Final Masquerade (31 page)

A round, middle-aged woman who looked as though she'd been through several wars, lifted a hand in greeting. “Terrible day to travel."

Paige nodded. “Can't believe you're open today."

"I only came in to get a gift I left here. Where are you from?"

"South, where it rarely snows and is
never
this cold."

The round woman nodded, knowingly. “What can I do for you?"

"I need a place to stay."

The woman's eyes rolled toward the inn across the way, then back to Paige. “We have several nice bed and breakfasts in town. There's the Inn in the Attic, Rosebelle's, the Brandon Motor Lodge, the Inn on Park Street..."

"I like the name of that. The Inn on Park Street. Is it far from here?"

"Just around the corner.” The woman stood, shoving the chair back against the wood paneled wall behind her. She placed both palms on the cluttered desk and pointed to her right. “That's Park Street. The inn is ten houses down on the right hand side. You can't miss it. It's a Victorian with gingerbread trim and gables all over the place."

Paige thanked the woman and turned to leave. A rack against the wall held stacks of colorful brochures of things to do in the area—from skiing to shopping to dining. Paige bypassed them with barely a glance. She stepped out into the blowing storm, scrunching her eyes nearly shut, and trudged through the slush, walking well into the driving lane to avoid the snowbanks that clung tightly to the edge of the road. Cars passed. Some slowed, trying not to coat her with the sand, snow, and salt goop from their tires, some didn't. She passed several homes, tall, imposing, well kept, forgetting to count them as the information woman had instructed.

Finally she spotted the sign, barely showing above the bank of snow, The Inn on Park Street. Quaint. Inviting. Victorian. All decked out for the holidays with blinking lights and garlands.

Paige stomped the snow from her feet and shook it from her hair, then stepped into the hallway/office.

"Good afternoon,” called the jovial Santa-like owner. “I'm Nick. Saint Nick,” he said with a mighty ho-ho-ho. “No, I'm just joshing. Name's Nordstrom, Alf Nordstrom. The wife, Eva, is in the kitchen."

Paige set Spirit's carrier on the gleaming hardwood and glanced around. It was warm and inviting. In a room to the right, a fire crackled.

"I figure you're looking for a room."

Paige turned back to him.

"We're all full up. It's ski season,” he said as if that explained everything.

Paige sighed and picked up Spirit.

"But,” said Saint Nick, “If you're willing to be flexible, I think I can help you out."

Paige set the cat back on the floor.

"We have two tiny rooms on the third floor. Rarely use ‘em ‘cause they're so small. I'll put you in the one at the front. It's a little bigger. With your height though, you'll probably be banging your head on the eaves, but it's all we have left."

"That'll be fine."

"The price includes a Continental breakfast from six to eight, and wine and cheese at six p.m. Your room has an adjoining bath. Sorry, it's only got a shower, no tub.” He chuckled. “No room for a tub, as you'll see. What's that in the crate? A cat?"

Paige nodded and signed the register using the name she'd given the elderly couple in Springfield: Cassidy Larson.

"We don't normally accept pets. I think we can make an exception for the cat. Here, let me hang your coat in the hallway. You look like you've been through hell."

Paige managed a small smile. “And back."

"How long do you plan on staying?"

"Er, I'm not sure. My plans are sort of up in the air."

"No problem."

Spirit protested from her box on the floor.

"Come on, I'll take you upstairs. Why don't you plan on having dinner with Eva and me tonight?"

"Thank you, but I couldn't."

"Of course you can. The whole crowd meets in the living room at six for wine and cheese. Afterward, the others trickle off to restaurants or back to skiing. You, Eva, and me can dine in our private quarters out back around seven. I think I heard the wife mention venison stew. You ever have venison?"

She shook her head, not quite sure what venison actually was.

"Shot the little bugger myself back in the fall."

Stifling a shiver, Paige followed Alf up the uncarpeted stairway, noting the squeaky fourth riser on the flight from the second to third floors. Alf tromped down a narrow hallway in what had once been the attic, and was now finished into a pair of rooms for overflow ski patrons. He opened the door to a room sporting pale blue patterned wallpaper and white painted trim. Small was hardly a word to describe the place. With its twin bed, dresser, and overstuffed chair, the room was overstuffed as well.

