Poisoned by Gilt (39 page)

When I entered the kitchen through the double

doors, a tall, angular, fortyish woman was peering into

the knotty-pine cabinets and compiling an inventory

of kitchenware. I waited till she'd completed her count

of serving spoons, then said, "Hi. I'm Erin Gilbert, an

interior designer here at the inn."

She peered at me a little too imperiously for my liking. I got the feeling that she was tabulating the cost of

my Icelandic cardigan (a gift from Steve) and designer

slacks. She was wearing a crisp white shirt with pleats

and piping, black pants, and loafers. She had limp

brown hair in a blunt cut just above the nape of her

long neck. She would have been pretty except for her

permanent-looking scowl. "Mikara Woolf. Managerto-be of the Snowcap Inn." Her voice was confident

yet flat.

"Ah, great. Henry Goodwin said that you'd be starting sometime this week. My partner, Steve Sullivan, is

here, too, and he--"

"Yeah, he's out back with Henry. Something about

Christmas decorations . . . chopping down a tree or

looking for the lights. Quite a hunk, that Mr. Sullivan."

She raised an eyebrow. "You two are sleeping together,

right? And you're not married?"

I bristled. "Um, much as I hate to get us off on the

wrong foot, frankly, I don't see why you're asking."

She gave me a slight smile. "Oh, I realize it's none

of my business . . . even though you did give me my answer just now. I'm simply checking the accuracy of the

local rumor mill. I'm a native. Ten years ago, before

Snowcap Village was turned into the new mini-Vail,

everybody in this town knew one another. Till

Wendell Barton bought the mountain . . . along with

everything and everyone else."

"If small-town life means everyone discussing who's

sleeping with whom, there's something to be said for

tourist towns and anonymity."

She crossed her arms and gave me another visual

once-over. "Spoken like a city girl. Where are you

from originally? New York? Philadelphia?"

"No, I grew up in the suburbs. Of the Albany area."

She cocked an eyebrow as if she doubted me, and I conceded, "But I went to college and trained in New York."

She smirked and nodded. "Another Easterner.

Figured as much."

I found myself adding defensively, "Steve's a native

Coloradoan."

"Yeah, I figured that out, too."

"Huh. I'll have to remind him to stop wearing his

Colorado Native sweatshirt so often."

To her credit, she laughed. Maybe she wasn't quite

as standoffish as all that. "Guess I'm coming off as a

little judgmental. My apologies. It's been a rough

week. You wouldn't believe the flack I'm getting from

my sister and my former neighbors for accepting this

job. People think I've sold my soul to the devil by

agreeing to work here . . . considering it now belongs

to Barton."

"Oh, for heaven's sake! Henry Goodwin has the final

say in everything regarding the remodel, not Wendell

Barton. Furthermore, it doesn't belong to Wendell.

He's just one of three partners, including Audrey

Munroe, my landlady back in Crestview. She's got

more integrity than anyone I know. She's not about to

cede full control to Barton, or to anyone else, for that

matter."

"I assume you mean Audrey Munroe of the

Domestic Bliss television show." Mikara gave me a

smug smile. "Did you know she's currently dating

Wendell Barton?"

"What?!" Apparently the small-town gossip express

was way ahead of me.

"Angie, my sister, spotted them together at the

Nines last Saturday night."

Much as I wanted to deny the accuracy of Mikara's

information, there had definitely been some sparks between Wendell and Audrey when I'd last seen Audrey--

at an inn meeting on Friday afternoon. Steve and I had

gone back to Crestview immediately afterwards. During

the remodel, we had full use of any of the eight mostly

finished guest bedrooms, which we'd designed ourselves. That allowed us to make the ninety-minute commute to Crestview only when we so chose--which

generally meant on weekends, so that I could be with

Hildi, my adorable black cat, who was happier at home.

