Fatal Fixer-Upper (7 page)

'Why didn't they? Aunt Inga must have known them a lot better than me. Why didn't she leave the house to them instead?'

Kate and Wayne exchanged another look, this one of amusement. 'Bad blood,' Wayne said. 'Isn't long ago that they tried to have her declared incompetent so they could get their hands on her property.'

'Yikes!' That's a pretty brutal way to treat family. No wonder she'd decided to leave the house to me—a relative unknown—rather than to them. I guess maybe she'd figured I'd be the lesser of two evils, and even if I decided to sell the place, at least the Stenhams wouldn't get it.

'They're real estate developers,' Kate explained. 'And they've already got clearance to level the house and subdivide the property for condos. That's how sure they were that they would inherit. They tried to get Inga committed to a nursing home. And because they shot themselves in the foot with that charge of incompetence a couple of years ago, there was nothing they could do to claim incompetence now. I could totally see one of them breaking into your aunt's house to do some damage.' She looked at Wayne, challenge clear in her hazel eyes. He sighed.

'I'll have a chat with them tomorrow. After I hear the results of the search. OK?'

Kate smiled approvingly.

Wayne added, 'If they were involved, maybe a visit from the chief of police will be enough to keep them from trying again.'

I nodded. 'I appreciate it, Chief Rasmussen.' I handed him the letter. 'It arrived two days ago.'

I watched as the chief of police opened the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of copy paper inside. His lips pursed as he read the message again. Kate, reading over his shoulder, looked from him to me and got to her feet.

'Come on, Avery. Let's get you settled in Shannon's room. You must be tired from the trip and everything that's happened. A good night's sleep will make you feel better. Everything will seem less difficult in the morning.'

She put her hand on my back and guided me out of the kitchen. I went along with her, but I was thinking to myself that it was going to take more than a good night's sleep for me to feel OK about the fact that someone seemed to be threatening not only my property but my life.

5

––Kate's Mr. Ellis showed up the next morning, and scared the bejeezus out of me while he was at it.

I had slept like the dead—Kate had some seriously comfortable beds in her establishment—and after breakfast, which she insisted on feeding me although I wasn't actually a paying guest, I walked up the hill to Aunt Inga's house and let myself in. Kate was right: everything did seem less scary in the bright light of day, and I wasn't too worried about being back there.

The cop Chief Rasmussen had sent over, a sweet young thing of barely twenty, with soft peach fuzz on his chin and a bright-eyed, eager look, had finished going over the kitchen for fingerprints. There was gray powder everywhere that I would have to wipe away once I had finished picking up the broken crockery. He hadn't found any evidence of forced entry; not surprisingly, as the key had been under the mat for anyone to find and use.

After young Officer Thomas had taken his leave, I dressed in old clothes and got busy picking up debris. Many of the broken dishes were in the Blue Willow pattern—creamy porcelain with hand-painted trees, birds, and bridges in gleaming cobalt blue—and while I threw everything else straight into the trash can, I kept those aside. I wasn't sure exactly what I planned to do with them, but the crisp pattern spoke to me. Maybe, when I found another design job, I could copy it for something. It would look lovely on a bedspread, or pillows, or a dress. Or maybe I could even use the pieces themselves for something. Mosaic a picture frame or tabletop or something like that.

Aunt Inga owned an old-fashioned kitchen radio, dating from circa 1975, which I had managed to tune to a local station, and I was singing along with Bruce Springsteen, wiggling my hips to the beat as I worked. I was standing like an ostrich, my derriere in the air and my head buried under the kitchen table, sorting through the pottery pieces that were there, when I happened to glance back and saw another pair of legs, encased in faded jeans and ending in a pair of scuffed work boots, standing behind me.

For a second I couldn't believe my eyes: someone else was in the house? Why hadn't I heard him come in? And then fear struck. Was this the same person who had broken in yesterday? Had he been looking for me then, and now he'd come back to finish the job?

My breath hitched in my throat as my fingers tightened around the dustpan, the most lethal weapon at hand. I considered turning and slashing at him with it, before making a break for the front door, but I wasn't sure I could get up without braining myself on the underside of the table; plus his legs looked a lot longer than mine, and he'd probably catch me. Instead, I dropped to my knees and scurried under the table on all fours, popping up on the other side to face my intruder across the not-quite-large-enough expanse of enamel.

At first glance, he didn't look that scary. (Not unless one happened to be an unattached female with a soft spot for good-looking guys with melting blue eyes. In that case, all bets were off. Good thing I was fed up with men.)

