Deadwaiter

AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: 1-800-839-8640

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the

product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2008 Tina Czarnota. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 7/22/2008

ISBN: 978-1-4343-9210-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-4034-7 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2008906286

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Disclaimer

Acknowledgments

Author’s Notes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

The Author

Disclaimer

As in the first book, Country Inn, Dead & Breakfast, Tim, Mae (Song), Bruce, Kim and Lt. Klonski are loosely based on folk who’ve granted the author permission to use their exaggerated likenesses for the purpose of creating this work of fiction. All other characters in Deadwaiter are a creation of the writer’s imagination.

As for town(s) noted herein, they were inspired but are not actual depictions of areas off Route 60, Central Florida, a truly wonderful place. Lastly, Trina is a fictional character, yet one who inspires the author.

Acknowledgments

To friends and family, thanks for your continued love and support.

Lou, my personal Phoenix and Dee, who helped make it so. Diane, Tony…love the chats and the coffee. Kim, Trina’s lovable partner-in-crime and her Ted-Fred.

To my P.I.-friends, longtime pals who are family to me. The Adventure continues.

To my talent buddies who’ve invested time and support in me. Thank you.

To fans of mysteries, whodunits and cozies for keeping the genre alive.

The bed & breakfast, inn-dustry, keepers and hosts, I appreciate

your hospitality and I look forward to repeat visits and new discoveries.

To Domenica Iacovone, creator of the awesome cover gracing this book.

You are an amazing talent and I thank you for all you’ve done for me and Deadwaiter.

To Walter Messick, Entertainment Contract Attorney, in south Florida.

To Lori V. for the Awesome cookie recipe and permission to use it here. Is there a cookbook in the future?

Hart Management, for believing in my writing. For believing in me.

To my pets, present and past. You will always be my babies.

To Bruce. To Bowties. The best is yet to come. God Bless.

Author’s Notes

In Deadwaiter, two character name changes have occurred. Katrina became Trina and Song became Mae. The latter was to please the reader as many did not like the name Song for her character. The former, to appease the writer for while making revisions to Deadwaiter, a horrible event called Hurricane Katrina had occurred.

In memory and in respect, Katrina has become Trina.

Chapter 1

Fall 200-

Is that another one of them weird calls? asked the burly man of his blonde wife. Gimme that phone. I’ll handle it.

Grabbing the phone from the petite sexagenarian, Tim Versay scowled and listened. No, he finally said, We don’t host murder dinners, we don’t have horror tours and if there was some damn buried treasure, I’d have claimed it myself. Now quit calling so my wife can make my lunch.

Mae Versay wrung her hands as her husband slammed the phone down on the wallbase. Garsch, that could’ve been a paying guest. Heaven knows we could use a few.

Tucking the tail of his plaid shirt deeper into the waist of his baggy blue jeans, Tim Versay scratched his big belly and strode toward his place at the wood kitchen table.

Damn thrill seekers, he said as he pulled his chair back across the white tile floor. I’m glad I’m going back to work; least I’ll be able to relax. A helluva vacation this turned out to be.

Flashing him a dour look, Mae reminded her husband that the inn’s only guest had not yet checked out.

Well, he said, I didn’t tell the boarder to get bumped off on opening day. And, he asked, When is Trina bringing her skinny ass back to help with the inn? She’s the main investor in this place, he added while stroking the cigarette pack in his shirt pocket. And she runs away to a runaway job. What the hell do you call that?

It’s runway modeling, Tim, and it’s okay that the kids went off to Tampa for a few days. Besides, Trina’s niece only had three days left of vacation and I kinda enjoyed the inn while they were gone.

Well, don’t make a habit of doing all the work. Now, while you’re up, get me a glass of milk.

Oh-h, Mae exclaimed as she eyed the wall clock of the pristine, butter yellow English country kitchen. With a start, the strawberry blonde turned and headed for the commercial size fridge, declaring how late it was getting to be. Quickly she poured Tim a glass of milk and carried it to the table.

When’s lunch? he asked, as his wife turned her back to him.

Around noon.

Good, he exhaled blissfully, I’m starved.

Can’t have that, said a tall, tee shirt and jean-clad man as he entered the room. Specially when you’ve worked so hard.

