When There Were 9: The Murder Mystery Book Club 4

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Larmer Media, NSW 2482, Australia

E-book ISBN: 978-0-6488009-8-9

Cover design by Stuart Eadie & Nimo Pyle

Cover photography by Andreas-Saldavs

Edited by The Editing Pen

& Elaine Rivers

~~~

For my family, for always being there.

And Elaine Rivers, for her generosity and support.

And for all those brave ‘firies’, who run towards the unforgiving flames…

~~~

As the flames licked the tops of the rainforest trees, virgins to this kind of ferocity, he knew what he had to do. It was like a gift from God—or Mother Nature at least. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to look it in the mouth. This was a once-in-a-hundred-years inferno, and he would not waste a second of it.

He took a step back and cleared his throat. “Come on then, lad, get in there. It’s not gonna douse itself, y’know.”

“Yeah, right,” scoffed the younger man, his eyes trained on the fire, waiting for the punchline.

“I’m deadly serious,” the older bloke persisted. “You like playing with fire. Here’s your bloody chance.”

The younger man turned and stared at him, incredulous for a moment before something crossed his face, something that started as shock, then turned to shame and, finally, utter clarity.

He knew what was going on.

He knew where he was headed.

He knew he would not be back.

And yet he did not flinch, not for one moment. It was the penance he was prepared to pay.

He pushed his hat down low, picked up his gear, and marched towards the unforgiving fire…

Chapter 1

From her cosy corner of the half-empty train carriage, longtime member of the Murder Mystery Book Club, Claire Hargreaves, sipped from a reusable coffee cup as she glanced through the first few pages of Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None.

It was a fabulous whodunit—the last of the Christie novels they would be dissecting—but she couldn’t focus on it now, her mind twittering in all directions. Claire was thrilled to be heading away, but it had very little to do with the book in her lap. That was not the real reason she was making her way up the lush mountain towards the clifftop lodge where the club had agreed to meet. She had an ulterior motive—a rather shocking one—she just wasn’t sure how soon she should reveal it.

Claire smiled as she recalled the letter she had received. The lovely, crisp stationery! The carefully drafted proposition! A rather shocking proposition that she simply couldn’t get out of her head, as much as she had tried.

She knew it would cause a fracture, a death really, but she had spent far too long playing it safe. It was time to take a leaf from Dame Agatha’s book and take a chance. It was too intoxicating an invitation to give up. Or at least she hoped it would be…

As the train hurtled past walls of tangled forest, she glanced out the window and felt the first few tugs of regret. Then worry. Then fear.

What was she doing? Why had she agreed?

Did she really want to destroy the Murder Mystery Book Club?

The train suddenly swerved straight towards the forest and was swallowed up by a long, dark tunnel, and as the lights flickered out, so did Claire’s smile.

From his seat at the other end of the carriage, Simon Crete tried very hard not to ogle the woman with the stunning feline eyes and the creeping frown. She was truly beautiful, despite the increasingly worried expression, with an extraordinary sense of style; she could almost have come from the 1940s. Her glossy black hair was set against a baggy red beret that matched the belt she was wearing around a houndstooth-patterned dress. His eyes darted downwards to her peep-toe heels, then back up to that hair, that luscious, luscious…

“Stop it, you fool,” he told himself, dragging his eyes away. “You’re not here for pleasure. This is serious business.”

He had to keep his eye on the goal.

Sneaking another glance, he turned his thoughts back to the book he’d recently read. And Then There Were None. Not a bad read, as far as mysteries go, but he preferred something a little grittier, more Nordic noir. Still, it had proven to be quite lively, certainly surprising, and had given him some of his best ideas. Some very good ideas indeed.

He just had to work out how to keep it all on track until the final denouement…

Lynette Finlay bit into her lower lip and tried very hard not to ask her sister, “Are we there yet?” This train ride was taking an eternity! And it didn’t help that it was packed with people of a certain age.

