Murder at the Miramar (Augusta Burnette Series) Read Online Free PDF Page A

short. Maybe she looked that way at me because they were already talking in the kitchen. An uncomfortable feeling slithered over me like an unwelcome snake and I all but snatched the plate from her hand, shutting the door with the briefest of thank-yous. If that were the case, I’d have to set someone straight and do it quickly before they had me turned into the assistant of Frankenstein. Why do folks always blame the new kid on the block?
    After getting the food down – which was delicious, by the way – I felt somewhat better. Breakfast had been a long time ago, according to my internal clock, not counting the cookies I’d downed as a preventative against shock. I was still trying to decide what to do next when my suite’s phone rang, startling me into the present.
    ‘Hello?’ I said into the handset. Who, besides Emmy, would be calling me? With no response, I tried again, assuming that whoever had dialed my number might not have heard me answer. ‘Hello, this is AJ.’
    The unmistakable sound of dial tone buzzed in my ear and I replaced the handset on the phone’s base. Weird, but nothing to become unhinged over, I decided. Folks often rang wrong numbers, then disconnected without explanation.
    I was just stepping through the front door when the phone rang again, halting me in mid-stride. This time it was Emmy, and she needed me to help her get a group of conventioneers set to rights. I promised her I’d be right there and left my suite, careful to lock the door behind me. One could never be too cautious, even at a ritzy place like the Miramar.
    I joined Emmy at her desk, helping to sort out the milling throng of middle-aged women who stood chatting and laughing as they waited for packets containing information about the resort and the surrounding area. When Emmy had mentioned ‘conventioneers’, I had pictured a gaggle of old men, sans hair save the little strands glued onto the scalp, in business attire, carrying leather briefcases and the Wall Street Journal. This group was in town for the Scrapbooking Extravaganza and instead of briefcases, each clutched large quilted bags of scrapbook goodies as tightly as if they held gold.
    With the women sent on their merry way, each now enjoying a cookie or two, Emmy and I sat down. Concierge work, I was rapidly discovering, was not only varied, it could be downright tiring. I looked over at Emmy, carefully noting the dark areas under her eyes. She looked exhausted, and I knew that our day was only half over. Maybe she was ill.
    As if sensing my questioning glance, Emmy looked at me and smiled. The lines that radiated from around her eyes seemed new, and I was struck at the difference a day could make in a person’s face. It had certainly done so on Emmy’s.
    ‘So. That is done. We have one more large party arriving at six then we can have our dinner. Did you have something for lunch?’ She arched a brow at me, one hand hovering over the empty cookie plate.
    I had to smile. ‘Yes, I did. The food here is so good, Emmy. How in the world do you stay so thin?’ I nodded at her slim arms that rested on the desk top and she smiled.
    ‘Oh, I think that I run it off, taking care of all these folks,’ she said with an expansive wave. ‘You will see, AJ. Some days we’re on our feet from sun up to sun down and can barely grab a bite to eat.’
    She had a point. Aside from the few minutes I’d spent wandering the Miramar and the half hour or so in my suite, I had stayed busy all morning. I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see the little hand pointing at the two. Good lord, Emmy wasn’t kidding. This job was a bit more than smiling at guests and handing out cookies. The twinge of guilt I’d experienced at calling Room Service fled for good. I deserved it.
    Emmy and I spent an hour or so replacing the stock of brochures and folders, having handed out most of them to the scrapbooking bunch. There were a few guests who drifted over to the desk to ask for