Chapter Nine
After a late night of creativity, Zane had the first two chapters of his murder mystery written. It was crap and he knew it. But he also understood the importance of getting the first draft down while the idea was still fresh, hot, and burning a hole in his brain. His research had told him writing and editing took two different minds. One creative, the other analytical.
Right now, he was of a third mind. His manuscript was calling, but he was starving and super eager to see his beautiful hostess again. The final melody she’d played last night kept tripping through his mind and had filtered into his dreams. Twice he’d awoken thinking she was playing again, only to be disappointed when silence filled his ears.
She’d called it a work in progress. Did that mean she was still practicing it, or composing it? He’d never heard of a composer who didn’t scratch notes as they went. Of course, he’d never known anyone to try and learn a song without sheet music or repeatedly listening to it while they ferreted out the correct notes.
He scrubbed his hand over yesterday’s beard. He should shave, but he wasn’t inclined to put forward the effort. He was on vacation. He stood, hand on the doorknob, debating a shave. It would only take two minutes.
He opened the door and strode into the hallway. He wasn’t here to date, or to impress anyone. He’d go unshaven. He congratulated himself on the logical decision as he jogged down the back stairs after locking his door. He hit the bottom and the invigorating scent of coffee perked him up. Perfect. He was a caffeine addict, and he knew it. He was blessed not to be bothered by a caffeine buzz or the jitters if he drank too much of the heavenly brew. He paused to inhale deeply, and a zing of cinnamon and sugar tickled his nose, so fresh he could almost taste it.
He stepped into the kitchen. Empty. Disappointment swamped him. He shook the feeling off. He wasn’t in Coyote Creek to get to know his hostess. He was here to write a book. He had a five-year plan. The end of this year and the first few months of the next were scheduled for the completion of his manuscript so he could send it out to agents. He had until the new year to get the rough draft completed. That’s why he was here, spending a good chunk of his inheritance.
As an analytical engineer, he knew the value of doing something different to break habits. If he stayed at home, he’d be checking his email every half hour and jumping in to solve work issues. It was what he did, who he was. He wanted to escape the habits his mind had created through years of work and repetition. After years of lugging around two phones, one personal, the other for work, it hadn’t been easy to leave his corporate phone at the office. In the end, he’d managed. Now, after only one day in a new environment, he was invigorated and excited to have finished two chapters already.
He opened a few cupboards until he discovered the enormous mugs Clara had used yesterday. He pulled one down and poured himself a cup of coffee with a good shot of Baileys creamer. Leaning back against the sink, he glugged half of the delicious life-giving nectar, and refilled the cup while staring at an enormous plate of cinnamon buns with a sticky note reading ‘help yourself’ stuck to the top of the plastic. Napkins, plates, and silverware stood in a decorative silver holder beside the treats.
Six plates? Why? Was it because the holder nicely held six, or was she expecting more guests? He didn’t relish sharing his time with Clara with anyone else. Bummer. What did he expect, though? This was a small private inn. She was his host, not his girlfriend. He scratched his lip at the uncomfortable thought. It was what it was, he decided philosophically. He couldn’t change things, so he’d live with them.
He slid an enormous roll onto a plate, grabbed a fork, napkin, and his coffee and walked through the dining area. He didn’t want to soil the neat white tablecloths. He went into the common area to eat. The room had a more home-like, less formal feel, especially after listening to Clara play here last night.
He sat on the black leather sofa and set his coffee on a snowman patterned cloth coaster on the table beside him. The solid wood table with its curved legs and glass ball feet was obviously an antique. He grabbed a second coaster from the pile and put it under the first one to protect the table’s glistening finish. Felt backed coasters made of something more solid would be a better choice, though the cloth would absorb small spills. They were a nice holiday touch if a bit early for his liking.
He slid a bite into his mouth, closing his eyes to savor the heady sweetness and tart cinnamon. Dang. The girl could bake. Plumbing might stump her, but she was great in the kitchen and at the keyboard.
He should have brought his guitar. They could have jammed together. He wasn’t much of a player, but after years of dedicated practice, he played adequately, and this house should be filled with music like it was yesterday. This morning, it was achingly silent and lonely. Obviously, whoever lived here before Clara must have felt that way to have speakers everywhere. Would Clara share her music with him again?
The front door opened and shut.Excellent, she was home. It took total discipline to stay where he was and not jump up to greet her.
“Hello,” an unfamiliar voice called. “Is anyone here?”
Setting his plate on a coaster, Zane strode to the front door, his borrowed slippers silent against the wood. He’d forgotten his slippers, but Clara had a box of hand-knit slippers available for guests.
“Hi. Come in.” He wasn’t the host, but it seemed like Clara wasn’t around. A tall, thin man stood in the entryway, his arms around a very pregnant woman.
“We don’t have a reservation, but my wife is exhausted. Any chance of getting a room?” the man asked with a fond look at the petite brunette.
“Probably,” Zane answered. “I don’t work here. I’m a guest. But come in. There’s a sofa in here. I’ll go see if I can find Miss Clara. Could I get you a coffee?”
“No, thank you,” the man replied at the same moment his wife declared, “Yes, please.”
After helping them settle, Zane found a tray and set it with coffee and cinnamon buns. He delivered it and went in search of Clara. She didn’t answer his knocks on her door.
Where was she? Why had she left the front door unlocked if she wasn’t around? She’d given him the code to unlock the digital lock. Didn’t she know it wasn’t safe to leave her home open? Coyote Creek might be a small town, but criminals were everywhere.
A door banged shut and Zane followed the sound down the short hall past Clara’s room where he discovered her in a small entryway. She was unbundling from layers of outerwear.
“Hi.”
She jumped and glared at him. “Don’t sneak up on me. What are you doing in my private space? Did you need something? I was shoveling the back walk.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you. But you have guests. They’re in the common room. I set them up with coffee and cinnamon buns. I hope that’s okay.”
“Oh my. Thank you. It didn’t occur to me that someone might show up while I was busy.” She frowned.
Her annoyed expression had him wondering who she was irritated at. Him, the guests, or herself.
“No problem. I was down here having coffee when they arrived. Why don’t you take a minute to warm up and I’ll let them know you’ll be right out?”
