Dee was about to respond, when a bark came from Serena’s baby sling. A Morkie stuck out its small head and Serena petted it. “What’s in the carriage?” Dee, taken aback, asked Elmira, sotto voce.
“A baby. Emmy,” Elmira whispered back to her. “The dog is Oscar. You never know who’s where, so it’s always best to check.”
The Ma’ams greeted Serena with almost tearful joy. A moment later, Dee learned why. The general store door slammed open. A brunette in her twenties dressed in business attire stomped toward them. She carried a huge wooden cutting board covered with an array of meats, cheeses, and dried fruits. She dropped the board on the bar counter with a thud and stomped back the way she came, slamming the door shut behind her. “My husband’s assistant,” Serena said. “Marisa Young. She doesn’t like me.”
The Ma’ams descended on the board. “Serena, you outdid yourself,” Mister said with a mouth full of prosciutto.
Serena responded with a small curtsy. “Thank you so much, Mister.” She favored Dee with a smile formed by rosebud lips. “I’m a charcuterie artist. Some people create works of art with paint or pastels. I create them with foodstuffs.”
“Nice,” Dee said, her sympathies with the assistant. She checked her watch again. “I’ll give it another five minutes before we start. People may be running late.”
“They’re not.” Ma’am carried a plate piled high with charcuterie to a table. “Summer people aren’t here yet and the rest of us gave up competing with Goldsgone for tourists a long time ago. But go ahead and tell us about this trail idea of yours.”
“Right,” Dee said, utterly deflated. “Okay. I, uh . . .” She fumbled with her phone, then began reading. “‘What is the buried treasure of Foundgold? It’s no longer actual gold. It’s history. When I began going through the late Jasper Gormley’s belongings, I discovered a wealth of historic artifacts . . .’ ”
Pitching an idea destined to fail was excruciating, but Dee powered through, sharing her vision of creating a trail leading from one historic Foundgold site to another, culminating with a small museum and gift shop—Elmira’s favorite addition to the proposal—in the All-in-One. Finally, blessedly, she was done.
To her shock, Serena jumped to her feet, applauding, earning an annoyed bark from the Morkie. “It’s a fantastic idea. Brava!”
“It’s good,” Ma’am acknowledged. “But I wish you luck pulling it off. Elmira, could me and the mister get some to-go boxes?”
While the Ma’ams concentrated on boxing up a food haul, Serena pushed her carriage to Dee. Dee glanced inside to check out the baby. An adorable little being, around ten months old, cooed at her and batted literal baby blue eyes.
“I love the thought of a history trail in Foundgold,” Serena said. “I’ll do whatever I can to make it happen.”
“Thank you so much,” Dee said, grateful for the enthusiasm.
“Also,” Serena added as she simultaneously bounced the baby in the carriage and dog in the baby sling, “I want to talk to you about charcuterie options at the Golden. I think a breakfast theme would be unique. No one in Goldsgone—they’re your biggest competitor—is doing it. And if you’re doing a happy hour for guests, a charcuterie board is perfect.”
Dee’s positive impression of Serena instantly trended downward. She’s only sucking up because she sees me as a future client, she thought, disappointed. “Thank you, but I don’t think charcuterie fits into our vision of the Golden.”
After a few minutes of obligatory small talk, Dee said her goodbyes, then left the café and trudged to her car. The meeting couldn’t be labeled anything but a complete dud. She fought back tears and regrets on the drive home, but couldn’t avoid feeling dispirited.
She parked on the side lot by her motel apartment. Even with power fully restored to the Golden, the woods surrounding it were deep and ominously dark. Dee hurried to her front door. As she leaned down to put her key in the lock, the front door slowly swung open.
“Uh-oh,” Dee murmured.
Frightened, she peeked inside . . .
. . . and let out a scream as the shadow of a man loomed over her.
CHAPTER 5
Michael stepped into the light. “Dee, I’m so sorry.” He couldn’t have sounded more contrite. “I needed another roll of toilet paper, so I came by to ask you for it. When I knocked, the door opened. You might want to get a more secure door. I think the hinges on this one have corroded. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Nugget, shush, boy. It’s okay.” Dee’s scream had triggered a round of barking from where the dog still lay supine. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. Not stocking a guest room with enough toilet paper is a rookie innkeeper’s mistake. Did you find more?” Michael shook his head.
“I’ll get it for you.”
