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dirty jeans and a flannel shirt. Another man was also there. He was painfully tall, and his back had a curve to it. He stood away from the other two men, seeming to observe them. The conversation looked rather heated.
    What exactly was going on?
    Who were those men? Definitely not people here with Riley’s group. Clint didn’t seem like the type who’d know other people who vacationed here. Just like I didn’t seem like that type.
    I hoped that Clint wasn’t doing something foolish, something like trying to hire someone other than me to find Jackie. Or maybe Clint had called a brother or friend to come here and be with him in his time of need. Face it—the man probably didn’t relate to Riley’s friends, nor did they relate to him. And I wasn’t judging. I’d rather hang out with Clint.
    As Clint turned, I stepped behind an ornate column that decorated a doorframe behind me. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t want him to see me. The man deserved his privacy, especially in light of what had happened.
    I looked up and saw a sign on the door that said library. I pushed it open and quietly slipped inside, just as Clint started down the hallway.
    I stood there, my heart beating double-time in my ears. An unsettled feeling sloshed in my gut. I didn’t know what it was or why it was there. I’d have to figure that out later.
    “I’m sorry, ma’am. The library is closed.”
    I nearly screeched at the voice behind me. I twirled around, my hand over my heart. A maid stood there, duster in hand, and a perplexed look on her face.
    The woman was probably in her mid-twenties with dark hair and a figure that neared the plump side. Her hair was curly and stretched halfway down her back.
    She continued to stare at me as if I was crazy.
    And she’d called me “ma’am.”
    This was the second time tonight I’d been addressed that way. The first time I’d felt semi-honored. This time I felt old.
    I pointed toward the door behind me. “I didn’t know. Sorry about that.”
    “It’s no problem. I just have to get this cleaned. Including that wine stain on the carpet.” She pointed to a purple area beside a wingback chair and shook her head. “Some people. I’m not supposed to say that, so please forgive me. It’s not professional. But why would someone spill their wine and not clean it up? Don’t they know it stains?”
    I leaned down by the mark. “No, people don’t care. In fact, I’m convinced that people are perfectly content to have other people clean up the disasters they’ve made.”
    The maid nodded. “Me too! I just don’t get it. I’ve scrubbed at that stain for fifteen minutes. Now I’m just letting the solution soak in. I’m hoping that will do the trick.” Her accent had a hint of a mountain drawl that sounded charming and colorful.
    “I know of a formula you can use. It will come right up. I use it all the time on—” I stopped mid-sentence. I almost said, “on blood at crime scenes.” Most people just didn’t know how to handle statements like that, though, so I kept it quiet. Maybe I was maturing after all.
    “Do you own a cleaning company?”
    I shrugged, not sure how to answer that question. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”
    She chuckled and waved a finger in the air. “I knew you just couldn’t work for one. Otherwise, this place would be way out of your price range. I know firsthand. That would be like me actually being able to afford a weekend here. Not happening.”
    I glanced around the ornate room and was again reminded that I was so out of my element. Mahogany wood, shiny and lemon-scented, stretched floor to ceiling. Brass fixtures and lamps. Furniture upholstered in the finest fabrics. Volumes upon volumes of astute looking hardbacks. “It is expensive here.”
    “You’re telling me. I’ve never seen such hoity-toity people in my life.” She stopped and shook her head, fluttering her feather duster in the air. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into