Asking For Trouble

“Do either of you know anything about Robert Donovan’s whereabouts? Where he might have gone after leaving here?” Beth interrupted, though she doubted the new topic would be any safer. “I was hoping he might have told you something during your visits.”

The two women’s faces reddened simultaneously and their eyes widened before exchanging what Beth construed to be guilty looks, even as they shook their heads in denial. “Why, no, dear.” Iris smoothed the skirt of her print dress with quick, nervous movements. “We didn’t associate with Mr. Donovan all that much. Did we, sister?”

Ivy shook her head. “No. Not at all.”

“But I thought you played bridge with him a few times. I distinctly remember you telling me that.” Her suspicions continued to grow. The old women were hiding something.

Dead bodies, perhaps?

Bonnie and Clyde. Iris and Ivy. It didn’t have the same cachet to it. But still…

“Dr. Donovan is here to search for his father. He’s very worried about him, says it’s not like him to go off without leaving word.”

Ivy scoffed. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be just fine. After all, Robert—” Her cheeks filled with color at the slip. “I mean, Mr. Donovan is a grown man who undoubtedly knows his own mind. Young people should give older folks more credit for being capable. Why, you’d be surprised what we can do when we put our minds to it.”

Thinking back to the shovel, bones and locket, Beth had no doubt about that.

“Are you sure you’ve told me everything? It’s very important that you confes…confide in me, if you know anything.”

“Of course, dear,” Iris answered in wide-eyed innocence, quickly changing the subject. “Now, why don’t you tell us about your meeting with Mr. Pickens? I’m just dying of curiosity, and so is Ivy.”

Heaving a sigh, Beth knew she’d get no more information out of the two old ladies today. They could be as stubborn as lint on black socks when they put their minds to it. Though she went on to reveal the details of her meeting with the banker, Beth couldn’t shake the feeling that Iris and Ivy knew more than they were saying, which didn’t bode well for her peace of mind, not when there were bones buried in her basement.

“I HATE LYING TO Beth, Iris.” Ivy wrung her hands nervously and paced across the colorful Aubusson carpet her ancestor Isaac Swindel had brought over from England when he’d made the trip to the colonies with William Penn. “She’s going to be madder than a flea-infested dog when she finds out what we’ve done.”

Uneasy at her sister’s prediction, for she knew it was true, Iris said, “Now, sister, you know it can’t be helped. We don’t want to involve Beth and get her into trouble. It’s best to keep our own counsel, as we’ve already discussed. Besides, keeping information from someone to protect them isn’t really lying—it’s being responsible.”

Blue eyes filled with uncertainty, Ivy pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to ease the pain centered there, and nearly dislodged her wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m going to take some Excedrin and rest a bit before dinner. I feel a headache coming on.”

“All right, dear. I’m going to try that incantation one more time. I must be doing something wrong. It’s just not working like it should.”

“Maybe you should add some Viagra to your potion. It supposedly raises quite a few…er…things.”

“Ivy Swindel! You are shameful.”

The old woman smiled. “Yes, I know. But at my age I have every right to be. Life should be fun when you’re as old as I am. In fact, I’m thinking about forming a chapter of that Red Hat Society here in Mediocrity. It’s for women over fifty. They wear red hats, purple dresses and have oodles of fun. I may even let you join…or not,” she tossed out before disappearing.

Iris shook her head and had just opened up The Wicca’s Guide to Potent Brews when she felt someone’s eyes upon her. She and Ivy rarely closed the door to their suite of rooms; they were the only inhabitants on the fourth floor, so it seemed unnecessary.

Her niece had insisted that they were too trusting of strangers and that someday one of the guests would walk off with their antiques and cherished possessions. But so far that hadn’t come to pass, and Iris was doubtful it would.

Beth tended to be distrustful of people because of her unhappy childhood and the way her former husband had treated her. Not that Iris could blame the poor child. Greg Randall had proved to be a womanizing scoundrel. Still, it was Iris’s belief that one had to have faith in the good of mankind.

Glancing over her left shoulder toward the open door, she found a young blond girl framed in the doorway and knew immediately that she was Bradley Donovan’s daughter. “Hello?” She smiled in greeting. “Are you lost?”

