The Hound of Bar Harborville (A Jane True Short Story) (Trueniverse Book 1) by Nicole Peeler Page B
Authors: Nicole Peeler
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small library. The door was shut, however, but that didn’t stop Jane. She’d been given the go-ahead to explore, and explore she would. Her fingers were just reaching for the glass doorknob when the door flung open and a teenaged girl appeared, her expression snarled with emotion underneath her cap of tightly woven braids.
I pulled Jane out of the girl’s way, but she didn’t acknowledge us, ducking her head to trot straight toward the lobby. She wore what looked like a uniform of khakis and a white T-shirt, an impression proven right when she paused in the other doorway to look back past us with tear-filled eyes
“And don’t you ever pull that shit again,” hissed an angry male voice from inside the room as the door started to close and we caught a glimpse of a large man, who subsequently caught sight of us.
He immediately pulled himself together, smoothing out his features and then transforming them into a welcoming smile. “Bonjour! Welcome to Le Chateau Bar Harbor,” he said, his accent suddenly French like Edeet!’s, but his was clearly affected, since he’d been yelling in American English a second ago.
Also, quite frankly, he sounded like the French soldiers in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, shouting, “I fart in your general direction!”
“I am Jacques Dupont, and I am the owner here.” The man was probably the same age as his wife, with the face of a screen actor from the fifties. He sported a thick coif of silver and ash and a chin like an enormous butt. Grabbing Jane’s hand, he kissed it with relish, much to her obvious amusement. “Are you here to ask about the hotel?”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Dupont. We’re the Barghests. We’re checking in, but we’re early.”
“Oh, I am so sorry!” His “sorry” sounded like “sariiiiiiiiii” and I realized I was giving him a slow headshake of shame after Jane shot me a look.
“Anyan,” I said, accepting his handshake. It was aggressively crushing. At probably six feet, he wasn’t used to being dwarfed and was trying to remind me he was very, very manly.
Since I was half-dog, as Jane liked to point out when I ticked her off, such symbolic pissing contests were all a bit lost on me…although actual pissing contests were fine.
“Please, call me Jacques,” he said, and Jane shot me a look. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should go make sure your room is being prepared.”
He slunk off and Jane turned to watch that he’d gone. “Jacques my ass. If he wasn’t born ‘Jack’ somewhere in New Jersey, I’m a man.”
“And you are definitely not a man,” I said, squeezing her butt.
“What do you think they were arguing about?” she asked, ignoring me.
“Could be anything,” I said. “And it was probably nothing.”
“Hmm.”
“Jane, nothing untoward is going on. Employers yell at employees all the time. Maybe she was late for work.”
“Hmmm,” she repeated, still gazing toward the door. I knew that look only too well. It was my dear Jane’s “do I need to rescue somebody?” look, and it chilled me to the bone.
“The girl’s fine,” I said. “She doesn’t need you to save her from anything. The only person who needs saving here is me.”
That got Jane’s attention, and she turned to me. “What on earth do you need saved from?”
I gave her my best puppy dog eyes. “From the loneliness I feel, deep in my soul, for my one true love.”
Jane snorted. So much for romance.
“Deep in your soul?” she asked. “I think you mean deep in your pants. But you’re right. She was probably just late or something. C’mon, let’s go see the rest of the house.”
We went back through the lobby, where I hoped we would find our host or hostess waiting with our room key, but no such luck. “Boutique hotel” was often code for very expensive bed-and-breakfast, in which staff was thin on the ground. They were probably all hands on deck getting ready for our early arrival.
We didn’t run into another
I pulled Jane out of the girl’s way, but she didn’t acknowledge us, ducking her head to trot straight toward the lobby. She wore what looked like a uniform of khakis and a white T-shirt, an impression proven right when she paused in the other doorway to look back past us with tear-filled eyes
“And don’t you ever pull that shit again,” hissed an angry male voice from inside the room as the door started to close and we caught a glimpse of a large man, who subsequently caught sight of us.
He immediately pulled himself together, smoothing out his features and then transforming them into a welcoming smile. “Bonjour! Welcome to Le Chateau Bar Harbor,” he said, his accent suddenly French like Edeet!’s, but his was clearly affected, since he’d been yelling in American English a second ago.
Also, quite frankly, he sounded like the French soldiers in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, shouting, “I fart in your general direction!”
“I am Jacques Dupont, and I am the owner here.” The man was probably the same age as his wife, with the face of a screen actor from the fifties. He sported a thick coif of silver and ash and a chin like an enormous butt. Grabbing Jane’s hand, he kissed it with relish, much to her obvious amusement. “Are you here to ask about the hotel?”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Dupont. We’re the Barghests. We’re checking in, but we’re early.”
“Oh, I am so sorry!” His “sorry” sounded like “sariiiiiiiiii” and I realized I was giving him a slow headshake of shame after Jane shot me a look.
“Anyan,” I said, accepting his handshake. It was aggressively crushing. At probably six feet, he wasn’t used to being dwarfed and was trying to remind me he was very, very manly.
Since I was half-dog, as Jane liked to point out when I ticked her off, such symbolic pissing contests were all a bit lost on me…although actual pissing contests were fine.
“Please, call me Jacques,” he said, and Jane shot me a look. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should go make sure your room is being prepared.”
He slunk off and Jane turned to watch that he’d gone. “Jacques my ass. If he wasn’t born ‘Jack’ somewhere in New Jersey, I’m a man.”
“And you are definitely not a man,” I said, squeezing her butt.
“What do you think they were arguing about?” she asked, ignoring me.
“Could be anything,” I said. “And it was probably nothing.”
“Hmm.”
“Jane, nothing untoward is going on. Employers yell at employees all the time. Maybe she was late for work.”
“Hmmm,” she repeated, still gazing toward the door. I knew that look only too well. It was my dear Jane’s “do I need to rescue somebody?” look, and it chilled me to the bone.
“The girl’s fine,” I said. “She doesn’t need you to save her from anything. The only person who needs saving here is me.”
That got Jane’s attention, and she turned to me. “What on earth do you need saved from?”
I gave her my best puppy dog eyes. “From the loneliness I feel, deep in my soul, for my one true love.”
Jane snorted. So much for romance.
“Deep in your soul?” she asked. “I think you mean deep in your pants. But you’re right. She was probably just late or something. C’mon, let’s go see the rest of the house.”
We went back through the lobby, where I hoped we would find our host or hostess waiting with our room key, but no such luck. “Boutique hotel” was often code for very expensive bed-and-breakfast, in which staff was thin on the ground. They were probably all hands on deck getting ready for our early arrival.
We didn’t run into another
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