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TREVOR

The chime of the grandfather clock in the corner of the inn’s lobby overtakes the classical music drifting through the speakers. I finish updating a guest’s booking to include a special anniversary welcome basket, then glance down at the corgi terrier mix gnawing on a toy by my feet.

As if on cue, he looks up at me, and I swear, in the two months since I adopted him, he’s learned to associate the three o’clock bell chime with my coffee break, which includes a treat for him.

Bending down, I ruffle his fur. “Hey, Bandit, ready for a break?”

He drops his toy and leaps up, planting his front paws on my thigh, his tail wagging like a wild metronome. No matter how stressful a day I’m having, he always brightens it. After one last ruffle, I stand, then nudge the toy beneath the front desk with my foot so it’s out of the way.

With Bandit trotting at my side, we cross the wide-planked floor to the coffee station set up on a hutch beneath framed photos of the inn, chronicling its changes over the decades .

A sketch of the original property from the late 1800s starts things off, followed by photos from when my grandparents set out to restore the inn seventy years ago, trading the bustle of New York City for peaceful small-town life here in Maplewood, Vermont.

Seeing them, and then my parents in the shots, always makes me smile.

Beside me, Bandit spins in a circle, chasing his tail.

The light from the stained glass window I added last year casts hues of blue and pink over his brown and white coat.

Above the painted glass, a clear pane gives me a view of a brilliant blue, cloudless mid-September sky, and the pines and maple trees that line the inn’s property.

For a moment, a yearning to be outdoors, enjoying this bright, crisp day with a hike, yanks through me so strong, I’m surprised my feet don’t power me out the door.

Shaking thoughts of playing hooky from my head, I select a mug from the row that sits atop the drawer housing the selection of coffee blends, place it under the single cup maker, and choose a dark roast pod.

Bandit presses against my shin, his gaze glued to the jar of dog biscuits at the end of the hutch.

Once the machine is gurgling, I take a biscuit from the jar and hold it out to him.

He nips the bone-shaped treat neatly from my fingers and settles down at my feet.

Though his previous owner gave him to the shelter stating he’d destroyed furniture, he’s never shown any interest in chewing on or digging through any item here at the inn or at my home.

Even if he did, I could never give him up.

Every time I think about the sad puppy I met that day at the shelter, my heart breaks for him. Crouching, I give him scratches.

Most of the furniture surrounding me, from the Queen Anne chairs my grandmother adored, to the art deco pieces my parents favored during their time at the helm, is thanks to scouring antique shops with them when I was a kid.

Each piece tells a story, holds a memory, and I love that.

Since Bandit’s been with me, we’ve added some more.

I grew up knowing I’d run this inn one day, and since my parents retired five years ago, I’ve done my best to put my own stamp on this place.

The gold and tan wallpaper lining the lobby’s walls, the new bedding in all the rooms, and the kiosks at the doors so guests can check in and out if they want a people-free experience have been a good start, but living up to the family legacy means continually looking for ways to improve and expand.

The twenty-four-seven coffee and tea station is our most recent improvement. Turning our six-room carriage house into a haunted house during the week of Halloween has been the most risky endeavor.

The door from the office creaks open, followed by footsteps heading in my direction. I give Bandit one last scratch, then stand, and turn toward the sound.

Holding a violet mug matching the streaks of color throughout her dark hair, Jo, my assistant manager, gives the tea kettle beside the coffee maker a longing look.

Purple, Jo’s favorite color, continues in her flowing dress and the tablet she sets on the desk as she passes by.

“Trevor, we had a call from Agnes Peabody. She said she’s on her way here and needs to discuss something with you. ”

“Uh oh.” The last time Agnes needed something is etched firmly into my mind.

And I shudder. I step to the side to add sugar and creamer to my mug so Jo can get hot water for her tea.

“If she needs a favor, I hope it’s more along the lines of needing us to donate the reception hall for a charity event and less like the time she roped us into joining her gardening club’s team for that mud run. ”

Jo lets out a groan that ends in a laugh. “That was a mess. My sneakers were never the same.”

“I had to throw mine out and buy a new pair.” As I sip the coffee, I take an inventory of the packaged snacks beside the coffee maker. “The maple fig bars are more popular with the guests than I expected.”