The child, who was attired in jeans and a bright pink sweatshirt adorned with red hearts, shook her head. “Nope. I just wanted to see what was up here. I’m staying at the inn with my dad.”

Apparently the sign stating Private Residence hadn’t deterred the inquisitive child. “Come in. You must be Stacy Donovan. My niece, Beth, has told me a bit about you.”

Nodding, the child stepped forward somewhat tentatively and looked about at the heavy upholstered furnishings, red velvet drapes and ecru lace curtains hanging at the windows, then pulled a face. “This is really old stuff. Reminds me of my Grandma Donovan’s house. At least you don’t have those plastic things covering your lamp shades.”

Shutting the book, Iris seated herself on the wing chair fronting the fireplace and motioned for the girl to sit down. “I don’t get many visitors your age, and I always enjoy talking to young people.” She missed her days of teaching school for that reason.

“No wonder no one visits,” Stacy said, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. “It stinks in here. What’s that smell? It’s, like, totally gross.”

Taken aback by the girl’s bluntness, a soft blush touched the older woman’s cheeks. “I’ve been burning incense.”

Clearly impressed, the girl’s eyes widened. “Cool. Do you smoke pot?”

Iris clutched her chest, looking horrified. “Heavens, no! Do you?”

“Nah. My dad would kill me. Besides, marijuana can be addictive and lead to other drugs. My dad’s a doctor, so I know a lot about stuff like that. So how come you’re burning incense?”

“I’m trying out a new incantation.”

Stacy glanced at the book on the table. “Are you a witch or something?”

Iris smiled. “There’re some around here who would say so.”

“Cool.”

“Would you like a cookie? I have some Fig Newtons left.”

“Gross. I hate those.” Then noting Iris’s disappointed look, Stacy remembered her manners, adding, “No thanks, I mean.”

“Tell me a little bit about yourself and your grandmother, Stacy. Do you visit her often?” Iris had always wanted children and grandchildren. But that had not been possible, not after…She pushed the painful thought away.

Plopping down on the lumpy chair, Stacy pulled a used wad of gum out of her pocket and unwrapped it, then stuck it in her mouth. “My grandma died when I was young, my mom, too. I just have Dad and Gramps now, only Gramps is gone. Missing, my dad says. He’s real worried about him.”

Pop! Smack! Pop!

The older woman held her tongue at the annoying sounds the child was making and replied, “Yes, my niece informed me of that, as well. I’m sorry to hear about your mother, dear. It’s never easy when someone we love dies and leaves us.” Iris glanced toward the window, lost in thought for a moment, and then looked back to find the young girl’s eyes filled with tears.

“Mom had cancer. My dad took her death really hard. I used to hear him crying at night. It was kinda weird to know that he cried, too. I thought I was the only one.”

Iris’s heart went out to the poor child. It was clear Stacy was still grieving, and she knew what that was like. “I lost someone I loved, too. It was a long time ago, but his memory still lingers in my heart.” As did the pain of his duplicity.

“Your husband?”

The older woman shook her head. “Lyle and I were never married, though we’d hoped to be one day. It…it just didn’t work out that way. Sometimes God has a different plan for us, and there’s nothing we can do but accept what He hands us.” And try to go on. But that’s never easy. Especially not when your life is destroyed by one single, impulsive act.

“Yeah, that’s what my dad told me. Was your boyfriend cute? Most of the good-looking guys at my school won’t give me the time of day. I think it’s because I’m flat-chested.”

Leaning forward, Iris swallowed her smile and patted Stacy’s knee. “You have plenty of time for that sort of thing, my dear. You should enjoy your youth. You only get one go-around. I used to tell my niece that very thing when she would get impatient about growing up. But as you can see, Beth’s turned into a fine woman.”

The young girl looked as if she wanted to dispute that opinion. “I guess.”

“And to answer your question, Lyle was very handsome—the handsomest man in Mediocrity.” She smiled softly at the memory of dark hair and eyes as blue as her own. “Would you like to see his picture?”

“Sure.”

Reaching into the drawer of the leather-inlaid mahogany drum table situated next to her chair, she pulled out a silver-framed photograph, handing it to her. “This was taken over fifty years ago, right before we were to be married.”

