The Hound of Bar Harborville (A Jane True Short Story) (Trueniverse Book 1), Page 2

  Jane perked up at the mention of lunch while I resisted the urge to throw myself on the floor and hold my breath until they either had our room ready or gave us something, anything, with a horizontal surface and a door that locked.

  “I am hungry,” Jane said, because Jane was always hungry.

  “Of course we accept,” I said. “But you needn’t pay. We were early, after all. We’ll get out of your hair and come back later.”

  “That would be wonderful,” said Edeet!, “although we do insist on paying for your lunch. I’ve written the name and the directions on this piece of paper. It is right down the street.”

  Jane took the piece of paper and Edeet! continued to thank us profusely as we walked through to the lobby, where a very large, middle-aged human male with a blank, slack-jawed expression was putting our small amount of luggage onto a very oversized cart.

  “Timmy, he will take care of your things. They will be waiting for you in your room when you return. I do apologize again. We are usually able to accommodate our guests, but today has been a challenge.”

  And for just a second, her perfect French polish showed the slightest hint of wear, but soon enough she was smiling and gracious and chic again.

  We left the Chateau Bar Harbor, Jane practically skipping at the thought of lunch and me bemoaning all the other things I’d rather be feeding my lovely girl than a lobster roll.

  Of course, lunch wasn’t just lunch. After we’d eaten our weight in Bar Harbor lobster—I’ll never understand why vacation lobster tastes so much better than our normal, Rockabill lobster, considering it’s the same damned lobster—Jane spotted an “adorable” gallery, and then another, and then another. After that she had to have an ice cream, and then a cocktail, and then another cocktail, and then there was another gallery, and then it was time for dinner, and then a nightcap. Somehow she conned me into ice cream again. Then we called home to check on the twins and Jane’s dad, who had everything well in hand. By the time we got back to the hotel, it was eight o’clock and I was very, very ready for our bed, if not for sleeping.

  A shiny brass call bell was sitting on the desk at the hotel, and I gave it a mighty clap when we arrived, carrying what felt like dozens of shopping bags filled with tourist tat and some nice pieces of local art.

  And then we waited.

  And waited.

  “That’s weird,” said Jane, and she clapped the bell again.

  This time it was Timmy who shambled out of the hidden door behind the desk.

  “Hullo,” he said listlessly, staring at us.

  “Hello,” said Jane, straightening her spine with an expectant air.

  Timmy’s dull brown gaze shifted between us like he wasn’t quite sure who we were or what we were doing there. His graying blonde hair hung into his eyes, contributing to the boyish air that clung to him, despite his obviously being middle-aged.

  “We’re the Barghests,” I explained. “You carried our luggage to our room earlier today.”

  “Okay,” said Timmy.

  More silence.

  “Could we go to our room now?” Jane asked gently.

  “Okay.” Timmy didn’t have a very wide repertoire of responses, apparently.

  “We don’t have a key,” said Jane. “Or a room number.

  “Okay,” said Timmy, but this time he did move, first to take a key from under the desk and then to lead us up the stairs with a slow, determined tread.

  Our room number was 13. Jane nudged me, but at that point I didn’t care if we had to kick a black cat and walk directly under a ladder to get into our room. Timmy pushed open the door and stood back, handing me the key as I followed Jane into the room. When I turned around to tip the man, he was gone, disappeared like a ghost.

  I felt the hair on my arms rise and I reminded myself that I was Anyan Barghest, scourge of the supernatural world, and I shouldn’t be afraid of a middle-aged boutique hotel valet with the IQ of a toddler.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Jane breathed as we set our shopping bags down next to the door and I turned to shut the door. “Look at that bed!”

  The bed was huge and very elegantly made up. A four-poster draped in fabric, it was utterly romantic and incredibly practical for tying someone to. There was also the advertised chaise lounge and the fireplace and, when we poked our head in the bathroom, the enormous tub and equally large shower.

