Savannah Breeze by Mary Kay Andrews Page A

you can’t be closed.”
    More footsteps, retreating, and then returning to the door. I glanced over at the billboard and saw the NO part of the VACANCY sign light up.
    â€œCute. Really cute,” I called. “But there are no other cars in the parking lot. None of these units is occupied. Anyway, you’re a motel. You can’t be closed. Open up, damnit.”
    â€œDamnit,” I heard the man on the other side of the door echo softly. I heard the click of a lock, and then the squeak of rusty doorhinges. A bearish man with a deep tan and a half-inch of stubble on his face peered out at me from behind a chain security lock.
    â€œListen,” he said, frowning, “I’m busy in here. If you want a room, try the Holiday Inn, or the Days Inn. They’re open. And their toilets actually flush.”
    He started to close the door, but I wedged the toe of my sneaker in the opening.
    â€œI don’t want the Days Inn,” I said. “I want this motel.”
    â€œWhy?” he asked, his chin jutting out belligerently. I saw him looking in the direction of my Lexus. “You can afford something a lot better than this dump.”
    Little did he know. I took a deep breath. “I happen to own this dump. Now can I come in?”
    â€œSince when? Johnny Reese owns the Breeze.”
    â€œNot since last week, when I bought the place.”
    He unlatched the lock and swung the door wide. “By all means, do come in.”
    The inside of the log cabin was as depressing as the outside. We were standing in a long, narrow room. A huge fireplace covered with what looked like millions of seashells randomly plastered into place had a hideous kerosene stove sticking out of what should have been the wood box. The floors were painted battleship gray, and the furniture looked like rejects from the Salvation Army. A wide-screen television set took up most of the far wall of the room, and a beat-up kitchen table held a partially disassembled outboard-boat motor. One glance confirmed what I’d already guessed—that this place, and the rest of the Breeze Inn, was a prime candidate for a total teardown.
    My host crossed his arms over his burly chest and watched me warily. He wore a faded Hawaian shirt, baggy khaki shorts with cargo pockets, and was barefoot. He had wiry brown hair, a weather-beaten face, and gray-green eyes. His age was hard to guess. Maybe forties? And pissed. He looked pissed.
    â€œAnd you would be…,” I asked, staring him down with my own version of pissed off.
    â€œI would be watching the fourth quarter of the Notre Dame and Michigan game if you hadn’t busted your way in here,” he snapped. “But if you’re looking for a name, mine is Harry Sorrentino. I’m the manager. Now. How about you?”
    â€œBeBe Loudermilk,” I said. “Isn’t football season over?”
    â€œNot for me,” he said. “It’s ESPN Classic. Any other questions?”
    â€œHow, uh, long have you been working here?”
    He ignored my question. “The Reeses didn’t say anything to me about selling out.”
    â€œIt was a surprise to me too,” I said. There was no way I was going to admit the circumstances of the sale to this stranger. “Now, how long did you say you’d been here?”
    â€œAbout three months,” he said. “Johnny Reese hired me on after his dad died.”
    â€œI take it you live here?” I asked, gesturing toward the television, the outboard motor, and the makeshift shelves of paperback novels on either side of the fireplace.
    â€œThat’s right,” Sorrentino said. “Rent free. I was supposed to get paid a hundred bucks a week too, but business has been slow, so the pay deal kinda went by the wayside.”
    â€œSlow,” I said, deliberately drawing out the word. “As in…nonexistent?”
    â€œIt’s off-season,” Sorrentino said, his face reddening.