Asking For Trouble. Millie Criswell

and you’re the only family we have left, aside from your mother, who is quite content with her life in California.”

      Thank God for that! Beth loved her mother, but she didn’t like her very much and had no intention of living any closer to the woman than three thousand miles.

      Margaret Shaw had a nasty disposition and made everyone around her miserable. Beth had thirty-four years of good reasons to dread her visits, which fortunately were few and far between. They argued over the most trivial things whenever they were together. Margaret took great delight in telling Beth in excruciating detail every little thing that was wrong with her. And she had a very long list!

      “This house was the best part of my childhood and holds so many wonderful memories.”

      “You mean like the time you tried to help Elmer Forrest paint the front porch and ended up dumping a whole gallon of paint on his boots?” Ivy laughed and Beth smiled.

      “Mr. Forrest wouldn’t talk to me for months after that.”

      “Elmer felt badly about his behavior after we explained about your parents’ divorce.”

      Thinking back to the heartache her parents’ divorce had caused, Beth sighed. She’d often wondered if she’d been the cause of their breakup, but her aunts had assured her that Margaret and Melvin Shaw’s failed marriage had been due to her father’s wandering eye. She hadn’t fully understood what that meant until the day her mother had explained in graphic, horrifying detail just what her father had done, shattering her childish illusions about a man she had worshipped and adored.

      “My dear, are you all right?” Iris asked, her brow creased with worry. “You look positively glum.”

      Forcing a smile, Beth nodded, picking up the thread of their conversation. “Once I get the loan I’ll be able to finish the landscaping and pay off the bulk of the debt I’ve accumulated trying to bring the inn up to code, which is why I intend to bribe Mr. Pickens with a jar of your damson plum jam. Mrs. Pickens is wild about it.”

      Ivy pursed her lips. “Humph! If you ask me, Finnola Pickens thinks too highly of herself. She was a very poor student—didn’t know a verb from a preposition, as I recall.”

      Neither did Beth, but she wasn’t about to admit that to the former schoolteachers. English, and grammar in particular, had never been her forte, though she adored reading, especially romantic novels. At least relationships in romance novels always worked out; they were required to have happy endings.

      Too bad real life wasn’t like that.

      “We don’t think you should show Mr. Pickens the cellar, dear. It’s so cold and musty down there. We think it would be best if you just ignored it completely. Don’t we, Ivy?” Iris appeared uneasy as she glanced at her sister, twisting her napkin into a tight knot.

      “It’s so damp down there,” Ivy agreed. “And you know how much you dislike it.”

      Dislike wasn’t quite the word Beth would have used. Hated. Despised. Abhorred. Those words fit so much better. “True. But I’m desperate. Don’t worry. I’m taking Buster with me for moral support.”

      Aunt Ivy tsked, and then shook her head. “But you’re terrified of the cellar, and that dog is useless as a watchdog. Why, he practically licks Mr. Jessup to death every time he brings the mail.”

      Buster was no Lassie, that was certain, but the black Labrador was the only good thing she’d gotten out of her divorce settlement with Greg, and Beth loved him. He’d given her unconditional love, something she’d never received from her ex—or any other man, for that matter.

      “Don’t worry. We’ll be just fine. I’ll be back up later this afternoon to let you know how my meeting with Mr. Pickens went. Until then, try to stay out of trouble.”

      The two old ladies glanced at each other before breaking into a fit of giggles.

      HER RIGHT HAND TREMBLING over the rusty handles of the root cellar’s wide double doors, Beth felt her heartbeat crashing against the walls of her chest like a wild hummingbird and nausea rise in her stomach. Fearing eruption was imminent, she breathed deeply several times to calm herself.

      No way did she subscribe to that whole “when the going gets tough” scenario. She’d never gotten over her fear of the dark, dank, spooky place. Not after accidentally being locked in the cellar at the age of six by her aunts’ cleaning lady.

      But dammit! Mr. Pickens would be arriving at any moment to make his inspection and she needed that jam!

      Beth might be chicken, but she wasn’t stupid.

      At Buster’s morose whine, she inhaled deeply, and then swallowed with some difficulty. “We’re going, we’re going. Just be patient.” But she couldn’t get her feet uprooted. Her legs were shaking so badly the soles of her tennis shoes had attached themselves to the lawn like Mrs. Abernathy’s ugly pink flamingos next door.

      “I can do this!” A familiar feeling of panic started setting in. “Just pull the doors open,” she told herself. “You haven’t got all day.”

      Buster barked, apparently agreeing with her.

      “Oh, shut up! Who asked you?”

      Clasping sweaty fingers around the handles, she pulled up, holding her breath and praying the ghost of alleged murder victim Lyle McMurtry wasn’t waiting on the other side to grab her. Feeling something furry on the back of her leg, she screamed, but then realizing it was only the dog, she frowned at the grinning animal.

      “Stop that or you’ll make me pee my pants!”

      As she threw open the doors, Buster rushed in ahead of her, and Beth pointed the flashlight down the stairwell of the cellar, which smelled like hundred-year-old onions, despite the fact that none had been kept there for years.

      Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she took her first faltering step. “I can do this! I can do this!” Think of that woman from Tomb Raider, who ventured into scary places and kicked everyone’s butt. The wooden step creaked, and she halted in midstep, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. She was tempted to flee—so much for Tomb Raider—but knew she couldn’t. Her aunts were counting on her to get that loan.

      Where would Ivy and Iris live if she lost their house? Where would she?

      Directing the narrow beam of light into the darkened room, she scanned the area, hoping she wouldn’t discover a nest of spiders, or worse, rats hovering on the hand-hewn beams overhead. If there was one thing she hated worse than spiders, it was rats—big black ugly rats with skinny pink tails and gnawing sharp teeth.

      Suddenly something scurried across her foot and she jumped back, nearly losing her balance. The flashlight flew out of her hand and dropped to the earthen floor with a thud. “Oh hell!” In its beam she saw the small, hideous face of a rodent, its whiskers twitching and tiny feet pawing at the metal stick. “Shoo!” She clapped her hands loudly to scare it off, hoping upon hope that it was the only one she would find.

      The hell with Lara Croft; Beth was no Indiana Jones!

      The inn’s cellar had a rather nefarious reputation. It was rumored that a man named Lyle McMurtry had been murdered in it over fifty years ago. To make matters worse, the alleged victim had once been engaged to Beth’s great-aunt Iris, which made the eccentric old woman and her sister suspect to the residents of Mediocrity. Everyone in town knew that Iris and Ivy were inseparable; where one went, the other followed.

      Did that include murdering former fiancés?

      A chill went through Beth, but she shook off the ridiculous notion that her aunts might be murderers and that McMurtry’s ghost might be lurking about. Picking up the flashlight, she continued her surveillance.

      Row upon row of her aunts’ preserves, pickles and canned goods lined the rickety old shelves that were nailed to the walls of the room. A vintage 1950s rusted lawn mower and other assorted gardening utensils hugged one corner, and crates and boxes of every