“Then why won’t they tell me?” I said, getting back to my concern. “The Jumble is my responsibility, and if something might happen there, Julian should be telling me, not Grimshaw. Well, not only Grimshaw.”

“I don’t think an Intuit can always tell you why he, or she, feels what he feels. Why does someone back out of a leisurely boat ride with a group of friends because she feels uneasy about the weather when there isn’t a cloud in the sky or the slightest breeze—and ends up being the only survivor because a wild storm blew in out of nowhere and the friends on the boat couldn’t get to safety?” Ineke shrugged. “Julian may not be able to tell you why the game spooked him, but I think using his behavior as a barometer for trouble would be smart.”

Yes, that would be smart. Just like it would be smart to remember that Julian and Grimshaw weren’t new friends; clearly they were old friends reunited. Because of that, there were things Julian might be willing to say to Grimshaw that he wouldn’t say to anyone else. Even me, the person who was the reason they were acting weird.

So maybe Julian wasn’t trying to make me feel incompetent. Maybe he needed to make those phone calls and check on me for his own peace of mind, even if he couldn’t articulate why—at least not to me.

That made sense in an uncomfortable sort of way, so I went on to the other things that concerned me. “I have good news. I’m going to have more lodgers this weekend. A couple reserved one of the renovated lakeside cabins, and two couples have taken the suites in the main house. And they’re all coming in for a long weekend, arriving Firesday afternoon and staying through Moonsday.”

“That is good news.” Ineke studied me. “Why aren’t you happier?”

“I explained, twice, that The Jumble is a rustic getaway and that outside of me providing some fruit and pastries for breakfast, guests are responsible for their own meals, even if they rent the suites in the main house.”

“Very smart.”

Considering my cooking skills, it was more than smart. Although, since my cooking skills were pretty much in the range of making salads, heating up soup, and putting together a sandwich, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with the big kitchen garden that Aggie and the boys thought I should restore to provide food for The Jumble’s residents. Then again, if I put in enough carrots, maybe I could trade with Ineke, becoming her carrot supplier in exchange for cooked food. What I knew for certain was that I had to arrange for some trees to be harvested for firewood, both for my own use and to sell. And the kitchen garden and the orchard had to be restored, whether or not I prepared any meals for anyone but myself. I’d been so focused on getting the house and the first three cabins renovated that I only had a vague idea of what I, as the caretaker of a terra indigene settlement, should be doing with the land. Of course, no one had told me the true nature of The Jumble, so I should be excused for thinking of leaky roofs before food.

“What are you thinking?” Ineke asked.

“Are we still doing the trail ride beach party tomorrow?”

“Yes. We need to try it out before offering it to guests. Besides, this might be the last quiet day I have for the rest of the season.”

“Then I think I should go home and get ready for my guests. Or maybe I should sit on the porch and read for the rest of the day and let everything sort itself out.”

“Clean sheets don’t automatically appear on beds or clean towels in the bathrooms. So you’re going to go home and get ready for your guests, just like I’ll be doing.”

“You have guests coming in?”

“A man and his wife who wanted time away from the city. Or so she said.”

“Which city?”

“That she didn’t say. But they’re also coming for a full four days. My rooms fill up in the summer—and even after the things that happened last year, people who have stayed with me in previous years have been calling to make reservations for a little getaway—so I made sure the wife understood that she was lucky to get a reservation when she called so close to the date she wanted. Oh, just so you know, I have a three-day minimum for my rooms during the summer and fall. You might want to do something similar for your cabins and suites since most people stay for at least a weekend if they’re going to drive or take a train here. Besides, you never intended to be an overnight billet like a motel.”

“Good point. That’s something I’ll do for future guests.”

“It’s better for us to be a unified front in that regard.” Ineke smiled. “So we’ll have our trail ride beach party tomorrow, which will be fun and should keep you from fretting about the guests on Firesday. It will be our trial run since Julian and Grimshaw will be playing the part of our potential guests.”

Julian and Grimshaw, who were already acting weird. Goody. “So it’s the two of them plus you, me, and Paige . . .”

“And Hector, since he’s coming along to tend the horses and get a free lunch.”

I pushed away from the table. “I have to go.”

“Going to tidy up?” Ineke asked.

“I am.” And the first bit of tidying I was going to do was hide the Murder game.

CHAPTER 39

Grimshaw

Windsday, Juin 28

Grimshaw studied the OUT TO LUNCH, BACK IN ONE HOUR sign on Lettuce Reed’s locked front door. Then he walked down the driveway to the small parking lot behind the building. Julian’s car was there, so even if Julian was having lunch, he hadn’t gone far. And it wasn’t likely he’d gone anywhere since the windows were open and Grimshaw could hear at least one fan running to battle the heat and humidity. The storm hadn’t brought cooler or drier air; if anything it was even hotter and stickier. Oppressive.

Unnatural? Would that be an appropriate word if the terra indigene were manipulating the weather for their own purpose? If they did play with the weather, would they take a request for a blast of northern air to knock down the wet heat for a few days?

Natural or unnatural, this weather had meant more work for him, not only dealing with storm damage around Sproing but also dealing with the incidents that had happened to people who should have known better, even if they were youngsters. He appreciated that the public beach was crowded, and the portable potties were being overused to the point where the smell knocked a man back a couple of steps when he opened the door. So he understood the mutters and resentment about being kept away from Lake Silence’s other beach now that it was, once again, unquestionably private property. He understood why some of the teenage boys tried to sneak into The Jumble and make use of the beach. And he had to admit—just not out loud—that while he wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow’s trail ride except as a way to get a better sense of the land around Sproing and within The Jumble itself, he was looking forward to spending some time on The Jumble’s beach and in cool water that wasn’t so crowded with other people that you felt like a sardine in a can.

While he wasn’t going to turn a blind eye to trespassing, the incidents were ranging from the ridiculous to the serious. Moonsday night, Osgood had brought in a kid who had been running down the road buck naked and almost dove through the cruiser’s open window in an effort to get away from the clawed monster that had ripped off his swim trunks while trying to catch him. Oh, the kid had scratches on his ass that proved something had tried to grab him after he’d gone swimming at The Jumble. The identity of the attacker came the following morning when Vicki DeVine brought in a pair of torn swim trunks and said that, according to Aggie Crowe, one of the Owlgard had grabbed the trunks while trying to get to the wiggly mouse inside. The boy made some noises about suing for injuries—apparently he’d been watching too many cop shows and not enough of the news reports about the terra indigene—but after Grimshaw impressed on the kid what could have happened if the Owl had managed to get its talons on the “wiggly mouse” while the kid was knowingly trespassing, the opinion of all concerned was that the scratches were sufficient punishment for a first-time trespasser but being caught a second time would mean a minimum of three nights in jail—if the kid got out of The Jumble alive.