Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Claire Robyns
drifting off to sleep, that I didn’t know what time Hollow House served breakfast, if they even did, and Jenna was expecting to be fed.
But I wasn’t a guest here.
I didn’t need to follow all the usual rules.
There was no reason we couldn’t have breakfast anytime we wanted, anywhere we wanted (like, say, on the terrace), even if I had to make it myself. Even if it was a paltry spread of toast and coffee, since that was as far as my culinary skills stretched.
I shimmied into jeans and a strappy tee, then sucked in my stomach and gave my profile a cursory glance in the mirror.
Not too shabby.
Take that, Joseph McMurphy.
Self-esteem reclaimed, I averted my eyes before releasing my stomach with the breath that’d sucked it in, and slipped into a pair of platform wedge black boots. A couple extra inches of height shed pounds faster than a cabbage soup diet.
Grabbing a lightweight jacket, I stepped out into the passage with a spring in my step.
The upper landing of the north and south wings converged to sweep down a magnificent stairway into the double-volume front parlor. Except for the landscape oil at the head of the staircase—our lake nestled at the foothills and struck by a full moon—the wall was strung with formal portraits of Hollow family members through the ages.
The lower halves of the walls were wainscoted and only slightly scratched. The heavy soles of my boots clonked on the carpet that was worn thin in places, practically threadbare in others.
I hitched my jacket over one shoulder and trailed a hand along the polished mahogany banister as I descended, my eyes lifting to the frescoed ceiling. Hollow House was still a formidable masterpiece. Nothing that new carpets and a lick of paint couldn’t cure.
At the bottom of the stairs, I paused to get my bearings. I hadn’t been given the grand tour. The lounge fed off to my left; the semi-circular reception desk near the front entrance; two closed doors on my right. I headed down the dimly lit hallway that ran alongside the staircase, figuring the kitchen would be near the back.
The house creaked and sighed around me, as if stretching beneath the warmth of the morning sun after a chilly night, but there were no other sounds to indicate anyone else was up and about.
The solid white swing door at the end of the hallway looked promising. I pushed through, then froze and let rip a shriek like my blood was curling.
Which it was.
The door bumped me a step deeper into the room on the rebound. I shook my limbs loose and snapped my mouth shut.
Even if her face hadn’t been turned toward me, I would have recognized that pale pink net covering her stern silver bun anywhere.
What on earth was my old Home Ed teacher doing here?
Sitting at the kitchen table, cheek resting on arms folded over the table, fast asleep. Or maybe passed out. A dainty tea cup nestled on a matching saucer at her elbow, but that didn’t necessarily hold tea. She hadn’t stirred, and I’d shrieked loud enough to wake the dead.
I scowled at Ms Daggon, thinking dark, bitter thoughts as I eyed the full apron tied at her waist and around her neck. I hadn’t met any of the inn staff yet. Actually, I was surprised to find we had full-time, live-in staff. Any person other than the dragon lady, and I’d have been delighted to discover we had a resident cook.
“One of us has to go,” I muttered beneath my breath. What the devil had Mr Hollow been thinking, stealing her away from Silver Firs High?
If I’d known my sweet revenge came stocked with Ms Daggon, I would have left Joe’s money in the bank and wished him a carefree divorce.
My nostrils twitched. Something was burning? My gaze swept over the knotted pine wall cabinets and matching counters to a state-of-the-art stainless steel triple-door oven unit. The top was laid with six electric stove plates and a large gas grill that was rapidly disappearing into a haze.
Goodness, something was burning. Tendrils of smoke escaped
But I wasn’t a guest here.
I didn’t need to follow all the usual rules.
There was no reason we couldn’t have breakfast anytime we wanted, anywhere we wanted (like, say, on the terrace), even if I had to make it myself. Even if it was a paltry spread of toast and coffee, since that was as far as my culinary skills stretched.
I shimmied into jeans and a strappy tee, then sucked in my stomach and gave my profile a cursory glance in the mirror.
Not too shabby.
Take that, Joseph McMurphy.
Self-esteem reclaimed, I averted my eyes before releasing my stomach with the breath that’d sucked it in, and slipped into a pair of platform wedge black boots. A couple extra inches of height shed pounds faster than a cabbage soup diet.
Grabbing a lightweight jacket, I stepped out into the passage with a spring in my step.
The upper landing of the north and south wings converged to sweep down a magnificent stairway into the double-volume front parlor. Except for the landscape oil at the head of the staircase—our lake nestled at the foothills and struck by a full moon—the wall was strung with formal portraits of Hollow family members through the ages.
The lower halves of the walls were wainscoted and only slightly scratched. The heavy soles of my boots clonked on the carpet that was worn thin in places, practically threadbare in others.
I hitched my jacket over one shoulder and trailed a hand along the polished mahogany banister as I descended, my eyes lifting to the frescoed ceiling. Hollow House was still a formidable masterpiece. Nothing that new carpets and a lick of paint couldn’t cure.
At the bottom of the stairs, I paused to get my bearings. I hadn’t been given the grand tour. The lounge fed off to my left; the semi-circular reception desk near the front entrance; two closed doors on my right. I headed down the dimly lit hallway that ran alongside the staircase, figuring the kitchen would be near the back.
The house creaked and sighed around me, as if stretching beneath the warmth of the morning sun after a chilly night, but there were no other sounds to indicate anyone else was up and about.
The solid white swing door at the end of the hallway looked promising. I pushed through, then froze and let rip a shriek like my blood was curling.
Which it was.
The door bumped me a step deeper into the room on the rebound. I shook my limbs loose and snapped my mouth shut.
Even if her face hadn’t been turned toward me, I would have recognized that pale pink net covering her stern silver bun anywhere.
What on earth was my old Home Ed teacher doing here?
Sitting at the kitchen table, cheek resting on arms folded over the table, fast asleep. Or maybe passed out. A dainty tea cup nestled on a matching saucer at her elbow, but that didn’t necessarily hold tea. She hadn’t stirred, and I’d shrieked loud enough to wake the dead.
I scowled at Ms Daggon, thinking dark, bitter thoughts as I eyed the full apron tied at her waist and around her neck. I hadn’t met any of the inn staff yet. Actually, I was surprised to find we had full-time, live-in staff. Any person other than the dragon lady, and I’d have been delighted to discover we had a resident cook.
“One of us has to go,” I muttered beneath my breath. What the devil had Mr Hollow been thinking, stealing her away from Silver Firs High?
If I’d known my sweet revenge came stocked with Ms Daggon, I would have left Joe’s money in the bank and wished him a carefree divorce.
My nostrils twitched. Something was burning? My gaze swept over the knotted pine wall cabinets and matching counters to a state-of-the-art stainless steel triple-door oven unit. The top was laid with six electric stove plates and a large gas grill that was rapidly disappearing into a haze.
Goodness, something was burning. Tendrils of smoke escaped
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