The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel (3 page)

“So, what would you like me to talk about, Jackson? Although we should probably avoid anything too personal, since . . . this is purely professional. Right?”

“Sounds fair. Tell me more about this place.” He looked around. “I love it. I’ve stayed in a lot of B&B’s, but I don’t think I’ve ever been in one that . . . affected me like this one does.”

“Ooh, that’s very good. Maybe you could let me put that quote on my website. Great endorsement.”

“Fine, as long as it’s anonymous.”

“Oh, that’s right. FBI. Can’t be too careful.” She looked suddenly alarmed. “Hey, you’re not hiding from the mob or something, are you? Because if you’re in danger and you’re here to—”

Jackson stopped her with an abrupt chuckle. “No worries, Chas. I’m not hiding from the mob. There are no bad guys after me.”

“Then what are you running from?” she asked with a lift of her eyebrows as she took a sip of cocoa.

“Nothing personal, remember. You were going to tell me more about this place.”

Chas felt puzzled by this man as she took another sip of cocoa and pondered the course their conversations had taken. He wasn’t really her type, but she couldn’t deny enjoying
his
company and conversation. Perhaps even more so, she was fascinated by his mysteriousness. She wondered why he was
really
here, and what kind of life he lived when he wasn’t searching for peace and quiet. She was glad for a slow morning with no other guests, which allowed her the time to indulge in spending some time with him.

She reminded herself that like every other friendly guest who had come here through the years, they always moved on. Sometimes they came back; some were practically regulars to some degree. But they always moved on. They all had their lives beyond the Dickensian Inn. This was just a way station, a temporary reprieve from life. Of course, most of the people who stayed here were couples looking for romantic getaways. A small percentage were business people needing to be in the area for a few days. Guests had only used the weekly rate on a few occasions, and they usually spent long hours away from the inn doing business. On rare occasions, someone came alone just to get away, perhaps following a divorce or a death in the family. But they had never stayed more than a few days, and those people had never been prone to wanting anything but to be left alone.

That’s what Chas had expected from Mr. Leeds when he’d made his reservation. But she’d never had a guest behave like this before, and she wasn’t sure what to do with him. While she couldn’t deny enjoying his company, she had to stand firm in the understanding that it was temporary. For her to become dependent on his company—even a little bit—would set her up for a letdown when he inevitably moved on. And she just wasn’t up to any more letdowns in life.

Jackson cleared his throat unnaturally in order to bring her out of her thoughts. She offered an apologetic smile for allowing her mind to wander, then took another sip of cocoa.

“You said that your grandmother inherited the house. When was that?”

“Oh, she’s always lived here. Her grandparents built it in 1870—which is the year that Charles Dickens died. That tidbit of information will help you impress Granny when you meet her.”

“Okay,” he said, showing the barest hint of a smile. She realized then that he never really smiled. He just hinted at one, as if humor threatened to crack the stone of his visage. Even when he chuckled, it kind of seemed to slip through without his expression changing much.

“Granny’s grandparents came to America from England with a fair amount of money. Apparently they both came from well-to-do families, but wanted to make a fresh start. So they built this house with the plan to raise a large family here. The Dickens tradition apparently began with them, since they had both lived in London while Dickens was still alive. They had both read his works, had grown to care for each other while discussing their common love of his stories, and there’s a rumor that they actually met the great writer after attending one of his public readings.”

“Amazing,” Jackson said.

“Yes, it is.”

“So, they got married and came to America and built this house.”

“That’s right. Due to medical problems, they were only able to have one daughter who lived. That daughter grew up and married a local banker, and they all lived here together in the house, since it was obviously more than ample. Their daughter also hoped for a large family. But she and her husband also only had one daughter who lived. There were five births of babies that didn’t survive.”

“That’s dreadful. Do you think it was something genetic?”

“Most likely,” Chas said, and Jackson noted for the first time since he’d met her that he’d made her uncomfortable. Her confidence had discreetly crumbled.

He wondered whether to ask about that or change the subject, but the “nothing personal” rule convinced him otherwise. “And the daughter who lived is your grandmother.”

“That’s right,” Chas said with a brightness that completely erased her previous glimpse into something painful. “Granny married young, a fine man named Walter. They started dating because she totally hooked him with the fact that Walter was a great character in a Dickens novel.”

“Of course,” Jackson said, that minuscule smile appearing again.

“Fanny and Walter had much the same experience. They had one daughter who lived, and three babies who did not.”

“So, it
is
something genetic?” Jackson asked, wanting to go back to the subject
without
getting personal.

