Once I was past the outlets, the views from the road opened up, and I caught glimpses of sea marsh and, in the distance, the Atlantic, almost the same gray color as the low, placid sky.
It took me a while to find the Kennewick Inn. I got off Route 1 at Kennewick Beach, then had to backtrack southward toward Kennewick Harbor. I passed several small clusters of salt-faded rental cabins, and wondered which one belonged to Brad and his family. I also passed Cooley’s, its neon sign unlit on that early Sunday afternoon. A pickup truck idled in its parking lot and I wondered if Brad was already there. Past Kennewick Beach, Micmac Road wound through some expensive real estate. I kept my eye out for the house that Ted and Miranda had been building, spotting it almost immediately—a beige monstrosity perched far out on a bluff, the dark ocean laid out behind it. There were two large Dumpsters at the front of the house but no vehicles that I could see.
I kept driving till I reached the inn, pulling into its nearly empty gravel driveway. Below the wooden inn sign, carved in ornate script, hung a placard that said VACANCIES. I knew there would be. It was a Sunday in October, and at this time of the year the tourists head to the mountains to leaf-peep, leaving the shoreline to its year-round residents.
I studied the Kennewick Inn. It was a post-and-beam structure built right up against the road, with a large extension behind it, designed to look as old as the original building. All the exterior woodwork had been recently painted white, and even in the gray light of the day it seemed to shine with the promise of luxury and comfort. I wasn’t sure if it was smart to take a room; there was a slim possibility that Miranda was also staying there. Still, it was unlikely—her husband had just been killed, and I assumed she was in Boston taking care of business. But I couldn’t be sure. Running into her would not be the worst thing. There was no reason for her to suspect I had anything to do with her husband. There was zero connection between us. Still, it might put her on her guard, and for my plan to work, I needed her to be relaxed.
I decided to stay. The truth was, I wanted to get a look at where Miranda had been living for most of the past year. People would know her here. There might be gossip. All of which might give me an advantage.
Walking from the car to the reception area, the raw air smelled of woodsmoke. A workman in paint-splattered overalls was coming out of the inn’s side door as I reached it, and he held the door for me as I passed through with my bag. I walked across the uneven, wide-planked floors to the unmanned reception desk. I waited for a minute, then rang the bell. A gray-haired man with a handlebar mustache appeared from a side office. His name tag identified him as John Corning, concierge.
“Checking out?”
“Checking in, actually. If there’s a room. I don’t have a reservation.”
It took about fifteen minutes, as John described several of the available rooms. I settled on one in the old section of the inn. I was warned that the ceilings were low, but that there was a good view of the ocean.
“Just visiting?” John asked.
“I had a couple days off and I’ve never been up here, so I thought I’d treat myself.”
“Well, yah picked the perfect place. There are spa services here, but they’re not walk-in. You need to call ahead. Dining room’s closed tonight, but the Livery’s open down in the cellar, and the food’s just as good, if you ask me. Try the lobster BLT. And I’d be happy to recommend nearby restaurants. Do you need someone to show you to your room?”