She glanced around the carriage, miserably.

The twenty-something had nothing against the elderly, but if this was a sign of the next instalment of the Murder Mystery Book Club, it might be time to hang up her badge. There were some crinkly blokes in hats, multiple cardigan-donning grannies, and the only good sort—a swarthy fifty-something—couldn’t keep his eyes off Claire. Hmm.

Men were normally drawn to Lynette—her thick blond hair and long, tanned legs worked like a magnet—but this guy hadn’t glanced her way once. She didn’t begrudge Claire, really she didn’t, and not only because it had been a long dry spell for her book club friend. But there was something a little, well, odd about this ruffled Greek god look-alike who was pretending to ignore Claire.

Something a little off…

He seemed too rigid, she decided. Too wound up. Like he was holding something in and trying hard not to explode. Probably last night’s souvlaki, she decided, as she returned her gaze to her iPhone and began scrolling through Instagram.

Florence Underwood sat upright, half-knitted beanie in her lap, staring at the underdressed lady across from her, immersed in her screen. What was it with youngsters these days? They were like zombie moths attracted to the flame.

That was one of the main reasons she had agreed to join the Murder Mystery Book Club. More books and reading were exactly what the doctor ordered.

And more peace. That too.

She recalled the letter their club had sent her and Ronnie, courtesy of the Balmain Ladies Auxiliary in, frankly, messy handwriting, which had put her off entirely until the sentiment caught up.

Dear Ronnie and Flo,

We do hope you remember us! We met during the terrible tragedy at the Balmain Moonlight Cinema, and you helped us solve the mystery of the dead woman on the blanket (with a little help from the police, LOL)—

Flo stopped knitting. LOL? Were they illiterate, or was that how all young people spoke these days? And how young were they exactly? She studied the girl still hypnotised by her gizmo, then resumed knitting as the letter flooded back…

We have several openings in our book club and thought you’d make a wonderful addition as you clearly love mysteries—both fictional and real life. If this sounds like your cup of tea, please don’t hesitate to get in touch. We will be advertising for other members next week but would like to give you two first dibs. We’re thinking of heading away somewhere cosy and remote for a mystery weekend so we can get to know each other while dissecting the latest book on our list. Please call or email us directly… et cetera.

Flo had hesitated at first, but the more she thought about it, the more it all sounded just dandy. She wasn’t getting any younger. It would be one final, memorable adventure.

As the needles kept clicking away, she looked through the window and noticed thick scrambler vines, reaching out like they were trying to drag the train in. She shivered and pulled her cardigan tighter.

The place was alive, she knew that.

Alive with possibility…

As she watched her friend Flo knitting up a frenzy in the seat beside her, Veronica Westera’s mind was getting itself into knots, but it wasn’t the weekend she was thinking about.

It was the past, the long-distant past, which was coming to her now in fragments—swishing crepe, tinkling pianos and the bubbling of expensive champagne.

And a man, a handsome hunter she should not have taken a fancy to.

Ronnie gave herself a small shake and pulled out her journal and pen but could not focus long enough to write anything. Instead, she glanced past Flo and out the window to a clump of soaring Antarctic beech, but that only made things worse.

Why did it leave her feeling so melancholy? The rattling train too?

And why did the sound of Lyle’s Rainforest Lodge send her heart into a tailspin?

Missy Corner pulled out a plastic container of trail mix and reached across the aisle to offer it to the two older ladies, one knitting like a madwoman, the other lost in her thoughts. They both shook her off with a polite smile, and she beamed back at them.

She could not be any happier!

This was like all her dreams rolled into one—heading away for an entire weekend with her favourite people in the whole wide world (well, apart from her family, of course, but the book club were like family now and she couldn’t imagine her life without them). And now they were broadening the fold. She looked at the ladies again and had to restrain her smile.

