Available January 2024!
The booksellers final fable
A Silver Springs Mystery Book three
We’ve had some unusual guests at the Bluebell Inn, but this week took the cake.
A biker named Spider, a bookstore owner who looked like a 1950s professor, and a mysterious man who might be in town for a secret affair.
After the bookseller’s body was found in the woods, I can’t help but wonder: Did we have a murderer at the inn?
Chapter 1
Rusty took to our new guest right away.
Our two-year-old golden retriever liked everyone who came into the Bluebell Inn, seeing them as potential sources of belly rubs or givers of bacon pieces slipped surreptitiously under the table at breakfast.
But Rusty developed an instant connection with the man who checked in that Thursday morning. He was a rugged-looking man named Jimmy Roberts.
“Please don’t call me Mr. Roberts,” he said, his smile accenting the weathered lines in his face. He was clad in a well-worn black leather jacket, black T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and leather chaps. “My friends call me Spider.”
“Does that mean we’re friends?” I asked with a smile.
“I’ve always lived with the philosophy that a stranger is just a new friend you haven’t met,” he replied.
Rusty sat at Spider’s feet, staring up at him with a goofy, tongue-hanging-to-the-side grin.
“Who’s this little fella?” Spider asked, kneeling down to pet the dog’s head.
“That’s Rusty. He’s our rescue dog.”
“He’s a good boy,” he said, laughing as Rusty flipped over onto his back, demanding belly rubs.
I asked Spider what brought him to Silver Springs.
“A bit of sightseeing,” he said. “I try to come out to Colorado every year or two.”
He said he was from the Northwest, a small town called Maple Creek, similar in a lot of ways to Silver Springs. “Fishing, hiking, mountains…”
“Well, if you want to talk about fishing, my husband would be more than happy to oblige,” I said. “But if you bring it up with him, make sure you don’t have anything else to do for a while.”
“I’ll remember that,” he said with a smile that accentuated the lines on his rugged face.
I handed him the room key and said, “You’re upstairs in the Ouray Room, just across the hall to your left. It has the best view of the mountains. Do you need a hand with your luggage?”
He held up a small bag, one that would fit easily on the back of a motorcycle. “I can manage, but thank you.”
“Then let me know if you need anything,” I replied. “Breakfast is tomorrow between seven-thirty and ten-thirty. Come hungry.”
“I will,” he said politely.
Rusty started to follow Spider up the stairs, then obediently returned when I called his name.
“I’m sure he’d like to be alone and rest,” I said as the dog sat at my feet.
The summer tourist season had ended just a few weeks earlier, but Jim and I were delighted that business at the Bluebell Inn bed and breakfast hadn’t slowed down as much as we had feared it would. Most of the rooms were vacant for only a night or two before new guests arrived.
Nell came out of the kitchen with a freshly baked batch of her signature everything cookies, filled with chocolate chips, dried fruit, and nuts, setting them on the dining-room table for the guests to enjoy.
“If you don’t need anything from me for the rest of the day, I’ll go ahead and take off,” she said.
“That’s fine,” I replied. “Do you have any interesting plans for the evening?”
“Just a meeting of the SSMWSS,” she replied, whispering the string of letters as if she were worried there was anyone within earshot.
“The Secret Society of the Misbehaving Women of Silver Springs,” I replied with a grin.
“Shh,” Nell scolded. “It is a secret society!”
“Of course it is,” I said, followed by a zipper motion across my lips.
I had the impression that Nell, along with the other women in her group, had a very loose understanding of the word “secret.” They openly talked about their organization to anyone who would listen, and Nell brought it up several times each week. I also wondered if the only reason they didn’t invest in a blinking neon sign saying “Secret Society Meets Here” was because the members chose to spend their funds on more practical things. Like bottles of wine.
“Tell everyone I said hi,” I said as Nell left. “And tell Irma I’ll get her book back to her next week.”
“Will do. See you tomorrow morning.”
“Is she off to her secret society meeting?” our housekeeper, Hannah, asked as she walked through the main hallway carrying a small stack of freshly washed towels to the guest rooms.
“Yes,” I said, “but don’t tell anyone.”
“Her secret is safe with me,” Hannah giggled. “And the rest of the town.”
While Hannah freshened up the guest rooms and Jim was out running errands, I went to the office to catch up on the books.
Rusty curled up next to the desk and fell asleep.
Glenn came by with the flower deliveries from the Stem Stop florist for the dining room and guest rooms. Even though autumn was upon us, flowers around the inn were a tradition I wanted to keep up as long as I could procure them. The splashes of color made the inn feel like a special place.
“How are you doing today?” Glenn asked courteously.
