I work for treats,Sherlock points out.My salary demands are simple yet delicious.
You work for the possibility of dropped food,Truffle corrects.There’s a difference. I think snacks should be mandatory. Plus, it would give us something to look forward to throughout the day.
“Treats!” I announce without hesitation. “I think you’re right, Truffle,” I say as all three run my way, and I quickly offer up the goods. “Treats are a given all day long from here on out.”
Nessa approaches the desk with a clipboard and the expression of a poor soul who’s been dealing with demanding guests all afternoon. “Bizzy, we’ve got a situation with the Weatherby party in room twelve. They’re complaining that their ocean view is insufficiently oceanic.”
I blink at her. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Apparently, they can see trees between their balcony and the water. They want a room where it’s nothing but pure, unadulterated ocean as far as the eye can see.”
“Did you explain to them that we’re an inn, not a cruise ship?”
“I tried. They asked if we could remove the trees.”
Grady perks up. “Ooh, I know a guy with a chainsaw!”
“No,” Nessa and I say in unison.
“You people have no sense of adventure,” Grady says while shooting a sly wink to Nessa.I think an adventure down on the beach is in order. Nessa does like her midnight swims. And I must say she looks great in her birthday suit.
I cringe a little as the rest of his thoughts turn into white noise. That’s sort of nature’s way of protecting me from indecent thoughts, and I’m more than glad about it.
“We have a sense of property values,” I counter. “Tell theWeatherbys that if they want nothing but ocean, they’re welcome to book passage on a ferry. Otherwise, they can enjoy our perfectly lovely tree-enhanced coastline.” I sigh hard for a moment. “Tell them we’ll gladly move them into another suite. 203 has a better view, and the guests just left.”
“Got it.” Nessa grins and heads back to deliver the diplomatic version of that message—and offer them a room upgrade in the process.
The front door opens with a gentle chime, and Mom appears pushing Ella’s stroller with one hand while holding her stomach with the other. Georgie shuffles beside her in the same position, both of them moving with the careful precision of people who’ve made some questionable choices involving excessive frosting consumption.
“Well, well,” I greet them, “if it isn’t the Great Cake Massacre survivors. You two look like you wrestled a bakery and lost.”
It’s true. They both have frosting in their hair, on their foreheads, chins, lips, and sundresses.
“We didn’t lose,” Georgie protests weakly. “We achieved total victory. Those cakes didn’t stand a chance.”
Mom winces as she parks the stroller next to my desk. “Emmie said she couldn’t sell the cakes from the tasting since they weren’t on the regular menu. We couldn’t let perfectly good cake go to waste.”
“Sounds like a good time was had by all,” I say, peering into the stroller where Ella is completely knocked out, her little hands still clutching what appears to be a frosting-covered teething ring. “I see someone else got caught in the confection crossfire.”
“Poor baby is in a sugar coma,” Mom says as she coos her way. “She kept reaching for our plates, so we might have let her lick a few fingers’ worth of buttercream.”
“A few fingers’ worth?” I raise an eyebrow. “She looks like she face-planted into a wedding cake.”
“Don’t judge,” Georgie groans, gingerly settling into one of thelobby chairs. “That brown butter cinnamon was calling our names. Loudly. And in harmony.”
Tiny Ella learned a valuable lesson about sugar consumption today,Fish muses, jumping onto the registration counter.Unlike Grandma and Georgie, who apparently learned that nothing tastes better than butter and carbs.
There are no truer words.
“So,” Georgie asks, leaning in hard, “where’s our investigation taking us next? I’m ready to grill some suspects. Metaphorically speaking. I can’t handle actual grilling right now. It’s climbing toward triple digits out there today.”
“It is a scorcher,” I say, fanning myself with my hand.
“Actually,” Mom says, checking her watch, “Ben and I have an appointment at three. We’ve got a date.”
“Ooh.” I wiggle my shoulders. Ben would be my mother’s steady Eddie, and he also happens to be Georgie’s younger brother. “What kind of a date?” I ask. “I hope it’s something fun.”
“Oh, it is,” Mom is quick to assure me. “He’s arranged for us to get our feet measured.”
