Dangerous Secrets

Dangerous Secrets

Four bestselling novelists — Four full-length novels
packed full of juicy secrets

Uncover what happens when a private detective
who makes a living uncovering other people′s secrets has to keep one — a
big one — of his own in
L. L. Bartlett’s
Room at the Inn.

Discover the secret mission — one that could
get her killed — keeping Morgan Kirkwood from being focused on going for the
gold at the Olympics in
Shirley
Hailstock’s
More than Gold
.

Find out the shocking secret behind one
duke′s refusal to make love to the wife he desires in
Kelly McClymer′s
The Fairy Tale Bride
.

Determine
Eno the Thracian’s past as he tries to rid an island of a harpy while fending
off the
conflicting
interests of
Hekate, Witch Queen of the Underworld, and Aphrodite, Goddess of Desire in
C.B. Pratt’s
Hero for Hire
.

***

Dangerous Secrets

Storytellers Unlimited

Copyright 2014

Amazon Edition

Room at
the Inn
. Copyright © 2012 by L.L. Bartlett. All rights reserved.

More Than
Gold.
Copyright © 2014 by Shirley T. Hailstock. All rights reserved.

The Fairy
Tale Bride.
Copyright © 2000, 2011, by Kelly McClymer. All rights reserved.

Hero for
Hire.
Copyright © 2013 by C. B. Pratt. All rights reserved.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in
part by any means existing without written permission from the author. This
also pertains to uploading to free download sites, which is considered piracy
and does not recognize the labor of this author or her livelihood from that
work. Please discourage piracy and purchase works (other than those offered by
the Author or Publisher as
‶
Free Books″). Thank you.

This is a work of fiction. The names,
characters, places, and incidents are; either the product of the author’s
imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Table of
Contents

Room at the Inn

More Than Gold

The Fairy Tale Bride

Hero for Hire

About The Authors

Room at the Inn

A Jeff Resnick Mystery

By L.L. Bartlett

Jeff Resnick is definitely out of his element when he
and Maggie take a working vacation at a quaint Vermont inn. For most people,
the chance to spend time with a beautiful woman in a romantic, isolated setting
would be a plus, but the moment Jeff crosses the Sugar Maple Inn’s threshold,
his sixth sense warns him that someone is about to meet a violent death.

His anxiety intensifies when he travels on one of the
local roads and he is nearly overwhelmed by feelings of impending doom.
Ultimately, Jeff can only find respite in his brother Richard’s presence and it
is only after one of the inn’s guests is murdered that Richard reluctantly
becomes a third wheel on Jeff and Maggie’s trip. With their own lives at stake,
Jeff, Maggie, and Richard must use all their wits and skill to bring a ruthless
killer to justice. And if they don’t, one of them might just become the next
victim.

***

For Dru Ann Love

My guardian angel

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For many years,
Room At The Inn
sat on a shelf. After
Murder On The Mind
sold, my then-agent deemed the book too “cozy.”
She couldn’t possibly know that in the years ahead I would become known as a
cozy mystery author. She was right; the book is not as gritty as the two that
precede it and the books that follow, but it’s still a Jeff Resnick story and
part of his history, and I’m pleased to share it with you now.

Over the years, many people read
Room At The Inn
, gave me encouragement,
and shared their critical eye. Sadly, I’ve forgotten the names of some of those
who gave me input; those I do remember are: Kate Doran, Elizabeth Eng, Dru Ann
Love, Janette McNana, Gwen Nelson, Yvonne Powell, Alison Steinmiller, Liz Voll,
and Ed Whitmore. Thank you, all. Thanks also go to Kate Doran and Leann Sweeney
for their medical expertise. Any mistakes are strictly my own. Thanks also go
to my cover designer, Patricia Ryan.

***

Chapter 1

A bell over the door jangled as I stepped into
the Sugar Maple Inn′s living room and smelled death. Not literally, of
course. It′s unsanitary, and a body in the lobby isn′t a welcome
sight for potential customers. Besides, I wasn′t sure anybody had actually
died.

