Honey House (2 page)

****

We ended the tour of the facility in the owner’s unit on the southeast corner of the building. I stayed quiet, completely freaked out by the disappearing dead body in the great room. MacQuinnlan paid no attention to me other than to tell me to lift the dust cloths and look under the beds. He raced us through every room, quickly examining each door, window, and closet.

I tried to take it all in, really I did. The entire place was fantastic, with authentic eighteen-inch thick adobe walls, stone fireplaces, and either peeled-log or open beam ceilings. There were thirteen guest suites, a giant kitchen, a dining room, great room, plus a library. The owner’s apartment consisted of two floors, four rooms, and was as beautifully appointed as any of the luxurious suites I’d just visited.

It was all too much. Something very strange was happening, and I didn’t trust the sheriff to tell me anything. Something about him was off. When he’d turned his back to me the first time, I’d been surprised to see his hair wasn’t short, as I’d originally thought. Masses of golden brown waves spilled from an elastic ponytail holder to end several inches below his massive shoulders.

I narrowed my eyes, thinking. What was real? What wasn’t? I’d never seen a longhaired cop before. He was dressed unconventionally for a cop, too. Seriously…jeans and cowboy boots? It occurred to me that I’d been very stupid to take his word that he was the sheriff. When had I turned into such a chump? I’d followed the man through an empty house without even a momentary consideration of the possible consequences of being alone in a strange place with a likely criminal. Even if he was posing as a sheriff.

No doubt about it…I was off my game. I turned slowly to look at him, wondering for the umpteenth time what in the hell was going on. It was time to bring things to a head.

“Okay, look. I know this is some kind of scam. You and lawyer-boy…you’re both in on this. Just actors, right? Joanne’s not really dead, she wants me to come work for her, doesn’t she? That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” I asked.  

MacQuinnlan looked at me long and hard. Up this close and personal, I could see the unusual color of his eyes. They were a rich golden-honey with flecks of brown and green. And they were looking at me from a mask of tightly-controlled anger.

“Lawyer-boy? You mean Malcolm? You’re some smart ass, aren’t you?” Without waiting for an answer to what I figured was probably a rhetorical question, the sheriff continued. “Joanne is gone and she was a friend of mine,” MacQuinnlan gritted out through a tightly clenched jaw.

“I checked you out when Joanne left you this place. I know about your parents and I know you went to juvenile detention when they went to prison. I know you like to run little scams, and you don’t have the balls to run the big ones. I know about your little psychic fortune-telling act.

“Near as I can tell, Joanne only met you once, when she was on that cruise to Mexico, so I don’t understand how she knew enough about you to decide. However, if Joanne says you belong in the House, then she had her reasons. I don’t have to understand it, and I don’t have to like it. Good evening, Miss Carmichael,” MacQuinnlan said, jamming his hat on his head as he turned on his heel and left. I jumped when I heard the front door slam.

With a little bit of an ‘I don’t give a shit’ flourish, I grabbed an afghan from the back of a chair and wrapped it tightly around my shoulders. I was still dressed in my casual end-of-cruise capris and tee and starting to get damn cold. Wasn’t it always supposed to be hot in Arizona?

I thought about everything that had happened since law— Malcolm talked me into a plane ride earlier. Nothing had changed. I still believed this was some kind of scam. The body and blood were gruesome, but they hadn’t been real. They couldn’t have been. The crew had pulled out all the stops, and the whole B and B angle was interesting. Weighing the options of staying to hear the pitch or heading back to Long Beach, I decided enough was enough. As con games went, this one was spectacular, but I wasn’t into that scene anymore.

Once I decided not to stick around for the next act of this bizarre little play, I began to plan. A cab to take me to Sedona and then a shuttle from there to the Phoenix airport. It would be a long night of travel, but at least I would be home by morning. Home. What a laugh.

A sense of urgency to escape washed over me. I faked looking cool as I race-walked through the empty house toward the front door. Not because I was scared, just because it made me feel better.

I turned the corner from the great room to the entryway and slammed to a stop, staring at the woman blocking the door.

“Hello, KC.”

“Joanne?” I stammered, confused by her appearance. I looked around for the projector. The figure in front of me was the image of Joanne, only set to a seventy percent transparency. Apparently, I was going to get to see the next act of the play. Like it or not.

