Austin leaped silently up onto the counter, glanced from the cook to Claire, and snorted, “You might want to breathe.”
Claire grabbed the cat and dropped him onto the floor as the object of the observation closed the refrigerator door and turned.
“Good morning,” he said. It sounded as though he actually meant it.
Distracted by teeth as white as his shirt and a pair of blue eyes surrounded by a thick fringe of dark lashes, not to mention the musical, near Irish lilt of a Newfoundland accent, Claire took a moment to respond. “Good grief. I mean, good morning.”
It wasn’t only his appearance that had thrown her. In spite of his age, or rather lack of it, this was the most grounded person she’d ever met. First impressions suggested he’d never push a door marked pull, he’d arrive on time for appointments, and, in case of fire, he’d actually remember the locations of the nearest exits. Glancing down at his feet, she half expected to see roots disappearing into the floor but saw only a pair of worn work boots approximately size twelve.
“Mr. Smythe left a note on the fridge explaining things.” He wiped his hand against his apron, couldn’t seem to make up his mind about what to do next, and finally let it fall back to his side. “I’m Dean McIssac. I’ve been cook and caretaker since last February. I hope you’ll consider keeping me on.”
“Keeping you on?”
Her total lack of comprehension appeared to confuse him. “Aren’t you the new owner, then?”
“The new what?”
He jerked a sheet of notepaper out from under a refrigerator magnet, and passed it over.
The woman spending the night in room one, Claire read, is Claire Hansen. As of this morning, she’s the new proprietor. Except for a small brown stain of indeterminate origins, the rest of the sheet was blank. “And that explains everything to you?” she asked incredulously.
“He’s been trying to sell the place since I got here,” Dean told her. “I just figured he had.”
“He hasn’t.” So far, everything young Mr. McIssac had said, had been the truth. Which didn’t explain a damned thing. Dropping the note onto the counter, she wondered just what game the old man thought he was playing. “I am Claire Hansen, but I haven’t bought this hotel and I have no intention of buying this hotel.”
“But Mr. Smythe…”
“Mr. Smythe is obviously senile. If you’ll tell me where I can find him, I’ll straighten everything out.” She tried to make it sound more like a promise than a threat.
Although two long, narrow windows lifted a few of the shadows, the office looked no more inviting in the gray light of a rainy day than it had at night.
“He lives here?” Claire asked sliding sideways through the narrow opening between the counter and the wall, the only access from the lobby.
“No, in here.” The door to the old man’s rooms had been designed to look like part of the office paneling. Dean reached out to knock and paused, his hand just above the wood. “It’s open.”
“Then we must be expected.” She pushed past him. “Oh, my.”
Overdone was an understatement when applied to the room on the other side of the door, just as overstuffed wasn’t really sufficient to describe the furniture. Even the old console television wore three overlapping doilies, a pair of resin candlesticks carved with cherubs, and a basket of fake fruit.
Tucked into the gilded, baroque frame of a slightly pitted mirror was a large manila envelope. Even from across the room Claire could see it was addressed to her. Suddenly, inexplicably, convinced that things were about to get dramatically out of hand, she walked slowly forward, picking a path through the clutter. It took a remarkably long time to cover a short distance; then, all at once, she had the envelope in her hand.
Inside the envelope were half a dozen documents and another note, slightly shorter than the first.
“Senile but concise,” Claire muttered. “Congratulations, you’re the new owner of the Elysian Fields Guest House.” She glanced up at Dean. “The Elysian Fields Guest House?” When he nodded, she shook her head in disbelief. “Why didn’t he just call it the Vestibule of Hell?”
Dean shrugged. “Because that would be bad for business?”
“Do you get much business?”
“Well, no.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised.” She bent her attention back to the note. “Stay out of room six. What’s in room six?”
“There was a fire, years ago. Mr. Smythe didn’t need the room, so he saved money on repairs by keeping it locked up.”
“Sounds charming. That’s all there is.” She turned the paper over but it was blank on the other side. “Maybe these will give us some ans…” Her voice trailed off as, mouth open, she fanned the other papers. Her signature had been carefully placed where it needed to be on each of the legal documents. And it was her signature, not a forgery. Smythe had lifted it out of the registration book.
Which could only mean one thing.
“Mr. McIssac, could you please go and get me a cup of coffee.”
Dean found himself out in the office, the door to Mr. Smythe’s rooms closed behind him, before he’d made a conscious decision to move. He remembered being asked to go for coffee and then he was in the office. Coffee. Office. Nothing in between.
“Okay, so your memory’s going.” He ducked under the counter flap. “Look at the bright side, boy, you’re still employed.”
Jobs were scarce, and he hoped he could hang on to this one. The pay wasn’t great, but it included a basement apartment and he’d discovered that he liked taking care of people. He’d begun to think about taking some kind of part-time hotel management course; when there were no guests, and there were seldom guests, he had a lot of free time.
All that could change now that Mr. Smythe had gotten tired of
