Find a Christian store

<< Go Back

The Sign of the Calico Quartz, Sweetbriar Inn Mysteries Book 1

By Jan Drexler

Order Now!

I dropped my suitcase on the front porch of the Sweetbrier Inn and pushed on the door lever. It didn’t budge.
Seriously? An inn with a locked door? I rang the bell.
Setting Tim’s carrier on the porch next to my suitcase, I hugged myself to ward off a sudden chill. Flakes drifting through the air caught my eye. Snow at the end of April. Great.
Tim meowed at me from his carrier, demanding release. He stuck one black paw through the wire door.
“Don’t worry. You’ll have your freedom soon enough.”
I rang the bell again, holding the button down until the electronic ring had sounded three times. Barking erupted from somewhere in the building. I shivered. My light knit wrap over its matching t-shirt wasn’t warm enough for snow.
Through the door’s window I saw movement, then a three-inch gap appeared.
“We aren’t open yet. You’ll have to try one of the motels in Rapid City.”
The voice was rich, striking, and male.
“I’m Rose’s niece, Emma Blackwood. You must be Wil Scott, her business partner.”
The door opened a little wider and I caught a glimpse of a sandy-haired man about my age. His face was ruddy, like he had been out in the chilly weather.
“Rose said you would be coming today, but you’re early. She didn’t think you would be here until around five.” Wil opened the door wider so I could step into the foyer with Tim and my suitcase.
“I caught an earlier flight. She isn’t here?”
“She went into town to purchase supplies for the season opening this weekend. She’ll return any time.”
The barking grew louder, then a corgi came rushing toward us, his nails scrambling on the polished wood floor. I knelt to greet him.
“This must be Thatcher.” I held his smiling face between my hands and rubbed his ears. His tri-color markings included black lines around his eyes that made him look like he was wearing spectacles.
“That dog.” Humorous disgust filled Wil’s voice. “He got out of his crate again. I keep telling Rose that she needs to put a lock on that thing.”
“He’s just a smart puppy.” The dog’s eyes half-closed as I scratched his chest. “And the cutest thing.”
“Cutest brat, you mean.” Wil closed the door and picked up my suitcase. “As long as Rose is at home, he’s fine. But as soon as she walks out the door, he’s a holy terror.”
“He can’t be that bad.” I watched the dog approach the door of Tim’s cat carrier, caution in every step. “It looks like he and Tim might get along.”
“Tim?”
“My cat.” I indicated the crate. Thatcher’s nose was stuck through the wire door and his tail was wiggling.
“That dog doesn’t get along with anyone.”
His smile belied his gruff words. It was just a bit crooked. One a girl would die for. I grabbed Tim’s carrier and stood up again, dusting my knees with the other hand to avoid his gaze. Maybe some girls would fall for a grin like that, but it would be a long time before another guy caught my eye, cute as a teen heartthrob or not.
“Rose said she had a room for me?”
“Ah, yes.” That voice again. As rich as chocolate pudding. With the timbre my dad would have described as a radio voice. “She said you’ll have the upstairs suite while you’re here.”
Wil took my suitcase and led the way up the open stairs that turned behind the reception desk. As I approached the landing halfway up, I got a good view of the ground floor library. A grand piano filled the open space between it and the dining area.
“Did I see on the website that the inn has seven guest rooms?”
“Six rooms are available this year.” Wil set my suitcase at the top of the stairs. “Five up here and a sixth one downstairs. Your suite is the seventh room.”
A comfortable lounge filled the center of the second floor with guest rooms opening off the common area. A hall extended to the right with a door marked “private” at the end.
Wil turned to the left and opened another door. He stood back so I could enter first, then followed with my suitcase.
I stopped just inside the door. “Oh, how lovely.”
We were in an L-shaped sitting room with a sectional sofa placed in the center, providing a walkway around the perimeter of the room. Through an open door on the left I caught a glimpse of a bedroom, and in the short end of the L was a mini kitchen. Wil opened a set of French doors on the opposite side of the sitting area and stepped out onto a balcony. He didn’t seem to notice the snowflakes drifting through the air.
