Read Trash To Treasure Crafting 1 - Murder at Honeysuckle Hotel for Free Online

I would’ve gone up there,
too.
    After a couple hours of looking through all
the nooks and crannies, my stomach growled. I’d forgotten to eat.
In the back of the cupboard, I found a can of tomato soup. I
flipped it over to examine the expiration date. It was still good,
so I dumped the contents into a saucepan and placed it on the
stove. I stared around my new kitchen space. Not bad, but I hated
the ugly gray Formica countertops. I’d always drooled over granite
countertops—almost had to take one of grandpa’s nitroglycerin pills
every time I saw the prices though. The kitchen walls were a soft
sage color and the cabinets white. As soon as time permitted, I’d
repaint them a lovely cream color. I couldn’t decide if I should
use crystal knobs or black knobs for the kitchen cabinets. Oh well,
plenty of time to decide later. Simple white dishes would work
nicely for accessorizing. Splashes of red from kitchen towels would
add just the right amount of color.
    Mrs. Mathers had left an unopened package of
saltines in the cupboard. I poured myself a bowl of soup, sat at
the small wood table by the window, and contemplated my situation.
I’d done more meaningful thinking in the past few hours then I had
in a long time. First thing: I’d box up most of Mrs. Mathers’
belongings and donate them to charity—the dolls, the knickknacks,
and her thimble collection.
    After I sipped the last drop of soup from the
spoon, I rinsed the bowl and grabbed a piece of paper from the
small desk in the corner of the kitchen. Things always worked
better with a plan. I tapped the pencil against my bottom lip.
Claire Ann really might be on to something with her hotel idea. At
the top of the page, I wrote Honeysuckle Hotel. I liked the ring of
it. My first obstacle: I had no idea what went into running a
hotel/inn. But that was what the internet was for, right? I’d
research and figure it out as I went along. I assumed I’d need a
license for that sort of thing. But how hard could that be,
right?
    The best and hardest part would be getting
the place in tiptop shape. No easy feat, but the house was
beautiful, so it would be worth the effort. With a little bit of
decorating, I knew I could attract guests, but not in its current
condition. I planned each room on paper—parlor, bedrooms, kitchen,
bathrooms, and even the wraparound porch.
    My stomach rumbled again. Apparently, soup
hadn’t been enough. With nothing much else to eat in the house, I
decided I needed dessert. I’d take an evening stroll over to the
only little gas station in town. Junk food wasn’t what I needed,
but it would be the only place open that late.
    The black ceiling of the sky glittered with
stars, a symphony of crickets chirped and a slight breeze whisked
across my arms. It reminded me of summer nights as a child on my
grandparents’ farm. My grandmother loved to sit under the stars,
eating watermelon and recounting stories of her childhood. Too bad
the produce stand was closed, because a big juicy slice of
watermelon would hit the spot. Continuing my trek, I passed the
stand. Flowers covered every available area outside and produce was
inside. I’d have to come back for watermelon, peaches, and maybe
some blackberries. Finally, I approached the gas station. No other
customers were in sight. Number one rule of food shopping: never go
hungry. I opened the door and a blast of cold air hit me. It nearly
sucked the breath out of me.
    “Howdy,” the old man in overalls said. “What
can I help you with?”
    “I’m just getting a few snacks. Thanks.” I
smiled and headed toward the back of the store.
    He nodded and continued placing packages of
cigarettes onto the shelf.
    “You’re Ross Perkins’ ex-wife, ain’t you?” He
frowned.
    “Uh-huh. That’s me.” The lucky one. “My
name’s Raelynn Pendleton.”
    He knew my name, so why he hadn’t used it, I
had no idea. The last thing I wanted was to be referred to as Ross
Perkins’ ex-wife.
    “Pendleton?”