Murder, Wrapped Up: Pine Lake Inn, #3

Chapter 1

The sun was a bright white orb shining down from the clear sky overhead. Insects chittered in the Monterey pines. The warm breeze ruffled through my long auburn hair. The world smelled of heat and the promise of rain in a day or two. It was a beautiful summer day in Tasmania.

Put me in the mood to whistle Christmas carols.

It might seem strange to the rest of the world that December twentieth is in the middle of the summer months for us. Australia gets to celebrate the biggest holiday of the year in weather that actually lets us enjoy it. Why would anyone want to celebrate Christmas in cold, wet snow?

I’ve never touched snow myself. Maybe someday.

I hummed the next few lines of The Twelve Days of Christmas—did the drummers come on the tenth or the eleventh day?—while I shuffled papers on the registration desk of my Inn. There was always paperwork to do when you were your own boss. You had to wear nice work clothes too, like my gray pantsuit, even if the weather would be more suited to jean shorts and that cute purple tank top of mine.

Well. Work first. Play later.

‘Course, there were only five days until Christmas, so really I should only be singing up to five golden rings, but I liked to sing the whole song.

Over in the corner of the lobby, just inside the double doors I leave open in the good weather like this, stood our Christmas tree. It was a scraggly thing that looked like it was straight outta that Charlie Brown special. Our handyman George had done his best to make the branches look fuller by carefully placing the decorations just so, layering on tinsel and colored lights, but there was only so much you could do with a ten year old tree-in-a-box. But, it made the guests smile. That was what mattered to me.

The Pine Lake Inn was doing a brisk business these days. A day or two before the twenty-fifth my place would empty out but for now there were plenty of guests to take care of. In fact, the entire town of Lakeshore was enjoying a surge in tourism dollars. Nearly as south as south went in Australia, people still wanted to see the place the newspapers were starting to call the unluckiest town in all of Tassie.

Thing was, they weren’t far wrong.

I bought this Inn of mine along with my partner Rosie Ryan right out of University. Lived here in Lakeshore ever since then. Married my husband here, raised my children. In all that time, it seemed like just a nice little out-of-the-way place, so back of Bourke you needed a roadmap and a GPS and an angel on your shoulder just to find it.

Turned out a lot of other people liked Lakeshore for just that reason. The obscurity of it, I mean. Unsavory people who needed to hide in the shadows to do their unsavory business got attracted to the place when no one was watching. Last year my son Kevin, an amazing police officer, arrested a drug dealer with connections to a crime syndicate. That was the start of a lot of bad business. Me and my Kevin always seemed to be in the middle of everything that happened.

Now Kevin was gone. He’d finally had enough of the politics and rampant stupidity in the police force here in Lakeshore, so he took himself up to the Australian Federal Police. Which actually would be a much better fit for him. That was just about a month ago now. They’ll make good use of his smarts, and his bravery, and his integrity.

Senior Sergeant Cutter, head of Lakeshore’s Police Station, wouldn’t know what any of those things were if they jumped up and bit him in the—

Dell! I heard Rosie calling to me from the dining room. It’s just off the main area here, in the lobby. We serve meals to our guests and the people in the town and anyone who wants a good bite to eat. Dell!

That’s my name, I told her, still humming my song, don’t wear it out.

My name’s Adelle Powers, actually, but it’s Dell to my friends. Rosie’s just about the best friend I’ve got.

When she came rushing out to me I could tell there was something wrong. Like, really wrong. After being shot at and threatened and basically scared out of my wits too many times to count over the last year, I had to worry what could’ve gone wrong now. My hand hovered over the phone, ready to dial 0-0-0 if I needed to.

Rosie is a beautiful woman the same age as I am with a personality that was usually effervescent. Bubbly, and a little erratic. She’s a real woman. Even with that beauty mark on her left cheek she’s not a pinup model, but I keep telling her that just means more for her husband to love. And the man does love her. They’ve been trying for a baby for a couple of years now, and I’m still amazed it hasn’t happened yet.

