Founders' Day Fiasco

Firefly Junction is in the middle of a huge Founders’ Day celebration and Sunni Taylor has been assigned to cover the colorful music and float-filled parade. But when the organizer of the parade winds up dead, Sunni’s mundane assignment takes a new twist. Now, she finds herself in the middle of a murder that is complicated by the fact that the victim had more than a few enemies.

Mopey. It was one of those questionable words not actually recognized by spell check yet used persistently as if it had its own entry in the dictionary. It was fun to say, even if the meaning conveyed a lack of enthusiasm. It was the word moms used to describe their kids on the last week of summer vacation. It was the word often thrown in when someone was trying to recall the names of the seven dwarves but just couldn't remember the last one. And this morning, it was the most precise word this journalist could think of to describe the mood in her kitchen. In fact, if I thought about it, mopey described the mood of the entire last month. Even the dogs seemed listless as if they knew something was in the air.

Ursula was even too mopey to berate her brother, Henry, about the amount of eggs he'd piled on his plate. And Henry, who had cooked himself enough eggs to feed a small army, was only picking at the pile of yellow fluff. Both Rice siblings were too steeped in their dreary thoughts to notice that I'd emerged from the hallway. I took the moment of being invisible to glance across to the hearth, where, like the two people at the table, my resident ghost sat with broad shoulders slumped and a long, stretched glower. He spotted me before the siblings.

"The nitwits aren't terribly entertaining this morning," he drawled.

I smiled briefly but was unable to answer. What I wanted badly to say was that he would miss them once they'd packed up their tools. I'd have to keep it to myself for now. It was something I'd become expert at, ignoring Edward and his droll comments when others were in the room. I'd been practicing the skill to prepare for the onslaught of guests I expected to eventually flow into the inn.

"Sunni"⁠—Ursula had looked up from her cup of coffee⁠—"I made a fresh pot."

"Thanks." I headed to the cupboard for a mug and poured myself some coffee.

"There are some eggs on the pan," Henry said. "I made them just the way you like, with plenty of butter."

Ursula scoffed. "That's the way you like them. Your heart is just one solid mass of butter." The fiery edge, the Ursula I'd grown to love, appeared for just a second, then she returned to her state of mopiness. Her thin shoulders rounded and she hunched over, her coffee cup clutched in her hands as if it might try and run away.

Ursula's clipboard sat next to her on the table. It was the infamous check-off sheet she kept of all the work that needed to be done on the inn, and it was the source of her sullen mood. In between all their bickering and arguing, Ursula and Henry Rice had transformed a once dilapidated, shabby Georgian manor into a shining jewel. Upstairs, the rooms gleamed in sage greens, pearl grays and soft corals. Glistening white trim and chunky, stylish molding lined the doors, windows and ceilings. Old rotted floorboards had been replaced, and modern light and plumbing fixtures had been installed to make the Cider Ridge guests comfortable. Of course, true comfort was still far off considering the lack of furniture. The rooms were beautiful but empty, along with my bank account. Restoring the inn had been wildly expensive, but in the back of my mind, I told myself it would pay off in the end when the Cider Ridge Inn was bursting with guests. However, that entire image of me running a bustling inn had become somewhat fuzzy in the last year. There were a few impediments to my plan, or at least one major one; namely, the brooding Englishman perched on the hearth with that handsome scowl only he could pull off well.

I filled a plate with eggs and sat down next to Ursula. She sniffled. Henry and I ignored it at first and pretended to be concentrating on our eggs. Naturally, being Ursula, she sniffled louder and longer. Ignoring was no longer an option.

"Here she goes again with the waterworks," Henry muttered. He dragged the fork absently through his eggs.

"Just because you have no emotions in that cold butter heart of yours." Ursula added in another sniffle for good measure. Her eyes were glassy as she smiled softly at me. "It's just that this place has been like our home for the last few years and you⁠—" This time she pulled a tissue from one of the many pockets on her work overalls and blew her nose, loudly.

"Good lord, are there geese in the house?" Edward moved to the front window and stared out, his moment of levity cut short by his dreary mood. Edward and Ursula were both upset but for entirely different reasons. Ursula and Henry were finishing up the final room on the check list, the last bedroom at the end of the hallway and guest room number four. They'd be packing up their tools and moving on to other jobs. Ursula had been smartly posting photos of their work on the inn to their business website. They already had a waiting list. People with old, time-worn houses like the Cider Ridge Inn were clamoring for the Rice team.

"Ursula, we're like family now. You can come to the inn anytime. You just won't need to bring your tools."

The comment I'd hoped would help alleviate her misery, which was particularly acute this morning, only caused her to sob. Her bony shoulders shook. She used her tissue to cover her face.

"You could bring your tools," I suggested. "And they could just sit with us as we eat breakfast together."

Henry laughed but Ursula only looked more pinch-faced. "You'll be far too busy with the inn to visit with us, and you certainly don't need Henry eating his way through the food in the refrigerator when you'll have guests to feed."

"Nonsense, Henry can come over and raid the refrigerator anytime he likes." I winked at Henry.