The young girl studied the smiling man in the black-and-white photograph. He looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “He’s pretty good-looking, but not as handsome as my dad. All the women think he’s hot, including your niece. But Dad’s not thinking about getting married again. He still loves my mom.” She said it with conviction, as if uttering those words would make it so.

Taking the photo from the girl’s hands, tears blurred her vision as Iris gazed upon the man she loved and had thought to share her life with. But Lyle was gone, as were her girlish dreams of happily-ever-after. Gone, but not forgotten. Never forgotten. “He was a good man, in so many ways. We shared some wonderful times together.”

Unable to disguise the emotion she felt, Iris could see she was making the girl uncomfortable and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. I tend to reminisce, to think about the past and what could have been, and it saddens me. It’s part of growing old, I guess.”

“Don’t be sad.” Stacy reached out, taking the old woman’s veined, liver-spotted hands in her own small soft ones; her unexpected kindness touched Iris. “At least you still have his memory. My dad says whenever I’m sad about my mom I should think about all the good times we shared, the places we visited, the books she read and the songs she sang. They’ll always be with me, if I keep her memory alive. And I intend to.”

“Your dad sounds like a very wise man. I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

“He’s okay, for a dad, I guess.” She rose to her feet. “I’d better get going. Dad’ll be mad if he wakes up from his nap and finds me gone. He worries about me.”

Iris nodded in understanding. “Come back and visit again, Stacy dear. I’d like to introduce you to my sister. I know Ivy would love to meet you.”

“Is she a witch, too?”

“Heavens no!” Iris shook her head and smiled. “Ivy has other interests.” Which would no doubt get her sister into trouble one day.

After promising she would visit again soon, the girl departed. Iris clutched Lyle’s photograph to her chest and heaved a deep sigh of yearning. It was hard growing old alone. But then, except for Ivy, she’d been alone most of her life. There’d been no man after Lyle McMurtry. In her heart and soul, they would always be one. Nothing—not time, distance or death—could dissolve a love such as theirs.

If only Lyle had been wise enough to see that. Things could have been so very different.

LORI COOPER WAS THE new head chef at the Two Sisters Ordinary and Beth felt extremely fortunate to have her working at the inn. The woman had shown up on her doorstep one day last September, asking if the inn needed a cook. It had been quite a fortuitous moment, for she’d been about to place an ad for a chef in the Philadelphia Inquirer.

The capable, creative chef had worked in some of Philadelphia’s finest restaurants, cooking alongside some very accomplished chefs after completing her training at the Culinary Institute of America in upstate New York. Though she hadn’t provided references Lori appeared to be honest, and her skill in the kitchen certainly backed up her claims, so Beth had no reason to doubt her.

Still, there was an air of mystery about Lori. The petite, dark-haired woman seemed unhappy, and she wondered if her heart held heavy secrets. Beth had caught her looking nervously over her shoulder a few times, as if expecting someone to pop out of nowhere and steal her away. Beth knew chefs tended to be high-strung, but Lori seemed more so than usual.

The grand opening of the inn’s restaurant was scheduled for Thanksgiving Day, and Beth and her chef were working hard to get the kinks out of the menu and to finish the hiring and training of the kitchen and wait staff.

The two women were seated at the butcher-block table in the kitchen, evaluating the dishes Lori had prepared for this evening’s meal, which the inn’s guests had seemed to enjoy. They had filled out evaluation cards and rated the meal very highly. Brad Donovan had written Excellent across the bottom of his card, which pleased Beth greatly.

“The duck was a big hit. I think everyone liked the bing cherry sauce you served with it. And the rice pilaf was delicious, not to mention the pecan tarts. I’m going to get fat having you around.”

Her chef smiled. “Then we should definitely keep duck on the winter menu, along with rack of lamb and scallops of veal. If I can find a good supplier for Dover sole, I’d like to include that, as well.”

Making a few notes on the legal pad in front of her, Beth paused and looked up. “Are you going to be able to get the truffles for the stuffing?”

Taking a sip of the Diet Coke that was never far from her reach, Lori replied, “Yes, but they’re going to be expensive. I guess I could leave them out and substitute something else, if you’d rather not spend the additional money.”