Truth be told, I disliked Wendell Barton, a real-estate

mogul who'd struck me as a blowhard. I'd yet to find a

Snowcap resident who had a single nice thing to say

about the man. Then again, from the sound of things,

Mikara hadn't found any residents to say anything nice

about me, either, so maybe this town was snooty about

all non-natives.

"In another week or two, Wendell's going to have

Ms. Domestic Bliss in his sweaty palm," Mikara continued, "and next thing you know, he'll flatten that

gazebo you just built out back and erect a half dozen

condos in its place."

"If you're so negative about the Snowcap Inn's future, why did you take this job?"

"I'm a pragmatist." She shrugged. "The inn is paying me really well. Especially compared to the pittance I used to make at the art gallery."

I heard the back door open, followed by the

stomping of snow boots on the mat and the rumbling tones of Steve's voice. I couldn't help but smile.

All the seasonal beauty that surrounded us--the blanket of pure white snow, the glittering stars, the red

sashes and green boughs on all the storefronts, the

charming cabins, town homes, and quaint shops in

Snowcap Village--was only encouraging my lovesickness.

The two men entered the kitchen. Henry, soon to

be the former owner of this large estate, was a tall,

lanky man in his mid-forties who looked like he'd

stepped out of an L.L.Bean ad. He'd been born with a

silver spoon in his mouth, although he'd apparently

traded that spoon for a camper's spork. Aside from his

current duties as mayor, he hadn't held an actual job

in his life. He'd invested his father's sizable fortune

well, and now spent his time pursuing women and the

great outdoors.

Steve's face lit up when our eyes met, and Henry

smiled broadly at the sight of Mikara. "I'm glad you're

here, Mikki," he said to her. "Just in time for you to

butter up Angie." Henry waggled his thumb in the direction of the back door. "She's here now, doing the

inspection on the new gazebo."

"Wait," I said to Mikara, instantly anxious. "Your sister is the building inspector?"

"It's a small town," she replied with a shrug.

"But you just told me she doesn't want the inn to

open!"

"She'll be reasonable, though, won't she, Mikki?"

Henry asked.

"Sure. She won't cause trouble . . . as long as you

don't have any violations. She'll be a total stickler for

detail. Don't go expecting her to cut you any slack, is

all I'm saying."

Henry stared at her. "But . . . the city codes are

chock-full of minutiae that could be used to nitpick us

indefinitely! You're the manager. And her sister. She'll

show some family loyalty, surely . . . right?"

"If that's why you hired me, Henry, you misjudged

my sister by a mile!"

Henry massaged his forehead in a silent confirmation that he had hired Mikara for political reasons. "Good thing it's just the gazebo, then. We can

tear it down if we have to. Everything inside the

inn--the plumbing and electrical work--has already

passed."

Sullivan grimaced. "But . . . wasn't Angie the one

who took tap-water samples last Friday?"

"Probably," Mikara said with a nod. "She does some

contract work for the health inspectors, too."

Henry paled a little at this news but seemed to visibly steel himself a moment later. "So, Mikki, you

wanted to make this a live-in position, right? Did you

pick out a bedroom yet?"

"Not yet. Why? Does my bedroom have to be located in the basement?"

He laughed heartily and winked in Sullivan's and

my direction. "Such a kidder. No. Just not the master

bedroom."

"Ah, yes," she said with a sigh. "I remember that

room well."

Henry winced slightly at the remark, an unmistakable implication that the two had once been

lovers.

"I'm sure you plan on charging hundreds a night for

that room," she added.

"During the ski season, absolutely we will. It's a

huge space. Erin, Steve, and Audrey Munroe, my coinvestor, are using the third-floor bedrooms until we

open on Christmas Eve. Gilbert and Sullivan Designs

is refurbishing this place from top to bottom, literally."

I gave Sullivan a quick grin, which he answered

with a wink; we were actually Sullivan & Gilbert

Designs, but clients inevitably got it wrong.

