped on the gas.
"Did I miss something?" she asked.
I was still in a fog. "What?"
"Why'd you slow down?"
"I don't know. There's something about—"
"Uh-oh, you're not getting one of those funny feelings of yours, are you?" She knew that meant trouble.
"No. It's just—" I groped for a plausible lie. "I was wondering why Susan and Zack didn't buy a place closer to the village?"
"That's easy. Money. The farther from the village you are, the less the price. Also the less you can charge your guests. But if you think about it, in the winter they're actually closer to Mt. Mansfield. If you're a skier it all works out; and maybe they can squeeze more out of those guests."
I nodded, concentrating on the road, but I could feel her eyes on me—studying me—until she finally looked away. I knew my lie hadn't fooled her, but she chose not to mention it.
Stowe's a quaint little New England town, but more commercial than some of the smaller villages. With an almost European feel, its Victorian houses turned into storefronts, and shops with creaky wooden floors, exude old-fashioned country charm. The town survives on tourism in the summer and skiing in the winter, but there's no denying the surrounding scenery is beautiful no matter what the season.
Although most of the shops were just opening, the streets were already filled with tourists. We found a parking space in the municipal lot.
Strolling down the sidewalk, we paused in front of a clothing shop, its carved doorway painted to look like gold leaf. Although the summer wasn’t quite over, the energetically posed mannequins in the window were already wearing $300 ski sweaters, looking like they might abandon the village and hit the slopes at any moment. Despite my lack of enthusiasm, Maggie dragged me inside to admire the designer wear.
"Isn't there a bookstore we can go to? Something at least marginally interesting?"
She grabbed an Aran sweater from a table and held it against my chest. "You'd look terrific in this. It goes so well with your eyes."
The tag caught my attention. "Yeah, and it would take me at least two paychecks just to buy it."
With a martyr's sigh, she folded the sweater and replaced it on the table, then looked around the place.
"Can I help you?" a young woman asked. College student—or one of the marginally employed locals, I guessed.
"No, thanks. Just looking," Maggie said.
She nodded, and started to refold the sweater Maggie had just put down on the counter.
Maggie wandered down the aisle, and then pointed toward the back of the store. Ted Palmer was admiring himself in a three-sided mirror while Laura Ross looked on critically. He studied his reflection from all angles, pulling on the sleeve of a green sport coat.
"Come on," Maggie whispered. She grabbed my hand and tugged me after her, darting amongst the clothing racks. Crouching low, we duck-walked along the aisle until we could hear their conversation.
"Maggie, this is stupid."
"No, it's fun!" She motioned for me to keep still.
"I don't know," Laura said. "Maybe you should try the blue one on again."
"Or I could just take both," Ted said.
"Do you believe him?" Maggie mouthed.
"No. And what's more, I don't care. I feel ridiculous. Can we get out of here?"
"May I help you?"
A pair of polished Florshiems appeared next to me and I looked up at a tall, elegantly dressed gentleman.
"Uh, I dropped something," I said, while Maggie smiled sweetly at him. I straightened, cleared my throat, and helped Maggie to stand.
"Is there something I can show you?" the salesman persisted.
I risked a glance over my shoulder and saw Laura looking at me as though I'd just mooned the joint. "Uh, no. In fact, we were just leaving."
I grabbed a giggling Maggie by the arm and steered her toward the entrance.
"Do you mind telling me what that was all about?" I asked once we were out on the crowded sidewalk.
She frowned. "I'm sorry. It's just ... the inn is filled with such stuffed shirts, I needed to cut loose. Are you mad at me?"
I gave her what I hoped was a stern look. She struggled to keep a straight face, but I was the first to crack. "Yes, but it isn't the first time and it won't be the last."
"Spying on the rich folks?" came a voice at the doorway. It was the young woman who'd greeted us when we'd first arrived.
Maggie's cheeks flushed. "Were we that obvious?"
She laughed. "I’m afraid so."
"They're staying at the same place we are," Maggie volunteered.
I nodded toward the lovebirds. "Do they come here often?"
"She dropped a couple grand the other day. Hadn't seen them before that."