“Go ahead and order them. I want the grand opening to knock everyone’s socks off. We already have quite a few reservations from Mediocrity’s finest. Mayor Lindsay is going to be here,” she explained, “and so is Hilda Croft, from the historical society, so we’re sure to have a good turnout. Good word of mouth will help business during the off season when there are fewer tourists around.”

The stuffing recipe was one of Lori’s favorites, though she couldn’t take credit for it. That honor belonged to world-renowned chef Bill Thackery, her former colleague. Though Bill might be absent, the one thing that wasn’t was his prized recipe collection, which she had lifted prior to leaving Philadelphia, along with his favorite set of Henckels knives.

No doubt he was more upset about losing his knives and recipes than losing her.

Leaving Bill hadn’t been an easy decision. He’d been her mentor, teaching her the finer points of culinary artistry, and she admired him greatly. But Lori felt she needed to get out from under his thumb, to establish herself as a chef in her own right, not just one of Bill’s protégés. Though she counted him as a friend, she just couldn’t work with him any longer. He’d grown demanding and unreasonable, wanting everything to be done his way and stifling her creativity until she wanted to scream.

They bickered constantly about the correct way to do just about everything, like what ingredients to use in chili, the proper temperature for roasting duck, how much yeast was required when baking bread. You name it, they argued over it. In fact, they had argued bitterly the night before her departure over a duck pâté that Lori had created. Bill had pronounced it “bland.” She’d stolen his knives and recipes for revenge.

The competition to outdo each other had finally gotten to Lori, who had decided one morning that she’d had enough, that it was time to make a break and get her own career off the ground. The Two Sisters Ordinary would give her that chance.

Lori hoped Bill didn’t hate her too much. She still felt guilty about leaving him the way she did, with no note or explanation. But she figured he owed her for years of hard work and loyalty. The recipes and knives were a fair punishment for his obnoxious behavior and nasty disposition. She just prayed he wouldn’t be able to track her down, because Bill Thackery did not like to be crossed.

“Is everything all right? You look upset. I meant what I said about the truffles. Just go ahead and—”

The dark-haired woman shook her head, smiling apologetically as she grabbed the edge of the table and pushed to her feet. “It’s not the truffles, Beth. I’m just tired. If you don’t need me for anything else, I’m going to my room and relax for a while.”

“Of course. If you like, I can fix breakfast in the morning, so you can sleep later.” Beth wasn’t a fabulous cook like Lori, but she was proficient enough to slap bacon and eggs together.

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be fine by morning. But thanks for the offer.”

Concern creasing her forehead, Beth watched her chef disappear and wondered, not for the first time, what was bothering the young woman. She didn’t have time to ponder the possibilities, because the door from the dining area to the kitchen swung open and Brad Donovan entered.

He’d changed since she’d seen him at dinner and was now wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt. The jeans had been ironed, as evidenced by the perfect crease dissecting the pant legs.

Good grief! What kind of a man ironed jeans?

A man who was a perfectionist and wanted everything just so—a man used to genteel living, gracious surroundings and having a perfect wife—a man who was reserved, anal and her total opposite.

Still, the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled were awfully cute, and he had a way of looking directly into her soul—as if he knew exactly what she was thinking—that made her totally uneasy.

“Hope you don’t mind, but I’m taking you at your word and making myself at home. Stacy wants a glass of milk, so I told her I’d bring one up to her when I retired, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course. I’ll get it for you.” She made to rise, but Brad placed his hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down gently. His touch made her jump. “Please don’t!” She shrugged it off.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Forget it, okay?” Beth had overreacted, but she didn’t like to be touched in a proprietary way, not after Greg.

“I’d like to join you for a few minutes, maybe beg a cup of coffee, if I’m not disturbing you. Adult conversation’s been at a premium at our house lately.”

With an understanding smile, she pointed at the coffeepot. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” Fetching two mugs, he filled them with freshly brewed coffee and carried everything to the table, sitting down beside his hostess.

“You’re not disturbing me,” she said. “I’m just going over some menus.”

“Your chef’s terrific. I loved the duck. Very moist. And the skin was crisp, just the way I like it.”

