The Inn Between (3 page)

The building seemed very old. Quinn couldn't make out the exact color. Perhaps light blue or gray—but it shone nearly white in the darkness.

The minivan left the gravel road and glided onto the circular drive. They pulled under a red canopy that stuck out from the front entrance like a huge velvety tongue.

Kara's dad got out of the car. He said he was going to check at the front desk and see if they had a room available before he parked.

Kara's mom laughed. “You seriously think this place is short on vacancies?”

“You never know,” he responded. “Could be a convention going on.”

Quinn wondered what sort of convention would take place in a hotel in the middle of the desert. Rattlesnake? Elvis?

Josh slid open his door. “I'm coming with you.”

“Me too,” said Kara, scrambling after him.

“Come on, Quinn,” said Mrs. Cawston. “I'm sure they have a room. I'll get the overnight. Save us some time.”

She stepped out of the minivan and Quinn followed her around to the rear. It was filled with boxes and bags—as much stuff as they could cram into it. Mostly clothes but some books and art. The rest of their belongings and furniture had been shipped. Kara's mother retrieved a paisley overnight bag filled with pajamas and toiletries she'd packed just in case.

Quinn hustled to catch up to Kara, who stood waiting at the front of the hotel. She passed flower beds lit with lanterns, where all sorts of exotic plants and shrubs danced in the flickering glow. It was the most green she'd seen since they left Denver.

The entrance door was massive—made of carved oak panels and bound with gold-colored bars. In front of the door stood a tall man with enormous shoulders and charcoal hair. He wore a scarlet velvet jacket with shiny brass buttons and gray pants with a black velvet stripe down each side. His skin glistened in the lantern glow.

“Welcome to Inn Between,” he said in a voice as deep and velvety as his jacket. He smiled and swung the heavy door wide.

Quinn observed him as she passed. He stared at her with intense black eyes. They didn't blink.

 

5

Q
UINN DIDN'T KNOW
what to examine first. Her eyes flitted like a moth from the wine-colored carpet to the grand staircase with its ornate balustrade to the high ceiling where an enormous chandelier rained a thousand glass teardrops.

She breathed deeply. The air was fresh, and a faint aroma lingered—something pleasant and vaguely familiar. Like the special soap Emma used, the one that smelled like cedar and Granny Smith apples. And bluebells.

“Wow,” sighed Kara.

“Wow,” echoed Quinn, struggling to take it all in.

“It's gorgeous,” said Mrs. Cawston.

“Like something out of
The Time Machine
,” said Josh.

“Good thing we decided to stop,” said Mr. Cawston. “You miss so much if you stay on the interstate.”

Chairs were scattered about the lobby, each with its own small table and reading lamp. Only a few people milled about the large space, some in pairs, most on their own. Quinn barely took notice of any, except one—a man sitting behind a spread of newspaper. He wore blue cotton pajamas. Taped to his wrinkled, veiny hand was a plastic tube—the kind an IV drip fitted into. He looked like he belonged in a seniors home or some kind of hospice. Then the grinding of an old elevator snatched her attention.

“Check it out!” Josh made a beeline for the old-fashioned elevator, muttering about how it looked like the
TARDIS
from
Doctor Who
.

The cramped metal cage was moving upward, and through the fancy bars Quinn saw a short, stout woman with a thick mop of curly orange hair. She wore a uniform just like the doorman's. Beside her stood a woman in a pale pink dress. She was missing a shoe.

“Kindly fasten your seat belts and place your tables and chairs in the upright position,” said the elevator operator in a squeaky voice.

“This is the most interesting place I've ever seen,” said Kara.

“Yeah,” said Quinn hesitantly.

“Welcome to Inn Between,” said a woman in a chirpy voice. She stood behind the front desk wearing a velvet jacket similar to those of the doorman and the elevator operator. “We've been expecting you.”

Quinn bristled. How could they be expected when they didn't have a reservation?

“That's funny,” said Kara's mom. She approached the counter and dropped the overnight bag at her feet. “Because we certainly weren't expecting to come here.”

To the right of the woman's shoulder Quinn noticed a large brass plaque. In deeply carved letters it announced:
We've been expecting you
. It was the Inn Between's slogan.

The thin, pale woman tucked a strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear and then smiled. “Still, here you are. Now, how can I help you this evening?”

“Have you got two adjoining singles? Or a suite?” asked Mr. Cawston.

“Certainly,” she said. “Which would you prefer?”

The woman's smile seemed warm and friendly, but Quinn had a hard time trusting strangers, especially those who appeared excessively pleasant or polite. The name
Persephone
was engraved on the woman's tag, but Quinn decided to give the grinning woman a nickname.
Phony
.

“Two adjoining,” said Kara's mother. Then to Kara's dad she said, “I'll stay with the girls.”

Quinn leaned over the marble counter as Persephone reached for a dusty, fabric-bound book with the word
Guests
embossed in gold lettering on the faded red cover.

Next she located a fountain pen—the kind that used real ink—and placed it beside the book. On the wall were row upon row of vintage bronze skeleton keys. Each was unique—different sizes with circular patterns, hearts, or crowns on the end. They dangled above tiny oval plaques with numbers. Room numbers, Quinn suspected, though they hung in no particular order.

Quinn had never stayed at a hotel that used real keys. Most had plastic keycards—like credit cards that you slide through a sensor—though her aunt Deirdre had told her about a tiny hotel in Paris she'd once stayed at that still had brass keys attached to enormous key chains shaped like the Eiffel Tower. It would have been great if the Inn Between used giant cacti.

“Do you need to swipe my credit card?” asked Kara's dad, pulling out his wallet and placing it on the counter.