He expected her to answer the question cryptically and once again show vague discomfort. Instead she looked at him with a hardness in her eyes that he never would have expected from the woman he’d gotten to know so far. “You’re very sharp, Mr. Leeds,” she said. Her terse formality apparently came with her mood. “That
is
what the doctor told me when
my
baby died. She lived less than forty-eight hours. Heart defect. The pattern in the family was apparently fascinating to one of our local doctors who had a friend who worked in the field of genetics in some big city. He came and talked with me and Granny. Apparently, with what she could remember about her own babies and her siblings, and the autopsy they did on my baby, that’s the conclusion they came to.”

Jackson allowed silence to settle the words around them. He heard her blow out a long, slow breath just before he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up something difficult—and personal.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know. Now you do.”

“But obviously
you
are very healthy. And so is your grandmother.”

“Obviously. It’s just hit-and-miss, apparently. My mother lived to adulthood, but she never had a strong heart. She died giving birth to me. That’s why Granny raised me. It’s just been the two of us for a very long time. Walter died before I came along. Granny worked at a bakery nearby for many years. Since the house was free and clear, it was plenty for us to manage on, and we’ve had a good life.” She chuckled tensely. “Which brings us back to the history of the house, and—”

“The history of the house and the history of the family are closely intertwined, are they not?”

“Yes, but . . . I’ve given many guests the history of the house without ever bringing
that
into the conversation.” She pointed a finger at him. “It’s because you’re an FBI agent, isn’t it. You’re trained at getting information out of people.”

“I can’t deny the training—or the practice. But my intentions were entirely sincere, I can assure you.”

“Sincere, how?” she countered.

Jackson leaned his forearms on the little table. “I’m genuinely interested, Chas. I’m not trying to prove that you’re guilty of a crime. There
is
a difference.”

Chas smiled and tipped her head. “Fair enough.”

“You
aren’t
guilty of a crime, are you?” he asked facetiously to lighten the mood.

Completely straight-faced, she answered, “Nothing for you to be concerned about; it wouldn’t fall under federal jurisdiction.” For a long moment he really thought she was serious. Then he had to laugh—at himself—to see how thoroughly and naturally she could beat him at his own game. She smiled. “Crime is against my religion, Jackson Tobias Leeds. And if nothing else, I am a woman who lives my religion.”

He noted that she used his full name in a tender voice when she was sincere; moods of sincerity could be variable. “And what religion is that?” he asked.

“I thought we were talking about the house.”

“The house,” he said and leaned back, motioning with his hand.

“I was raised in this house, and loved every nook and cranny.”

“Have you ever lived anywhere else?”

“You keep asking personal questions, Agent Leeds,” she said. Apparently her use of his professional title was meant to put him in his place.

“Sorry,” he said. But he wasn’t. Especially when she answered it.

“I lived away from here for a little over a year after I was married. I left at eighteen and was back before I turned twenty.” He hoped for more explanation, but she avoided anything more that was personal and gracefully went back to the house. “At that point Granny was still working at the bakery and doing okay, but she was starting to show some signs of health problems due to aging, and I knew she couldn’t do it forever. I also had no idea what I wanted to do with
my
life.”

Jackson suspected that the death of her baby had probably occurred in there somewhere, and he would guess that her leaving here had had something to do with becoming Mrs. Henrie, and since she now loathed being
called
Mrs. Henrie, he guessed there had been a divorce.

“The obvious answer was in the house. It was free and clear. Neither Granny nor I had any debt. So, we mortgaged the house to provide the funds for renovation. The project took a couple of years, and here we are. For a while Granny helped with the cooking, but gradually she just couldn’t do it. My friend Charlotte used to work at the same bakery as Granny; that’s how we became friends. She now bakes at home in order to be with her kids; she’s a single mom. And she provides all the baked goods we use here.”

“You like it here, then,” he said. “You like your work.”

“I love it!” she said with even more enthusiasm than he’d expected. “I am grounded to this house. I can get away when I need to, but this is my home port. It’s a part of me; I’m a part of it. This house is generations of my family. I can’t even imagine living anywhere else. And I
do
love the work. It’s perfect for me. I like taking care of people, helping them get some good R & R. I can afford to hire enough help that it makes my workload pretty light. I have a good life.”

Jackson glanced around, as if his surroundings represented the life she spoke of. “I can see that,” he said, then looked at her again. “But it’s just you and Granny?”

A flash of anger came into her eyes so quickly that he was afraid she’d get up and leave, but she only said, “Now you’re getting
way
too personal, Agent Leeds.”

Neatly put in his place, he nodded and said, “Forgive me. I’ll try to be less personal . . . Mrs. Henrie.” He wanted to add a snide “touché,” but he could tell by her eyes that she’d already gotten it. Then they were saved by the bell.

