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Moon Signs, by Helen Haught Fanick
MOON SIGNS EXCERPT
Helen Haught Fanick
We drank decaf coffee and watched as the early dusk turned the snow on the hillside below us to shades of purple and gray. Snow began to fall in a soft, leisurely manner, and I wondered if Currier and Ives could have designed a more peaceful scene. We were so content and full of good food, having one last cup of decaf, that we had forgotten the incident at the lodge entrance. Then one of the young men who had been involved approached our table and introduced himself as Jeff Cooke, the lodge manager.
“I want to apologize for barging by you at the entrance a while ago. We were so intent on getting rid of an unwanted guest that I’m afraid we forgot our manners. Your dinner is on the house, and I hope you’ll have dessert, too.”
“Thanks, but that isn’t necessary,” Andrea said. “As for dessert, I couldn’t hold another bite.”
I wished she’d speak for herself, but I was embarrassed to admit I could always find room for dessert, so I kept my mouth shut.
“Well, I insist on taking care of the bill. As a matter of fact, it’s already taken care of.”
“The man who was being led out…is he a local person, or just a visitor here?” Andrea’s always the one to pin down all the facts.
Jeff pulled out a chair and sat down with us. “He’s Eli Lynch, one of our local eccentrics. As a matter of fact, he’s just about our only local eccentric. In his place he’s okay, but when he comes in here bothering our guests, we have to get rid of him.”
“He looked like somewhat of a fanatic,” I said, hoping he’d explain why the man was persona non grata.
“That’s exactly what he is. He thinks the valley should be for locals and West Virginians only. He’s always campaigning to keep foreigners out. He wants to keep things the way they were years ago, before the valley became a popular ski destination. He passes out leaflets he makes up on his computer to anyone who’ll take one. He even tries to pass them out in here, and our guests come from all over the world. He’s bad for business.”
“We appreciate your taking care of the dinner,” I said. “It really wasn’t necessary. We weren’t bothered by the incident.” I looked out the window again. “I think we should go. It’s coming down harder out there, and the roads might be slippery.”
Jeff walked us to the entrance, invited us back soon, and told us goodnight. We put our hoods up and tied them under our chins, and then held onto each other for the walk from the lodge to the car. A layer of snow had accumulated on the road, but Andrea forged ahead, fearless as usual.
We were about a quarter of a mile from the hotel when we saw a woman walking toward us. It was impossible to tell whether she was young or old, she was bundled up so, but somehow she did give the impression of being a woman. Before we reached her, she turned into a driveway. I could see the lights of a house through trees that lined the drive. “Did you see that woman?”
“Of course. Not the safest thing, to be out walking on the highway after dark, with snow on the road.”
“She must live in that house back there. At least she’s home. Maybe she’s on her way home from work and doesn’t have a car and has to walk.”
Andrea turned into the Alpenhof parking lot. “That may be the house where the Germans are staying. The ones Maggie mentioned. They’re probably healthy outdoor types who go out walking in all kinds of weather.”
“Let’s warm our toes by the fireplace and chat with Maggie before we go to our room,” I said as we got out of the car. “If she isn’t busy, maybe she can tell us about the Monets.” I opened the door to the hotel and walked in ahead of Andrea. Maggie wasn’t behind the desk, and the lobby was empty. A mound of glowing coals was all that was left of the fire that had been burning when we went out to eat.
I walked to the desk, wondering why our niece wasn’t at her post. Andrea was right behind me. I put my elbows on the counter, looking for a bell to ring, and that’s when I spotted the feet and legs sticking out from under the desk.
I gasped. “My God! Maggie!”
Andrea had already yanked the swinging door into the reception area open and was striding toward the figure on the floor. Then, “It isn’t Maggie,” she said. “It’s Olga. And it’s seven-thirty-seven.”
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