Page 18 of Slumming It
I felt like I was being grilled, and I didn't like it. Still, it seemed smarter to negotiate rather than outright refuse. "Icouldtell you," I said. "But only ifyoupay me twenty."To drive the point home, I held out my own hand as if awaiting the cash.
His eyes sparked with apparent interest before his gaze hardened just like his mouth. "Forget it."
"Oh come on!" I said, withdrawing my hand. "That's whereyouwere supposed to say that you'll forgive my twenty if I forgive yours."
He stared down at me. "Exceptyouhaven't earned it."
"Yeah, well neither have you." I gave another sigh. "Okay, how about this? I'll tell you about the keys, but only if you agree – with no caveats, mind you – that I don't oweyoutwenty for the lost bet."
"Done."
I eyed him with renewed suspicion. "That's what you wanted all along, wasn't it?"
With another jiggle of the key, he said, "Yes. Now tell me, why the metal?"
I swear, the guy had no shame. Plus, it felt like he was always two steps ahead of me, steering me this way and that, as if I didn't have a mind of my own. It was completely unsettling, especially given his bare chest, which wasn't helping my focus.
Still, I spoke up before he could change his mind. "The hotel's former owner didn't trust electronics, so he kept the old key system." I almost smiled at the memory of old Mister Dembrowski with his spiky gray hair and massive bow-and-arrow collection. "He was a bit of an eccentric."
My interrogator cocked an eyebrow. "Formerowner?"
A sad smile tugged at my lips. "He died this past summer."
"So who owns the place now?"
I stiffened at the question. This hotel – which was in the process of becomingourhotel – was currently owned by Mister Dembrowski's son who lived downstate. The son had zero interest in owning the property, much less running it, which was good news for me and my sister.
Or rather, itwouldbe good news once we secured a real mortgage along with financing for the necessary upgrades.
Until yesterday, I hadn't been worried. But now I wasdoublyworried because this wasn't the first time that Reese Murdock had inquired about the hotel's ownership.
Andhowdid I know this?
It was because my friend Daisy, a clerk at the nearby quickie mart, had heard Mister Billionaire Bigshot talking to God-knows-who on his cellphone. He'd been asking about the hotel –ourhotel – and had repeated the name of the current owner – the son, not the father – in a way that suggested serious interest.
And now, he was asking a second time.
But why?
To test my honesty?
Or to verify what he had already learned from someone else?
Either way, his interest was a new wrinkle in our plans to make the hotel our own. Plus, it made no sense. The guy in front of me specialized in large, high-end properties. Our hotel was tiny and anything but luxurious. Unless he was planning to buy up the whole town – which was the current rumor by the way – our hotel should have been way too insignificant to be noticed byhim.
And yet, here he was, asking questions that suggested otherwise.
Desperately, I tried to think. I couldn't lie about who owned the property, because he would obviously know.
But would he know thatwewere in the process of buying it?
Probably not.And it would be nice to keep it that way.
As casually as I could, I told the guy, "It's owned by an accountant who lives downstate, a guy named Joe Dembrowski."
Reese Murdock studied my face. "Oh, yeah?"
Something in his gaze made me feel slightly transparent, like he could see straight into my soul. Still, I resisted the urge tolook away. "Yeah. He's the former owner's son." And then, I just had to ask, "But why wouldyoucare?"