But, as her host had predicted, it was cozy and quiet. She thanked him and closed the door behind him. As his footsteps receded, she opened the only other door to reveal a windowless bathroom. A slanted ceiling over the toilet made standing erect a definite hazard. She shut the door and checked the closet and dresser space. Not that she'd need much.

Well, she was here, wherever ‘here’ was. Somewhere in the boonies of hell, for all she knew. Then she laughed. It couldn't be hell; it was too damned cold.

Paige flopped into the overstuffed chair near the window. A pair of six-over-six paned windows overlooked Part Street. Two lanes, one heading east, one west, an unmitigated contrast to the energetic pace of Santa Barbara, Barstow, Kansas City, and Minneapolis.

Spirit, finished with sniffing out the territory, hopped into Paige's lap, and kneaded her claws gently on Paige's thigh. Together, they gazed out the window. Across the street were brightly lit homes, mostly similar in style to the one she was in, but smaller and occupied by single families. Paige discovered that if she flattened her head against the glass, she could almost see back into town.

She glanced at her watch. Wine and cheese hour was about to begin, but she had no energy or desire to move from the chair.

A muted squeak—probably that loose stair on the second floor—perked her up. Next came light footsteps and within a few seconds, a tap on the door. Spirit's eared twitched and she opened one eye.

"Yes?” Paige called and the door was opened by a woman Paige figured to be the female half of the inn's ownership.

"Hello, I'm Eva Nordstrom. Alf tells me we have a kitty here who might be in need of toilet facilities.” She entered carrying a square plastic tub filled with sand and a double bowl for food. “My cats won't mind sharing,” she said, putting the box on the bathroom floor, then filling the water compartment of the bowl from the miniscule antique pedestal sink. She placed the bowl on the floor near the bathroom door.

"There you go kitty,” she said, stroking Spirit's head in Paige's lap. “Why don't you come downstairs and meet the rest of the guests? They're mostly skiers and will probably be headed back to the slopes for some night skiing. Those flatlanders who come here on weekends spend every available minute on the mountain.” She was referring to the Killington/Pico Ski Areas Paige's bus had passed on the way through.

"The slope is about fifteen miles away. Most people don't want to travel that distance to the mountain, but this time of year, accommodations are scarce. We go a step beyond other B&B's as we provide transportation to and from the slopes."

"Could I take a rain check on the wine and cheese?” Paige asked. “I am simply exhausted."

"Of course, but you need some refreshment."

"I know, but..."

"Up to you,” Eva said, giving the cat one final scratch. Paige watched her hostess. Where Alf might have been the clone of Santa Claus, Eva was definitely not a look-alike for Mrs. Claus. A tall, wiry brunette, she moved with the grace and beauty of a gazelle. Her demeanor was soft and motherlike. Paige nearly called to tell her she'd be right downstairs, but the words wouldn't leave her lips. She leaned her head back on the window and listened to her stomach growling.

At eight o'clock, Paige pulled herself out of the chair, slipped off her coat, and threw it across the bed. She stood in the shower, eyes closed, head uplifted, scalding water beating her chin and chest, wishing it would wash the visions from behind her eyes.

Still without a robe, nightie, or slippers, Paige wrapped a soft fluffy towel around herself and opened the bathroom door. A tray and small television had been set up on her dresser. A note was pinned to the gingham cloth.

If Mohammed won't come to the mountain, then the mountain will come to Mohammed. Merry Christmas.

Alf & Eva

Paige removed the plaid cloth cover. Atop a lace placemat, the tray was laden with food, a bottle of merlot, already open and breathing, crackers and several varieties of cheese, a heavy ceramic bowl of stew—venison, whatever that was—hard crusty Norwegian bread, and chocolate mousse. Her stomach growled. Spirit hopped onto the dresser and peered at the food. Paige shooed her down and poured a glass of wine.

She sat in the chair sipping the fruity red brew and nibbling on a wedge of sharp cheddar cheese. She wondered if it was made here in Vermont, like the cheddar she'd gotten at that wonderful restaurant back in Kansas City.

Chris. The vision of his flat stomach and muscular chest flashed before her. She wiped her face with the corner of the towel, which had fallen part way open, revealing a plump breast and slightly scarred rib cage.

