IN THE MIDDLE of Aspen Springs, off Patterson Avenue, our fifth and last invited guest, Ms. Fiona Fleming, was only just opening up her invitation. She was a young actress and part-time spiritual medium, very busy busy busy (with what, no one was entirely sure), so after she signed for the letter on Tuesday, she just dropped it on her desk. Despite being only twenty-four years old, Fiona was overwhelmed by life.
And Fiona was too busy worrying about her secret. It was paralyzing her, honestly, and that was not a good thing for an actress. She just had to snap out of it.
It was now Friday, and Fiona was finally taking a step back from her long week.
Just thinking about the horrible, horrible drama she was dealing with (and not the drama of the theater or spiritual medium kind) made her heart race. This weekend at the Barclay Hotel might be just the thing she needed to take care of her problems.
Plus, it would give her an in. A front-row seat, if you will, to find out if her secret was still safe. Fiona couldn’t resist a good theater pun.
How Fiona loved the theater! She could be anyone she wanted on the stage, but theater had cost her a lot. Too much. She hadn’t been there when her father died, because she was in the middle of a tour. By the time she’d learned of his passing, she was somewhere in Iowa and had to rush home to even make it to the funeral.
Sad, to say the least. Fiona missed her father.
Now there was this trip, an invitation to cover her tracks, perhaps. It practically fell into her lap (well, it was delivered to her door, to be more precise).
She frantically dialed the number on the invitation and crossed her fingers and her toes (while sitting down, otherwise she might topple over) as the phone rang.
Twice. Three times.
“Barclay Hotel, this is Gregory Clark, the butler.”
“Really? Mr. Clark?” Fiona was confused. It will become clear why later.
“Yes, really.” The man cleared his throat. “To whom am I speaking?”
“Um, okay then.” Fiona fumbled with the letter, dropping it and looking at the name again—it was indeed Mr. Clark she was to RSVP to. “I apologize for being so tardy in my response. This is Fiona Fleming.” When there was a silence, she added, “Of Voilà! On Stage Productions. And spiritual medium to the wealthy.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line, and it was making her anxious.
“You invited me. ‘You are a winner.’ It says so. Right here in the letter.” Fiona tried her best not to seem out of breath, but she really was quite desperate.
The man on the other end cleared his throat again. “You are late.”
“I know.”
There was more silence, and Fiona almost gave in to the urge to fill it when Gregory Clark said, “Very well. Mr. Barclay is eager for you to join us, and I would not want to disappoint him.”
His accent was very British, and Fiona responded in an almost British accent, “Oh jolly good.”
“Are you mocking me, Ms. Fleming?”
“No, no!” She composed herself and uncrossed her fingers and toes. “I’m an actress, I’m just always . . . practicing.”
Mr. Clark did not sound impressed. “The car will pick you up at four p.m. sharp, Ms. Fleming. Don’t be late.”
Fiona was about to tell him she would be ready with her suitcase, but the line went dead. Just as well. She had to hurry, to gather her costumes for the weekend. This was her chance to fix her mistakes and make things right. Talk to Mr. Barclay, perhaps, about her play.
Plus, Fiona Fleming had a show to put on.
AND THERE YOU have it, folks: librarian Chelsea, CEO Jackie Jacobson, cowboy Buck, actress Fiona, and Detective Walker. Plus our two kid stragglers, JJ and Penny, all ready for one prize weekend getaway.
It’s about time we got to the Barclay Hotel.