Free Yesternight by Cat Winters

pamper you.”

          CHAPTER 7
    T hat afternoon, I entered the hotel lobby with every intention of checking out and avoiding trouble. Unfortunately, no one else occupied the premises at the moment, or so it seemed. Halfhearted flames lapped at the fireplace logs, but the wood needed stirring, and the room lacked heat.
    â€œMr. O’Daire?” I called out.
    No one responded. Rain tapped against the windowpanes, and a log slipped in the grate.
    I ventured past the front desk and down the main hallway. To my immediate left, an open doorway led to a small closet outfitted with bookshelves and a few dozen cloth-bound novels, primarily sea-themed adventures— Moby-Dick, Treasure Island, Two Years before the Mast, etc. Ten Sherlock Holmes books, including my favorite, The Hound of the Baskervilles , added a dash of mystery to the collection. To the right of the shelves hid another door, within the closet, oddly enough, and it also stood ajar.
    â€œMr. O’Daire?” I asked again, in the direction of this mysterious second doorway. “Are you in?”
    â€œDown here,” he called from somewhere deep in the bowels of the hotel’s underbelly. “I’m just putting tonight’s ham in the oven.”
    â€œAh, yes.” I smiled. “The ham.” I stepped into the closet and found a flight of stairs leading down to the shadows of the basement.
    â€œCome down, if you’d like,” he called, still out of sight, still muffled.
    I grabbed hold of a splintered rail and clambered down the wooden steps, each board whining and wheezing from the pressure of my feet. The farther I descended, the mustier and boozier the air smelled, as though I were lowering myself through the neck of a whiskey bottle.
    Down in the basement, six round tables, surrounded by a hodgepodge of chairs, filled a dim room lit by smoky copper lamps that hung from thick beams crisscrossing a low ceiling.
    Mr. O’Daire stuck his head through a square opening that separated the main room from an area that must have been a kitchen, for I heard a pot bubbling and caught a glimpse of a wooden icebox behind him.
    â€œI see you survived your adventure of wading blindly through the fog this morning,” he said.
    â€œYes, I did.”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t you allow me to drive you? I’m surprised you didn’t get hit by a car.”
    I turned my gaze to the glass-shaped rings marking up the wooden tabletops. “I didn’t want to trouble you for a ride. And the walk did wonders for my legs after traveling for so many hours yesterday.”
    â€œYou’re a terrible liar.”
    I glanced back at him. “Why do you say that?”
    â€œBecause someone telling the truth would never describe a walk through freezing fog as a ‘wonder.’” He smiled and pulled his head out of the opening.
    I laid my briefcase on the nearest table and debated the best way to tell him I was checking out of the hotel, without causing offense.
    â€œMay I get you a drink?” he called, again out of sight.
    â€œMr. O’Daire . . .” I cleared my throat. “I can no longer be a guest in your hotel. I’ll be spending the rest of my stay in Gordon Bay at the boardinghouse.”
    He meandered around the corner, a glass in hand, his brow furrowed. “Why?”
    â€œMay I be honest?”
    â€œPlease do.”
    â€œMiss Simpkin dislikes me staying here. I’ll be collaborating quite closely with her over the course of the next week, and the last thing I want to do is to make her uncomfortable.”
    He set the cup down on the table beside him. “Did she offer you a bed at her place?”
    â€œNo.”
    He rolled his eyes. “That’s typical of her.”
    â€œI’m sorry.” I removed my gloves. “That’s simply how it is.”
    He stepped closer, tucking his hands inside his pockets. “Did you talk to Janie