Inn Keeping With Murder

  INN KEEPING WITH MURDER

  By Lynn Bohart

  Dedicated to my mother, who loved to read and had a great sense of humor, and reminds me just slightly of

  Julia Applegate.

  Cover Art: Mia Yoshihara-Bradshaw

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2013 by Lynn Bohart

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief quotations for the use of reviews or promotional articles approved by the author.

  Published by Little Dog Press

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I have so many people to thank for this book. Up front would be my writing group: Lori Church-Pursley, Tim McDaniel, Michael Manzer, and Timera Drake. These guys read the manuscript chapter by chapter over a period of six months, helping to clear up ambiguities, character flaws, and plot points. Thank you to beta readers Kathy Perrin and Chris Spahn, who read it from cover-to-cover and helped with flow, clarification and consistencies. As always, thanks to Liz Stewart, who is an accomplished line editor and is so generous with her time. My deepest thanks go to Detective Peter Erickson from the Mercer Island Police Department, who vetted the book for me, along with prosecutor, Susan Irwin.

  I am deeply indebted to my friend, Mia Bradshaw, who designed the cover. Mia is a wonderful artist and craftsperson in the Seattle area and shows/sells her work locally. Please check out her website at www.miayoshihara.com.

  Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction and while many of the businesses, locations, and organizations referenced in the book are real, they are used in a way that is purely fictional.

  INN KEEPING WITH MURDER

  Because I could not stop for Death,

  He kindly stopped for me.

  The Carriage held but just ourselves

  And Immortality.

  Emily Dickinson

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was early morning. An insidious breeze skimmed the lake as she stepped onto the porch of her million-dollar home on Mercer Island. The breeze came unchallenged and alone, bringing with it the smell of lake water and pine and just a pinch of foreboding. As the breeze slithered past the branches and rustled the leaves, it seemed to whisper her name.

  Ellen Fairchild.

  The sound made her pause. She lingered with her hand on the doorknob, listening, trapped between this world and that, her thoughts filled with shattered dreams. With a sigh, she pulled the door closed, expelling any final doubts from the recesses of her mind.

  It was time to go.

  The man in the moon smiled down on her from the dark sky above, sending flashes of light to dance across the lake water. All around her, the exclusive neighborhood was quiet, the imposing homes standing silently on guard while their inhabitants slept peacefully inside.

  It was 2 a.m.

  She stepped off the porch and climbed into the front seat of her new, sky blue Lexus as a headache began to inch its way up the side of her head. She paused a moment to massage her temple before grasping the steering wheel, her perfectly manicured fingernails sinking into the rich leather. The internal message had now become her mantra.

  It was time to go.

  With a quick flick of her wrist she turned the ignition key and started the engine. Then she put the car in gear and pulled out onto Placer Drive, where she paused to look over at the sprawling St. Claire Inn that took up most of the block on the lakeshore side of the street. The romantic Victorian, with its asymmetrical roofline and wrap-around porch, welcomed guests year-round as the area’s most popular bed and breakfast. Her close friend, Julia, owned it. The inn was as familiar to her as her own home.

  Certainly, Julia would be asleep at this time of the morning, tucked away in the privacy of her apartment on the ground floor. The normal comings and goings of the staff and guests at the inn would be stilled, leaving only the big grandfather clock in the entryway to mark the passage of time. Ellen would miss the monthly book club meetings there. She would miss the friendly banter and wicked jokes between the women who had become as close as most sisters.

  “But I have to go,” she whispered.

  She exhaled slowly and gave a nod as if to say goodbye to her friend. Then she turned the car toward the east side of the island. As she rolled through the neighborhood, Sybil Moore’s bedroom light glared from an upstairs window of her Tudor-style home. Sybil’s house was right next to hers, and Ellen glanced up at the window, thinking that perhaps the neighborhood busybody was conjuring up some sort of witch’s brew under the full moon. A smile played across her lips despite the blackness of her mood. She wouldn’t miss Sybil. She wouldn’t miss her annoying accent or the way in which she phrased her vacuous thoughts. But then, of course, she wouldn’t miss anyone, anymore.

