might have had some sort of mishap and was in need of help.
Before checking on my neighbor’s well-being, I unlocked the back door of Kettle Cottage and checked on Pesty’s. The little Kees had spent most of the day cooped up in the van, so when Mary had offered to dog-sit, I had happily given my consent.
As promised, Denny and Mary had dropped Pesty off after their dinner date with JR and the twins. Reeking of garlic bread, Italian meatballs, and tomato sauce, the little fuzz ball barely acknowledged my presence before resuming her late-night nap under the kitchen’s round oak table.
“Don’t bother getting up,” I remarked as I deposited my purse and car keys on the countertop. “I know you’re not really interested, but I need to run over to the Birdwells’. If I’m not back in an hour, you’ll find a supply of dog treats in the pantry cabinet.” When the sleepy pooch failed to respond to the word “treats,” I made a mental note to speak to JR about overfeeding a certain four-legged family member who, unlike my daughter, was not eating for two.
Picking my way carefully through the prickly shrubbery and onto the small porch, I could see that almost all the lights in the Birdwell house had been extinguished. I was about to chalk the entire matter up to an overreaction on my part when the front door flew open and I found myself face to face with a sinister looking man. Somewhat portly, he was clad in a dark silk monogrammed robe and pajamas.
“Listen, sister,” he growled, “like I told that other broad, I ain’t got nothin’ to say about Dona gettin’ bumped off and neither does my kid, Ellie. Ya better vamoose before I call the cops.”
“Mr. Halsted, would you please lower your voice. I’m afraid you’ll wake up the others,” scolded Sally Birdwell, pushing herself past the man and into the doorway. “I…oh my. Jean dear, is something wrong?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” I replied, hiding my surprise upon learning that my verbal attacker was none other than Dona Deville’s former husband, Rufus Halsted. “I saw all the lights on in your house and thought that perhaps you had a problem. I didn’t know that you were entertaining overnight company.”
“Hey, we ain’t company,” said Dona’s ex, thrusting his swarthy face over Sally’s shoulder, “we’re payin’ guests. Miz Birdwell promised Maxine that nobody would bother us at this here inn, ’specially nosy reporters.”
“Mr. Halsted, this lady is not a member of the press. If you must know,” Sally said, “Jean is both a friend and neighbor who was concerned enough about my welfare to come over here and check on me. I suggest that you apologize to her before returning to your room. Sunday breakfast will be at nine a.m. sharp.”
Rufus Halsted mumbled something that might have been an apology of sorts before disappearing into the house.
“Honestly, that man is impossible. I’ve repeatedly asked him not to answer the door or the phone, but…” Sally’s voice trailed off as she brushed away an angry tear with the back of her freckled hand. “I never dreamed that running a bed-and-breakfast could be so difficult. It’s like sharing your home with exiled royalty. No matter how nice you make things for them,” she said, tucking a stray lock of her fiery, ginger-colored hair behind her right ear, “they never fail to remind you that they’re used to better. This whole B-and-B business may be a one-time thing, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s one time too many. This is all Hilly Murrow’s fault.”
“And why is that,” I said, “if you don’t mind my asking.” Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, coupled with the events of the day, but for the life of me I couldn’t connect the dots.
“Because the whole thing was her idea,” replied Sally, looking more pooped than perky. “Not only is she my closest and best friend, she’s also my first cousin. When she asked me to help her out
Before checking on my neighbor’s well-being, I unlocked the back door of Kettle Cottage and checked on Pesty’s. The little Kees had spent most of the day cooped up in the van, so when Mary had offered to dog-sit, I had happily given my consent.
As promised, Denny and Mary had dropped Pesty off after their dinner date with JR and the twins. Reeking of garlic bread, Italian meatballs, and tomato sauce, the little fuzz ball barely acknowledged my presence before resuming her late-night nap under the kitchen’s round oak table.
“Don’t bother getting up,” I remarked as I deposited my purse and car keys on the countertop. “I know you’re not really interested, but I need to run over to the Birdwells’. If I’m not back in an hour, you’ll find a supply of dog treats in the pantry cabinet.” When the sleepy pooch failed to respond to the word “treats,” I made a mental note to speak to JR about overfeeding a certain four-legged family member who, unlike my daughter, was not eating for two.
Picking my way carefully through the prickly shrubbery and onto the small porch, I could see that almost all the lights in the Birdwell house had been extinguished. I was about to chalk the entire matter up to an overreaction on my part when the front door flew open and I found myself face to face with a sinister looking man. Somewhat portly, he was clad in a dark silk monogrammed robe and pajamas.
“Listen, sister,” he growled, “like I told that other broad, I ain’t got nothin’ to say about Dona gettin’ bumped off and neither does my kid, Ellie. Ya better vamoose before I call the cops.”
“Mr. Halsted, would you please lower your voice. I’m afraid you’ll wake up the others,” scolded Sally Birdwell, pushing herself past the man and into the doorway. “I…oh my. Jean dear, is something wrong?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” I replied, hiding my surprise upon learning that my verbal attacker was none other than Dona Deville’s former husband, Rufus Halsted. “I saw all the lights on in your house and thought that perhaps you had a problem. I didn’t know that you were entertaining overnight company.”
“Hey, we ain’t company,” said Dona’s ex, thrusting his swarthy face over Sally’s shoulder, “we’re payin’ guests. Miz Birdwell promised Maxine that nobody would bother us at this here inn, ’specially nosy reporters.”
“Mr. Halsted, this lady is not a member of the press. If you must know,” Sally said, “Jean is both a friend and neighbor who was concerned enough about my welfare to come over here and check on me. I suggest that you apologize to her before returning to your room. Sunday breakfast will be at nine a.m. sharp.”
Rufus Halsted mumbled something that might have been an apology of sorts before disappearing into the house.
“Honestly, that man is impossible. I’ve repeatedly asked him not to answer the door or the phone, but…” Sally’s voice trailed off as she brushed away an angry tear with the back of her freckled hand. “I never dreamed that running a bed-and-breakfast could be so difficult. It’s like sharing your home with exiled royalty. No matter how nice you make things for them,” she said, tucking a stray lock of her fiery, ginger-colored hair behind her right ear, “they never fail to remind you that they’re used to better. This whole B-and-B business may be a one-time thing, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s one time too many. This is all Hilly Murrow’s fault.”
“And why is that,” I said, “if you don’t mind my asking.” Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, coupled with the events of the day, but for the life of me I couldn’t connect the dots.
“Because the whole thing was her idea,” replied Sally, looking more pooped than perky. “Not only is she my closest and best friend, she’s also my first cousin. When she asked me to help her out
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