Yet.

I′m not paranoid, but since a mugging
rearranged my brain cells earlier in the year (leaving me with lingering, often
crippling, headaches), I see—absorb—more than most people.

The phantom odor disappeared, replaced by the
sickly sweet scent of potpourri. It wasn′t an improvement.

I took another step inside and my girlfriend,
Maggie, pushed past me. The overstuffed furniture, antiques and do-dads
decorating the walls and every flat surface in the living room-lobby made the
place look fussy and uninhabitable. To me that is. Maggie′s wide
approving eyes sucked it up. Although not swank, at an average $350 a night, it
wasn′t within my budget.

I followed Maggie to the cubbyhole behind a
Dutch door that served as the inn′s registration desk. A young blonde
woman sat in front of a computer, pecking away. I had to clear my throat twice
before she looked up.

‶
Hi. Is Susan Dawson
around?″ Maggie asked.

‶
She′s not available. Can
I help?″

‶
I′m Jeff Resnick,″
I said,
‶
and
this is Maggie Brennan. We′re here to write an article on the inn and
take a few pictures for a magazine. Is our room available?″

The young woman′s face was blank.
‶
Sorry,
sir, but we′re booked solid,″ she said, without even consulting the
ledger beside her.
‶
You might find a room somewhere else in town, but as
it′s coming up on a holiday weekend, I wouldn′t count on it.″

Was her response an omen of things to come?

‶
We′re here as a favor to
Susan and Zack,″ Maggie piped up.
‶
We′re supposed to stay
here free.″

The young woman blinked.
‶
Susan
didn′t mention this to me. You′re welcome to wait for her if
you′d like.″ She indicated the porch.

I forced a smile.
‶
Thanks.”

So we headed for the door, and once again I
caught that sense of impending doom. I′m not a mind reader. Sometimes I
know things about people and places. I tap into strong emotions—whether I want
to or not—and sometimes knowledge just follows. It′s a real kick when
you′re making love—except on those occasions when your partner′s
heart isn′t into it. That comes across loud and clear, too.

Maggie accepts this personality quirk of mine
as one would a minor disability; she overlooks it. But I figured until I knew
what was going on, I′d better not mention my premonition.

We settled on the porch swing and watched the
intermittent traffic whiz by, while I tried not to think of dead bodies.
‶
Just
how sharp is this old high school buddy of yours?″ I asked.
‶
So
far, I′m unimpressed.”

Maggie squirmed.
‶
Susan was voted most likely to
succeed.″

‶
Then why does she need our
help?″ Help, in the form of a magazine article. Maggie had been selling
freelance for just over a year.

‶
I suppose she′d welcome
any publicity.″ Maggie sighed and looked away.

The afternoon sun highlighted the fine lines
around her blue eyes, hinting at years of smiles. As always, she looked
beautiful to me. I sensed her nervousness at seeing her old school friend
again. I′d say she was three sizes more nervous. Not that Maggie′s
overweight. She′s just about right for her five-six height. I stroked her
shoulder-length auburn hair and felt bad for laying a guilt trip on her. At
forty, she was older than me by four years, but her joys and insecurities made
her seem—and occasionally act—years younger.

I′d known Maggie for about six months,
and this was our first weekend trip together. We left the grim skyline of
Buffalo behind us for a long Labor Day weekend in Stowe, Vermont for a working
vacation. Maggie′s editor wanted pictures to accompany her story. After
losing her job some months before, and relying only on contract work since, Maggie
wasn′t in a position to pay someone to do it. I′m a pretty good
amateur photographer. So I borrowed my brother′s camera and we filled the
trunk of my car with rented equipment, some of which I had only the most basic
knowledge.