The ringing of a phone startled Chas, then she realized it was on Jackson’s belt.

“Sorry,” he said and stood up as he pulled off the phone, glanced at it, and answered, “Agent Leeds here.” He moved into the hallway, but certainly not far enough away to be out of earshot. Apparently he didn’t care if she overheard. Discreetly listening was a great distraction from the gamut of emotions she’d just gone through during their little chat.

“What do you need?” Jackson said into the phone in a voice that made it evident he likely held some position of significance; he was accustomed to giving orders. “Or did you just call to shoot the breeze?” Long pause to listen. “No, I
do
know you better than that.” Another pause. “No, I’m not all right. Did you expect me to be?” Short pause. “Then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.” Very long pause, then his voice became gentler, more concerned. “How are Mary and the kids?” Long pause with occasional grunting noises to indicate that he was listening. “I’d ask you to give them my love, but I don’t think it would go over very well.” More silence. “No, I’m not going to tell you where I am, and if you trace my credit card or the GPS on my phone, I’ll have you fired.” Forced chuckle. “I still have enough clout to get you fired, so mind your manners. Thanks for calling.” Silence. “No, I don’t know when I’ll be back. Maybe I
won’t
come back.” He hung up the phone without saying good-bye.

“Sorry,” he said again as he sat back down.

“Why are you apologizing? It’s not like we’re on a date or something, and even if we were, I wouldn’t be offended by your taking a phone call.”

“Would
you go on a date with me?”

“No,” she said without even looking at him, and he knew that she knew he was teasing. “Did you
want
to go on a date with me?”

“No, I was just wondering.”

“Glad that’s settled,” she said and finished off her cocoa. The silence made it simply too tempting not to say what she was thinking. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”

“And what did you figure out about me . . . Detective?”

Jackson expected to hear summary and speculation over the entire conversation, when he wasn’t certain
he
could even remember what he’d said. But she looked at him squarely and said, “That you’re not all right.” He looked away abruptly, not wanting her to see the echo of her words in his eyes. Then she added gently, “You obviously weren’t trying to keep me from overhearing.”

“Maybe I should have,” he said and stood up and left the room, taking his coffee with him.

CHAPTER 3

Jackson hurried up to his room and paced for twenty minutes. He could always think better when he paced. He couldn’t think of a single logical reason why he felt so utterly fascinated with and drawn to this lovely little innkeeper. But he could think of a great many practical reasons why she was a woman worthy of spending time with. She was smart, but not just smart—she was sharp. She was funny, practical, interesting, and she could see right through him. That was perhaps the part that created the greatest enigma. That was the oxymoron. The very thing that left him frequently off balance and defensive was the very thing that made him want so badly to figure her out. Maybe that was it. Maybe he just saw her as a mystery, and for him, a mystery always needed to be figured out. And yet, just figuring her out didn’t feel like enough. He wanted to
know
her, and he hadn’t been confronted with a desire to really
know
a woman since Julie had left him. How long had it been? More than twenty years. Beyond that, he’d lost count. He was obviously out of practice in communicating with a woman who could hold his attention. The women he worked with didn’t count. They had brains and brass. He respected them, but they weren’t the kind of women he would ever want to go home to.

Jackson gasped over that last thought.
Go home to?
He’d not even known Chas Henrie for twenty-four hours. Had he lost his mind? This was surely some part of the post-traumatic stress he’d been warned about. What was he doing? Latching onto some obscure comfort to compensate for some deep-seated, unfulfilled need? Maybe he
did
need a shrink. Recalling how angry he’d gotten about insisting that he
didn’t
need one, prior to leaving the office, he felt a little foolish.

“Okay, Leeds,” he said aloud, then groaned. Now he was talking to himself. He finished the rest of the statement silently.
You’re just exhausted and traumatized. She’s a nice lady. Quit trying to analyze it and just use the vacation for what it’s meant for. Get some peace and quiet.

Peace and quiet was a good theory, but what he really needed was to expend some energy. The thought appeared at the same moment as he looked out the window to see the walks and driveway piled deep with snow. He didn’t know who was
supposed
to remove it, but it looked like just what he needed to clear his head and release his pent-up energy.

* * * * *

Chas checked on Granny, then cleaned up the kitchen, wondering if Jackson Leeds was all right—or more accurately, how
not
all right he was. And why? She tried to tell herself he was just another guest and it was none of her business. But there were too many implications laced through their conversations to ignore. He needed a friend, and if she was any kind of a decent innkeeper, she could be that friend while he was around.

