Trash To Treasure Crafting 1 - Murder at Honeysuckle Hotel (5 page)

Mrs. Mathers had left an unopened package of
saltines in the cupboard. I poured myself a bowl of soup, sat at
the small wood table by the window, and contemplated my situation.
I’d done more meaningful thinking in the past few hours then I had
in a long time. First thing: I’d box up most of Mrs. Mathers’
belongings and donate them to charity—the dolls, the knickknacks,
and her thimble collection.

After I sipped the last drop of soup from the
spoon, I rinsed the bowl and grabbed a piece of paper from the
small desk in the corner of the kitchen. Things always worked
better with a plan. I tapped the pencil against my bottom lip.
Claire Ann really might be on to something with her hotel idea. At
the top of the page, I wrote Honeysuckle Hotel. I liked the ring of
it. My first obstacle: I had no idea what went into running a
hotel/inn. But that was what the internet was for, right? I’d
research and figure it out as I went along. I assumed I’d need a
license for that sort of thing. But how hard could that be,
right?

The best and hardest part would be getting
the place in tiptop shape. No easy feat, but the house was
beautiful, so it would be worth the effort. With a little bit of
decorating, I knew I could attract guests, but not in its current
condition. I planned each room on paper—parlor, bedrooms, kitchen,
bathrooms, and even the wraparound porch.

My stomach rumbled again. Apparently, soup
hadn’t been enough. With nothing much else to eat in the house, I
decided I needed dessert. I’d take an evening stroll over to the
only little gas station in town. Junk food wasn’t what I needed,
but it would be the only place open that late.

The black ceiling of the sky glittered with
stars, a symphony of crickets chirped and a slight breeze whisked
across my arms. It reminded me of summer nights as a child on my
grandparents’ farm. My grandmother loved to sit under the stars,
eating watermelon and recounting stories of her childhood. Too bad
the produce stand was closed, because a big juicy slice of
watermelon would hit the spot. Continuing my trek, I passed the
stand. Flowers covered every available area outside and produce was
inside. I’d have to come back for watermelon, peaches, and maybe
some blackberries. Finally, I approached the gas station. No other
customers were in sight. Number one rule of food shopping: never go
hungry. I opened the door and a blast of cold air hit me. It nearly
sucked the breath out of me.

“Howdy,” the old man in overalls said. “What
can I help you with?”

“I’m just getting a few snacks. Thanks.” I
smiled and headed toward the back of the store.

He nodded and continued placing packages of
cigarettes onto the shelf.

“You’re Ross Perkins’ ex-wife, ain’t you?” He
frowned.

“Uh-huh. That’s me.” The lucky one. “My
name’s Raelynn Pendleton.”

He knew my name, so why he hadn’t used it, I
had no idea. The last thing I wanted was to be referred to as Ross
Perkins’ ex-wife.

“Pendleton?” A deep line formed between his
brow.

“Yes, I took my maiden name back.”

He scowled. “I heard about all the ruckus at
your new home. Must be nice to get a big old house left to
you.”

How did I tell him I wasn’t in the mood to
discuss it with him? I sensed an edge of hostility in his voice.
What was his problem?

“Yes, well, it was unexpected.”

“That house is a historic fixture here in
Honeysuckle. We’d hate to see it get into the wrong hands.” He
ambled behind the counter and watched my every move.

Did they think I’d trash the place? Have
crazy parties and paint the outside purple? I couldn’t believe my
ears. I figured it would be best if I got my junk food and
left.

“Well, it’s in good hands with me.”

The store was loaded with delicious-looking
chocolatey fatness and many other calorie-loaded items. My waist
could definitely do without those. Even though my mouth watered at
the thought of a sugary cake, I spied a small produce section. A
large watermelon sat in front, all green and ripe. The memory of my
grandmother carving away at the big piece of fruit flooded my mind
and I could almost taste the juiciness. I hoisted the watermelon
into my arms and carried it to the counter.

The man eyed me up and down. “That’ll be five
dollars even.”

I handed him the money, grabbed my
watermelon, and made a beeline for the door before he had a chance
to badger me anymore.

“You’re not going to throw any wild parties,
are ya?” he called when I reached the door.

