Read Online On Deadly Tides (A Wendover House Mystery Book 3) by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online
Authors: Melanie Jackson
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and that was cause for happiness.
An orange cat was napping on the desk, half covering the registration book with his fluffy tail, but fortunately I could sign on the left page without breaking in on his reverie. Between the heat and the slumbering feline, I began to feel better.
“Here’s your key. The Indigo suite is the first on the left at the top of the stairs,” Mrs. Hampton said. She smiled happily, such a contrast to the last woman who had had rooms for rent.
“Thank you. I’m sure it’s perfect. Your house is lovely.”
She beamed.
Given that I was back in home territory, I was not terribly surprised when I turned away from the registration desk and found an out-of-uniform Bryson standing in the doorway to the parlor bar. I figured that the first person I saw would either be Harris or Bryson. Bryson was a better choice given my mood. Harris always seemed to take my darker moments as personal criticism of his failure to make me happy. It made it hard to enjoy a well-justified wallow. Bryson, on the other hand, seemed to find everything about the human condition—including people’s moods—to be vaguely amusing.
I did wonder briefly if Harris and Bryson had talked it over and decided that he should be the one to bell the cat. You should do it. You have a house on the mainland and it will look more natural .…
And maybe I was just being paranoid because I was tired. It would be best if I stopped thinking like that or I’d sprain my few remaining brain cells. I also refused to think about the possibility of a biological connection.
“Miss MacKay,” Bryson said, raising a beer. “You’re here for the night?”
“Yes, sadly.” And it was sad, though seeing a familiar face helped a little.
“Could I maybe interest you in some dinner?” he asked. “Something of the Italian persuasion?”
He remembered that I am not wild about fish. That was nice.
Of course, if I went to dinner, he was going to quiz me about what I had been up to on the mainland.
I decided I didn’t care. If I didn’t want to answer a question I wouldn’t. Refusal to speak would hurt Harris because of its implied lack of trust. Bryson would just shrug and try something else.
“Thank you. Let me take my bag up and I’ll join you.”
Bryson nodded. He didn’t offer to help me up the stairs. I was carrying a small tote and obviously didn’t need assistance.
My room was nice, small but furnished with good reproductions and the prints on the wall were not unbearably nautical. There were maybe a few too many throw pillows and no warm, fuzzy bodies to warm the bed, but it would do for one night.
Bryson had on his black trench coat and hat when I came back down and he looked unusually dignified and somber, like he was going to a funeral and not out for dinner. I wondered what had happened. Thanks to cell phones, bad news travels quickly.
He didn’t say anything about being called away though, so I decided not to ask. Suffice it unto the day the trouble therein. I had enough bothers of my own.
“Is it far?” I asked, feeling tired and half regretting that I had agreed to share a meal with him. Especially if we had to be out in the cold for any length of time.
“No. You won’t even get wet if we walk quickly enough.”
That was an overstatement. The drizzle was cold and the street was mostly deserted and had a lot of black patches between streetlamps which seemed ugly and out of place and made the shadows hard. The only bright spot was the neon OPEN sign in the window of a house about three doors up. Except for that, we might have been walking through an old black and white movie, one with Bogart and Bacall and Peter Lorre lurking in the gloom.
We quickstepped the short cobble path and stepped up on the wide porch. Bryson opened the narrow door and a blade of light cut into the dark, letting out color and scent. The air inside was thick with garlic and butter and my mouth began to water as my lungs filled with
An orange cat was napping on the desk, half covering the registration book with his fluffy tail, but fortunately I could sign on the left page without breaking in on his reverie. Between the heat and the slumbering feline, I began to feel better.
“Here’s your key. The Indigo suite is the first on the left at the top of the stairs,” Mrs. Hampton said. She smiled happily, such a contrast to the last woman who had had rooms for rent.
“Thank you. I’m sure it’s perfect. Your house is lovely.”
She beamed.
Given that I was back in home territory, I was not terribly surprised when I turned away from the registration desk and found an out-of-uniform Bryson standing in the doorway to the parlor bar. I figured that the first person I saw would either be Harris or Bryson. Bryson was a better choice given my mood. Harris always seemed to take my darker moments as personal criticism of his failure to make me happy. It made it hard to enjoy a well-justified wallow. Bryson, on the other hand, seemed to find everything about the human condition—including people’s moods—to be vaguely amusing.
I did wonder briefly if Harris and Bryson had talked it over and decided that he should be the one to bell the cat. You should do it. You have a house on the mainland and it will look more natural .…
And maybe I was just being paranoid because I was tired. It would be best if I stopped thinking like that or I’d sprain my few remaining brain cells. I also refused to think about the possibility of a biological connection.
“Miss MacKay,” Bryson said, raising a beer. “You’re here for the night?”
“Yes, sadly.” And it was sad, though seeing a familiar face helped a little.
“Could I maybe interest you in some dinner?” he asked. “Something of the Italian persuasion?”
He remembered that I am not wild about fish. That was nice.
Of course, if I went to dinner, he was going to quiz me about what I had been up to on the mainland.
I decided I didn’t care. If I didn’t want to answer a question I wouldn’t. Refusal to speak would hurt Harris because of its implied lack of trust. Bryson would just shrug and try something else.
“Thank you. Let me take my bag up and I’ll join you.”
Bryson nodded. He didn’t offer to help me up the stairs. I was carrying a small tote and obviously didn’t need assistance.
My room was nice, small but furnished with good reproductions and the prints on the wall were not unbearably nautical. There were maybe a few too many throw pillows and no warm, fuzzy bodies to warm the bed, but it would do for one night.
Bryson had on his black trench coat and hat when I came back down and he looked unusually dignified and somber, like he was going to a funeral and not out for dinner. I wondered what had happened. Thanks to cell phones, bad news travels quickly.
He didn’t say anything about being called away though, so I decided not to ask. Suffice it unto the day the trouble therein. I had enough bothers of my own.
“Is it far?” I asked, feeling tired and half regretting that I had agreed to share a meal with him. Especially if we had to be out in the cold for any length of time.
“No. You won’t even get wet if we walk quickly enough.”
That was an overstatement. The drizzle was cold and the street was mostly deserted and had a lot of black patches between streetlamps which seemed ugly and out of place and made the shadows hard. The only bright spot was the neon OPEN sign in the window of a house about three doors up. Except for that, we might have been walking through an old black and white movie, one with Bogart and Bacall and Peter Lorre lurking in the gloom.
We quickstepped the short cobble path and stepped up on the wide porch. Bryson opened the narrow door and a blade of light cut into the dark, letting out color and scent. The air inside was thick with garlic and butter and my mouth began to water as my lungs filled with
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