Page 23 of Crossroads Magic
“I’ll help,” Benedict Marcus offered.
I didn’t say no, because I had three bags and my backpack. They were small totes, but I didn’t own a suitcase. Silently, I crossed to the door. It was as heavy as it looked. I got it open and shivered at the chill in the air, which I had completely forgotten about while moving around the inn.
I stepped down onto the snow—carefully—and over to the car, clicking the doors unlocked as I went.
“This is a rental?” Benedict Marcus asked, peering at the sticker on the bumper.
“Does it matter?” I asked, for there was an odd note in his voice. I opened the back door and hauled out my totes. Ghaliya grabbed her backpack from the other side.
“You might want to return the car as soon as you can,” Marcus said, taking my totes. “Save yourself a lot of money.”
“I won’t be staying here long enough to make returning the car worthwhile,” I told him. I closed the door and realized he was staring at me. “What?”
“You’re not staying here?” he asked.
“Long enough to settle my mother’s affairs, that’s all.” But judging by the pace the sheriff’s department was moving, I was beginning to think it might take longer than the one or two days I’d presumed. “I have to get back home. Find a job. Find…well, probably a new apartment.” And the longer I stayed here, the higher the rental bill. But I didn’t think there would be a rental outlet in Edwards where I could return the car, either.
That was a problem for another time.
Benedict Marcus gave me a long look. Then he gave a small shrug and took my last bag and we headed back inside.
Chapter Eight
The Sheriff’s Department did not show up that evening.
I found my gaze drawn back to the door on the left of the long narrow sitting room as Ghaliya and I sorted out where we were going to sleep for the night. How long would it take for someone to officially process the body in there?
How long could a bodystayin a public building like this before it became a health hazard?
My mind sheared away from why it would be a health hazard, because it was my mother I was thinking about.
But I had a daughter to worry about, too.
As it turned out, the other door, the one on the right, led to another bedroom tucked under the eaves, just like my mother’s. The bed in that room was built into an alcove with shelves on all three sides, most of them with books sitting on them.
“I’m sleeping here,” Ghaliya declared, after dragging me up the five steps to check the room out. The very last of the day’s light was coming through the window across from the bed, making the patchwork quilt colors seem brighter.
“You need to strip the bed, and check the mattress before you do anything else,” I warned Ghaliya.
“Mom…!”
“Want bed bug bites?” I asked her. “Want to breathe in mold all night, in your condition?”
Ghaliya pressed her hand to her belly. She grimaced. “Got it.”
I glanced around at the rest of the quaint room. Everything was wood; the moldings, the walls, the seat under the window with its colorful cushions. It was so picture-perfect I felt like I’d eaten too much sugar. “Well, you have to sleep here,” I muttered and went back to the long sofa, where I planned to sleep.
The old stove was a working one, I was pleased to discover. A basket of solid wood chunks sat beside it, along with scrap paper and matches. I could get the stove going and be warm, at least. Although despite the single pane windows, it didn’t feel cold in here.
When my belly told me it was dinner time, I went downstairs and found my way into the kitchen behind the dining room, intending to ask the cook for two sandwiches, with anything on them. That would be our dinner.
The dining room was as still and empty as it had been when we arrived. No one had turned on any lights, and the tables and chairs were mere silhouettes in the low light from the hallway sconce.
Puzzled, I moved up to the back end of the hall and found the kitchen door underneath the stairs, right where I had suspected it would be.
I pushed the door open and stepped into a mess.
I was used to steel counters that gleamed when they did not have anything on them. The old wooden counters in this kitchen were covered in…stuff. It would take hours to figure out what everything was and do something with it. From the faint odor I caught as I moved slowly along the space between the two old counters, I suspected some of what was in the many containers, tubs, pots, dishes and more, would need to be thrown out.
