Chapter One
Luanne Mayfair might have killed her boss a little. Fine, a lot. Pretty much all the way. God, that sounded bad. But he was a sleazebag. Honest. The maids at the Mushroom Mile Motel that Earl Cosgrove managed often prayed for lightning to strike the lecherous bastard. Alas, God had seen fit to send Luanne instead.
Now you’ve gone and done it, she thought the morning after as she stood on the sidewalk in front of the fifties ranch home she rented in her hometown of Broslin, PA. She squinted against the early summer sun. Her red 1989 Mustang sitting by the curb had come from the used-car lot with its share of nicks and dents. But the damage to the front was new.
Gone and done it.
She’d done a horrible, terrible, despicable thing. Guilt and regret made her knees wobble. Whatever the punishment was, she deserved it.
Except, she couldn’t go to prison. She had her four-year-old twin sisters to take care of. She was Mia and Daisy’s sole guardian.
Luanne drew air in big, gulping breaths to wrestle down the shock and nausea. Get moving. One foot in front of the other. She couldn’t stand there and stare all morning. She had to find a way to get away with murder.
* * *
Twelve hours earlier, Mushroom Mile Motel, Broslin, Pennsylvania
Luanne Mayfair stopped her cleaning cart in front of room #44 and glanced at her list. One occupant, not checking out today. Only a quick cleanup then; she wouldn’t have to change the sheets. On the other hand, no tips. Most guests only tipped on their last day.
She knocked on the door, hoping the room was empty so she wouldn’t have to come back later. She was almost done, ready to get off work. Finish the last two rooms. Catch Earl. Pick up check. Then she was free. “Housekeeping.”
After some rustling inside, the door opened, a blurry-eyed man filling the gap. He looked her over, then stepped back to open the door wider. His wrinkled wife-beater shirt was stained under the arms, his blond mullet dangling to the middle of his back, his wide face covered in stubble. “Come on in, darlin’.”
Luanne flashed an apologetic look. “I’ll come back later.”
“I’m stayin’ in all day. Catchin’ up on sleep. My rig’s gettin’ fixed. Now’s as good a time as any.” His smile showed cigarette-stained teeth.
He’d better not smoke in here.
Scents clung to wallpaper, heavy drapery, carpet, and the comforter that wasn’t changed from guest to guest. More work for her. More trouble too. If she took too long in a room, she’d be blamed for being too slow, be accused of stretching her hours for extra pay, would likely be docked some time as discipline.
And if the smell of smoke lingered, the next guest would complain and wouldn’t leave a tip.
Not all the guests were truckers, although the Mushroom Mile Motel had its fair share. The small town of Broslin—the mushroom capital of the US—shipped fungi to the four corners of the country. The truckers mostly slept in their rigs if they were in town overnight. Except if their rigs had problems, or if the air conditioner quit on them in the middle of summer, or if they hooked up with someone and wanted room to entertain.
“Who’s fixing the rig?” Luanne watched the guy’s eyes and measured him up. Being in a room alone with a male guest could turn into trouble in a hurry, but she had to at least give him fresh towels.
