Trash To Treasure Crafting 1 - Murder at Honeysuckle Hotel by Rose Pressey

I’m really into
the decorating thing now.”
    “I guess you know what you’re doing.” She
shrugged, then reached for the dresser. “What did it look like
before?”
    “Oak with brass handles.”
    “And you didn’t like it?” She chuckled.
    “I think my parents had a dresser just like
it the year I was born.”
    We hoisted the dresser into the dining room,
more like almost dragging it. It was above the ground just enough
to keep from scratching the hardwood floors. My fingers ached.
    “Oh, by the way, is your Uncle Lloyd still
tearing down that old barn?”
    “Yeah, why?”
    “Do you think he’d give me one of the old
doors?”
    “I don’t see why not.” She scrunched her
brow. “But why do you want it?”
    “I’m going to make a dining room table out of
it.” I smiled.
    “What? Now this I’ve got to see.”
    “I told you I like the distressed look. Which
is a good thing. Someone who moves as much as I do tends to have a
lot of banged-up junk.”
    She stared, wide-eyed.
    “Trust me, it’ll look great.”
    “I’m sure it will.” She smirked.
    “I think I have the disease,” I said.
    “What disease?” She stepped back a couple
feet.
    I eyed her. Maybe I should’ve coughed on her
for dramatic effect. “The junkin’ disease.”
    She plopped down on the sofa. “I think I have
to agree with you. You’ll have to stop at some point, you
know?”
    “I still have a lot of rooms to fill. When
they’re full, well, I’ll worry about that then.”
    “Whatever you say. I just came to check on
you. I’ll see you at work.”
    “See you soon. Thanks for the help.”
    She waved good-bye with her hand in a
claw-like position. “Think nothing of it. My hand will recover
eventually.”
    I laughed. “Get out of here.”

Chapter Thirteen
    Work the previous night had been difficult
with lots of whispering and staring. I wasn’t sure how I’d make it
through another night. Somehow, I’d have to, though. During my walk
home, I had the sensation of being watched. But I chalked it up to
the horrific morning discovery and the fact everyone in town now
suspected me of murder.
    I sat at the table and munched on my bowl of
soggy cornflakes while reading a mystery novel. I’d become addicted
to mysteries when I was about ten and discovered my mother’s stacks
of books. The murderer was always caught—I liked that.
    After my bowl was empty, I had to force
myself to put the book down and get to work on the house. The day
ahead was promising. Decorating made me happy and I had plenty of
it to keep me busy. After work last night, Claire Ann’s Uncle Lloyd
and his son, Mike, had brought by a section of the old barn door.
They even secured it to two sawhorses I’d found in the shed out
back. There hadn’t been much out there in the way of useful items,
but I knew right away I’d use them for the dining table. The dining
room had taken shape sooner than I’d planned. It just spoke to
me.
    My trip to Goodwill yielded ironstone
look-alike dishes, so I hung six of the different style plates in a
grouping above the newly remodeled sideboard I’d made out of the
dresser. On top of the sideboard, I placed two different-sized
cloches to the left—those were displays that looked like glass
domes. Underneath them, I set a faux pear and a small nest with
fake Robins’ eggs in the other. The other side needed a cake stand,
but I didn’t have one. And surprisingly, Mrs. Mathers didn’t
either. I’d make another trip to the thrift shops soon in search of
one. The dining room was tough to decorate. It was long and narrow,
not to mention the awkwardly placed windows—that was what made the
barn door perfect for the room. On top of the distressed barn door
table I added fresh roses and hydrangeas from outside into a clear
vase and placed it in the center. Around those I set several votive
candles.
    Above the fireplace mantel in the room, I
placed the ten-cent tray I’d gotten from the yard sale. I’d painted
it