Now, her face was flushed right up to the roots of her light brown hair. Her white apron was covered in stains and streaks. Her fingers were fisted into the fabric of her wide blue dress. I left off my rendition of the twelve days of Christmas somewhere around the Lords a-leaping and put my paperwork aside. Rosie, what’s wrong?

Oh, it’s terrible, she said, fanning herself with her hands. We were making the cheese-and-spinach stuffed chicken for dinner tonight, only now it’s all ruined!

I’ve known Rosie for years, and she’s the best cook I’ve ever met. I was lucky to have met her in Uni, lucky that she wanted to go into business with me, and lucky to have her for a friend. I can’t imagine her being this upset over a failed meal. Rosie, it can’t be as bad as all that.

Yes it can.

Rosie, what…? I sniffed at a strange odor coming from the kitchen. What’s that smell?

Her face fell. That’s what I was trying to tell ya, Dell. The chicken exploded.

I stared at her. Just… stared. The chicken exploded?

She nodded, biting down on her lip. Dinner is ruined! I may not be able to get the ovens cleaned up before morning. What’re we going to do?

I coughed to cover the burst of laughter threatening to explode out of me. Sometimes I was sure Rosie could set fire to a glass of water, but she had to be exaggerating this, right? Let me get this straight. The chickens… exploded.

Dell, this isn’t funny! This is a disaster!

Well, if that’s the worst disaster we see today, this would actually be a relatively boring day. Leastwise, by Lakeshore standards it would.

I shook myself. Rosie’s always been clumsy, like I said, but recently she’d been more scatterbrained than usual. How in the name of the Almighty did she get chickens to… explode?

Okay, concentrate. She was right. This was a real problem. If we couldn’t serve dinner tonight, we were going to lose a good chunk of income. Drumming the fingers of one hand against the registration desk, I let my eyes roam around the room, in search of inspiration. The dark paneling and the rugs with their red and yellow patterns were familiar, and comforting in their own way, but hardly inspirational. Even the portrait of Lieutenant Governor David Collins on its tripod easel next to the fireplace was silent. The only thing I could hear was the ticking of the wall clock with its pendulum swinging back and forth.

Time moves on, I always said. In this case that wasn’t a good thing.

It was already early afternoon, and our guests were either all up in their rooms enjoying some quiet time or off in town. There’s plenty of scenery to be found around Lakeshore. We’re in the foothills of the Hartz Mountains here, nestled among trees and hills, literally on the shores of three different lakes. The walking trails take you around for hours, and there’s hiking and fishing and all sorts of things for tourists to enjoy.

But they’d be back, along with a lot of the people from town, expecting to eat cheese-and-spinach stuffed chickens that were now exploded all over the insides of our ovens.

There’s shops in town, too. Knick-knack shops and Mrs. Havernathy’s jam shop and the bookstore and a bunch of other places to spend some time and money in. There’s even the Thirsty Roo, our local pub…

The pub.

That gave me an idea.

Now, that just might work.

Rosie, I just had a crazy thought. Heh. Crazy didn’t really begin to explain it. Do you have enough food to make dinner again if I can find you an oven?

Dell, we’re talking about making food for thirty to forty people. At least! She looked like she was about to panic. I can’t just call home and have Josh preheat the oven to pop in a pizza!

Josh, her husband, would’ve done anything for her, but she was right again. Making meals for guests at our Inn wasn’t the same as making lunch for ourselves at home.

Of course, for me, the Inn was my home. I lived up on the third floor in my own little apartment. Not really the point, though. Finding a way to save our dinner service. That was the point.

I’ll get ovens for you to work with, Rosie. I promise. Just make sure you have what you need. Maybe do a pasta bake? Something quick. We’ll use the car to get everything back here when it’s done.

We kept a car in the Inn’s name to loan out to guests in an emergency, or if they wanted to sign it out for the day at a fee. Me and Rosie used it for ourselves, too, when we had the need. Like now.

The car? Well, sure we will, Rosie said with an uncertain smile. We’ll just be using the car, then. Um, Dell? We’ll be using the car for what, exactly?

