The Enchanted Inn Page 7

  Fifteen minutes later they set off.

  Gina’s irritation escalated as Amy’s voice drifted down from the steep banking above. “You are slow today, my friend.”

  Wiping the sweat from her brow, Gina struggled to climb the craggy slope. She must be crazy. When Amy had invited her to hunt mushrooms, Gina had envisioned a cool forest floor, not this bug-infested humidity. Of course, it didn’t help that she’d had to take the fifteen-pound musket along at John’s insistence. Granted, she hadn’t a clue how to reload the damn thing, but at least it was primed and ready. Need be, she’d make that one shot count. That was, if she didn’t fall down and shoot herself in the leg first.

  Amy had promised her a sandy pool under a waterfall. The tantalizing image of swimming in cool, fresh water gave her the incentive to keep going.

  No freaking way was she going to eat any wild mushrooms, although the thought of cooking a poisonous mushroom stew for George sparked her sense of humor.

  John had been right. The jackass had come home last night. She’d heard the usual giggles, grunts and groans as she made her way to the attic this morning. Disgusting lecher. He must pay these women a bundle. Why else would they be willing to trek all the way out to the bush?

  “Ouch!” Gina stumbled on a pine tree root and fell on her knees. “Amy,” she hollered, “I’ll wait here for you.” The eerie silence got her heart pounding. “Amy? Where are you?”

  A blood-curdling scream tore through the quiet morning. Aches and pains forgotten, Gina grabbed the musket and hightailed it in the direction of Amy’s shrieks. Maybe a tribe of Indians was holding her hostage. Travelers often said a woman was better off dead than in the hands of those savages.

  She crested the rise and skidded to a halt. Amy stood not more than twenty-five feet in front of her, staring into a deep crevice. “Amy?”

  Amy ceased screaming and raced toward her. Or so she thought.

  Gina managed to snag the girl’s arm as she flew by. “Be still, Amy. What did you see? Are there Indians?”

  Amy’s huge blank eyes stared at nothing, her skin the color of bone. She dragged air into her lungs, one ragged breath after another.

  Gina set the gun on the ground and pulled the trembling girl into her arms. “Everything will be all right. Talk to me. What did you see?”

  “I…’tis beyond belief…merciful God…” Amy buried her face in Gina’s neck and sobbed. Just then a slight breeze picked up, and with it came the scent of rotten meat. Gina fought the urge to gag. The left side of her brain screamed “run like hell”. The right side urged her forward to see for herself what monstrosity had upset her friend.

  Amy sprang to life and hung onto Gina’s arm with the tenacity of a pit bull. “No, Rachel, don’t go. Please. Let us hurry away from this place. We must not be found here.”

  “Why not? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Amy’s shoulders slumped. Gina picked up the musket and plodded toward the dark pit, trepidation growing with each step. She bent and lifted the hem of her dress to cover her nose. Not that it helped much. Gulping in as much air as her lungs would hold, she hurried forward and peered into the V-shaped fissure caused by a glacier over a million years ago.

  At first, she saw nothing except a colorful array of what looked like fabric. When her eyes focused she realized the clothes covered bodies. Shock held her prisoner. As if given a cue, the ravens arrived, croaking and circling not twenty feet above. It all made sense now. The times she’d hauled water and heard ravens, imagining them to be Indians. Hungry birds feeding on carrion.

  All of a sudden she gasped for air, not realizing she still held her breath. The sickly sweet smell of death invaded her senses. Mother of God, what happened here? Were these women abducted from their homes by savages and then thrown here to become fodder for wild animals?

  “Rachel?” Amy’s soft voice jerked her away from the morbidity of the horrific scene. She waved so Amy would cease worrying. She started to back away when a particular color in the pit stopped her. Oh. My. God. A woman whose face was unrecognizable wore a dress that matched the jacket she’d found in George’s bureau.

  Terror filled her senses. She whirled and ran in Amy’s direction. No! It couldn’t be, could it? This was the reason no one saw or heard the women leaving the inn. George murdered them and dragged their bodies here in the middle of the night. Or did he bring the women here alive, kill them and throw their bodies into the hole?

