Left to Kill (Adele Sharp #4) - Blake Pierce Page 0,23

the manager’s look with equal amounts of suspicion.

Adele translated, “He wants to know if you remember the American, Amanda Johnson. Online, it says you have to register to check in. You have access to those files?”

The hostel manager stood in the doorway of the small, two-story house. Next to the glass door, a small black chalkboard had green letters reading, “Welcome. Check in from 9 to 5. Check out 12 PM sharp. No smoking.”

Adele glanced toward the asphalt driveway. A scattering of trees surrounded the drive, and someone had extended the drive with gravel dumped between the trees, then pushed out with rakes or shovels toward the forest. Five cars were parked in the driveway or on the gravel. One of them, Adele and John had used to reach the hostel. The others, though, looked in different states of repair and care, suggesting different owners.

“You have guests with you now?” Adele asked.

The manager raised an eyebrow at her. She crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips. She had on a white apron, and her hands were dusted with flour. A pencil was stuck behind one ear, and a slight glaze of sweat covered her brow, suggesting perhaps she’d been in the kitchen with the oven on.

“Which question do you want me to answer?” said the manager.

Adele cleared her throat where she stood on the porch with John next to her. She glanced past the woman into the hostel, expectantly. But the woman stayed on the porch, refraining from inviting them in.

“Look,” said the manager, “I have records, and I keep a registry. For my sake as much as theirs. This is a youth hostel. Age limit of thirty. We like to keep it that way. Tend to only have shorter-term guests, who are willing to move on if they need to.”

“We?” said Adele.

“I run this place with my sister. Yes.”

“And you’re Ms. Schroeder?” said Adele.

“You may call me Michelle,” said the woman, without cracking so much as a smile. She adjusted the pencil behind her ear, causing a flecking of dust to dislodge from her fingers onto the side of her hair.

John cleared his throat and said, “What’s she saying?”

“She says she runs the place with her sister,” Adele translated in French. She switched back to German. “Would it be all right if my partner and I step in? Quite cold out here.”

Ms. Schroeder crossed her arms even tighter now, as if she were hugging herself. “Are you over the age of thirty?”

Adele chuckled nervously. “Guilty as charged.”

Ms. Schroeder shrugged. “House rules. Unless you have a warrant, I need you to stay outside. The tenants would feel uncomfortable.”

“I can’t say that makes much sense to me. Fine. You’re saying Amanda Johnson did stay here, though?”

“Well, when you called ahead, I went and looked up the names you gave me.” The woman stared at Adele, almost as if she were challenging her. Then, from memory, without so much as a glance at a piece of paper, or her eyes rolling to the side in recollection, she said, “Amanda Johnson, Catherine Waters, Ross Ortega, and Yusuf Yazici.”

Adele nodded. “Impressive.”

The woman kept her arms crossed. “Yes, well, we’re a bit of a family here. Most don’t stay long. But many are frequent visitors. Will come for summers to go backpacking or for minimalist excursions.”

She extended a hand toward the asphalt and gravel driveway, indicating a portion of cleared woods beyond the first row of trees. Adele had spotted it on the way in. There was a small gate, with white flowers dappling the top of the wooden structure. Within, through the slats, she spotted a small garden bed, with different pots and different colors of plants. Most of them weren’t growing during the winter, but she saw spotted notecards and signs. A layer of translucent fabric was suspended above the small garden, like fishing nets, with hooks attached to the trees above, protecting twigs and leaves from falling, and perhaps also protecting from snow.

“You do your own gardening?”

“Everyone does,” she said. “Many of the people that come through here rent out portions of the garden. Long-term. The red tomatoes, cucumbers.” She shrugged. “This place isn’t so much somewhere to stay, as a launching pad for a way of life.”

John huffed in frustration next to Adele, now leaning against the wooden banister of the porch rail. “What’s she saying now?” he said.

“Merde, Renee! She’s talking about vegetables, you wouldn’t care. Shush.” Adele glanced back at the woman. “So you have college-aged