On the way up the stairs I was toying with the idea of taking a shower first, and unpacking my things, but let’s be honest. That’s not going to happen. I’m going to drop into those lovely cotton sheets, and sleep until my alarm goes off tomorrow morning.
Changing into my pajamas and dropping my other clothes on the floor in a heap, I take a moment and touch the necklace I always wear. It’s a hand-carved wooden trinket, a unicorn with a flowing mane. I never take it off. It reminds me of friendship, and the strength of personal convictions, all the things I liked best about the person who gave it to me. Tired as I am, I still smile to remember her.
In the next instant I practically throw myself into bed, and I’m asleep before my head even lands on the nice, comfy, goose-down pillows.
And just a few minutes later, I’m awake again.
A shaking rocks me out of the dream I was having where men in three-piece suits were serving me banana splits on a sun-drenched beach. I throw out my arms on instinct as my bed shakes and the room rattles, trying to stabilize myself against…what? I have no idea what’s going on.
My flailing about only manages to get me tangled up tight in the sheets, which makes me panic even more. I find myself wrapped up tight like a butterfly in a cocoon, trying to break free. Darn these five-hundred-count sheets!
When the shaking stops, I take a breath, and then another, waiting for my heart to calm down. Oh, snap. What was that?
Now that I can think straight, I realize whatever that shake up was didn’t last that long. Here and gone again. It only seemed longer because I was so scared. It must’ve shaken the whole entire Inn, too, right down to its foundations. I’m on the top floor and if I felt it all the way up here, it must’ve been something serious. An earthquake? This part of Tassie isn’t known for its seismic activity but it’s not like we never get a good Earth shimmy here. So much for a good night’s sleep.
Only…now that I’m not in fight-or-flight mode I can see that there’s sunlight slipping in through my window. I might still be exhausted but it looks like I actually did get a full night’s sleep. It’s morning already! The alarm on the bedside table is due to go off in another few minutes. Not that it needs to anymore. I’m awake. Too right, I am!
But what woke me up?
While I’m still puzzling on that, an invisible hand tugs back the blankets, freeing my legs at last. I shiver when the cooler air brushes my bare feet. I wear sweatpants and a cotton sleep top most nights when James isn’t here to lend me his body heat. Might have to go ahead and add socks to my pajamas, if ghosts are going to start helping me out of bed.
There’s very few of the ghosts here at the Inn that I allow in my rooms. Don’t even need one hand to count them all but mostly, it’s just Jess. Now here she stands, at the edge of my bed, holding back my blankets.
Jess was the one who gave me the unicorn necklace. I may have already mentioned how much she means to me.
She was one of my very best friends, and now she’s a ghost. She died here when she came to visit some years ago and, just like with Lachlan, her murder was solved but she’s still around. Other than getting to hang out with me, I don’t know why she stays. There are days when I wonder why anybody would want to stick around on Earth, when they could be headed off to their eternal reward instead.
Considering the rumbling that just shook me awake, I reckon this is gonna be one of those days.
Her ghost is gesturing at me frantically with both arms, telling me to get up, get up now, and flapping her hand at the door to emphasize her point. Her pretty face is creased with worry. Her periwinkle eyes, translucent and spectral, are flashing brightly. It’s spooky to see, and it has me up on my bare feet in an instant.
“Jess, what is it?” I ask her. “What are you on about? So we’ve had an earthquake. You’re a ghost. It’s not like you can get hurt again!” She frowns at me like that was a daft thing to say, and plants a fist against her hip. Then she thrusts her other hand out toward the door, jabbing her finger in that direction, stomping her foot down hard—even though she’s floating inches above the floor.
“All right, all right,” I tell her, giving in. I’m already in a state and now her anxiety is only making it worse. “I’m up, I’m up. You lead the way. Just let me get dressed…where’re my pants?”
But that idea doesn’t sit well with her at all. She’s waving her arms like crazy, floating toward the door, and then back to me, flitting back and forth like a hummingbird in a tornado.
Well, that can’t be good. Now I’ve gone from a state of panic to being truly scared. Jess was always a laid-back kind of gal, and she doesn’t get worried easily. If she’s this upset then whatever just happened must be something really, really bad.
No time for changing clothes so I pull on my slippers as I stumble toward the door, pulling it open and then closed again in one single motion. Jess leads me down the hall and to the stairs at the other end that take me down a level. A few of our guests have their heads stuck out of the doors to their rooms, and they all hurl questions at me as I race by, hoping for some solid answers. I tell them what I can, which isn’t much. Or anything at all, really. I need answers, too!
Down the stairs to the floor below mine, all the way across the hall and then down the stairs heading for the first floor, too. Jess isn’t stopping. What on Earth is going on?