Yes, ’cause I had so many friends in this
town. “No parties planned.” I glanced over my shoulder.

“Uh-huh. We’ll see about that,” he said as he
placed the money in the register.

The conversation was over as far as I was
concerned.

Next thing I knew, I was strolling home with
a large watermelon in my arms. What was I thinking? The walk back
to the old Victorian wasn’t all that close and my arms soon ached
from the weight.

“Late night snack, Rae?” the silky male voice
asked.

Chapter Seven

I recognized the sexy southern drawl—it
slithered across the night air and tickled my ears, making me melt
just a little. Sheriff Kent Klein pulled his cruiser alongside the
curb. His chiseled features always made me stare just a little too
long. I wondered if he noticed. If he did, he never let me
know.

He sure was easy on the eyes. A tall glass of
water, as Claire Ann would say. The soft light from the console of
his car shone against his face, revealing a bright white smile and
highlighting his short blond hair. Long, thick lashes outlined his
gorgeous brown eyes.

We had talked on occasion when he’d come into
the store. He used to be best friends with my ex. I’d never been
sure what had happened between them. I’d never had the chance to
ask, and Ross hadn’t volunteered the information.

Kent was probably wondering why I was
carrying a giant watermelon down the street at night. “It’s such a
beautiful summer night. There’s a slight breeze and I wanted to
enjoy it, although looks like there are storm clouds are moving
in.” Why was I blathering on about the weather? With a tilt of my
head, I gestured toward the watermelon. “I thought I’d have
something sweet.”

“You have a sweet tooth?” He winked.

I knew without looking into a mirror that my
face had turned bright red. Lucky for me it was dark and I prayed
he hadn’t noticed.

“I heard about the house. Are you doing okay
there? Do you need any help?” he asked.

“It was a bit of a shock, but I guess I’m
okay.”

He stared for a beat, then said, “Well, you
let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.”

I wasn’t sure what came over me next. “Would
you like to join me?” I gestured toward the watermelon.

“You need help carrying it? Let me carry it
home for yo—” Radio static cut off his words. A voice announced
something that I didn’t understand. He replied, then turned to me
and frowned.

“I’ve got to go. I’m sorry. There’s been an
accident over on highway fifty-eight.”

“Go. Go.” I motioned. “Hurry.”

He gave a half smile, flicked on his lights
and siren, then sped away.

I’d dodged a bullet. What had I been thinking
inviting him over? Perhaps the heat was getting the better of me.
The last thing I needed was the complication of another man. Kent
in my kitchen would not be a good thing. So why had I been
fantasizing about sitting close to him on the front porch of my new
house? I could almost smell his spicy scent at the thought. The
feel of his hand caressing mine was almost real. The fantasy stayed
with me the rest of the way down Main Street.

After struggling with the watermelon the rest
of the way home, I heaved the big sucker onto the countertop,
selected the biggest knife in the drawer, and carved a gigantic
piece. Juice from the wedge covered my hands and arms as I devoured
the sweet fruit. To avoid eating another piece, I shoved the rest
in the refrigerator and retreated to the living room. I sat on the
ugly sofa, daydreaming and plotting out my plans for the house. If
I was opening a hotel, I’d need a sign out front. People would have
to know I was open for business. Occasionally I had enjoyed
painting as a stress reliever. Sure, I wasn’t very good, but I
tried. Flowers, fruits, and landscapes were my best work.

My few art supplies would come in handy for
making a sign for the hotel. I grabbed my bag with the paints and
brushes. In the hall closet, I remembered seeing a medium-sized
piece of wood—perfect for a sign. What it was there for, I had no
idea, but I was glad I’d found it.

After setting out my supplies, I painted a
honeysuckle flower in the left corner, then wrote the words
Honeysuckle Hotel with ‘open’ underneath. Simple, but it would do
until I could afford better. The pale yellow, cream, and green with
a little red matched the outside of the house perfectly. After it
dried, I’d put it outside under the porch light. That way,
potential customers could see it at night. I’d worry about getting
a license to run the hotel later. No time for bureaucracy now, I
had bills to pay.