She just knew they would make a wonderful addition to the Murder Mystery Book Club. And useful too! She remembered how helpful they’d been on the club’s last case—the one at the outdoor cinema—and was looking forward to their unique insight. Their rich history and experience.

Of course those were the very things that the other “young one” in the club, Lynette, seemed to hold against them. Like the older generation could not contribute. It was silly, really, and Missy knew better. Had met more than her share of switched-on oldies at the library where she worked.

Missy also knew that Lynny hadn’t had a chance to meet them properly as she and Claire had. What a shemozzle their departure had been. The train had arrived early at Central Station, and some of them had almost missed it, so there was no time to be properly introduced before they all clambered aboard and scurried to their seats, but there would be time enough later.

A whole weekend with her fabulous book club would be delicious enough, but add those two ladies to the mix, and it was sure to be a treat. They were whip smart, she remembered that. Especially Ronnie…

Or was it Flo?

Missy shrugged and stuffed her mouth with raisins.

As the now-platinum blonde twitched beside him, unable to contain her excitement at the weekend ahead—he adored that about Missy, how central they all were in her life—Perry Gordon was stroking his chiselled goatee and thinking about the two elderly ladies across from them, or more specifically, the taller, skinnier of the two. The one who wasn’t knitting.

She had a leather journal on her lap and the name V. A. Westera engraved across the front. He recognised the name; he just couldn’t remember from where. And it had nothing to do with Balmain or books.

Probably the Sydney Museum where he worked, he decided. Women of a certain age were a regular fixture there. As Ms Westera reached a hand up to smooth away an ash-blond curl, Perry noticed what looked like a diamond bracelet popping out from the sleeve of her cardigan.

Now why did that look so incongruous?

She caught him staring and gave him a bemused smile. He smiled awkwardly and shifted his eyes to the view.

Alicia Finlay gazed out at the view and frowned. She usually adored train rides—the infamous Orient Express was at the top of her bucket list—but this trip was making her queasy, what with the steep incline and all the tight bends.

Or perhaps it was the thought of the weekend ahead.

Alicia hoped she had made the right decision, convening their first meeting at a remote and isolated location. That was the point entirely, but now she had to wonder—what did they really know of the new members? Perhaps they should have vetted them properly before locking themselves away together for an entire weekend. What if they were too chatty or, worse, too dull?

She chewed her lower lip and darted her eyes around the carriage. It had all been so rushed when they got to the station, no chance for proper introductions, so she could only guess who amongst the passengers belonged to her group. She vaguely recalled Flo and Ronnie from that night at the outdoor cinema, but they had seemed more vibrant then. Right now one looked lost in fairyland, the other was scowling at Lynette.

As for Simon Crete? She had to assume he was the tall, dark-haired man in the farthest corner, the one with the crumpled linen shirt and the fixation with Claire.

Oh dear, she thought. Book club romances were never a good idea. Hadn’t she learned that the hard way?

Alicia tried not to think of Dr Anders Bright, who had gone from dishy new member to devil’s advocate in the flick of a page. Every book club needs a voice of caution, she knew that, but his had become a screeching brake. And this new member, if indeed this was him, looked a little tentative too. A little wound up, perhaps. And not at all as his letter had suggested. Oh it was such a magnificent letter! So light and breezy but packed with passion. Simon had answered their classified advertisement quickly and written such an extraordinary monologue about crime writers of all persuasions, but especially Agatha Christie, with information on her background and his own love for a “good, tantalising read.” But from her perspective, he looked a bit like a closed book.

As for the other gentleman, some businessman called Blake Morrow? Who knew what he was like? Alicia had spoken to him by phone, and his enthusiasm had eventually worn her down. The club had decided that eight members was enough, but he had badgered her with calls and begged her to let him join. Then he’d dropped the AC-card, insisting that Agatha Christie was his all-time favourite author, her mysteries his “raison d'être.” Lynette had done the rest, bemoaning the group’s female population, and so she had agreed, but then he’d texted last minute, informing her he’d drive himself up. That left her worried. Would Blake be a good team member, or would they be stuck with a renegade at a remote lodge for two days?

