Trash To Treasure Crafting 1 - Murder at Honeysuckle Hotel (16 page)

“So you think we have a serial killer in
Honeysuckle?” A chill ran down my spine. Had I been that close to
being murdered? Twice?

He frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know,
but it’s a scary thought, huh?”

“Yes, it certainly is.” I nodded, lost in
thought.

“Call me if you need anything, Raelynn. I
mean it, anything at all. When this all blows over, and I know it
will, I’d love for you to come back to work for me.”

I gave a half-hearted smile. “I’d like that.
Thanks, Charlie.”

“You promise, you’ll call?”

“I promise.”

I couldn’t believe I was thanking him for
firing me. But it wasn't his fault. He didn't need to deal with the
nutjobs in this town just because I worked for him. Charlie was a
nice man and didn’t deserve the harassment. But he was firing me.
Why didn’t he stick up for me? He wouldn’t stick up for the new
girl in town.

I closed the door behind me and didn’t look
back. Talk about a walk of shame. A couple of women stood beside
the bread section and watched me, looks of disdain on their faces.
I expected them to brush their fingers together in a motion of
shame.

With the door closed behind me, I leaned my
shoulders against the wood and let out a sigh. I hadn’t seen that
coming. I’d find another job, right? If only I could sneak out the
back door. Although Claire Ann would throw a hissy fit if I didn’t
speak to her after my little talk with Charlie. If I thought the
walk to his office was hard, this was even worse. A man and woman
shopped at the back of the store, staring as they pretended to
search for canned peaches. They whispered. I didn’t need to know
what they said. Their eyes said it all.

Forcing one foot in front of the other, I
reached the front of the store. Claire Ann stood behind the
counter, waiting on a customer. She looked up at me and mouthed,
“I’m sorry.”

I shrugged, as if it was no big deal, but I
wanted to cry. A lump formed in my throat. If I cried, so would
Claire Ann. I swallowed my tears. There were other jobs, right? I’d
find something else. Jobs like these were a dime a dozen. Claire
Ann watched me as I walked past the checkout counter. I wanted to
talk, but she had a growing line. Well, technically three people,
but in Honeysuckle, that was a considered a crowd. Besides, I
wasn’t sure if I was even allowed in the store now. Being an
ex-employee and having customers who hated me wasn’t a good mix. Oh
yeah, I definitely had to find another place to purchase my frozen
dinners. If I found another job in Belleville, I’d buy my groceries
from there. All my money would be spent on gas—so much for walking
everywhere. Thank goodness I still had the car.

“Call me,” I mouthed to Claire Ann and held
my hand up to my ear.

Claire Ann nodded. Customers frowned as I
brushed past, so I turned and rushed out the door. No looking back.
I knew I’d cry if I did.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Now what? With no work what would I do? I’d
have plenty of time to read now, but that wouldn’t pay the bills.
More decorating needed to be completed at Honeysuckle Hotel, plus
cleaning, but I really needed a job. As I passed the newsstand on
the corner, I stopped and grabbed a copy. Maybe I’d find a
classified ad for the perfect job—better than the grocery store. A
few chocolate-chip cookies, a tall glass of lemonade and searching
for another job would do wonders for my mood. Maybe a miracle would
happen and I’d find something.

I trudged home, deflated. It seemed as if
when one good thing happened, I got knocked back two steps. If only
the murder hadn’t happened, then I’d still have my job. Okay, that
was selfish of me to say. A woman had lost her life and I was
worried about my minimum-wage job. But without the job, I wouldn’t
be able to buy food, which might end my life as well. What a way to
go, starving to death. Maybe I’d plant a garden in back? Yeah, I
could plant pumpkins for fall, too. Although the thought of working
in the backyard creeped me out now.

Poor Nancy, there were no second chances for
her. What had happened? Who could have done this to her? As far as
I knew she was a nice person. But apparently nice didn’t stop her
husband from cheating on her. I thought about all the mystery
novels I’d read over the years. What would the sleuths do? Would
they take the treatment the town gave me? Or would they try to
figure out the murder and clear their names? Then it hit me over
the head like a metaphorical hammer. I needed to do my own
investigating—not just curious snooping, but full-fledged
sleuthing. I trusted Kent to do his job, but would everyone else do
theirs? If Kent told them I was innocent, would they believe him?
And would it be fast enough? It couldn’t hurt to have someone else
on the case. Obviously, I was no expert, but it couldn’t hurt,
right? I wouldn’t make things worse by searching for a few
answers.

