Threads of Deceit (Vineyard Quilt Mysteries Book 1) (2 page)

“Come on, Julie. We’re in Straussberg, Missouri.
Missouri
!” Hannah pulled a handful of paper from her oversized tote. “Allow me to read from the riveting visitor’s information guide: ‘A picturesque nineteenth-century village filled with friendly people, strong family values, and beautiful, river valley surroundings. A destination spot for tourists drawn to its antique shops, quaint wineries, German heritage, and grand historic homes.’”

“I like antiques.”

“You steal antiques.”

Julie turned sharply toward her friend. “I liberate them from thieves and return them to their true owners. Or I
did
anyway. I didn’t steal, not morally. And I don’t do any of that anymore. I’m an innkeeper now. Besides, I don’t need you to
tell me about Straussberg. I’ve been here before.”

Hannah looked at Julie in surprise. “You have not.”

“I have.”

“I’ve worked with you for ten years. Our recovery jobs have taken us to New York City, London, even Rome—but never Missouri. I would have remembered.”

“It was before I got into the antiquities recovery business. Long before you became my assistant.”

Silence pooled in the car for a moment.

Finally, Hannah said, “We’re not here for any reason you haven’t told me, are we?”

“We’re here because our last job upset some very nasty people, as you well know.”

“Which it wouldn’t have if you’d just called the police.”

Julie groaned. “Yes, yes, you were right. But we need to remember the important thing—that I recovered the vase and made one dying grandmother very happy.”

“Somehow I think the fact that you were almost killed qualifies for the ‘important thing’ status,” Hannah said.

Julie waved that away. “I’m fine. And now the important thing is that Straussberg is the perfect place to start a new, less-dangerous career, which is something you’ve often said you wanted.”

“I’m not sure hiding from international art thieves is really that much less dangerous, but I’ll agree that this looks like the last place they’d come looking for you. Of course, that assumes you’ll let Straussberg remain a nice quiet village. You do like to stir things up.”

“Only when they need stirring.”

“I feel the inevitable end of us being chased out of town with pitchforks and torches drawing near.”

Julie gave her friend a smile that made Hannah moan in
despair. Then she hopped out and headed up the wide steps cut into the hillside.

It was time to start her new life.

As she approached the house, she couldn’t help but admire the lavish gingerbread trim and the way the paint drew the eye to every detail. The plantings around the tall Victorian were minimal to allow the building to shine. Julie slowed her pace as she climbed the steps to the small front porch, where rocking chairs waited for guests to sit and enjoy the warm day. Upon closer inspection, she saw signs of wear in the mortar between the bricks and the faded paint on the porch supports. But it was still a beautiful old house.

Julie strode into the front foyer, sizing up the small woman standing by the front desk. The iron-gray curls and dainty glasses perched on her nose gave the woman a storybook grandmotherly look. But Julie also recognized the hint of steely determination in the way the woman stood and in the tilt of her chin. A person would be ill advised to underestimate her.

“Welcome to the Quilt Haus Inn,” the older woman said.

“Thank you. I’m Julie Ellis. Are you Millie Rogers?”

The woman’s sharp gaze swept over Julie in an instant, her polite smile never wavering. “I am.” Then she looked past Julie to Hannah, offering a befuddled look that Julie didn’t believe for an instant. She had a hunch Millie knew exactly how to play the slightly confused old lady. “Goodness, I didn’t realize I had
two
applicants coming today.”

“Only one applicant, I’m afraid,” Julie said. “This is Hannah Marks, my research assistant. You see, I’m writing a book on the history of quilting in America. I saw the ad for an onsite manager for your lovely inn, and I thought the job would be perfect for me. I love organizing things and meeting new people. And I’m wild about antiques and quilting.”

Millie raised one thin eyebrow. “This job will require a great deal of your time. We have a fairly small staff—basically a cook, a housekeeper, and Shirley, who runs the tearoom and fabric shop. They’ve all been here nearly as long as I have. Shirley and the housekeeper will be a huge help to whomever I hire, but the new innkeeper will need to be prepared to pitch in whenever and wherever is needed.”

