Free Spoiled Rotten by Mary Jackman Page A

here once before with my son about five years ago. We travelled with a tent and pitched it on a different beach every night to watch the sun set. That was a vacation fondly remembered; this wasn’t.
    Yesterday, I was slinging elegant hash out of a little corner restaurant, now I was searching for answers to a brutal murder my chef may have committed. Having survived recessions, plagues, global terrorists, and a flood, murder was one more, albeit bizarre, obstacle to hurdle. Luckily, the police didn’t think it necessary to give me the cautionary “don’t leave town” spiel.
    I drove to the edge of the ocean shore and turned off the main highway onto an unlit secondary road. I wanted to drive all the way to Portsmith tonight, but I was bushed. The tension from flying in a hurricane and the long trek from the airport had exhausted me more than I realized. The need to rest was increasing.
    The first two motels displayed the cursed NO VACANCY shingle from their welcome sign, a third indicated its establishment was full, too. At this rate, I would be willing to sleep in the backseat. I looked around at the landscape. Grassy fields faded into hilly dimensions on one side, a deepening ocean on the other, and up ahead, the gaping yawn of hell. On second thought, I stepped on the gas, thrusting the car faster through the fog threatening to devour the entire road. A cluster of closed stores popped up suddenly on my left and an old schoolhouse appeared on my right. I stopped the car. A jittery neon sign advertised:
BROWNS SCHOOLHOUSE
    HOTEL AND TAVERN
    Pulling in, I instantly hit a death-defying pothole cleverly disguised as a puddle. The front end disappeared then bobbed back up with a jolt. I looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. I parked the Lincoln carefully between a delivery van and an old fishing lorry, grabbed a couple of bags off the back seat, and scanned the hunchbacked building. A turn-of-the-century brick schoolhouse sat out front with a 1960s-style, four-storey, wooden-slatted addition.The entire building was painted monotone brown. Two deer, silhouetted by the full moon, were grazing in the field behind it.
    A salt-studded arrow pointed to the front entrance of the building. Making my way to the battered doors of the old schoolhouse, I could almost hear the recess bell and see the schoolmarm waving me in. The doors suddenly flew open with the strength of a nor’easter. A woman with bright red lips and frizzy blond hair tucked into a chiffon bandana spoke to me in a rapid down-home manner.
    â€œGeez murphy, don’t be standing there, by’e, get on inside wit ya.”
    The doors clanged shut on my heels. Dusty class portraits covered the walls of an oak-lined hallway stained from years of greasy hands and the linoleum floor felt lumpy under my feet. A set of swinging doors sat motionless at the end of the hall. I sniffed the air. Mouth-watering aromas of sizzling beef patties lured me down the corridor. I peered over the doors and stepped into a murky barroom — yahoo, the tavern.
    On my left, a woman sporting a platinum wig was working the open grill. Five captain bar stools welded to the front of a horseshoe-shaped counter sat empty around her. Dropping my bag to the floor, I climbed aboard. My eyes adjusted to the lacklustre light while I patiently waited for the cook to notice me. I drummed my fingers quietly on the Formica bartop and watched the large, round clock behind her. Evidently she didn’t feel like noticing me. Accustomed to surly cooks, I felt right at home and spoke up smartly, “Hey there, those patties sure smell good. I was wondering who I could see about a room for the night, maybe one of your homemade burgers, too.”
    â€œANDY!” she yelled out while flipping a burger. There were maybe six guys in the whole place and none of them looked up.
    â€œANDEEE!”
    Like magic, a young man appeared