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Authors: Emily Harper

Checking Inn (9 page)

BOOK: Checking Inn
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“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

 

Every time I walk into my mother’s house I feel like I need to go back onto the front porch and check I have the right address.  My mother changes her décor like I clean my apartment (on Wednesday, Saturdays and sometimes again on Sunday if things get crazy when I’m baking on Saturday).

Today she’s got a bright blue velour couch with red and gold arm chairs sitting across from the fireplace. There are sheer red scarves covering the lamps to give off a warm glow, and I make a note on my clipboard: 
make sure I check the fire extinguishers in Mom’s house
.

“Kate, is that you?” she calls from the kitchen, and I make my way into the room to see her standing over a pot on the stove, watching something boil.

“Oh god, what’s that smell?” I ask, putting my hand to my face.  It smells like an orange has been left in the hot sun for days.

“Mr. Patterson’s arthritis is bothering him again, so I told him I would make a special ointment,” she says, stirring the liquid. 

I make another note on my clipboard: 
give Mr. Patterson the next few days off.  Also, buy him a scented candle.

“Mom, the insurance company called this morning,” I say. 

My mother’s hand stills mid-stir before she flicks her hair over her shoulder and continues.

“Really, what did they say?”

“I think the better question is, 
what did you tell them?
” I say, coming to stand beside her at the sink.

“Nothing.” My mother stops and looks at me.  “I just had to ask Glenn a quick question.”

“Mom,” I reach across the stove and place my hand on top of hers, “it’s alright.  I know you didn’t mean anything by it, but I need to know exactly what you told him.”

“Er...”  Mom starts fiddling with her hair.  “I’d rather not.”

“Mom, I have a right to know.”

“Really, Kate it’s nothing.”  She looks around the kitchen for a distraction.

“If it’s nothing then why can’t you tell me?”

There is a strained look on her face.  She bites her lip and avoids my eyes.  “Well... the truth is, I am not sure you would 
approve
.” 

I wouldn’t approve?  Honestly, I know I can be a little uptight sometimes, but it’s not like I go around judging people all the time.  Well, at least I don’t say it out loud.

I mean, she’s my mother.  I would try and understand anything she told me.  And it’s not like she–

She wouldn’t have–

I look at my mother’s flushed face and notice her hands are shaking ever so slightly.

Oh God, she did it.  I never thought I would believe it, but at this very moment I am standing in my mother’s kitchen and I honestly believe she did it.  She killed Samantha Manning

My heart races with implications: she’ll be arrested;  she’ll go to jail.  My mother would never survive jail; she has the windows open in December.

I know she did this for me, she knows how much I wanted the Inn to succeed, and how it’s been struggling lately.  But to 
murder
 someone…

And it suddenly hits me– she doesn’t want to tell me in case they try and make me testify at the trial. 

Well, they can forget it. If they think I would testify against my own mother they have another thing coming. I’m going to get her the best lawyers money can buy (I wonder if the insurance company will still give us that money if Mom murdered the victim, because we’ll need it for the defense.) 

“Mom, we are not leaving this kitchen until I know 
exactly
 what we are dealing with.”  I take a sip of what looks like a cappuccino sitting on her kitchen counter, but turns out to be the strongest coffee I have ever tasted.  My eyes water as I try to catch my breath in a fit of coughs. 

Once I have regained control I take a deep breath, “I can handle it.”

“Really Kate, you’re making such a fuss over nothing.  Tracy and I are just trying to make a little money for the Inn, just something to keep us going for a while.” 

Oh God, Tracy’s in on it too.  That’s why she was there this morning, asking me all those questions.  She wanted to see what I knew.

“And Patricia from down the lane made a fortune last year the exact same way, but she’s planning to do it again this year– so inconsiderate, that woman.”  Mom takes a sip of her coffee.  

Not Mr. Flatt!  Patricia swore he died in his sleep.  I went to the funeral!

“So we decided to do it ourselves, it actually wasn’t that hard–”

I’m definitely going to have to plead the fifth.

“We can do it to all the guests!”

“Oh my god!” I cry and collapse into the nearest chair.  “Mother, don’t you see what you’ve 
done?”

