Killer Kisses (24 page)

~*~

The cash register tape rolled over the counter and down to the floor. Suitably impressed with their purchases, the gum-snapper told Genie everything would be delivered in two days. That meant at least forty-eight hours in the Spartan confines of Motel Seven.
Better than sleeping in a car.

As they left the store, she caught herself looking over her shoulder—then realized she was looking for someone…Someone hairy. She shuddered. He was gone, had to be. She needed to get her mind off that sleazoid. “Let’s go by the post office, so I can tell them to stop delivering mail to my house.”

Jim cleared his throat. “Worried a robber will know you’re not home?”

She smacked his arm—then laughed in spite of herself. “Yeah, exactly. They’ll never notice the back wall’s missing from my kitchen. Or the absence of a roof. The smart ones
always
check the mail first.”

He held the car door for her. “Think you can stand being in motel without a kitchen for two days?”

“Does your room have a mini-fridge?”

He nodded.

“Good. Let’s stop by the grocery store and pick up some chocolate sauce and whipped cream. We can have room service.”

He leaned down and gave her a quick kiss. “I like the way you think.”

Jim waited for her in the car. She ran into the post office, only to find a line queued out into the lobby. Genie wondered if they were giving something away—then realized it was the first week of November and the early birds were mailing holiday gifts.

She searched the lobby desk for a hold mail form, gave up and went up to the front desk, garnering dirty looks along the way. She didn’t care. All she needed was the form. She’d grab one and get out. Genie reached the counter, found the red, white, and blue document, turned around and smacked into something hard.

Envelopes flew into the air, grazed her cheek, then spilled across the floor. Genie squatted and scrabbled at the floor, picking up the large white envelopes and looked for the freaking form she’d dropped in the melee. She was
not
having a good day. In fact it was the crappiest day of her entire life. The only thing that would make it worse was if—

“Oh, my gawd!” Beth Heade shrieked. “I cannot
believe
what you just did.”
There. Now it was worse.

Most of the restless crowd tried to sidestep the scene. An elderly woman leaned on her cane and handed one envelope at a time to Genie—along with a clucking sound of disapproval.

A little boy grabbed a handful and ran toward the lobby, screaming, “I won the lottery!”

 Still on her knees, Genie was unable to pursue him.

Beth shouted, “Come
back
here, young man, or I’ll haul your butt into federal court.”

Jim stood over Genie, holding the giggling child under his arm like a football. “Lose something?”

“My mind, I think I saw it running out the back door.”

The little boy’s mother extracted him from Jim’s clutches. “Thank you. He’s
obsessed
with the lottery.”

Jim frowned at the little man. “Stay away from the ponies.”

The red-headed child stared up at him. “What ponies?”

His mother dragged him out of the post office as he repeated over and over, “What ponies? What ponies?”

Genie allowed herself to be pulled up to her feet. “My hero. Thanks for grabbing that kid.”

“You seem to attract little boys.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Big ones, too.”

Beth harrumphed. “Excuse me for interrupting you two.” She jammed an envelope with a partial footprint into Genie’s hand. “Take this. I didn’t have an address for you, anyway.”

Genie stared at the envelope. “Is this your bill?”

“No, silly.” Beth fluffed her hair and adjusted her super-sized breasts. “It’s an invitation. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to work.” The blonde winked at a well-muscled construction worker and sashayed out the door.

Genie tucked the hold mail form into her back pocket and opened the envelope.

Dear Fellow Alumna,

Hard to believe it’s been 25 years since we last walked the halls of Summerville High. Wouldn’t you like to know what’s going on with former classmates? The Reunion Committee has worked hard to plan a fabulous, fun-filled three day celebration on the last weekend in June at the historic Summerville Inn.

Come for one day or all three—but register early for the SHS package discount. Bring your spouse or come stag. You won’t believe the surprises waiting for you!

RSVP to
[email protected]

Genie read the invitation twice to be sure she’d hadn’t misunderstood it. She handed it to Jim without a word. He scanned the paper then looked up at her, his mouth an O of astonishment.

“Oh, my gawd!” She shrieked in a perfect imitation of Beth. “In six months we’re hosting the biggest party in Summerville since 1985—and we didn’t even
know
it.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

~*~

Housed in the basement of City Hall, the Summerville Historical Society was a large underground warren of filing cabinets and cardboard boxes, all of which were covered with a thick layer of dust. Water oozed from a wall and the smell of mildew hung in the air.

A pale-skinned, elderly woman with a dowager’s hump sat at a desk with a nameplate that read,
Miss Harris, Archivist
. She looked up as Jim and Genie approached her desk. “Yes, may I help you?” She spoke in a paper-thin voice.

Her gray hair was pulled back in a French twist and vintage cat-eye rhinestone-studded bifocals perched halfway down her nose. Heavily penciled, upward winged eyebrows gave her a surprised look. A sweater hung on her shoulders, clasped with a chain, each ending with a metal cat’s head. Something about her reminded Jim of his grandmother. He wondered if it was the love of cats.

“I was wondering if you could help me research a house—specifically the Summerville Inn. I think it should qualify as an historic property.” He handed her a copy of the paperwork from the closing. “We’re sort of in a hurry.” Not to mention the fact that despite their love for desserts, they couldn’t stay in the Motel Seven all day, doing nothing. They needed money for this huge reparation—and where better to start than here?

Miss Harris stared at the paper, as if examining it for authenticity, and looked up at him with a piercing gaze. “Well, this is certainly a surprise. No one has asked me about the Inn for, what is it now? Twenty years.” She tapped the paper. “Did you check online before coming here?”