“This suite has a private deck.” He turned that boyish grin on me again. “The Agatha Christie is the best room in the inn, other than Rose’s apartment downstairs.”
“The Agatha Christie?” I suppressed an urge to look around to see if Hercule Poirot was observing me.
“All the rooms in the inn are named after roses.” That quirky grin appeared again. “It was your aunt’s idea. Her suite is the Evangeline.”
I glanced at the plaque on the open door. The painted rose was pink with glossy green leaves and the name was inscribed above the flower.
“And what is yours called?”
He stepped back into the room and closed the French doors with a firm click, his back to me. “My apartment doesn’t have a name. Technically, it’s separate from the inn.”
“This one is gorgeous, no matter what its name is. But I could have stayed in one of the other rooms.” As an employee, I certainly didn’t want to claim a premium room and cut into the profit margin.
“Don’t worry about it. Rose’s orders.” Another crooked grin. Forget the teen heartthrob. He was definitely an Indiana Jones type. The younger version. “I’ll let you get unpacked. The key is on the ottoman there,” he indicated a cushioned square tucked into the L of the sectional, “and supper is at six. I’m fixing crab soup, so I hope you like seafood.”
“I love it. I hope this snow doesn’t delay Rose. I’m looking forward to seeing her.”
“Snow?” He looked out at the deck again. “Oh, that. This light dusting won’t bother Rose. She’ll be here.” He nodded toward the window. “That’s her car now.”
Leaving Tim in his carrier, I followed Wil and Thatcher back down the stairs and into a passageway behind the reception desk. Through an open doorway on my left, I caught a glimpse of a professional kitchen and a whiff of the crab soup Wil had promised, and on the other side of the hall was another door that revealed a utility room of some kind. Wil opened the door at the end of the passage leading to the spacious garage. Rose was just getting out of a forest green Range Rover.
“Emma,” she said, opening her arms to embrace me in a close hug. Then she held me at arm’s length. “You’ve changed since the last time I saw you.”
“I was eight years old then.” I looked into the face that hadn’t aged much over the years. Only a few extra smile lines and silver hair. “I hope I’ve changed since then.”
“How long have you been here? I thought I’d be home in time to greet you properly with a cup of tea and time to chat.”
I went to the back of the SUV where Wil was opening the back hatch to reveal a load of paper goods and food. “Just long enough to take Tim and my suitcase upstairs.”
“Then let’s get these groceries inside and have that cup of tea.” Rose grabbed a stack of cotton bath towels. “You can tell me all about the last twenty-five years in person instead of through a telephone line.”
As Wil disappeared into the inn with a stack of boxes, Rose stopped me with a hand on my arm. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Her voice was low, her words meant for only me. “I really need your help with the inn.”
Concern washed over me. “Is something wrong?”
She shook her head. “Nothing specific, just a few quirks here and there. I’ve been feeling my age this winter and I don’t want the inn to suffer because of it. And my memoirs take up more time than I thought they would.”
“I can’t imagine how much time it takes to write a book,” I said as I picked up a warehouse-sized package of paper towels. “And you are not that old.”
Rose smiled as she led the way toward the garage entrance into the inn. “I may not seem old, but time is a persistent thief. You’re here now, though, and that’s all that matters.” She turned into what I had called a utility room, but it turned out to be a large pantry with a laundry center at the far end. She dropped the towels on an island countertop in the center of the room. “We open in two days, and we are completely booked through the middle of August.” Her face grew serious as she faced me. “I need you, Emma. I hope you’ll like it here.”
I gave her a hug, pushing down the concern that reared its head again.
“Don’t worry. We’ll make this the best year ever.”



