Welcome to Fugitive Inn

Brynn McMurray is awakened to a sea of reporters at her Maine inn in the middle of the night. Her ex-husband is a wanted criminal, and, according to the note left at the scene, he's heading for her inn. However, two of Brynn's current elderly guests think Nazis have invaded and want to shoot one of the reporters -- Norman the Naked Newsman. Brynn would rather remove all the guests out of the inn so she can have a peaceful life, alone. But until her ex-husband is caught, she's on a mission to stay sane.

Excerpt

A huge thud woke me. I was in the midst of a dream about a gorgeous blond man feeding me chocolate-covered strawberries and plying me with glasses of champagne in the back of a private airplane. Whoever or whatever made that noise to wake me up was going to pay. Dreams like that were hard to come by for any woman over 40.

I sat up in my bed. Another noise came from outside and I heard talking. "No," I whined. "Not now. I don't want more guests in the middle of the night."

"Miss McMurray," a woman said in a low tone from outside my door. "I think da mobs are going to kill us." She had a German accent and I knew right away that it was Mrs. Jones. Her parents had been prisoners in Auschwitz, and the paranoia they'd taught their children was astounding. Her husband, though, was from the United States. Her husband's father had fought the Nazis in World War II, meeting Mrs. Jones' parents when he rescued them. The elderly Mr. Jones had brought them all home to America with him.

The 'younger' Mr. and Mrs. Jones were now staying in a room at my inn. Mr. Jones was 72 and the missus was 70. I'd gotten their whole story—whether I wanted to hear it or not—when they'd checked in.

I lowered my feet to the floor, thinking chocolate-covered strawberries would be much better than the current taste in my mouth. I stood up and headed to the door, wondering why the clock even bothered working in the middle of the night, because no one in their right mind cared.

The door lock was cold in my hand as I flipped the metal to the side, making me realize it was early May, which in my mind, was still winter in the Pine Tree State. I threw the door open to see Mrs. Jones in front of me with her husband hunched over beside her, holding onto his walker.

"Miss McMurray," the woman said. "Da mob's outside. I think dey found us." Her eyes grew in size, looking more than terrified. "Where can we hide to get away from these peoples?" Her German accent was mild enough to understand. "I'm sure they're sent here from Hitler himself."

She was probably right on that point. The entire universe seemed to be out to get me lately.

But I wasn't about to deal with this. Granted, I'd be worried, too, if I'd heard of the horrors of Auschwitz firsthand, but this was Maine. We didn't usually have mobs hunting us down, and ghosts usually didn't make that much noise to attack people. Everyone knew ghosts and mobs seemed to like stealth attacks. No, this was probably a drunken guest and not a mob.

"I'm sure they're not here for you," I said. "And I'm sure Hitler's ghost is asleep, just like everyone else. Who knows…it may be someone from the town. They may not like me because I'm from Philly." I ushered the couple out toward the hallway. "Just go back to your room and lock your door." I pushed up the long sleeves of my sweatshirt and went into the hallway. "I'll handle this, Philly style." And I meant it. Mr. Blond Man of my dreams needed me. I could almost hear him calling me back to the chocolate-covered strawberries.

"I have a shotgun," Mr. Jones said. "I don't go anywhere without it."

I stared at him. Maybe they were fugitives and I should install metal detectors at the front door. Who were these people, anyway?

I studied the elderly couple. They were no threat, each of them having one foot in the grave. "I don't think…"

The old man took off, pushing his walker in front of him. I didn't know he could move that fast, making me just watch him in admiration. I hoped I could move that fast at his age.

The banging got louder at the back door. I ran into my room and shrugged on some sneakers and a jacket, figuring I could handle the people before Mr. Jones came out with a shotgun. The thought of a shotgun at my inn boggled my mind. Besides, the guy seemed blind and would probably hurt someone if he had any type of ammunition.

I turned toward the door. "Yeah, I'm coming!" I glanced at my watch. Two in the morning? What was going on? If it was a guest, they were paying for the entire night. No one woke me from a dream like that and got away with it.

I turned on the lights in the living room and moved to the back door, which was close to the cliff overlooking the beach. Before I opened it, I flipped on the lights, pulled back a curtain, and looked out. A sea of people stood in front of me. It looked like reporters with cameramen, microphones, and news trucks off to the side. Had I finally won the lottery or something? If not, I'd throw the entire lot of them into the Atlantic Ocean. This was the Rockbridge Inn, a respected landmark on the coast of Maine, not a place for a college party.

"I'll help," Mrs. Jones said, holding onto my arm. "If my parents could live through the camps, I can help with dis." She grasped the neck of her long flannel nightgown and black_anded the top, then straightened it out. "If I'm taken to a camp, I have to be dignified. My mudder told me dat."

I fought off the urge to roll my eyes as I ran my fingers through my short hair, hoping I looked good for their cameras. If these people weren't here to give me money, then they'd better leave and let me get back to my incredible dream.

I lifted the cordless phone beside the door, with my fingers ready to call for help. I didn't know any cops I wanted near the inn, so I might have to call in some undesirable favors from said cops if this crowd turned unruly. The thought made me shudder.

I took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and swung it open, just as a volley of questions were yelled at me.