Paige watched a man and woman on the slippery sidewalk across the street. The woman wore a heavy Eskimo-style coat with fur-trimmed hood. He wore a baseball cap and held one hand on it to keep it from blowing off. His other hand clung to the woman's right arm. Spirit climbed onto the sill and watched the couple also, purring deep in her throat. Paige ran a hand absently down the cat's back, over and over, brewing up little shards of electricity between her hand and the cat's fur.

Finally the aroma of the stew and homemade bread drew her. Venison or not, she was hungry. She wondered what a venison was, some wild animal Alf had shot, he'd made that plain; and spoken of it as though it were the most natural thing in the world. She forced the thought of a cute furry creature from her mind and allowed that of a weasly, malicious one to replace it.

She took the bowl and a slice of thickly buttered bread back to her chair, trying vainly to force away the memories of Polly's bakery. Thoughts of Polly led to thoughts of Max, and Paige wondered what he was doing, hoping he hadn't gone back to the whiskey when he realized she wasn't returning to the shop. Were they wondering what happened to her? Or did they deem her some idiotic fly-by-night?

Harry. Where the hell was he? Through a veil of tears, she realized she'd finished all the delectable stew. She placed the bowl on the floor for the cat to lick while she poured another glass of wine, which she sipped alternately with tiny spoonfuls of the mousse, savoring each bite of the rich, smooth concoction.

Days passed. Paige and Spirit sat in the flowered, overstuffed chair looking out the window, at the snow, the townsfolk, the traffic, and the holiday decorations being removed and stowed away. Eva and Alf delivered trays of food and took away empty ones. After the second day, they'd given up trying to coax her downstairs.

After a week, Eva placed a warm hand to Paige's forehead and asked if something was ailing her. Receiving only a slight shake of the head, she bundled the laundry into a ball, patted the cat, and left them alone.

After two weeks, Eva ceased trying to engage her in conversation, merely tossing looks of concern at her roomer as she quietly clicked the latch closed.

"Eva?” Paige called one afternoon to the closed door.

Eva opened it. “Yes?"

"Do you have e-mail here?"

"Of course."

"Would it be possible for me to send a message?"

Eva smiled slyly. “Yes, but I can't carry the computer up here."

For the first time in weeks, a smile came to Paige's face. “I know."

"You're very pretty when you smile."

"Thank you.” Paige rose and placed the cat on the vacated cushion. She retrieved an object from her purse and told Spirit, “I'll be right back."

"What's the cat's name?” Eva asked over her shoulder as they trooped down two flights of stairs.

"Spirit. Someone left her in an apartment I moved into."

"She seems to be good company.” Eva led Paige through the foyer, past the desk where Paige had registered under the name of Cassidy Larson. The aroma of cinnamon and balsam struck her as she followed her hostess along a bright hallway, bypassing a large living room and attached dining room.

Eva pushed open a pair of swinging barroom doors at the end, revealing a cluttered office. A hodgepodge of papers bedecked the desk and the adjoining table. A computer sat between them. It was already turned on. A wavering screen saver sported the logo of the inn in bright blue and white.

"Here it is. Do you know how to work it? I hope so because this is Alf's ‘thing’ and he's not here right now. He's taken a load of skiers over to Killington."

"It'll take a second to get used to your format, but I think I can manage."

"All right. I'll leave you alone."

"Thank you,” Paige said to Eva's trim, retreating figure.

Paige clicked into the e-mail system and typed Harry's address, then three words: Spirit says hello. She raised a finger, prepared to press the SEND button. And stopped. If Stefano's men did something to Harry, they were probably watching his computer.

She moved her finger to the delete button and left the room.

"Done so soon?” Eva asked as Paige passed the arched dining room doorway.

"Yes."

Eva unfolded a maroon tablecloth and flicked it across a round table that would ultimately hold place settings for six. She unfolded a second, smaller cloth in pink and placed it diagonally across the first. “I was just about to take a break for a cup of coffee. Care to join me?” Eva ran both hands across the tabletop, smoothing out the ripples.

"No, I...” Paige started, then stopped. “Yes, a cup of your wonderful coffee would taste delicious right now."