***


“Not bad for the first day of the season, is it?”
I jumped at the sudden voice in my ear. “Wil, stop that. You know I don’t like it when people sneak up on me.”
He grinned as if he thought it would send my stomach into a tailspin. It might have yesterday, but after working with him to prepare the inn for today’s opening, he was more of an irritating brother than a possible romance.
“You’ll just have to get used to it, because it’s fun to watch you jump.”
I kept my next comment to myself. If he thought he was the king of witty banter, he was wrong. It hadn’t taken long for me to discover that his boyish good looks often extended to his maturity level, as well. But I had to admit he was a fabulous chef. The crab soup had been exquisite.
“Hey.” Wil nudged me with his elbow and leaned on the buffet next to me. “You need to lighten up. Life at the Sweetbrier Inn isn’t as stressful as it is in the big city.”
I rubbed my temples, then focused on the guests grouped around the dining room munching on their afternoon refreshments. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t relax until I was certain every visitor was enjoying themselves.
Watching Rose chat with her guests, I saw a woman in her element. As we had gotten reacquainted the previous evening, I had caught my aunt’s vision for the inn. I had been used to working for a hospitality corporation who treated the budget like a gold mine, eking out every penny to bolster the bottom line. But Rose thought differently.
“I don’t have to make money, dear,” Aunt Rose had said with a laugh when I had asked her about the budget. “The inn is here to serve guests who are looking for a comfortable place to stay. Our purpose is to provide that for them, not to get rich.”
Her shoulder-length silver hair was caught in a bun, but other than that she looked like she was only a few years older than my own thirty-three-and-a-half. I tried to ignore the half.
“As long as we don’t lose money, I’m not concerned about the profit.” She had leaned forward in her chair, her slim form enclosed in a cozy-looking shawl. “Life is meant to be enjoyed. To be lived to its fullest.”
As I watched the guests enjoying their tea and scones on this first afternoon, I had to agree with Rose. I would gladly give up the corporate life for this relaxed atmosphere if Rose was thinking about keeping me on for more than this summer. The conversation was light, Thatcher was safely in his crate in Rose’s apartment, Tim had made himself at home in my rooms upstairs, and the scones were delicious.
“What’s this I hear about a gold mine?” one of the guests asked, his voice booming above the conversations around him.
I smiled, thinking of the mnemonic I had come up with to remember his name: Seeker Sam. Sam Nelson and his wife Nora were in the Black Hills looking for gold. They had booked a guide for a solid week of tramping through the Hills, panning streams, exploring old mines, and hoping to strike it rich.
“That’s right,” Montgomery Reynolds answered. Mysterious Montgomery was my name for him. His cultured British accent seemed to be hiding his real purpose for visiting the Sweetbrier. “There’s an abandoned gold mine near here, just up the road.” He smiled at Rose, sitting next to him at one of the round tables scattered throughout the large room. “I came here to research that mine.”
“I’m afraid there is no gold there, though,” Rose said. “The name of the mine is Graves’ Folly. It didn’t pay out more than a few dollars for the original owner back in the late eighteen-nineties and drove him into bankruptcy. And then a mine accident killed a few of the miners and Old Mr. Graves closed it up for good.”
“What about uranium?” Sam asked. “I heard that’s the next big boom in these hills.”
“Then you heard wrong,” Rose said, her smile gone but her voice even. “If there is any uranium, it isn’t worth the trouble of mining it.”
“Trouble?” Sam said. “If there’s a large enough amount, it could be worth millions.”
“No amount of money could make up for the destruction of the natural beauty of the Hills and the danger to the residents.”
Wil grunted.
“You don’t agree?” I kept my voice low, my question only for Wil.
“Uranium will make us all rich once people like your aunt see the light.”
“But is it worth it if it destroys this beautiful area?”
Wil frowned and motioned for me to be silent.
“That doesn’t bother me,” Montgomery said, continuing the conversation, and I’m sure I saw him wink at Rose. “I’m not interested in gold or uranium.” He sat back in his chair and raised his voice so all the guests could hear. “I’m writing a book, you see. It’s on the history of mining in this area.”
Wil snorted softly, still hanging around by my right shoulder. “As if there has never been a book written on the history of this area.”
His voice had risen slightly, and Annie Smith and her husband Roger glanced our way. They were both teachers from Nebraska on their honeymoon in the Black Hills. I smiled at the couple as they sat at the table near my post just inside the dining room and Annie smiled back before turning toward Rose at the table next to theirs.