So, at least for now, I had the beginnings of
a plan:

Chocolate-chip cookies to help ease the sting
of being fired.

Search for a job.

Investigate murder.

Decorate old house.

Plant garden.

Easy-peasy.

I reached the house, and in spite of my sour
mood, I couldn’t help but smile. The tall Victorian made me giddy
inside. The rooms waited for me to make them warm and inviting. I
loved decorating, but I had never had a place to do it before
now.

After eating one too many chocolate-chip
cookies with a cold glass of lemonade—just like my Grandma used to
make it—I gave up on the classified ads. If I wanted to work in the
medical field or as a telemarketer, I was set. Since I didn’t have
a medical degree and I was terrible with phone calls, I figured I’d
better start asking around. As I tossed the paper on my desk, the
phone rang.

“Hello?” I brushed my hair from my
forehead.

“Hey, I can’t talk long, but I just wanted to
say how sorry I am. I didn’t know earlier, I promise. I knew he
wanted to talk to you, and I suspected, but I didn’t want to say
anything if I didn’t know for sure.” Her words rushed out.

“Calm down, don’t worry. I believe you. I’ll
figure something out.” I sighed and slumped down in the overstuffed
chair.

“I have an idea,” Claire Ann said.

“Oh no, this can’ t be good. Not another
idea. Please.”

“Hey! It’s good. I think you’ll like it. It's
not much, but it’ll be something.”

“How about you let me be the judge of that.
Now spit it out, what’s the idea?”

“Well, when Joan Shreveport died, that left
an empty space in the paper for a column. I didn’t want to continue
what she was doing, so I have an idea...”

“I’m listening, go ahead.” I crossed my arms
in front of my chest and propped the phone under my chin against my
shoulder.

“What if you wrote an article about budget
decorating? You’re so good at it. I think people would love
it.”

I didn’t say a word. I let the idea whoosh
around in my head for a bit. Sure, it wasn’t the New York Times,
but it was better than not writing at all. Finally, I said, “I like
it. I think it’s a good idea. Actually, perfect. How often?”

“Once a week, you can talk about anything you
want. Well, anything with decorating and crafts and stuff.”

“You really think people would be
interested?” I asked.

“I think people are always interested in ways
to save money.”

“Good point. Okay, I’d love to do it,” I
said.

“I’ll tell my boss.” I heard the smile in her
voice.

I sighed. “You mean you haven’t told him yet?
He’ll never go for the idea. Especially when he finds out Raelynn
Pendleton, suspected murderer, is writing it.”

“Hey, not everyone in this town is nuts. He
likes you, and I bet he’ll love the idea. Just leave it to me. I’ll
talk to him.”

“If you say so.” I shrugged, even though she
couldn’t see me.

“I say so. Of course, it doesn’t pay much,
but every little bit helps, right?”

“Yeah, you’re right, it will help, thank you.
I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me.”

“By the way, things have been crazy and I
haven’t had a chance to ask you about your date,” I said.

“Oops, I’ve got a customer, gotta go. We’ll
talk later, promise.”

The line went dead. Hmm, now my curiosity was
getting the better of me. Who was this mystery date? Did she have
another evening out on the crazy streets of Honeysuckle planned
with him?

I pulled out a pad of paper from the drawer
and jotted down some ideas for a column, just in case her boss said
yes. I liked to be prepared. First, I’d write about my dining room
redo, then maybe the living room.

As I tapped the pen against my bottom lip, my
mind wandered away from decorating and to the grisly crime. I
decided more brainstorming was in order—if I wanted to attempt an
investigation, I needed to be prepared. Who was the real Nancy
Harper and who would want her dead? Was it a random murder or a
serial killer in Honeysuckle? I’d make a list of people I wanted to
talk to—maybe starting with her husband. But how would I talk with
him? What would be the pretense for stopping by for a little
tête-à-tête? We were basically strangers. Offering my condolences
might be a nice gesture.

