The Malt in Our Stars Read online

  I realized that my fingers had a painfully tight grip on the napkin lying across my lap. I hadn’t expected such tension when I’d arrived for tea. Marcie and Linnea appeared to have already put the encounter behind them, so I tried to do the same. That wasn’t easy when Eleanor’s indignant protests could still be heard off in the distance. Eventually, however, her voice died away and we were left in peace.

  Chapter 2

  Fortunately, we met with no further interruptions and drew our meeting to a close shortly after we’d finished off the pot of tea. Aside from the one brief disturbance, our conversation had gone smoothly and pleasantly. I’d enjoyed spending time with Linnea, and Marcie as well, and I was now looking forward to the author’s visit to the Inkwell more than ever. Plenty of townsfolk had expressed interest in hearing the author speak, and I knew many people planned to show up at the event the next day. The members of the Inkwell’s romance book club would be in the audience and had told me they intended to show up as early as possible so they could claim the best seats.

  Now that I’d met Linnea, I didn’t have a single doubt that she’d be a hit with her fans. She was charming, engaging, and full of colorful stories. There wouldn’t be one bored person in the audience. I was still a tiny bit nervous, simply because I desperately wanted the event to go off without a hitch, but mostly I was excited.

  After saying goodbye in the lobby, Linnea and Marcie had gone up to their rooms, taking the broad, curving staircase to the next floor. Instead of heading for my car, I stopped in the lobby and glanced at the reception desk. There was no one behind it at the moment. I could hear voices in the distance but there was no one around to stop me from venturing deeper into the manor.

  I wasn’t planning to explore the entire hotel, even though I desperately wanted to. Getting a look at the lobby and parlor had only made me all the more eager to check out the rest of the place. I didn’t want to annoy anyone, however, so I exercised restraint and bypassed the staircase. I wasn’t going to leave without a little exploration, though.

  Following a wide hallway that led toward the back of the hotel, I walked as quietly as possible in my high heels. An arched doorway to my right led to a dining room, where about a dozen hotel guests were sitting down to an early lunch. A few feet farther along, arched double doors stood open on my left. I was hoping I’d found the ballroom and I soon discovered that I had. The room I peeked into was large enough to host dozens of dancing couples with plenty of space to spare. The polished parquet floors gleamed in the sunlight that poured into the room through the numerous tall windows that lined the wall across from me. Two sets of French doors also let in streams of daylight and one set stood open, leading out onto a large patio.

  The ballroom was empty at the moment, so I crept inside for a better look. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from the ornate plaster ceiling high above me. It was turned off at the moment, but I could imagine what it would look like lit up at night, each one of the dangling crystals sparkling and glittering. The rest of the light fixtures were wall sconces designed to look like old-fashioned gas lamps. At one end of the room, a balcony overlooked the dance floor and beneath it was a small stage, likely where live music would be played on the night of the May Day masquerade.

  I hadn’t yet lived in Vermont for a full year—I’d moved to town during the summer—so I hadn’t experienced Shady Creek’s annual masquerade before. I’d heard it was not to be missed and I’d already purchased my ticket. I didn’t have a mask yet, or a dress, for that matter, and I made a mental note to address those issues soon.

  Movement outside the windows caught my eye and I realized that someone was out on the patio. When he turned so his profile was lit up by the sun, I crossed the ballroom to the open French doors.

  “Hi, Judson,” I greeted.

  “Hey, Sadie,” he said with a smile. “What brings you here?” Judson was a regular patron at the Inkwell and was employed as the manor’s gardener. He was in his mid-thirties and single, from what I’d heard. He wasn’t, however, short on female attention. It was easy to see why so many women found him attractive. His eyes and his wavy hair were both the color of milk chocolate and he had a lean and well-toned physique from all his gardening work. I’d spoken to him several times at the pub and I found him to be a pleasant, easygoing guy.

  “I had a meeting with Linnea Bliss and her assistant,” I said in answer to his question.