  “Goodbye, Silly Sybil,” Ellen said with a snicker.

  The car moved on.

  When it reached the large, modern home on the corner, she slowed to a stop. This house belonged to her best friend, Martha Denton. She peered up the drive to the plate-glass windows and broad decks, picturing Martha comfortably asleep in her big pillow-top bed.

  “Goodbye, dear friend,” she whispered with a heavy heart. “Please don’t be mad. Please try to understand.”

  But of course Martha wouldn’t understand. No one would.

  A moment later, she had left her friends and the world she knew behind. By ten minutes past the hour she had circled the island and turned onto Marchand Drive, a two lane road which climbed to Widow’s Peak, a small butte that stuck out on the east side of the island, facing the Cascade Mountains. She passed pricey homes nestled amongst tall pines, long driveways with boats and recreational vehicles tucked under expensive awnings, and gated homes invisible from the road. This had been her world for over thirty years, and for thirty years it had been enough. Now, suddenly, it wasn’t.

  She crested the hill facing I-90 and Bellevue to the east. She knew exactly where she was going. The kids called it, “Deadhead Curve,” as a joke. It sat right on the edge of a cliff on the northeast corner of the island. As one teenager told her, “You have to be a deadhead to drive it at night, especially if you’ve been drinking.” At least one person had been killed on the crazy hairpin turn, where there was nothing to stop you from going over the cliff except a flimsy guardrail. Beyond that was a long drop into Crenshaw Bay, filled with rocks and boulders.

  Ellen drew the Lexus alongside the last home on this stretch of road and stopped just past the driveway, on the uphill side of the curve. There were only bushes and rocks past this point. Ellen sat quietly for a moment, staring off into the distance, thinking about her husband and her two children, who now lived on the East Coast. A sob caught in her throat. She had sacrificed so much and gotten so little in return. How had she let that happen? There was a time she thought she would own her own business just like Julia, using her creative talents to decorate some of the finer homes in the area. But Ray had disapproved. So instead she puttered away in her garden, volunteered for the homeless shelter, and helped organize fundraising events. Meanwhile, he refused to retire and still spent weeks at a time out-of-town on business; right now he was in Thailand.

  It wasn’t enough. It had never been enough.

  Her fingers sought out the sockets around her eyes as the headache sent shooting pains across her forehead. She was so tired, and the voice echoing in her head droned on and on, egging her to do this. She brought her foot up to hover over the accelerator. All she had to do was to press down. That’s all she had to do. The car would do the rest. It would be so easy. So painless.

  She gazed at the little orange reflector lights embedded into the guardrail at the foot of
the hill, warning drivers to beware. That’s where the road turned sharply to the right and out of sight. It was only about a quarter of a mile. At full speed, the corner would be impossible to make, even for the Lexus. Beyond the railing, there was nothing except lovely, empty space and the moon, glinting in the distance, teasing her, beckoning to her.

  “Do it,” the voice said in the recesses of her mind. “God will greet you with loving arms. Do it now,” the voice repeated. “And God will catch you. I am here. It’s time to go.”

  As tears began to stream down her cheeks, she thought of the girl, Rita, whom she had befriended at the shelter. Rita had been pregnant and all alone, hoping for a better life. But something had gone wrong. She’d had a difficult pregnancy and then suddenly disappeared. Ellen had asked questions, but received no answers. She’d even searched alleyways and street corners throughout Seattle one night, thinking Rita may have returned to the streets. But she’d found nothing.

  And that’s when the suspicious sounds and lights outside her home began, along with the feeling that she was being watched. Her priest, Father Bentley, had given her something to help her sleep, thinking it was just her nerves. But Ellen had finally realized that help would only come by letting go.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered to no one and to everyone. “I’m so sorry.”

