Read Online Secrets of Harmony Grove by Mindy Starns Clark - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mindy Starns Clark
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Mystery Fiction, Christian fiction, Religious, Christian, Single Women, Amish, Lancaster County (Pa.), Bed and breakfast accommodations
Ads: Link
so, had they witnessed what happened?
Might they have been victims somehow themselves?
Concerned, I moved to the check-in desk near the gift shop area and took a look at Floyd’s guestbook, which showed that all three rooms had indeed been reserved for the night, though whether the guests had actually showed or not, I wasn’t sure. A phone number was jotted beside each name, so I decided to give them a call to see if I could get more information.
That was my plan, except that none of the numbers worked. All three calls resulted in recordings that announced the numbers were out of service. How odd. There was nothing else I could do for now, but I decided that later I would go to the office to see if I could find more complete and/or accurate records to try again.
Tomorrow I would also have to deal with canceling any upcoming reservations, at least for the rest of the week and weekend. I hated to do that, especially now when I needed every penny I could get, but with Floyd in the hospital and a death in the pool, I really had no choice.
When the detective was finally ready to speak with me, we sat near the fireplace in a pair of matching rockers. As I took a deep breath and tried to calm my nerves, he pulled out a small notebook from his pocket and opened it up, pen poised at the ready. He told me he wanted me to walk him through the events of the evening again, which I did, step-by-step. When I was finished telling him all I had seen and heard, he had me clarify my connection with the inn and my relationship with Nina, Floyd, and Troy. Troy was the hardest to explain, especially given that I still felt it prudent to omit certain facts. I avoided the government investigation issue by focusing primarily on our personal history, explaining to the detective where Troy and I had met (at the Frida Kahlo exhibit during a benefit at the art museum), how long wehad dated (about ten months), and when we had broken up (almost exactly two years ago, during the period of time when we were involved with the renovation of this inn).
Reading through his notes, the detective returned to more current events.
“You said he called you this afternoon?”
“Yes. I can even tell you what time,” I said as I pushed the buttons on my phone to reveal the list of my most recent calls. According to that list, Troy’s call had come in at exactly 5:17 p.m., and we had spoken for about fifteen minutes. I showed the detective where I had tried calling back a number of times over the next hour and a half, but that he hadn’t answered.
“You say he sounded strange on the phone?”
“First he said he was feeling sick and dizzy. Sometimes his words were slurred, and he seemed confused.” I went on to tell him about the sound Troy said that he heard, which was similar to what Floyd had described, a deep rumble. “The other night when Troy and I talked he sounded fine, but today he definitely wasn’t himself.”
“Do the two of you speak often?”
I shook my head, saying we hadn’t spoken at all for months, but we had talked twice this week, the first time being on Monday night, when I was in Boston on business.
“I was surprised to hear from him, but I didn’t mind. It was kind of nice to catch up, actually. Mostly, he was calling to tell me he had found some papers of my grandfather’s, and he was wondering what he should do with them.”
A uniformed officer came into the room, interrupting us to talk with Mike about some technical issues outside. As they spoke, I thought more about my talk with Troy on Monday, realizing that he hadn’t been calling that night just to ask what he should do with the papers. He had been reading through those papers and had some specific questions that had arisen from them.
Closing my eyes, I tried to remember our conversation, or at least the parts of it that were relevant here.
We had spent a few minutes catching up on each other’s lives, and thenhe explained the reason he was calling, saying he
Might they have been victims somehow themselves?
Concerned, I moved to the check-in desk near the gift shop area and took a look at Floyd’s guestbook, which showed that all three rooms had indeed been reserved for the night, though whether the guests had actually showed or not, I wasn’t sure. A phone number was jotted beside each name, so I decided to give them a call to see if I could get more information.
That was my plan, except that none of the numbers worked. All three calls resulted in recordings that announced the numbers were out of service. How odd. There was nothing else I could do for now, but I decided that later I would go to the office to see if I could find more complete and/or accurate records to try again.
Tomorrow I would also have to deal with canceling any upcoming reservations, at least for the rest of the week and weekend. I hated to do that, especially now when I needed every penny I could get, but with Floyd in the hospital and a death in the pool, I really had no choice.
When the detective was finally ready to speak with me, we sat near the fireplace in a pair of matching rockers. As I took a deep breath and tried to calm my nerves, he pulled out a small notebook from his pocket and opened it up, pen poised at the ready. He told me he wanted me to walk him through the events of the evening again, which I did, step-by-step. When I was finished telling him all I had seen and heard, he had me clarify my connection with the inn and my relationship with Nina, Floyd, and Troy. Troy was the hardest to explain, especially given that I still felt it prudent to omit certain facts. I avoided the government investigation issue by focusing primarily on our personal history, explaining to the detective where Troy and I had met (at the Frida Kahlo exhibit during a benefit at the art museum), how long wehad dated (about ten months), and when we had broken up (almost exactly two years ago, during the period of time when we were involved with the renovation of this inn).
Reading through his notes, the detective returned to more current events.
“You said he called you this afternoon?”
“Yes. I can even tell you what time,” I said as I pushed the buttons on my phone to reveal the list of my most recent calls. According to that list, Troy’s call had come in at exactly 5:17 p.m., and we had spoken for about fifteen minutes. I showed the detective where I had tried calling back a number of times over the next hour and a half, but that he hadn’t answered.
“You say he sounded strange on the phone?”
“First he said he was feeling sick and dizzy. Sometimes his words were slurred, and he seemed confused.” I went on to tell him about the sound Troy said that he heard, which was similar to what Floyd had described, a deep rumble. “The other night when Troy and I talked he sounded fine, but today he definitely wasn’t himself.”
“Do the two of you speak often?”
I shook my head, saying we hadn’t spoken at all for months, but we had talked twice this week, the first time being on Monday night, when I was in Boston on business.
“I was surprised to hear from him, but I didn’t mind. It was kind of nice to catch up, actually. Mostly, he was calling to tell me he had found some papers of my grandfather’s, and he was wondering what he should do with them.”
A uniformed officer came into the room, interrupting us to talk with Mike about some technical issues outside. As they spoke, I thought more about my talk with Troy on Monday, realizing that he hadn’t been calling that night just to ask what he should do with the papers. He had been reading through those papers and had some specific questions that had arisen from them.
Closing my eyes, I tried to remember our conversation, or at least the parts of it that were relevant here.
We had spent a few minutes catching up on each other’s lives, and thenhe explained the reason he was calling, saying he
Similar Books
