Play Date by Casey Grant Page B

body.
    Unfortunately for Nina, the attraction was
not mutual. Conrad wore tweed, a brave act in the unserious,
sushi-sunshine of Scottsdale. And sadly, his face was strangely
foreshortened so that the distance between his mouth and eyes was
too close.
    Conrad’s literary obsession since starting
his small press five years before was acquiring the back catalogue
of 1950s cult-author Tom Railings. Conrad had read Railing’s five
published novels at age seventeen and had been hooked ever since.
Rumors had floated for decades that there was a cache of
unpublished work exceeding one hundred manuscripts. But the
author’s widow, Clair, did not take Conrad’s calls. It was only
when he assigned Nina to the task that progress was made. After two
months of negotiations, Nina came to an agreement with Tom Railings
widow to purchase the entire collection for $350,000.
    Conrad was ecstatic.
     
     
    Nina’s mom dropped her off at the airport.
Her mother would watch the boys for a few days while she and Conrad
flew out east to purchase the book collection from the Railings
estate. Nina spent the ride to the airport texting seven-year old
Clark instructions for the birthday party he was attending:
“Remember, avoid Elliot until his Ritalin kicks in. His mom says
one more week. Love you.”
    Nina dragged her wheeled suitcase into the
terminal but before she could make it to the Southwest baggage
check she was intercepted by Conrad wearing a black T-shirt, black
jeans and a baseball cap. “Hi Nina!” he yelled. For some reason
Conrad’s ubiquitous tweed suits had now been replaced with
“asshole” attire. For Nina, it was the first of several bad
omens.
     
     
    The 737 accelerated down the runway, angling
hard into the sky. Nina could see Conrad leering at her from across
the aisle from the corner of her eye. She looked lovely in just a
pair of jeans and a white blouse, the most form-flattering clothes
she had worn since her first day of work.
    The flight attendant offered Nina a choice of
drinks and she decided on scotch. As Arizona disappeared beneath
her, the scotch took her mind off of Conrad’s attire.
    The plane landed at Newark five hours later.
They caught a connecting flight to Plattsburgh International in
Upstate New York. Renting a car, they motored down the shore of
Lake Champlain towards the stylish North Country town of Snuffex.
Sitting on the passenger’s side, Nina nervously made conversation
while Conrad’s adoring gaze sucked all the air out of the car.
     
     
    The Snuffex Inn was one of northern New
York’s only four-star lodging options. Large and wooden, it was
built on the edge of Lake Champlain and was the latte town’s focal
point. The few remaining real locals, eager to gin up the tourist
trade, told stories of how it had been shelled during the famous
1812 naval battle with the British on the lake, requiring the east
wing to be rebuilt. In fact, the hotel had been built in 1913,
missing the Battle of Lake Champlain by some one hundred years.
These were also the same locals who kept alive the stories of the
Lake Champlain sea monster, “Champy”—which sounded like a venereal
disease.
    The town was quaint and prosperous. Engorged
with hedge fund money, the town’s stores all sold Chloe handbags
and designer livestock feed for hobby farms. The original townsfolk
and service workers had been shunted off to the more affordable and
déclassé Mt. Stanwick, ten miles away.
    At the Snuffex Inn, Nina and Conrad retired
to their respective rooms. Nina’s was rustic with a high ceiling,
with bed spires going up half that height. For a quickie business
trip she was expecting something more along the lines of a La
Quinta Inn or a Motel 6, certainly not this.
    Something caught her eye. Walking closer she
could see a rose-colored nightgown laid across the bed. At first
she thought it was one of the hotel’s many amenities but then
noticed that it was sheer to the point of non-existence and lined
with lace.