Why, son, I didn’t hear you. Tim lowered his right arm, dropped his cigarette and ground it out on the white tile. Placing an index finger to his lips, Tim then waved the air with his hand. Bruce smiled wryly and shook his brown, gray-laced head of hair and glanced at his mother.

Here, the younger man said as he stepped across the kitchen. Gimme. Willingly, Mae unloaded an apron full of produce into her son’s toned, suntanned arms and informed him of the scheduled lunch hour.

That should work, he said, consulting his watch, but I came for more drinking water and to check if we’re still doing dinner at six.

Mae grabbed the fridge handle and replied in the affirmative, then offered to change the reservations for a later hour if it became necessary. How’s the bricklayin’ comin’? she asked Bruce as he sidled up to the counter. Think we’ll be able to use it by Thanksgiving?

Well, the fireplace only needed some brick replacement, but, he said, as several potatoes and a head of lettuce rolled just short of the sink, the chimney pretty much had to be rebuilt. So, Bruce said over the onset of his father’s coughing, other than a few details, it’s up to the inspector.

Tim honked in his hanky then pocketed the square cloth. How’s the hippy – that Shorty guy - working out? Where did ya find that character anyway? he asked. What happened to the guy who helped you with the opening?

Bruce pondered the barrage of questions and replied that his former hand had found another job. I told Mom all this already. She can fill you in later. Anyway, Bruce said as he accepted a glass of water from Mae, this one seems to be working out…says he’s got an uncle or somebody in the fire department. Besides, he sipped and swallowed as Mae walked by, he’s one of the few sons of…uh, applicants that didn’t ask about myths, mayhem and a miser’s hoard.

Tim laughed as Mae widened her eyes and began vigorously scrubbing potatoes.

He said ‘hoard’ not…

"Oh-h. Say, Bruce, is Shorty joinin’ us for lunch?

Bruce wiped water from his lips and asked his mother to make extra food.

Okay, but, she hedged, please no talk about the mur…the incident while we eat.

Yeah, Bruce agreed, empty glass on the countertop. Speaking of Shorty, he’s probably wondering where’s his water.

So, Tim piped up from the table, what are you workin’ on now?

Well, while the brickwork’s curing, we’re gonna start on the upstairs spare room wall. There’s some buckling plaster that needs to come off. Bruce explained that whoever did the original walls probably ran out of mix and never duplicated the next batch of material to match the first.

I should be able to get a close match. If anything, it’ll look better than it does now.

Well, Mae said, turning off the faucet, your dad’s got one day left of vacation. If you want his help, ask him now. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait for him on weekends and holidays.

Bruce rolled his eyes while Tim glanced at the clock and palmed the cigarette pack in his shirt pocket.

Speaking of help, where’s that fian…finan…where’s that girlfriend of yours?

She called earlier. Her modeling job’s done and she’s comin’ back today, Mae said, handing Bruce a filled pitcher.

Thanks. Yeah, her niece left to go back up north and Trina’s coming in this afternoon. If I’m to make the train station on time, I’d better get moving.

Tim squirmed in his seat and chided Bruce for letting Trina and Kim loose in a fast-paced city like Tampa.

Don’t worry, Dad, he said nearing the table. I told her that you’re smoking the place up with your cigarettes. She can’t wait to get back.

Mae dismissed the rumor as fiction. Tim smiled into his glass, then looked up at the figure standing in the doorway.

Hey, Shorty, come on in, Bruce said.

Mr. Dude, the late twenties, pony-tailed male nodded at Tim. Where’s the Missus? Bruce pointed toward the sink.

Granting the laborer a blank stare, Tim watched as the dark-haired, younger male stepped in and gazed toward the far end of the kitchen.

Hey, Mrs. Vee, Shorty said, with a tug at the bill of his reversed red baseball cap. Your guest, Klein Man, said he’d be ready to split in about twenty minutes. Said he’ll square with you when he comes down.

With pitcher in hand and tunes on his lips, the tall laborer headed down the hall while Tim chuckled as Bruce translated Shorty’s message.

Mr. Klein will need help with his bags, Mae said, as father and son watched her quarter potatoes. Let me finish this and put them on to cook, then…

At the sound of a clicking lock, Mae and Bruce glanced toward the rear kitchen entrance.