The stairs open up on the first floor, right into the front room of the Inn where the registration counter stands near the back wall and our decorations greet guests with a homey feel. Photos line the walls showing people and places of interest in Tasmania and Australia in general. There’s black-and-white historical photos too, of how things used to look here at the Inn and in the town of Lakeshore. The large painting of good ol’ Lieutenant Governor David Collins of the First Fleet hangs in its place of honor in the center of them all. I’ve asked George our handyman to find another place for it, rather than have David staring down disapprovingly at us all like that, but George just keeps putting it back out here. I figure it’s not worth arguing over, considering all George does for us.
My eyes go automatically to the big fireplace, but it’s clean and empty in the middle of a Tassie summer—which is when days are warmest for us. The front doors are closed. Whatever trouble Jess is trying to lead me to, it’s not here. The whole place is quiet.
Too quiet.
And…smelly.
Like smoke. Like something’s burning.
What on Earth…?
Jess leans in close, right in front of my eyes where I can’t ignore her. She taps a finger against her nose, and then she disappears.
I take the hint, and sniff the air more deeply. My nose follows the acrid scent of smoke and grease and something worse, and turns me toward the dining room. It’s still early in the morning, before breakfast, so none of the guests are down here looking to tuck into a meal, thankfully.
The wait staff and kitchen workers are in early though, here to prep for the upcoming meal…only, they aren’t doing any prep. They’re standing in a huddle around the nearest tables, as far away from the kitchen doors as they can get. Makes sense, considering that’s where the smoke is coming from. Was that all it was? Just a kitchen mishap? Makes me wonder what Jess was hopping about. This isn’t the first time a dish got burned up in our kitchen. Not the second time, either. Not even the hundredth time, for that matter.
“What in the world happened?” I ask the group of them, my voice pitched high and tight with my mounting concern.
Although, I don’t know why I can’t shake my anxiety. Now that I know what made the building shake, I should be relaxing. Although, I can’t see why Jess would shake me out of bed just for a burnt sweetcorn fritter…
I suddenly realize my six employees haven’t answered me. They’re just standing there watching me, as if I’m more interesting than whatever’s going on in the kitchen. It takes me a minute, but then my cheeks pink up as I remember I’m standing here in trackies and slippers. Not exactly professional of the boss.
“What?” I ask them, trying to make my voice not sound embarrassed. “You’ve never seen a woman in her pajamas before?”
“I’ve seen women in pj’s before, boss,” Alex Riddell says with a lopsided grin. “But this is you.”
I put my hands on my hips and put a little tease into my voice. “Are you saying I’m not a woman?”
Alex, a one-hundred-and-ninety centimeter tall bodybuilder who works the weekends here as a waiter, wisely takes a step back and shows me his palms. He might have a rack of weightlifting trophies on his wall at home, but he knows better than to get on my bad side!
“No, boss,” he laughs. “Not saying that at all, boss.”
I smile at my little victory. “Too right, you’re not.”
We’re just clowning each other, of course. My crew are close as family, which I guess makes me their mother, in a way. I’m more than twice his age, and I’ve got more than a few wrinkles around my green eyes to prove it. I certainly don’t fit into the jeans I wore in Uni anymore. I’m a woman of mature age, as they used to say, and I’m very comfortable in that role, thank you very much. Besides. The fact that we can stand here teasing each other while the kitchen of the Pine Lake Inn is on fire says a lot about how we’ve all learned to stay calm in the face of disaster—
Oh, snap…my kitchen.
My kitchen!
“Where’s Rosie?” I ask the group.
All of them, all at once, look toward the door to the kitchen.
I close my eyes with a sigh. Of course that’s where she is.
As my partner in the Pine Lake Inn, Rosie Ryan runs the kitchen and dining room. So, technically, that’s Rosie’s kitchen in there, not mine. I should have realized that’s where she would be. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’s not only in there trying to fix whatever mess is going on, but she’s probably the reason for the whole mess in the first place. Rosie’s what we like to call “safety challenged.” Our insurance agent absolutely loves her. He shows that love with a yearly increase in our premium, regular as clockwork!
The smoke is still rolling out of the kitchen doors, up along the dining room’s ceiling. “Has anybody checked on her?” I ask. Heads shake from side to side. Alex shifts on his feet, embarrassed that he hasn’t done more to help.
“She told us to stay out, boss,” he says, running a hand through short, bristly hair the color of wheat. The tattoo across his knuckles, W-O-L-F, turns upside down as he does, making it say F-L-O-W instead. That’s something else I usually tease him about, but now doesn’t seem the time.
“Nobody’s been in there?” I ask again.
