A Room with a Roux Read online

  A Room with a Roux

  Books by Sarah Fox

  The Literary Pub Mystery Series

  Wine and Punishment

  An Ale of Two Cities

  The Malt in Our Stars

  The Pancake House Mystery Series

  The Crêpes of Wrath

  For Whom the Bread Rolls

  Of Spice and Men

  Yeast of Eden

  Crêpe Expectations

  Much Ado About Nutmeg

  A Room with a Roux

  The Music Lover’s Mystery Series

  Dead Ringer

  Death in A Major

  Deadly Overtures

  Table of Contents

  Books by Sarah Fox

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  Recipes

  Teaser Chapter

  A Room with a Roux

  Sarah Fox

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Sarah Fox

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat.& TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: January 2021

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-1086-5 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-1086-2 (ebook)

  First Print Edition: January 2021

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-1088-9

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-1088-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  Chapter One

  Fluffy snowflakes swirled down from the gray sky, hitting the windshield a split second before the wipers whisked them away. I gripped the edge of my seat as my husband, Brett, steered his truck around a tight turn. Driving along winding mountain roads made me nervous at the best of times. The winter weather only added to my anxiety.

  Ahead of us, the road straightened out, bordered on both sides by tall, snow-covered evergreens. I relaxed into my seat, relief allowing me to finally enjoy the view. It was the day after Thanksgiving. Winter had arrived early on the Olympic Peninsula, and although there was only frost on the ground in the seaside town of Wildwood Cove, up here in the mountains more than a foot of snow had already fallen. It had covered the world in a beautiful white blanket and it made me think of the upcoming Christmas season—when I wasn’t worrying about the driving conditions.

  Brett glanced my way as we continued our gentle ascent along the straight section of road. “We’re almost there. You okay?” He knew I wasn’t keen on mountain roads and hairpin turns.

  “Yes,” I said, glad that it was now the truth. “All good.”

  A painted wooden sign caught my eye at the same time as Brett flicked on the left turn signal and said, “This is it.”

  Excitement pitter-pattered through my stomach. I’d been looking forward to this getaway with Brett ever since we’d booked our stay at Holly Lodge a few weeks earlier. After our wedding in August, we’d had a short honeymoon in Victoria, Canada, but ever since our return, we’d both been busy with work. I knew Brett wanted this time alone together, without any distractions, as much as I did.

  Brett followed the curving driveway that led through the trees. After a few seconds, we emerged from the woods and got our first look at Holly Lodge. I’d seen photos of the place on the Internet, but the pictures didn’t do the building or its setting justice. The lodge looked cozy and welcoming, and was nestled in the middle of a winter wonderland.

  Although Holly Lodge was small in comparison to many other hotels, that was partly why Brett and I had chosen it. We wanted a quiet getaway without any crowds, a place where we could focus on relaxing and on each other. It certainly seemed like we’d come to the right spot. The lodge resembled a large log home rather than a hotel. It had two stories and a covered wraparound porch. Warm light lit up the windows on the ground floor, sending a welcoming glow into the gray afternoon.

  White twinkle lights lined the edge of the roof and the porch. Greenery also decorated the railing, and a large wreath hung on the front door. The effect was festive and inviting.

  Holly Lodge sat in the middle of a woodland clearing, but as Brett drove around the side of the building to a small parking lot, I caught a glimpse of a frozen lake through the trees.

  “It’s beautiful here,” I said as Brett pulled into a free parking spot. “And it looks like we’ll get the peace and quiet we’re after.”

  There were five other vehicles in the parking lot aside from ours, but even if the place was fully booked, I figured it would still be relatively quiet for a vacation destination.

  “Peace and quiet and alone time,” Brett said, leaning over to give me a kiss.

  I smiled. “That’s a definite yes to the alone time.”

  We climbed out of the truck and I shivered as the cold air stung my cheeks and the light wind cut through my clothes. Snowflakes still swirled down from the sky. I tipped my head back so all I could see was the falling snow and the leaden clouds. I stuck out my tongue and caught a fluffy flake on it, feeling like a kid. Already I was more relaxed than I’d been for weeks.

  I joined Brett on the other side of the truck as he unloaded our suitcase, and together we headed along the shoveled pathway that led to the lodge’s front door. Before going inside, we wiped our boots on the welcome mat.