  I turned to Jane, who put a hand on my chest.

  “Not so fast, puppy. I need a shower. And to put on something special for our special night.”

  “You already are special,” I said. “You can’t get any specialer…”

  Well played, I congratulated myself. For I had my own special plans for tonight that had counted on Jane’s usual nightly ritual of a shower or bath before bed.

  “It’ll take me twenty minutes, tops,” she said. “Think you can survive for that long?”

  I sighed. “I guess. If I have to.” I bent to kiss her, meaning it to be just a quickie, but it deepened and soon we were almost too deep into it, ready to forget both of our separate missions. Champagne, I reminded myself. Candles. Shit girls like.

  And with that I managed to pull back. “Get ready,” I said, giving her a soft kiss before she gathered up a few things from her little suitcase and went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  I sprang into action.

  From my own suitcase I pulled out three pillar candles I’d stashed amongst my clothes and the kit that Grizzie and Iris had handed me the following evening. I opened it to find a baggie full of rose petals, a bottle of massage oil, a pair of handcuffs that were not the fuzzy sex kind but real, honest-to-god handcuffs, a variety of toys, and a bunch of bananas. I hoped the bananas were for us to eat to keep our strength up, but with those two I probably didn’t want to know.

  I placed one candle on the bureau across from the bed, by the door, one on the mantle above the fireplace, and one on the left-hand nightstand. I pulled from the earth’s magic, using a small burst of power to light each candle as I set it down. Then I strew the rose petals on the bed, looking at the clock. I still had fifteen minutes to carry out my plan.

  Creeping out the door, I turned off the lights, looking back to check the scene. I had to admit, it looked good. I’d not bothered with the fire, as it was a warm night, but the candles lit the room with a soft glow that left most of the room, especially the bed, plunged in velvety shadow.

  It looked warm and mysterious and sexy, like my Jane.

  Then the candle next to bed guttered in a draft and went out, leaving the fabric-draped four-poster bed in total darkness. I nearly went to relight it, not trusting my aim with fire to do it from the doorway without lighting the bed on fire. Then I decided it could wait till I got back; getting the food and booze was more important.

  It was Jane I was dealing with, after all.

  Downstairs, there was no one at the desk and no one answered the bell this time when I slapped it impatiently. After a few minutes of waiting, I decided to take matters into my own hands and went behind the desk to push open the secret door there. It led into a small office, through which I could see a large kitchen.

  Bingo.

  I went to the refrigerator and pulled it open. Sure enough, there was a large paper bag that said “Barghest” on it. Inside I found the champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries I’d had delivered to the hotel for our arrival. A little rummaging in cupboards and I found a few flutes and a silver tray, upon which I arranged everything. I debated whether to open the champagne there, in the kitchen, but figured I’d do it in the bedroom, especially as there was no one to help me open doors or anything.

  Where the hell is the staff? I wondered. It felt like we had the whole place to ourselves, which was odd considering part of the Chateau’s outrageous price tag was its promise of first-class service.

  The champagne flutes jittered on the tray as I carried everything through the secret door and back up the stairs to our room. I figured that in the time I’d
waited at the desk and then helped myself, I’d been about twenty minutes. I’d wanted everything set up before Jane came out of the shower, but arriving with it on the tray wouldn’t be too shabby.

  I did have three of her favorite things, after all. On the tray was food and booze.

  And the third thing is my doggie style, I thought smugly as I carefully nudged open the door, trying to be as quiet as possible in case she was still in the bathroom and I might yet manage to surprise her.

  Only I was the one who was surprised.

  For Jane was doing a sexy little shimmy for another man.

  Even with my sharp barghest eyesight, I couldn’t see whom he was through the thick darkness created by the curtains of the four-poster bed. All I could see was that someone was in the bed, and Jane was standing just a few feet in front of me, facing the stranger and sliding her robe down her shoulders to reveal an absolutely stunning lingerie set.