“Honestly, I thought you’d be pleased,” she says with a downcast look.

“How could you possibly think I would be pleased that you 
murdered
 someone?” I ask, throwing my arms in the air.


Murdered someone?”
 she frowns.  “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and Tracy killing Samantha Manning for the insurance money,” I accuse.

“Tracy and I…” my mother stops and bursts out laughing.

Oh God, she’s deranged.  I always knew something was off about her, I even did an at-home DNA test when I was thirteen just to be sure we were related.  But this… I can honestly say in a million years… I never expected this.

“You think Tracy and I killed Samantha?” she wipes a tear of laughter from her eye.

“You just admitted it to me!”

My mother shakes her head and puts her hand on my arm.  “Tracy and I are going to be doing Botox at the spa.  That’s what I called the insurance company about.  I wanted to make sure we would be covered.”

At my perplexed look my mom leans forward, “Botox is where you inject fat into different areas of your body to... freshen things up a bit.”

“I know what Botox is, Mother!”

“Well, we heard on Oprah that people can make a fortune having these parties– we could even do the gardens if we get enough clientele!” 

“So, you are going to be doing Botox… at the Summerside Inn?”  I can’t believe this.  “Who will be doing the injections?”

“Tracy and I,” she says smiling, “that’s the best part!  I went to the city on the weekend to learn how to do it myself, and to pick up the... er... 
fat
.”

“Wait- you’re injecting these clients 
yourself
?”

“Oh yes, we save quite a bit of money doing it ourselves. And now I can teach Tracy- it’s all on the up and up.  I just had to take a quick course over the weekend and now I’m certified- would you like to see my card?” Mom excitedly reaches for her purse. 

“No, that’s alright, thanks.”  This is way too much for a Thursday morning. 

I’m not sure what actually bothers me more: the fact my mother is injecting our (supposed to be) exclusive clientele with someone’s leftover fat, or the fact that I wasn’t even consulted.  I mean, I have a suggestion box in the staff room for this exact purpose.  No one ever respects my system.

“But if that’s what you called the insurance company for, why did you tell him about Samantha?” I ask.

“Oh that, I just mentioned it because I was going to surprise you and redecorate the room.”

“Mother, do you not understand that the whole investigation is being kept under wraps because no one is supposed to know about Samantha’s murder?” I ask in exasperation.

“Oh, Glenn won’t tell anyone!  Insurance people are like lawyers, they have a 
code
.”

“Actually, they aren’t like lawyers at all,” I say, shaking my head.

“Besides, he’s in New York.  People get murdered there every day; it didn’t even faze him.” My mother brushes the argument aside and leans forward.  “So what do you think?”

“About what?” I ask.

“The Botox!” my mother says.

“I don’t know, I can’t even think about it right now,” I get up from the chair.  “There’s something else.  Did you add to our insurance policy that if a guest dies while they are staying at our Inn we can claim life insurance?”

“I’m not sure, Glenn would know.  He did the paperwork for me.” 

I stand up and pick up my clipboard from the table. 

“I have to get back to the Inn.  Maybe you should take the day off and finish Mr. Patterson’s ointment,” I say.

“This will be done in a few hours. I’ll pop by for a cup of tea this afternoon, shall I?”

I nod and turn to leave.  At this point, I don’t even have the energy to argue.

And I’m definitely not telling my mother any more about the insurance money until I can figure out what to do.  Knowing her, she’ll just spend it all on needles and extra fat.

 

Seven

Sitting across from Ben in the staff room, I inspect his face while he reads the guest book, wondering what he knows and what he suspects.  He will find out about the insurance policy eventually, but the question is whether I tell him, or let his team tell him.

If I tell him it might alleviate how bad it looks.  I can explain how flighty my mother is, and the fact that she didn’t even know what she was signing, so there is no way we could have planned it.  But then, telling him might make me look guilty.  Like I’m bringing it up because I 
know
 it looks bad.

“You are a really detail-oriented person,” Ben says, and I can see from his eyes that he is impressed with my list.

I smile.  I love a well-organized list.