“Is it true that Paul Peterson is supposed to be here?” Annie asked.
“The ghost hunter?” Montgomery asked. “I should hope not. I was hoping for a quiet week of research.”
“You are right,” Rose said. “Mr. Peterson and his assistant are expected at any time. But I hope we will all treat them just like any other guest of the inn.”
Roger whistled. “Just think of it, a famous television star, here in the same inn where we’re staying.”
Sam snorted. “I would hardly call the man a television star. He hosts one of those reality shows, doesn’t he?”
Roger took Annie’s hand as he leaned toward Sam. “We’re big fans of ‘Paul Peterson: Ghost Chaser.’ Never miss an episode. In fact, during the last season he nearly captured a ghost in an old mine in Colorado. You remember it, don’t you dear?”
He went on talking, but only Annie listened to him while Sam said something to his wife Nora, and Montgomery’s attention was drawn by the third person sitting at the table with him and Rose.
“I think it’s fascinating that you’re writing a book.” This was Clara Benson, Rose’s long-time friend who booked a two-week stay at the beginning of the season every year. “I would love to hear about it.”
Montgomery blushed and lifted his teacup as he looked toward Rose for help. I didn’t blame him. Of the two unattached ladies close to his age, Rose was the more attractive one of the two. Clara’s middle-age plumpness had settled in for the long haul, and her hair was a mousy grayish-brown frizz, as if it had seen too many home permanents and dying sessions. But Clara had her own charm, and Rose loved her.
The front door opened with a bang, driven by the wind and the force of the personality who entered. I slipped behind the reception desk to check the couple in, but everyone knew who they were. The woman stopped at the desk as her companion strode into the dining room, removing his overcoat and trademark red scarf with a flourish that reminded me of a movie star from times past. My mind supplied the mnemonic Pretentious Paul, although I doubted I would need it to remember his name.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, dipping his chin in what could have been taken for a bow. “Paul Peterson, at your service.” He struck the classic pose from his television show, his right arm extended toward the darkest corner of the room, and said, “Let’s chase some ghosts!”
Everyone laughed at the well-known tag line.
Roger shifted in his seat as Annie kept a restraining hand on his arm. Paul noticed and strode over to him.
“Are you, by any chance, a fan of my show?”
“We both are,” Roger said, his voice rising in excitement. “Aren’t we, Annie?”
As Paul turned toward Annie, his face froze as if he had seen, well, a ghost. The look was gone in a second and he turned toward Roger again.
“You’ll be here all week?” he asked.
Roger stood and shook Paul’s hand. “Yes, we will. In fact, if you need any assistance in your ghost hunting venture, just let Annie and I know.” He blushed and stammered. “We- we’re j-just amateurs, but we can’t pass up an opportunity to work with the great Paul Peterson.”
Montgomery groaned. “Stop making such a big deal about the quack.”
My head started to throb. Our enjoyable afternoon was threatening to split at the seams.
“A quack, sir?” Paul didn’t look at Montgomery but scanned the rest of the faces in the room, then focused on Rose. “Dear lady, you wouldn’t strike such a blow as that, would you?”
“I wouldn’t dare to say anything,” Rose said, smiling first at Paul and then at Montgomery. “Mr. Peterson is here to explore the old mine, too. You should have a lot in common with each other.”
“I’m researching the mine for historical information.” Montgomery sniffed and sat back in his chair. “I doubt we would find much common ground.”
Rose reached across the table and touched Montgomery’s sleeve. The action immediately brought all his attention to her.
“Can you tell us anything about that old mine?” she asked.
I had to give Rose credit for knowing how to ease the tension in a room.
Montgomery shook his head. “I only know a few bits and pieces, which is why I’m spending the next week here. I hope to find records or surveys that would help me with my search. I don’t suppose you know of any residents of Paragon that would have something like that hidden away in their attics?”
“I have just what you need right here. The mine is on the land owned by the inn, and I’ve collected all the old papers related to this property. I keep them right here in our library.” Rose stood. “I’ll show you where they are so you can browse through them at your leisure.”
As Rose and Montgomery walked past the piano and into the library just off the dining room, the other guests returned to their conversations.
I sighed, relieved, and reached for the guest register. I opened it to the page listing the inn’s reservations.
“You must be Mary Walters,” I said to the woman who had been standing on the other side of the reception desk, watching Paul with a worried frown on her face.