Lyle’s Lodge… That put the smile back on Alicia’s face.

She plucked their brochure from her handbag and flicked through it. It looked absolutely perfect, and the manager had made such a good deal—offering them a full weekend package, all food and lodgings, for a song.

She just hoped the Murder Mystery Book Club Mark II were all singing from the same hymn sheet…

Chapter 2

“What a grand old dame!” Claire said, eyes wide as she surveyed the richly textured interiors of Lyle’s Rainforest Lodge. “Isn’t she divine?”

“Yes, she is,” Ronnie agreed as a chill ran through her bones. She now had a fully blown case of déjà vu.

Claire had mentioned the venue at their last book club meeting, so no one who knew Claire was too surprised to find themselves standing in a softly lit lobby with what Christie would call “creaking wood and dark shadows and heavily panelled walls.”

It was like stepping back in time. The room was plush and velvety and smelled of old winter coats, with a shiny mahogany front desk and a red baroque Tiffany-style stained glass table lamp. There were several taxidermic animals hanging from the panels—a brushtail possum, a large green catbird and what looked like an endangered spotted-tail quoll—and between them framed pictures of the Lyle family clan, with plaques underneath to reveal names and dates. Missy tried to keep her eyes from the poor dead creatures as she stepped across to the oldest photo, a black-and-white image of a man by a horse with a dog at his side. All three dead now, she assumed, but at least they didn’t have the indignity of being stuffed and hung on the walls.

“Is it true we have it all to ourselves?” asked Flo, knitting bag still in hand.

“Absolutely!” gushed Claire. “Apart from a skeleton staff who will prepare meals and clean the rooms, we are completely alone.”

“There’s skeletons here, that’s for sure,” muttered Perry, who might be a palaeontologist but preferred things alive and kicking outside of work.

“They’re about to renovate the lodge,” explained Alicia who’d run with Claire’s suggestion and placed the booking herself. “They’re going to massively increase capacity, so we got it cheap before that all starts.”

“Such a pity,” said Claire. “I just love it like this.”

“You do?” said Simon, stepping in with the last of the luggage and glancing about.

“Well, apart from the dead critters, of course.”

He nodded, locking eyes with the quoll.

The train journey had lasted two hours and taken them from central Sydney to the quaint, heritage-listed village of Lyleton halfway up the mountain, where they alighted to find the town charming and the temperature jarring. It was an unseasonably warm summer, and the heat hit them like a hot flush, so they began peeling off layers just as a woman with a floppy hat and an efficient smile dashed towards them.

“Might as well keep all that on, if you’re coming up to the lodge,” she called out. “It’s cooler at the top and even chillier in the van.” Then she glanced around the group and said, “I’m Mrs Flannery, chief cook and bottle washer. Who’s for Lyle’s?”

That’s when the formal introductions were finally made. As each club member stepped forward to greet Mrs Flannery and place their luggage in the vehicle, they also greeted each other, and Alicia got to see that she was only half-right. Simon Crete was the handsome stranger who’d been ogling Claire, but he also proved to be less stuffy than she thought, and they’d enjoyed a lively chat as they left Lyleton behind and continued northward.

As the incline got steeper, the road got narrower and Mrs Flannery’s foot got heavier on the pedal. She took the hairpin bends like she was running late for dinner, and the van’s tinted windows couldn’t hide the sheer drop down on one side, the thick shrubbery even struggling to hold on. By the time they reached the lodge, one breathtaking hour later, the small talk had stopped and the startled looks were in full flight.

They were greatly relieved then, when Mrs Flannery pulled into the lodge’s long driveway and crunched to a halt outside the old “dame.”

