Page 114 of Never Invite a Vampire to Dinner

“She mentioned it.”

Chloe nods slowly. “I thought she might. She made me sign the visitors’ book.” She puts her hand out. “Chloe. I’m the producer, which mostly means I’m the person who reads things.”

I shake her hand. It’s an ordinary hand. She has ink on two fingers.

“You were there for four hours.”

“I was there for four hours and I got about a page out of it, which is a good day.” She looks around the hall, at the whaleboat and Mabel talking rapidly as she steers Rowan Pierce towards a case. “Can I say something that’s going to sound strange?”

“You can try.”

“I’ve done this for six years and I’ve never had a town be pleased.” Chloe says it almost helplessly. “Usually there’s a sheriff. Usually somebody’s grandson threatens Ben in a parking lot. And I walked in here and Mabel handed me a nine-page indexed document and a cup of soup.”

“Mabel likes things to be correct. The document is hers. The soup’s mine.”

“The soup is extraordinary.”

“It’s parsnip.”

“It’s extraordinary,” says Chloe, and eats the rest of it, and for about ninety seconds I like her enormously and forget entirely what she is.

Then Rowan Pierce comes over and puts out his hand.

“You must be Penny.”

“I am.”

“Rowan. I need to talk to you about the crab things.”

His handshake is warm and firm and unhurried, and he’s looking at me like meeting me is the single best thing that’s happened to him today.

Oh no.

He’s good. He’s funny about the hotel and about the drive up from Portland and about a season they did in Kentucky where the local historical society turned out to be one man who had made most of it up. He asks me how long I’ve had the Salt & Sage and listens to the answer. He asks about the building being a sail loft, then asks what a sail loft actually is because he doesn’t know and says so.

Then he says, “Can I ask you about the Volkovs?”

“Sure,” I say, in a voice that comes out completely normal, and I am so grateful to whatever part of me produced it that I nearly have to sit down.

“How long has the current one been up there?”

“About six months.”

“Six months.” He nods. “And before that the house was empty?”

“On and off. It’s been on and off my whole life.”

“But somebody’s been paying for it the whole time.”

“The house pays for it,” I say, which is Mabel’s line, and I hear how much it sounds like a line as it comes out of my mouth.

“That’s a great sentence.” Rowan smiles, not because he’s caught me but because he’s genuinely delighted by it. “Everybody in this town has said a version of that to me tonight. Four people since I got out of the van.”

He turns his glass slowly by the stem.

“Different question. The one before this one—the previous Mr. Volkov. Was there a funeral?”

The hall carries on around us. Somebody laughs by the punch table.