  Her foot finally tipped forward and pressed the accelerator to the floor, making the tires spin in place. Rubber burned, and puffs of smoke evaporated into the early morning air before the car finally jumped forward. Within seconds, she was racing downhill, heading straight for those little reflector lights. By the time she reached the curve, the speedometer had hit 60 MPH. But Ellen never attempted to make the curve; she was aiming for the Moon.

  In the flash of an eye, the Lexus crashed through the guardrail and sailed off into the Moon’s welcoming embrace, leaving Ellen with only one lingering thought:

  “What really happened to Rita?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was a balmy day in the middle of May when the normal rhythms of my life were suddenly and inextricably altered. The sun was out, a rare treat this time of year in the Northwest, encouraging bulbs to sprout and trees to blossom. Sailboats glided gracefully across the lake, and I took the opportunity to work outside in order to lighten my mood after a long, slow winter.

  I had already deadheaded the wilted daffodils along the path around the north side of the inn and had made my way to the raised deck in the back, which overlooked the lake. There, I tilled the empty planters that lined the steps and threw the remains of last year’s annuals into a compost bin. Next up was removing the covers from all the patio furniture. It wouldn’t be long before guests would come to sit lazily in the sun, enjoy a cool drink and watch the nautical world pass by.

  I owned the St. Claire Inn on Mercer Island, which is thirteen square miles of rocks and trees in the middle of Lake Washington, between Seattle and Bellevue. The inn was originally built in 1945 by John St. Claire, who owned a large shipping company called Pacific Waterways. He lived there with his wife, Elizabeth, and their three children until 1962, when a fire destroyed one whole wing of the house. Mrs. St. Claire, their six-year old daughter, Chloe, and ten-year old son, Fielding, were killed in the fire, along with their dog, Max.

  A series of owners brought the house back to its original glory, but none of them stayed for long. And then one family moved out abruptly in 1985 after their seventeen-year old daughter threw herself off the faux balcony on the third floor because her father had banished the boy she loved. Right after that the rumors began.

  Someone saw a woman disappear through a closed door. Someone else heard the laughter of children on the second floor. There was the fleeting glimpse of a big black dog. Cups and bowls were said to move unexpectedly in the kitchen. If someone forgot to close a cupboard, it would close by itself. Guests would occasionally feel someone lie down beside them on the bed, or see the face of a young girl in the third floor attic window. And then there was the fleeting smell of smoke and Rose water.

  By the time my husband, Graham, bought the property in 2003, it was just an abandoned shell sitting on a flat stretch of beach on the west side of the island. Graham was a busy state senator then, contemplating a run for governor. He thought that turning the old home into a bed and breakfast would give me something to do, I suppose because he thought all women are themselves left as empty shells once their children are gone. Together we renovated it into a charming gray and white Victorian, with multiple gables and a pentagonal turret. Six months after the renovations were completed Graham asked for a divorce and moved out.

  As I drew off the cover to the chaise lounge on that day in May, my cell phone rang. I pulled the phone from my pocket and turned to watch a group of sailboats slip aimlessly across the surface of the lake. I wasn’t surprised to hear my neighbor, Martha Denton, on the other end, all a-twitter about something. Martha had a tendency to wind up like a spring when she was stressed, so I tried to slow her down.

  “Whoa, Martha. Take a breath. What’s that about Ellen?”

  “Ellen’s been in a terrible accident. Her car went off Marchand Road into the lake sometime early this morning.”

  I paused, thinking I hadn’t heard her correctly.

  “Whaaat?”

  “A boater found the car early this morning, crumpled on a pile of rocks in Crenshaw Bay,” she said, starting to hyperventilate.

  I glanced up the coastline as if I might see Ellen’s car sticking out of the lake, but of course Crenshaw Bay was on the other side of the island.

  “Whaaat?” I repeated.

  I was having a hard time wrapping my mind around this terrible news.

