Fatal Fixer-Upper (8 page)

Melissa shrugged elegantly. 'When you didn't call me, I assumed it was because you weren't interested. So I spoke to my client and asked him if he wanted to sweeten the deal. He said he could go to one hundred ten thousand dollars and still come out OK.'

Something in her voice sounded off, like she was having a private laugh. It seemed to me that maybe her client thought that one hundred ten thousand dollars would be a steal, and he'd come out OK at a much higher price. For a second I thought about calling her on it, but then I decided that it didn't matter. The house wasn't for sale. Not yet.

'I'm sorry,' I said, not too sincerely, 'but I've decided to hang on to the house for now. Make some repairs and do some updating. I don't want to off-load it to the first person who asks. Especially for so little money. This was my aunt's home, and I feel I owe it to her to treat it with respect.'

Plus, I still had to discover Aunt Inga's secret and right whatever wrong she had mentioned in her letter.

Melissa didn't answer for a moment, just looked at me.

'It's a big job,' she said eventually, looking around. 'Are you sure you want to take it on?'

I shrugged. 'I want to try. If it doesn't work out, I can always sell it later.'

'That's true,' Melissa said with another bright smile.

'I'll let Ra . . . my client know that the house isn't for sale at the moment, but that he's first in line when you change your mind.'

That wasn't exactly what I'd said, but I let it go. Melissa stood up and extended her hand. 'Stay in touch, Avery. Let me know how it goes.'

'Sure,' I said, gesturing her to precede me out into the hallway. When her back was turned, I stared intently at her perfect rear end, but to my disappointment, the silk was slick enough that the cat hairs just slid right off and landed on the floor. Something else I'd have to clean up. That figured.

. . .

'Of course,' Mother said when I called her that evening, 'of course I remember my cousin Mary Elizabeth. We didn't grow up together, but I'd see her at family gatherings and such. Why do you ask?'

'Her name came up,' I said vaguely. My mother was on the other side of the continent, thousands of miles and sev eral time zones away; there was no reason to worry her with the news that someone had broken into Aunt Inga's house and vandalized it. Or that I was getting what amounted to death threats. 'I didn't realize I had family up here. Other than Aunt Inga, I mean.'

'Your grandfather was born in Waterfield, dear. He moved to Portland when he was a young man. His sister Catherine was already married then. For as long as my father was alive, we'd go back to visit occasionally. Once Daddy passed on, the visits became fewer, and then, when Aunt Catherine died, I had even less reason to visit. Mary Elizabeth and I were never close, and I was living in New York by then; the trip was longer and more difficult. I'm sure you don't remember, but the reason we went to Waterfield when you were five was to pay our respects to Aunt Catherine.'

'That's when Aunt Catherine died? Did I go to the funeral?'

'Oh, no,' Mother said. 'You stayed at the house with Aunt Inga and the cats while I went to the funeral.'

'Why didn't Aunt Inga go to the funeral?' Waterfield wasn't a big town now and must have been smaller then; Inga and Catherine had to have known each other.

'Oh, dear.' I could practically hear Mother biting her lip. When she answered, her voice was lowered, as if she were afraid that someone would overhear. 'Catherine and Inga didn't get along. They'd had some sort of falling-out years ago, and never mended the relationship. Something about a young man, I believe. I think Catherine may have stolen Inga's beau or something.'

'Gosh,' I said, thinking of the leggy Tara, 'that would certainly be enough to make me want to avoid her for the rest of my life.' I think I'd probably go to her funeral, though. To make sure she was really dead, and to dance on her grave. OK, maybe that was a little harsh. 'Why didn't you and your cousin Mary Elizabeth get along?' Had Mary Elizabeth tried to steal Mother's boyfriend at some point, too?

'I didn't say we didn't get along, just that we were never close. She's five or six years older than me, and we only saw each other occasionally. I left Portland at eighteen to go to college. By then, Mary Elizabeth was already married and settled in Waterfield with her husband. A couple of years later they had twins.'

'That's what I hear,' I said. 'The police chief . . .' I bit my tongue, but it was too late.

'Police chief?' Mother repeated. 'You've been talking to the police? Why? Nothing's wrong, is it?'

'Nothing I can't handle. Chief Rasmussen is dating the woman who runs the B and B where I stayed last . . .' I hesitated for a tenth of a second. '. . . week. They were telling me about the Stenham brothers. Mary Elizabeth's children. Apparently they tried to have Aunt Inga declared incompetent a few years ago, so they could get their hands on her property.'

Mother snorted. 'I can imagine how well that must have gone over. Aunt Inga was sharp as a tack. Physically, she may have been wearing down, but there was nothing wrong with her mental capabilities.'

I nodded. 'The doctor must have agreed with you, because the Stenhams didn't get her power of attorney. From what I understand, they assumed they would inherit when she died. They were all set to tear down the house and build condos when they discovered that she had left it all to me.'

The Stenhams were probably the relatives Mr. Rodgers had mentioned, who had threatened to sue. 'I can't really blame Aunt Inga, though,' I added. 'If someone tried to have me declared incompetent, I wouldn't have left them my house, either.'

'Not only that,' Mother said, 'but they tried to shave poor Prissy once.'

'Prissy?'

'One of the cats. It's more than twenty years ago now;

I'm sure Prissy is no more. The twins would have been twelve or thirteen, I think.'

'Gosh,' I said, fascinated in spite of myself, 'what happened?'

'Oh, not much. When poor Prissy came home, practically bald, Aunt Inga paid a visit to Mary Elizabeth and saw that Ray and Randy had scratches all up and down their arms. She threatened to report them to the police and the ASPCA if it happened again. Mary Elizabeth was quite upset.'