He was like many other Silver Springs residents who didn’t directly depend on tourism for a living—quiet and reserved with a passion to be outdoors. He always dressed the same—denim jeans, a faded T-shirt, and well-worn hiking boots. Since the weather had cooled down, he added one item to his ensemble, a thick flannel shirt, unbuttoned, showing off his Hoosiers Football T-shirt, which looked like it had gone through the last years of its life in a series of thrift stores.
“I couldn’t be better,” I replied. “Would you mind bringing those to the kitchen?”
“Sure thing.”
He set the flowers on the kitchen island, retrieved the invoice from his back pocket, and set his reading classes on the counter. I signed the invoice and gave it back to him.
“Tell Sarah I said hi,” I said.
Sarah ran the Stem Stop, Silver Springs’ best and only florist. Even though her business relied on the many weddings in town throughout the year and supplying flowers to the Hidden Valley Lodge, a much larger establishment than our little Bluebird Inn, she still treated me like I was her prize customer.
“Will do,” Glenn said.
“Do you have any plans for the weekend?”
“I’m hiking back to Jackrabbit Pass for a few days.”
“Isn’t it too cold now to be sleeping in the mountains?” I asked.
“Not if you have the right gear,” he said with a wink and grin.
“Then have a good time—and stay warm.”
After Glenn left, I organized the flowers on the kitchen island, separating out the ones to put in the guest rooms from the others that I would put in the dining room, parlor, and reception desk. When I turned around, I noticed Glenn’s glasses. He had left them on the counter.
“Oh, shoot,” I muttered, knowing it was too late to chase him down. “He’s going to want these.”
I called Sarah at the florist shop and told her about the glasses. “Will you give me his cell phone number?”
She replied with an amused laugh. “He doesn’t have a cell phone. Or a landline.”
“Really?” I commented. “I couldn’t live without mine.”
“He says he doesn’t believe in them.”
“He really does lead a simple life, doesn’t he?” I said, amused.
“He does. Sometimes I admire him for that.”
“If you see him, would you please let him know he can come by whenever he can to get the glasses?”
“It might be a few days,” Sarah said. “I suspect he’s already gone up to the mountains.” She told me she would make a note to remind herself when she saw Glenn after the weekend.
“Thank you,” I said. “I hope he doesn’t want to read a book while he’s camping.”
“I’m sure he’ll get by just fine. He’s a pretty resourceful fellow.”
A half hour later, Rusty woke, stood up, then ran to the front door.
“Hi, Rusty!” Cheri Bradbury called.
I stood up to greet Cheri and Kim McKellar, who were staying in the Griffith Room and had just returned from their hike.
Rusty greeted them enthusiastically, enjoying the attention the two women always gave him.
“Did you have a good time?” I asked.
“Wonderful,” Kim replied. “We couldn’t have asked for a better day.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “Did you make it all the way to the lake?”
Cheri looked at me as if she didn’t understand the question.
“She asked if we made it to the lake,” Kim said, repeating my question to her partner.
“We did,” Cheri replied. “The views were amazing.”
“Someone forgot her hearing aid before we left this morning,” Kim said, gently needling Cheri, who smiled awkwardly as if it weren’t the first time she had forgotten her device.
“The colors were awesome,” Kim continued. “I’ve never seen yellow that vibrant before.”
“The aspens are dazzling this time of year,” I agreed, speaking a little louder to include Cheri in the conversation. “It wasn’t too cold up there?” I asked.
“Not really,” Kim replied. “It was just right.”
I told the two women that Nell had set out her daily tray of cookies. “She made an extra one for each of you. She said she figured you’d need to replenish your strength when you got back. But please don’t tell the other guests!”
Truth be told, Nell always made more than enough of her everything cookies to go around. She had a prominent grandmother gene, a biological desire to make sure everyone had their fill of baked goods. This gene always went into overdrive when she was in the kitchen.
The two women happily took Nell’s cookies and retreated to their room to rest and get cleaned up for dinner after a day on the trail.
I was just about to go back to the bookkeeping when a man came in wearing antique glasses, a brown tweed suit, and a bright red bowtie with blue spots. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m Ethan Sullivan. I have a reservation.”
I smiled when I saw him, thinking about how Jim and I were excited to open the bed and breakfast so we could meet different people. I never imagined how extensive the range would be—a leather-clad biker checking in the same day as a man who looked like an Oxford don from the 1950s.
“Of course, Mr. Sullivan,” I replied. “We’ve been expecting you.”
He set his oversized briefcase, made from leather that had a glowing patina, on the floor next to him. His thick glasses made his eyes seem unnaturally large, and his slightly sagging jowls made him look like a bald bulldog.
