Herrick raised an eyebrow. “What kind of favors?”
“That’s my business.”
Herrick planted a hand on the hull to keep his balance. “I been hoppin off boats for twenty years and I ain’t never broke no one’s dock, so if you think I’m gonna pussyfoot up and down this shore at your beck and call, you better look for some other sheep to sheer.”
“Relax. I’m just making an observation.”
“Observation my crack,” he mumbled.
I climbed over the gunwale and lowered myself onto the dock, careful not to land with all my weight at once—especially not after all the chocolate shavings I had been sneaking.
I dragged a step stool I had bought from one of the antique stores up to the hull and took each tourist by the fingertips as if they were dainty gentlemen and madams stepping off their midnight carriage.
“Watch your step,” I said.
“Thank you, my dear.”
“My pleasure. You’re very welcome.”
A large wave came and bumped the boat against the dock. One of the old women lost her balance and I caught her.
“Heavens to Betsy,” she said. “You saved me.”
“That’s what we do, ma’am.”
After the last tourist was off the boat, I turned to Captain Herrick. “I’m going to go ahead and start the fire. Help them over the rocks at the end of the dock. They haven’t signed the liability agreement yet.”
“Yes, Mother Hubbard,” he said.
I grumbled and marched toward the house. Stupid Herrick. I paused for a moment at one of the boards. A nail had popped its head out of the end. I tried to push it back down with my toe, but it was so loose, every step made it wiggle back up. The nail beside it, too. It was like whack-a-mole.
I sighed. I’d have to come back with a hammer and wood glue. The dock was weathering faster than I thought it would, some of the planks already starting to curl.
I guess I got what I paid for—the price of which was nothing more than the promise of going on an official date with Matt Mettle.
Ahead of me, the tourists had reached the end of the dock.
“Captain Herrick is coming to help,” I said.
I jogged ahead and climbed over the rocks, my thighs yelling from the effort. I was tired, overworked, and cranky. It was going to be another late night, one where my head was as heavy as a hardcover copy of Gone with the Wind and I would have to fight to keep my eyes open.
While the tourists sat around the fire—three on the couch, one on the antique armchair, and two others in folding chairs—I toiled in the kitchen over the cutting board. In an after-Easter sale, I had grabbed a whole family of chocolate rabbits from the Walmart up the highway. Now, I chopped off their chocolate tails and their chocolate ears, chunks of chocolate flying up at me like the bunnies had stepped into the jaws of a bear trap, pelting me with pieces of delicious pelt.
Once the bunnies were hacked, I dropped the chunks into seven mugs and shoved them into the microwave. While I preferred to serve my guests rooibos tea—both for the health benefits and the cost savings—I had reluctantly settled on homemade hot chocolate as a concession to the masses.
The whole time, the framed picture of Bella Donley hanging over the kitchen table taunted my peripheral vision. Her face and boobs consumed most of the cover, but behind her, you could see a sliver of the sharp gables and hooded windows that characterized my inn.
I had spent ten bucks on a metal frame for that particular magazine cover. It was from the issue of Marie Claire that had featured an eight-page story about my inn. Called “A Late American Beauty,” the story detailed Bella’s last makeup party. Even though it was mostly about Bella’s death, I was happy for the publicity.
Because Matt Mettle and I had gotten access to Dimitri’s camera before he was arrested, I was able to negotiate a deal with the publishers for exclusive access to the photos of Bella. Although they had wanted to pay me ten thousand dollars, I had insisted that they include pictures of my inn instead. I couldn’t buy that kind of advertisement for ten thousand bucks.
So far, it was working.
When the microwave beeped, I took out the mugs, filled each from a pot of boiling grass-fed milk from a slaughter house up the highway, and then stirred the potion until the liquid was a deep brown. After adding a splash of vanilla extract and a marshmallow, I placed the mugs on an antique platter and took them to my guests.
The fire crackled and the guests giggled and swooned as Stanley Eldritch regaled them with tales of harbor heroism. Tonight, he was telling the story about the night when Chrissy disappeared.
“Up in my tower that night, I was busy reading Pride and Prejudice,” Eldritch was saying. “I set my book down in reverence to Ms. Bennet as she suffered through a marriage proposal from that weaselly Mr. Collins, when out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of two headlights parked in the ditch along Beacon Street. I figured a tourist had parked on the road and needed my help, so I went down the spiral staircase to investigate.”
This part of the story was actually a fib; Eldritch hadn’t gone downstairs to investigate, he had gone down to go pee. It was only after he was already back on the ground that he had seen the headlights.
Over multiple retellings, each part of the story got more and more twisted, ultimately making Eldritch sound more heroic. Making him look larger than life didn’t bother me though; it not only sold rooms, but made Eldritch my savior. After years of thankless service to the town, he deserved the recognition.
Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a danger in twisting the story too much. Like a cheap pair of underwear, when you
