Death of a Batty Genius (Stormy Day Mystery #3) (8 page)

“I don’t even have a tub. Don’t you know your own house? My bathroom’s the one with the tile shower.”

“But you got the extra-large linen closet, which is much more useful.”

“You can never have too much storage,” he said.

I walked over to the lobby’s enormous window to take in the view. Seeing all the trees and land between me and Misty Falls made me miss Logan, even though I’d only been gone for an afternoon.

Softly, I said, “I wish you were here.”

There was a pause, and he answered gruffly, “I didn’t get an invite.” He cleared his throat. “Besides, I don’t think Christopher would appreciate having me there.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Like how you and I are just friends?”

The gravelly tone of his voice, plus his words, gave me a liquid feeling all through my body.

“No,” I said, barely louder than a whisper. “Not like us.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I’ve been thinking that I’d like for us to be more than friends.”

“Oh.” I bit my lip to hold back a joke about knocking a bit off his rent.

The power at the lodge cut off, and the banging and power tools all stopped at once. A hush fell over the darkened lobby.

“Are you still there?” Logan asked. “No comment on what I mentioned?”

Just then, one of the workmen who’d been picking up paint cans near me bent over. In the quiet, the workman’s body let it be known that he’d eaten beans for lunch. Many beans. The noise he emitted was distinctive, loud, and followed by cries of horror and celebration by his fellow workmen.

Logan said, “Excuse me?”

“Oh my gosh,” I said, in a perfect imitation of Daphne the nervous weather girl reporter. “Oh my gosh, that wasn’t me, Logan. I swear. The lobby’s totally under construction and there are all these workmen here. It was one of them, and I think he did it on purpose.”

Logan replied with a skeptical, “Mm hmm. Workmen, you say.”

“I swear,” I said. “And right now they’re all eating from a big pot of baked beans, like cowboys in the Wild West.”

“Is that so?”

The lights flicked back on again, and someone called my name. I’d been pacing, traveling all the way to the far end of the lobby. Back at the reception area, Christopher had returned with his cousin.

Hurriedly, I told Logan, “Sorry, I have to go check myself and my cat into a fancy mountain resort now.”

“Go easy on the beans.”

“Very funny, Mr. Sanderson.”

“Have a great time,” he said warmly. “Send me a message later, if you feel like it. I might not be in contact much, but I’ll try to check in.”

“Will do.” We said goodbye and ended the call.

As I walked over to join my group, I held the phone to my chest and replayed the conversation in my head.

He’d definitely made a move. After months of being friends and living in the same duplex, it had taken me driving three-and-a-half hours away to finally get us together. Sort of.

When I saw Logan Sanderson again after this three-day vacation, everything would be different.

Chapter 9
 

Christopher’s cousin,
Butch Fairchild, took us on a whirlwind tour of the lodge.

I’d met Butch before, in Paris, on the same trip that I met Christopher. He was a decade older than Christopher, and had relished his role as the worldly, older cousin. He’d already been prematurely balding back then, but possessed a macho charisma that had girls approaching him, asking to touch his smooth-shaved head.

A few months after Christopher and I had started dating, he confided in me that Butch was technically a second cousin, from a branch of the family that didn’t have much money, and so Christopher had paid for nearly everything on their trip. That arrangement hadn’t sat well with Christopher; it felt too much like paying someone to be his friend, so he’d distanced himself from Butch after that.

They’d lost contact for several years, but by the look of their interactions on our lodge tour, with Butch pulling Christopher into a playful headlock every chance he got, the reunion was going well.

Butch looked different from the other Fairchilds I’d met over the years, with their fair hair and tennis-court-ready wardrobes. For starters, he was much taller and bigger than Christopher. With his smooth, shaved head, plus the many tattoos on his arms, Butch looked less like a tennis pro and more like a Navy Seal.

I had always liked Butch, because he had the good kind of tough guy personality—confident enough in himself that he could come across as powerful without acting like a jerk. His voice was deep yet soft, his manner gentle, and he smiled continuously. He was proud of the lodge, and passionate about the renovation.

We were all surprised to hear the stone and glass building wasn’t completely new, but an extensive remodel and upgrade of what had once been a cabin.

“Not bad for an old hunting shack,” Christopher said as we toured the in-house spa on the lower floor.

Butch winked at us. “It’s no Lancaster Hotel, but I hear the food’s okay.”

“I’m really happy for you,” I said. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you, and can you believe I only just found out you married a woman from Misty Falls?” I swatted Christopher. “This one forgot to tell me.”

Butch winked again. “There’s plenty this one doesn’t know about. He hasn’t even seen my newest tattoo.”

Christopher pulled a face. “Is it even somewhere I’d want to look?”

Butch laughed. “All in good time. Let’s pace ourselves, folks. We’ve got three whole days to fill with drunken debauchery.”

Jessica and I exchanged a look. She had Jeffrey in her arms, and shifted her hand to cover his ears.

“No drunken debauchery in front of the cat,” she told me. “He’s young and impressionable.”

