Out of This World (3 page)

“Maybe they like the great outdoors.”

“And kamikaze squirrels?”

“And kamikaze squirrels.”

I still didn't get it. “Are you telling me they all walk this same trail?”

Kellan lifted a shoulder. “Maybe besides a love for the outdoors and kamikaze squirrels, they also get a thrill out of killer bees.”

I laughed. I always laughed with him, I realized, even when things sucked. “You'd think they'd have put that on their Web site. Warning: Alaska is not for sissies.”

“I'm pretty sure most people know that already,” he pointed out. “Besides, you saw the Web site. It's…lacking.”

Yet another concern on my mind. Hideaway B&B was mine now—assets and liabilities and all. I had no idea how good or bad things were financially, but one thing I
did
know: Whatever state the place was in, I was responsible for it, for the people who worked for it, for the bills, for still making a living back in L.A.

Yikes, I was going to have to be a real grownup here, not just the farce of a grownup I'd been up until now.

Scary stuff.

And funny, considering I'd never so much as bothered with the responsibility of anything more troublesome than fish, and yet now I owned a business.

A business I knew too little about. From the outdated Web site, it'd been difficult, if not impossible, to get a sense of what I was up against. There'd been only two pictures of the tall, mysterious inn: one in summer, one in winter.

The summer pic had been taken at dusk and had been too dark to be effective, not showing any of the inn's distinguishing features, nor anything of its surroundings. The winter shot revealed snow up to the windows, and had been taken at night.

Snow.

Up to the windows.

During a night so dark, it gave a whole new meaning to the color black.

Boggling.

The site did boast that Hideaway was a hundred years old, and as we turned a corner and suddenly came to the clearing in which the inn sat, I could believe it. It looked just like the pictures, though I don't know why that surprised me. The place was bigger than I'd expected, and it looked a bit like an old Victorian, but without the warmth and charm. Four stories high, it had a sharply slanted roof, myriad dark windows and eaves that made it look…foreboding. No, that had to be my imagination, because not only was the sun out but, despite it being early afternoon, smoke was coming from the chimney. Those should both be calming, right? So why did I suddenly have goose bumps?

My mom had warned me many times that Great-Great-Aunt Gertrude had been somewhat of a loony toons, and that no doubt her staff would be just as crazy. But coming from my mother, that had been, like, Hello, Mrs. Pot, I'm Black…

“At least someone's here,” Kellan murmured, and nudged me up the walk with the big load in his arms, reminding me of the weight we were carrying. Or that he mostly carried. “Hopefully they're expecting us. You did call ahead, right?”

“I called,” I said, the front porch creaking ominously beneath our feet. I looked at the hanging sign that read
HIDEAWAY B
&
B
. “But no one answered, not even an answering machine.”

“Is that code for ‘I didn't really call because I forgot to think ahead'?”

“No,” I said a bit defensively. “My inability to organize or make plans and keep them has nothing to do with this. I really did try.”

It'd been frustrating and a little unnerving. This was a business, right?
My
business. “I e-mailed the contact from the Web site, too. Nothing.” We set down our boxes and bags on the front porch, and knocked.

No one answered.

I stepped off the porch, and looked up.

And up.

Wow, the place was tall. The chimney still had smoke coming out, so someone had to be here. Then I blinked because I thought I saw something. There, on the top floor, one of the windows…
glowed,
as if someone had walked past it with a flashlight or candle. But it was gone so quickly, I couldn't be sure. “That's odd,” I said in a normal voice that belied the way my heart had skipped a beat.

It got odder, when, in that same high-up window, I suddenly saw two faces, a young blond woman and a guy who looked like a twenty-something Harry Potter, their foreheads pressed to the glass as they stared down at me the same way I stared up at them.

And yet, in the very next blink, they were gone.

Vanished.

“Did you see them?” I asked Kellan hoarsely, because my voice had nearly gone, along with all the air in my lungs. I tugged on his sleeve. “There, in the window.”

“What did I miss?” He craned his neck and looked up in pretend horror. “Another squirrel tea party?”

“Ha ha, you're a laugh a minute.”

But I couldn't take my gaze off the window. Real or Memorex? Hard to tell.
“Kellan.”

At the serious tone in my voice, he looked at me, amusement fading. “So what did you see?”

I shook my head. It sounded kind of crazy. “Never mind. It was nothing.”

Kellan knocked again, but we still got no answer.

Which meant I'd definitely imagined the couple. Oh boy. And they said losing touch with reality was the first symptom…

Kellan tried the doorknob. We stared at each other, both jumping a little when the door creaked as he pushed it open.

From inside came nothing but a big yawning silence.

“Hello?” I called out.

Nothing. Not a single sound. It was like the entire inn was holding its breath, and something cold and creepily foreboding danced down the back of my neck.

And then, from somewhere far upstairs, a door shut with a definitive click.

Kellan glanced at me, face unreadable. “Was that nothing, too?”

Thank God, I thought. He'd heard it. I wasn't losing my mind.

At least, not completely.

Strange how much comfort I found in that one small fact. Still, I was feeling sorry—extremely sorry—that I'd so hastily jumped on a plane and hightailed it up here without more details. Honest to God, one of these days I was going to get it together and think things through.

“Hello?” Kellan called out, his voice louder and surer than mine. “Anyone home?”

“Yo, dude. In the kitchen.”