He nodded. “The only places the National Register has listed on line are the Eastman House and the Susan B. Anthony House. And with all due respect to the New York State Office of Parks, Recreation, and Historic Preservation, the Inn is on the same street, in the same historic district as the Crofton-Brown House.”

Her eyes widened and a smile creased her wrinkled face. “Well, well, you
have
done your homework. Good for you. Allow me to clarify; the house you refer to was built by an architectural firm of
historic
significance. And it’s been functioning as a not-for-profit museum.
Your
job will be to prove to the State of New York that your building is historically or culturally significant.”

She turned and clicked away at a keyboard. The computer and her desk were the only areas not covered in dust. “Let me see where the architectural archives are. I have an index of all the major collections. Just give me a minute. Ah. Here we are. Come with me.” She stood and motioned for them to follow.

Jim and Genie followed the woman through what seemed like a mile of narrow rows of rusted filing cabinets and mildewed cardboard boxes. He was beginning to wonder how he’d find the way out, when Miss Harris stopped and waved her hand over a row of filing cabinets. “The files you want begin here in 1800 and go to here in 2000. If you find what you need, we can talk about the next steps. Be cautious when you handle the files. Good luck.”

Jim picked the files closest to him; Genie headed for the opposite end of the row. He began pulling out the drawers, looking for anything resembling files on the inn, which, according to the title search, had gone through several owners and a variety of names.

Jim glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes of digging to no avail. He looked at Genie and the intense expression on her dust-streaked face told him
not
to ask how she was doing. He wondered how Miss Harris could work in this hobbit’s barrow of mildew and gloom. Jim felt a fresh surge of appreciation for the inn’s tall windows, wide porch and open vistas.

Genie whooped. “I have it!” She waved a yellowed manila folder. “Schmidt and Stone built it in the early eighteen-thirties in the Greek revival style, which judging by the neighborhood, was all the rage at the time.”

Miss Harris suddenly appeared at Jim’s elbow. How had she snuck up on him?
Does she have cat’s feet?
The older woman put her hand out. “Hand that to me, please. These materials are irreplaceable.” She led the little procession back to her desk.

Jim placed his arm around Genie’s shoulders. “Great. We’ll take the copies home and start filling out the application with the State of New York.”

Miss Harris looked up in surprise. “Oh, heavens, no. First you have to complete a form requesting a copy of these materials—then the Board of the Historical Society will review your request.”

He frowned. “When does the board meet?”

“Every three months. They just met, so they’ll be back together in February.” She handed him a pen and a three-page document. “There’s also a fifty dollar request fee. Just make your check out to the Summerville Historical Society.”

Was this woman for real?
Jaw locked, teeth gritted against yet one more roadblock, Jim wondered if maybe this wasn’t meant to be. Maybe they should forget about trying to get the historical designation. He had enough on his plate; he didn’t need this hassle, too.

Just as he opened his mouth, Genie’s viselike grip locked onto his forearm.

She smiled, then placed a one hundred dollar bill on the desk. “Is there
any
way you might be able to expedite this for us?”

What the hell was she doing?

Miss Harris stared at the cash, licked her lips—then stuffed the bill into her blouse. “Give me a few minutes.”

As her footsteps faded away in the distance, Jim leaned over and whispered, “Where did you learn to bribe people?”

“Tsk, tsk.” She smirked. “Don’t you know you should
always
tip the maitre d’ for better service?”

~*~

What were the bimbo and Ichabod Crane up to? Tony peeled off another wrapper and stuffed the gum in his mouth. He’d followed them the whole freaking day and still hadn’t figured out what their deal was. Breakfast and the bank—that he got. Everyone needed food and cash. The Outdoor Gear store? They went in, stayed forever, but came out empty-handed.

Then, they went into City Hall. Were they filing for a marriage license? Zoning paperwork? He slunk down in his seat and watched the couple stroll past his rental car, completely oblivious to his presence.
Dummies. Why does she have dirt smudged on her cheeks? And what is he smiling about?
After that fire, the two of them should have been pissing their pants. Instead, they both looked as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

“La, la, la—
Bimbo.
” He spat out the last word. “That hotel is mine. You just don’t know it yet.”

~*~

Beth Heade stormed into her house, grabbed a bottle from the freezer, and poured herself a tall glass of Russian vodka on the rocks. Just as the first hit of euphoria took over, Dick strolled into the kitchen and cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Is it five o’clock somewhere?”

“You should talk. No,
don’t.
I ran into the new owners of the Inn at the post office. Literally. Freaking reunion invitations flew everywhere.” She took another slug of liquor. “The place was a zoo.”

He smiled. “Good. Won’t the new owners be surprised when they find out the Summerville Inn is hosting the class of ’85 reunion.”

“They know.”

His face flushed and his eyes bulged. “How?”

“As usual, you weren’t
listening
to me. I said I ran into them at the post office. I gave Genie her invitation.”

He was in her face in two steps. “That wasn’t the plan.”

“Screw your plan.”

“I promised Tony I’d make the auction right for him. It was supposed to be his—”

“Why? So, you could get
your
coke free?”

His eyes widened.

She poked at his chest with the tip of her enameled index finger. “You still think I’m just a stupid cheerleader—so dumb that she got knocked up in high school and you
had
to marry her.” Tears stung her eyes at the memory of the elopement and its aftermath. “Joke was on both of us. The miscarriage was two months after the wedding.”