I reminded myself she wasn’t real, then pushed my hand through the illusion and reached for the doorknob.

It all happened rapid fire: the smell of sulfur, a crack of electricity, me flying through the air. I landed against the wall, and my head hit hard enough to make me see stars.

Chapter Two

“You’re pale as a ghost, dear.”

“Funny, Joanne,” I said, wandering around the room looking for a projector.

“Yes, I thought so,” the transparent figure agreed, smiling rather smugly. “KC, stop. You know there aren’t any smoke and mirrors involved. I’m really a ghost and the Honey House is yours. Now, please sit down. I have very little time and you must have a lot of questions.”

“Very little time? Not that I’m admitting you’re a ghost, but say you were…where exactly would you need to be?”

“Why Rome, of course. I’ve always wanted to visit. There’s a couple in town who are leaving for the airport in a few minutes, and I want to catch a ride. I’ll start by telling you what I think you need to know, and if there’s time, you can ask questions at the end.”

*

Now, in the pale light of the morning, I sat alone in the dining room with my third cup of coffee, thinking over the events of the previous night. It had taken quite a while to convince me, and I still wasn’t sure I believed all of it, but what the hell? You had to believe in something. It seemed Joanne really was dead, and as long as I didn’t mind an occasional ghostly visit, the Honey House was indeed mine.

I looked around appreciatively. The décor was faultlessly southwestern, with stained glass accents and plants everywhere. The dark wooden tables and ladder-back chairs contrasted beautifully with the tile floors and were spaced to offer a modicum of privacy. I counted thirteen tables, same as the number of guest suites. Good thing I’m not superstitious.

The dining room faced west, so it was still a little dim, but the front windows were large and the view of red rock spires against the morning sky was spectacular. I couldn’t wait to explore outside.

The first order of business, once sufficient quantities of caffeine were consumed, was to find out who’d been watering the plants since Joanne had died. Maybe that same person could tell me more about the bed and breakfast. Ghostly Joanne was strangely reticent on discussing the business. In fact, her sole focus seemed to be on convincing me that the house and I belonged to each other, and how important it was that I stay to at least try it out.

Strange as it seemed in the cool light of morning, I hadn’t wanted to run out of the house screaming at the sight of Joanne’s…ghost…spirit…whatever you wanted to call her. I hadn’t been scared once Joanne appeared and started talking to me. I wonder why that was? Anyway, what’s the old adage? In for a penny, in for a pound. There was no way I would leave now. Not without knowing the secrets of the mysterious Honey House.

The front door opened and the approaching footsteps echoed through the quiet morning, eerily reminiscent of the previous evening. Once again, it was the sheriff. With an exaggerated sigh, he threw a stack of newspapers on the table near me. Without a word, he stalked straight into the kitchen. When he returned a minute later, it was with a mug of coffee and a deep scowl.

“You’re going to need Botox if you don’t stop frowning like that,” I said, a bit flippantly. “How did you get in here, anyway? Don’t you knock?”

“Funny, Miss Carmichael.” He grabbed the sports section and took it to a table near the large front window. He hooked a foot around a chair, pulled it back, and sat.

I stared holes in him, but he never even looked up. His arrogant assumption that he was welcome to drop in whenever he chose was more than my inner bitch could take at this hour of the morning.

“Excuse me, Sheriff; I don’t remember telling you to make yourself at home. Now how the hell did you get in here?”

“Told you,” he mumbled, not looking up. “Door was unlocked. Call me Quinn.” He turned the page.

Grrr…this was not going well.
God, I hate mornings.

Quinn looked up, as if finally realizing I was staring at him.

“Where’s the bagels?” he asked.

My jaw dropped. “Bagels? You stroll in here at the crack of dawn, make yourself at home, and expect bagels?” I knew my voice was rising dangerously, but seriously, this was too much. “Tell me how you got in. If you have a key, I want it back. Now.”

Quinn pushed his chair back from the table and rocked onto the rear legs. He stared at me speculatively for a long moment, with those strange amber eyes. He began explaining, each word enunciated to within an inch of its life.