Kellan raised a brow so that it vanished beneath the hair falling into his eyes. That voice had come from an entirely different direction than the door closing upstairs. The voice was also Los Angeles, specifically San Fernando Valley, spoken in the slow, purposeful voice of a career slacker.

Kellan took my hand, a gesture for which I felt very grateful as we entered the house of horror. We stepped over the threshold into a large reception room with scarred wooden floors and scattered throw rugs, none of which matched. A giant moose head hung over the stone fireplace, its glassy-eyed stare seeming to pierce right through me. The windows were covered with lace slightly yellowed with time. The huge, L-shaped, chocolate leather couch and two beat-up leather recliners looked extremely well lived-in.

Spartan, but actually quite homey, even cozy, and somehow not nearly as bad as I'd imagined standing on the porch looking up at those two ghosts…

“You coming, or what?” asked the slacker voice.

Kel and I looked at each other, then moved through the large room and into a kitchen that smelled like wood smoke and spicy tea. This room was painted a bright, sunny yellow and white, also far more cheerful than the outside had let on. The ceiling was light pine siding, with copper pots hanging from the slats. There were also a few huge plants, green and thriving in a way that made me want to grab a paintbrush and a canvas.

But best yet, there was a large woodstove, lit and sending off a wave of warmth, which drew me like moth to flame.

There was a humongous oak table in the center of the room, and on it sat a large vase filled with fresh wildflowers, which gave off a scent that I imagined I would have smelled in the woods if I hadn't been too busy whining all the way up here to notice.

The counters held various appliances and, most interestingly, a guy sitting Indian-style, facing away from us.

He grabbed our attention immediately. He wore a pair of army green cargo pants, a white thermal top and a wool hat with tassels that hung down and swung beneath each ear like earrings. His hands were in front of him, out of sight, but I feared he was cradling a bong as he stared out the window. “Ohhhmmm,” he sang.

Kellan craned his neck, and glanced at me.
Nutso,
his eyes said. I shot him a pacifying look.

“Um, hello?” I said.

Nutso—er, the man—slowly turned, and looked at us with eyes the color of light milk chocolate dotted with gold specks of mischief.

He was maybe thirty, with shaggy brown hair and a silly, crooked smile that was somehow contagious. And he wasn't holding a bong, as I'd feared, but had his hands out in front of him with the palms together, in a yoga position.

“You're Rachel Wood,” he said, hopping down off the counter, revealing a tall, athletic form. “The new boss here at Hideaway.”

I'd never been called a boss before—I was barely my own boss—so the greeting threw me for a loop.

“And you are?” Kellan asked him.

“Oh!” He shot us an amused grin. “Sorry. I'm Axel.”

When we both looked at him blankly, he said, “Expedition leader here at Hideaway.”

Kellan introduced himself while I chewed on the fact that I was “the boss.”

“Did you know Rachel was coming up here today?” Kellan asked Axel.

He shook his head. “Nah. When Gertrude's attorney sent us the money she left us, he told us about her, that's all. Said she was L.A. all the way, an artist, who'd be showing up eventually to see what's what and then heading back to her murals in the city.”

I didn't catch much of what he said after “the money she left us,” and I shook my head. “Wait. So you got something in the will?” I hadn't even
seen
the will; I'd only spoken to the attorney on the phone.

“Well, of course,” Axel said. “I'm going to take a nice vacation. Somewhere warm, of course. I'm thinking Virgin Islands. Maybe the Caymans, depending on the surf reports, you know?”

Did I know? No, I didn't know. I knew nothing. In fact, I knew less than nothing.

“Oh, and dudette, now that you're here,” Axel went on, “you've got some back wages to pay.”

“But, what if I'd never shown up?” I asked, overwhelmed.

“Well, of course you were going to show up.” He smiled that smile that normally I'd consider contagious and return full force, but I couldn't smile back right now because anxiety was gripping me.

“You're Gert's niece, aren't you?” He chuckled, and the long tassels on his beanie swayed back and forth. “Probably just as organized and anal as she was, right?”

I smiled weakly. If he only knew…“I've been calling”—I tried to sound as if I was in control, when I was so not—“but I couldn't get through.”

“Yeah. We lost the phone a while back.”

“We?”

“Marilee's here somewhere, too. She's the cook and housekeeper. You owe her some back wages as well.”

This just got better and better, didn't it?

“We just heard her shut a door upstairs,” I said.

“Nope. She's out back watering her flowers. As for getting a hold of us, you can text me on my cell, though I mostly don't have any reception up here.” He patted his pocket, found it empty, frowned, then patted another pocket.

And yet another.

Still came up empty, not that he looked too troubled. “I had the thing earlier,” he murmured. His tassels hit him in the face as he bent, slapping at his pants.

“I also sent an e-mail,” I said.

“Yeah, not so good with the computer, dudette. Sorry.” Giving up on finding his cell, he turned away to grab a steaming mug off the counter.

“If there's no phone, and no one is manning the Web site, how do potential guests make reservations?” I asked.

He blinked, then scratched his head, as he sipped at his drink. “Dunno. Gertrude used to do that.”

The woman had been buried for three weeks. A really bad feeling began to work its way through my system. “So no one's been handling the business since she—”

“Well, I keep meaning to find that phone…”

Three weeks with no income, and yet the staff had been working. That seemed like unnecessary out-of-pocket expenses to me.

My
pocket.

“Well,” Axel said, heading for the door, “time for my nooner.”