Room At The Inn (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) by LL Bartlett

could dial. Richard answered on the first ring. "I didn't expect a message from you," I began.
    "And I wasn't expecting a weekend vacation, either," he said sourly.
    "Then you'll come?"
    "Let's just say if I don't, I'll have a miserable weekend at home."
    I couldn't help the broad, idiot grin that spread across my face, or the feeling of triumph that coursed through me. Good old Brenda was always on my side.
    "I managed to find someone to cover for me at the clinic, so I guess I'll be there tomorrow." He sounded ... resigned?
    "Thanks, Rich. I knew I could count on you." I gave him the directions on how to get to the inn once he got into town. The logistics of actually getting to Stowe were going to be his problem. "Maybe we shouldn't let people know we're related," I suggested.
    "Is all this intrigue really necessary?"
    "It could work to our advantage."
    He sighed. "Whatever you say."
    "Thanks," I said, feeling calmer.
    "Listen, don't expect me until evening. Will I be able to get a room at the inn?"
    "Well, they're booked solid right now."
    "Great. Where am I supposed to stay? You do know it's a holiday weekend."
    "I know. But I don't think you should worry about it."
    "Is this another one of your psychic messages?"
    "Yes," I said hurriedly. In retrospect, I should've analyzed that piece of insight a little closer.
    "Anything else?"
    "Leave Brenda home."
    "Oh, she's going to love that. Why?" When I didn't answer immediately, he spoke again. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
    "No. It's just ... why risk it?"
    "Risk it?" The impatience left his voice—replaced by concern. "Jeff, maybe you and Maggie should just come home."
    "It's already too late. Whatever's going to happen ... I think we're supposed to be a part of it."
    "Jeff, I don't like the sound of this."
    "I don't either." If I had to describe what impending doom felt like, this would be it. I cleared my throat. "See you tomorrow night, right?"
    "Yes."
    "Thanks, Rich. You're the best."
    "Good night, Jeff."
    I slapped the phone shut, feeling more relaxed than I had in hours.
    Wandering into the barroom, I found Maggie sitting at the old upright piano, flipping through a stack of brittle, yellowed sheet music.
    "Do you play?" I asked.
    "I used to. But We'll Kick the Kaiser doesn't do much for me." She picked out middle C, tapped it and winced. "Sounds like it hasn't been tuned in decades." She changed the subject. "Is he coming?"
    "Brenda convinced him."
    "That's one you owe her."
    "More like a hundred."
    She nodded toward the pool table. "Shall we?"
    Laura and Ted sat at a table at the end of the game room playing backgammon. "Hi," Maggie said, but the mismatched lovers barely acknowledged our presence.
    The snub burned me. For all she tried, it was apparent Maggie's natural friendliness just wasn't appreciated by most of the other guests at the inn—their loss.
    Ignoring them, I racked up the table. "The object of the game is to knock the balls into the pocket."
    "I got that part," she said, chalking the end of her cue like I'm sure she'd seen hundreds of times on TV, never knowing why.
    "The table's divided into quadrants. You place the cue ball—that's this white one—behind the imaginary line that's right about here."
    Her stony stare perfectly conveyed her annoyance.
    "Why don't we just take turns knocking them into the pockets?" I suggested.
    She brightened. "I'll take the striped ones.”
    "Ladies first." I came up behind her, positioning my arms around her, guiding her movements with the cue stick. "This is called the break shot.”
    Bemused, she looked at me over her shoulder. "I think I can handle that."
    I backed off and she bent over the table, took careful aim and hit the cue ball. It slammed into the fifteen ball with a satisfying smack. The nine ball went into the left corner pocket.
    Her eyes shone with pleasure. "How was that?"
    "Just fine."
    I grabbed a cue stick from the rack—not too badly warped—and stood on the left side of the