“Here we are, folks! Don’t forget to grab your bags,” she announced, sliding the passenger door open with a whoosh of air that still felt shockingly warm despite the altitude. At least to Alicia, who thanked her as she paused to soak up the view while her hair soaked up the humidity, turning from coiffed pixie cut to ball of frizz in seconds.

Lyle’s Lodge is situated 800 metres above sea level, on the only flat piece of land on the mountain—with subtropical rainforest falling away dramatically on three sides and reaching upwards to the west. It was built back in the 1930s, mostly of massive Tallow wood slabs, shiny local slate and stringy bark shingles. Having already done her due diligence, Alicia knew there were lodgings here for forty-plus guests, each a cabin-style room set off the main building, with en suite bathrooms and private decks overlooking the view to the east, back down the mountain. This weekend, however, there would just be the nine of them, as well as two staff members—Mrs Flannery and the manager who was nowhere to be seen as they surveyed the interior.

“Why do people always have to mess with history?” Claire continued as she peeled her red beret from her head. “It has such solid bones. I hope they don’t pull out all these grand fittings and modernise the place.”

“I hope they do,” said Lynette, her eyes less glowing. “Grand my butt, Claire! It’s dusty and moth-eaten.”

Simon looked around and squinted, as if hunting for moths, while Alicia glanced around and smiled. The place had history all right—a dark, disturbing history—but she would keep that to herself for now. No point unsettling the troops.

“Good afternoon and welcome to Lyle’s!” came a booming voice above them, and for a startling moment, Alicia felt like she was back in the pages of the Christie novel they were here to dissect. If the voice had started laying out their individual indictments, she would not have been surprised.

But of course it was not the recorded ravings of a madman but the real-life voice of the lodge’s manager, a relatively sane-looking elderly gentleman called Vale. Like Mrs Flannery, if he had a first name, he was not sharing it, but he did offer them a small smile as he deftly descended the staircase.

“I am the hotel manager, Vale. My sincerest apologies. I was not expecting you quite so soon.”

“The train was early,” Alicia told him.

“Then Mrs Flannery wanted to see if she could break the land speed record,” added Perry. “That’s quite a climb you got there!”

Vale swept his eyes to Perry and lingered for just a moment on his clipped goatee and black stud earring. “I can assure you it’s a vast improvement from the early days, sir.” He waved a hand to the framed photo Missy had been inspecting. “To collect guests back in the forties and fifties, our dear founder, Arthur Henry Lyle, had to take the horse and cart down that steep mountainside. The return journey took four days.”

“Thank heavens for the automobile,” Perry muttered, twiddling his earring self-consciously as Vale turned his eyes to Alicia.

“Ms Finlay? Please step this way. I will get you to sign in, and then we’ll settle you into your rooms.”

He crossed the foyer to the reception desk and tapped at the computer, bringing it to life. “I have your details on file, but I will need a credit card from each of you.”

They all agreed except for Simon, who told Vale gruffly, “I’ll pay cash. I always pay cash.” Then, in case he was going to argue the point, Simon added, “You can check my bar fridge for pilfered items before I leave if that’s what you’re worried about!”

Vale bowed his head and said, “As you wish, sir,” without displaying any hint of annoyance. Then he reached below the desk and produced a leather-bound guest book. Opening it, he slowly slid a finger down the page and then tapped on a fresh line. “We have a little tradition here. We ask all our guests to sign in before they go to their rooms and again when they depart. If you don’t mind.”

It wasn’t exactly a request, and Vale’s eyes were fixed firmly on Simon as he held the pen out. Simon hesitated for a split second, then snatched the pen just as Ronnie gave her forehead a slap.

“Now I remember!” she announced, eyes sweeping the room. “I’ve been here before! Oh, it was such a long time ago!”

“Really?” said several of them, including Vale, who looked almost alarmed, like he couldn’t believe she had forgotten so easily. It was hardly a ringing endorsement, but then Ronnie explained.

“My memory’s getting rusty in my old age, and it was just the one visit, a very long time ago. Just before the Great Fire, I believe.”