Dee went to the pantry, which also served as a second supply closet to the supply room located in the lodge. She retrieved a four-pack of toilet paper and handed it to Michael with an apologetic smile. “My bad. If you need anything else, text me. Jeff and I want our first guest review to be a good one.”
Michael gave her one of his now-signature mock salutes. “No worries on that score, Madame Innkeeper.” He departed with his stash.
Dee texted Jeff a reminder that they both should confirm the TP status in a guest room before marking it as available. Her adrenaline still pumping from the unexpected fright, she sat down at the dining-room table and booted up her laptop. It was time to check out the tourism competitions.
She entered a search for “Goldsgone Tourism” and a website titled visitgoldsgone.com popped up at the top of the page. She clicked on it and found herself viewing an appealing site trumpeting the vacation delights of the neighboring town. The site was cleverly designed to look like a nineteenth-century sepia-toned newspaper titled the Goldsgone Gazette, but loaded with up-to-date color photos and chockful of upcoming events and travel tips. Inspired, Dee made a note of the tourism director’s name. She’d visit her in the morning and pitch a joint promotional venture between the two towns.
Nugget rose to his feet. He loped over to the doggy door and exited to an enclosed dog run attached to the house. He reappeared a few minutes later and headed for the bedroom. The events of the day caught up with Dee. She gave a weary yawn, closed her computer, and started for the bedroom. Her phone pinged a text. She checked and saw Jeff had written back to her: There was a four-pack in his room. Trust me on this.
Discomfited, Dee pondered this development. Did Michael lie to her? If so, what was he doing in her living quarters? Then again, maybe he burned through the toilet paper already provided. When a man needs TP, he needs TP. If she wasn’t supposed to question a guest’s backstory, she certainly wasn’t about to question their bathroom habits.
* * *
Standing outside the Goldsgone Mercantile and Emporium the next morning, Dee touched up her lipstick. What to wear had been an hourlong internal debate. Her wardrobe consisted of T-shirts, jeans, athleisure wear, and a couple of business casual outfits for shoot nights, the evenings some of the shows she worked on filmed in front of a live audience. For an impromptu meeting with the town’s tourism director, which further research had shown to be a volunteer position, one look felt too casual, the other too formal.
She’d finally gone with crisp black jeans and a taupe silk button-down shirt. For an extra dollop of good luck, she adorned the shirt with a simple but stunning gold starburst brooch inherited from her beloved late mother. Black ankle booties added two inches of height to her frame. Then again, maybe I should have dressed like a frontier woman, she thought as a woman walked by wearing nineteenth-century prairie garb. Everyone who worked in Goldsgone seemed to embrace the cosplay of promoting their historic mining town by dressing like time stopped in 1849.
The store was housed in a 150-year-old stucco-and-red-brick building. Large multipaned sash windows sat on either side of double doors decorated with beveled isinglass decorative inserts. A metal awning ran along the front, offering protection from inclement weather, more likely in winter than the current spring season. Carved into the stucco above the entrance was 1852—the year of the building’s birth.
A family of three entered the store. Dee took a breath to calm her nerves and followed them inside, entering under a banner that read in an old typescript: A GOLD MINE OF GIFTS FOR ALL AGES!
Dee took in the shop’s interior and immediately concluded that stepping into the Goldsgone Mercantile and Emporium was about as close to entering a time tunnel as a human being could get. Wooden shelves lined every wall from floor to ceiling, filled with souvenirs meant to evoke a bygone century. Glass display cases displaying a wide range of penny candy ran down the shop’s center, creating aisles on either side. Calico bonnets, ranging in size from adult to infant, hung from hooks running along the edges of the display cases. Harmonica music sounded from wireless speakers disguised as miniature cracker barrels. Dee sniffed the scent permeating the air. It smells like root beer, but not quite. Is that . . . sarsaparilla?
She glanced around the shop for her target, Verity Gillespie. A tall, lean saleswoman hovering somewhere around Medicare age approached Dee. She was dressed in standard Goldsgone pioneer garb of long gingham dress, white apron, and eyelet lace–trimmed bonnet, and had the weathered skin of someone with a disdain for sunblock.
“Welcome to the Mercantile and Emporium,” she greeted Dee with a beneficent smile. “Can I help you shop for some necessities and vittles?”
“Thank you,” Dee said, giving the woman points for working the word “vittles” into modern conversation. “I’m not shopping . . . today.” She added the last word to make sure she didn’t turn off the saleswoman, whose face had fallen upon hearing “not shopping.”