  “Who is that in our bed and why are you dancing for him?” I said, keeping my voice carefully neutral, not least because I’d registered something very odd about the man.

  He wasn’t moving. Not even when Jane revealed her lace-covered tatas, which should have created some sort of reaction.

  And speaking of Jane…

  “EEEEEK!” she squealed at the sound of my voice, drawing her robe up and jumping away from where I stood, then shrieking again and jumping back towards me as her head swiveled toward its mystery occupant.

  “What the fuck?” she shouted, lunging for the light switch even as I reached to flick it on.

  She turned on her heel and we both looked at the figure in our bed.

  It was our host, Jack(ques). He was propped up on the pillows, the covers—that I’d so carefully strewn with rose petals—pulled over his thighs.

  He was very naked.

  He was also very dead.

  His eyes stared forward, his color already pallid. I couldn’t see any signs of blood or bruising or any other trauma, but he was definitely dead.

  Jane looked at me, eyes wide. I looked back at Jane. Then I swore, moving just far enough into the room to set the tray down on a small table by the door before steering her away by the elbow to go call the human police.

  So much for our romantic getaway.

  “I can’t believe they think I killed that man!” Jane hissed at me, her voice furious, as soon as I’d shut the door onto our new room.

  “They don’t think you killed him,” I soothed. “They just think he died because of you. There’s a difference.”

  Jane’s eyes bugged and she was about to start yelling again when someone knocked on our door. It was Timmy, bearing all of our luggage and bags from the old room.

  “Hullo,” Timmy said, standing still as a statue.

  I motioned Timmy into the room. “You can set the stuff down over there, thank you.”

  “Okay,” came Timmy’s stock response.

  “Have the police gone?” Jane asked Timmy, who stared at her. She was clad in an enormous white hotel robe that she’d found in the closet of our first room, and she looked like some sort of priestess rather than the dancing vixen of earlier. Still, I’d prefer the man-boy didn’t stare at her with quite such intent.

  “Timmy, have the police gone?” she repeated.

  “Yup,” he said. “Think so.”

  “Okay,” she said, realizing she wasn’t going to get much help from the valet. “Thanks for bringing our stuff.”

  Timmy nodded. “Okay.” And then he left. Again, without a tip.

  “Timmy, wait!” I called, reaching for my wallet and bolting toward the door. But once I hit the hallway I realized Timmy had again vanished into thin air.

  “What the hell?” I asked, scratching my head. I considered following the man’s scent but decided that was stupid. We’d had enough mysteries for tonight, and the love of my life was undoubtedly winding up to let me have it.

  And by “it,” sadly, I didn’t mean the sex.

  Sure enough, Jane’s voice hit me as soon as I walked in the door. “He did not die because of me!”

  I sighed as I sat in a chair near our new door to take my boots off. This room, although also elegantly decorated, was much smaller than our former one. The bed was still a king, but not a four-poster, and the bathroom, which I could see from where I sat, only had a normal bathtub.

  And while there was a fireplace, there was no rug in front of it.

  “Throw a dog a boner,” I muttered, ruing that lack of a rug with all my heart. I did love shagging on a rug.

  “‘What?” Jane asked sharply. She was in no mood for puns.

  “Nothing,” I said. “But don’t worry, I know Jacques didn’t die because of you. And the police do too. Or they will. Your beautiful boobies didn’t give him a heart attack.”

  She appeared appeased by my words. “That’s what I said. But what was he doing there?”

  Boots off, I sat back in the chair with a sigh. Jane went and sat on the end of the bed, casting a glance over her shoulder to make sure no dead bodies were already in it.

  “I was only in that bathroom for twenty minutes, tops,” she said.

  “More like twenty-five,” I said. “I was gone twenty.”

  “And Jack…I mean, Jacques, wasn’t there when we went in. Or did we manage to miss his dead body?”

  “No,” I said. “We’d have noticed a dead body. And I put the rose petals on the bed, which were disturbed. He got in the bed after I put the rose petals down.”