  Gina grabbed Amy’s hand and dragged her along. “Come on, let’s get back to the inn.”

  Amy dug in her heels, her face a mask of terror. “No, Rachel! We cannot go back there.”

  At that moment, Gina realized Amy suspected George, as well. She clutched the young woman’s arms and squeezed. “Tell me what you know. Do you have reason to suspect George murdered those women?”

  Amy pulled away and rubbed her biceps. “No…well…something is not quite right with the man…he makes me nervous. Whenever I visit the inn, he leers and…he stares at my bosom.” She dropped her gaze as she muttered the last few words.

  Tell me about it. Gina drew her close. “John and I will never let George hurt you. Right now we have to report this to the proper authorities.” Whoever the hell that might be. Not as simple as dialing nine-one-one.

  Docile as a child, Amy kept pace with Gina. Halfway down the incline, they halted at the sound of rustling leaves. Gina dragged Amy behind a fallen oak. She peeked over the top of the dead trunk and relaxed her grip on the musket, startled to see William Barrett coming toward them at a steady run.

  Breathing like a hard-ridden horse, William stopped in his tracks as Gina popped up from behind the downed tree. “Rachel! Was it you I heard screaming? Are you all right?”

  Gina helped Amy to her feet. “Still looking for a story, Mr. Barrett?”

  The journalist sniffed the air and used his hand to cover his nose. “What is that malevolent odor?”

  Gina pointed to the top of the hill. “Go to the highest point. Walk about twenty-five feet farther, and you’ll find a deep crevice. Brace yourself before you look over the edge. Forget Benedict Arnold. Your story’s right up there, waiting to be written.”

  The man held her gaze for long moments, gauging whether or not she told the truth, she figured. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he climbed.

  Gina held Amy’s hand and hurried out of the forest, wondering if George had taken off already or if she’d have to face him and pretend ignorance of her knowledge about an open pit full of dead women.

  At the slope’s bottom, she looked over her shoulder and shivered. More than likely William Barrett had barfed his lunch by now.

  Directing her attention to the trembling woman at her side, she gave her a quick one-armed hug. “Amy, run home. Stay close to your family until John or I contact you. For the moment, keep this gruesome discovery to yourself.”

  Amy nodded her agreement and took off running. Gina braced herself for the worst and strode toward the inn, standing tall, her chin thrust forward with grim determination.

  When she arrived at the beaten path near the spring, she picked up the pace. It was then she realized she’d left the musket in the woods where she and Amy had hidden. No way was she going back. Thinking hard about how to tell John, she never noticed her dress snag on a dead tree limb until she pitched forward and heard the gray fabric tear. Shit! She struggled to her feet and brushed the dirt and leaves from her dress.

  By the time she reached the back door of the inn, she ran full speed. “John? Where are you?” She’d meant to keep the panic from her voice. The inn appeared deserted. Where was he? She should have checked the stable first.

  “You brazen jezebel.” The cold voice behind her quivered with anger. “I cannot wait to tell John he is being cuckolded.”

  Stay calm, Gina. Don’t let him see you’ve discovered his secret. She leaned into the work counter in front of her and curled her fingers around a carving knife. Picking up a cleaning cloth, she
slowly turned and pretended to wipe the knife’s blade. “Sorry to disappoint you, George. I fell in the mud while fetching water. That’s why I am in disarray.”

  George’s fat jowls blazed red. She had no idea whether his anger came from her use of his given name or his supposition that she’d been screwing around in the woods with another man. “You are a slut. I rue the day I purchased your indenture.”

  “Rachel?”

  Gina snapped to attention to see John standing in the threshold between the kitchen and common room, his eyes clouded with confusion. She set down the knife and dashed to his side. “John. Don’t listen to him. He has no idea what he’s talking about. You saw me leave with Amy.”

  “Amy?” George growled. “What does that foolish twit have to do with this?”

