Inn for Murder, page 8
“You’ve only been running the inn for a few weeks,” I said. “You couldn’t have known him that well.”
There was a moment of silence as she processed my words.
“So you weren’t...dating?” I broached the subject as carefully as I could. She was my boss after all, but I really wanted to know.
“Heavens, no.” Stella didn’t seem to know whether to act horrified to amused.
“Ah, sorry. I thought Marty had a little crush on you.”
“I never really saw him as more than a friend,” Stella added thoughtfully. “He’s really not my type. Plus, my husband passed away less than a year ago. I’m not ready to date anyone.”
“Right.” I trailed off, feeling awkward discussing the love life of my boss.
Stella met my gaze. “Actually, what about you, Sophie? What’s your type?”
I blushed, caught off guard. “I don’t really have a type,” I said.
“Everyone has a type,” Stella teased, leaning in closer to me. “Come on, spill the beans. Take my sons for example. Are you more into the strong silent type like Max, or the funny goofball like Jesse?”
“I mean…” I felt my cheeks growing hot. “I don’t really know them that well.”
Stella chuckled. “Well, let me tell you a little secret. Max may seem like a tough guy, but he’s really a softie at heart. And Jesse might come off as a goofball, but he’s also very intelligent. They’re both good catches in their own ways.”
It was clear that she adored her sons. Was it all in good fun, or did she genuinely want me to pursue a relationship with one of them? Regardless, like Stella, I wasn’t ready to dive into romance just yet. For the time being, I was content being a part of their world, working alongside the Amandes towards the success of the Wildflower Inn.
“It’s shocking that they’re both still single,” I remarked. “And with all the gorgeous women in this town and coming through the inn, you’d think they would have been snatched up by now.”
“They’re each waiting for that special one,” Stella said, that twinkle of mischief still in her eyes. “They want someone who can keep up with them intellectually and emotionally.”
We were interrupted by Jesse’s loud voice echoing from the kitchen counter. “Hey, Sophie!” He frantically waved a wooden spoon in my direction. “Could you do me a favor and taste this tomato sauce? It’s for the pasta we’re having for lunch and I need to make sure it’s just right.”
“Sure.” I excused myself.
“Oh course, dear.” She gave me another knowing smile.
I approached Jesse, allowing him to spoon sauce into my mouth. It was delectable, tangy and savory with a perfect hint of spice that left a lingering, pleasant sensation on my tongue.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Max watching us from the front desk. Did he look amused? Or annoyed?
I looked at my watch. Shoot. My shift was about to start. That was probably why Max was looking at me. With a quick reassurance to Jesse about the sauce being just right, I hurriedly made my exit to start my shift.
Jesse looked a little disappointed but grinned and said he’d save me a plate for lunch.
“I’ll be here,” I called back.
At the front desk, Max gave me a rundown of the day’s reservations and tasks. His tone was all business as usual, but I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of...something towards him. Behind his laser focus and drive, there was a subtle vulnerability that shone through at times. I found myself wanting to know more about him.
He asked, “Can you also come by the office when it’s less busy? I still haven’t quite figured out Excel and I know you’re good at it.”
My heart raced as I nodded eagerly. I didn’t know why. What was so exciting about Excel?
“Sure. I can give you some tips.”
But sometimes just standing next to Max gave me goosebumps.
Maybe I did have a type. I liked men with a bit of mysterious. Stella may be onto something.
Continue The Wildflower Inn Mysteries with book 2, Inn Too Deep.
When famous romance author Geneva Panchella checks into the Wildflower Inn, her visit is anything but ordinary. Flamboyant, glamorous, and trailed by a dangerous stalker, Geneva’s hometown book signing stirs up more than just small-town gossip. As unsettling incidents escalate, inn reservation manager Sophie Grant finds herself caught in a mystery straight out of one of Geneva’s novels.
Get the ebook here or read an excerpt at the end of this book.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Harper Lin is a 3x USA TODAY bestselling cozy mystery author. When she's not reading or writing mysteries, she loves going to yoga classes, hiking, and baking with her family and friends.
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A NOTE FROM HARPER
Thank you so much for reading Inn for Murder. If you were entertained by this Wildflower Inn mystery, please recommend it to friends and family who would enjoy it too. I would also really appreciate it if you could write a book review to help spread the word.
If you like this series, you might also enjoy my other series:
• The Bookish Cafe Mysteries: Maggie Bell loves working at a bookshop in Fair Haven, CT, until her boss’s son takes over. A cozy mystery series with romance.
• The Cape Bay Cafe Mysteries: When Fran moves back to her idyllic beach town to take over the family café, she also develops a knack for solving bizarre murders. Each book includes special recipes.
• The Pink Cupcake Mysteries: A new divorcée sells delicious cupcakes from a pink food truck, to the chagrin of her ex-husband. Each book includes cupcake recipes.
• Secret Agent Granny: 70-year-old Barbara, a sweet grandmother—and a badass ex-CIA agent, is bored in retirement, until someone in her small town is murdered.
