Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery R.M. Wild (inspirational books .txt) 📖

the firm this morning and get some paperwork done. There’s a shower across the room if you want it.”

“You’re not locking me up?”

Kendall shook his head as if I were joking. “No, I think I can trust that you won’t go anywhere today. I can trust you, right?”

I nodded, my whole brain shifting and banging against the inside of my skull. I had blacked out. I couldn’t believe I let myself get wasted. Back in New York, I had vowed to never drink again. Now, in the space of only a few days, I was coming apart.

“Yes,” I mumbled. Of course he could trust me. The power was working again and he’d be able to watch me on the security cameras.

“I am sorry about yesterday. I was scared for you,” he said. He studied me and then he came over, leaned on the bed, his red tie reaching all the way down to the sheets, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I will see you later.”

“The phone charger.”

“Yes. I will remember. It’s on my list. Anything else?”

“No,” I said quietly.

“Okay then. Enjoy the day. I’ll be back soon.”

He flashed me a toothy smile and then he left.

When he was gone, I ignored my headache and threw my head back on the pillow. How stupid could I be?

I gave myself a hard slap. “You’re a MORON, Rosie.”

I was desperately thirsty and needed something to drink. I shifted in the bed, but felt something damp on the sheets beneath me.

I touched down there.

Sticky.

My headache pounded as the truth dawned on me. Kendall hadn’t been a gentleman. He hadn’t stopped when I lost my ability to consent.

My little red friend had saved me.

There was nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no way to call for help. My head was on fire and thinking was painful, so I went back to sleep.

Later, when the sun made the entire room bloom white, I sat up. It took me a minute to get my bearings again. I was still in the master bedroom, the fancy crown molding and an ornate ceiling fan making the room look about as far from rustic as the Taj Mahal in Jersey was from regal.

If Kendall didn’t own this place, then who was the mystery client who did? And would this mystery client care if a stranger bled all over his silk sheets?

I got up, slowly, shaky, and held onto the bed posts for support. Kendall had left a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt on the chair in the corner. It was a white leather lounge chair, no devil feet.

I went into the master bedroom, drank from the sink, and then took a shower. The water pressure was far better than the pressure in my inn, the water soft, but powerful, and I stood in there for a long time and let the steam fog the mirror and ease my headache.

Finally, fully pruned, I changed into the new clothes—they were a bit scratchy, especially the underwear—and went downstairs. Two empty bottles of Red Rum were sitting on the counter even though I could have sworn I broke one of them in anger.

I closed my eyes, trying to remember, but couldn’t conjure any memories of last night except for Mettle’s funeral.

I grabbed a bottled water from the fridge and gulped it straight to the bottom. Thinking Kendall was probably right about the spoiled food, I went to the pantry, found a box of crackers, and ate to try to settle my stomach.

I devoured them Cookie-monster style, but then caught a glimpse of a brassy gleam in the back of the pantry and paused, crumbs all over my chest. I stepped aside and the gleam disappeared. I stepped back and it returned. Each time my shadow blocked the light from the French doors, the gleam disappeared.

Was it a door? Maybe the door to the basement? I put the box of crackers down and stepped into the pantry. I pulled on the shelves and they swung aside.

Bingo. I grabbed the knob, debating if I should open the hidden door. I glanced behind me. The motion sensor beside the stove hood was blinking red. Certainly, the house was monitoring my whereabouts, but I couldn’t see any cameras covering this angle.

Dare I go down? Was Kendall watching?

“You can’t sit on the couch all day,” I whispered to myself. “You need an escape plan.”

I opened the door. It led to a dark stairwell. Unlike the rest of the cabin, the lights did not sense my presence and turn on by themselves.

I felt the wall for a switch, but couldn’t find one. Thinking my eyes would adjust, I descended the stairs anyway. They were made of wood, unfinished, but didn’t creak. When I got to the bottom, the only source of light was coming from the window for the walkup exit on the far side, the natural light casting the unfinished basement in hard, gray shadows.

Along the cinderblock walls, there were work benches. Tools. Pliers. Saws. A vice grip. Mounted to the far wall, was a large, flat egg, a thick white tube running to the ceiling. It must have been the backup battery for the house.

And sitting near the exit, was a long, curved shape.

An aluminum canoe.

Those painters must have returned it yesterday.

But why had they taken it down to the dock in the first place? What was hiding in the mist?

Outside, the morning sun had taken refuge behind the newly-formed strips of gray hovering in the sky. The last thing I needed was more rain and thus more time without electricity.

I glanced at the exterior cameras mounted beneath the gutters and then smiled and waved and crossed the field and headed down to the dock. There was no point in hiding my intentions. Doing so would just make Kendall more suspicious.

Down at the dock, a slight wind blew across the lake and the mist glided over the surface. I ventured down to the last plank and hung my