“Thank you. My hope is to have one of the finest restaurants in the area. And with a chef as excellent as Lori I think I’m on my way.”

“Without a doubt. So why did you decide to become an innkeeper? It seems an odd profession for someone so young. I always think of innkeepers as old married couples who crochet doilies, chop firewood and wear red-and-black-checked shirts.”

Laughing, she sipped her coffee and started to relax. Brad Donovan was very easy to talk to and seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. “I’m not as young as you think,” she said, explaining about her aunts’ decision to give their house to her, and hers to turn it into an inn.

“When I divorced my husband I was at loose ends. The inn gave me something to focus on. And I love everything involved in the operation of it. It’s quite a challenge, but also very satisfying knowing that my guests enjoy what I do for them.”

“I guess having people around all the time keeps you from getting lonely. That was the hardest thing for me after my wife died. I never realized how lonely being all alone could be.” He stared thoughtfully into his coffee.

“How did she die?”

He looked up, his eyes filled with sadness. “Ovarian cancer. By the time Carol was diagnosed, it was too late. The cancer was too far gone.”

“I’m so sorry. That must have been very difficult for you, especially with a young daughter to care for.”

“It hasn’t been easy. But Stacy keeps me focused on what’s important. And I try not to dwell in the past.”

It was clear he was still in love with his dead wife, and that said volumes about the kind of relationship they’d had. Beth had been deprived of that deep connection, that death-till-you-part kind of love in her own marriage and envied those who had it. Though not enough to ever look for it again.

“I don’t get lonely very often,” Beth said. Though sometimes at night when she lay in her cold bed, she yearned for a warm body to snuggle with. Buster came close to fitting the bill, but it wasn’t quite the same. “I have my aunts, the guests, people around me all the time and, of course, my dog, so I’m rarely ever alone. There are times when that can be frustrating, like when I’m all set to watch a movie and I get interrupted.”

“I can’t remember the last film I watched. It’s not as much fun now that Carol’s gone. And Stacy’s taste is so different than mine. I like the old black-and-white films, but she won’t watch a movie if it’s not in color.”

“I guess kids Stacy’s age like movies where everything gets blown up. My best friend, Ellen, is the same way. She’s a huge Bruce Willis fan and doesn’t understand the simplicity and humor in a classic film like The Philadelphia Story, which she thinks is boring. I love the classic films, too. I’m very addicted to my video and DVD collection.”

While Beth went on to discuss a Humphrey Bogart/ Lauren Bacall movie she’d watched recently, Brad listened intently, surprised by the primal reaction he was having to her infectious smile, the sound of her voice and the sparkle in her big green eyes as she extolled the virtues of Bogart’s abilities as an actor.

Beth Randall was a very attractive woman. He’d thought her cute at first glance, but he could see now that she was so much more. Brad hadn’t felt such an overt response to a woman since he’d met Carol at med school, and he was stunned by it.

Of course, Beth and Carol were nothing alike. Carol had been a cool blonde, with pretty cornflower-blue eyes and a conservative air about her—the typical Southern belle. Beth, on the other hand, had massive amounts of coppery hair that tempted a man to run his hands through it. She was relaxed, casual….

“Is something the matter, Dr. Donovan? You keep staring at me as if I’ve grown another nose.” She reached up to touch hers, hoping it wasn’t dripping.

“No. In fact, your nose is very cute.”

She turned fifteen shades of red, feeling the heat of embarrassment all the way down to her toes, which she was curling and uncurling under the table. “Thank you.”

“I was wondering if you’d mind answering some questions about my father’s stay here.”

The question took Beth off guard and her stomach knotted. She tried to remain poised and nonchalant, schooling her features to reflect that. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to add right now, Dr. Donovan.”

“It’s Brad, remember?”

“I haven’t had a chance to speak to my aunts,” she lied. “But I will. And soon.”

“Do you think they know something? It seems whenever I bring up my father’s disappearance you get nervous.” He stared intently at her, wondering if she knew more than she was saying and hoping she didn’t.

“Nervous?” Beth laughed one of those Katharine Hepburn ha, ha, ha laughs. Only hers didn’t come off nearly as innocent or flippant. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just tired. I’ve had a long day. So if you’ll excuse me.”