There he goes, Bruce said, as he peered out the back window and watched a fresh cloud of smoke disperse into the autumn air.

He’s probably goin’ out front to help Mr. Klein with his luggage, Mae said. And, she thought, how wrong Trina was about Tim. Of course he’d move, even if his ass weren’t on fire.

Uh huh, Bruce muttered, as he gazed out the kitchen window that overlooked the vast backyard of their bed and breakfast property. That past summer seemed forever ago when the quartet made their acquisition of the inn. His parents gladly invested a small portion of an inheritance into the venture, for Mae always wanted to get out of cafeteria work and own an inn. Being part investor was the next best thing.

Tim, on the other hand, couldn’t care less. As long as his fair and pretty wife continued to dote on him, he’d go along, for soon he’d be facing retirement and what better setup could he want? He’d just be waited on, along with the guests, and his construction worker son would do all the maintenance on his investment.

Bruce thought about the rough sendoff that the inn had endured just a week ago and how the Tudor style estate had played host to an authentic murder mystery. Now he watched his father relax on a lawn chair, a stark contrast from previously seeing Tim chase a male guest with perhaps the very same chair he now sprawled out on. Relieved to think that that episode was in the past, Bruce hoped that they could look forward to less eventful occurrences. Unfortunately, he was dead wrong.

…Hasn’t it?

Huh?

The phone. It’s been nice and quiet for the last hour. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was turned down.

Bruce returned his gaze to the grouping of lawn furniture and watched a lazy curl of smoke hover over the top of one graying head.

Yeah. While his eyes adjusted to the indoor light, Bruce added, I gotta get back on the roof, check the shingles and make sure the area is cleaned before I start on the spare room. It should work, he whispered as he sidled up to Mae. About the time the guest checks out, we’ll be able to start the demo work on the upstairs wall.

Mae whispered back, Just be sure our suites are locked when you leave the upstairs unsupervised. I know the boy came highly recommended, but… Bruce followed Mae down the corridor. If you see Mr. Klein, tell him I’m in the gift shop, she resumed in a normal voice.

Yeah.

Trina’s niece souvenir-shopped, she said, stopping in the doorway of the country-style room, and all but wiped out our jelly supply. Isn’t it nice though, that we can get it fresh from the citrus growers on Highway 27?

With soft creaking as her answer, Mae turned to see Bruce amble down the hand-hooked runner, destined for the front foyer door.

Breezing through the sachet-fragrant shop, Mae straightened bright postcards, tee shirts and the three remaining jars of orange pectin and stooped to fluff the ruffle on a display tablecloth.

In here, she called out from the gift shop. Scurrying into the hallway, Mae stopped and listened, then made for the drawing room, chiding her inability to discern human activity from renovation racket.

Debris near the fireplace and in its hearth assured Mae of the location of the noise; the source of the scratching was another issue. Adding to the possibilities, Mae entertained Trina’s claim that animals often found their way in through chimneys and envisioned various critters scurrying about the inn. She stopped when it came to snakes.

Mae eyed the far wall of the usually stately drawing room and fretted at the sight of their cushy, green love seats cloaked in plastic, until muffled voices enhanced the eerie appearance of Tim’s shrouded-in-white wing back chair.

Enough, she thought then turned her back to the mishmash of furniture and eyed the rolled-up carpeting. It’s only temporary, she mused.

Wondering where the departing Mr. Klein had gotten to, Mae nixed the idea of starting up in the kitchen again. Soon as I’d get goin’, you can be sure he’d…

Hearing a man’s voice wafting down the chimney flue, Mae climbed over the carpeting and knelt at the firebox. Leaning into the hearth, Mae quickly inched back, barely dodging a shower of dust and mortar chunks.

Oh, garsch, Mae sputtered, as she was hit by a second spray of dusty soot. Coughing, Mae backed up and fished a tissue from the pocket of her cotton slacks. In the background she heard a faint ringing sound.

Oh-h, there goes my darn potatoes. As the kitchen timer rang out, Mae sat on the floor, coughing, sneezing, dabbing and wheezing, mindful that her potatoes were overcooking, or worse, burning. With blurry eyes, Mae stepped over the rolled up carpeting and gasped as she collided with warm, clammy flesh.

