as she closed the office door behind Verla, her smile slipped away. Drat. She didn’t want to do this. Why did Verla’s remaining workload have to include the cottages?
One would be relatively easy. The occupants of Hummingbird Cottage were a couple in their sixties, both retired schoolteachers, who were spending the week bird-watching and hiking around the area. They were quiet and pleasant, both tidy as could be.
The other one, however, was the cottage next to hers, Cedarwood Cottage. Elliot Bailey’s temporary home.
She could probably skip it for another day or two but that seemed cowardly, especially considering he had been there a week and the cottage hadn’t been cleaned by her staff in that time.
He seemed to be keeping busy, doing his level best to avoid everyone. He went jogging around the lake every morning and sometimes again at night, his arm still in a sling and held tight to his body. She had also seen the occasional take-out delivery and he had come back once with a few bags of groceries.
Not that she was watching him or anything.
At night while she was glued to her computer, editing photos, she would look over and see lights still on at the cottage next door. Sometimes the curtains moved when she looked over, as if she had just missed him standing there, looking in this direction.
In a way, she found it rather comforting to know that she was not alone in her after-midnight creative endeavors. It formed an odd connection between them. She and Elliot were both makers, toiling away in the dark hours when most others were sleeping.
She rolled her eyes at herself. Her attraction to him made no sense whatsoever. Except for their apparent shared affinity for working after hours, the two of them were complete opposites. She considered herself creative, impulsive, drawn to color and light and energy.
He was a tight-assed stick-in-the-mud.
Mr. Roboto. That was the nickname she and her friends used to call him.
It wasn’t kind and it probably wasn’t a fair assessment. While he might seem serious and focused on the outside, the books he wrote offered a different perspective. They were full of insight into the human character, deft turns of phrase, even clever humor that always took her by surprise.
She wasn’t going to think about him anymore, she told herself. He had already occupied entirely too much of her time on a day she had so much to do. She loaded up the inn’s golf cart with cleaning supplies and clean linens, then headed for the rental cottages.
The schoolteachers were gone for the day. At the inn’s complimentary breakfast—which Elliot had yet to enjoy—they told her they were driving to Stanley for the day in search of red-naped sapsuckers. Whatever the heck those were.
As Hummingbird Cottage was currently vacant, she decided to start there. It made sense, she told herself. She wasn’t simply delaying an unpleasant task.
This would be her workout for the day. She always worked up a sweat scrubbing floors, changing sheets, wiping out bathtubs. It wasn’t the most exciting job in the world, but she loved making the rooms and cottages of the Inn at Haven Point sparkle for their guests.
She didn’t mind the physical labor. As long as she had headphones and a good audiobook to hold her attention, she could clean for hours. She turned on the latest thriller by one of her favorite authors, grabbed her cleaning tools and headed into the cottage.
Unfortunately, she was a little too efficient. She was still listening to the first chapter by the time she finished straightening up after the orderly bird-watchers.
One down, one to go.
She walked out of their cottage, leaving behind the lemony smell of the cleaning spray they used.
Elliot’s vehicle was there, parked behind the cottage. Seeing it made her insides tremble with nerves. She didn’t want to face the man but had no idea how to get out of the task now.
With luck, maybe he would refuse housekeeping services. Sometimes when people rented the cottages for longer than a few days, they preferred not to be bothered and wanted to clean up after themselves.
As much as she dreaded talking to him again, she had to ask.
She walked up the porch, inhaling the sweet blooms of the lilac trees along the porch as she went. This was secretly her favorite of the five cottages. The view was the same as the others, but the flower boxes seemed to bloom more vibrantly and she loved the little pine tree cutouts on the shutters.
She gripped her supplies tightly with one hand and knocked on the door with her other fist.
Only the lap of the water against the shore at Silver Beach and the twittering of the Steller’s jays that nested in the big pine tree next to the cottage answered her. After a long moment, she knocked again. “Elliot? It’s Megan. I’m here to clean your place.”
She still heard no response and stood there, torn by indecision for several moments. She wanted to trot down those porch stairs and head back to the main building, leaving him to deal with his own mess.
She couldn’t do that. Verla said he had been there a week without housekeeping services. That may be the way he preferred it, but she needed to hear it from him.
The inn had a reputation for immaculately cleaned rental properties, one she and Verla protected with vigor. She wasn’t about to let him give them a less-than-perfect review in that department.
She tried one more time then convinced herself that he must be taking a run or perhaps he had walked up to one of the restaurants in town for brunch with someone in his family. After knocking hard a third time with no answer, she finally used her passkey to open the door.
She hadn’t been in the cottage since Elliot took up his temporary residence a week earlier. It shouldn’t have surprised her how quickly he seemed to have made it his own. A jacket had been draped over the back of the sofa, a tin of cashews sat next to the sofa and a pair of binoculars rested on the window seat overlooking the lake. Maybe Elliot had more in common with the bird-watching schoolteachers than she might have guessed.
Beyond that, the entire surface of the kitchen table was covered in papers, along with a sleek dark gray laptop.
What fascinating case was he writing about this time? She had a wild temptation to leaf through the papers but quickly turned her attention to cleaning the place, not comfortable invading his space more than she already was.
The cottage really didn’t need much beyond what the housekeeping staff liked to call a spit and polish.
She quickly straightened up the bathroom, hung fresh towels, remade his bed and ran the vacuum around, muscles tensed as she waited for him to show up.
After she had wiped the last countertop and dumped the last wastebasket, she finally couldn’t help herself. She eased over to the table and glanced down at the manila folder on top of the stack of papers. Just a peek, she told herself. She was dying to know what his next book would be about so she could tell Verla.
With the sound of her heartbeat loud in her ears, she glanced toward the door one last time, then casually opened the folder halfway for a little peek. She caught the words Haven Point Police Department along the top and realized these were copies of an official police file.
Was he working on a local case? Her gaze sharpened and she opened the folder all the way. It only took an instant to pick up one clear name.
Elizabeth Sinclair Hamilton.
Her sister-in-law.
WHAT WAS HE doing with the case files for what was still an open investigation? She dropped the cleaning wipe on the table and leafed through the folders, growing more sick to her stomach with every passing second.
File after file, all marked with the same case number as the cover page. These were all part of