Chapter 4 #2
“What would we do without your sense of direction?” Sal tapped Arthur’s nose before prancing to the rear of the bike and hopping on. “I’m so lucky to have you. My compass in every way! My love, I bet you could find that Where’s Wonderwall fellow once and for all. Poor man…always getting lost.”
Arthur was used to Sal’s malapropisms by now, so he didn’t bother to correct him, saying instead, “Is he? I assumed he was hiding on purpose.” Arthur swung his leg over the bike, but faltered as he went to kick off from the curb.
Perhaps that was why Wilhelmina had been so hard to track down.
Just like Waldo, she didn’t want to be found.
At long last, the Dead & Breakfast was at full occupancy.
When they returned to the inn, Arthur made quick work of checking in the remaining guests: the Winslows, an older couple who told Arthur they’d stayed at the Iris Inn—the Dead & Breakfast’s previous name—for their honeymoon fifty years ago, a trio of hikers, and a man by the name of Arthur Miller, no relation to either the playwright or Arthur himself.
Just an odd coincidence, if the man was to be believed.
Arthur wrote it all down in his notebook alongside his observations of Hailey North.
Once he’d seen the guests off to their rooms, he retreated to the kitchen to whip up a batch of cookies.
With any luck, his signature Count Chocula Chip recipe would smooth things over with the guests and make up for any inconvenience they’d experienced while Arthur and Sal sorted out the murder business.
They couldn’t afford any cancellations—and even with all the rooms booked, Arthur wasn’t certain they’d turn a profit this quarter.
He made another mental note to call Martha the accountant in the morning to get her help with the calculations.
“What do you think of Arthur Miller?” he asked as he spooned cookie dough onto a baking sheet.
Sal, who was already licking the spatula, said, “He’s a regular vampire Gorgon Ramsey! These are delicious!”
“Thank you, but I wasn’t fishing for compliments.”
“Why ever not? It’s the only sort of fishing worth doing!” Sal sucked on the spatula for a moment, making a most unseemly noise as his fangs scraped against the plastic, then said, “Well, aren’t you going to reciprocate?”
Arthur tugged the spatula from his husband’s grip. “No more samples for you, I think. Not while we don’t have a regular dentist in this town.”
“That is the opposite of reciprocation! I am wounded! Gravely!”
Arthur resisted rolling his eyes. “We have to keep your teeth sparkling so you don’t ruin that perfect smile.”
“You think my smile is perfect?”
“If I say yes can we return to my original question?”
Sal swooned in his chair. “I consent!”
“To what?” Arthur eyed Sal with trepidation. It wouldn’t be at all out of character for his husband to create some sort of risqué narrative out of nothing. Probably he thought Arthur had been proposing a ménage à trois when he’d asked about the other Arthur Miller.
“I don’t even remember,” Sal said, gaze unfocused, a blissful smile on his face. “I assume you wanted permission to ravish me and my perfect smile.”
Arthur slid the first batch of cookies into the oven and set the coffin-shaped egg timer—a gift from Theo, a prank, no doubt—before making his way to lean against the counter beside Sal.
He tucked a stray strand of hair behind his husband’s ear.
How he got it so shiny was not exactly a mystery to Arthur (they did share a bathroom), but he marveled at it all the same.
His husband was quite the handsome man, with dark wavy hair that pooled around his shoulders and a face that captured the essence of eternal youth better than any portrait of Dorian Gray’s (or Dorian Gay, as Sal called him).
Arthur could do to appreciate his good fortune in marrying Sal more often.
For all his silliness, Sal was a great many more things, too, like creative, loyal, and oh so dashing.
It would only go to his head if Arthur said so, of course, so he kept his musings to himself, opting to plant a gentle kiss on the corner of Sal’s mouth instead.
“Later, my dear. For now, we have guests to take care of.”
