Moonlighting in Vermont

Moonlighting in Vermont

by
Kate George

Mainly Murder Press

PO Box 290586
Wethersfield, CT 06109-0586
www.mainlymurderpress.com

Mainly Murder Press

Senior Editor: Judith K. Ivie
Copy Editor: Judith K. Ivie
Cover Designer: Patricia L. Foltz

All rights reserved

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Mainly Murder Press
www.mainlymurderpress.com
Copyright © 2009 by Kate George ISBN 978-0-615-29202-1
Published in the United States of America
2009

Mainly Murder Press PO Box 290586
Wethersfield, CT 06109-0586

Dedication
For G and the four junior members of the madhouse crew. I love you more than I can say.

~

To my friends and beta readers – couldn’t do it without you.
One

“Why. Won’t. You. Open!” With every word I pushed my shoulder into the door. I gave the wood a two-handed shove, but all that got me was stinging palms. “I just love being a housekeeper,” I muttered, put my back to the panel, bent my knees, and drove my weight backward. The door gave a little, and I rammed it again. The gap widened, and I turned to put my eye to the crack between the door and the jamb.

“Oh, my God.” I sank to my knees. The thing blocking the door was my boss. My dead boss, if the amount of blood on the floor was any indication. Crap! I knelt down and squeezed my arm through the space to see if I could feel a pulse, but she was cold. Dead cold. I sat down on the porch floor, put my head between my legs, and willed myself not to throw up.

Not throwing up is something I’m definitely not good at. A life skill I haven’t developed. My name is Bella Bree MacGowan. Bella is Italian; Bree—well technically, Brie, but my mom couldn’t spell—is French, and MacGowan is Scottish. Basically, my name means good cheese. Or maybe, beautiful cheese. Either way, it’s cheese, and what kind of life skills can you expect a cheese to develop? Luckily, I’m okay in the looks department, or I’d totally be screwed. Five-foot-six, not too wide in the hips. Straight, medium brown hair and medium brown eyes. I look kind of like Rachael Ray without the benefit of a hair and makeup stylist. I smile a lot, and that seems to help.

It wasn’t helping me now. I sat gulping air and trying to focus on not shaking, but I wasn’t having much luck. I was telling myself to breathe when the two-way radio on my belt went off.