"Won't you get in trouble telling us this?" Maggie asked.
She shrugged. "I'm out of here on Monday. Back to school."
"Kathy?" came a male voice from inside the store.
"Gotta go." She schooled her features before heading into the store.
"Two grand," I mused.
"When you’ve got it, flaunt it," Maggie suggested.
I looked down the street. "Anywhere else you want to go?"
Her gaze traveled across the road to a store placard that read
Everything Cows
. "How about there?"
Ten minutes later, our shopping expedition was over. Maggie bought black-spotted cow salt-and-pepper shakers as a souvenir of our Vermont trip.
"What'll we do about dinner tonight?"
Maggie clutched her gift bag and shaded her eyes, looking toward a restaurant up the street. "I don't want to eat for a week. How about that place?"
We inspected the menu, and the menus of every other restaurant along the street, trying to narrow down the choices. We came to no conclusions and decided we'd better start back for the inn.
It was close to eleven by the time we hit the road. About a mile from the inn, I again got that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I tried to take in as much of the scenery as possible, but could see nothing but trees, meadows, and more trees. Nothing out of the ordinary.
I wanted to believe that odd feeling in my gut was heartburn, but I knew better.
"There you are," Susan said, her mouth pursed as we slunk past her like a couple of truants. "Ms. Marshall's room is all ready for you."
She ushered us directly to Eileen's room, which had been restored to move-in order, with her possessions neatly stacked in the closet.
The spacious, attractive corner room had windows on the outside walls. Two double four-poster beds lined an inside wall. Maggie admired all the knickknacks, the coordinating wallcoverings, bedspreads, curtains, and new carpet. A cozy little sitting nook, with a loveseat and cocktail table, beckoned. Most attractive to me was the huge bathroom with a working double shower. Compared to the hole in the wall we'd been assigned, it seemed like we'd stepped into heaven.
We hauled the equipment downstairs and I spent the next two hours setting up. Maggie seemed to be underfoot the whole time. I could've assembled the rig a lot faster if she hadn't been there. But while I fiddled with the umbrellas, she played photo stylist, arranging and rearranging the furniture and bric-a-brac until she achieved feng shui—a thoroughly harmonious composition. I thought she'd been reading too many decorator magazines, but the room did look more inviting for her efforts.
If I'd been a more experienced photographer, I'd have had a laptop on hand to give me a better idea of the results I could expect. A variety of lenses would've been nice, too, but we already had too much money tied up in this little escapade to justify spending another nickel. I took a number of shots from every possible angle and hoped for the best.
Between changing sheets and taking stints on the vacuum cleaner in the other guest rooms, Susan popped in to check our progress. She let us know we were making a much bigger deal out of the job than was necessary.
Actually, the whole process went faster than I would have guessed. If we had to take photos of more of the bedrooms on Monday, perhaps we could leave the inn about one—but that meant we wouldn't get home until early Tuesday morning. Since neither of us had to work Tuesday, it made more sense to stay another night. That is if Susan and Zack were willing. We'd have to negotiate.
While I packed the equipment, Maggie restored Eileen's room to normal, which seemed boring in contrast. Then we carried the equipment downstairs and set up in the dining room.
Compared with the bedroom, the once-homey dining room seemed as welcoming as a cave. I turned on every light in the place, plus my strobes, and still had doubts the photos would come out. Thank goodness for Photoshop. Nadine, the not-so-helpful employee we'd met the day before, had an interest in interior design. She stayed after her regular hours—unpaid, as Susan was quick to remind her—to help Maggie set tables and arrange the food. Susan watched our every move, and I wondered if she thought we'd try to walk off with some of her precious knickknacks.
About mid-way through the set up, I discovered that I had my own audience. Ted, sans his new jacket, parked himself well out of range, studying the whole procedure. It wasn't until Maggie and Nadine fussed with an alternate table setting that he ventured nearer the camera.
"You really know your stuff," he said.
"I wish I did, but I’m taking a good stab at it."
He took in the rented equipment. "Aren't you a pro?"
"Nope. I'm a bartender. We're doing this as a favor for Susan and Zack."
"You mean you're not even getting paid?" he asked, incredulous.