“We have you in the Brown Room,” I said. “Just up the stairs and to your right. I think you’ll enjoy the views of the forest.”
Mr. Sullivan smiled politely and said he was looking forward to his time at the inn.
As I continued to check him in, Spider came down the stairs. Mr. Sullivan looked at him; his nose wrinkled, then he picked up his briefcase and set it down closer to his feet.
Spider waited patiently near the entryway to the dining room while I finished the check-in process. Rusty came out from the office and sat next to Spider, his tail wagging excitedly until his new best friend kneeled and put both his hands on the dog’s crown, giving him a much-appreciated head rub.
“You’re all set to go,” I told Mr. Sullivan. “Please let me know if you need anything.”
“I will,” he replied. As he walked to the stairs, he seemed to keep as much distance between himself and Spider as possible.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Spider said, either oblivious or indifferent to Mr. Sullivan’s actions. “But I was wondering if you could recommend a place for dinner.”
“I can,” I said, “but first you’ll have to have one of Nell’s homemade cookies.” I walked toward the plate and offered one to him. “What kind of food are you in the mood for?” I asked.
“Anything,” he replied. “Wherever the locals go.”
“Then you have your choice between the Mountain Pies Pizza on Main Street—they have some good sandwiches and pasta too—or if you want the true local experience, there’s the Old Mule Tavern, which makes a decent burger.”
“Sounds like my kind of place,” he said with a smile. “Where is it?”
“If you rode in from Pinecrest, you passed it,” I replied. “It’s about a block away from the post office on Main Street. You can’t miss it.”
Spider raised his cookie as if he were making a toast and said, “Thank you. And thanks for the cookie.”
A few moments after he left, I heard the rumble of his motorcycle, then listened to the sound fade as he rode away. Rusty stood by the window, emitting a quiet whine.
“He’ll be back soon,” I said, scratching the dog’s ears. “I’m sure he’ll hang out with you then.”
I wondered what Rusty was going to do after Spider checked out.
In true dog style, Rusty’s thoughts about Spider quickly vanished when he heard the back door open. Jim was home, and the dog dashed through the inn to greet him as if my husband had just returned from an arctic expedition.
“They must have reorganized the hardware store,” I teased.
“Why would you say that?” he asked.
“You were there for a long time,” I said, knowing how my husband loses track of time when he’s talking to his friends at the store. “I just figured you were having a tough time finding what you were looking for.”
Jim looked at his watch and said, “I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m sorry, dear.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I laughed. “What’s the latest town gossip?”
“The usual,” he chuckled. “Ben Kingsley kept on about how things in this country would be different if he were president, And Bob Taylor kept on about how he wouldn’t vote for Ben in a million years.”
“Do those two ever stop bickering?” I asked.
“Nope. You’d never guess they were such close friends.”
While Jim went out to work in the backyard, I went back to the office to finish updating the books.
I hadn’t heard Mr. Sullivan come down the stairs, so I was surprised to see him sitting in the library, reading an elegantly bound antique book.
“Are you enjoying your room?” I asked.
“Very much so,” he replied. “You have quite an impressive little library here.” He looked around at the shelves and commented that most inns, if they have books, have only a limited stock that the owners picked up on sale from the thrift store.
“I was an English teacher before we opened the inn,” I replied, “so having good books was inevitable. I take it you’re a bibliophile as well?”
Mr. Sullivan chuckled and said, “You could say that.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his sports coat and retrieved his business card. “I own a bookstore in Santa Fe,” he said, handing me his card. “I specialize in rare and collectable books.”
“I’m afraid you won’t find any rare books here,” I said. “Just well-loved ones.”
He smiled politely.
“Are you here in Silver Springs for business or pleasure?” I asked.
“Neither,” he replied, surprisingly abruptly. “I’m here to see my niece.”
Given the tone of his answer, I assumed any more details were none of my business. My suspicion was confirmed when he changed the subject. “I understand there’s a popular bookstore here in town,” he said.
“I’m sure you’re referring to the Bird’s Nest,” I said. “It’s just a few blocks away from here. If you’re out and about, Michelle, the owner, would love to meet another bookseller.”
Mr. Sullivan shrugged and said he might pay her a visit. “Sometimes people who own small bookstores can’t tell a first edition from a carrot,” he said dryly. “You’d be surprised what I have found in places like that.”
Oh yeah, I thought, trying not to roll my eyes. Michelle’s going to love meeting you.
I was just about to excuse myself when Spider came in and thanked me for the recommendation.
“It reminded me of my regular haunt back home,” he said.
“I had a feeling you’d like it,” I replied. “It’s a popular hangout with the locals.”
When he went up the stairs, Mr. Sullivan hissed, “Is it really safe around here with someone like him around?”