• The Wonder Cats Mysteries: three witches and their magical cats solve paranormal murder cases in the mystical town of Wonder Falls.
• The Southern Sleuth: Becky Mackenzie can talk to ghosts, and they help her solve crimes. A historical series set in the Jazz Age of speakeasies and flappers in beautiful and gothic Savannah.
• The Patisserie Mysteries: An heiress to a famous French patisserie chain takes over the family business, while using her status as a Parisian socialite to solve murders in high society. Each book includes French dessert recipes.
• The Emma Wild Mysteries: a 4-Book holiday cozy series about a famous singer returning to her small Canadian town. Each book includes holiday dessert recipes.
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EXCERPT FROM “INN TOO DEEP”
The lobby of the Wildflower Inn had just settled into its usual midday quiet when the double doors swung open, letting in a gust of cool autumn air. I had checked in two guests earlier with a polite smile and a cheerful, “Enjoy your stay,” and was about to take my afternoon break out by the vineyard, but the lobby came to life with the arrival of two guests.
One of them was a striking older woman. Her heels clicked sharply against the polished wood floor. She had an undeniable presence, like a living, breathing homage to Betty Boop. She was in her fifties, with impossibly large brown eyes framed by heavy liner and lashes that could probably create a breeze if she blinked hard enough. Her bright red dress clung to her figure, and white gloves—yes, gloves—peeked out as she waved a lace fan in front of her face. Her hair was piled high in a beehive that could’ve been a structural marvel, and the jangling of her half-dozen bracelets filled the room with cheerful clinks as she strolled toward the front desk.
“I’m telling you, it was him! Tinted windows can’t fool me. Tinted windows on that rust bucket of a jalopy he was driving. Of course, it was him,” she was saying to the tall, broad-shouldered man behind her, who was carrying a couple of vintage suitcases.
“You don’t know it was him for sure.” His voice was calm, but there was a note of weariness to it, like he’d had this exact conversation before.
The woman waved him off with an impatient flick of her hand. “Who else would try and run us off the road right in the middle of town?” she demanded. Then, as if the thought of it had exhausted her, she fanned herself more vigorously and closed the gap to the counter. Her bracelets jingled merrily, a sharp contrast to the storm cloud on her face.
I straightened and smiled, stepping into my role. “Welcome to the Wildflower Inn.”
The woman’s expression softened immediately, her dramatic presence shifting into something almost warm. “Hi, honey. You should have a reservation for Geneva Panchella,” she said, her voice dropping into a smooth purr. Then she winked.
I blinked, surprised but quick to recover. Geneva Panchella. The name had come up during one of our recent staff meetings—a famous romance novelist staying at the inn for a book tour stop. I pulled up her reservation on the computer and found her name instantly.
“Yes, Ms. Panchella,” I said. “You’re in the Vineyard Suite. It’s one of our nicest rooms—French doors, a small balcony overlooking the vineyard, and a clawfoot bathtub.”
She beamed. “Perfect.” Then she leaned closer, her bracelets clinking as she placed her elbows delicately on the counter. “And you should also have a room nearby for my trusty sidekick, Mr. Kean Bellow.”
I glanced at the screen and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. His room is just across the hallway.”
Kean had set the suitcases down by now, his expression unreadable but his presence steady, like a rock in the middle of a stormy sea. I noticed the gold nugget ring on his pinky—a touch that added to the air of mystery about him.
Geneva fanned herself with her lace fan, the motion almost hypnotic as she leaned an elbow on the counter. “That’ll work. Do you have a security guard on duty here?” she asked, her tone somewhere between curiosity and concern.
“Well, not an official security guard,” I admitted, glancing at Kean, who stood stoically beside her. “But the owners live on the premises. There’s always someone around in case of an emergency. Plus, St. Joseph’s Hospital is less than ten minutes away if anyone needs medical attention.” I paused, trying to gauge her mood. “Is there something I can help you with right away?”
She didn’t seem distressed, nor did her bodyguard—or sidekick, or whoever he was. But the question had felt loaded. I must have looked as puzzled as I felt because Geneva sighed dramatically, waving the fan a little faster.
“No, that’s not what I mean,” she said. Before I could press further, Kean chimed in.
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t him,” he said, the sigh in his voice mirroring hers but with less patience.
“Maybe I should speak with the manager,” Geneva said, directing the comment toward Kean rather than me. For a moment, I thought she’d actually ask to see Max. Instead, Kean’s eyes rolled upward in exaggerated exasperation.
“Not now,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Let’s get you unpacked and settled first. You’ll see… it’s all in your head.”
Geneva’s eyebrows shot up as she gave him a withering look. “Oh, yeah? And here I was wondering why I keep you around.” She rolled her eyes right back at him, the two of them exchanging what could only be described as a practiced routine. Their banter left me more confused about their relationship than ever. Separate rooms, no rings on their fingers—whatever they were, it wasn’t something easily labeled.