“I don’t mind work,” Julie said.

“In addition, you’d be expected to register the guests and plan all of the special events. As you are aware, we cater mainly to quilters. They expect a high level of service. If you’re trying to divide your time between a book project and the work of the inn, I’m not certain that would be appropriate.”

Julie’s smile never wavered. “I barely devote an hour or two a week to writing. Poor Hannah despairs of my ever getting the book done, I’m sure. But I have plenty of hours in the day for the job here. I wouldn’t consider applying otherwise.”

Millie frowned slightly. “It has been hard enough for me to accept the fact that I’m running out of time on this earth and retire. I don’t plan to sit around counting the hairs on my cat’s head or talking to my plants. I’m going to travel, and I won’t always be easy to reach if things go wrong here. I need someone I can trust completely.”

“I hope to convince you that I
am
that person,” Julie said. “I would so enjoy being back here in Straussberg. My mother was raised here. Perhaps you knew her since you share a last name. Adelaide Rogers?”

Millie’s eyes opened wide with what was clearly genuine surprise. “I had no idea that Addie had a child.”

“That’s understandable. My mother didn’t believe in hanging on to the past. She said her marriage to my father cut a lot of old ties.”

Millie sighed. “Your mother was a beautiful child and sweet in her own way, but she was a wild one. Her marriage to Bertram Ellis was simply the straw that broke a very shaky camel’s back. I’m not saying I condone the way the family treated her, but I suppose I do understand it.”

Julie’s smile tightened. “That makes one of us. At any rate, I know family history can be complicated, but my parents are gone now, and that’s another reason for my interest in the area. I want to experience the land where my mother grew up. And I would do a good job for you here. I assume we’re related somehow?”

“Our kinship is rather distant. But I suppose you
are
family. …” Millie’s face reflected a flutter of emotions until it finally locked on one. “You can have the job. When can you start?”

“I’m ready right this moment,” Julie said. “But any time after that is fine too.”

Millie turned to look at Hannah again. “Do you need additional rooms for your friend?”

Hannah smiled. “I will probably rent a room closer into town. I have the names of a few places. First, I’m going to find a job of my own. My work researching leaves me with a lot of spare time as well.” She paused. “Do you know anyone hiring a sous chef? I can also do short-order cooking. I’m not proud.”

Millie’s sharp eyes lit with interest. “You can cook?”

“I worked for two years in a small Amish restaurant in Pennsylvania,” Hannah said. “And before that, I worked a number of months as a short-order cook in a little diner. My specialty, though, is pastry, but I assumed it would be easier to get a sous chef job at first.”

“As it happens, our cook is leaving,” Millie said. “Like
me, she’s retiring, though for different reasons. The poor old dear has health issues. Personally, I’m trying to get out of this place before I
get
health issues.” She laughed dryly at that. “At any rate, if you’re interested, we could try you out. You would fix breakfast most days and a larger brunch on Sunday. You’d also do some baking for the tearoom, but I imagine you would still have some time to research your book.”

Hannah glanced at Julie and was rewarded by a bright smile. “That sounds wonderful, doesn’t it, Hannah?”

“It does. I would love to give it a try.”

Millie rubbed her hands together. “Marvelous. We have some house specialties you’ll need to learn, but I can show you those, and you’ll have Inga Mehl’s help, of course. She’s our housekeeper, but she lends a hand in the kitchen in the mornings. She’s not chatty, but she’s extremely competent, and loyal to a fault.” Millie’s smile flashed between Julie and Hannah. “I can’t believe my good luck, filling two positions at once! Let me show you both to your rooms.”

“Sounds good,” Julie said.

Millie took them on a tour of the old mansion, clearly very proud of her inn. Her initial reticence seemed to be completely gone, and she chattered about the history of the Quilt Haus Inn, stopping frequently to point out specific items and tell stories associated with each. When a guest finally interrupted them to ask Millie a question, it was a relief to slip away to collect their luggage.