She heard a scraping sound outside and wondered what on earth it could be. If the snow removal guy had arrived, she would hear the small engine of his ATV with the snow blade. Peering out the window, she checked the accuracy of her vision, then chuckled, then felt a deepening level of respect for Jackson Leeds. He was shoveling the snow off the walk with a great deal of vigor. And she knew it was a heavy snow from the little bit she’d scraped off the steps earlier with the shovel that was always left on the porch. She grabbed her own coat and dug into the chest of miscellaneous cold-weather gear before she went out to the porch. He turned for a moment when he heard the door close, then he went right back to his work while she walked down the steps and stood behind him.

“If you keep this up, I’ll have to give you a discount.”

“Not necessary,” he said with a subtle terseness that made her wonder if he was still angry over what she’d overheard—or more accurately, what she’d said about it.

“Okay, but you could pause a moment.”

He stopped and turned to face her. She held up two choices of thick knit caps. “Your coat and gloves aren’t bad for Montana, but your head and ears are going to freeze. Black or green,” she said like a game show host.

He took the black one and pulled it onto his head. “Thank you,” he said and went back to work.

“I have someone coming to clear the snow. They’re just backed up, for obvious reasons. You really don’t need to do this.”

“I need something to do,” he said.

“Fine, shovel the walks. But leave the parking lot for the snow guy. He’ll feel cheated if he doesn’t have anything to do when he gets here.”

Chas went back in the house and hovered in the parlor, not close enough to the window that he could see her, but close enough that she could see him. She’d never met anyone like him, but she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

Jackson shoveled all the walks and enough of the main drive so that a car could get in or out without getting stuck. He left the rest for
the snow guy.
The falling snow had slowed to a light sprinkle of white glittery dust, which meant that the results of his efforts might actually last a while. He went through the back door this time, where he discovered that the office was located just off the hall. While stuffing his gloves into his coat pockets he noted a rack for coats, a little bench to sit on, and a place for shoes. Since his shoes were very wet, he sat down to unlace and remove them. He hung up his coat and the hat she’d loaned him. He peered into the office and found no one there, so he took a moment to absorb its details. The large desk showed evidence of much paperwork, and a lot of busyness taking place there, but it was tidy. There was a phone with lots of buttons that obviously connected to every room in the house. The desk itself was likely a period piece, as were the chairs and the large sideboard that had a plate of pastries beneath an elaborate glass cover, and stacks of pretty paper napkins. On the shelves above were copies of novels by Charles Dickens for sale. On the opposite wall were several elaborately framed photos of the famous author at different stages of his life.
How very Dickensian,
he would have said to Chas if she were here.

Jackson wandered up the hall to the front of the inn where he’d come in the night before. The staircase rose from a beautiful entryway. To one side was the dining room, and off of that was the kitchen. On the other side of the entry was an inviting parlor that was obviously intended for the use of guests. There were magazines on a coffee table, and a computer on a corner table. Of course, the furnishings were all authentic or at least excellent imitations. Then his eye caught something completely out of place, but it made his heart quicken before he fully realized what it meant. On the ornate wood mantel of the fireplace was a military American flag, folded and preserved in a triangular wood and glass case that housed it perfectly. On one side of the flag sat a framed set of two military medals that he knew well. And on the other side was the framed picture of a man wearing dress uniform. Air Force. He noticed then a tiny gold plaque at the bottom of the flag case.
In loving memory of Lt. Martin Henrie.
He let out a weighted sigh and felt his heart tighten on behalf of this woman he was just getting to know. He cursed under his breath and shook his head as he picked up the framed pictured of Chas’s deceased husband. He wondered what kind of man he was, and how it had happened. He hadn’t expected to get caught.

“I see the two of you have met,” Chas said from the doorway, and he turned, still holding the picture.

“How did it happen?”

Chas sighed and stepped a little farther into the room. “I wish I could say he had died defending a life or fighting for freedom. But it was meaningless. A training exercise.”

Jackson reverently set the picture back on the mantel. “He was still fighting for freedom,” he said firmly.

Chas heard an unexpected conviction in his tone and guessed with some degree of confidence, “You have a military background.”

Jackson was surprised by her perception. She had gotten that out of six words and his body language. So much for thinking he was unreadable. “Marines. Twelve years.”

Not wanting to talk about Martin, she said, “Great experience for an FBI agent.”

“Yeah.” He looked at her and wondered for the hundredth time what made him want to speak his thoughts as opposed to his habit of keeping them to himself. Instead of trying to figure out why, he just said, “I’m afraid both have given me a lot of experiences I’d rather forget.”