“Great Fire?” echoed Missy, intrigued, while several of them glanced at Alicia, who was now writing her name in the book.

“And it had a different name back then,” continued Ronnie. “I’m sure of it…”

“It was once called Lyle’s Hunting Lodge,” said Vale, his voice desert dry.

Ronnie clapped her hands. “Of course! The Hunting Lodge, that’s what we called it!”

“That’ll explain the carcasses then,” said Perry, not bothering to mask his distaste.

“Oh I didn’t come for the hunting, dear, I came for the lovely dances. I think they held them every few months or so, as a way of keeping the young hunters entertained at night. They were quite de rigueur! Flo dear, did you ever—?”

“No, Ron,” Flo said, looking embarrassed by her friend’s outburst as she clutched her knitting bag tighter. “I was a poor farmer’s daughter, remember? Not really my style.”

“Pity that! It was such a lot of fun! One of my girlfriends talked me into it even though there were perfectly good dances back in Sydney. Still, I had a fine time. The owner’s wife used to run them…” She clicked her fingers. “Now what was her name?”

“Lydia?” offered Missy, who was inspecting another framed photo of a smiling woman standing beside a bandmaster.

“That’s it!” She clicked her fingers again. “Lydia Lyle! It had such a lovely ring to it, and she was lovely! Very beautiful too, but oh so young, I remember that! Far too young to be running a place like this.”

Vale cleared his throat. “Jack Lyle was running the place at that time, madam, with help from myself and his extensive staff.”

“You’ve been here since then?” Ronnie looked gobsmacked.

“Coming up to fifty-five years this August, madam. I started as the bellboy. Mrs Flannery joined us in 1982. Now, if you don’t mind…” He waved a hand at the guest book, and Ronnie stepped forward to sign it.

“That brings us to eight guests,” Vale said, his eyes back on Alicia. “Are we missing one?”

“Yes we are.” She glanced through the large glass entrance way.

Now where was book club member number nine?

Blake Morrow was thoroughly enjoying the journey up the mountain, feeling like a touring car driver in his white vintage Mercedes and its screeching tyres, the smell of burnt rubber around him. The thin, winding roads, the shockingly sharp bends, the sudden appearance of Give Way signs, each one designed to test you. You never knew when you’d round a corner to find another vehicle careering towards you. It was just like an obstacle course. He came within inches of a lorry full of linen at one point. The look on the driver’s face was priceless.

After forty minutes, however, the thrill was starting to waver—one more nagging Give Way sign and he would charge straight at it. His vehicle’s air-conditioning was on the blink, and even with the windows down and the breeze slapping his face, the heat felt stifling. The higher he climbed, the thicker the rainforest, the more suffocated he felt, and it was with a rush of relief when he finally spotted signage for Lyle’s Lodge, then the turnoff.

Okay, deep breaths, he told himself. Time to get your game face on.

Blake was not there for the drive, or books for that matter. He was more like the hunters from the lodge’s distant past, but a hunter of a different kind, and he had a lot of work ahead of him. If he pulled it off though, it would all be worth it. There was a giant rainbow at the end of this road. He glanced at the folder on the passenger seat, the laptop beside it. Then he reached for a blanket he’d dumped in the back ages ago and pulled it over and across. Didn’t want to give the game away.

Or send his prey scuttling.

Finally, after another ten minutes of more mindless meandering, the lodge appeared at the top of the driveway, and he steered his car up and into a parking spot behind a white van. He applied the handbrake, grabbed his overnight bag, and leapt out.

Inside the foyer, a motley mixture of people were milling about, staring his way, some of them with frowns. He clocked the stunning blonde who was already preparing her eyelashes for batting, then turned to the two older ladies and gave them his million-dollar smile.

“Wow,” he said, shaking his thick, golden hair and baring his freshly whitened teeth. “That was quite a drive, hey ladies? Gets the old heartbeat racing!”

