Chapter Six A Dream Float
Ephram
I stayed still for a moment in an unfamiliar room and listened.
The Snowdrop Inn was awake. Voices drifted up from below, overlapping in a way that suggested several conversations were happening at once and none of them had agreed on a leader.
Someone laughed sharply, cut off by another voice explaining a story.
A cabinet door closed with unnecessary force.
Footsteps crossed the floor in the hallway outside my door.
It wasn’t unpleasant,l just unfamiliar.
I got up and moved through the room with the careful efficiency of someone who preferred order. My bag sat where I had left it. I grabbed out the necessary items to start the day. The bathroom door opened easily, and I was rewarded with exactly what I needed.
Hot water with privacy.
I showered longer than strictly necessary, letting the heat sink into my shoulders and undo what the night had stiffened. When I dressed, I did it the same way I always did. Shirt pressed. Boots checked. Everything in place. Just as I liked it.
Downstairs, the dining room was already near capacity.
“I am telling you,if you were to organize and keep putting things back where they belong, everyone could find them,” a young woman said, obviously related to Lydia Bennet.
“That assumes people put things back,” the older woman responded.
“Some of us do put things back. We would have to train the others,” she insisted.
“If you think Kitty or Lydia will be trained, I will allow you to have the contents of my bank account,” the older woman scoffed, handing plates of heaping breakfast to a table of two. “Enjoy your meal.”
“There is nothing in your bank account,” the younger woman dryly remarked as they both left the dining room.
Lydia came into the dining room, serving a table before noticing me.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Coffee?” Lydia asked immediately, pulling a menu out of her apron to give to me.
“Yes,” I agreed.
She disappeared for a few minutes, returning with the coffee and asking for my order.
I ordered a standard breakfast. “I was wondering if I could talk to you later about the float entry you made.”
“Of course,” Lydia gave me a bright smile, but part of me wondered if it was strained around the edges. She quickly went to another table to clear dishes, before heading out of the dining room.
“Is this seat taken?” a man asked with a peculiar haircut.
I remembered him from standing behind Lydia at the front desk during my check in.
Before I could say a word, he simply sat down across from me.
“The SnowDrop Inn is simply marvelous, don’t you agree?
I mean, it could stand for some improvement and direction, but overall, I think it could be quite successful. ”
“I suppose so,” I stated neutrally.
“Forgive my manners, I’m Collin Bennet,” he introduced himself, forgetting that we had met before.
“Ephram North,” I replied.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if we were sharing a confidence. “I’m part owner of the inn.”
I took a sip of coffee so that I wouldn’t have to answer and filed that away. For some reason, Collin took my silence as an invitation to continue to speak.
“As part owner, I’m very keen to keep a tab on my investment. My business mentor, Catherine de Berg always tells me to stay involved when it comes to money." He grabbed the napkin, making a show of putting it in his collar before inspecting the flatware.
“That seems sensible,” I cautiously commented.
Collin breathed on the butter knife before polishing it on his sleeve. “Now, that is not my only motive for coming to the inn.”
“It isn’t?” I found myself asking, even though I could really care less.
“Succession is essential,” he continued. “Particularly when finances and family are intertwined.”
I said nothing and Collin continued as though I had invited him to.
“I have made a proposal,” he said, clearly pleased with himself. “A sensible one. Designed to ensure continuity.”
My patience tightened and I resigned myself to the inevitable. “A proposal?”
“I began with Jane,” he went on. “Naturally. She has a very agreeable temperament.”
“What sort of proposal?” I asked, a little uncertain of where this was going.
“A marriage proposal. A partnership to ensure that the inn stays within the family. It is simply the most logical outcome,” Collin told me serenely.
In the background I saw Lydia come to a full stop as she saw who was seated at the table with me. A flicker of panic crossed her face before she approached.
“Collin, would you like some coffee? Maybe a seat at another table? I see one opening up right now,” she noted, her voice strained.
“I’m quite happy where I am. Yes to the coffee,” Collin happily replied.
Lydia backed up a little, mouthing ‘sorry’ at me before disappearing again.
Just what was going on here?
“Where was I? Oh yes, I proposed to Jane however she was regrettably already in a relationship,” Collin imparted.
He didn’t sound particularly regretful. “The next sister, Lucy, has been a bit more difficult. I have proposed to her five times, twice yesterday and three times this morning, but she claims she also is in a relationship. I feel she is not being truthful with me and just needs a little more time to become comfortable with the idea of wedding me.”