Whoa!

Oh, Mae said in between coughs. I didn’t hear ya come in.

Where’s the fire, Mrs. Vee?

In the kitchen if I don’t—

Well, you need to quit lookin’ for Santa Dude. You’re liable to get hit upside the head with a loose brick. You okay?

Uh, yes. Mae blinked up at the tall, pony-tailed man, wondering why he was called Shorty and why, she mused, did young people wear their caps backwards.

Have you seen our guest, Mr. Klein? she asked, brushing off her blouse and stepping toward the dining room.

Shorty followed Mae across the rose pink carpeting and into the kitchen where the laborer explained that the guest had already checked out.

Has he driven off? Mae cried, while moving the bubbling pot of spuds to a cool burner. Mr. Klein had a balance.

Oh, Shorty said, digging into his jeans pocket. I was s’posed to give you this. The dude paid Bruce, said this would do it, to it. Handing Mae several crumpled bills, the tall laborer smooshed his cap down with his hand and stroked his tied back tail. Well, Mrs. Vee, it’s been real. Later.

Shaking her head in confusion, Mae counted the bills. Why he didn’t even wait for change. Maybe he’s still out front.

What the hell did he call you this time?

Startled, the tiny blonde whirled around as her husband entered by the back door. You scared the dickens out of…Oh, Tim, hurry out front and see if Mr. Klein…

Why?

Oh-h, never mind.

Down the hall and out the front door, Mae ran onto the porch and squinted toward the drive.

There you are, Bruce. Has Mr. Klein…

He left, Bruce mused, and watched a car crawl slowly past the inn. Don’t worry. He paid and we helped him.

Shielding her eyes, Mae gazed at the passing auto, concluding that the mobile spectators belonged to a hopefully diminishing number of rubbernecks and were not their late scheduled guests arriving early.

He’d change comin’ to him, Mae said wistfully.

Looking away from the road, Bruce edged toward the porch and took the tri-steps in one swoop, depositing himself next to his mother.

Maybe he meant it as a tip.

Mae shrugged and looked up at Bruce. Where’s your father gotten to?

He was here a minute ago, watching me load up Klein’s car. Bruce removed his sunglasses and smirked as Mae shook her head.

And here I thought he…

Hey, he said, you got dirt on your face. Ducking under Bruce’s arm, Mae scurried through the open door and stopped at the foyer mirror.

Oh-h, she said, running a tissue over her cheek, that Tim and Shorty let me go out like this.

Leaving her to her task, Bruce headed toward the carpeted staircase and advised that they cover things up better, for Mr. Klein had gotten the same dirt on his shirt. Now I gotta get upstairs, he said over his shoulder. I’ve got a wall to tear out.

Bruce crumbled another piece of old plaster between his fingers then tossed it down on the tarp-covered wooden floor. Rubbing powder off his hands, he then rummaged through his toolbox while Shorty parted a pair of flimsy curtains and opened the window.

As Bruce cleaned a pair of safety glasses, his helper made for a tool bucket in the corner.

Not the axe, Bruce told Shorty as he slid a heavy glove over his hand. I’ll use a crowbar and hammer ‘til I see what’s under here.

Threading the hooked bar through a loop on his tool belt, Bruce tapped on the buckled portion of the left wall. Shorty looked on while he slung his belt over his hips.

That’s weird, Bruce muttered, as several chunks of plaster fell to the floor.

What’s up?

Light tapping ensued until Bruce traded his hammer for the long metal bar. Don’t think I’ve seen this done before, he puffed, while scraping vigorously. There’s plywood under here. It should be lathe…the stuff plaster sticks to.

Shorty joined in the task and within minutes, the two men were prying a haphazardly nailed large sheet of plywood from the wall.

I’ll get the rest, Bruce said, yanking at a stubborn nail. Do me a favor, he mumbled as he wiped his chin against his shoulder, ask my folks to come up here.

Wanting to finish the task on his own, Bruce tossed his crowbar to the floor and steadied the loosened sheet of wood as a musty waft of air escaped from behind it. With a firm, strong yank, the old nails squeaked as they gave up their hold on the splintering piece of warped plywood. Setting the large clumsy sheet of wood aside, Bruce