Grady lifts a brow my way. But knowing Bizzy, she’ll let them hang out for a month at least before she gives them away. I’m starting to think animals are the key to her cracking all of those homicide cases. I’m not sure why, but I’m positive I’m right.
He is, but I won’t confirm it. The animals always seem to help crack the case, they’re just that intuitive.
“I’m not just giving them to the first person who wants them,” I say as I hold the one in my arms close. “There needs to be a vetting process.”
Nessa belts out a laugh. “In other words, you want to keep them all to yourself.”
Grady nods my way. “Just a heads-up. When I got here this morning, the guest log kept moving to a different location.” He points to an opened notebook that typically sits on the counter, allowing the guests to leave their thoughts and suggestions. “Every few minutes I’d find it somewhere else, the back counter, under the counter, the grand room. I even found it in the café when I went to grab some donuts. And there wasn’t anyone else around but me. You don’t think any of those ghosts are still lingering from that haunted doll display Georgie forced upon us last month, do you?”
“I promise you, it’s not a ghost.” No sooner do I say the words than the lights begin to flicker.
Nessa lets out a rather ghostly moan. “I don’t want anything to do with the dead, Bizzy. Can’t you hire someone to walk through this place while burning sage or something equally as kooky to clear the place of any lingering spooks?”
“No,” I tell her. “Because the inn isn’t haunted. And I don’t want to accidentally set it on fire.”
A thick crowd bustles on in, along with an icy breeze, and Nessa hands the two kittens in her arms my way as both she and Grady get right to work.
I spot Georgie in the foyer, gripping the handle of something white and boxy, so I head on over to see if I can help. Her gray hair is wild and free, and her crimson and orange tie-dyed kaftan looks festive and seasonal.
I’m about to say something when I note an entire herd of women holding the same boxy plastic contraptions, along with overstuffed duffle bags, as they make their way toward the ballroom.
“What’s going on?” I ask, almost certain I’m going to be sorry.
“Your mama and I have opened up the monthly crafts session to the quilting guild. We thought it’d be fun to put some stitches together. Don’t worry, Biz. I’ve got Jordy in there working out the situation with the electrical.”
Jordy is the handyman here at the inn, and I trust his judgment when it comes to just about anything. He’s Emmie’s brother, and my ex-husband. The marriage lasted less than a day. It involved Vegas, hard liquor, and an Elvis impersonator—need I say more?
Georgie grunts as she shifts her sewing machine to her other hand. “These mean machines aren’t going to run themselves, they need to be juiced up. Speaking of which, I ran into Emmie outside, and she’s bringing over some hot apple cider, coffee, and donuts. You should join us. It’s BYOSM.” She leans over and dots a kiss to each of the cuties in my arms before tossing Sherlock a bit of bacon from her pocket. She’s been known to keep a strip or two on her person in the event a pork fat emergency arises. And one always seems to pop up.
Sherlock barks. Hands off the kittens, Georgie. I won’t trade them, not even for bacon. He sniffs the salted meat. But we can’t just leave this lying on the floor either. And just like that, he promptly licks it up.
“Do I want to know what BYOSM means?” Truthfully, the answer is no, but since I’m the keeper of this insane asylum, it’s sort of my duty.
“Bring your own sewing machine, Toots! Juni ran out this morning to pick one up for herself. They’re pricey, but they’re worth the fun—except for when you accidentally sew your fingers together. That’s not so much fun.” She holds up a bandaged hand as she rushes past me.
“Ouch,” I say just as my mother rushes past me.
“I’m late for class,” she says, wheeling a large bright red suitcase behind her that I’m guessing has a sewing machine tucked inside it. She does a double take before backtracking my way.
Mom is in great shape for her age. I’m not sure where she’s sent her wrinkles, but she doesn’t have many of those to show for her age either. Her dark blonde hair is shoulder-length and feathered circa nineteen eighty something, and she holds strong to the same sense of style she had back then, too. She’s a preppy to the max, with her cable knit sweaters and popped collars. She used to run her own real estate empire after she and my father split, but she’s since retired—and apparently taken up quilting.
“Oh my stars,” she coos as soon as she spots the furry trio of cuteness I’m holding. “Where in the world did these angels come from?”
“I have no idea.” Okay, so I have some idea. Last night I let them know I could hear their thoughts and understand them. They mentioned something about being delivered to the alley by a nice man who said he was sure they would find a nice home quickly. I didn’t dare tell them that the seemingly nice man had dumped them in the back of an alley. Maybe he was hoping someone from one of the local shops would find them? And, well, that’s sort of what ended up
