Endurance

followed Mal up, stopping only to admire his trim backside as they ascended. Deb found it amusing that he continued to flirt despite several rebuffs. For a millisecond she entertained what it might be like to date Mal. The fantasy disintegrated when she caught the toe of her Cheetah prosthetic on the top stair. Luckily, she managed to make it to the second floor without a face-plant.

“Deborah, this is the Theodore Roosevelt room,” Eleanor said, holding out a key. “One of the finest rooms in the Inn.”

Deb didn’t suppose that meant very much. “Does it have a bath tub?”

“Indeed it does. And for you—I didn’t catch your name.”

“Mal. Mal Deiter.”

“Next door over, Mr. Deiter, is the Harry S. Truman room. While it doesn’t have a bathtub, I believe you’ll find the walk-in shower most agreeable. And necessary, considering your current appearance.”

“We ran into one of the locals, making venison headcheese,” Mal said, taking the key. “Is it currently hunting season?”

Eleanor smiled. “There’s always something in season around these parts.”

“Have the Pillsburys arrived yet? I didn’t see any other cars around. I’m a reporter, and I’m supposed to interview them.”

“They have, but I’m afraid they turned in for the evening.”

“Perhaps I’ll get to see them at breakfast.”

“Perhaps. If you’ll indulge an old woman’s fancy, might I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“I pride myself in being able to guess blood types. You strike me as a type O. Am I correct?”

“Yes, you are.”

Eleanor’s bulbous eyes lit up. “Would that be positive or negative?”

“Positive.”

“You’re sure about that?”

Mal winked. “I’m positive.”

Eleanor nodded politely. “Thank you, Mr. Deiter.” The old lady curtsied. “I trust you’ll both have a pleasant night.”

Then she waddled off, leaving the two of them befuddled.

“Blood type?” Deb finally asked when the old woman had descended the stairs.

“Maybe she’s a vampire,” Mal said. “She might have been the creature you saw in the bushes.”

“I saw a cougar, Mal. Not an old woman.”

“Was it wearing a pillbox hat?”

Deb allowed herself to smile. “Maybe it was. I think it also had a rifle. Perhaps it shot out my tire.”

“Touche. I’m going to unpack and grab some food. Meet you in the kitchen in a few?”

“Sure.”

Mal handed Deb her bags, then unlocked his door. “See you in a bit.”

In keeping with the theme of the Inn, the Teddy Roosevelt room was chockfull of creepy presidential memorabilia. Every wall boasted pictures and banners, the lamp shades were collage pastiches, and not a single stick of furniture was without a Roosevelt stamp of some sort. Eleanor had even managed to find Teddy Roosevelt bed sheets, his cherubic face five feet wide and grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Deb placed her two suitcases in the closet, next to an old reel-to-reel tape deck. Since she wouldn’t be here for more than a few hours, it didn’t make sense to unpack. She’d pull out a change of clothes in the morning.

A trip to the bathroom found her appearance to be considerably less than stellar. She applied a bit of lip gloss from her fanny back, a bit of mousse to her hair, and used the hand soap on the sink to get the last of the deer blood out from her expensive manicured fingernails. A life-size poster of Roosevelt hung next to the toilet, his eyes seeming to follow her. Deb didn’t mind—the old-fashioned clawfoot bathtub more than made up for the bizarre decorations. She was aching to have a soak. And if she’d been alone, she would have put off dinner and done just that.

And yet, she found herself leaving the bathroom, and her room, in order to meet Mal in the kitchen.

Why am I so anxious to see him again? And why am I hurrying?

He’s probably not even there yet.

She still descended the stairs quicker than safety warranted.

To get to the kitchen, she walked through the living room, getting a startle when she saw the large man standing in the middle of the room.

No, that’s not a man.

It was the statue of George Washington, larger than life and dressed in period clothing. Deb found it oppressive, and gave it a wide berth as she passed.

The walls of the kitchen were lined with ephemera; magazine covers, newspapers, brochures, campaign signs. On the running board near the ceiling was a line of dinner plates, each bearing faces and quotes of Presidents. Unlike the unusual odor pervading the rest of the house, this room smelled delightfully like baked goods. Deb’s enthusiasm sank when she failed to see Mal.

Maybe he’s not coming. Maybe he just went to bed.

Then she noticed him peering into the refrigerator, and had to suppress her smile.

“There are enough cupcakes in here to feed the entire state of West Virginia,” Mal said. “There’s also a mystery meat sandwich. Interested?”

“I love meat in all of its permutations.”

Mal stacked a plate of cupcakes and the plate with the sandwich on one hand, and grabbed a glass carafe of milk and two apples with the other. He bumped the refrigerator door closed with his hip, and laid everything out on the dining room table.

“Pretty good balance,” Deb said, easing into a chair.

“I waited tables in college. Would madam care to split the sandwich?”

“Madam would like to eat the whole thing. But since you carried up my bags, I guess I’m willing to share.”

Mal went to the cupboard and found an extra plate and two glasses. While Deb poured the milk, Mal searched drawers for utensils.

“So you never got around to telling me about the history of Monk Creek,” she said, licking the pink frosting on a cupcake. It was buttercream, and very good. “You said you were researching it and discovered some interesting things.”

“Indeed I did. You want to hear something really interesting? This woman has dozens of forks and spoons, but not a single knife.”

“Not even a butter knife?”

“Not one. I guess you get the whole sandwich after all.”

Deb reached into her fanny pack, took out her Benchmade folding knife. She flicked the five inch blade open with her thumb and cut the sandwich in half. The meat was whitish, piled on high. The lettuce and tomato were still crisp. Eleanor had made this recently.

“Nice piece of cutlery,” Mal said, sitting across from Deb.

“I won’t be trapped in the woods without a weapon ever again,” Deb said, wiping it on her pants.

They each tore into their halves. Deb was surprised by how hungry she was. She was also surprised by the taste of the meat. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just unusual.

“Is this chicken?” she asked.

Mal shook his head. “Pheasant.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure. Dad used to take me hunting, when I was a kid.”

“You still go?”

“No. Lost my taste for it.”

“Pheasant?”

“Killing animals. I’m not a hypocrite, though. I still a voracious carnivore. But not enough to go after it on my own.”