Killing at the White Swan Inn

By Carole Hall

When Margo Costain left her established New York publishing firm after her mother’s death to become owner and manager of the prestigious White Swan Inn in the Berkshires, she did not expect gunfire on her very first day home.

An assassination attempt was made on one of her guests, a Christian woman married to a Muslim businessman, by his Islamic fundamentalist brothers.

Soon she is wrapped up in the lives of her many guests, from a beautiful ‘trophy’ wife-model trying to escape her abusive controlling husband, a pot-smoking boy violin prodigy with his mother from Spain on his way to Julliard. There’s a destitute Neiman-Marcus business woman whose husband leaves her for his secretary, without any money or credit cards, a famous gay English actor and a renowned elderly artist. A convicted murderer recently paroled but wrongly accused of patricide out to clear his name, plus a best-selling author with a tell-all book about a famous Senator. And an assortment of other guests she has to deal with.

And into the picture came a detective and a love-story that began years before to kindle the flame.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Aug 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781680465112

Carole Hall

Carole Hall is a native of the UK but now an American citizen living in Northern California. After 17 years working in the hotel industry in Los Angeles she opted out of the steel and concrete for softer climes. She has 63 short stories published, and a novel, Killing At The White Swan Inn currently on Amazon e-book. She lives and works with her best friend, a massage therapist, in a solar heated home with two Siamese cats and a garden full of old roses. She began reading at five years of age when her mother refused to read the end of fairy tales, telling her, "You have to find out for yourself," So she did.

Book preview

1

Early March covered Oakbrook Grange in the Berkshires with a chilly morning mist as patches of fog-rags snagged on branches of naked trees, and while Margot flew back on the red-eye from New York, her mother, Isobel, passed away in the Blue Room upstairs.

The e-mail of her illness delivered during the weekly meeting had stopped time and swung Margot back like a whiplash. Now here she was again surrounded by hovering ghosts, the last woman of Oakbrook Grange in the Berkshires.

Hello, old thing, she whispered as she used her key and entered the foyer, embraced by the smell and feel of the place. "You’re just as I

left

you

."

Margot Costain was slender, nicely proportioned with shoulder length brown curly hair. Freckles showered her high cheekbones, but it was her expressive brown eyes which drew you to her, and sweet dimpled smile completed the picture of a pretty if not beautiful young woman.

The sitting room was wonderfully warm. Someone had thoughtfully put a taper to the fireplace logs; John probably, her mother’s friend and companion. Margot had seen him upon arrival, holding John without speaking, smiling sadly seeing his heart plainly broken.

She went easily, Margot, he assured her, and said that she loved you. I’ll take care of the funeral arrangements, if you agree.

She sat alone in the house which now belonged to her and thought of the women of Oakbrook Grange.

The first, Claire O’Leary Barton, had been a woman of keen mind, sweet personality and extraordinary beauty. An Irish girl on her way to accept a job at a rich family’s home as a nanny to

their

baby

.

But Claire had captivated the heart of banker, Oliver Barton, in a crowded railway station carriage.

You must be the loveliest woman ever created, he said to her, unable to stop staring. They had talked and lunched together, and he told her his father, Caleb, the original banker, had been shot to death in his office by a robber the year before and he had inherited a sizable fortune on his death. So he was single and fairly well off. Would she consider him courting her? he asked.

Oliver married Claire the following summer and built his lovely bride Oakbrook Grange; all gray stone and white marble with fountains and winding staircases and gardens where roses loved to bloom.

But unfortunately, Oliver possessed no male issue in his genes. His only daughter, Isobel, was born when he was thirty-two, his rheumatic heart stopping in the middle of dinner when he was

thirty

-

nine

.

Well now, Isobel, Claire told her young daughter after the funeral. "It’s you and me alone. But life goes on, as

they

say

."

Claire with intuitive wisdom studied the stock markets of the day, foresaw the coming industrialization of the new world and bet heavily in oil and chemicals.

