Trash To Treasure Crafting 1 - Murder at Honeysuckle Hotel by Rose Pressey Read Free Book Online Page A

darkness
wouldn’t solve anything, so I placed my glass into the sink and
wandered back to my room, closed the door behind me, jumped into
bed and pulled the covers back up under my chin again. I prayed
whatever I’d heard wouldn’t return.
    For what seemed like forever, I tossed and
turned, thinking about everything—the noise, sleeping in Mrs.
Mathers’ bed, my ex. I wondered what Ross would have said if he’d
known I was the owner of this place now. He’d probably want to be
involved in some way. Over my dead body. Mrs. Mathers had come into
the store my first day on the job. She had asked who I was and
where I was from. Mrs. Mathers didn’t beat around the honeysuckle
bush, that was for sure. Even though I was an outsider in tiny
Honeysuckle, I was still a Kentucky girl and okay in her book. Most
people in town wouldn’t give me the time of day since I hadn’t
lived there all my life. But she had known what it was like to be
an outcast. She’d moved to Honeysuckle fifty years ago with her
husband—like me. I imagined she had gone through the same prejudice
as me, too. She’d never been completely accepted, even after all
those years.
    We’d talked for a long time that first day
and almost every day after. Some days I had brought a little stool
around for her to sit on and we had talked about recipes, her life,
and mine, my ex. She had known Ross and had never liked him. He had
stolen veggies from her garden as a little boy. She said she knew
he was trouble then. Too bad I hadn’t known that before I had
married him.
    After a while, I’d convinced myself I’d only
heard the old house settling. As I relaxed and forced myself to
stop flipping from one side to the other, I started thinking about
decorating the house. I needed a plan for that, too. How did I get
myself into such a huge undertaking? I’d start with one room,
finish it, and move on to the next. It was the only way. First
thing: I needed at least one bedroom to rent out. I didn’t want a
long-term renter, though. I wanted someone who wouldn’t stay more
than a month. I had never wanted to be a landlord. A bad taste
formed in my mouth just thinking about the word. Adele Wilkins had
scared me for life. Post-traumatic stress for renters.
    Next, I’d move on to the living room, since
that was the first room people would see. The floors didn’t need
anything, but the walls could stand new paint. I’d need a new sofa
for sure but the end tables I could work with. I loved the
bookcases, floor, and ceiling; they added character to the room.
Only the minor details needed changing. Decorating possibilities
were endless, really—a little paint and distressing. I’d need a
couple of chairs, too, and I’d love a coffee table. One small
problem though: money—my lack of.
    ***
    I woke the next morning when the sun peeked
through the window shade and across my face. I wasn’t sure what
time I’d drifted off, but I knew it was right after thinking about
the coffee table. My dream consisted of furniture and boots. The
sound of strange footsteps flooded back into my memory. It hadn’t
been a dream.
    I jumped out of bed, grabbed my suitcase, and
pulled out shorts and a tee along with my shower items. After a
quick shower and dressing, I put on a pot of coffee. I poured the
liquid into my mug and added a little sugar—the milk in the fridge
had turned chunky at this point. I lifted the shade and stepped out
the back door. The porch extended all around the house. Thankfully,
the light of day made everything less scary.
    The sun shone down from a blue cloudless sky,
covering the yard in yellow shafts. Birds chirped as they danced
along the edge of the birdbath. The temperature hadn’t become
unbearable yet. The honeysuckle bush beside the house wafted
through the air and tickled my nose. The white wooden gazebo called
my name, just waiting for me to sit down and relax. I couldn’t wait
another minute to enjoy my surroundings in the shade, so I