“Ah, yes, leaving me wanting more.” Sal blinked up at him from under hooded eyes. “No matter, I have work to do!” He retrieved a glitter pen—from where, Arthur didn’t even want to know—and pivoted toward the growing pile of Missing posters.
“So, do you have thoughts?”
“Arthur! I’m not just a pretty face, you know.” Sal clutched his chest, leaving a streak of blue glitter on his ruffly shirt. “What a thing to say.”
Arthur rubbed his temples. As much as he loved his husband, sometimes conversations with Sal were utterly exhausting, especially when he wasn’t listening. “About the guests, Sal. Do you have thoughts on them?”
“Oh! Why didn’t you say so to begin with?”
If Arthur had any of the more advanced vampiric powers, he would have taken that moment to turn himself into a colony of bats and fly away, or perhaps vaporize into mist. It would be easier than navigating this cyclical conversation.
Sal didn’t seem to notice Arthur’s frustration, continuing without missing a beat.
“The couple is just darling, of course. And did you see the witch girl’s outfit?
I must get more crop tops for myself. I don’t care much for that other group, though.
Far too outdoorsy for my taste. They kept talking about something awful sounding called ‘bouldering.’ ” He shuddered.
“And what about the other one?”
Sal only shrugged. “I find him quite forgettable, if I’m being honest. I can’t recall much about him, good or bad.” He returned to decorating his current poster, penning each letter in a different color for a rainbow effect. Arthur wasn’t sure it would help with legibility, but it was eye-catching.
“I think it might be a pseudonym.” Arthur gave his cookie dough an unnecessary stir. “Spies and criminals do that sometimes—they make reservations under the names of famous artists or writers.”
“You think he’s a criminal?” Sal tilted his head, not unlike a dog who’d just heard the word treat.
“Or a spy. I don’t know. It seems an awful coincidence that a man with the name of a famous playwright comes to stay at our inn the same day a woman drops dead in town.”
“Ah, yes, Death of a Saleswoman. Poetic. Do you think he killed her?”
“No, probably not.” Arthur slumped. Why was he even bothering to think about this?
The killer had been caught, and Lola’s death had likely been no more than an unfortunate accident.
There was no need to be so suspicious. “Besides, I don’t think he was at the festival anyway. I didn’t see a stamp on his hand.”
“Well, that’s that, I suppose.”
“Indeed. It’s just that—” Arthur’s musings were cut short by the timer.
Sal leaped to his feet, wiggling his fingers greedily at the oven as he exclaimed, “Treats!”
They served the cookies on a bat-shaped platter. Sal flitted from guest to guest, extolling the virtues of Arthur’s baking at every opportunity. Arthur made a mental note to compliment his husband profusely once everyone had gone to bed—he deserved it after the day he’d had.
“Are these gluten-free, too?” asked Hailey North, now wearing a lavender satin robe with the same Celestine Coven branding as her earlier outfit.
“Of course,” Arthur replied. “We do our best to provide options for all dietary requirements.”
“That’s great—I can’t afford to get sick this weekend.
” Hailey took a bloodred napkin and two cookies.
“There are so many festival events I want to go to, not to mention hiking to the falls. Waterfalls are very magical, and I’ve heard Trident Falls has great energy.
And, most importantly, I need to be at my absolute best if I want to get into the platinum level of the Celestine Coven. ”
“There’s a platinum level?” asked Mrs. Winslow, one half of the honeymoon couple. “How intriguing!”
“Are you a member, too?” Hailey’s voice trilled up in excitement.
“Oh, no, dearie. I don’t think my Patrick would approve, but it does sound thrilling! How does it work?”
Hailey began describing the levels within the coven in detail to a rapt Mrs. Winslow. There seemed to be an awful lot of them, with each level unlocked through the power of unity, whatever that meant.
“The best part is that if you sign up now, you’d be automatically placed in the sage level!”
“Isn’t sage the first level?” Arthur asked, but neither woman seemed to be listening to him at all.
“Oh, that’s quite the opportunity! Do you have to be a witch to join?”