I know it’s a bit of a gamble, she confided in her daughter. "But everything else seems to have

been

done

."

When the gamble paid off in handsome revenues suitors came around but left with an ear full of rebuke.

I’ll not have you marrying my money! said Claire caustically. "Be off with

you

,

now

!"

How good it was to be home. Margot, smiled, remembering, staring into the fireplace flames. Even the couch she sat on was something she had used as a girl, and it was

still

here

.

I really loved your grandmother, Claire, Isobel had told her a dozen times across the years. She lived in this house until she was 91. At times our lives ran parallel. I married your father, Robert Costain, who also died young. We had one daughter, you, Margot. I bought the lovely White Swan Inn and made that my life’s work, with John’s help, of course.

Now it was Margot remembering why she hadn’t wanted to live yet another parallel life like her mother. Back then she thought it all stuffy and boring. New York had beckoned her! The bright lights, the colorful restaurants, the art galleries, the theaters. The very air had insinuated itself into her being. It had been snowing the day she left; she stood awkwardly on

the

step

.

Good-bye for now, Mother. I want to try something different. You can understand that, can’t you? I want to make my own way in the world. A brisk, frosty wind ruffled her hair as she stood in the doorway. She held a large suitcase in one hand. It

was

time

.

Isobel had just smiled. Yes, darling.

In seven years of hard work Margot had her own publishing house making a name for herself discovering two promising writers and two best sellers. She had also recognized something else, traditional

marriage was almost out of the

question

now

.

Once, in halcyon days, on vacation in Greece, she had given her heart away to a startling man with gold in his Mediterranean complexion, but three years later she had lost him to a boating accident that seared her heart and brain bringing her close to collapse. The fates can be cruel to youth and golden girls.

The years, the fleeting years had been eaten up and

she

was

thirty-five now with wrinkles cob-webbing the corners of

her

eyes

.

Suddenly New York seemed far away and unimportant.

I have missed you, old Grange.

The fire’s burning coals took on the color of warm claret, and she knew in her bones where the marrow was strongest that she was home, like a fox to its lair but far sweeter, safer.

The ghosts of Claire and Isobel surely watched this last woman of their flesh; saw her being drawn back within

the

fold

.

It was John who knocked on the door softly, entered and

took

both

Margot’s hands in his. "I’m sure you’re hungry. Emma has prepared a nice dinner. Shall you dine now,

my

dear

?"

Margot nodded, composing herself following him to the

dining

room

.

Do you wish to talk about selling the Grange and the White Swan, Margot? Or would you rather think about it for a while? John asked as coffee was being served, his eyes never leaving her face. His heart was heavy losing Isobel and leaving here would

be

hard

.

I’m not selling either, John, she told him quickly, realizing that indeed she would never sell, a gentle smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I’m

coming

home

."

He was shocked. "But what about

New

York

?"

She shrugged her shoulders. New York will survive, I expect. I shall sell the publishing house though. What is it they say now-a-days, been there, done that? I think it’s time to try something new. Do you think I’ll make a good hotelier?

Margot smiled at the kind man her mother had loved for

so

many

years but whose Catholic wife had refused to divorce.

You’ll be smashing! John grinned. Absolutely marvelous!

In her own room with its wallpaper blue as Wedgwood, photographs of Claire and Isobel in gold-gilt frames on the dressing table smiling back, welcoming.

You win, Margot congratulated them. "You knew I’d be back someday, didn’t you? Well, here

I

am

."

She then got down to business and began with long distance phone calls to her lawyer in Manhattan, then her assistant in

New

York

.

"Truly my mind is made up, Jeffrey. Yes, I’ll miss you, too, but I’ve a hotel to run here, and there’s the Grange. Why don’t you think about buying the business? I’d take a reasonable offer and would love to see it pass

to

you

."