“Yes, Paul’s personal assistant. I’m sorry if he disturbed your gathering.”
“Not at all.” I handed her a pen to sign in while I ran her credit card. “We’ve all been waiting for you to arrive, and Mr. Peterson’s entrance didn’t disappoint.”
“Our reservations for next week are confirmed, as well?”
I clicked the computer screen to show the next week. “Yes. The entire inn is reserved for your staff and crew. Is that when you’ll be filming the next episode of your show?”
“That’s what Paul has planned,” she said with a little laugh. “He likes to spend time on location planning how the episode will be filmed, then bring the crew in. You know, after we locate the ghosts.”
“Do you always locate ghosts?” I asked.
“Of course.” Ms. Walters smiled. “Do you know any ghosts who would pass up an opportunity to appear on television with the great Paul Peterson?”
I smiled back, then glanced into the dining room. Mr. Peterson was holding the guests spellbound as he entertained them with a story.
“Ms. Walters, I can help you carry the bags upstairs.”
“Oh, thank you.” She stuffed her gloves into her coat pocket. “And call me Mary, please. Paul and I prefer people to use our first names.”
“Of course,” I said. “Your rooms are upstairs, in the far corner of the lounge.”
I took the largest suitcase, an expensive-looking leather and canvas monstrosity, and led the way. Thankfully, it was attached to a luggage trolley with large wheels that handled the stairs easily. I opened the doors of the two rooms and handed the keys to Mary.
“Make yourselves at home. These two rooms are connected by a pass-through door for your convenience. We will continue serving tea and scones in the dining room until five this afternoon. Breakfast starts at seven o’clock each morning and is available until nine o’clock.”
Mary walked into the Albertine room with her wheeled bags. “Paul wasn’t sure he wanted to stay at a bed and breakfast, but when I saw your chef’s credentials, I knew we wouldn’t want to miss his cooking.”
“Yes, Wil does a wonderful job. He’s a perfectionist and never serves a dish you wouldn’t die for.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
I closed the door and let a happy smile break my professional image as I crossed the lounge, straightening magazines on the side tables as I headed toward the stairway. One thing I had learned in my years in the hotel business is that some guests could be tiring while others were a delight to host. It seemed that Mary was in the latter category. Mild Mary fit her perfectly.
A meow sounded from somewhere behind me in the lounge.
“Tim?”
The inky black cat purred and padded toward me across the room, threading his body through table legs on his way. He stretched himself up my leg and I took him into my arms, scratching the one white patch on his furry chest.
“What are you doing out here?”
He butted his head against my chin as I walked toward the door of my suite. I was sure he had been sleeping on the couch when I left just after breakfast this morning. I hadn’t been back to my suite since then.
I unlocked the door and opened it wide enough to tuck Tim inside, but in the dim afternoon shadows I saw something on the floor between the door and the sofa. I switched on the light.
A shoe? I looked closer, putting Tim on the floor as he squirmed in my arms. A man’s shoe.
I closed the door so the cat wouldn’t escape again and stepped farther into the room. Another shoe was next to the sofa, the rounded toe propped against the chaise. Brown leather and well-worn. Dried mud clinging to the edges of the soles. Not tucked neatly under the edge of the couch, like my shoes would have been, but random. Casual. As if someone had sat on the ottoman and kicked them off, toe to heel. First one, then the other. Tim sniffed the nearest shoe with a delicate nose touch. He jumped away in a sideways dance and ran behind the sofa.
What was a pair of men’s shoes doing in my suite?
A tray sat in the center of the ottoman with two wine glasses. An empty bottle lay on its side on the couch.
I shook my head. Another joke of Wil’s. Why couldn’t he stick to old stand-bys like rubber cheese in my sandwich? And really, coming into my private room was going a bit too far.
When I bent down to pick up the shoes, Tim yowled from somewhere near the window.
“What’s wrong now?”
I left the shoes where they were and leaned over the back of the sofa.
A man was sleeping on the floor, on his side, facing the wall. I glanced at his feet. Red socks. No shoes. At least that mystery was solved.
“Hey!”
He didn’t move. Was he passed out? Drunk? And why was he in my room?
I circled the sectional thinking I would shake him awake, but when I touched his shoulder he rolled from his side onto his back, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. I leaned over him.
“Are you okay?” I touched his shoulder again. “Hey, are you hurt? Sir?”
That’s when it struck me. He wasn’t asleep.

Order Now!

<< Go Back


Developed by Camna, LLC

This is a service provided by ACFW, but does not in any way endorse any publisher, author, or work herein.