She picks up one of the blueberry tarts. “I think I’m the only one who’s eating these.”

“They’re not bad, neither are the fig bars, but I like the apple ones better.

” I snag one of the apple bars and tear off the foil wrapper.

Lunch was hours ago, eaten in a rush as I checked in a girls’ soccer team and their chaperones in town for a tournament.

“Once we’re finished with Agnes, we should go over the plans for the haunted house.

I want to change up the lighting and effects, and I think we should keep a room blocked off so the staff have a place to go to decompress on their breaks. ”

Halloween is a month and a half away, but how to improve the haunted house for attendees and workers alike has been on my mind since the music festival in May.

Jo nods. “I like that idea. I’m thinking I’ll retire my goth vampire costume. I saw a white lace wedding dress in a vintage shop that would be perfect for a ghost. It has haunted Victorian vibes.”

Grinning, I salute her with my mug. “Whatever you want.”

We grew up together, and Jo has worked here almost as long as I have. I couldn’t imagine anyone else helping me run this place.

The front door swings open and Agnes Peabody sweeps into the entryway, clad in black from head to toe. She smooths her short, white bob away from her face, then holds out her hands to us in greeting. “Dears, it’s been an eventful few days. Thank you for seeing me.”

I abandon my coffee and snack and hurry forward with Jo at my side. “Agnes, are you okay?”

She has a flair for the dramatic, but she’s also the great-aunt of my best friend and I feel a responsibility to look after her.

With a soft smile and a twinkle in her eyes, Agnes squeezes my hand. “I’m all right… now . Trevor, and Jo,” she turns to Jo and places her other hand on Jo’s shoulder, “I knew you were the ones to help me.”

“What do you need?” I guide her to a wingback chair. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’d love a whiskey.”

Pressing my lips together, I hide my smile. That’s classic Agnes. “Sorry, we only have tea or coffee right now.”

She slips out of her black leather jacket and bends to pet Bandit. “Tea, then. Milk, no sugar. In a proper cup, please.”

Smiling, Jo rolls her eyes at me and detours toward the kitchen, where there are multiple sets of china for the afternoon teas we hold here during the winter. “I’ll get it.”

I claim my coffee and apple bar then sit across from her. Bandit trots to my side. “What can we do for you? What’s been going on?”

Agnes glances over her shoulder like she’s making sure the coast is clear. Amid a thunder of footsteps, a group of the soccer players rush down the stairs, laughing and talking over each other. They wait in the entryway, discussing their plans to check out the town’s two warring diners.

Jo returns with a delicate cup and saucer and heads toward the tea kettle.

A few of the chaperones join the girls, and then the group heads out the front door. The lobby is quiet once more, with the soft strains of violins drifting around us.

Agnes folds her hands in her lap and glances back and forth from Jo to me.

“I saw something the other night on the way home from playing at The Striped Maple. It was huge and dark, with wings and a tail. It swooped over the road, then hovered in the air, above my car like it was following me until it finally turned and veered into the woods.”

Jo and I share a look. Maplewood lore has a resident cryptid, a forest creature we call Mabel.

But she’s very tall, thin, leafy, and green.

She doesn’t have wings. Vermont may have other cryptids, like the monster living in Lake Champlain, but I’ve never heard of anything in Maplewood other than Mabel.

“Could’ve been a shadow cast by a hawk,” I offer. “Or a heron? They have large wingspans.”

Agnes gives me a withering look. “No, dear. This creature’s wingspan had to be at least ten feet wide. When I’m playing a set, I limit myself to one drink. I was sober.” She places her hand over her heart. “Scared me so much, I nearly ran off the road.”

I hold up my hands in surrender and lean back in my chair. “Fair enough. You know what you saw.”

She accepts the cup of tea from Jo. “Exactly. And Eleanor saw something huge and hairy on the edge of the highway two days ago. Rae saw the same thing last week by the fairgrounds.”

Jo looks at me, shrugs, then turns to Agnes. “It was probably a bear. Or a moose?”

Agnes raises a brow at her. “Jo, I am eighty-two years old. I’ve seen quite a few bears and moose in my time. So have the other girls.”

I can’t help smiling because Agnes always refers to her friends, who are also in their eighties, that way. “Black bears are between five and seven feet tall when standing.”