“First, it’s hardly the crack of dawn. When I did come by at the crack of dawn, the door wasn’t opened yet, even though the dining room opens at six. Second, your coffee tastes like shit and your hospitality isn’t much better. Third—”

The front door opened and a voice called out, “Hello. Anybody home?”

“In here,” Quinn and I shouted together, then turned and glared at each other.
What the hell?

“Hi, I know it’s too early for check in, but I’m really hoping you have a room I can rent for a week. Every room in Sedona is booked for spring break, and I’m on deadline. My name’s Jason. Jason Brill. With the Arizona Chronicle.” His voice rose at the end like a question, but he continued, rapid fire. “I’m up here doing a story on the sweat lodge deaths. Glad to find you here, Sheriff. It will save me a trip to the station. Do you think I could get a cup of that coffee?” Jason finally wound down to wait for an answer.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” said Quinn. “It tastes like shit.”

Ignoring Quinn, I turned to the reporter. “Look, Mr. Brill,” I began, but he interrupted.

“Jason,” he repeated firmly, “and you are—”

“Katherine Carmichael, but please, call me KC. I’m sorry, but I just found out about—”

The door to the kitchen swung open behind me, and a tall, sultry-looking Latina woman pushed her way through with a tray of bagels and condiments in one hand and a carafe of coffee in the other.

This place was Grand Central Station, and I didn’t have a ticket.

“Morning, Quinn,” she said in a rich contralto.

“Buenos días, Gabrielle,” Quinn answered, smiling at the woman.

I had a brief moment to wonder what it might be like to have the force of that smile turned in my direction.
Wow.
With a shake of my head at the absurdity of that random thought, I tried to catch up to what was happening around me.

Gabrielle settled the serving tray onto a buffet, turned to the reporter, and smiled. “Of course we have a room for you. Jason, was it? I’m afraid we’ve been closed due to a recent change in ownership, so bear with us. You just sit and enjoy your coffee and talk to Quinn. KC and I will get your room ready.”

She looped her arm through mine. “Come with me,” she stage whispered. As we left the room, she said over her shoulder, “Get a fresh cup of coffee, Quinn, I made a new pot.”

With the sinking sensation that I was falling through a rabbit hole, I followed Gabrielle, taking two steps for everyone one of her long strides. She loped to the front desk and grabbed a stack of fresh linens and towels, from the antique armoire behind the bar that served as a counter. Without a word she led the way to a suite of rooms on the first floor, next to the library. As soon as we were inside and the door was closed she let loose with bubbling laughter. It was a rich, deep laugh, and I smiled automatically in response.

Shaking my head, I started. “Want to tell me who you are and exactly what is going on around here?”

“Sorry,” she gasped. “The expression on your face was priceless.” She dabbed at the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

“Wait a minute. You mean this
is
all a hoax?” I hissed indignantly.

“No, no, not at all. I’m sorry. Let me start over. I’m Gabrielle Martinez. You can call me Gabi, if you like. I answer to either. I helped Joanne manage the place. I just assumed we’d open for business, now that you’re here. The House doesn’t like to be closed.”

“The House doesn’t like to be closed? What the hell does that mean? And where did you come from this morning? I didn’t hear you come in.” This laughing woman, so near my own age intrigued me. I was sure she could tell me what was going on around here.

“Didn’t Joanne explain? The Honey House has a mind of its own. Look, I know this is all very new to you, but you’re going to have to trust me on this. No one comes in the House that isn’t supposed to. Once someone comes through that door and asks for a room, we give it to him.

“Now help me make the bed, and I’ll tell you what I can.” Gabrielle put the stack of fresh linens on the chair and took the fitted sheet first. With a snap of her wrists, she billowed the sheet over the mattress and I quickly moved to the other side of the bed and caught the edge. We worked companionably while she talked.  

“I came in through the kitchen door. You probably didn’t hear me when I came in because you had your hands full with Quinn. I wasn’t sure how much Joanne told you about our arrangement…”

Fifteen minutes later, we were back in the dining room, and I was more confused than ever. I’m not usually so slow on the uptake, but the things Gabi spoke of sounded like real haunted house stuff. Well, I guess I already knew that, since I’d seen Joanne, but still… No one ever showed up unless we had a room for them, the doors unlocked and locked themselves when the House wanted to be open. Furniture rearranged itself?
Sheesh.