wrong with my boyfriend. I had no cook, and though a local bakery delivered bread and muffins for breakfast, by lunch I’d have nothing.
“The saloon’s closed for meals,” I said to Cassandra and Fremont Hansen, my plumber, who’d come in response to Cassandra’s summons. “Drinks only.”
“Aw, no,” Fremont said, his plain face distressed. “I was hoping Elena would be fixing those squash blossom things. I love those.”
“She’s gone for now,” I said. “Maybe permanently.” I remembered how Elena’s dark eyes had gone flat when she’d said there were shadows around me. She’d sounded pretty certain.
“Damn,” Fremont said, with feeling.
“Help me fix the hotel, and maybe we can persuade her to come back.”
Fremont pushed back his cap and scratched his forehead. “But there’s nothing wrong with the hotel. The plumbing’s fine. I stake my rep on it.”
Cassandra handed him a copy of Ted’s checklist. “According to the new county safety inspector, we have to do all this by next week.”
Fremont’s eyes widened as he took in the long list. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is that Ted Wingate, right?”
I wasn’t surprised that Fremont knew the man’s name. Fremont knew everything there was to know about everyone in Magellan and Flat Mesa.
“That’s him,” I said.
“He’s from Seattle. What the hell does he know about buildings in the desert?”
“Enough to shut us down,” Cassandra said.
“I told you, there’s nothing wrong with my plumbing.” Fremont looked around the lobby. “Have you told Maya yet? She’s gonna go ballistic.”
She would. Maya had worked for months to replace the ancient electrical system of the once-derelict hotel. She’d done a beautiful job according to our last inspector, who’d let us open. Why the hell had he retired to fish, leaving us with a jerk like Ted?
I heaved a sigh and snatched a copy of the list from Cassandra. “I’ll go tell Maya right now,” I said.
I asked to borrow Fremont’s truck, because I had no other transportation now that my motorcycle was gone. I tried not to think about the broken wreck of my Sportster, because I’d be lost in grief if I did. I loved my bike, which had carried me all over the country for the last six years. At times she’d been my only friend.
I drove to Nash Jones’s house in Flat Mesa, remembering where it lay from the last time I’d come out here. That time, I had been in a panic, and it had been cool September. This time, I drove sedately, and January cold forced me to run the heat in the truck. Fremont’s truck was less than a year old and the heater was in great shape. I was toasty warm by the time I parked in front of Nash’s long, low house.
Nash’s roof was peaked to help winter snow slide off, and his gutters managed to be free of debris from the cottonwood trees along his property. A couple of cedars dotted the strip of land that separated him from his back-door neighbor, but the yard held no sign of fallen leaves or branches. I swear Nash vacuumed his yard. Maya’s truck was out front, as was Nash’s black F-250, obsessively restored from its last adventure.
I knocked on the door, but my knocking couldn’t compete with the shouting inside. Maya’s voice rose, Nash’s started to drown hers out, then Maya’s screech cut through that.
“You are one stupid, stubborn son of a bitch!” she yelled.
I turned the knob, found the door unlocked, and pushed it open. “Quiet down now, kids,” I said.
Nash didn’t have much in his living room but a weight machine and a rack of free weights, and he used his breakfast bar for his dining room. A folding table now reposed near the window, two folding chairs drawn up to it, Maya’s work presumably. Maya and Nash looked up at me from this table, which held the remains of a meal.
“Tell him he can’t go back to work today,” Maya said with vehemence. “The stupid idiot had a concussion, and he’s supposed to rest for
“The saloon’s closed for meals,” I said to Cassandra and Fremont Hansen, my plumber, who’d come in response to Cassandra’s summons. “Drinks only.”
“Aw, no,” Fremont said, his plain face distressed. “I was hoping Elena would be fixing those squash blossom things. I love those.”
“She’s gone for now,” I said. “Maybe permanently.” I remembered how Elena’s dark eyes had gone flat when she’d said there were shadows around me. She’d sounded pretty certain.
“Damn,” Fremont said, with feeling.
“Help me fix the hotel, and maybe we can persuade her to come back.”
Fremont pushed back his cap and scratched his forehead. “But there’s nothing wrong with the hotel. The plumbing’s fine. I stake my rep on it.”
Cassandra handed him a copy of Ted’s checklist. “According to the new county safety inspector, we have to do all this by next week.”
Fremont’s eyes widened as he took in the long list. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is that Ted Wingate, right?”
I wasn’t surprised that Fremont knew the man’s name. Fremont knew everything there was to know about everyone in Magellan and Flat Mesa.
“That’s him,” I said.
“He’s from Seattle. What the hell does he know about buildings in the desert?”
“Enough to shut us down,” Cassandra said.
“I told you, there’s nothing wrong with my plumbing.” Fremont looked around the lobby. “Have you told Maya yet? She’s gonna go ballistic.”
She would. Maya had worked for months to replace the ancient electrical system of the once-derelict hotel. She’d done a beautiful job according to our last inspector, who’d let us open. Why the hell had he retired to fish, leaving us with a jerk like Ted?
I heaved a sigh and snatched a copy of the list from Cassandra. “I’ll go tell Maya right now,” I said.
I asked to borrow Fremont’s truck, because I had no other transportation now that my motorcycle was gone. I tried not to think about the broken wreck of my Sportster, because I’d be lost in grief if I did. I loved my bike, which had carried me all over the country for the last six years. At times she’d been my only friend.
I drove to Nash Jones’s house in Flat Mesa, remembering where it lay from the last time I’d come out here. That time, I had been in a panic, and it had been cool September. This time, I drove sedately, and January cold forced me to run the heat in the truck. Fremont’s truck was less than a year old and the heater was in great shape. I was toasty warm by the time I parked in front of Nash’s long, low house.
Nash’s roof was peaked to help winter snow slide off, and his gutters managed to be free of debris from the cottonwood trees along his property. A couple of cedars dotted the strip of land that separated him from his back-door neighbor, but the yard held no sign of fallen leaves or branches. I swear Nash vacuumed his yard. Maya’s truck was out front, as was Nash’s black F-250, obsessively restored from its last adventure.
I knocked on the door, but my knocking couldn’t compete with the shouting inside. Maya’s voice rose, Nash’s started to drown hers out, then Maya’s screech cut through that.
“You are one stupid, stubborn son of a bitch!” she yelled.
I turned the knob, found the door unlocked, and pushed it open. “Quiet down now, kids,” I said.
Nash didn’t have much in his living room but a weight machine and a rack of free weights, and he used his breakfast bar for his dining room. A folding table now reposed near the window, two folding chairs drawn up to it, Maya’s work presumably. Maya and Nash looked up at me from this table, which held the remains of a meal.
“Tell him he can’t go back to work today,” Maya said with vehemence. “The stupid idiot had a concussion, and he’s supposed to rest for
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