Page 3 of Dead & Breakfast
“Thank you.” Arthur squeezed his husband’s arm as Salvatore turned to go, then shouted after him, “And don’t slice the cheese into any fun shapes this time, all right? Something classy.”
“Don’t worry, my love. I am the epitome of class!” There was a long pause filled only by the sound of kitchen drawers sliding open and shut, then Salvatore peeked around the doorframe, wearing an apron and a sly smile. “Which is classier, would you say, bats or fangs?”
Arthur let out a long breath as he leaned against the front desk. “I’ll just do it myself,” he grumbled, and followed his husband into the kitchen.
Arthur arranged theIris Inn’s cozy living room full of carefully selected antiques with optimistic expectation—charcuterie laid out, wine, lemonade, and iced hibiscus tea waiting near the entryway with glasses stacked nearby. As a finishing touch, he wheeled out the old record player, removed thePirates of the Caribbeansoundtrack (or as Sal called it, his “hype mix”), and replaced it with an Ella Fitzgerald vinyl.
“Perfect,” he murmured to himself as the opening notes played,soft and smooth. With a last cursory glance around the room, he admired his handiwork. The couches and armchairs were arranged to provide maximum mingling opportunities, and the refreshment table was an inviting rainbow of snacks and beverages that matched the decor.
“ ’Scuse me, coming through.” Sal elbowed past him, arms laden with paper plates and napkins.
“I already set up in the corner.” Arthur pointed at the tall round table opposite the drinks where he’d piled plastic cutlery and paper dishes with a simple floral design.
“Yes, I know, but those are so drab. Why not go with a more festive theme?” Sal flashed a plate his way and Arthur caught sight of a set of cartoon bats mid-flight.
Arthur recalled the jubilant look on Sal’s face the day he’d brought them home from a post-Halloween sale. “Now we can dine in style year-round!” he’d proclaimed. Arthur hadn’t had the heart to tell him no, so instead he’d hidden them as far back in the pantry as he could, pretending to have lost them. They were all well and good for a Halloween party, but it was April—and in an establishment such as theirs, they were more likely to draw unwanted attention and inspire inappropriate threads of conversation that Arthur would rather avoid with their new guest.
“That’s a bit much for tonight, don’t you think?”
“I think it’s exactly right for us, darling.” Salvatore, who now wore an outfit a few centuries older than his afternoon ensemble, resplendent with a maroon-and-gold doublet and matching codpiece, gestured to Arthur’s jacket. “Is that what you’re wearing? I can finish up out here if you need to change.”
Arthur glanced down at his black suit and tie. He could swap it out for a fresh outfit in another neutral color palette, but short ofraiding Salvatore’s rather substantial and overwhelming side of the closet, his options were limited.
“I think I’ll stick with this.” With Sal dressed like he’d stepped directly from the sixteenth century, Arthur hoped his professional, modern look would serve as an adequate counterbalance. Arthur wasn’t certain that Sal’s fashion truly reflected history or if Sal had a propensity for lace doublets not shared by the elite of yore. Either way, historical accuracy was clearly not the point, as Sal had braided little neon threads into his coiffure, which weren’t period appropriate to any era but the 1990s.
“And let’s not swap the plates,” Arthur said as gently as possible. “We don’t want to draw attention to what we are. We want to fit in here.” He couldn’t help but think of the mayor and his imminent arrival. First impressions were everything, after all.
“Well, if that’s the case, perhaps we should find more appropriate themed paperware. Maybe something with culs-de-sac and khaki capris? What else do humans like around these parts? Largemouth bass? Is that a thing?” Sal continued to suggest banal American human themes, rattling off everything from sports to mayonnaise, but he did at least take the bat plates and napkins back to the pantry.
Nora, who’d been in and out of the inn all afternoon, came downstairs a few moments later clad in a cozy green sweater instead of her blazer. “Oh, this is a lovely spread. Is that an antique?” she asked, gesturing to the record player as she entered the room.
“Yes, we pulled it out of storage for just this occasion.” Salvatore swanned back into the living room. “I knew I was saving it for something special.” He met Arthur’s eye, and a rush of warmth having nothing to do with blood circulation filled Arthur’s chest.