  John curled his arm around her waist. “I do not know of what you are accusing Rachel. Amy and Rachel went to pick mushrooms this morning.”

  Gina’s mouth went dry as the redness drained from George’s face, leaving it whiter than the shirt he wore. His pudgy fingers clenched into fists.

  “Where?” he demanded.

  Gina shrugged. “I’m not really sure. Somewhere near the spring hole. I followed Amy.”

  “Where is Amy now?” George insisted in a gruff voice.

  “There were no mushrooms. We parted ways. I imagine she’s home by now.”

  Without a word, George pivoted and left the room. Gina heard the stairs creak under his heavy weight. He’d returned to his room.

  “Rachel—”

  Gina placed her hand over his mouth and shook her head. Taking hold of his hand, she led him out the back door—and ran into William whose face sported a greenish tinge. She gestured for him to stay silent and strode to the stables with both men at her heels.

  Chapter Ten

  “Rachel, what has happened? Why do we have to converse in the stables?”

  Gina lowered herself onto a pile of straw and studied dust mites dancing in the ray of light that streamed through the upstairs window. Not only had she been thrust into the past, she was the property of a crazed serial killer. How much more did Ruth McPherson expect her to handle?

  William cleared his throat and sat on an overturned bucket. He scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt. “John, you will have difficulty believing what we saw.”

  John’s brow knitted into a frown. “You were with Rachel?”

  Gina sighed as John strode to stand in front of her. “This is not the time for jealousy. William’s after a story so he followed Amy and me. I’ve no idea what he expected to find. You’d have to ask him.”

  John dropped to the straw. “Forgive me. The terror in your eyes while we talked to George should have warned me that something is very wrong.” He enfolded one of her hands in his. “Tell me.” He glanced in William’s direction. “You already know the mystery?”

  William nodded and swallowed hard.

  John squeezed her hand, and Gina drew a breath of dusty air. “We found a deep pit in the forest. There were dead bodies…”

  John’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? Some farmer mayhap disposed of animal carcasses there.”

  Gina attempted to smile. “Not unless he dressed them in women’s clothing.”

  John’s normally ruddy complexion vanished. “We must inform George. ’Tis on his land.”

  In one swoop he was on his feet and moving toward the door. Gina jumped to her feet and grasped his arm. “No! You can’t do that. He’s the murderer.”

  His agile body twisted, dislodging her hold. “Damnation, woman. You cannot accuse George of murder simply because you have no warm feelings for the man. A while ago, you accused him of being a spy.”

  “And you agreed there was something strange about him.” John’s mouth tightened, and she knew she’d hit home. “George killed those women. I have proof.”

  “What kind of proof?” William asked.

  John and Gina switched their attention to William. For a moment she’d forgotten about him. The journalist had more than likely memorized every word spoken.

  “William’s question has merit. Where is your proof?”

  “There’s a woman’s jacket in George’s room that matches a dress on one of the dead women. They are all young.” Gina pretended not to see John’s horrified expression. “Also, I found other articles in George’s bureau. I think…he keeps something from every woman he kills. As a memento.”

  William whistled. John was speechless for about ten seconds.

  “You entered George’s room and looked through his personal belongings? My God, Rachel, what were you thinking?”

  Her blood pressure skyrocketed. “You dare to lecture—”

  “George might have discovered you going through his room,” John said. “Who knows what he would have done? Rachel, go back to the inn and wait in the attic. William can lead me to this…burial pit.”

  Gina itched to knock some sense into his pea brain. “Great idea, Dick Tracy. You want me to stay at the inn with a possible serial killer?” She slapped his chest, knocking him backwards. “Think again. I’m going with you. Neither of you knows where I left the musket.”

  “Who is Dick Tracy and what, pray tell, is a serial killer?”

  Gina stopped her tirade. “Shut up, William.”

  At the worry in John’s eyes, heat flooded her face. “You think I’ve lost my mind. After everything I’ve told you…” She brushed away tears of anger.

  “Rachel, I want to believe you…”

  But you can’t. Gina turned her back.