Clearing my throat, I slid their keys across the counter. “Is there a problem?” I asked cautiously.
Geneva picked up her key and tilted her head toward me, her bracelets jangling. “Honey, can you do me a favor?” she asked. “If a short fellow with graying curly hair, bad teeth, stupid blue-framed glasses, and a belly that makes him look about eight months pregnant walks in the door looking for me, can you call the police right away?”
I froze, blinking at her. The casual delivery made it sound like she was asking for a wake-up call, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. My gaze darted to Kean, whose impassive face gave nothing away, then back to her.
“Are you serious?” I asked, hoping I’d misheard.
“Unfortunately, I am,” Geneva said, her fan slowing as she met my eyes. For the first time since her arrival, there was a flicker of something real in her expression—embarrassment, maybe. “Some ex-husbands can’t seem to grasp the fact that they’re an ex. Do you catch my meaning?”
I did. Far more than I wanted to admit. Memories I’d spent months trying to box away threatened to creep back into my mind. I shoved them down quickly, nodding. “I do,” I said softly.
Her lips curled into a faint, knowing smile, as though we’d just exchanged the secret handshake to some exclusive club neither of us wanted to join.
“Not to involve you in too much of my gross personal life,” she said, “but we were nearly run off the road just now. I think it might have been him. He’s been stalking me since the divorce. Leaving dead birds on my ’58 Plymouth Fury. Breaking windows on my garage. Driving past my house a dozen times a day.” She clicked her tongue, shaking her head as though trying to shake off the weight of it all. “Funny how, when we were married, he had a dozen better places to be. Now that I’ve put him out with the trash, he can’t leave me alone.”
Her words landed heavy, and I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” I managed, though it felt inadequate.
She waved it off, her bracelets jingling again. “I shouldn’t be unloading this on you. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all,” I said. “That’s why I’m in Sierra Hills.” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I quickly shrugged to deflect the truth of it.
“What’s your name, honey?” Geneva asked, tilting her head just enough to give me a good look at those impossibly big, expressive eyes.
“Sophie. Sophie Grant.”
“Sophie, you already know I’m Geneva Panchella. Call me Ginny. I’m on my book tour, and I insisted it be part of the deal that I do a reading and Q&A in my hometown. Some people think I’m doing it to be nice. Truth is, I’m doing it for spite. A lot of people in this town thought they had me pegged when I was growing up. You might say I hold a grudge. But I’ve done signings in smaller towns than this.”
“How exciting,” I said.
Even though I’d never read her books, from what I’d heard in the staff meeting, Ginny wrote novels so steamy her readers were left with flushed cheeks and, apparently, a need to fan themselves. Her personal life, though, was just as dramatic as her books. She’d already mentioned an ex-husband, but which one? There had been four. I couldn’t help it. I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
“It’s not a big deal,” Ginny said, waving her fan dismissively. “I’ll be surprised if anyone shows up. The story of a local girl making it big is kind of cliché. Since there will probably be plenty of open seating, you should come. There’s a free copy of my latest novel in it for you. You do like to read, don’t you?”
I glanced at her, then at Kean, before nodding. “Of course.”
She smiled knowingly. “I could tell you’re a thinker. Thinkers read. It’ll be at Copperstone’s Bookstore tomorrow night. Do you know where that is?”
“I do. Thank you, Ginny. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Well, that makes one of us,” she said with a wink. Then, with a dramatic flourish of her fan, she turned to Kean. “Mr. Bellow, to our rooms.”
Just then, Max Amandes walked into the lobby, looking like he’d stepped out of a business magazine in his tailored suit. The sharp angles of the jacket seemed capable of cutting paper. His gaze landed on Ginny.
“Hey, big-and-good-lookin’. Where’s the coffee station?” she called out, her voice commanding but playful.
Max didn’t miss a beat. “Right that way, ma’am,” he said, gesturing down the hallway with a polite smile and a hint of amusement in his eyes.
Kean hoisted the suitcases he’d momentarily set down, nodded in my direction, and followed Ginny. The two of them disappeared down the hall, leaving a faint scent of expensive perfume in their wake.
“Who was that?” Max asked, stepping behind the desk to glance at the computer. The clean, woodsy scent of his cologne made the air feel fresher somehow.
“Geneva Panchella. The author,” I said, watching his face closely.
Max’s eyes widened in a way I’d never seen before. “That was Geneva Panchella? Wow.”
“What do you mean, wow?” I asked, a strange twinge blooming in my chest. Ginny was at least twenty years older than Max, but the way he said ‘wow’ had me overthinking everything. Did he have a thing for older women? Not that it mattered. Just because Max was smart, handsome, and had a knack for checking in on me in a way that felt more personal than professional didn’t mean I thought he had an interest in me. Right?
“I knew she wrote romance books,” Max said, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. “But I didn’t expect her to be so eccentric. You could see her coming a mile away. For some reason, I expected a little old lady in a cardigan and therapeutic shoes. When I spoke to her on the phone, she was bossy. Rude.”