Chas thought about that for a moment and got a hint of why Jackson Leeds seemed so troubled and dark. She hoped she wasn’t being
too
obnoxious to ask, “Is that why you’re here? Trying to forget?”

“Something like that.”

A thought occurred to her, and she asked with mild alarm, “You don’t have a gun here, do you?”

“No,” he chuckled. “Are you afraid I’ll freak out and kill you in your sleep?”

“No, I was hoping you could protect me if the house gets invaded.”

“I can throw a mean left hook.”

“Oh, well, then, there’s nothing to worry about. Do you
usually
carry a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Why not now?”

“I’m on vacation.”

“I know, but . . . I thought . . . FBI was like . . . always on duty kind of stuff.”

“You’ve been watching too much TV. But yes, I usually carry a firearm. I feel naked without it.”

“Then why don’t you have it?”

“Why do you ask so many questions?”

“When I start asking more questions than you do, then you can ask why I ask so many questions.”

“Once I figure out what that means, I’ll let you know.”

“Why no gun?”

“How long since your husband was killed?”

“I was asking the questions.”

“Fair is fair. How long has it been?”

Chas sighed and couldn’t dispute fair being fair. She answered, if only to give her more leverage in satisfying her own curiosity. “I was notified twelve years ago yesterday. I don’t remember the date as much as I remember that it was the Sunday before Thanksgiving.”

Jackson was surprised at how long it had been, but not by the evidence in her eyes that it was still hard. Some things were just that way. He thought of how young they must have been, and it stirred memories of his own. They were more alike than she realized, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to point that out. Not yet, at least. He chose instead to point out the obvious. “Then yesterday was a difficult day for you.”

“The Sunday before Thanksgiving is always a difficult day for me.”

“Men in uniform came to your door.”

“That’s right,” she said, then silently waited for clarification of this statement.

“I used to be one of those men who showed up at the door. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Is that what you always said?”

“Yes, and I always meant it. I mean it now.”

“Thank you,” she said and looked down. “Does being an FBI agent also include such deplorable duties?”

“It does, actually.”

She looked at him. “Maybe you should consider a profession that isn’t so depressing . . . or dangerous. It is, dangerous, isn’t it?”

Jackson hated the way his mind flashed instantly through a hundred moments that verified the statement, the worst being the reason he could hardly bring himself to look in the mirror. “I suppose it is,” he said nonchalantly, “but after being a marine, danger becomes relative.”

“What you mean is that you get used to putting your life on the line.”

“I suppose that’s what it means. I’ve never really thought about it. I just do it.” Wanting to get the conversation back to
her,
he added, “The way your husband did it.” Her eyes turned sad, and she looked down. “You still miss him.”

“I do. We grew up together. I’ve loved him as far back as I can remember.”

“I’ve often wondered why it’s the good ones who get killed.” His words had a bite that increased when he added, “Why can’t more of the idiots and jerks get killed in training exercises?”

Rather than pondering how that bit
her
emotions, she chose to say to
him,
“Ooh, that sounds personal.”

“You bet it’s personal, but I’m not going there with someone I only met yesterday.”

“Fine,” she said and put up her hands. “Why don’t you have your gun with you?”

Jackson sighed, hoping she might have forgotten where the conversation had been leading. “I’m compulsively honest, you know. My coworkers said it wasn’t always a good thing. I’ve been told I should be a little more tactful and a little less honest.”

“Is that relevant to this conversation?”

“I either have to change the subject and avoid the question, or I have to tell you the truth.”

“So, tell me the truth.”

“I’m on administrative leave.” He checked her expression for a reaction, and couldn’t keep himself from finishing the explanation. She had that effect on him. “When a shooting occurs, the firearms involved are taken by the department until the investigation is complete.” When she only responded with silence, he asked, “Have you watched enough TV to know what I’m talking about, or do I need to spell it out for you?”

She thought for a minute. “You fired shots, and there’re some questions over what happened exactly, or there wouldn’t be an investigation.”

“Very good, Detective,” he said, only mildly sarcastic. While he was questioning his wisdom over getting into this conversation, he had to admit he was glad he’d done it. There was something liberating in having her know the truth, just as he felt better knowing what had happened to her husband. Even though both stories were ugly. But she didn’t know it all yet. Her questioning gaze let him know she soon would.

“Administrative leave? Do they think you did something wrong?”

“It’s under investigation.”

“Did
you do something wrong?”

“I don’t know, Chas. I’ve gone over it in my mind a thousand times. I’m not sure what I did, or how it happened. All I know for sure are the results, and I’m not sure I can live with them.”

“That’s why you’re here. You needed distance from it.”

“That’s right.”