Trust me, I told her, putting up the sign on the desk that told guests to ask the staff for help if they needed it. This place didn’t quite run itself, but my staff sure made it seem that way sometimes. Just make sure the guys in the kitchen start getting the ovens clean, and then wait for my call.

Right, Rosie said, although she still fretted with the edges of her white apron. The doubt was etched in the worry lines around her frown. Well. I’ll be quick, then.

She rushed back to the kitchen, catching the edge of old David Collins’s portrait and spinning it sideways, nearly toppling the venerable frizzy-haired gentleman to the floor. Anxious and fretting, she made a curtsy to the painting as an apology before rushing back to the kitchen.

Behind the registration desk is where I kept a wooden lockbox full of the room keys and the other sets we need for the Inn. We use real keys here, not the electronic pass card systems you find in modern hotels. I could always upgrade to a newer system but I like the keys. I think it gives the place a more personal touch.

As I was reaching inside for the keys to our loaner car the phone on the registration desk rang.

I usually grab the phone up immediately with a G’day and a smile in my voice. Usually. The thing is, sometimes when the phone rings here at the Pine Lake Inn it’s more than just someone looking for a room to rent. Sometimes, it’s something else entirely.

The ghosts here know how to ring my number.

Yes, I said ghosts. Turns out the Pine Lake Inn is haunted. I’ve always been aware of the buggers, sort of. It was a feeling I always had that maybe I wasn’t alone. Little things would be moved from where I’d set them down. Sometimes I could hear whispers in the hall when there was no one there. That wall over there next to the fireplace won’t tolerate anything hanging on it. Everything we put there falls off. Dance notices or posters or picture frames. It doesn’t matter. That’s why Lieutenant Governor David Collins is resting on a picture easel instead of hanging on the wall where he belongs. This Inn has more than its share of ghostly goings-on.

I’m the only one who can see them, and the only one who knows they’re here.

Then there’s the phone calls.

But I can’t just let the phone go to voicemail every time it rings. Bad for business. So finally, I picked up the gray plastic receiver and held it to my ear. G’day, Pine Lake Inn.

Just like I’d expected, static filled the line. It’s weird, because the ringing of the phone never changes, but I’ve gotten to the point where I can sense when the phone call will be a real person…or something else.

…remember…

That’s what I heard in the static. Words, indistinct and jumbled, and then that one word, clear as day. Remember.

Remember what? I whispered into the white noise.

…remember… me…

A chill ran down my spine. I knew I was really hearing the words. It wasn’t just popping and hissing on a bad connection. It wasn’t my imagination. I knew what I was hearing. What’s more, I was sure I’d heard that voice before. It was so familiar.

I knew of two ghosts in particular who reside in my Inn. This voice wasn’t them.

It didn’t belong to Lachlan Halliburton, the gentleman thief with the fondness for changing his expression to suit his needs. He’d died in the 1800s, but was still hanging around. Back when he’d been alive he used to rob people while wearing disguises and now his ghost could change his appearance at will. Had to watch him, because he liked to put on a different face and pretend he was a real person sometimes to trick me up. Not his voice, though. I’d never heard him use different voices. Not that he talked much, ever, but this wasn’t him.

It wasn’t my good friend Jess, either. She died here last year. She’d decided to stick around after meeting her gruesome end, and I was glad she did. I’d miss her if she was really gone.

Not Lachlan. Not Jess. This voice is someone else. It was a man’s voice, deep and soft. So familiar, yet I just couldn’t place it.

The call ended in a series of clicks and a long, humming tone. With a sigh, I hung up, wondering about what I’d just heard. Not the first time I’d gotten that phone call, always with the same single message.

Remember.

A crash from the kitchen broke me out of my thoughts. I sighed. That’s my Rosie. She could create a six course meal for a banquet hall full of people, but she couldn’t hardly walk six steps without tripping over her own two feet. It was getting worse. I might have to sit her down and have a talk with her. Maybe something was bothering her. This whole thing with the exploding chickens…

That reminded me. I didn’t have time to worry about ghostly mysteries or voices on the phone when I