“Not necessary,” said Persephone. “Our policy is you pay when you leave.”

“But don't you need an imprint? You know, in case we break—or steal—something?” Mrs. Cawston said, laughing.

Persephone shook her head and smiled. “We believe in good old-fashioned trust.”

Quinn scanned the counter. Except for a black dial phone, the kind with the receiver still attached to the base with a coiled cord, there was nothing even vaguely resembling technology. No computers. No printer. No photocopier. Old-fashioned didn't even begin to describe the place.

“That's nice,” said Kara's mother. “I like that. Not like those large chains.”

Persephone opened the red book to a new page. The paper was thick and goose-fat yellow. “Oh, we're a very large chain. In fact, we have hotels all around the world.”

“Really?” said Kara's dad. “I've never heard of Inn Between before.”

Persephone dipped her pen in a small pot of ink and scrawled the date. “Ah, well. We don't believe in a lot of advertising. Waste of money, really. We're often fully booked without it.” She looked up and smiled again. “Name?”

“Cawston,” said Kara's dad.

“First?”

“Spencer.”

Persephone wrote his name under the date. “And?”

Kara's mother looked confused.

“I'm afraid I need all the names,” said Persephone. “Hotel policy.”

Quinn looked at Kara and frowned. This hotel sure had strange policies. But Mr. Cawston didn't seem too bothered. He complied, listing everyone beginning with Mrs. Cawston.

The pen glided and curled until all the names were in the book—ending with Quinn Martin. Persephone blew softly over the ink. She closed the book and turned toward the row of keys, retrieving two and handing them to Kara's dad.

“Here we are,” she said. “Adjoining rooms. Two queen beds in each. I hope you find these suitable.”

The keys looked different, but each had the exact same number engraved on its side—0708. Quinn thought it was strange, but decided it must be because they were adjoining rooms, treated as a single room and therefore with the same lock.

Josh, who had given up on the elevator, hustled toward the counter. “I'm starving.”

“I'm afraid the restaurant is closed for the evening,” said Persephone, motioning to a set of French doors at the opposite end of the lobby. “But room service is open all night. Just dial seven on your room phone.”

Josh's eyes widened. “Perfect!”

“How can you possibly be hungry?” said Mr. Cawston. “You ate two dinners.”

“Not to mention all the chips and chocolate bars in the car,” added Kara.

“That was light-years ago,” he scoffed.

Quinn searched the lobby for a clock but couldn't locate one. “What time is it anyway?”

Mrs. Cawston pulled out her phone and tried to power it up. She pressed the button twice, but nothing happened.

“Dead,” she sighed, plunking it into her purse. She unzipped the overnight bag and rifled through it. “Oh no. I must have left the wall charger in the car.”

“I'll get it when I park,” said Mr. Cawston.

“The valet has already parked your car,” said Persephone. “And unfortunately there's not much use in charging your phone. Service tends to fade in and out around here. Mostly out.”

Kara's dad searched his pockets. “I guess I left the keys…”

“But … my
tablet
,” whined Josh.

Kara's mother cast him a frustrated look. Then she placed a hand on Mr. Cawston's shoulder. “You're exhausted, honey. Don't worry about the charger. Let's get some rest.” She eyed Josh and frowned. “A quick snack and then bedtime.” She picked up the overnight bag and took one of the keys.

“First floor. Follow the hall to your left,” said Persephone. “We hope your stay is a pleasant one. Don't hesitate to let us know if there's anything else we can do. We want your stay to be relaxing and enjoyable.”

“I'm sure it will be,” said Mrs. Cawston.

While everyone headed across the lobby, Quinn lingered a moment by the counter.

Persephone picked up the fountain pen, dipped it into the inkpot, and was about to write further in the book when she realized Quinn was peering over the counter. She shut the book and smiled. Quinn offered a weak grin and then left the counter. Phony.

As she walked, Quinn examined the elaborate woodwork. All the archways and walls were trimmed with carvings—faces of people and creatures with strange expressions.

Outside, the desert was dark, transforming all the windows into large mirrors that reflected the inside of the hotel. It reminded Quinn of a carnival fun house, where you couldn't tell what was real from reflection.

Midway across the lobby, a hand reached out and grabbed her wrist. Quinn gasped and swung around.

It was the old man. She hadn't realized she'd been walking so close to him. He lowered his newspaper, revealing sunken eyes and skin so thin it was practically transparent. Veins and vessels wove lacy patterns across his cheeks and hands. He drew her in close.

“They're going to do it.”

Quinn tried to break free, but the man was surprisingly strong. She had to practically pry his fingers from her wrist.

“They're going to pull the plug,” he whispered.

Quinn's pulse beat quicker. Strangers frightened her. She nodded and backed away.

Turning quickly, she nearly ran right into Persephone. The lobby was nearly empty. Quinn searched for Kara, but she had disappeared into the hallway. Quinn's chest tightened. She swallowed hard. She shouldn't have lagged behind. She shouldn't have left Kara's side.

Persephone bent toward the old man and spoke softly. “They're all here, Mr. Mirabelli.”

The old man's eyes were wide and glassy. “Everyone? Even Jeanette?”

Persephone nodded. “Flew in this evening.” She spun him around and wheeled him toward the elevator. No sooner had she hit the button than the cramped metal cage descended.

The door opened and the orange-haired elevator operator appeared. Her smile was big and bright just like the doorman's. Just like Persephone's. As though all the employees at Inn Between took some kind of smile training.

“Boarding pass?” she asked.

Mr. Mirabelli looked confused.

“Now, now, Sharon,” said Persephone. “Stop teasing.” She turned toward Quinn. “Sharon likes to pretend the elevator is an airplane.”