“Bree! What’s taking you so long?” The hotel manager’s voice came through. “I need you back here.”
I fumbled for my radio. “Brian, you need to get out here.” I still had my head between my knees.
“Bree, you know I can’t come out there right now. What’s going on?” I heard the aggravation in his voice.
“You’re going to have to come out here, Brian. I think Vera’s dead.”
The radio was silent. I pictured Brian trying to wrap his head around that last statement. Like a lot of people in South Royalton, we’d known each other since childhood. We’d grown up on the same hill, a couple of farms apart. My parents lived in town, but I spent as much time as I could on my grandparents’ place. Brian and I were friends from way back.
The radio squawked again. “Bree, did you say Vera is dead?”
“Yes.” I could understand how he felt. It didn’t seem like it could be true, if it wasn’t for the all-too-real body.
“I’m on my way.”
I scooted to the edge of the porch and sat in the sun waiting for Brian to get there. The evening light was dappled with the color of the autumn leaves. I was thankful for the cool air and tried not to think about Vera ten feet away from me in the housekeeping closet. All that blood. I had my head back between my knees and my eyes closed when Brian showed up.
Brian dressed like the manager of a five-star hotel, which is good, because he is one. He wore Armani pants and jacket and a crisp, button-down shirt. His chestnut hair was immaculate, his face smooth shaven. But to me he’d always be the neighbor kid who knew how to talk his way out of hard work. He hadn’t grown any taller than me and was a shade on the chunky side. And he’d never gotten over his love of a good practical joke. I had a feeling he was counting on news of Vera’s death being just that. Good luck.
The cottages at Whispering Birches have secret rooms inside them. They're referred to as housekeeping closets, even though they're big enough to hold a king-sized bed. These storerooms have two doors. One opens from the outside porch of the cottage, and the other is a hidden entry into the guest quarters. With the outside door to the closet blocked, Brian let himself in through the cottage entrance and then used his key to turn the hidden latch that opened the inner door.
He came out a few minutes later, white faced and thin lipped, and sat down next to me on the porch.
“You gonna be all right?”
“She’s dead isn’t she?” I couldn’t stop the tears from running down my face.
“Yeah. I called the cops.” He glanced my way. “We’re going to have to move Ericson to another cottage. Don’t think we’d better do that before the cops come, though.”
“Ericson’s still at dinner in the main house?”
Brian nodded
“He likes to drink. You could probably keep him up there for most of the evening. Break the news about having to move him when the other guests have gone back to their rooms. We can have his stuff moved to another cottage before dinner’s over.” I was glad to have a problem to distract me.
“As long as the cops will let us move his stuff,” Brian said gloomily. “Ericson will pitch a fit if he has to be separated from his clothes. He’s such a fashionista.”
We sat together on the porch, waiting. The sun glinted through the windows of another cottage on the hill above us. I wondered how the other housekeepers were doing. The team was down by two now, Vera and me. We had a full complement of guests, and the housekeepers had only a couple of hours to freshen up and turn down all the rooms. It had to get done without anyone being seen or heard while the guests were at dinner.
Whispering Birches, the secluded resort that locals call simply The Inn, consists of the main house, the pond house, and ten individual cottages. The main house is a renovated 1800s farmhouse that holds the lounge, dining rooms and four guest rooms. The pond house overlooks a small lake and holds six guest rooms. The cottages are scattered through what used to be cow pastures and woods, each containing a luxurious suite. There are stands of trees, hills or valleys between each cottage for privacy. The whole place is a gated, exclusive five-star hotel that guarantees the rich and famous freedom from the paparazzi—for a price. The least expensive room goes for a grand a night.
It was past sundown when the state troopers came down the narrow dirt road that led to Coydog Cottage. The housekeepers’ two-way radio told me that turndown was well under control. The girls were tearing around like crazy, and there’d be plenty of bitching later, but the work would get done on time.
While Brian let the officers into the cottage, I sat in the cool evening getting goose pimples from the breeze and trying not to think. A tall, sandy blond trooper named Steve Leftsky squatted on the porch beside me. Steve wasn’t a handsome guy. His face was pockmarked from teenage acne, but he was kind, and he had the sort of eyes that wrinkled at the edges when he smiled. We had known each other since high school. He occasionally stopped me for speeding, but he almost never gave me a ticket.
“Trying to get my attention, Bree?” He smiled at me. “You know if you want to see me, all you have to do is call.”
“Very funny. I’m not likely to be going through withdrawals from the state police. You pull me over just about every other day.” I glanced back at the cottage. “How’d she die?”
“Won’t know anything officially until the medical examiner sees the body. How’d you get to be the lucky one who found her?”
“We store the extra carafes out here. Dotty broke one and asked me to grab another one for her. I couldn’t figure out why the door wouldn’t open.”
“Did you touch anything, move anything around?” Steve took his notebook and pencil out of his shirt pocket.
“I must have moved her when I shoved the door open. And I reached in and touched her wrist to see if she was alive.” A shiver ran through me.
“Was she warm?” I shook my head. He lowered his voice. “Know anybody who didn’t like her?”
“Are you kidding? Everybody around here hates her. Even her sister Dolly won’t speak to her half the time.” I took a couple of breaths. “Can I go soon? I’d really like to get out of here.”
“Yeah, I think it would be a good idea for you to leave before the meat wagon gets here.” He glanced at me appraisingly. “Are you going home from here? It might be better if you’re not alone.”
“I have to feed my animals. But I think I’ll go to Jim’s house after that.”
“Jim? You’re still seeing James Fisk? God, I thought that would be over by now. He’s got a stick up his… uh.” He looked around to see one of the other officers watching him. “You’re too laid back for him.” Steve smiled and dropped a hand on my shoulder to steady himself as he stood.
“You got somebody else in mind?” I raised an eyebrow at him. “I know you’re not thinking of going out on Shirl. She’d kill you before she let any one else have you.”
“Not me.” He scowled. “But I’ve got a couple of buddies in the unit that might be interested.”
“Oh, and you think a state trooper is going to be laid back? I don’t think so. I start dating a trooper, and I’ll have every cop in the place keeping an eye on me. I do way too many stupid things to date a cop.” I could imagine being stopped for every illegal U-turn I ever made. “Shouldn’t you be investigating the scene or something instead of trying to find me a date?”
“I’m interrogating a witness.” Steve winked at me. “You’ll need to make a statement down at the barracks tomorrow. I’m thinking the V.B.I is going to want to investigate this and they’ll want to talk to you.”
“V.B.I?”
“Vermont Bureau of Investigation. They’ll be involved. At least until murder can be ruled out.”

* * * * *

Halfway home, I started to shake. The memory of the blood pooling on the floor around Vera flooded my brain, and I had to pull over. I gulped air and willed the shaking to stop. When that didn’t work I tried clearing my mind, but I wasn’t any good at meditation at the best of times. My breathing was ragged, and tears were welling in my eyes, so I decided drastic measures were in order, and I checked my cell phone for service.