Maybe if I worked on decorating, an idea
would come to me, I thought. It was like my creative outlet and
relaxed me—somewhat. There was one project in the dining room I
hadn’t changed—the ugly brass chandelier. It desperately needed a
makeover. I grabbed another can of black spray paint and the
painter’s tape.

Because I was lazy and in a hurry for a least
one room to be finished, I decided to paint the light while it
still hung from the ceiling. Again, not something Martha Stewart
would do, but whatever. I opened the window for air, then climbed
on top of my newly constructed table, right underneath the light.
After I unscrewed the bulbs and taped over the top of the electric
sockets, little by little I sprayed primer, coating the entire
chandelier.

Next, I added a coat of paint to the hideous
brass. Someday, it might be my style again, but right now, I hated
the golden hue. It might have been the way the light reflected
across the room and onto the chandelier, but two coats would be in
order. I smiled, thinking of the finished project. Finally
something I was proud of—my home. I hoped the light would dry
quickly—I wanted to finish the room badly.

After cleaning up my mess, I prepared a quick
dinner—peanut butter and jelly sandwich. What could I say? I was a
simple girl. As I finished the last bite, Claire Ann called back to
give a thumbs up on the column. I couldn’t believe it. How
exciting! Who knew I could get a job writing in Honeysuckle? I’d
given up my dream of creative pursuits to be with that deadbeat
Ross. At the time I had no way of knowing I was making such a big
mistake. My mother had known, though. And so had Claire Ann. I
hadn’t listened to their warnings.

I’d write my column tomorrow, and hopefully
if they liked that, I could do many more. Things had a way of
working out for the best sometimes. If I hadn’t married Ross, I
would never have gotten this house. A small price to pay, I
guess.

The gentle moonlight bathed the area with an
eerie silence. My watch read eleven p.m. and Mr. Littlefield hadn’t
returned. Leaving the front door open for him wasn’t an option. Not
with a killer running around like some real-life version of the
Halloween movies. I’d just have to listen for him to knock. An
inconvenience for my guest, but what could I do? I stacked my dirty
dishes in the sink, then trudged back to the dining room. My
stomach did a little tumble as I neared the window. Time had
slipped away faster than I’d realized. I hadn’t meant to leave the
window open after dark. As I lifted the blind to close the window,
I knew if anyone was out there, they could see me. Darkness covered
every inch outside. Anyone could be right next to the window and I
wouldn’t know it.

I wanted to air the paint scent out, but I
couldn’t afford to leave the window open all night—that was like
sending a pretty printed invitation to the killer. Swallowing the
lump in my throat, I shoved the window down and flipped the lock in
a hurry.

I decided to sleep in my clothes instead of
jumping into my comfy pink and white polka dotted pajamas until
after Mr. Littlefield returned. I didn’t want him to think I'd been
in bed. That way, he wouldn’t feel guilty for waking me up—not that
he would, but just in case. I stretched out on top of the covers
with mystery novel in hand.

Next thing I knew, I woke to pounding on the
front door. I sat up and blinked at my watch. One-thirty in the
morning. He certainly kept late hours. Where could he have been?
Maybe at the bar in the next town? Lordy, please don’t let him be
drunk. I didn’t like dealing with drunks. Taking care of Ross when
he had his nights out with the boys was enough to last me a
lifetime. I jumped up and slid down the hall. As my hand touched
the knob and I twisted, I realized I didn’t know for sure if it was
Mr. Littlefield. What if it was the killer?

Chapter Twenty-Three

I let go of the knob. “Who is it?”

“The Easter Bunny. Who the hell do you think
it is? How many other guests do you have? You locked me out. I paid
for my night, you know.”

I unlocked the door and opened it. A frown
stretched across Mr. Littlefield’s face.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave the door
unlocked with the kill...”

He probably didn’t know about the murderer.
Did I really want to advertise that a body had been discovered in
the back yard? Nope—probably not.

“I don’t like to leave the door unlocked at
night. Sorry. I knew you’d knock and I was listening for you.”

He looked me up and down. “Maybe you should
rethink your system.” He stepped through the door and past me
toward the staircase. Halfway across the room the folder he’d been
carrying under his arm fell to the floor. I hurried over to help
him pick up the scattered papers.