  “And then he just died while I was in the shower?”

  I shrugged. “That’s what the police think. The coroner will give us the final word, but they’re pretty sure he died of a heart attack. They said he did have heart trouble,” I reminded her.

  “So he came to our room and got in our bed in order to die?”

  “He probably didn’t know he was dying.” My nose itched, so I scratched it. Jane watched me contemplatively.

  “But he was naked.”

  “Well, that’s usually why a man gets in a woman’s bed,” I said. “To be naked.”

  “But it wasn’t my bed. It was our bed. He met you at the same time he met me.”

  “Maybe we have a swinger vibe.”

  “We do not have a swinger vibe, Anyan. And you’d just left the room.”

  “I bet someone like Jack(ques)—” I pronounced it with two syllables, “—thinks everyone’s a swinger. But you’re right. The timing is weird.”

  “Exactly. If he was a swinger, why wait till you’d left? But what’s the alternative? Seduce me, make love to me, and get out of the room in the time it took you to go downstairs?”

  “He didn’t know where I was going. Maybe I was leaving for the night.”

  “That’s stupid,” Jane said, with her usual tact. “Besides, where were his clothes?”

  I chewed on my bottom lip, wishing she’d take off that robe. She was still wearing that stunning lingerie underneath, yet not a peep showed through all that cotton.

  “Anyan,” she said drily. “I asked a question. What happened to his clothes?”

  I threw up my hands. I’d thought about that earlier but hadn’t wanted to mention it. This wasn’t our problem! We were on vacation.

  “They weren’t in the room,” Jane answered. “So he must have walked to our room naked. That’s a bold move, even for someone who owns the hotel.”

  “I think getting in a strange couple’s bed is a bold move, naked or not.”

  She frowned, clearly ignoring me. “I think he didn’t die in the bed. I think he was put there.”

  “Why on earth would he be put there?” I asked, because we weren’t going to get involved. Because we were on vacation.

  “Because he was murdered,” she said, doing her best impression of a determined amateur sleuth in a mystery written by Agatha Christie.

  I sat back in the chair and shut my eyes. “He wasn’t murdered. He had a heart attack.”

  “They think he had a heart attack. The
y don’t know for sure.” And then Jane yawned, a huge, drawn-out yawn that reminded me we’d gotten up at the butt-crack, as usual, with the twins, and we’d already had a very long day that included travel and a lot of food and booze and a corpse.

  “Yet,” I reminded her, determined to drop the subject. “They don’t know for sure yet. But they will in the morning. And speaking of morning…”

  I got up from the chair and stalked toward her. She watched me with a lazy, indulgent smile.

  I put my hands on either side of her thighs, bending at the waist to peer down into her face. She put a small hand on my jaw, coaxing me forward for a kiss.

  As I laid her back on the bed, prepared to feast on her body till we were both full and satiated, I remembered something.

  “Shit,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I practically flew back to our room, which wasn’t locked, thank the gods. No one besides Jane thought Jack(ques) was murdered, so they’d just carted his body away after asking only the most basic of questions about his medical history.

  Luckily, the strawberries and champagne—not cold anymore, but still champagne—stood where I’d abandoned them on their silver tray. I picked them up and went back to our new room, down the hall.

  When I got back, Jane was clad in all that sexy lingerie, lying in bed with her black hair fanned out alluringly on the pillow.

  And sound asleep, snoring like a tiny barnyard animal. I resisted the urge to howl.

  “Tomorrow,” I told her sleeping form. “I’ll love ya, tomorrow.”

  It was only a day away, I reminded myself, and we’d already found a body. What else could go wrong?

  Still half asleep, the morning sun streaming over my face, I reached for Jane.

  And kept reaching, since she wasn’t there.

  Muttering, I opened my eyes and looked around the room. She wasn’t anywhere else in the room and the bathroom, when I got up to investigate, was similarly empty.