Таня Хафф: Summon The Keeper

“Yes.”

Austin shrugged. “The site probably closed on its own.”

Claire stopped pacing and folded her arms. “That never happens.”

“Got a better explanation?” the cat asked smugly.

“Well, no. But even if it has closed, I’d be summoned somewhere else.” For the first time in ten years, she wasn’t either dealing with a site or traveling to one where she was needed. “I feel as though I’ve been cast aside like an old shoe, drifting aimlessly…”

“Mixing metaphors,” the cat interrupted, jumping up on the bed. “That’s better; while there’s nothing wrong with your knees, they’re not exactly expressive conversational participants. Maybe,” he continued, “you’re not needed because good has dominated and evil is no longer considered a possibility.”

They locked eyes for a moment, then simultaneously snickered.

“But seriously, Austin, what am I supposed to do?”

“We’re only a few hours from home. Why don’t you visit your parents?”

“My parents?”

“You remember; male, female, conception, birth…”

Actually, she did remember, she just tried not to think about it much. “Are you suggesting we need to take a vacation?”

“Right at the moment, I’m suggesting we need to eat breakfast.”

The carpet on the stairs had seen better days; the edges still had a faint memory of the pattern but the center had been worn to a uniform, threadbare gray. Claire hadn’t been exactly impressed the night before, and in daylight the guest house had a distinctly shabby look.

Not a place to make an extended stay, she thought as she twisted the pommel back onto the end of the banister.

“I think we should spend the day looking around,” she said, following the cat downstairs. “Even if the site’s closed up, it wouldn’t hurt to check out the area.”

“Whatever. After we eat.”

Searching for a cup of coffee, if not the promised breakfast, Claire followed her nose down the hall to the back of the first floor. With any luck, that obnoxious little gnome doesn’t also do the cooking.

The dining room stretched across the end of the building and held a number of small tables surrounded by stainless steel and Naugahyde chairs—it had obviously been renovated at about the same time as her room. Outside curtainless windows, devoid of even a memory of moldings, a steady rain slanted down from a slate-gray sky, puddling beneath an ancient and immaculate white truck parked against the back fence.

Fortunately, before she could get really depressed about either the weather or the decor, the unmistakable scent of Colombian double roast drew her around a corner to a small open kitchen. The stainless steel, restaurant-style appliances were separated from the actual eating area by a Formica counter, its surface scrubbed and rescrubbed to a pale gray.

Standing at the refrigerator was a dark-haired young man in his late teens or early twenties, wearing a chefs apron over faded jeans and a T-shirt. Although he wore a pair of wire frame glasses, a certain breadth of shoulder and narrowness of hip suggested to Claire that he wasn’t the bookish type. The muscles of his back made interesting ripples in the brilliant white cotton of the T-shirt and when she lowered her gaze, she discovered, after a moment, that he ironed his jeans.

Austin leaped silently up onto the counter, glanced from the cook to Claire, and snorted, “You might want to breathe.”

Claire grabbed the cat and dropped him onto the floor as the object of the observation closed the refrigerator door and turned.

“Good morning,” he said. It sounded as though he actually meant it.

Distracted by teeth as white as his shirt and a pair of blue eyes surrounded by a thick fringe of dark lashes, not to mention the musical, near Irish lilt of a Newfoundland accent, Claire took a moment to respond. “Good grief. I mean, good morning.”

It wasn’t only his appearance that had thrown her. In spite of his age, or rather lack of it, this was the most grounded person she’d ever met. First impressions suggested he’d never push a door marked pull, he’d arrive on time for appointments, and, in case of fire, he’d actually remember the locations of the nearest exits. Glancing down at his feet, she half expected to see roots disappearing into the floor but saw only a pair of worn work boots approximately size twelve.

“Mr. Smythe left a note on the fridge explaining things.” He wiped his hand against his apron, couldn’t seem to make up his mind about what to do next, and finally let it fall back to his side. “I’m Dean McIssac. I’ve been cook and caretaker since last February. I hope you’ll consider keeping me on.”

“Keeping you on?”

Her total lack of comprehension appeared to confuse him. “Aren’t you the new owner, then?”

“The new what?”

He jerked a sheet of notepaper out from under a refrigerator magnet, and passed it over.

The woman spending the night in room one, Claire read, is Claire Hansen. As of this morning, she’s the new proprietor. Except for a small brown stain of indeterminate origins, the rest of the sheet was blank. “And that explains everything to you?” she asked incredulously.

“He’s been trying to sell the place since I got here,” Dean told her. “I just figured he had.”

“He hasn’t.” So far, everything young Mr. McIssac had said, had been the truth. Which didn’t explain a damned thing. Dropping the note onto the counter, she wondered just what game the old man thought he was playing. “I am Claire Hansen, but I haven’t bought this hotel and I have no intention of buying this hotel.”

“But Mr. Smythe…”

“Mr. Smythe is obviously senile. If you’ll tell me where I can find him, I’ll straighten everything out.” She tried to make it sound more like a promise than a threat.

Although two long, narrow windows lifted a few of the shadows, the office looked no more inviting in the gray light of a rainy day than it had at night.

“He lives here?” Claire asked sliding sideways through the narrow opening between the counter and the wall, the only access from the lobby.

“No, in here.” The door to the old man’s rooms had been designed to look like part of the office paneling. Dean reached out to knock and paused, his hand just above the wood. “It’s open.”

“Then we must be expected.” She pushed past him. “Oh, my.”

Overdone was an understatement when applied to the room on the other side of the door, just as overstuffed wasn’t really sufficient to describe the furniture. Even the old console television wore three overlapping doilies, a pair of resin candlesticks carved with cherubs, and a basket of fake fruit.

Tucked into the gilded, baroque frame of a slightly pitted mirror was a large manila envelope. Even from across the room Claire could see it was addressed to her. Suddenly, inexplicably, convinced that things were about to get dramatically out of hand, she walked slowly forward, picking a path through the clutter. It took a remarkably long time to cover a short distance; then, all at once, she had the envelope in her hand.

Inside the envelope were half a dozen documents and another note, slightly shorter than the first.

“Senile but concise,” Claire muttered. “Congratulations, you’re the new owner of the Elysian Fields Guest House.” She glanced up at Dean. “The Elysian Fields Guest House?” When he nodded, she shook her head in disbelief. “Why didn’t he just call it the Vestibule of Hell?”

Dean shrugged. “Because that would be bad for business?”

“Do you get much business?”

“Well, no.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.” She bent her attention back to the note. “Stay out of room six. What’s in room six?”