Ink and Intrigue at Ivy Tree Inn by Ellen Butler

Author:Ellen Butler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Cozy Mystery, Historical Mystery, Murder Mystery, Amateur Sleuth, Women Sleuth, Small Town, Thriller Suspense
Publisher: Power to the Pen
Published: 2024-10-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ariadne

RAISED VOICES CAME from the Sullivan’s suite, though their exact words couldn’t penetrate the thick walls. I wondered what was in the letter that upset Connie. Pretend as she might, her body language had spoken volumes when she read it.

I couldn’t give it much more thought, as I had my own problems to deal with. Sighing, I locked my chamber door and retreated downstairs.

True to his word, Mr. Wyler placed the phone in the library by running an extra-long cord from the wall behind the reception desk. I carried the heavy black base, pacing back and forth in front of the snooker table, as far as the cord would allow.

Howard asked, “She spoke to you?”

A carved wooden cigarette box lay on the end table with a heavy silver lighter in need of polishing next to it. I flipped open the lid to find it filled with Chesterfields. Even though the lighter was deeply tarnished, someone kept it in good working order. Flame shot upward with one flick of my thumb. I sucked in the smoke allowing it to fill my lungs. “Yes. She’s aware of who leaked the information. She knew it was not me. I reiterated my pledge to keep ‘off the record’ comments in confidence.”

“Good. Stick with that upright, honorable pretense.”

My lips pinched together. Slowly and evenly, I said, “It is not a pretense. My journalistic integrity is everything.”

“Sure. That’s what I meant. What about the Frenchie?” my editor said the last word with disdain. “Did he give you any trouble?”

“The Maldinian minister was dismissed from the future princess’s room, and I continued the interview.” I didn’t feel the need to inform my boss that I was allowed into the room because my aunt threatened to walk off the job.

“Well then . . . erm,” he cleared his throat, “Nicely done, Winter.”

Mr. Bradley didn’t often hand out compliments.

“Thank you, sir.”

Howard plowed on to the next topic, “The photographer I planned to send up there, Whitey Gordon, has taken ill. Came down with chickenpox if you can believe it,” he groused. “I’m sending Gavin Turnbull instead. You know him?”

Not only did I know Gavin; I’d go so far as to say, I favored him. With a disarming crooked smile, chocolatey eyes, and a crown of curly hair that the strongest pomade couldn’t tame, Gavin was a favorite among the ladies. I guessed he was in his late twenties or early thirties, and was kind to everyone, including lowly assistants and those of us stuck at the copy desk. Unlike the arrogant Whitey Gordon—an ingenious photographer who believed himself to be a god among men and came with an attitude to prove it. I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face.

“Yes, I know Char—er, Mr. Turnbull.” I leaned my hip against the pool table and pulled a blue ball out of the corner pocket.

“I’ll have my assistant contact Miss Morgan’s manager to confirm the Saturday photoshoot. I’d like you to grease the wheels for Turnbull once he arrives.

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