Cell phone service in Vermont is a crapshoot; you never know when you’ll have it and when you won’t. Besides that, if you have service and move ten feet in any direction, you’re likely to loose it. Luckily, I’d stopped in one of the pullouts that had a reputation for good reception.

“Hey, MacGowan, how’s it going?” Jim’s voice was warm and cheerful on the other end of the line.
“Hey back.” I tried to sound cheerful, but my voice shook, and my eyes were starting to tear up again. “You’ll never believe this, but I found Vera dead at work today. I was driving home, but now I’m shaking so hard, I can’t keep the car on the road.”
“Where are you?”
“At the top of the hill, about three miles from my house.”
“I’d come get you, but I won’t be able to break free from work for a while. Is Meg or Tom around?”
“Dunno.” Meg is my best friend and Tom is her husband.
“Why don’t you call Meg? She’s a lot nearer to you than I am anyway. It’d be a couple of hours before I could get there.”
“I’ll call Meg.”
“That’s my girl. Keep your chin up. I’ll be over around eleven.”
“Can you bring pizza?”
“Barbecue chicken with pineapple?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I wiped my eyes with my sleeve.
He hung up and I didn’t call Meg. She had enough on her plate already. She had four kids, and her husband was the captain of the state police barracks. I was a little surprised I hadn’t seen him at the Inn with Steve tonight. I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and closed my eyes. Why did Steve ask me if Vera had enemies? She was mean and petty, someone you avoided if you could. No money or property to speak of. Why murder Vera Post?
Thinking about what a pain Vera had been calmed me down. Gradually, the shaking subsided, and my eyes stopped running. I began to think Steve was just yanking my chain. I couldn’t think of one good reason to murder Vera. She just didn’t have that much of an impact in the world.
Ten minutes later I pulled into my drive, and my dogs mobbed the car. I’d like to think they were welcoming me home, but they were just looking for food. I tossed Lucky, my old pony, some hay. I dug a carrot out of a bin and fed it to him. Then I gave him a rubdown and told him about my day. I fed the horses that my elderly neighbor Max boards on my property, the rabbits, and the barn cat.
I threw pellets to the chickens. They’d stopped laying again. I was feeding twenty-eight chickens and getting three eggs a day in return. My neighbors thought I was nuts, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat them. How could I fry up Speckles or Hermione? Meg’s kids had named every single one of those chickens. Besides, I didn’t know which three were laying. With my luck I’d eat the only three hens that gave me eggs.
After that, I fed my four dogs. I’m a magnet for unwanted animals, so I’ve recently collected a ten-month old, oversized, male Irish wolfhound who thinks he’s a lap dog. That’s in addition to a large, two-year-old male yellow Lab who is a total wimp; a two-year-old boxer with a shoe fetish; and a three-year-old female beagle cross who calls the shots. Their names are Ranger, Hank, Diesel and Annie. Top that off with a furball tabby of a housecat named Annabelle.
It was late when I finally walked into my kitchen, and Jim was already there eating pizza out of the box. There was an open bottle of beer and a jar of Parmesan cheese on the table. His legs were stretched out in front of him, long and lean, with his hiking boots propped on the rungs of my kitchen stool. He was dressed in his casual clothes, tan Dockers and an immaculate golf shirt. The hiking boots were his fashion concession for coming to my house. In town, he wore loafers.
Jim’s brown hair curled around his ears, too long for a lawyer. He smiled at me when I walked in, and the smile reached the corners of his lash-rimmed, grey-green eyes. It was his eyes that had attracted me in the first place. In the spring I had attended an evening lecture at Vermont Law School, and Jim had introduced the speaker. I almost flattened him in my rush to leave after the mind-numbing presentation, and he asked me out to coffee. I liked that he wasn’t put off by the fact that the law lecture had put me to sleep.
Jim reached out as I walked by, pulling me down into his lap. He dropped a kiss on my head. “So, what happened at work today? You were kidding about Vera, right? Did one of those rich snobs ask you to do something perverted?”
“I wasn’t kidding about Vera.” I reached out, snagged a slice of pizza and stuffed half of it in my mouth. “I found her lying in a pool of blood.” I shivered and slid off his lap. I needed a beer.
“You sure she was dead?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I shuddered with the memory, grabbed a beer from the fridge and popped it open. “I touched her. She was cold.”
Jim stood up and slid his arms around me. I rested my head on his chest, and he held me tight against him. I could feel his heartbeat and the warmth of his chest against my face. He smelled good, like sandalwood. He leaned down and kissed my neck.
“Hmmm. You’re warm.” I tipped my head and kissed him back. His mouth was soft and cool from the beer.
“Bet I know how to make it better.” His breath was hot on my ear. I suddenly lost all interest in pizza.