"The bedrooms just need Christmas decorations

and whatnot," Henry continued, "then they're all set to

be rented out. So . . . I was hoping you'd consider moving into my old office on the main floor."

"Fine. That makes sense," she said with a grim nod.

"You wouldn't want to confuse the guests by having

me mingle with them after hours. Otherwise, everyone

might have a hard time setting boundaries between

the paying guests and the hired help."

He clicked his tongue. "Come on! You're not the

hired help. You're the manager. I need you to lead the

troops. My contract only gives me control of the daily

operations of this joint for another ten months. As of

next October first, I'm entrusting the operations and

procedures of the Goodwin Estate entirely to you. To

be honest, I wouldn't have sold if I hadn't known you

were going to be here, watching my back."

Although I personally found his mini-speech quite

persuasive, Mikara glared at him and put her hands on

her narrow hips. "You should never have sold this

place to Wendell Barton and a couple of in-name-only

partners, even so."

"They're hardly puppets, Mikki. Audrey Munroe

and Chiffon Walters each own thirty percent of the

inn now. And this town has got to accept that fact . . .

and learn how to maintain its community ties even

while embracing the seasonal tourist trade."

"But Chiffon's just a mindless bimbo who happened to record a couple of hit pop songs some five

years ago. And promptly bought a huge condo next to

Wendell's mountain. She's no match for Barton!"

"That's not true! Chiffon's got a great head on her

shoulders. Barton's powerless unless she or Audrey

sides with him. And I trust both of them implicitly."

He added pointedly, "I set things up that way specifically so Barton could never tear down this house and

put a hundred condos in its place."

"Better get ready for the bulldozer, then," Mikara

said with a snort. "Your Ms. Munroe and Mr. Barton

are the new hot couple . . . or as hot as anyone in their

sixties can be, that is. Angie saw them necking at the

Nines."

Henry's jaw dropped open.

I needed to make my allegiance to Audrey clear before one more remark was made about her. "If

Wendell's dating Audrey strictly to win her vote, his

plan will backfire."

"Right," Steve added. "Audrey has a mind of her

own."

"So does every woman"--she glanced at Henry,

then added sadly--"right up until she falls in love."

There was an uncomfortable amount of truth in

Mikara's remark. We women do have a tendency to

adopt our lovers' viewpoints.

Sullivan glanced at me, and I felt my cheeks grow

warm. "Erin, did you see my notepad?" he whispered.

"I measured the--"

"It's on the desk in the lobby."

He nodded.

The doorbell rang. "That's probably Angie," Henry

said. "I asked her to give us the results of her inspection right away. Let's all treat her with respect, regardless of what she says."

"Oh, darn," Mikara muttered. "Now I won't be able

to spit in my sister's eye, like usual."

Ignoring her, Henry strode into the lobby. Moments

later, a blonder, younger version of Mikara entered the

kitchen, followed by Henry. Mikara forced a smile.

"Hey, Angie," she said. "You've got the work done already?"

"Yeah. But there's a big problem."

Why am I not surprised? I thought. Henry scowled

and did a double take at Angie, but Mikara merely

sighed and introduced Angie to me.

"Nice to meet you, Angie," I said with a big

smile.

"Hi, Angie," Sullivan said, giving her a charming

smile. "Good to see you again." She barely looked at him.

"I can't believe there was anything wrong with the

gazebo construction," Henry said. "You know what a

great job Ben Orlin always does."

"There's nothing wrong with the gazebo. But

there's too much lead in your tap water. I can't approve

this residence being converted into a motel."

"Fortunately," Henry promptly countered, "you

don't have to. We intend to use the house as a bed-andbreakfast inn."

"Right," Angie said with a sneer. "That's even worse.

You'll have to get restaurant approval. Cooking meals

and serving tap water rife with these poisons is out of

the question."

"We use the city water here. Same as everyone

else."

"Yeah. It's got nothing to do with the water supply.