Events like this weren’t Sal’s usual fare. Back when they lived in Chicago, Sal had led quite the nightlife, but to his credit, whenArthur suggested Trident Falls as an option once they were forced to flee the city, he’d only complained about the noise ordinance a little and did his best to support Arthur’s attempts at a social life, even if it was in his own way. In general, Arthur disliked public displays of affection, especially in a setting that should, for him and Sal, be professional, but he kissed his husband’s cheek all the same. Sal grinned and gave him a saucy wink.
“Please help yourself to anything,” Arthur said to Nora, gesturing toward the charcuterie. Short of an all-out bribe, Arthur could think of no better way to ingratiate himself and their inn to Trident Falls’ new city manager. Let the Gouda and candied figs do the talking for him.
As Nora began stacking cheese and salami on her plate—assisted by Salvatore, always eager to provide a running commentary on the various cheeses and regions of France they hailed from—the front door opened. Arthur stepped into the lobby, trying not to feel too hopeful.
“Welcome to the Iris Inn,” Arthur said, defaulting to his warmest customer service voice. In the doorway stood a woman Arthur had seen at the side of the mayor on many occasions during town events, though she never stepped in front of the microphone herself. The mayor’s assistant was hardly an expected guest, considering she worked for a man whose supporters abhorred Arthur’s and Sal’s very existence, but perhaps this was a sign the mayor had accepted Nora’s invitation. Arthur extended his hand and said, “I’m one of the proprietors, Arthur Miller, no relation.”
“Quinn Clark.” Short, with blond hair slicked back in a low ponytail, Quinn was a plump white woman, likely in her early thirties, who’d learned the art of simple elegance. She wore no ruffles or jewelry, only a plain blush-pink blouse and khakis, though they were not, thankfully, capris. Arthur could respect her understatedfashion choices, if not her boss’s politics. She shook his hand with brisk efficiency.
“Please, come in,” he continued. “Everyone is gathered in the living room.”
Quinn’s gaze traveled around the lobby, and Arthur wished he could see the space through her eyes. Most of the room was taken up by the front desk, and Arthur had decorated the walls with local art featuring various Trident Falls landmarks: the falls themselves, the riverfront shops, even a pretty landscape of city hall in autumn when all the leaves turned a vibrant gradient of yellow to red. It was all perfectly normal. (Sal’s suggestion for decor had been a series of portraits he’d commissioned of himself over the centuries, but Arthur hadn’t thought it appropriate to greet guests with that much nudity.)
Whatever she made of the place, Quinn was satisfied enough to walk into the living room, where Salvatore was telling Nora the story of the time he’d challenged Napoléon Bonaparte to an arm-wrestling contest. Over the sixty-odd years they’d been together, Sal had told Arthur a number of outlandish stories, each more bizarre than the last, and Arthur was never sure which were true. He’d pepper the tales with convincing historical details but would also insist on absurdities—like that the Earl of Sandwich had invented Fruit Roll-Ups but had never gotten credit or that Henry VIII had been cursed by a coven of witches. Arthur actually believed that last one to some degree.
When Nora spotted Quinn, her good humor vanished. “Ms.Clark,” she said, a formality in her voice Arthur had yet to witness, “I didn’t know you were coming. Is Mayor Roth on his way?”
“I would assume so.” Quinn was as stiff as Nora, though she hadn’t exactly been relaxed upon her arrival. Perhaps it was just the awkwardness of new acquaintanceship.
Turning her attention from Nora, as if she wished to pretend theother woman didn’t exist, Quinn said, “I haven’t seen the Iris Inn since it changed ownership. Were you aware this building is over a hundred years old? It’s been part of the community for a long time.” She sounded a bit bored, like a tour guide at the end of her shift. Perhaps that was how she always talked; Arthur had never interacted with her before.
“It’s been such a joy to renovate,” Arthur said, gesturing to the newly painted walls and original vintage cabinetry. “We’ve worked hard to make sure it maintains its classic charm while still providing modern comforts.”
Arthur waited for Sal to chime in about how it was his idea to have the USB cell phone chargers installed in the nightstands, but he was strangely silent. That wasn’t good. He was counting on Sal to charm their guests as he usually did. Arthur was a practiced host, but he paled in comparison to his husband. Salvatore was an entire kaleidoscope of social butterflies in one handsome package, and he thrived at parties—or party-adjacent gatherings. If they were to sway Trident Falls to their side, it would begin with people like Nora and Quinn. He gave his husband a little nudge. Now wasn’t the time for Sal to be shy.