'Miss Baker?' he said, apparently taken aback at my reaction.

I nodded, eyes wide.

'My name's Derek Ellis.'

I blinked. From what Kate had said, I had pictured the handyman in his late middle years, between fifty and sixty perhaps, with a balding pate and a paunch. Someone who wore plaid shirts and chewed tobacco.

Derek did have the plaid shirt, open, over a well-washed T-shirt, and a pair of faded jeans that fit just right. But after that, my picture and reality parted ways. He was no more than three or four years older than me, and three-quarters of a foot taller. There was no paunch in sight, and he had all his hair, which was just a touch closer to blond than brown. It was thick and healthy and in need of a cut, and it curled around his ears and flopped over his forehead. I could imagine that many a woman's fingers might have itched to brush it aside. Mine twitched, too, around the handle of the dustpan. 'Wow,' I said eloquently.

Derek Ellis's lips twitched. 'I thought you knew I was coming.'

I lowered the dustpan. I didn't seem to be in any imminent danger. 'I did know you were coming. Although I thought you'd knock before you walked in.'

'I rang the bell.'

'Did you really?' I shrugged. 'Like most everything else in this house, it probably doesn't work.' The radio, blaring away on the counter, probably hadn't helped, either. I glanced at it but was unwilling—so far—to leave the safety of the far side of the table to turn it off. Ellis didn't notice. He looked around at the cracked vinyl, rusty sink, and leaning cabinets. I did the same. And I know for a fact that the expression on my face was one of resigned horror. Ellis's was—there's no other word for it— inspired. His eyes, the clear blue of cornflowers, turned soft and dreamy.

'Kate says you helped her renovate her house,' I said, laying the dustpan on the table.

He tore his eyes away from the siren song of broken floors and peeling paint long enough to pull a business card out of his pocket and hand it to me. I looked at it. 'Waterfield R and R?'

'Not that kind of R and R.' Either he was reading my mind or he had heard it before. 'Remodeling and restoration.'

'Kate says you're good.'

'When she's right, she's right.'

No false modesty there. 'I suppose she told you that I have to get my aunt's house in shape before I can sell it?'

He nodded. 'Not worth as much as you'd like, I understand.'

'No,' I answered, 'I don't think you do. The Realtor I spoke to offered me a hundred thousand dollars. Kate told me that if I fixed the house up, it might be worth three hundred thousand. I'm out of work. I need to make some money to tide me over until I can find another job. I figure if I spend a couple of weeks and a few thousand dollars . . .'

I stopped when Derek Ellis started chuckling. It was an appealing chuckle, spontaneous and genuine. He had even, white teeth and a dimple, and under other circumstances, I might have found him attractive. At the moment, I was too busy processing the fact that he seemed to be laughing at me. 'I don't understand what's so funny,' I said stiffly.

'I can see you don't.' He wiped away tears of amusement before he continued, his voice uneven. 'If you're gonna renovate an old house, Tinkerbell, first thing you gotta learn is, it always takes longer and costs more than you think. Your couple of weeks will turn into a couple of months, and your few thousand dollars will turn into fifteen or twenty.'

'I have twenty thousand,' I said, 'although I was planning to use some of that to live on . . .'

'Of course you were.'

'And I planned to do as much of the work as I could myself, to save money. I may not be able to haul lumber or sand floors . . .'

'The sander would run away with you,' Derek Ellis nodded, leaning against the counter with his arms folded across his chest, blue eyes assessing me. 'You don't look like you weigh more than one hundred ten pounds soaking wet. And you'd probably cut the electricity to all of Waterfield if you tried to rewire the doorbell.'

I bit my tongue—hard—before answering. 'I'm sure the local library has one of those books,
Renovating forDummies
.'

He grinned.

'I'll need some help, though. If you don't think you're up for it, I'll find someone else.'

I waited, but Derek was silent, allowing me to go on. 'I don't have expensive tastes. I can live on canned tuna and tap water if I have to. I'll be staying here at the house, so I won't have to pay rent. And I don't have a car, so I won't have expenses for gas . . .'

'No car?' Derek interrupted. 'How do you plan to get around?'

'Walk,' I said succinctly. 'This is a small town. Since I won't have much of a life outside this house . . .' The projects would be all-consuming, both the renovating and trying to discover what deep, dark secret Aunt Inga had died before she'd had the chance to impart. 'I figure I can get around just fine on foot.'

Derek quirked a brow. 'And when you need two-byfours from the lumber depot? How are you gonna get those home?'