  “Rachel is right, John. She will be safer with us.”

  “Of course. I am not thinking clearly.”

  Gina whirled around. John was already through the barn door, William dogging his heels. “Hey! Wait for me,” she said.

  They began the hike three abreast. As the trail narrowed, they fell into single file. John led, while William brought up the rear. In a hurry to reach their destination, John left the path to dart through high swamp grass. Gina’s feet stuck in the mud. Twice she fell. So much for gentlemanly concern. Neither man stopped to help.

  Once they entered the woods, John broke the silence with a whisper. “What is our plan? One of us must go to the magistrate.”

  “We can discuss that later,” William said. “First, we must convince you that Rachel’s fears are founded.”

  “Where is this magistrate?” Gina asked.

  “A day’s hard ride from here.”

  “I will go, as soon as we have one more look,” John offered. “I will have to take the items you found in George’s room before he disposes of them.”

  The wind remained calm, thankfully keeping the smell of rotting flesh at bay. Gina pointed to the left. “The musket is behind that fallen oak.”

  William hustled to the spot. Gina gasped for air as she tried to match John’s long strides. William soon passed her. With grim determination, she picked up her the hem of her dress and shifted into a higher gear. They arrived at the crest together.

  Gina reached for John’s arm. George stood at the head of the crevice, his hands around Amy’s throat. Even from where they’d paused, they heard Amy’s gurgling attempts to breathe. William shouldered the musket. Before he pulled the trigger, George pitched forward, landing on top of Amy. An arrow protruded from his back. Gina looked beyond the pit in time to see the Mohican who’d been skulking around the spring hole. He held her gaze for a long moment before vanishing into the thicket.

  John and William rolled George’s body off Amy. Gina dropped to her knees to search for a pulse. “Thank, God, she’s breathing.” Raising the girl’s head onto her lap, she lightly tapped her pale cheeks. “You’re safe now, my friend. Take slow, deep breaths.” The purple bruises on Amy’s neck made her want to kick George’s dead body.

  Amy’s eyes fluttered opened, and she struggled.

  “It’s me. Rachel. You’re okay. George is dead. He can never hurt anyone again.”

  Recognition dawned and Amy focuse
d on Gina and began to sob. “I was feeding the chickens… He…he grabbed me from behind and dragged me here.”

  Gina comforted Amy and glanced at John. He was transfixed at what was in the hole. “Holy Mary… How did this happen?”

  He turned and his gaze locked with hers. A sheen of perspiration covered his upper lip. “Forgive me for not taking your fears seriously. If I had lost you because of my own stubborn…”

  She squeezed his hand. “It’s over, John. We have to get Amy home. She’s in shock.”

  “As well she should be,” William added. “I’ll carry her.”

  * * *

  The inn’s business ledger thumped against the wall where Gina heaved it, and she continued rifling through the cabinet. “Where would George have kept his personal papers? We’ve got to find my indenture papers before his nephew and wife arrive.”

  “I know how important it is.”

  Gina took a calming breath. John sounded so tired. Two weeks had passed since what she’d come to think of as “the incident”. The new owners were expected any day. News of George’s death had spread through the region like wildfire. Vultures swarmed the inn in the form of creditors.

  Marcus Wade, George’s lawyer, had arrived one morning to ask John if he’d operate the inn until George’s only living relative, a nephew, could take control. Mr. Wade had made no mention of Rachel’s indenture papers.

  If the lawyer didn’t have them, they had to be in the inn so she and John had spent days tearing the place apart. William was still in residence. When he wasn’t visiting Amy, he spent his time in the room, presumably writing about the murders. Gina sensed a romance budding between William and her friend.

  “Perhaps we should take a break today.”

  John’s glare pinned her in place. “If we cannot find the papers here, then we must assume they are in Mr. Wade’s possession.”

  “What should we do?”

  Her heart lurched at John’s fierce expression. “I will not lose you, Rachel. We will leave before the new owner arrives. And pray for the grace of God that no one ever finds us.”