Mel gnawed on her lip. That was always the hardest part for her. She tended to be a bubbly, outgoing sort who loved to talk and was always forgetting that she wasn’t supposed to interrupt the interviewee with her own random thoughts. In her mind, she tattooed the words ‘shut up, Mel’ across her brain, while ruefully acknowledging that it probably wouldn’t help.
Last on her to-do list was reporting the real story without personal bias creeping in—another partial check. ‘Report the facts,’ the instructors had always told her, ‘not opinions.’ Unfortunately, Mel tended to have lots of opinions about almost everything, and found it hard not to state them. Well, she inwardly shrugged, at least for this assignment all she needed to write was a straightforward report on a person’s life. A photographer wasn’t likely to be involved in anything controversial and his life couldn’t be that interesting. After all, the man took pictures of flowers and wildlife; she doubted she’d be able to muster much of a personal opinion about that!
The final report wasn’t due for several months, so once she’d tracked the fellow down and interviewed him, she’d have plenty of time to write his life story. Writing was what she did best and those were the courses where she’d received her highest marks. Words seemed to flow through her mind and onto the page in an unending stream. In fact, writing too much tended to be her biggest failing in that area. Luckily, it shouldn’t be a problem in this circumstance, she decided. The report didn’t have to fit the confines of a newspaper column, so she’d be able to ramble as much as she wished...provided Mr. Taylor had anything in his life worth rambling about!
Lying on the bed, she absentmindedly studied the design on the ceiling and thought about what she’d discovered so far. At first, she’d done the most obvious—searching Ryne Taylor’s name on the web. The internet hadn’t turned up much; he was a photographer of some minor renown specializing in nature photography. A few art galleries had shown his work with sales being modest. The picture that had sparked her benefactor’s interest had been purchased at Bastian’s Fine Art Gallery. It was located just a short drive from the man’s last known address, which was in Smythston, Oregon. The previous week, she’d phoned the gallery, but the call had produced very little information. Yes, they had sold a Ryne Taylor photograph to a Mr. Greyson. No, there was no information available to the public about the photographer himself.
The fact that the information wasn’t available to the public meant that there was information available; Mel just needed to find a way to get her hands on it. Unable to find an address or phone number for the mysterious Mr. Taylor, she was resorting to what was affectionately called ‘old fashioned leg work.’ Hence, she found herself travelling half-way across the country in the middle of February to this small non-descript town.
Stretching, she ran her hands through her hair and forced herself to sit up. While she would prefer to be investigating someone on a tropical island, her present location wasn’t all bad. Giving a small bounce, she deemed the bed comfortable and looked around the room, for the first time taking real note of her surroundings.
Decorated in turn of the century elegance, the room had gleaming wood and rich hues throughout, creating a warm and welcoming atmosphere. Aside from the mirror that had revealed her less than perfect appearance, there was a small fireplace with a love seat in front of it, a breakfast table and two chairs, a bed, night tables and a dresser. A door to the side of the room appeared to lead to the bathroom, which made Mel recall her earlier desire for a warm shower and a meal.
Calling the front desk, she arranged for the delivery of a meal to her room. While it was being prepared she headed for the shower, emerging fifteen minutes later wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, and feeling considerably refreshed.
Her timing was perfect. A knock on the door signalled the arrival of her meal and her stomach rumbled in anticipation. Thanking the slight girl who wheeled the cart in, Melody spared her a momentary glance. The girl had dark hair and green eyes; a pretty thing, only slightly younger than herself.
“If you need anything else, just call downstairs and ask for me. My name’s Elise.”
“Thanks, Elise.” Mel lifted the lid off her plate and inhaled the delectable scent of steak cooked to perfection. “Have you worked here long?”
“For about four months. I usually just work in the tea room but Mr. Mancini asked if I’d help out up here this weekend. There’s a ’flu bug going around and he’s short-handed.”