The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense by Laura Disilverio Page B

long I’ll need to stay.” As short a time as possible.
    “That’s okay. We’re not too busy yet. Our busy season is the summer. Tourists.” She passed Iris a registration card and a pen. “It’s $28.99 a night.”
    Iris found it hard to imagine that flocks of tourists found their way to this out-of-the-way corner, but the cheap rooms probably attracted some families trying to stretch their vacation dollars. Mrs. Welsh drew the card across the counter and studied it. “You look familiar,” she said, a line between her brows, “but I don’t recognize the name. Iris. That’s pretty.” She turned and unhooked a key from the pegboard, sliding it across the counter.
    Iris almost denied any connection. But, then, a spark of anger crept in. She’d done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of. Why should she skulk around and lie about her ties to the Community? “I used to live here,” Iris said. “Penelope was a couple years ahead of me in school. We played together sometimes. Model horses.”
    Before she could tell the woman her former name, Mrs. Welsh took a half step back. “Mercy Asher. We thought you were dead.”
    “Iris, please. Alive and well and living in Portland, for the moment,” Iris said, determinedly cheerful, even though Mrs. Welsh was now looking like she regretted giving Iris a key. Was she remembering Iris’s accusations against Pastor Matt, or thinking about Neil Asher, in jail for beating the pastor and causing his wife’s death?
    Apparently, the thought of income outweighed whatever scruples she was battling with because she said stiffly, “Number two’s around back. Nice and quiet.”
    As if any of the rooms would be noisy, out here at the intersection of Nowhere and Back of Beyond.
    “You can park right in front of the door. I’m afraid we don’t fill the pool until Memorial Day.” She gave Iris an apologetic smile, and then, as if curiosity had trumped her discomfort, she asked, “What brings you back? Marian didn’t mention that you were coming.”
    “I’m really here to see my dad,” Iris said, “but maybe I’ll stop in and surprise her.”
    “Oh, you’ll do that, I’m sure,” Mrs. Welsh said dryly. “There should be towels in the room, but if you need anything, we’re in the blue house just past room one.”
    “Okay. Thanks.” Iris considered asking about a wi-fi connection, and decided it would be a waste of breath. The bell tinkled again as she left the office.
    The motor inn was arranged with the office nearest the road and the rooms in two blocks of four with the pool in a small courtyard between the two rows. The house Mrs. Welsh had mentioned was kitty-corner from the office on the far side of the motel and Iris spotted an overalled man—Mr. Welsh?—hoeing in the garden. He paused and leveled a stare at her for a long moment, and then returned to hacking at the ground when she got in the rental car. Driving around the building, she found her room at the far end, butted up against a strip of scraggly trees.
    The lock yielded reluctantly to the key after Iris jiggled it, and she discovered the room was not as dreary as she’d expected. A yellow comforter and ruffled shams on the double bed offset the effect of clunky, mismatched furniture that looked like it had come from a variety of thrift shops and garage sales. It was sturdy, though, and gave off a pleasing odor of beeswax. She could work on the award design at the desk. She rattled open the drapes. Light poured in and she found herself facing the pool, a rectangle covered with a heavy tarp that sagged toward the middle. Not unlike the bed, Iris thought, eyeing it dubiously.
    Leaving the door open, she returned to the car to retrieve her weekender and the case containing her jewelry-making tools and supplies. She’d probably only be here one night, maybe two, she told herself as she unzipped her bag, so it didn’t matter that the Sleepytime Motor Inn wasn’t exactly on par with the Ritz. She’d