They both smiled back, one of them almost cackling, and he thought, Nothing like throwing a cat among the pigeons.

“Blake?” said another woman, midthirties, bit of an early Meg Ryan look-alike. “I’m Alicia Finlay, and this—”

“Must be the Murder Mystery Book Club!” he cut in. “Forgive me, please, I’m sorry I’m so tardy. I couldn’t wait to meet you all, but I wanted to take that road nice and slow.”

“Good thinking,” said Lynette. Wouldn’t want you to come to any harm, was what she was thinking. That and the fact he was much more the younger Finlay sister’s style.

Blake was older than Alicia had suggested, in his early forties judging from the very fine lines around his sparkling blue eyes, but other than that, he was perfect. And it wasn’t just his handsome looks, although they were breathtaking. He had a certain energy about him, a vivaciousness that left the others looking taxidermic.

Lynette waited until everyone had been introduced, then said, “You don’t look like the typical murder mystery fan, Blake.”

“Hey, watch it!” He winked. “I dig all crime, especially the big AC. My gran used to read her to me before bed. Gave me nightmares, of course, freaked me right out, but I’ve loved her ever since.”

Alicia frowned at that comment, just as a crash sounded behind them, and they all turned to find Mrs Flannery standing at the other end of the lobby, an empty tray now hanging in her hand.

“Oh my goodness me, I’m so sorry!” she squawked. “I was bringing out refreshments… I must have… I must have tripped on the carpet…”

As several of the club ducked down to help pick up the broken pieces, Vale produced a brush and tray and handed it to her with a stiff smile, then promptly shooed them all away.

“If you’ll be kind enough to collect your luggage and follow me,” he said, stepping around the broken cups and heading for the long, creaky corridor that led from the lobby to the back of the lodge and the guest accommodation.

They filed in behind Vale and gasped again, this time at a series of exquisite murals that were painted on the walls along the corridor. Now old and fading, even chipping in parts, they revealed a series of lush interiors—a luxurious ball room, a plush library, a glittering indoor pool—which all looked better suited to an English mansion than a rainforest lodge Down Under. Amongst it all, a series of doors opened into various rooms that Vale pointed out as they passed.

“Through the double glass doors on your right is the library,” Vale told them. “There’s refreshments available in there all day, as well as a wide selection of books, newspapers, board games and a billiard table. Please make yourself comfortable there at any time. And to your immediate left you will find the bar, which operates on an honesty system, and beside that, the dining room and outdoor terrace. Breakfast will be served in the dining room from eight a.m., and dinner is at seven p.m. sharp.”

He said the final word like it was onomatopoeic and then slapped a quick glance at Blake.

The latecomer tried not to snort as he shared an eye roll with Lynette.

“Goodo,” said Flo, knitting bag now hanging from her bony shoulder. “That gives me time for a walk.”

Vale’s eyes narrowed. “As you wish, madam. You will find the entrance to the walking tracks down the driveway, in the direction from which you came. There are three main walks, all well sign posted, and we do ask that you stay on the tracks at all times. This is a national park, so it is very important that you do not go off-piste, so to speak.”

Lynette shared another silent snigger with Blake. This is going to be fun, she thought, a skip in her step as they continued down the corridor.

Vale’s heart skipped a beat as he swept back to the reception desk after showing the guests to their rooms. His mind was in a lather, his anxiety growing by the second.

One guest had been a complete surprise. He was not expecting that.

Tapping furiously at the computer, he scrolled through his emails, then typed some words into Google. It didn’t take long for hundreds of searches to come up. He glanced towards the guest quarters, then back at the computer and clicked a page open, reading it quickly and frowning to himself. Then he glanced down at the guest book and the scribbled handwriting and back, a deep frown now smashing through an already wrinkled forehead.

Did they think he was a fool? Was that it!

Or was there something more odious going on?

Book Club 4

C.A. Larmer

LARMER MEDIA

~~~

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