The evening thinned, Margot put down the phone. Tomorrow she’d

drive over to the hotel a mile away. The gracious White Swan Inn; her hotel, she smiled at that. She would ask John to please stay on as hotel manager, at a substantial raise in pay of course. He had worked side by side with her mother; it felt right. She herself had come full circle. First tasting the fruits of ambition and power and now home again like all returning travelers who

ever

were

.

Hello again, Oakbrook Grange. Hello Oliver, Claire, Robert and Isobel. I know you’re all here. My turn now. I’ll carry on, Margot said softly.

There was something quite wondrous to look forward to now. A part of her blood calling, the genes awakening, denial impossible, totally comprehending.

Perhaps this was the real meaning behind second chances. You might throw away the first only to have the second come rushing at you so priceless it took your breath away with its importance. She could hardly wait for morning.

2

Margot drove to the White Swan. The sun was as bright as her spirit as she tapped the steering wheel in excitement. She had always loved the beauty of the Berkshires with its vibrant green rolling hills and extraordinary graceful townships. She remembered walking with her mother down the Inn’s hallways, watching the maids during their daily routines, stealing tid-bits from the Chef in the kitchen until he laughed, chased her out and riding the bell-men’s luggage carts. How very lucky she was to be a part of all this and now a new day, a new challenge, a new beginning, almost like a new birth and she smiled. "I’ll make you so proud, mother. You wait

and

see

."

As she reached the inn she marveled again and its serene beauty, then thought, I should have walked here instead of driving. What was I thinking? Just getting New York out of her system was going to

take

time

!

In the circular courtyard stood the namesake of the inn. A seven foot white marble statue of a swan in full flight dominated the vista and took your breath away. Imported from the marble quarries of northern Italy it shone with an inner luster making the white statue almost translucent and appealing in majesty, the wings so perfectly real each feather reached up and out of its body as it soared toward a heaven it could never attain.

The main building stood two stories high—twelve one bedroom suites per floor—with dormer windows and the entire brick building’s outer wall covered by a Florentine tile Pietra mural depicting a country view of green trees and flower filled meadows.

In the circular lobby stood an antique mahogany reception desk with an Apple computer atop it. Two white leather couches surrounded a center fountain and fresh flowers in crystal vases stood against dark oak paneled walls. The terrazzo flooring was a delicate cream and green; the overall appeal enchanting.

On the grounds in the surrounding two acres stood three separate, fully contained cottages named Spring Cottage, Summer Cottage and Autumn Cottage. Each two magnificent bedrooms per, furnished in modern Scandinavian and leased month to month with extra security and privacy guaranteed for the guests by enclosed gates to each. They were operated only by computer from the security gate at the entrance, front desk and manager’s office or two keys held by management themselves. There had never been a security breach.

Good morning, John, she called out as she strode across the lobby seeing her manager at the desk. I see you’re hard at work already. She smiled waving a hand in greeting.

And a good morning to you, too, dear lady, just checking the day’s arrivals, he said, smiling up at her. He wore a fine black broadcloth suit with a startlingly white shirt and blue cravat.

We have just two guests expected later on. Would you like breakfast in the dining room now? She nodded and proceeded to the restaurant on her right. Years earlier her mother, Isobel, had hired away Chef Emil Charboneau from a swank New York Hotel to come work at the White Swan and he now appeared in the lobby in time to see Margot.

He walked with a jaunty stride across the lobby holding out

his

hand

.

Good morning, madam. May I have the pleasure of escorting you to your favorite table? He was a short, portly man, impeccably clean with salt and pepper hair and a tiny mustache on an otherwise

ordinary

face

.

"Yes, Emil, absolutely, I am starving and anxious to begin

my

day

."

What may I serve, madam? he asked, I have a fine assortment of eggs benedict with Canadian bacon and rosemary roasted potatoes, or if you prefer some excellent pastries just warm from the oven. What may I serve you on this auspicious day? Welcome home, madam.