  “The famous author? She’ll be at the pub tomorrow, right?”

  “That’s right. I’m hoping she’ll be a hit.”

  “She probably will be. She seems nice.”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “She stopped to talk to me this morning,” he said. “She was out for a walk and I was weeding the flower beds out front. Some guests pretend I’m invisible and others look down their noses at me, but not her.”

  “She does seem nice,” I agreed.

  I watched as he grabbed a hose with a nozzle attachment and watered the colorful flowers growing in large stone pots on the patio.

  “The gardens look amazing,” I said. “You’ve done great work.”

  “Thanks. The Honeywells want everything to look even more immaculate than usual with the masquerade coming up. Hopefully they’ll be as impressed as you are.”

  “I’m sure they will be.”

  Hearing a noise behind me, I glanced over my shoulder. A fair-haired woman in a gray dress and white apron rolled a housekeeping cart into the ballroom from the hallway. When she spotted me and Judson, she left her cart in the middle of the room and came out onto the patio. I recognized her as she stepped into the light.

  I’d met Connie Archer two weeks earlier when she came by the Inkwell for lunch. Apparently, she was new to town. She was about forty years old and maybe a bit jaded, but she seemed nice enough.

  “Hey, Connie,” Judson said as she joined us.

  I added my own greeting and she cracked a brief smile. “Gorgeous day,” she observed, her gaze going to the clear blue sky. “I’d much rather be out here than stuck inside.”

  “You’re working here as a housekeeper?” I figured that was a safe guess, judging by her uniform and the cart she’d left inside.

  “Yep. I’m supposed to get the walls washed in the ballroom before the interior decorator comes with her team to get the place ready for the masquerade.”

  “That seems like a big task,” I said, not envying her.

  She shrugged. “It’s not really so bad. I don’t need to clean every inch, just any smudges or dirt I find. How come you’re here?”

  I repeated what I’d told Judson about meeting with Linnea. “This is my first time at the manor, so I thought I’d take a peek at the ballroom.”

  Judson tugged on the hose and moved along the patio to water another set of flowerpots. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

  “It really is.”

  “You should see the rest of the place,” Connie said. “Fit for a queen, if you ask me. Must be nice.”

  I wasn’t sure what she meant by that. “Staying here, you mean?”

  “That too, but I meant the Honeywells. It took a lot of dosh to get this place turned into a hotel. Word is they inherited millions and that’s how they were able to buy the place. The only thing I ever inherited was my glaucoma.” She said it with a wry grin, softening the complaint.

  Judson shut off the water. “If the Honeywells find the hidden treasure, they’ll be even richer.” He pulled off his work gloves and ran the back of one hand across his forehead.

  “Hidden treasure?” I echoed, my curiosity piqued. Connie rolled her eyes. “Not that story again.”

  “It’s a good one,” Judson said. “That’s why everyone likes to repeat it.”

  “What treasure?” I asked, eager for more information.

  “You know this place was originally owned by Edwin Vallencourt, right?” Connie said.

  When I nodded, Judson picked up the thread. “Rumor has it that he loved his secrets and s
tashed away some of his valuables before he died.”

  “But no one’s ever found them?” I guessed.

  “That’s because there’s nothing to find.” Connie turned for the door. “I have to get back to work.”

  “Don’t worry, Con,” Judson called after her with a grin. “When I find the treasure, I’ll give you a trinket or two.”

  She muttered something under her breath, but I didn’t catch the words.

  Judson laughed and pulled his gloves back on.

  “Do you really think there’s hidden treasure?” I asked him.

  “Probably not,” he admitted, “but it’s fun to speculate.” He grabbed the hose. “I’d better get back to work too. I’ll see you at the pub sometime soon, Sadie.”

  “See you.”

  As he headed off around the corner of the manor, pulling the hose with him, I returned to the ballroom. The housekeeping cart still sat in the middle of the room, but Connie was nowhere to be seen. Since it was time for me to get back to the Inkwell, I resisted the temptation to explore more of the manor and instead set off for my car.

