Vera sighed, following him up the stairs. “Do they have green cards?”
Now it was Kyle’s lips that pursed. “That’s the wrong kind of question to ask around here. Mr. Feldspar got them from one of the other inns.”
“He’s got inns in eastern Europe?”
“Sure. Eastern Europe’s a boomtown now, are you kidding? Since the cold war ended, all kinds of U.S. investors are setting up shop over there. We’ve even got an inn in Russia.”
“And it’s making money?”
“Hand over fist.”
Vera contemplated this as she stepped onto the landing. She’d read that the Radisson and some other major hotel chains were opening in eastern Europe, but they were for travelers and businessmen. But what kind of clientele could Feldspar possibly have attracted to Russia? She couldn’t imagine such a business risk.
“They’re cheap,” Kyle was saying. “That’s all that matters.”
“What?”
“The dolts—er, excuse me. I mean the custodial engineers.”
Vera ignored him. He began to lead her down a similarly plush, dark hallway. But then she stopped. “Wait a minute,” she queried.
“What’s wrong now?”
The stairs, she thought. What the hell?
The twin staircases led from the atrium to the second floor. And ended. But The Inn had four floors, didn’t it?
“Why do the stairs end here? How do you—”
“Get to the third and fourth floors?” Kyle finished her question. “VIP entrance in back, by the parking lot and helipad.”
Odd, she concluded. She understood the desire to separate the high-priced suites from the cheaper rooms. But separate accesses? It seemed an indulgent expense. She couldn’t imagine the additional construction costs for such a nicety. On the other hand, though, rich people were often eccentric, and the more their eccentricities were pampered, she realized, the more frequently they’d come back and, of course, the more money they’d spend. When executed properly, it was a system that always worked in the long run.
It was the short run, however, that she worried about. How could such an expensive venture survive during start-up? Just how extensive was Feldspar’s marketing influence? And could she really believe that the first four weekends were already booked?
Worry about The Carriage House, Vera, she reminded herself. One step at a time.
Kyle opened the first door on the right, which, like all of the doors, was solid oak, and ornately trimmed. He stepped back to give her room. “Check it out.”
Vera set her bags down and slowly rose. For a moment she lost her breath. What faced her past the entry was not a bedroom but a great chamber like an eighteenth-century French boudoir. Soft pastel papers covered the walls, with high pine skirtings. Dark, plush V’Soske throw rugs bedecked the rich hardwood floor. Most of the furniture was restored antique: a beige scroll couch, a cherry wood highboy, a walnut chiffonier and inlaid night stand. Heavy velvet drapes, a deep avocado hue, were tied back before the white vanity and mirror. The room itself seemed nearly as large as her entire former apartment back in the city. Best of all was the huge four-poster bed hung with quilted dust ruffles and white mesh trains.
“Pretty decent pad, huh?” Kyle observed.
“It’s so beautiful,” Vera slowly replied. “I’ve always wanted a room like this.”
Kyle dawdled to the twin French doors and pulled them open, letting in the crisp winter air. “You’ll have a great view once the trenchers are done.”
Trenchers? Vera stepped out onto the high veranda, oblivious to the cold. The forest rose further up the ridge. Below, several one-story additions stretched. “Spas, pools, Jacuzzis, exercise rooms,” Kyle explained. “We’ll have tennis courts too, in the spring.”
This was magnificent. To her left, though, several big yellow trenching machines idled beside a long deep ditch which disappeared around an outcropping of trees.
“What’s all that?”
“We had to reroute the sewer and waterlines to the county junctures. The old lines are a hundred years old.”
It was another thing that must have cost a fortune. “In the meantime,” Kyle went on, “we’re still on the old system. But everything’11 be hooked up before we open.”
“What about the plumbing in the building?” she asked.
“All brand-new and refitted.”
They came back in and she closed the doors. “And the wiring?”
“The same. The building was gutted when Magwyth Enterprises bought it. Someone tried to burn it down years ago.”
“Why?” Vera asked, and immediately regretted it. She had a feeling what he would say in response. Ghosts…
“I’d rather keep you in suspense. How about later you let me show you around the whole building—the grand tour.” His cocky grin sharpened, and Vera remembered what Dan B. had observed. Scoping my…rib melons? She almost laughed. Dan B. had always been jealous; and it was like a brother’s jealousy—guarded, and negative about any man who expressed an interest in her. He hadn’t even liked Paul. Now she wished she’d listened to him. But was it her imagination, or was Kyle really leering at her?
“Sure, Kyle,” she said. “I’d love for you to show me around.” Perhaps she could turn his confidence game inside out, and use it on him. She could play games just as well as he could.
“Great. I’ll drum you up about seven. Is that all right?”
“That’s fine,” she assured, and finished with the thought, you phony tight-jeaned asshole.
He made to leave, then, but stopped. “I almost forgot. You do have your choice of rooms. I can show you some of the others if you want.”
She paused in the question, and looked around one more time. “No,” she nearly whispered. “This is fine… This is home. ”
— | — | —
CHAPTER NINE
Zyra pondered: What a beautiful night.
And it was: clear, starry, deep as heaven. The moon shone as a crisp, blazing rind of light. It summoned back many other, equally beautiful images, of blood and mayhem, of heads split apart like big ripe fruit, sharp blades sinking into random flesh, and chorales of screams—yes, such wondrous images, and many more, of times gone by. Zyra stood nude before the bedroom window. Her sex felt warm and tender in the denouement of her orgasms. Her appreciation for life felt as wide as her gaze.
What a beautiful night for murder, she thought.
She fancied the moonlight as a ghost’s caress. She could feel it on her skin; it seemed to purify her. What had nutty Mr. Buluski said earlier—earlier, that is, as in before she’d strangled him with the lamp cord? “Oh, pristine siren in radiant light. I bid thee now—be mine tonight.” What a nut. Oh, I’ll be yours, all right, she’d thought. I’ll be yours forever. At least this pair was interesting, and good for some laughs. She and Lemi had answered the personal ad they’d spotted in a magazine called The East Coast Swingers Guide: “luntville: Attractive (and endowed!) quirky couple seek same for concupiscent interlude.” Dumbass Lemi hadn’t even known what concupiscent meant. “It means they like to get it on, Lemi,” Zyra had had to explain. “And that’s just what we’re looking for.”
“Come in, come in!” Mr. Buluski had invited when they’d knocked on the door to his remote rancher which sat miles from any other dwelling along Route 154. “Why, you two are even more delectable than your photos!”