“There doesn’t seem to be anyone that has come or gone within the time frame that would look suspicious, besides the victim herself.  Which means one of two things,” he says, tapping his pen on the desk.

“Which is?” I prompt.

“Either the killer didn’t sign your guest book and got by your town’s neighborhood watch,” he pauses.  “Or the killer is someone that lives here.”

“No, I can’t believe that,” I adamantly shake my head.  “I grew up in this town.  I 
know
 these people, and they’re not killers.”

“You would be surprised what people are capable of in a moment of desperation,” he says.

This is true.  I mean, I feel like I’ve been at the brink of killing people (mainly my mother) in moments of desperation.  But I didn’t.  Just because you want to do something doesn’t mean you are actually capable of it.

I shake my head, “No, I just can’t accept that.”

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say any more.  “Tracy and her husband went out of town two weeks ago. Do you know where they went?”

“To New York; Soho I think,” I say.  “I can check to be sure.  They got some tickets from Greg’s company for a party there at an art gallery.  Greg and I couldn’t go.”

I was actually really looking forward to going away that weekend, but Greg had to work in the end. His big client, Silverman’s Mines, was coming into town and he had to get their signatures on some big deal.  He did say he was going to make it up to me, though.

“And your mother was out of town last weekend,” he looks at the list again.  “Where did she go?”

I try to keep my face as neutral as possible.  “Into the city.  She went for a shopping trip,” I say.  I just can’t get into the Botox right now.

He just nods his head again.

“Shouldn’t we be focused on who came 
into
 town?” I ask.

“Nothing is cut and dry in a murder investigation.  It’s just good to cover all bases.  You never know what will be significant.”

“Well, you don’t think one of 
us
 did it, do you?” I ask.  “Why would we have reported it– and put the body in our own Inn?”

“Just covering all bases,” he repeats, and taps his pen on the desk.

Honestly, that is very annoying.  Also, I’m pretty sure it’s to the tune of “It’s a Small World” which I now have stuck in my head.

He nods his head and keeps studying the list.  How many times can he read the same names over and over again?

The file folder that he brought in with him is stuffed with papers, and I can see the edge of a photo sticking out.  It must be of Samantha’s dead body on the bed because I can see her hand, the red nail polish, the white sheets.  

“Don’t you ever leave town?” he asks, looking up from the paper.

“Of course I do,” I say a tad defensively.  “I’ve just been really busy lately.  I have to focus on the Inn.”

He nods.  “Your boyfriend works in New York, right?” he asks.

“Yes, at the Bank of America,” I say.

“He’s not on the list,” he points out.  “And he hasn’t signed out on the guest book.  I see you have a ‘daily commuter’ section.”

“Oh er– he used to.  Greg spends the week in New York, and then Summerside on the weekends.  He… umm… doesn’t think it’s necessary to write it down every time he goes.”

We actually nearly broke up because of that book.  Greg thought I was being too possessive and trying to keep tabs on him.  In the end I caved, but I have a little diary at home I keep of when he comes and goes. Honestly, it just seems wrong to have a less than perfect record just because one person doesn’t want to be “monitored”.

“His mother works in New York too, right?” he asks.

“Well, she’s an interior designer so she usually works out of her home office.  She lives in Summerside and just goes to New York for the day if she needs to.”

Vivienne doesn’t like my book either.  She laughs and says she would never remember to do it every time so she told me to put her name in the “always coming and going” column.  Except, that column doesn’t exist, and it would make the book really cluttered if I tried to add it.  I keep track of her in my diary, too.

“We haven’t got any DNA from the room yet,” he says, sitting back in his chair.  “And from briefly talking to some people in town today, I can gather the victim wasn’t liked very much.”

“She did have a way of rubbing people the wrong way,” I say.  More like walking all over them and spitting on their happiness.

“You grew up with her, right?” he asks.

“Well, we were in the same classes, but I wasn’t friends with her.” I don’t need to mention the fact that Samantha’s whole purpose at school seemed to be dedicated to making my life a living hell.  I feel my mother covered that pretty thoroughly last night.

BOOK: Checking Inn
3.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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