Up from the Grave by Marilyn Leach Page B

“I’ll greet the guest, introduce myself, tell them their hostess will be with them shortly. Yes, that should be enough time for her to recover.” Berdie opened the door.
    When she did, she came up short. There on the step was the churlish man from the coach tour, the man who left without so much as an ‘I’m away,’ and who had caused Mathew Reese a great deal of consternation. The fellow, bags in hand, spoke the question Berdie thought to ask.
    “What are you doing here?” He frowned and looked past Berdie in search of a familiar host. “Church taken to raising funds by bell-hopping luggage?”
    “Cherry, your hostess,” Berdie nearly scolded, “has her hands full at the moment.” She eyed the man’s two large leather bags. “And by the looks of it, so do you.”
    “I need my room.”
    “The coach tour’s moved on.”
    “I’m well aware of that,” the impatient man barked as he bumped Berdie’s shoulder in an attempt to move forward.
    “Mr. Smith.” Cherry was now behind Berdie. “I thought I recognized the voice. You’ve returned?”
    “I am standing here,” he retorted dryly. “I need my room.”
    “Yes, yes, please come in.”
    Berdie pursed her lips and moved aside. Mr. Smith handed one of his large bags to Cherry. Well, I never . Berdie restrained the words from departing her lips. True, petite Cherry was an innkeeper, but really.
    Cherry bumped and scooted the heavy bag along the hallway. “Jeff,” she called out, summoning her husband, then continued conversing with the returned guest. “It’s good to see you back, Mr. Smith.”
    Berdie was not having it. Mr. Smith my eye . “You left so suddenly last you were here, Mr. Smith. Is that John Smith?” Her tone was stilted. “Mathew Reese tried desperately to ring you. I assume he was successful.”
    “Assume what you like,” he spouted and followed Cherry down the hall to reception, a small wooden counter with a key rack behind.
    “I’m looking for a seasonal let,” the man directed towards Cherry. “I’ll need a room until I find a suitable one.”
    “A seasonal let?” Berdie realized her volume was elevated.
    The man tossed a furrowed glance at Berdie. “I’m looking to settle here in Aidan Kirkwood,” he announced, “if it’s any of your…”
    Berdie reared her chin back and crossed her arms.
    “If you care to know,” Mr. Smith finished.
    The door buzzer erupted with its startling blast once again. Berdie turned to see a family of six wrestling with the door, trying to avoid the second of Mr. Smith’s bags.
    “Jeff!” Cherry trumpeted a second time.
    Berdie leant herself to greet the family and brought them into the hallway.
    Rapid steps made themselves known on the stairwell near reception. Jeff Lawler, a winsome lad and captain of the village football team, stood at the foot of the stairs. His well-kept goatee and short spiked brown hair enhanced his pleasant manner.
    “Welcome, make yourselves comfortable in the sitting room if you like.” He shot the words down the hallway to the lively family. “Hello Mrs. Elliott, Mr. Smith,” he added in a rush.
    With gusto to spare, he grabbed the large suitcase. “Room three is ready,” he informed Cherry and sprang back up the stairs.
    Berdie watched as the family helped themselves to the tea sitting on the coffee table in the sitting room.
    “Isn’t this delightful, Rodney?” the woman asked while pouring a cup.
    Cherry leaned over the counter. “Mrs. Elliott, sorry. Can we postpone?”
    Berdie could just make out the words over the noise of the rollicking children. She nodded. “Ring me.” She found herself shouting above the sound of a crash she recognized as a dropped teacup.
    Once outside, Berdie began her trek to the Butz home for the organizational meeting. Her apology to Cherry would have to come later. She strode across the green and onto the road that lead to the Butz home. She hardly noticed those around, her head was spinning