Jeff massaged his hand. “Whatever I did, the SOB deserved. He’s not gonna win, Dee. Trust me on this.” He hugged her.
“Ach. Can’t breathe.”
“Sorry.”
Jeff released her. She managed a fond smile. “Thank you. For being there for me. There’s nothing we can do about Michael now, so let’s put all our energy into getting more guest rooms ready. We need to attract a better class of clientele.” She added the last line in a halfhearted attempt at humor.
“I’ll work on the rooms,” Jeff said. “You do whatever you need to do to take care of yourself.”
Dee decided to take Jeff’s advice. She took Nugget on a long walk, then spent a few hours cleaning more frames, a mindless task that proved relaxing. She didn’t have much of an appetite, so after a dinner that was mostly liquid—as in lots of wine—she passed out early.
Unfortunately, science proved correct in its claim that alcohol was not a sleep aid and Dee woke up after only a few hours. She lay on her back staring at a water stain on the ceiling she hadn’t noticed before, mentally adding it to the Golden’s endless list of repairs.
She tried going back to sleep, but the comfort she’d found in dismissing Baker as a threat had evaporated. The only thing worse than a competitive writer was a desperate writer. Michael could be stealing my life for a script right now, Dee thought, incensed.
She toyed with a few fantasies of Baker meeting an ugly demise, then landed on a fate worse than death for a comedy writer: a terrible script reading. Dee pictured him sweating as every joke he wrote fell flat, met with silence instead of laughs. Reveling in the thought of the deceitful writer enduring this torture, she finally drifted off.
She awoke to the sound of the old-fashioned call bell in the Golden lobby that announced a guest’s arrival. Startled, she called out, “Be right there.” She threw on clothes, gave her hair a quick brush, and popped a mint.
She strolled into the lobby through the door that connected it with her apartment. A couple around her age waited on the other side of the pine-paneled reservations counter.
“Hi,” the man said. “We decided to take a spur-of-the-moment trip to Majestic, but they’re booked up.”
“We weren’t expecting that so early in the season,” the woman said. “We stopped at this cute little general store and the owner recommended your place. She said it’s a mid-century time capsule you’re restoring. We’re big fans of that.”
God bless Elmira, who is my new BFF. “Wonderful.” Dee gave them her sunniest smile. “We have one recently refurbished guest room in the main building ready for guests. We also have a cabin that a guest recently checked out of.” She said a prayer she was right, and that Michael Adam Baker was gone from the motel and her life.
The couple debated; then the woman said, “The motel is so sweet and charming. We’ll take the room there.”
“Fantastic.” Dee began typing the reservation into the website system Jeff had set up. “Let me book the reservation, then I’ll take your credit card and a form of ID.”
“Do you, by any chance, have a wine-and-cheese hour?” the woman asked. “I saw you have a picnic table in the grove of woods by the motel. It would be lovely to sit out there with a glass of wine and enjoy nature.”
“Oh, yes,” Dee said, regretting she’d gotten off course in planning the Golden’s amenities and making a mental grocery list for the All-in-One. “It starts at”—the triangle bell began ringing, to Dee’s bewilderment; she ignored it—“five and goes until . . .” The ringing continued, with increased urgency. “Sounds like someone’s having fun with our old-timey bell,” she said, faking a laugh. “Let me text my partner. He can show you to your room.”
She shot Jeff a text: We have guests! And are u ringing that g-d- bell??
There was no response. “You know what, I’ll show you there myself.”
She led the couple outside, where she saw Mister Ma’am banging the triangle. “Be right with you,” she called to him, adding with emphasis, “You can stop ringing!”
She deposited the couple in their guest room and after assuring them she could be reached by text to handle any and all of their needs, she hurried to Mister Ma’am.
“What’s going on?” she asked, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “It’s been a rough couple of days and you’re giving me a headache with that thing.”
“It’s about to get worse,” Mister said with alarming bluntness. “I was out chopping in the woods behind the cabins, about where your property bumps up against the Majestic. And I came across something bad. A body.”
Dee gasped. “Oh, my God.”
The older man gave her a somber look. “Pretty sure you know the guy.”
Dee thought of the text she’d sent Jeff, which remained unanswered. A feeling of nausea welled up and she fought to control it. “Take me to him.”
She followed the backwoodsman through the brush, pushing aside branches that scraped against her as they hiked deeper into the forest. Mister Ma’am came to a stop. “There.”
Dee closed her eyes. She clutched her heart and inhaled a big, shuddering breath. Steeling herself, she opened her eyes . . . and gasped again.
Michael Adam Baker, clad in his expensive black leather bomber jacket, lay sprawled face down on the ground. Blood dripped from a gaping wound on the back of his head.
CHAPTER 8
For a dizzying moment, Dee felt like she’d stepped into the middle of a production shot. But this wasn’t the movies. It wasn’t TV. It was real life.
And Michael Adam Baker was really dead.
After emergency texts to 911 and to Jeff on Dee’s part, she and Mister waited in silence with the body of the late writer for what felt like hours, but turned out to be only ten minutes.
They heard the sound of someone running through the woods. Seconds later, Jeff appeared, out of breath from more exertion than the techie was used to. “Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I was trying to talk Yes-that-Donner Gillespie into working with you on the historical trail and only just checked my messages.” His face paled at the sight of Michael’s body. “Oh, man. I can’t believe I’m saying this about him, but poor guy. What happened?”
“Don’t know.” Mister rubbed the stubble on his chin as he contemplated the question. “Coulda been a bear.”
“It’s my fault,” Dee said, shaking like a leaf. “I cursed him. I yelled that I hoped a bear ate him. And now one killed him.”
“Dee, I love you like a sister, but that’s cuckoo-crazy talk.” Jeff said this with compassion.
More crunching of underbrush came from the forest. Tree branches parted and a young man dressed like a nineteenth-century sheriff emerged. “Oh, great,” Dee said, aggravated. “There’s some kind of cosplay event going on. Just what we need.”
“That’s not a costume,” Mister said. “It’s Deputy Sheriff Raul Aguilar from the Goldsgone substation of the county sheriff agency. The county thinks it makes tourists more relaxed if law enforcement looks as period as everyone else working in Goldsgone. Hey, Raul.”