 
Brett grinned and gently brushed a hand over my curly hair. “Snowflakes,” he said by way of explanation.

  “You’ve got some too.” I stood up on tiptoes so I could return the favor.

  We brushed off our jackets as well and then entered the lodge. As soon as we stepped inside, my breath caught in my throat. I stood there in the foyer, with Brett by my side, gazing around us. Once again, the photos I’d seen online didn’t do the lodge justice. Straight ahead of us was a reception desk with a closed door behind it, but my attention was drawn elsewhere.

  To the left was a dining room and a staircase with a carved wooden banister, and to the right was a lounge. Both rooms featured gleaming wooden floorboards and exposed beams. I took a few steps to the right to get a better view of the lounge. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall of the room, a fire crackling away behind the grate. The lounge stretched all the way to the back of the lodge, where floor-to-ceiling windows provided a stunning view of the lake. Cozy armchairs practically called out to me to settle into one and enjoy the warmth from the fire. With the snow falling outside the windows, the interior of Holly Lodge was picture-perfect and fit for a magazine.

  We’d definitely chosen the right place for our getaway.

  “It looks great,” Brett said quietly into my ear.

  I slid an arm around his waist and leaned into him. “I’m so glad Patricia told us about this place.”

  Patricia Murray was a friend of mine who ran a bed-and-breakfast two doors down from our beachfront Victorian. She and her family had spent a couple of weekend getaways up here at Holly Lodge in the past and she’d recommended it to us when we’d mentioned we were planning a short vacation in the mountains. I couldn’t have asked for a better spot.

  Although I was itching to explore the rest of the lodge, Brett and I approached the reception desk. I thought we’d have to ring the bell for assistance, but before we had a chance, a woman emerged from an office behind the desk.

  “Hello, and welcome to Holly Lodge,” the woman said with a smile. She was tall and striking, with high cheekbones. She wore her short hair in glossy finger coils and moved with the grace of a dancer. “I’m Rita Omondi-Manning, one of the owners. You must be Mr. and Mrs. Collins.”

  I still wasn’t quite used to the fact that I was now a Mrs., but the reminder put a smile on my face.

  “That’s right,” Brett replied. “Brett and Marley.”

  “Did you have a good trip up the mountain?” Rita asked.

  “It wasn’t bad, considering the weather,” I said. “It’s such a beautiful place you’ve got here.”

  Rita’s dark eyes lit up as she smiled again. “Thank you. I do love it. And I’m glad we’re able to share our little slice of mountain paradise with our guests.”

  I told Rita that we’d heard about Holly Lodge from Patricia Murray, who’d highly recommended it.

  “You know Patricia?” she said.

  “We’re neighbors and good friends,” I replied.

  She asked how Patricia was doing, and I filled her in briefly. Then Rita turned her eyes to a computer screen and tapped a few buttons on the keyboard. “We’ve got you in room five, up on the second floor. It has a lovely view of the lake.”

  “That sounds great,” Brett said, and I voiced my agreement.

  She handed over two keys, each one on a wooden keychain with a number five carved on it. “The dining room is open for breakfast from six until ten, for lunch from twelve to two, and for dinner from five to eight. You’ll find a credenza in the dining room, where there’s always tea, coffee, hot chocolate, and a few snacks available. There’s a hot tub out back, and if you’d like to try snowshoeing or cross-country skiing, just let us know. We have plenty of equipment available.”

  We thanked her and headed for the staircase, Brett carrying our suitcase. On our way up the stairs, we got a better view of the dining room, and I noticed a man with graying dark hair sitting alone at a table, reading a newspaper, a mug with steam rising from it set on the table in front of him. I assumed he was another guest, but he was the only one we encountered on our way up to our room.

  The second floor hallway was silent and deserted, all of the guest room doors shut tight. Brett unlocked the door to room five and pushed it open before stepping back to let me go in first.

  “Holy buckets!” I exclaimed as I entered the room. “This is gorgeous!”

  Our room was located at the back of the lodge and, just as Rita had told us, it offered a beautiful view of Holly Lake. Beyond the lake was a higher mountain than the one we were on, barely discernible through the falling snow, its peak shrouded in clouds.

