The Pryce of Conceit: An Historical Ghost Cozy Mystery (The Pryce of Murder Book 1) by Kari Bovée

Author:Kari Bovée [Bovée, Kari]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bosque Publishing
Published: 2023-05-22T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

I would not wait another minute to have words with Mr. Bledsoe, and believe me, he would get an earful!

“I’ve placed some rags over your bed to protect it from the dripping,” Cordelia said. “It will help for a short while, but—”

“This is completely unacceptable!” My voice sounded shrill even to my own ears.

Cordelia flinched at my outburst. “I’m sure once the rain passes, we can hire someone to make repairs,” she said, using that voice she always used when trying to calm me down.

“I don’t have time for this!” I exclaimed, my worries about the planted letter in the desk and the missing fireplace poker returning, making everything look even more grim. The last thing I needed to be concerned with at the moment was a leaking roof. “I’m going to go find Bledsoe myself if I have to walk miles to his house in the rain.”

I rushed to the door and flung it open to find Maggie there with a stack of tin buckets in her hands.

“I’ve got the buckets, Mrs. Pryce,” she said, her face turning ashen at the fury in my eyes.

“Yes.” I let her pass through. “Set one under the leak above my bed first,” I demanded. “Completely unacceptable,” I repeated, muttering under my breath.

I hurried down the staircase to the lobby and approached the reception desk where Mr. Pettyjohn was helping a guest.

“Do you know where Mr. Bledsoe is?” I interrupted.

He gave me a startled look and then addressed the guest with a note of apology in his voice and said to him. “Excuse me.”

He turned to me with an expression of irritation. I realized I had been rude in my abruptness, but I would not be deterred.

“Well?” I said. I didn’t have time to apologize. “Where is he?’

“I believe he is in the saloon.”

“The saloon? Did you give him my note in regard to dinner?”

“Yes.”

“And he didn’t bother to send a reply?”

“I suppose not, madam.”

Argggh! That word!

Without thanking him, I flounced toward the door of the saloon. I flung it open and spied Mr. Bledsoe standing nearby talking with Mr. and Mrs. Platte. From her posture, I could see that Mrs. Platte was upset. Her husband laid a hand on her shoulder and she leaned into him, taking comfort from the gesture.

Their presence stopped me in my tracks. I couldn’t very well rush up to Mr. Bledsoe and deliver a torrent without so much as a greeting toward the grieving couple, but I was itching to give Mr. Bledsoe a piece of my mind.

“Good evening,” I managed. Mr. Platte gave me a nod, and Mrs. Platte looked at me with such sorrow in her eyes it nearly took my breath away. Her pain was palpable, and it filled the room.

“Mrs. Pryce,” Bledsoe said with a patronizing smile.

My nails bit into my palms, my anger at him returning with such a vengeance it was quickly reaching a crescendo.

With an upturning of his palm, he gestured toward his favorite booth. “I just received your note.

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