“We were gonna come and get you,” another of the servers, Maria Flowers, tells me defensively. “We just wanted to see how the show ends, is all.”
I give her a look, but she only shrugs in return. Her skin is a shade so dark it actually blends against the black shirt of her uniform, but her eyes are bright blue that create a striking, alluring contrast. She barely comes up to Alex’s chest, but I know she’s no coward, either. If Rosie hadn’t ordered them out of the kitchen they would both be in there, smothering fires and making sure the gas is off and maybe even mopping marinara off the ceiling.
Don’t laugh, please. It’s happened before.
Just as I’m about to dive through the kitchen doors myself and brave the danger to see what sort of state the kitchen’s in, out pops Rosie carrying a huge metal pot. Her hands are safely ensconced in oven mitts…but the mitts are streaming white smoke.
Whatever charred heap of burnt sacrifice is inside the pot is the source of the billowing black smoke.
Rosie’s curly brown hair is trailing tendrils of both colors.
My hand reaches up to grip my unicorn necklace, seeking the comfort it usually brings.
The front of her pink apron is smeared with black, greasy stains. So’s her purple blouse. Rosie’s a wide woman, hefty and proud of it, so there’s a lot of area for the smoke to stain and it’s gotten to almost all of it. Even her round face is streaked in black, the whites of her eyes the only spots of color.
Until she smiles, and her teeth flash white as well.
“G’day Dell!” she says, as if this is just a normal morning, not a thing amiss. “Welcome back! How was the vacation? I thought you was gonna sleep in this morning?”
“I was,” I say, unable to keep from staring at her, “but I kinda got shook out of bed instead. Rosie, did the kitchen…explode?”
“Er, uh…” She looks at me, and then looks down at the smoking mess she’s still carrying as if she’s surprised to find she still has it. Hastily, she sets it down on one of the nearby tables. It’s still billowing smoke, whatever it was.
Then she notices that one of the curls of her hair is smoldering. Casually, she reaches up, and pinches it out with her fingers.
Not the first time Rosie’s been on fire, either, but something about this time feels different. I think I’d better go have myself a look-see.
“Somebody call the fire services,” I say to the group of waiters and cooks. “Rosie, come show me the damage.”
“Um,” she says again, taking a moment to get her tongue in gear. “It looks worse than it is, I’m sure.”
Somehow, that isn’t even a little bit comforting. In fact, now I’m worried all over again.
Rosie trails behind me as I push through the swinging door, and into the kitchen. Three steps inside I stop, and I stare.
An immediate urge to sob hysterically falls over me, but I can’t produce any tears. I’m too much in shock to cry. I actually think I might start laughing before I cry. This is…this is impossible. Simply impossible.
The entire back half of the kitchen is simply covered with black soot and smoke. Pots and pans hanging on their hooks look like they’re made of charcoal. Platters of food waiting to be served for breakfast are smoked, and not in the good way. The refrigerator. The floor. The ceiling. The wall…
Oh, snap. This is…this is…
Impossible, like I just said. It’s the only word that fits. If I wasn’t seeing it with my own two eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.
Rosie’s really outdone herself this time.
The back wall of the kitchen has a massive hole blown through it. A wide, gaping hole. Drywall, wood frame, bricks…all of it is gone, leaving behind a gaping wound that a Mini Cooper could drive through without ever touching the sides. Even now, bits and pieces of building are falling away from the ragged edges.
Somehow, Rosie blew a hole through my Inn. My poor, poor Inn…
“I was experimenting with a soufflé, getting ready for lunch,” Rosie tells me weakly as she puts a soot-smeared hand on my shoulder. “Thought I could spice up the recipe a bit, add a touch of this, a pinch of that. I’m an artist in the kitchen, you know that.”
“Uh-huh,” I answer, not really hearing her.
My poor Inn…
“So…” Rosie continues. “Um, turns out there are more than a few things in a kitchen that are just a wee bit combustible.”
“Uh-huh.”
My poor Inn…
Rosie sighs. “Next thing I knew, the whole blessed thing’s blowing up in me face and I told everybody to run for the hills, and then BOOM! The wall, the ceiling, my poor dress!”
I look at her, knowing my friend is klutzy on a good day…but this?
My poor Inn!
When Rosie tries to keep explaining I hold a hand up to forestall her. Think I’ve heard enough of this. “Alex?” I raise my voice to call out to him. “Best call the insurance adjuster, too. And hang a sign up for the guests. The kitchen’s closed.”
He pops his head in through the doors, wincing at the sight just like I did. “Closed? For how long?”
I scan the damage again, and laughter wins out over tears, if only just barely.
“Closed for the foreseeable future,” is the best I can tell him.
Because that sounds a lot better than ‘closed forever.
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