Hannah swung a heavy suitcase from the trunk of Julie’s car, then slung a duffle over her shoulder. “So, how much of that family story was true?”

“I never lie,” Julie said, “about family.”

“Have you considered what you’re going to do when she wonders why you don’t actually write a book? Which brings
me to another question: Why claim to be a writer?”

Julie shrugged. “Sometimes I like to ask nosy questions. People expect that of writers. And if we ever have to … leave suddenly, we’ll have an excuse to fall back on. We can tell Millie that we got a big offer on the book and now have to go write full time.”

“And you’re thinking we might have to leave suddenly?”

“You never know. I like to be prepared. Besides, who knows? Maybe I
will
write a book.” Julie hauled her own sleek black luggage from the car and turned to head for her new home. “I’ll have to do
something
to keep things interesting.”

“That’s exactly what has me worried,” Hannah grumbled.

W
ithin six weeks, Julie and Hannah had mastered their new roles so well that Millie applauded herself on their hire every time she dropped by the inn. Not that she did so often. She made an appearance now and again between the postcards she sent from virtually every attraction in Missouri, some of which Julie had no idea existed. Julie had gotten cards from the Jesse James Home, Talking Rocks Cavern, and Leila’s Hair Museum. Hannah declared the last one just plain creepy.

Julie found that the innkeeper’s job tested her skills in diplomacy and her personal depths in patience. She often thought back to how she’d told Hannah she was certain the job wouldn’t be dull, but some days, a little dullness would have been a nice change.

“At my age, I simply cannot suffer that kind of heat!” Mrs. Cantrell’s shrill voice jerked Julie out of her reverie. The old woman thrust her head forward, peering with dark eyes through her slightly smudged glasses. “Last night, I nearly
died
of heatstroke.”

Mrs. Cantrell’s twin sister, Miss Lawson, shuddered, setting the feather on her floppy round hat quivering. “We never imagined the third floor could be so beastly hot.”

Julie’s suite was also on the third floor, and she didn’t find it disagreeable, but she knew arguing with the guests never turned out well. “I’ll be happy to turn up the air conditioning on the third floor.”

The sisters turned their matching horrified expressions toward Julie, and for a moment, she was reminded of two
owls with ruffled feathers. She half expected them to hoot.

“Oh no,” Miss Lawson said. “It’s not healthful to breathe artificial air.”

“Our neighbor put in one of those horrible air conditioners,” Mrs. Cantrell said. “She was dead within the month.”

“Her son insisted it was smoking that got her, but she lived through years of smoking and then died within the month of getting the air conditioner.” Miss Lawson leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s no mystery what
really
caused her death. We try not to go anywhere with an air conditioner.”

“Which isn’t easy,” Mrs. Cantrell added, and the sisters bobbed their heads in unison.

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Julie said. “Maybe you could open the windows in your bedroom? Since you have the tower bedroom, you should get a nice cross ventilation.”

Mrs. Cantrell shook her head. “We don’t care for open windows. All sorts of pollen can blow in. My sinuses are quite delicate.”

“They are indeed,” Miss Lawson affirmed. “And I have ghastly allergies.”

“I could bring up a fan?” Julie suggested.

“And blow the heat around!” Miss Lawson flapped her hands in distress. “We might as well sleep in a convection oven.”

“You do have the oddest ideas,” Mrs. Cantrell added, though she gave Julie a gentle pat on the arm to soften the remark.

For a fleeting moment, Julie had a warm, wistful longing for the days when the greatest conflicts in her life came from gun-wielding bad guys. At least she could hit them. She sighed softly. “Do you have any ideas to suggest?”

The sisters responded with a sharp-eyed glare. “It’s not
our
job to figure out how to do
yours
,” Mrs. Cantrell said. “But the heat on the third floor is simply unacceptable.”