"Tanya Huff - Keeper's Chronicles 1 - Summon the Keeper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Huff Tanya)

Newfoundland accent, Claire took a moment to respond. "Good grief. I mean, good
morning."
It wasn't only his appearance that had thrown her. In spite of his age, or rather
lack of it, this was the most grounded person she'd ever met. First impressions
suggested he'd never push a door marked pull, he'd arrive on time for appointments,
and, in case of fire, he'd actually remember the locations of the nearest exits. Glancing
down at his feet, she half expected to see roots disappearing into the floor but saw
only a pair of worn work boots approximately size twelve.
"Mr. Smythe left a note on the fridge explaining things." He wiped his hand
against his apron, couldn't seem to make up his mind about what to do next, and
finally let it fall back to his side. "I'm Dean Mclssac. I've been cook and caretaker
since last February. I hope you'll consider keeping me on."
"Keeping you on?"
Her total lack of comprehension appeared to confuse him. "Aren't you the new
owner, then?"
"The new what?"
He jerked a sheet of notepaper out from under a refrigerator magnet, and
passed it over.
The woman spending the night in room one, Claire read, is
Claire Hansen. As of this morning, she's the new proprietor. Except for a
small brown stain of indeterminate origins, the rest of the sheet was blank. "And that
explains everything to you?" she asked incredulously.
"He's been trying to sell the place since I got here," Dean told her. "I just
figured he had."
"He hasn't." So far, everything young Mr. Mclssac had said, had been the
truth. Which didn't explain a damned thing. Dropping the note onto the counter, she
wondered just what game the old man thought he was playing. "1 am Claire Hansen,
but I haven't bought this hotel and I have no intention of buying this hotel."
"But Mr. Smythe…"
"Mr. Smythe is obviously senile. If you'll tell me where I can find him, I'll
straighten everything out." She tried to make it sound more like a promise than a
threat.
Although two long, narrow windows lifted a few of the shadows, the office
looked no more inviting in the gray light of a rainy day than it had at night.
"He lives here?" Claire asked sliding sideways through the narrow opening
between the counter and the wall, the only access from the lobby.
"No, in here." The door to the old man's rooms had been designed to look like
part of the office paneling. Dean reached out to knock and paused, his hand just above
the wood. "It's open."
"Then we must be expected." She pushed past him. "Oh, my."
Overdone was an understatement when applied to the room on the other side
of the door, just as overstuffed wasn't really sufficient to describe the furniture. Even
the old console television wore three overlapping doilies, a pair of resin candlesticks
carved with cherubs, and a basket of fake fruit.
Tucked into the gilded, baroque frame of a slightly pitted mirror was a large
manila envelope. Even from across the room Claire could see it was addressed to her.
Suddenly, inexplicably, convinced that things were about to get dramatically out of
hand, she walked slowly forward, picking a path through the clutter. It took a
remarkably long time to cover a short distance; then, all at once, she had the envelope
in her hand.