“How about sober debauchery?”

She replied, “Can one even engage in sober debauchery?”

“I hear you need snowshoes for such a thing.”

She nodded. “That makes sense.”

After the spa tour, Butch showed us to our rooms, which were also on the lower floor. The lodge was a two-level, L-shaped building that hugged the south side of the mountain. With six nicely-appointed rooms on the lower floor and three spectacular suites on the upper floor, and a mix of beds and convertible sofas, it officially slept forty-two guests.

For the three-day trial run, there would be nine people, seven of whom we’d met already. The eighth person was Marie, Butch’s wife, but we hadn’t been given any clue as to the identity of the ninth.

“Gorgeous,” Jessica said when Butch showed us the room we would be staying in. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

Jessica and I were in a generous-sized room with two queen beds. Christopher’s room was its mirror image, and connected to ours by an interior door.

Butch pulled some plastic wrap off the room’s full-length mirror. “It’s not finished yet, but you get the idea. Feel free to make notes of anything that’s not to your liking. We want our guests to feel right at home in our little ol’ mountainside hunting shack.” He reached down to give Jeffrey a chin scratch. “Isn’t that right, little buddy?”

I said, “Again, Butch, sorry about the cat situation.”

He picked Jeffrey up and cradled him in his muscular, tattooed arms. “Uncle Butch doesn’t mind one bit,” he said to the cat. “You tell your mother that both of you are welcome here any time. Just remember you’re on
my
side, and you have to back me up when my wife’s old friends turn on me like a pack of hyenas.”

Jeffrey’s ears went back. He didn’t know what hyenas were, but he didn’t like the sound of them turning on anyone.

Jessica asked, “You don’t get along with your wife’s friends?”

Butch scoffed. “They call themselves the Batty Geniuses, but if you ask me, it’s only the Batty part that’s true. You’ll see. Even Marie gets a little strange when she’s under their influence.” Still holding Jeffrey, he held open the room’s door and nodded for us to follow. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the ol’ ball and chain.”

Back on the upper floor of the lodge, Butch led us through the dining room, where workmen were painting the walls a neutral taupe, and then into the kitchen, which was free of workmen and looked finished, ready for the grand opening in a few weeks.

Butch said, “As you can see, this is where the money went.”

Christopher whistled in agreement. “You must be in deep with someone.”

“Just to ourselves,” Butch said. “We’re self-financed, which means all the profits will be ours.”

“In a few years, maybe. But what about operating capital to get you through startup? Money for wages alone will set you back—”

Butch clapped Christopher on the back. “Now, now. I didn’t invite you here for a lecture. Besides, once people get a taste of Marie’s food, the whole world will be dying to get a room up here. Isn’t that right, Marie?”

At the mention of Butch’s wife, we all looked around the steel and gray kitchen. Something moved near the sinks, and I realized with a start it was a person.

“Hello,” she said with a meek wave.

Marie Fairchild wasn’t the type of brassy, outspoken woman you’d expect as the wife of a macho guy like Butch. Everything about her was understated, from her plain brown hair, worn in a ponytail, to her thick eyeglasses, gray dress, and gray tights. The only bit of color was her rubber Crocs-brand shoes, bright candy-apple red, in the classic clog style. Her shoes matched the red dials on the stove. She blended with the kitchen seamlessly, which explained why we hadn’t noticed her.

Christopher was the first of us to shake her hand. “So nice to finally meet you. I’m sorry I missed the wedding, but I trust you received the gift?”

Quietly, she answered, “Yes. Thank you.”

Jessica and I introduced ourselves and the cat, who was still in Butch’s tattooed arms.

“Tuna,” Marie said, then disappeared into one of a pair of walk-in refrigerators. She emerged with a slab of raw tuna, and quickly got to work, searing the fillet in a skillet over gas flames.

“You don’t have to go to any fuss,” I said. “A can of something will do just fine, until I can run into the nearest town.”

Butch answered for his wife, “The nearest town is the one you just came from. Don’t worry about the fuss. Marie likes to spoil people, isn’t that right?” He patted her on the shoulder. “This is just a warm-up for the crowds that’ll be coming soon.”

Christopher kept scanning the kitchen equipment. I could almost see the dollar signs in his eyes as he added up the renovation costs in his head.

He asked Butch, “How many months until you’re out of the red ink on the day-to-day?”

Butch let out a deep laugh. “We’re not going to worry about that until later, after we’re open.”

Christopher shot me a look. I nodded discreetly to let him know I’d caught the red flag as well. People who declare they’re not going to worry
until later
should usually be doing the complete opposite.

“That seared tuna smells good,” Jessica said. “Can I help you with anything, Marie?”

Marie mumbled about having everything under control.

Butch set down Jeffrey, who sat calmly on the floor, eyes wide and tail swishing as he watched Marie. Her proximity to the tuna made her the most interesting person in the room.

Christopher asked Butch about the ventilation system, and the two of them went off to look at vents.