Free Heather Horrocks - Who-Dun-Him Inn 01 - Snowed Inn by Heather Horrocks Page B

barely tell where he’d blown snow. The air was so cold, it hurt to breathe. I shivered and my face was freezing after just a few moments outside. The wind picked up and whistled loudly, carrying the smell of wood smoke from the direction of Horse Feathers Ranch.
    The vehicle was not another airport shuttle, but an older model, blue Ford pickup. Rent-A-Wreck, perhaps? It slid to a stop on the driveway. Out stepped the driver, a tall, slender man, wearing a cowboy hat and cowboy boots. I’d seen pictures of Clark Harmon in the back of his books, so I knew what to expect— but he needed a better picture. A more current one, at least, because an inch-long, black beard hid his face. He stomped snow off his boots.
    “Welcome to the Who-Dun-Him Inn.”
    Impatiently, he said, “Take me to Mr. Calabria, please.”
    I was an idiot. The guy had to fight his way up here in a snowstorm, so he was in no mood to talk. I opened the door. “Your group is well into dinner and the play. Your part is being filled by my grandmother, of all people. But we have another one for you.” Grandma playing a butch baseball player and Harmon a southern debutante (BJ’s part) ought to prove interesting. I was rambling because I was actually meeting my favorite author, and he was not in a good mood.
    I pushed open the door. “You forgot your bag.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” he said, flicking snow off his pale blue denim jacket. It was one like a thousand guys owned, Levi brand, fake wool-lined, snapped up the front. Very similar to the coat Robert was wearing, which still resided in my closet downstairs. “I just want to get my business taken care of.”
    I offered to take it from him, but he brushed me off. “No, thanks, ma’am. Please just take me inside.”
    He certainly wasn’t as charming in person as I’d hoped. When I led the way into the dining room, the others looked up. “Your last author has arrived.”
    Alexis tilted her head as she studied Harmon.
    Bonnie shrugged and returned to her Burgundy Beef.
    White-haired Dr. Ray put down his fork and watched intently.
    Grandma Ross ignored the new man entirely.
    Calabria grinned.
    Martha waved her punch-filled goblet toward him and said, “Welcome, last author. There is no bourbon, I fear.”
    Clark Harmon asked, “Which one is Calabria?” His harshly spoken words surprised me. Had he never met his agent? Or guru? Or whatever Calabria was supposed to be?
    Martha laughed and wiggled a finger at Harmon. “Come on in, honey. The more, the merrier. Gregorio is the one at the head of the table.” With a mischievous grin, she stage-whispered, “This isn’t Clark, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
    Calabria glared at Martha. “Can you be quiet for five minutes? Let them put on their play.”
    So Calabria thought this was part of the play, but Martha seemed to have realized it wasn’t. With growing horror, I whispered to the man, “Please tell me your name is Clark Harmon.”
    “No, ma’am, it’s not.”
    That was what I was afraid of. I needed to get this clown out of here, and fast. I spoke quietly. “Sir, this is a private party. I must ask you to leave.”
    “I will, ma’am, just as soon as I’ve had my say.” His eyes were cold and his face drawn tightly with anger as he turned toward Calabria and called out harshly, “So you’re the so-called man that doesn’t mind stealing other people’s wives.”
    “He’s the one,” Martha said. “Will there be more of you?”
    Calabria looked puzzled, but joked, “This needs revisions to move the plot forward. It is a repeat.”
    Martha smiled lazily. “Rumor has it this is quite common where you’re concerned.”
    “ Silencio , Martha.”
    A burst of wind rattled the windows. The man beside me took another step toward Calabria. “I’m talking about Bobbi Jo, you piece of wife-stealing scum.”
    “Bobbi Jo?” Calabria scanned his script and shrugged as if he wondered where this new part of the play was headed.