  * * *

  When I made my way onto the village green the next morning, my original plan was to cut across the northeast corner and make a direct line for the Village Bean, the local coffee shop. I’d had a cup of coffee with my bowl of oatmeal an hour earlier, but now I had a hankering for a mocha latte and the Village Bean had the best lattes around.

  As eager as I was to get my first taste of mocha deliciousness, my steps slowed when I reached the grassy village green. Signs of spring were all around me and, not for the first time, I was almost taken aback by the incredible beauty of the town I now called home. The white bandstand in the middle of the green had recently received a fresh coat of paint, and hanging baskets bursting with colorful flowers hung from each of the old-fashioned lampposts lining the streets around the green. Many of the storefronts around the square also had hanging baskets or flowerpots flanking their doors, and all around me birds chirped and sang.

  Pulling my phone from my purse, I turned my back on the green and snapped a photo of my beloved pub, which also doubled as my home. Housed in a renovated grist mill, the pub and the apartment above it practically oozed charm and character. The stone building had red-trimmed windows and a bright red water wheel. With the lush green forest and the bold blue sky as a backdrop, the pub made for an eye-catching sight. I planned to post the photo on the Inkwell’s Instagram account, but that would have to wait for the moment.

  I resumed my progress over to the corner of Sycamore Street, where the Village Bean was located. I lingered for a minute or two as I chatted with the coffee shop’s owner, Nettie Jo, but then I took a seat by one of the windows and pulled out my phone again. Once I had the picture of the Inkwell posted on social media, I checked my email and text messages. Marcie hadn’t contacted me to cancel the event last-minute, much to my relief. Not that I’d expected her to, but I’d had an unsettling dream that Linnea had suddenly decided to leave Shady Creek and set sail for Tahiti.

  When I set down my phone, I sat back and tried to relax. For the first time since my arrival, I studied the other customers in the coffee shop. I smiled at a woman who walked past me with a coffee and muffin in hand, heading for a free table at the back of the shop. I recognized a couple of faces, but the other customers were strangers. Some of them might have been tourists, but the man and woman sitting three tables away from me didn’t look like they were on a relaxing vacation.

  The woman appeared to be a little older than my age of thirty and had her straight black hair cut in an asymmetrical bob. Her high-heeled boots, skinny jeans, and leather jacket probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Her companion was probably a few years younger than her and his curly hair was a shade lighter.

  “You don’t get it, Alex,” the woman said to him, her face intense. “This is a test. Everything has to go perfectly or they’ll think I’m not cut out for the job.”

  “Everything will be fine, Liv.” He sounded unconcerned, but the tension in his jaw suggested that he wasn’t as relaxed as he was trying to appear.

  “Fine?” She practically spat the word out. “Our windshield got smashed!”

  “And it’s getting fixed,” Alex said, his voice even. “Besides, this town is so small we can probably walk everywhere we need to go.”

  “In these heels?” With a frustrated sigh, the woman whipped out her phone and started tapping away at it, her thumbs little more than two blurs.

  I finished off my latte and got up to leave. Listening to those two made it impossible for me to relax. It was time to get back to the Inkwell, anyway.

  When I got to the pub, I swept my gaze around the main room, making sure everything looked perfect. I hoped Linnea would appreciate the rustic charm of the place, with its exposed wide plank floors and stone walls lined with my sizable book collection. Earlier that morning I’d set up an easel to hold a large sign advertising the event. I nudged the sign half an inch to the left before standing back to make sure it was perfectly centered.

  “Please tell me you aren’t going to start dusting again.” Mel Costas, one of my employees, watched me from behind the bar, where she was setting out clean mugs and glasses. She wore her blue and blond hair in tousled spikes. The short style showed off her latest tattoo: a line of small birds in flight, curving around from the back of her neck to up behind her right ear.