"No."
He frowned. "You don't look like a bartender."
"What's a bartender look like?"
His frown deepened. I decided to cut him some slack.
"I was an insurance investigator for a lot of years. But with corporate downsizing and all—" I didn't want to get into all the grim details.
"Yeah. My old man's a big shot at one of the airlines. He's had to let a lot of people go over the years."
"Oh, yeah?"
"I worked for him for a while after college. He kept me on, but he let others go who had twenty or thirty years with the company. People with families, mortgages...." For a moment he seemed to stare at nothing, in what was probably a rare moment of introspection. Was it guilt I read on his face? "I quit," he said. "I mean, why stay at a place where they're ultimately going to trash you?"
"It's those mortgages and families and car payments," I suggested.
He tugged the sleeve of his cashmere sweater. "Yeah, but I found the good life without the pitfalls."
"Laura takes care of you?"
"So far. These older broads are great, aren't they?" he said, nodding toward Maggie across the room.
Now Maggie may be four years older than me, but she's not a broad. "Hey, that's my lady you're talking about."
Ted backed off. "That's cool. I just mean they're grateful for anything they get in the sack—"
"Yeah," I cut him off.
Suddenly the connections on the power packs fascinated me. Ted took the hint and moved a discrete distance, although he continued to watch. Meanwhile, I pondered his reaction. Did Maggie look that much older than me?
My next visitor was the nail-polishing young woman I recognized from breakfast. "Hi," she said, sauntering into the dining room, clad in a black thong bikini, leather sandals, with a beach towel draped over one arm.
"Hi, yourself."
"Do you need a model? I have had some experience. I was almost in a lingerie layout once, but at the last minute they chose another girl. I've been seriously thinking of going to modeling school, though."
"How nice.”
I suppose she was pretty, and maybe all of twenty three. Her bleached blond hair had only the barest hint of dark roots. Women with her identical tiny waist and almost nonexistent breasts were always plastered across the sales flyers that came in the newspaper.
"I'm Alyssa Nelson." She offered her hand.
I shook it. Bony—and no impressions. Good. "Jeff Resnick. Nice to meet you."
She leaned her equally bony behind against one of the tables. "I'm here with my boyfriend. I won a contest on the radio. Four nights and five days at the Sugar Maple Inn."
"Where are you from?"
"Long Island. Yeah, it's nice here. But I wish they had heart-shaped tubs. My mom says it's not a major place unless they have heart-shaped tubs."
I would've settled for any kind of a tub. "What do you do on Long Island?" I asked, more out of courtesy than interest.
"I work in a jewelry store. But like I said, I've been seriously thinking of going to modeling school. Doug—that's my boyfriend—he says I could make some good money, and maybe we could travel."
"Where is Doug?" I asked, glancing around.
"By the pool. I just wanted to see if you could use me in any of your shots."
"Sorry, but we're featuring furniture."
"Too bad." She waved a finger at me, her expression filled with hope. "But if you change your mind—"
"I'll let you know." I was still smiling as she walked away. I turned, surprised to find Maggie standing behind me, fists planted on her nicely rounded hips.
"Kind of young for you, isn't she?" Maggie doesn't usually feel threatened by other women, but she tends to be sensitive about our modest age difference.
"Yes, she is. And too skinny for my taste, too. I like my women with a little meat on their bones." I grabbed her by the waist, pulled her close, and kissed her.
"Oh, you," she said and batted my nose. "Let's finish up."
It was after five when I packed the last of the equipment. All that remained was for me to lug it up two flights and then I could take it easy for the rest of the day.
"What will you do tomorrow?" Susan asked, suddenly hovering once again.
"The morning light should be good in the sun room. Or we could do the living room."
"Or both," she suggested.
I sighed wearily. "Or both."
"Great." With that said, she flounced off in the direction of the stairs, presumably to go back to her office to count her earnings, or perhaps berate a member of her staff. Ah, the life of the entrepreneur. Here it was Friday of a long holiday weekend, and already I longed to go back to my boring every-day life in Buffalo.
