Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [13]
The maniac jukebox began playing “It Hurts To Be In Love” by Gene Pitney. “How long can I exist wanting lips I’ve never kissed?”
Netta looked at Asha, and they both broke out laughing.
After she flipped off the overhead lights inside the diner, Asha locked the restaurant’s door, then glanced around the parking lot. It was empty, typical for an area that would roll up the sidewalks at 9:00 p.m.—if they had any. The incandescent light spread the greenish cast to the area, creating long shadows, its quiet hum the only noise in the still October night. Asha followed the walkway around to the facade of the building, turned left, keeping on the flagstones until she reached the motel entrance, the vestibule of the old overseer’s house.
Delbert Seacrest leaned on the counter of the front desk, half dozing when Asha came in. The old man reminded her of a pudgy Alec Guinness. She chuckled softly and said to herself, “One of the perks of owning The Windmill. Not everyone has Obi-Wan Kenobi for a night manager.”
“You talking to yourself or me, Asha? If it’s me, speak up. I don’t hear so well these days.” The elderly man yawned, aware Asha wouldn’t say anything to him about catnapping on the job.
It was so slow during the week that often having a night manager seemed silly. However, eighty-seven year old Delbert enjoyed the job, said it kept him from being alone all the time. Having no family, he lived in the large rooms at the back of the old house, and tended to set his own hours. Asha smiled. The Windmill was his family now.
“Something big city developers wouldn’t understand,” she muttered lowly, and then passed him the bank bag containing that night’s cash from the restaurant. He shuffled off to place it in the safe until Asha could deposit it, a chore she usually did on Monday mornings.
“How was business?”
“Brisk for a Thursday. Keeneland’s opening helped. We’re catching their travelers taking the scenic route.” She went behind the desk, spun the registry book around and glanced down at the page half-filled with names, dates and the guests’ origins.
Jago Fitzgerald had checked in late Monday night. She’d been at the river house Tuesday and Wednesday, and then had gone straight to the horse farm bright and early this morning. That’s why they had missed each other until tonight. Delbert had initially put him in room five, then moved him to the bungalow this afternoon when it became available. That made him her neighbor.
Directly behind the restaurant was a small courtyard with five self-catering cottages, arranged in a horseshoe pattern. Each had sliding patio doors so one could enjoy the lovely garden and fountain, and came equipped with a small kitchenette, living room, and bedroom. Asha maintained one for her part-time residence, a second for her brother, Liam, when he took the mind to stay. The other three they let to travelers, wishing to remain in the area for a longer visit.
So, Jago Fitzgerald was her neighbor. Knowing that unnerved Asha in ways she didn’t care to think about. Not sure what she was looking for, she studied the precise script. Most men’s handwriting was little better than chicken scratches; his was neat, elegant. He gave his address as London, England. What did she expect to suss from a name she already knew and a vague English address? Restlessly, she tapped her fingernails on the book.
She looked up when the elderly manager ambled back from the office. “Delbert, did Mr. Fitzgerald pay with a credit card?”
“I intended to mention him to you, Asha. He originally requested a bungalow, but they were full up—that honeymoon party for the Gibsons. I put him in five until they checked out. I really hated to lodge such a fancy gent in number five, but that was the only room available.”
Asha frowned and winkled her nose. “The one with the cracked