  “Of course not,” I said, although I’d been thinking about grabbing my feather duster. I’d already dusted and cleaned everything three times over since we’d closed the Inkwell the night before, but my restless energy was making it hard to stay still. “But I’ll have one last look at the Christie room.”

  “Everything’s perfect,” Mel called after me as I headed for one of the pub’s two overflow rooms. “Just like it was an hour ago.”

  I could hear the smile in her voice and knew she was teasing. She was right, though. The room I’d named for Agatha Christie was spotless and all set up for the event, with rows of chairs facing one end of the room. I’d decided to have Linnea’s talk in the Christie room to give it a cozier, more intimate feel. Plus, any customers who weren’t taking part in the event wouldn’t disrupt the talk or feel like they were intruding.

  When I returned to the main part of the pub, I glanced at the clock. Linnea and Marcie would be arriving at any moment. A knock on the front door made me jump and my heart skipped a beat. I recovered quickly and hurried to greet my guests.

  It was finally time for the Inkwell’s first author visit.

  Chapter 3

  By the time the event got underway, every chair in the Christie room was occupied. There were many familiar faces in the crowd, including my aunt Gilda’s, but also a few that were new to me. I was pleased to see that so many townsfolk were interested in coming to meet Linnea and hear her speak. The event had barely begun, but at least it was off to a good start.

  After introducing our guest, I sat off to the side of the room, ready to step in if needed for any reason. Linnea had done dozens, if not hundreds, of these events over the years and was far more experienced with dealing with audiences than I was, but as the host I wanted to make sure everything stayed under control.

  Linnea read a scene from her latest book, holding me and the rest of the audience captive with every word. I hadn’t read Midnight’s Shadow yet, but it was on my to-be-read pile. Now that I’d heard Linnea read from the first chapter, I vowed to bump it up to the top of the list.

  After Linnea had finished reading and had spoken a bit about her journey to becoming a successful writer, I invited the audience to ask a few questions. Several hands shot up right away and another half hour zoomed by as Linnea answered the questions, keeping everyone entertained the whole way through.

  I discreetly glanced at my phone and saw that it was time to wind down the question period. I didn’t want to keep Linnea past the scheduled end time for her visit, and the plan was for her to sign books for a w
hile after her talk.

  “A few more questions and then we’ll move on to the book signing,” I announced to the room.

  Linnea nodded at a woman in the third row who wanted to speak.

  “I’ve heard that some literary writers are scornful of authors who write genre fiction,” the woman said. “Is that true and have you ever encountered someone like that?”

  “It’s definitely true,” Linnea said. “Although, I have to say, most of the writers I’ve met through the years are wonderful people. There’s always a few in every bunch, though. And I’ve run into three or four of them over the years. I remember one conference I attended, shortly after I hit the New York Times bestseller list for the first time, where I ran into an author who was also a college professor. He clearly thought he was above everyone else, especially those who wrote genre fiction. Unfortunately for me, I ended up in an elevator with him on my way to a panel discussion. We started chatting and as soon as he found out that I wrote romantic suspense, he looked down his nose at me, sneered, and asked when I was going to write a real book.”

  Someone in the audience gasped and an outraged murmur ran through the crowd. I shared the general sentiment and would have been sorely tempted to give the man a piece of my mind if I’d been in Linnea’s shoes.

  “What did you say?” a woman in the front row asked.

  “Maybe I should have bitten my tongue, but I told him, ‘Probably right around the time you get down off your high horse.’”

  The tone immediately changed in the room. A few people let out bursts of laughter while others congratulated Linnea and told her she’d said the right thing.

  When everyone had calmed down, I addressed the room again. “Any further questions?”

  A young woman’s hand shot up. I knew her name was Karidee because I’d asked to see her ID when she arrived. I’d worried she was too young to be in the pub, but she’d turned twenty-one a few weeks ago.

  “Do you think it’s necessary to have a college degree in creative writing to become a successful author?” she asked.