I noticed when it came time for actual physical labor, my audience of Ted and Nadine had disappeared. It was up to Maggie and me to trudge up all those stairs to stow the equipment. Three trips—and a healthy sweat—later, I plugged the power packs in the room's only outlet, recharging them for the next day's shoot, then flopped on the bed to stare at the ceiling. I longed for a shower.
"Can we go home now?" I begged Maggie.
"Not yet, I'm afraid." She joined me on the bed. "Just one more day, and we can relax all day Sunday. That'll be nice, won't it?"
"It'll have to be." I yanked at my shirt and sniffed. "I'd even be willing to take a bath right now, and all we have is that dinky sink. Boy that friend of yours is a slave driver."
"She's not really a friend," Maggie reminded me. "She was my chem lab partner—the most popular girl in my high school class. And I was—"
"Not?"
She radiated embarrassment. I put my arm around her shoulder and drew her close. "Don't feel bad, love. I was in the same boat. Why don't you tell me what's really bothering you."
She pulled back and stared at the floor. "Back in high school, we toilet-papered the principal's office as our senior prank. Afterwards, they did a locker inspection and found an empty cardboard core in mine."
"Did you do it?"
"Me and about twenty other kids. Susan lied to give me an alibi. If she hadn't, they wouldn't have let me go to the graduation ceremony. My parents would've killed me."
"Did Susan help with the prank?"
"She planned it." Maggie sighed. "You'd think at my age I'd be over all those high school insecurities. I desperately wanted to be popular, like Susan, and have all the boys trailing after me."
"Instead you turned out terrific and she's a bitch. Why compare yourself?"
"Because maybe I'm as bad as she is." She lowered her gaze again. "When Susan dangled this free weekend in front of me—in exchange for the magazine article—she reminded me of my debt to her. But I knew I could sell the article. Getting a picture-spread in even a magazine with crappy distribution would still be great for my resume. It might even help me sell my book on decorating. Only being here hasn't worked out like I thought."
I leaned over to kiss her. "You're being too hard on yourself. You're the best thing that ever happened to me."
She shook her head as though puzzled, but I soaked up her feelings of gratitude and affection. "Did I ever tell you how much I love you?" she said.
"Not in the past few hours." Then she was in my arms. One kiss led to another, and soon my fatigue vanished.
Two hours later we emerged from our room, groomed, dressed and ready to find one of the village's less expensive restaurants.
We passed that deserted stretch of road between the inn and the village and that feeling of foreboding returned with a vengeance. Once or twice was coincidence—three times was a warning, something I couldn't afford to overlook. I knew if I didn't consciously think about it, some idea—or reason—for that feeling would come to me. And I knew Maggie wasn't going to like it.
I'd gotten pretty adept at keeping these flashes of insight from her, but I'd have to introduce the subject during dinner. I had to make a decision about what to do before we went back to the inn.
We pulled into the parking lot of a little Tex-Mex restaurant and headed in. Tastefully decorated with serapes and sombreros on the walls, a saddle draped over a rail, and a mini cactus on every table, it was blessedly unlike most franchise Mexican restaurants.
The place was busy and we waited in the entryway for almost ten minutes before being seated. I looked longingly at the bar and the Corona bottles with fresh lime slices poking out the top. With our tight finances, we'd have to be content with either Maggie's bottle of gin back in the room or the complimentary sherry Zack and Susan offered.
Once seated, we studied the menus for a few minutes before ordering. Maggie waited until the waitress left before she leaned forward and spoke. "Okay, what's bothering you?"
I met her gaze. "I thought I'd hidden it pretty well."
"You can't keep much from me, buster. No, spill it."
I pursed my lips in momentary indecision. "I'm going to call Richard. I want him to come here."
Her eyes narrowed. "What for? We're going home in three days."
"I'm not so sure about that. If we have to wait until Monday to photograph the rest of the bedrooms—"
She ignored my explanation. "Why does Richard have to come to Stowe?"
I shrugged and took a sip of water.
"What will you tell him?"
"I don't know. I never know how to explain these things. But I trust these feelings. I can't ignore them."
"What feelings?"
"I just feel anxious. Like he needs to be here."
"Does this have to do with the murder you asked Susan about?"