  “She’s at Swedish Medical Center. They took her into emergency surgery,” Martha said, beginning to sob. “She’s barely alive. They only called me because Ellen carries an emergency contact card with my phone number on it since Ray is out-of-town so much. He’s in Thailand. We need to get down there, Julia—they’re not sure she’s going to make it.”

  Martha was sucking in enough oxygen to fill a balloon, and my mind finally kicked into gear.

  “Yes, of course, we’ll go right away. Do you want me to pick you up?”

  “Yes…” She was wheezing by now. “I don’t think I can drive.”

  No doubt that was a good call.

  “Okay, try to stay calm. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I hung up quickly, afraid she might pass out before I got there. And then my own tears formed. Ellen and I had co-founded our book club together. I’d known her for years. In fact, she lived in a huge home right across the street. Our daughters had gone to the same school, and we’d served on the Library Board together. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. But I also had trouble shaking the disconnect I felt at such a horrific accident. Maybe if Ellen had been on the freeway or one of the bridges, it would have made more sense. But Marchand Road? Still, it didn’t matter. This was an emergency, and I had to get going.

  My first thought was to let the rest of the book club members know. I called Doe Bridges. Doe ran her deceased husband’s multi-million dollar waste management company, and if anyone could kick the group into gear, she could. I caught her going into a meeting, but she agreed to call the rest of the girls and see who could meet us at the hospital.

  Then it was time to tell April. She had been a friend since college and was now my business partner. She was a first-class baker and chef and had relocated her small bakery from downtown Mercer Island to the inn’s carriage barn.

  I ran across the yard to the old carriage barn, which was left over from the late 1800s, back when a hotel had been built on the island. The hotel had burned down long before John St. Claire had built his home in 1945, but the barn remained. It was a large, rectangular building, which had originally housed not only carriages, but horses, as well. We’d renovated the front portion into April’s bakery and added a wall inside to separate the bakery from the back third, where we st
ored and refinished antiques we sold in the inn. I found April filling a cupcake tin with chocolate batter.

  “Ellen Fairchild ran her car off a cliff,” I said, breathing hard. “I have to go to the hospital.”

  I could have sworn April blanched white at the news—not so easy since she’s African American.

  “I thought something had happened,” she said matter-of-factly, before putting the bowl down.

  April usually knew important things before I did—in fact, before anyone did.

  “I’ll hold the fort down here,” she said, wiping off her hands. “Where’s Libby?”

  “She’s finishing the rooms, and Crystal is on the front desk.”

  “Okay,” April said, grabbing a towel. “I’ll finish this later and go over to the inn. Call me from the hospital. But prepare yourself, Julia.” She said this with a grave look. I knew that look, and it didn’t bode well for Ellen.

  April had never joined the book club; it wasn’t her thing. But she knew all the girls almost as well as I did, and I felt my chest tighten at her comment. I just nodded and hurried out.

  By the time I picked up Martha, she had pulled herself together, barely. Her tears had washed away what little eye makeup she normally wore, leaving her eyes puffy and smudged, and she was twisting the shoulder straps of her purse into a knot. She was dressed in her signature shirt-waist dress and pastel cardigan sweater, with a string of pearls at her neck. Martha was nothing if not well-groomed. Even her wispy, thinning gray hair was perfectly coiffed. As she got into the car, however, she released a new round of tears and a nonstop string of speculations about the accident.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said, reaching for a tissue. “I just had lunch with Ellen yesterday down at The Ruins. How could this have happened? I mean, she has been acting a bit strange lately—maybe that’s why she was up on Marchand Drive,” she said, taking a breath. “Ellen told me a week or so ago that she couldn’t sleep. She was worried about a girl at the shelter who was having a difficult pregnancy. Then, she started talking about hearing things outside her house. She also said that she kept seeing flashing lights in the backyard. I told her to get some Tylenol PM or something, but you know Ellen—she’s not one for pills. Anyway, she talked to Father Bentley about it, and he was going to get her one of those subliminal tapes or something. Maybe it didn’t help. Maybe she didn’t use it. Maybe…”