her voice. “Oh, no. Not atall. I guess I’m just getting a cold.”
38
7
At the Albany airport, Pat picked up her rental car, pored over a roadmap with the Hertz attendant and worked out the best route to AppleJunction, twenty-seven miles away.“Better get going, Miss,” the clerk warned. “We’re supposed tohave a foot of snow tonight.”“Can you suggest the best place to stay?”“If you want to be right in town, the Apple Motel is it.” He smirked.“But it’s nothing fancy like you’d find in the Big Apple. Don’t worryabout phoning ahead for a reservation.”Pat picked up the car key and her bag. It didn’t sound promising,but she thanked the clerk all the same.The first flakes were falling as she pulled into the driveway of thedreary building with the flickering neon sign APPLE MOTEL. Asthe Hertz attendant had predicted, the VACANCY sign was on.The clerk in the tiny, cluttered office was in his seventies. Wire-framedglasses drooped on his narrow nose. Deep lines creased his cheeks.Clumps of gray-white hair sprouted from his skull. His eyes, rheumyand faded, brightened in surprise when Pat pushed open the door.“Do you have a single for the next night or two?” she asked.His smile revealed a worn, tobacco-stained dental plate. “Long asyou want, Miss; you can have a single, a double, even the Presidentialsuite.” A braying laugh followed.Pat smiled politely and reached for the registration card. Deliberatelyshe omitted filling the blank spot after PLACE OF BUSINESS. Shewanted to have as much chance as possible to look around for herselfbefore the reason for her presence here became known.
39
The clerk studied the card, his curiosity disappointed. “I’ll putyou in the first unit,” he said. “That way you’ll be near the office herein case the snow gets real heavy. We have a kind of dinette.” Hegestured toward three small tables against the rear wall. “Alwayshave juice and coffee and toast to get you started in the morning.” Helooked at her shrewdly. “What brings you here, anyway?”“Business,” Pat said, then added quickly, “I haven’t had dinneryet. I’ll just drop my bag in my room and maybe you can tell mewhere I can find a restaurant.”He squinted at the clock. “You better hurry. The Lamplighter closesat nine and it’s near eight now. Just go out the drive, turn left and gotwo blocks, then turn left again on Main. It’s on the right. Can’t miss it.Here’s your key.” He consulted the registration card. “Miss Traymore,”he concluded, “I’m Travis Blodgett. I own the place.” Pride and apologyblended in his voice. A slight wheeze suggested emphysema.Except for a dimly lit movie marquee, the Lamplighter was theonly establishment open in the two blocks embracing the businessdistrict of Apple Junction. A greasy, handprinted menu posted on thefront door announced the day’s special, sauerbraten and red cabbagefor $3.95. Faded linoleum lay underfoot just inside. Most of thecheckered cloths on the dozen or so tables were partially coveredwith unpressed napkins—probably, she guessed, to hide stains causedby earlier diners. An elderly couple were munching on dark-lookingmeat from overfilled plates. But she had to admit the smell wastantalizing, and she realized she was very hungry.The sole waitress was a woman in her mid-fifties.Under a fairly clean apron, a thick orange sweater and shapelessslacks mercilessly revealed layers of bulging flesh. But her smilewas quick and pleasant. “You alone?”“Yes.”The waitress looked uncertainly around, then led Pat to a tablenear the window. “That way you can look out and enjoy the view.”Pat felt her lips twitch. The view! A rented car on a dingy street!Then she was ashamed of herself. That was exactly the reaction shewould expect of Luther Pelham.
40
“Would you care for a drink? We have beer or wine. And I guessI’d better take your order. It’s getting late.”Pat
38
7
At the Albany airport, Pat picked up her rental car, pored over a roadmap with the Hertz attendant and worked out the best route to AppleJunction, twenty-seven miles away.“Better get going, Miss,” the clerk warned. “We’re supposed tohave a foot of snow tonight.”“Can you suggest the best place to stay?”“If you want to be right in town, the Apple Motel is it.” He smirked.“But it’s nothing fancy like you’d find in the Big Apple. Don’t worryabout phoning ahead for a reservation.”Pat picked up the car key and her bag. It didn’t sound promising,but she thanked the clerk all the same.The first flakes were falling as she pulled into the driveway of thedreary building with the flickering neon sign APPLE MOTEL. Asthe Hertz attendant had predicted, the VACANCY sign was on.The clerk in the tiny, cluttered office was in his seventies. Wire-framedglasses drooped on his narrow nose. Deep lines creased his cheeks.Clumps of gray-white hair sprouted from his skull. His eyes, rheumyand faded, brightened in surprise when Pat pushed open the door.“Do you have a single for the next night or two?” she asked.His smile revealed a worn, tobacco-stained dental plate. “Long asyou want, Miss; you can have a single, a double, even the Presidentialsuite.” A braying laugh followed.Pat smiled politely and reached for the registration card. Deliberatelyshe omitted filling the blank spot after PLACE OF BUSINESS. Shewanted to have as much chance as possible to look around for herselfbefore the reason for her presence here became known.
39
The clerk studied the card, his curiosity disappointed. “I’ll putyou in the first unit,” he said. “That way you’ll be near the office herein case the snow gets real heavy. We have a kind of dinette.” Hegestured toward three small tables against the rear wall. “Alwayshave juice and coffee and toast to get you started in the morning.” Helooked at her shrewdly. “What brings you here, anyway?”“Business,” Pat said, then added quickly, “I haven’t had dinneryet. I’ll just drop my bag in my room and maybe you can tell mewhere I can find a restaurant.”He squinted at the clock. “You better hurry. The Lamplighter closesat nine and it’s near eight now. Just go out the drive, turn left and gotwo blocks, then turn left again on Main. It’s on the right. Can’t miss it.Here’s your key.” He consulted the registration card. “Miss Traymore,”he concluded, “I’m Travis Blodgett. I own the place.” Pride and apologyblended in his voice. A slight wheeze suggested emphysema.Except for a dimly lit movie marquee, the Lamplighter was theonly establishment open in the two blocks embracing the businessdistrict of Apple Junction. A greasy, handprinted menu posted on thefront door announced the day’s special, sauerbraten and red cabbagefor $3.95. Faded linoleum lay underfoot just inside. Most of thecheckered cloths on the dozen or so tables were partially coveredwith unpressed napkins—probably, she guessed, to hide stains causedby earlier diners. An elderly couple were munching on dark-lookingmeat from overfilled plates. But she had to admit the smell wastantalizing, and she realized she was very hungry.The sole waitress was a woman in her mid-fifties.Under a fairly clean apron, a thick orange sweater and shapelessslacks mercilessly revealed layers of bulging flesh. But her smilewas quick and pleasant. “You alone?”“Yes.”The waitress looked uncertainly around, then led Pat to a tablenear the window. “That way you can look out and enjoy the view.”Pat felt her lips twitch. The view! A rented car on a dingy street!Then she was ashamed of herself. That was exactly the reaction shewould expect of Luther Pelham.
40
“Would you care for a drink? We have beer or wine. And I guessI’d better take your order. It’s getting late.”Pat
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