My gaze traveled to the large sign along the
road, which announced the Triple-A sanctioned Sugar Maple Inn. True to its
brochure, a towering Sugar Maple tree stood to one side of the place. In
another couple of weeks it would be a magnificent example of Vermont′s
famous fall colors.

Built into a hillside, the inn′s
weathered, shingled exterior looked charming, if a little unkempt thanks to the
surrounding, overgrown shrubs. Not quite a Tyrolean ski lodge, Maggie had
called its gabled roof and pine green shutters on each window
‶
quaint.″

Eventually a burgundy Dodge Caravan pulled up
the gravel driveway with a woman at the wheel. She got out of the van and
hurried toward us.
‶
Maggie!″

‶
Susan?″ Maggie sounded
uncertain.

With an unexciting name like Susan Dawson,
I′d expected a nondescript woman, not the tall, lithe redhead with
elegantly lacquered nails and a perfect body. She wasn′t beautiful, but
she knew how to accentuate her personal positives.

She gave Maggie a perfunctory hug, then turned
to me.
‶
You
must be Jeff,″ Susan said, shoving her hand in my direction. Her grip was
as strong as any man′s, and I was relieved when it wasn′t
accompanied by a flash of insight I sometimes get when I meet someone.

‶
Sorry I wasn′t here when
you arrived.″

‶
There seems to be some kind of
mix-up,″ I said.
‶
The girl inside said we didn′t have a room.
She suggested we try somewhere else.″

Susan frowned.
‶
Nadine′s new. But
don′t worry; I′ve got everything ready for you. You′re going
to love the Sugar Maple, and you′ll have the most intimate room in the Inn.
Come on inside.”

We followed her into the cool interior.

‶
This is the living room. We
have five public areas available for guests,″ she said, which sounded
suspiciously like a rehearsed speech.
‶
This is a totally non-smoking
inn. Please remember that this is our home, and we ask that you discourage
friends from just dropping by. The front door is locked at midnight, but you
can arrange for a key if you plan to stay out later.″

‶
Was there ever a murder
here?″ I asked.

Startled, Susan blinked at me.

Maggie′s glare was the visual equivalent
of a kick under the table.
‶
He means a ghost. Are there any ghosts at the inn?
It could be the article′s focal point.”

‶
Oh, yeah,″ I agreed.
‶
A
ghost.″

‶
No,″ Susan said, her eyes
flashing,
‶
we
don′t
have a ghost.″

One of the guests, a handsome older woman with
salt-and-pepper hair, in beige slacks and a vibrant pink print blouse, ambled
into the living room. She sat on one of the matching loveseats in front of the
fireplace and grabbed a magazine from the cocktail table. Her arrival gave me a
chance to break into Susan′s spiel.

‶
Have you decided what rooms
you′d like to feature? Or we—″

‶
Why don′t we talk about
this elsewhere,″ Susan interrupted me, then motioned us to a side door
marked PRIVATE.
‶
Nadine,
there′re groceries in the van. Please take them down to the
kitchen,″ she said, without waiting for a reply.

Beyond the door was the Dawson′s
residence, a combination office-attached apartment. A file cabinet and desk
crowded their living space. The sterile room had none of the country charm we’d
found in the lobby. Susan ushered us to sit at the worn Formica kitchen table.
She could have at least offered us a cold drink.

‶
When can you start?″
asked the hardened businesswoman.

‶
Tomorrow,″ I said,
suddenly realizing how tired I was from the long drive.

Her lips grew tight.
‶
Zack′s not
going to be happy about that.″

‶
What did you and your husband
have in mind?″ Maggie asked, her tone indicating she was open to
negotiation—while I was not.

‶
There′s still time before
check-in. You can take the pictures of the bedrooms today, and—″

‶
Today?″ I interrupted.

‶
Is that a problem?″

‶
Yes. It′ll take hours to
set up the lights.″

‶
Doesn′t your camera have
a flash?″

She didn′t have a clue what photographing
interiors involved. Hell, I wasn′t really sure I did.