  The room itself was almost as impressive as the view. I removed my boots and left them on the mat by the door so I could explore without leaving damp footprints on the hardwood floors or rugs. I ran a hand down one of the carved posts of the king-size four-poster bed that took up one half of the room, knowing I’d sleep well that night. Matching nightstands flanked the bed and a chest of drawers and a small desk made from the same type of wood sat against one wall.

  The other side of the room featured a small sitting area with a loveseat, armchair, television, and gas fireplace. A rustic but tasteful credenza was home to a kettle and an empty ice bucket. When I opened the cupboards, I discovered a mini fridge, two drinking glasses, two mugs, and an assortment of tea bags. A doorway led off the sitting room to a tiled bathroom with a shower stall and a soaker tub.

  “It’s pretty amazing,” Brett said, gazing around with appreciation as I returned to the middle of the room.

  “It’s perfect.”

  I picked up a glossy brochure that was lying on the bedside table. It was about Holly Lodge and the activities available on-site and in the surrounding area. I sat on the edge of the bed and took a closer look at the brochure while Brett unpacked a few items from our suitcase.

  The last page of the brochure featured information on the history of Holly Lodge, which had been built thirty years ago on the site of an old cabin that had stood by the lake for nearly a hundred years before it had become so derelict that tearing it down had been the only real option.

  “Hey,” I said to Brett as I read the next paragraph. “Apparently this place has a ghost.”

  “Holly Lodge is haunted?” Brett asked. “Wait—I think I saw something about that on the website. It’s supposed to be the ghost of a woman, right?”

  “Henrietta Franklin,” I confirmed. “But it’s Holly Lake that’s haunted, not the lodge itself.”

  Brett sat next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. “We’ve got a good view of the lake from here, but somehow I think we’ll be too distracted to notice any ghosts outside the window.”

  He kissed me in a way that almost made me forget what we were talking about.

  The brochure slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. When I retrieved it a moment later, I returned it to the bedside table.

  “I think you’re right,” I said, picking up our conversation where we’d left off. “But I doubt we’d see the ghost even if we weren’t distracted.”

  I didn’t know for sure if ghosts existed or not, but I figured most ghost stories were just that—stories. My experience with a supposedly haunted house in Wildwood Cove had led me to believe that more firmly than ever.

  “That’s probably true,” Brett agreed, “but it makes for a good tale to tell the guests.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  As I got up from the bed, my attention strayed back to the view, and I wandered over to one of the two large windows.

  Brett joined me and wrapped his arms around me from behind. “What do you want to do first?”

  “Walk down to the lake? I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs after the ride up here.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Neither of us made a move toward the door. I leaned into Brett, st
ill enjoying the view from the window.

  “I’m glad we decided to do this,” I said.

  “You’re not worrying yet?” There was a note of gentle teasing in his voice.

  I smiled. “Not quite yet. It helps that The Flip Side will be closed while we’re gone.”

  It wasn’t easy for me to leave the pancake house in other people’s hands. Not because I didn’t trust them—all my employees were excellent and my mom was always willing to step in to help out when she was in Wildwood Cove—but I didn’t like to burden anyone with my responsibilities on top of their own. I also wasn’t keen on leaving our pets, even for a few days, but they were in good hands.

  My mom and her husband, Grant, had come to Wildwood Cove for Thanksgiving and now they were staying on at our house to look after our goldendoodle, Bentley, and our orange tabby cat, Flapjack. I missed the animals already, but I knew they’d be fine with my mom and Grant, so I was determined to keep my worries at bay and focus on enjoying myself.

  After another minute of soaking in the view and each other’s company, we put our boots back on and headed downstairs. Rita was no longer in sight, but a man with chestnut-brown hair stood behind the reception desk. His face was tanned and weathered, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. He had his attention fixed on the computer screen, but he raised his eyes and smiled when he heard us coming into the lobby.

  “You must be our newly arrived guests,” he said, coming out from behind the desk. “I’m Kevin Manning.”

  He offered his hand, first to me and then to Brett. As we shook, we introduced ourselves and assured him that we were settling in well so far.

  While we chatted, a woman descended the stairs from the second floor. She had a pale complexion and dark hair that was tied back in a messy bun. She wore glasses with purple frames and a thick sweater with a long black skirt.

  “How are you doing this afternoon, Lily?” Kevin asked the woman as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Very well, thank you.” She held up a paperback novel that she had with her. “I’m going to get in some reading time in front of the fire.”