Margot smiled as a warm feeling swept over her. How gracious her staff was and how lucky she was the

have

them

.

Some of your excellent coffee, Emil, to get me started, and just serve whatever you like. No doubt I will devour it all. He bowed and quietly departed snapping his fingers at a white coated waiter hovering by the kitchen.

As she waited Margot ran her hand over the sparkling white damask tablecloth her mother had always insisted on. The water glasses were Irish Waterford crystal, the French Guy Degrenne cutlery elegantly ancient in gold and silver and the porcelain chinaware pink and white Spode.

"You must always present the best to host the best clientele. Her mother’s admonition came back. Everything is important; you forget that at your peril." So it had been. The White Swan Inn was discreet in its clientele as it was in its advertising. Only by word of mouth, and from previous clients who had been thoroughly approved via rank and position in the world of commerce. It was not an idle boast to say that money talks.

The eggs arrived and Margot ate with pleasure as she surveyed the other guests in the dining room. She would soon be acquainted with each of them as the new discovery of her second chance unfolded.

Margot, I have something to tell you, John said softly as she laid her knife and folk down. He was standing by her shoulder reluctant to intrude on her meal. She turned and said, Please, sit down, John. What is it? John coughed gently into his hand, turned once as if to survey the surroundings and finding them to his liking, whispered, "Mrs. Howland Hewitt is currently occupying Spring Cottage. I thought I should tell you

right

away

."

Margot blinked in surprise. You mean the former Veronica Kingsley-Hewitt?

The same, replied John. She is in the process of divorcing Mr. Hewitt and wishes to be discreetly hidden away for the interim.

Margot’s journalistic instincts came into play as she recalled the lavish wedding of the Howland Hewitt’s. My goodness, she had been a young woman of great beauty whose father had married his only daughter off with great pomp and circumstance, Margot remembered. Robert Kingsley had been bankrupted by his son-in-law in a swindle barely legal and his eighteen year old daughter, Veronica, became the trophy prize bride to reinstate the man’s reputation and small fortune.

"And she is here, at

White

Swan

?"

John nodded, "She has been leasing Spring Cottage for two months now. She would like to speak with you as soon as you are settled and receiving visitors. There is no hurry; she does not wish to inconvenience you in

any

way

."

Oh, my goodness, of course I’ll speak with her. Do you have any idea what this is about, John? Margot laid down her napkin. Please sit down. She turned to face him, "Is Autumn Cottage

leased

also

?"

John coughed again. Well, yes, our fortunes have been changing you see, and the inn’s coffers have been most fortunately enriched lately. Mrs. Hewitt did confide in me a little, but wishes to tell you her story more fully. But first, Summer Cottage is being leased to Soraya Sulaman-Mamoud, a Syrian banker’s wife. She is seeking haven from the man’s Islamic fundamentalist family who despises her Christian choice of religion and seeks to have her killed as some sort of honor thing. John shook his head in apparent exasperation.

Margot gasped. How on earth did she ever get here? Arab women are forbidden to travel without a male family member, so I’ve heard.

John nodded his ascent to this and continued. "Her husband flew to Washington on business and secretly brought her with him. It appears he loves her and wants to keep her safe from the family’s wrath until something can be worked out, or so I’m led to believe. But I’m sure she will apprise you more of her situation, being a woman of course, and more inclined to speak freely to you than

to

me

."

Margot paused then said with a smile. You’ve been a busy man, John, collecting the waifs and strays of Christendom and beyond. I never suspected you of such a sensitive nature, then added touching his hand fondly, but, my dear, dear, friend, I am so happy that you are so disposed. Of course I’ll be happy to speak with both ladies. Did you tell me, is Autumn Cottage also leased?

A sudden shaft of sunlight fell across the red carpet and caught the edge of her table glinting on the crystal glass, sending blue, greens, and red sparkles dancing.

It is, and this is the thorniest tale,—he paused, folding his hands together in a rubbing motion—"and