When I peered up at the clock, I realized it
was after midnight and time had slipped away from me. I had to work
in the morning and my afternoon and evening would be spent
continuing to plan my strategy for this place. If I wanted to be on
time at the supermarket, I needed to get some sleep. After grabbing
my pen and paper, I stood, stretched, and then walked toward the
hall. Then a loud crash rang out making the back door rattle.

Chapter Eight

My pen went one way and paper flew the other.
I froze in my spot. The noise sounded as if it had come from the
back porch. I swallowed hard, cursing myself for not pulling the
shades down. Was someone outside my window peeping in? Visions of
various slasher films ran through my mind. I refused to be the
woman hacked to death.

Chills prickled along my arms and down my
back at the thought. I hurried over and pulled down the shade on
the back door. It would take a whole lot of nerve to go outside and
investigate, and I wasn’t sure I had enough guts for that mission.
So instead, I went around to all the windows, checked each lock and
pulled down the shades. Then I paced—back and forth. Finally, I
made my way over to the chair and sat, waiting for the noise to
return.

After thirty minutes of fidgeting in the
corner chair, and no further disturbances, I slipped into my
pajamas and crawled into bed. I tucked the covers up under my nose.
The noise must have been a stray cat or a rabid raccoon. Yes, it
had most definitely been an animal. I stretched out in the middle
of the mattress, confident that I was safe from any further
disturbances.

A big lump poked me in the back, so I slid to
the left side. A spring gouged my calf, making it impossible to
sleep, so I shifted again. The right side wasn’t much better, but
at least no sharp coils jabbed me. It would have to do until I
could buy a new mattress. One good thing: the sheets smelled like
lavender.

I pulled the covers up tight under my chin
again and listened for more mysterious sounds. Nothing like being
in a strange house to bring out the odd rackets and visions of the
boogieman. Rain pounded against the window as thunder crashed in
the distance. I’d been right about those storm clouds and wondered
if Kent was out in the mess. I wasn’t sure how long I listened, but
I drifted off without another unexplained noise disturbing the
peaceful night.

Footsteps woke me. With my eyes wide and body
frozen, I glanced at the clock. The time read three a.m. My breath
caught in my throat as the steps echoed along the hallway. The
clomp-clomp sounded like boots. Was someone inside with me or was
it just the clattering of an old house? It sure sounded like a
person. I climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the door. Of course, I
didn’t have a weapon. The knives were in the kitchen. If I was
going to live alone, I needed to think about security. Maybe I
should get a dog. Before I contemplated life with Fido, the steps
stopped.

Did I have a ghost? Was Mrs. Mathers’ spirit
hanging around? First the bang outside, and now this. Maybe it was
a burglar. Yes, probably a burglar. They’d find me bludgeoned to
death in the morning. Everyone would talk about such a sad end to a
young, lonely life. My parents would be devastated.

After a couple of seconds with no noise, I
knew I had to find out where the noise had come from—I couldn’t
stay in the bedroom forever. I’d have to take my chances with the
killer or ghost. I hoped it was a ghost; I could handle a spooky
mist floating around. A crazed killer? Not so much. I eased the
door open an inch and poked my head out enough to see down the
hall. No one was in sight. When no one lunged out at me, I mouthed
a silent prayer.

I opened the door the rest of the way and
tiptoed out from my safe haven. In the hallway a right turn led to
the kitchen; if I turned to the left, it went into the dining room
and living room. I decided to check the kitchen first. The only
light shone from the cracked powder-room door. Ross had always
complained about the electric bill and me “leaving the damn lights
on.” Now I was thankful for my bad habit. I had never liked the
dark.

I peered around the open space. Nothing
seemed out of place, so I turned and walked down the hallway toward
the dining room—each step calculated so as not to alert my
intruder. The only sound in the room was my heavy breathing. There
were no ghosts or predators and the same went for the living room.
The grandfather clock ticked in time to my heartbeat. Easing up the
stairs in the dark, I checked the upstairs rooms, looking under
beds and in closets, but I didn’t find a soul. My hands trembled
every time I lifted a bed skirt or opened a closed door. Maybe an
animal was in the house? The crazed raccoon or cat had returned?
Okay, it would have been a very fat cat. The noise sounded very
much like human footsteps.