full. Move somebody. I made these reservations eight months ago, and I told you on the phone where I wanted our room.”
The young man mumbled something else without looking up as he tapped on a keyboard. Apparently his words served only to enrage the woman.
“I don’t know who I talked to, but that shouldn’t make no never-mind. Don’t you have a place in that computer to record customer requests?” She pounded a finger on the top of the monitor in front of the clerk.
Another guest walked away from the opposite end of the counter, and the teenage girl seated behind an identical monitor caught Jazzy’s eye. “I can help whoever’s next.”
Her rolling suitcase in one hand and her violin case in the other, Jazzy stepped up to the counter. Liz and Caitlin followed behind her.
“I have a reservation,” she said. “The name’s Jasmine Delaney.”
The girl’s fingers flew across the keyboard, her eyes fixed on the screen in front of her. “For an economy double?”
“That’s right. But if you have a rollaway, there will be three of us in the room.”
The other desk clerk got out of his chair to swipe a key card through the encoder that rested on the counter between the two monitors. Jazzy saw him exchange a quick eye-roll with the girl checking her in.
The girl awarded him a sympathetic grimace before returning her attention to Jazzy. “Sorry, but they’re all gone. Will two double beds be okay?”
Jazzy glanced at her friends. She supposed she could double up with one of them. The three had played together for over a year, but this was their first overnight gig. It might be a test of their friendship.
“Sure, that’ll be fine.”
“Names of the other two guests?”
“Liz Carmichael and Caitlin Saylor.”
The girl’s nimble fingers recorded their names into the computer, then without looking up she said, “The room’s been paid for, but I need to see an ID.”
As Jazzy dug her wallet out of her purse, the angry guest at the other end of the counter walked past, her embarrassed daughter in tow. The girl shuffled behind with her head bowed, limp brown hair falling forward to hide her features. Judging from the satisfied expression on the woman’s broad face, she’d gotten her way with the room.
“Do you want three keys?”
Jazzy glanced at Liz.
“Definitely.”
The desk clerk rolled her chair sideways toward the key encoder. She punched some buttons, paused with a glance toward the young man, punched some more then swiped three cards.
Room keys in hand, Jazzy and her friends gathered their various bags and instrument cases and headed toward the elevator. On the fourth floor they followed the hallway around an open-air atrium. From there Jazzy could see the extent of the lobby. The place might be old, but the owners had done a good job with the decor. A trio of gigantic Florida palms towered from a huge planter in the center, standing guard over the entrance to the restaurant. In the other corner a neon sign announced the location of the Time Out Lounge, and in front of that a series of cubicles contained the hotel’s business center.
“Look at that.” Caitlin dipped her head toward one of the front cubicles. “There’s a radio station right here in the lobby.”
Jazzy read a sign above an empty desk loaded with all kinds of fancy equipment. “WKBR Country Radio.” Her lips twisted. “I’ll bet they never heard of Haydn.”
Liz laughed as they rounded a corner. “Don’t be such a music snob, Jazzy.”
They wound away from the atrium, turned at another corridor and walked down the long hallway. Theirs was the second room from the end. Jazzy dropped her suitcase as she pulled a key card out of its paper sleeve.
“I hope these walls are soundproof.” Liz leveled a glare at the closed door next to theirs. “With my luck we’ll have a ton of those pint-sized beauty pageant contestants right next door.
“It’ll be okay,” Caitlin said. “It’s only for a couple of nights.” She shifted her glance to Jazzy. “How did you find out about this wedding gig, anyway? And how come they had to bring us all the way from Lexington? Couldn’t they get a local ensemble to play?”
Jazzy shook her head as she swiped the card through the reader on the door. “I guess the Bar-B-Q Festival takes priority with the local groups. The bride’s brother read about our ensemble on my ShoutLife profile. He sent a note asking if we’d be willing to make the drive down to Waynesboro. I figured since they’re willing to pay us and cover our hotel bill, it would be worth the trip.”
The light on the door turned green, and Jazzy pushed down on the handle. She didn’t see any need to mention the fact that Derrick Rogers’s profile picture on the online community ShoutLife identified him as a drop-dead gorgeous guy just about her age. And proclaimed that he was a Christian. The combination had been too good to pass up.
“I can’t imagine why someone would plan a wedding on a weekend when their town is going to be overflowing with out-of-town barbecue lovers.” Liz’s lips pursed. “That’s poor planning, if you ask me.”
“Oh, come on, Liz.” Caitlin pushed past Jazzy into the room. “Quit acting like you’re going to a funeral. We’re gonna have fun. I searched the Internet on this festival thing and read up on it. It’s a big deal, with a bunch of different contests for barbecue and burgoo. All kinds of people come to it, and the barbecue teams cook for days in advance. Apparently the food is awesome.” She inhaled deeply. “Wow, I can already smell the barbecue sauce.”
Liz wrinkled her nose as she, too, pushed into the room. “What is burgoo?”
Jazzy grinned at her. “Your Oregon roots are showing. Every good Kentuckian knows what burgoo is.”
“It’s sort of a stew,” Caitlin explained. “It’s made with several different kinds of meat and vegetables and spices. People in Kentucky, especially in mountains and small towns like Waynesboro, are as proud of their secret burgoo recipes as Texans are of their chili recipes.”
“I like chili.” Liz tossed her suitcase on a bed. “What kind of meat’s in burgoo?”
Jazzy followed them inside, past the closed bathroom door. “Well, here’s what an old guy from eastern Kentucky told me when I asked that question.” She affected a hillbilly drawl. “Hit’s got whatever roadkill we pick up ’at day. Coon. Squirrel. Possum burgoo makes good eatin’, long as it ain’t bin layin’ there more’n a day or two.”
Liz’s mouth twisted. “That is disgusting.”
Jazzy laughed and bumped Liz with her violin case. “I’m kidding, girl. Don’t be so gullible. It’s made from lamb, chicken and pork.”
Liz could be a bit on the sour side, but she was an excellent cellist, and a good friend. Jazzy swiveled to survey the room. Decent-sized, with two double beds, an armoire with a television set and a writing desk near the window. She lifted the floral bedspread and inspected the sheets. They smelled a little stale, but