I thought back to my case file where it had been noted that she came to the police station with Dexter Fitzwilliam. “I believe she is in a relationship.”
“How disappointing. The next Bennet sister that intrigues me is Lydia. I shall have to discuss my suit with her next,” he said brightly, as though this were an obvious conclusion.
My stomach turned. This man was slightly deranged. “Do you think she would accept you?”
“I don’t see why not,” Collin said.
“Perhaps because you haven’t dated her, or romanced her,” I pointed out.
His smile wavered. “You misunderstand. This is not romantic. It is practical.”
“I would recommend you reconsider how you define both words,” I replied.
He studied me, unused to resistance. “I am confident Lydia will see reason.”
“You know what? I think I will sit at another table. Excuse me." I picked up my coffee and found an empty table to sit at.
Good grief.
Breakfast arrived and it was as good as it looked.
The only thing I could fault it for was being too generous on the portion size.
Otherwise, I enjoyed every bit of it. Paying my bill, I headed to the lobby to find Lydia who stood at the front desk, binder open, phone balanced between her shoulder and ear.
She ended the call as I approached, her expression intent.
“Do you have a moment?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said immediately. “Of course.”
“I need to review your parade float submission,” I said.
Her mouth opened, then closed again. “Right. Yes. The float.”
She turned the binder toward me. Pages of notes. Sketches. Enthusiastic arrows pointing between ideas that had not yet met reality.
“The theme is traditional, winter, warm, and inviting,”she said quickly.
“Vehicle?” I asked.
She hesitated. “I’m working on that.”
“Driver?”
“I assumed someone would volunteer.”
“Stability plan?” I asked.
She stopped and looked at me. “When is the deadline?”
“Tomorrow at noon,” I told her.
The color drained from her face.
“I thought it was the day before the parade,” she said quietly. She swallowed, then straightened, determination sliding into place. “All right.”
I outlined the requirements carefully. Vehicle type. Load security. Lighting regulations. Fire safety. She wrote everything down, fast and neat, not interrupting once.
“If you have any questions, here is my card. I need all the relevant information by tomorrow noon to approve the float. There will also be a quick inspection the morning of the parade,” I said when I finished.
“I appreciate that,” she said.
I stepped back and watched her for a moment longer than necessary, noting the way she squared her shoulders. I hoped she figured it out.
It was not my job to solve her float problem.
It was my job to keep people safe in a parade that would put vehicles, decorations, children, and winter weather into the same narrow street and call it festive.
Every year, someone assumed good intentions were a substitute for a plan.
Every few years, the parade committee discovered that good intentions did not stop a trailer from fishtailing.
I went to the station with Lydia still sitting in the back of my mind like an unfinished report. I nodded to Gail who gave me the mug salute. After changing into my uniform in the locker room, I grabbed myself a coffee, and opened the Wickham file on my computer.
It wasn’t much of a file. That was the first problem.
I flipped through the notes I had started after speaking with Lydia and her parents with the intent to transcribe them.
Dates, names, and payments. The kind of details that mattered in court because they were measurable and could not be argued away with charm.
The page that mattered most was also the one that frustrated me most.
There was no signed agreement, and no email trail that confirmed exact terms.
What existed was trust and verbal understanding. The warmth of optimism.
Wickham had used that.
I typed out the timeline. When Lydia first met Wickham. When she mentioned the inn. When he inserted himself into their planning. When the money disappeared. When he left town.
Then I wrote what we could actually prove.
The Bennets had held a dance. The ticket funds were gone, never deposited in any of their accounts.
The charity money had disappeared as well.
They believed Wickham had taken them. They could show that he had been present and involved in the event.
They could say that he had made promises.
They could not show those promises in writing.
There was a difference between what was true and what was prosecutable. People didn’t often like that difference, but it existed anyway.
I leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, letting the frustration settle.
Wickham was gone. He had fled town and would likely never return, and never pay for the crime he had committed.
All I had were witness statements, an accounting estimate of the money he had taken.
There was little more I could do and yet I was loath to close the file.
I told myself it had nothing to do with a short Bennet who had a smile like sunshine that took on tasks bigger than herself.
Glancing at my clock, I realized it was time to hit the streets and do my scheduled patrol of Maple Ridge.
We didn’t have much crime here, but it was important to keep a police presence so that the community knew we were here and able to protect them.
I was more likely to investigate a fender bender than a robbery, but it wasn’t any less important.
Grabbing my jacket. I headed out to get my cruiser and do my job, ignoring the fact that I hadn’t closed the Wickham file.