I wasn't entirely sure what two-by-fours were, but presumably they were too big to carry. 'Ask them to deliver?'

Derek rolled his eyes.

'Fine,' I said. 'So maybe I didn't think this through all the way. Give me a break, OK? It's the first time I've tried to renovate a house. I don't know all the details.' I waited a beat before I added, 'Bet
you
have a car, though.'

'A Ford F-150-150,' Derek corrected. When I looked blank, he clarified, 'It's a pickup truck.'

'Even better. So you could carry the . . . what did you call them? . . . two-by-fours back from the lumber depot no problem.'

I smiled optimistically. The corners of Derek's mouth curled. 'I suppose I could, if I were inclined to.'

I batted my eyes, looking hopeful and girlishly coy.

'What would it take to make you inclined to?'

He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice seductively. I admit it, I held my breath while I waited for him to speak.

'Six hundred a week plus a twenty percent bonus when the house sells,' he said.

So much for looking girly and cute. I squinted suspiciously. 'Twenty percent of what?'

'The selling price, of course.'

'That seems rather steep,' I said. 'A real estate agent only gets six percent.' At least that's what Melissa James had wanted.

'A real estate agent won't have spent three months working his tail off. But if you prefer, you can pay me by the job. I charge fifty dollars to rewire the doorbell and three thousand to redo the kitchen. Plus materials.' He looked around at the scattered porcelain shards, and added, 'If you want help with the cleanup, that's thirty dollars an hour.'

'Six hundred a week is fine,' I said. He smiled, or maybe smirked is more accurate. Until I added, 'And I'll give you a ten percent bonus, but only on the net.' He shrugged.

'It was worth a try. I can start Monday. How is six a.m.?'

'Much too early. I never get up before eight.'

'You'd better set your alarm, then. Unless you want me catching you in bed.'

I shook my head quickly. That was a complication I could do without.

He grinned. 'I'll see you Monday, Tinkerbell.' He wandered toward the hall door, then turned when he heard me come trotting down the hallway after him.

'You don't have to see me out. I can find my own way.'

'I want to make sure the front door is bolted behind you,'

I explained. 'I'd hate for anyone else to walk in. The next person may not be as harmless as you.'

His eyebrows rose, but he didn't comment. I stood in the doorway and watched him walk through the weedy yard before locking the door and fastening the security chain. Just as I was about to turn around and go back to the task of sorting pottery pieces, I heard the growl of a large engine outside and paused for a moment to peek through the window to watch Derek's vehicle pull away from the curb and into the street. And when I headed back to the kitchen, I was gnawing my lip thoughtfully. Turns out that a Ford F-150-150 is a big truck, one with plenty of room in the back for two-byfours, whatever they may be. This particular Ford F-150-150 was black with tinted windows, and it looked very much like the truck I had seen the first time I'd been here. The truck that had taken off from the curb with that same impatient growl and that had nearly clipped the front of my rental car in its hurry to get away from Aunt Inga's house.

. . .

Around dinnertime, I had another visitor. There was a knock on the door, and when I looked out, I saw a cream-colored Mercedes parked at the curb.

I managed to bite back a groan, but just barely. For a second I thought about staying inside and pretending I wasn't home. I didn't want to talk to Melissa James. I had been dreading this moment, when I'd have to face her and explain that I had decided not to sell Aunt Inga's house after all. And I especially didn't want to see her when she was, once again, dressed to kill in a Roberto Cavalli raw silk suit and eight-hundred-dollar Manolo Blahnik pumps, while I was wearing my oldest jeans, a dirty T-shirt, and no lipstick, with my hair tucked under a scarf.

Too late. She had seen me peer out, and hiding would have been childish. Instead, I opened the door and gave her my best smile. I was a New York designer (out of work, admittedly, but still), and she was a provincial real estate agent; I had no reason to feel inadequate. 'Why, hello, Melissa. Won't you come in?'

'I'd love to,' Melissa said. She stepped delicately over the threshold and into the house, giving the impression that dirt and dust was simply attaching itself to her leg as she did it.

'Have a seat.' I indicated the worn love seat in the parlor. It must be where the cats hung out when they were home, because the gray velvet was covered with cat hair. I crossed my fingers surreptitiously, hoping that some of it might adhere to Melissa's elegant posterior. 'What can I do for you?'

She sat down, crossed her legs—I had a momentary vision of Tara on Philippe's sofa—leaned back, and smiled.

'You can accept my client's offer of one hundred ten thousand dollars.'

I lifted an eyebrow. 'The offer went up?'