Room At The Inn (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) Read Free Page A

two different things. After the breakfast rush, and with a little help from either Susan or one of her staff, Maggie could dress the tables to give the appearance of a sumptuous feast. Maybe if we moved the village display a little to the right....
    I was still pondering various photographic scenarios when Maggie arrived. She'd brought the novel she was reading, as well as a pad of paper and a felt-tipped pen.
    "You must be a mind reader," I said, as she handed me the tablet.
    "I figured you might want to sketch the placement of the lights."
    "It sounds like you think I know what I'm doing."
    "We can at least go through the motions," she teased, taking a seat across from me at the table.
    An older, silver-haired woman, dressed in gray slacks and a bulky turquoise sweater, entered. Her sweater's bright color only emphasized her waxy complexion.
    "Ah, good, coffee," she said, with a trace of an English accent. She poured a cup, snagged a napkin and a couple of cookies, and turned. "Would you mind?" she asked, indicating an empty chair at our table.
    "No," I said.
    She sat and offered me her hand. Warm and dry to the touch, the woman broadcasted a flood of conflicting emotions—excitement, trepidation, and a sense of anticipation. I took a ragged breath and forced a smile. God, I hate when that happens.
    "Eileen Marshall," she said.
    "Jeff Resnick," I managed. "And this is Maggie Brennan."
    She shook Maggie's hand, too. "I saw you and your photography equipment outside earlier. Susan says you're doing an article on the inn."
    "Yes," Maggie said.
    "Where will it be published?"
    "I freelance for Country Lifestyles," Maggie said, not mentioning her day job as a contract secretary at one of Buffalo's banks.
    "I work in the publishing field and am always on the lookout for new talent," she said.
    Maggie brightened. "Oh?"
    "I worked for Hearst Publications for many years in their New York office. I'm currently a consultant and still have many contacts in Manhattan. Occasionally I help authors and photographers place their work." She took out a business card and handed it to Maggie, then took a bite of cookie. "Hmm. Very good. You'll mention these in your piece, won't you?"
    "Yes," Maggie said, studied the card, and then tucked it in her book before she got up to pour a cup of decaf and grab a cookie.
    "Are you here for business or pleasure?" I asked Eileen.
    "Both. Still, I can use a few days holiday," she explained. She did look tired. As I studied her thin face, I got the feeling she really wasn't well at all.
    "Have you met any of the other guests?" Maggie asked, taking her seat once more.
    "A few," Eileen said. "I've been here before. People trickle in all evening. They seem to congregate downstairs between nine and ten. Susan and Zack leave a bottle of sherry out on the bar. It helps break the ice."
    "Too bad Brenda's missing this," I said. "My sister-in-law," I explained for Eileen's benefit. "She's the sherry drinker in the family."
    "I've visited many New England inns, but I have a special affection for the Sugar Maple," Eileen said. "We had a splendid time in the hot tub last spring. Very relaxing."
    We?
    "I guess I must've missed it during the tour," I said.
    "It’s out by the pool," she said.
    "It sounds heavenly," Maggie said wistfully.
    The conversation waned. I sipped the last of my coffee while Maggie nibbled her cookie. Footsteps descended the stairs, accompanied by laughter. Eileen looked at her watch. "Right on time. Shall we meet some of the others?"
    I was content to sit on my ass and be thoroughly antisocial, but Maggie looked hopeful. "Why not," I said, and pushed back my chair.
    We cut through the large, bright, utilitarian kitchen, depositing our dirty cups in the deep porcelain sink. Various sized skillets hung in orderly fashion over a center island. Plates, bowls, and glasses lined open shelves within easy reach. Antique cooking utensils decorated open spaces on the walls, including an impressive array of