‶
The magazine expects
professional quality photos. It takes time to get everything just right,″
I said.

‶
But I′m booked solid for
the weekend. I can′t ask the guests to move out of their rooms while
you—″

‶
Then I don′t see how we
can do it,″ I said. I didn′t like her attitude and was already
willing to say good-bye and hit the road for home.

Susan′s eyes narrowed.
‶
What′s
this all about, Maggie? You said you could help me.″

‶
Without good pictures—″
Maggie began, but I tuned out her explanation, waiting for an opportunity to
speak.

‶
Let me guess. You went into
hock to refurbish the place, you′re having problems filling the rooms on
a regular basis, and now the bank is breathing down your neck, right?″

Susan′s gaze was icy.
‶
Exactly.″

‶
If we photographed one bedroom,
we could concentrate on the other public areas. Is that acceptable?″
Maggie asked.

Susan didn′t look happy.
‶
I
suppose.″

‶
Is your best room available in
the next couple of days?″

‶
Ms. Marshall will be checking
out Monday morning, but I′ve got another couple checking in later that
afternoon.″

‶
What′s the time
frame?″ I asked.

‶
Check out is at eleven. New
guests check in at three.″

‶
How long does it take to make
up a room? Ten or twenty minutes?″ I asked.

She nodded.

‶
That leaves us less than four
hours.″

‶
Why is that a problem?″

‶
While I set up the lights,
Maggie will dress the room—″ I started.

‶
Dress the room?″

‶
We might need to rearrange
furniture and borrow props from other rooms,″ Maggie explained.

‶
A real photo shoot would have a
stylist,″ I explained, trying to sound knowledgeable—and feeling like a
con man. The sum total of my information had come from a Google search and a
magazine article only days before.
‶
The memory card in my camera
holds about three-hundred exposures.″

‶
Why so many? I′ve never
seen an article with more than five or six pictures.″

‶
We’ll want a number of
variations on each shot, and while we can Photoshop the brightness and
contrast, you want your basic exposure to be the best possible.″

‶
After you see the results, you
might want to revamp your brochure, too,″ Maggie put in, perhaps to get
double use from my photography.

‶
All that costs money. Which we
don′t have much of.″

‶
The girl out front said you
were fully booked.″

‶
For the five rooms that are finished.
We′ve got seven more in various states of renovation. We′d planned
on having them done before the fall colors and the leaf peepers arrive, but
we′ve had contractor and cash-flow problems. Besides, the guests object
to the constant sounds of hammering and power saws.”

‶
We′ll do the best we
can,″ I offered, which apparently wasn′t going to be good enough
for Susan.

‶
Let me show you the rest of the
place,″ she grumbled and gestured toward the door that led back to the
inn.

She continued the grand tour of the public
areas, oblivious to the fact we′d had a long drive and might be tired.
All I wanted was to kick off my shoes, use the bathroom, and catch a few Zs
before dinner.

The inn′s lower level was decorated in
the same—although somewhat more restrained—country charm as the lobby above.
Eight or ten tables were scattered throughout the large dining room. Two
picture windows, one to the south and one to the east, overlooked the vast
gardens outside. A professional coffeemaker, with a full pot, and a glass jar
filled with homemade chocolate chip cookies beckoned guests.

The game room boasted a stately old pool table.
Game boards decorated the walls, and shelves filled with books, puzzles, and a
large-screen television could entertain bored guests. As we walked through the
maze of rooms, Susan rolled out the rest of her canned speech.

‶
What time is dinner?″
Maggie asked innocently.

‶
We only serve dinner during ski
season,″ Susan said.

Maggie gave me an uncertain glance, then looked
back at our hostess.
‶
I just assumed that since we weren′t here as
guests—″

‶
There′re a lot of nice
restaurants in town. We have a blackboard by the kitchen where guests rate
them. Take a look before you go out tonight. Breakfast is served from eight
until ten. You won′t go hungry,″ she said.