"The man hovers in that ice box like a fly on manure and you're inviting him to return and continue to pillage and plunder your food supply?" Edward had pulled his gaze from the window to turn his focus on the conversation at the table.

Again, I had to ignore him, but that didn't stop him from continuing. "The only thing to look forward to when this place is overrun by chattering, giggling, whining guests is that these two fools will be irritating another homeowner. I doubt anyone else will put up with their nonsense like their current employer." He carried on about Ursula and Henry, but I knew better. He was going to be sorry to see them go.

Noisy and, yes, irritating as they could be, they unwittingly kept Edward company in a long, lonely existence where each day dragged into the next and there was no hope for an ending. He never failed to appear in the kitchen to witness firsthand their sibling carnival act, the Breakfast of Nitwits, as he'd so humorously named it.

Ursula wiped clumsily at her eyes. "Can't believe I'm getting so emotional. It's not like me."

Henry rolled his eyes. "Right, hardly ever," he muttered, then apparently decided a forkful of eggs would stop him from saying anything else he'd regret.

"The truth is, Henry and Ursula, I'd be hurt if the two of you didn't drop by now and then. It just won't be the same without you. Like I said, you're both family."

Edward scoffed. "From the nitwit side of the family tree, I suppose." Edward was extra ornery. He knew the final room was nearly finished. What he didn't know and what I hadn't voiced too much to anyone, I was having great misgivings about the entire Cider Ridge Inn idea. After years of envisioning a cozy, charming inn flowing with Emily's delicious food and the ambience only a century plus old manor could provide, the whole plan was starting to weigh down on my shoulders like blocks of cement. I'd be giving up my true calling, journalism, to embark on a career that I had literally no experience in. Owning a house that would make a spectacular inn was hardly a glowing resume for innkeeper. Five times out of six, I couldn't even pour myself a cup of coffee without spilling a few drops. And when I made my bed, it still looked as crumpled as it did back when I rushed the task as a teenager. Then there was the house itself. While it still lacked proper landscaping and bedroom furniture, it was the quintessential bed and breakfast in every way except one, and it was a biggie. Even Jackson had reminded me at least once a week that this whole business endeavor was going to turn Edward's world even more inside out. Admittedly, my tall, incorporeal Englishman was my main concern too. In the back of my mind, I knew it was going to affect him greatly. I was also keenly aware of how difficult it would be to ignore him all day long. Just sitting in the kitchen with Edward and the Rice siblings, I'd wanted to respond to him several times but had to keep it to myself.

Edward and I had grown close, if that was possible with a ghost. We both looked forward to our lively chats in the evenings or on weekends when no one else was around. Jackson and Edward had a far more contentious relationship, but the familial ties were hard to ignore. Deep down, they both seemed to like each other. Jackson wouldn't be so concerned about how the inn would affect Edward if he didn't have some fond feelings for his ancestor.

"Henry and I have about two weeks left." Ursula's sad tone popped me from my thoughts.

I smiled at both of them. "You two are miracle workers, really. You'll have so many clients; you won't be able to get to them all."

The turn in conversation helped brighten Ursula's mood. "We're already calendared out for a year, but if you need us to come back to the Cider Ridge, you just have to call and we'll move things around. We'll always have room for Sunni Taylor on our calendar." This time it was me who sniffled. We hugged.

"The two of you are going to get me going too." Henry's voice wavered. "This is no way to start a workday," he said stoically, "all blubbery and teary eyed." He stood from the table after barely touching his eggs. "I'm going upstairs before I have to pull out my handkerchief."

Edward scoffed. "This semi-barbarian cannot possibly own a handkerchief. Unless sleeves count as handkerchiefs these days. I've seen him use those plenty when a good wipe was warranted."

I suppressed a laugh, another skill I'd almost perfected. There were plenty of times when I had to explain my inexplicable burst of laughter away as nerves or remembering something funny I'd read.

Ursula hugged me once more. Then, without looking up at me, she grabbed her clipboard and scurried off behind her brother.

Edward had returned to his sullen expression as he peered out the window. When the light was just right and his image crisp as could be, I could even see his dark eyelashes as they shadowed his blue eyes. "They'll be gone, but they'll immediately be replaced by more, strangers even."

I sipped my coffee. "See, you're going to miss them too."

"Never, how does one possibly miss an itch that can't be scratched, a pebble in one's shoe, a—"

"Right, right, I get it." My phone buzzed. I walked over to the counter where I'd left it next to the coffee pot. It was a text from Myrna.

"Prudence has called an emergency staff meeting. I'm not sure what's up, but she looks upset. She didn't even bring any bakery goods so must be serious."

"I'm on my way," I texted back. "I'll leave you to your day, Mr. Beckett."

"Yes, where shall I start that day? On the hearth or on the front stoop?" As he mentioned the stoop, Newman sat up on his pillow. He instantly hopped to his feet to look for one of his many tennis balls. The dogs were going to be impacted by the inn as well. I couldn't very well have tennis balls all over the house while guests were roaming about. It was an accident waiting to happen. I tucked that away as yet another check in the negative column, and that column was growing each day.