Free Spoiled Rotten by Mary Jackman Page B

by my side, lifting my bag into his burly arms. About six foot four, he was wearing faded blue jeans with the cuffs turned up, a white T-shirt with the Cleveland Browns logo on it, and well-worn shit-kicker boots, the kind where the heels wear down and the toes point up. His hair was combed up into a rockabilly ducktail. All he needed to complete the picture was a pack of cigarettes stuck in his sleeve and a match behind one ear.
    â€œThe rooms are forty-five big ones a night,” the cook barked, “and if you want something to eat you better tell me now ’cause I close the kitchen early on Monday.” I ordered a burger with fried onions, a side plate of fries, and a beer chaser.
    Andy, mute until now, spoke to me after I finished my order. “Please, if you will follow me, I will show you to your room. I shall bring your dinner when it is ready.”
    He had a deep, baritone voice, which, for his size, didn’t surprise me, but his deliberate elocution did. Maybe he was practising for a butler’s part in the village playhouse theatre.
    We went through a rear side door that led us back outside to the parking lot. I checked the Lincoln, gratefully noting that it hadn’t been vandalized. When we rounded a distant corner of the building, I sensed there was still time.
    The tavern ran the whole length of the first floor. The guest rooms were located above on the upper three floors. Except for the tavern floor, the building looked empty. A second later, a light went on in one of the rooms. Andy noticed it, too, and explained, “We’re having the hotel renovated. That’s the painter’s room. He was having dinner in the bar. He goes to bed early and gets up at dawn so he can get the maximum amount of daylight hours to paint.”
    We climbed a wide expanse of cedar stairs to a large deck on the second-floor level and continued to a smaller platform at the third. Still going, Andy headed for a metal fire escape that led up to the dormered fourth floor or — if you prefer via wild stretch of the imagination — the penthouse.
    â€œExcuse me. I’m not staying up there, am I?”
    â€œOnly floor that’s not being painted tomorrow.” Andy looked back at me encouragingly. “Don’t worry. It’s quaint up here and very private. Since no one else is booked tonight, you have the whole floor to yourself.”
    The Elvis impersonator drew out a ring loaded with keys, unlocked the door and held it open for me. I passed five closed doors on both sides of the long hall, which led into a large panelled sitting room with a timbered arch ceiling and heavily curtained windows. Two table lamps were turned on, leaving dim shadows huddled in the corners.
    â€œWhere shall I put your luggage, miss?”
    â€œAh, you tell me. I don’t know which room is mine.”
    â€œYou can have any room you like, but they’re all basically the same, not locked, either, so look them over.”
    Looking around, I wished I had kept driving. My nerves were on edge enough and this place would have given me the willies even in broad daylight.
    â€œAh, Andy, is it? How much farther is the town of Portsmith from here? On the map it looks like it might only be about one more hour along the major highway. I was getting tired, but maybe I should have kept going?”
    â€œNo, you did the right thing. Eventually you have to get off the highway and follow the coastal road. It’s a dangerous drive at this time of night — lots of twists and turns. Besides, the fog makes it a blind drive. Things just pop up out of nowhere.”
    I recalled the deer behind the parking lot; a flash of hooves on the windshield.
    â€œThere’s not much in Portsmith. Are you visiting relatives? ” he asked.
    â€œSomething along those lines,” I answered vaguely. I wasn’t telling a complete stranger that my chef was a suspect in a homicide and was thought to be holed up