'I can imagine.' If they had been my children, I would have been upset, too. Not to mention embarrassed to claim them as my own.

'Oh, not because they were nasty little beasts who had hacked most of the fur off that poor animal, dear. Because she thought Aunt Inga was making a mountain out of a molehill.' Mother paused. 'I guess you don't remember Ray and Randy, do you? You met them that summer we were up there.'

'I did? No, I don't remember that at all.'

'You've probably blocked it. They were thoroughly awful little boys. Three or four years older than you, and big for their age, while you were on the small side even then . . .'

I nodded. I was always the shortest kid in my class, and things haven't changed much since I was little. No pun intended.

'They came over to play while Mary Elizabeth and I went to Catherine's funeral, and of course they ran roughshod over you. You had bruises all over your little legs when I came back, so they must have been throwing rocks . . .'

'Not rocks.' I shook my head, remembering now. 'Those hard, green apples. There's a tree in the backyard, remember? They tricked me into playing cowboys and Indians and left me tied to the tree for hours while they pelted me with apples . . .'

Mother sat in sympathetic silence while my voice shook. Oh yes, I remembered the Stenham twins now. Two nineyear-old bullies with black curly hair, red cheeks, oversized teeth, and braying laughs.

'So how are things going?' Mother asked divertingly.

'Are you getting settled in all right?'

I wriggled my aching body a little farther into the soft pillows on the bed. 'I suppose. The place is a horrible mess. I've spent all day scrubbing, and all I've managed to do is clean the downstairs and arrange a bedroom for myself. I found an upstairs room with a view of the garden, where I think we stayed when we were here before. There's something familiar about it. It has an old-fashioned twin bed and a matching toilet table with a mirror, and a whole lot of vintage clothes in the closet, mostly from the 1940s and 50's. Aunt Inga's, I guess. Great old fabric in good condition. I'll keep them, if you don't mind.'

'That sounds fine, dear,' Mother said. 'Offhand, I can't think of anything of Aunt Inga's that I'd like to have, but if you find family photographs or letters or anything like that, you'll keep those aside for me, won't you, Avery?'

'Of course,' I said, slightly indignant. 'I wasn't planning to sell Aunt Inga's personal correspondence on eBay. I'm not totally lacking in common courtesy or family feeling or whatever.'

'Of course you're not, dear,' Mother said soothingly. 'I didn't mean to imply that you lack either sense or sensitivity. Just keep anything related to the family aside for me, if you don't mind.'

I promised I would, and we said our good-byes and hung up. And then I flopped back on the bed with a dispirited groan. Mother and Noel were on their way out to a romantic dinner, with wine and candlelight and the sound of waves crashing against the shore, and in New York, Philippe and Tara were probably hand-feeding each other pieces of
Cuisses de Grenouille à la Provençale
at Le Coq au Vin
.
Or, knowing Tara and her juvenile tastes, and Philippe and his,
Pissaladière
(pizza with tomatoes, onions, and anchovies) in bed. While all I had to do tonight was crack open a microwaveable box of frozen macaroni and cheese. Alone. Sometimes, life just isn't fair.

6

––Derek Ellis showed up as advertised, before dawn on Monday, with a truckful of tools and an attitude that came close to being the death of me. I'm not a morning person, and I was worn out from working hard all weekend. On Saturday, after cleaning all the pottery shards off the kitchen floor, I'd emptied the ancient, harvest gold refrigerator humming loudly in the corner. This had been a supremely unpleasant task, due to the fact that some of Aunt Inga's food had been sitting there for long enough to congeal and grow entire forests of green mold.

In addition to tackling the downstairs, I had also walked to the grocery store and returned dragging a couple of bags of food and more cleaning supplies. After that, I spent the rest of the day making sure I had somewhere to sleep and clean sheets to sleep on, which was a production number in itself, given Aunt Inga's circa 1960 washing machine. It must have taken ten minutes just to figure out where to pour the detergent. And then I pretty much collapsed into bed to make my phone call to California. I hadn't even had the energy to get back up to microwave the contemplated mac and cheese. On Sunday morning, I had scrubbed the ancient, footed bathtub before soaking my aching body in rusty, sulphursmelling water. Thus restored, I had gone on to clean the rest of the bathroom. I had also cleaned the rest of the upstairs and tried to restore it to some semblance of order. By the time I had done all this it was past dinnertime, and I didn't feel like I could move another muscle.

So I gnawed on a dry bagel and fell into bed again, exhausted. When Derek showed up the next morning, I was blinking sleep out of my eyes as I stumbled down the stairs to let him in, wearing yesterday's dirty jeans and T-shirt and with my hair straggling over my face.

Unlike me, Mr. Ellis must have gotten his full eight hours of beauty sleep. His eyes were clear and bright, his hair was freshly washed and flopped distractingly over his forehead, and he filled out the plain, white T-shirt quite nicely, thank you. A tool belt was slung low around his hips, and he was obviously looking forward to getting to work.

'Morning, Tinkerbell.' He grinned at me in passing. 'I'll start tearing out the kitchen floor, if that's all right.'

'Sure,' I said, turning to look after him. 'What do you want me to do?'

'Whatever you want. Go shopping or something.'
Something female,
his tone seemed to say.

'I was thinking I could help . . .' I began. He stopped at the end of the hall, framed in the doorway.

'No offense, but unless you know what you're doing, I'd just as soon you'd stay out of the way. Wouldn't want you to get hurt.' He ducked inside the kitchen. Irritated, I headed up the stairs to the second floor. Chivalry is well and good, but not when it interferes with my newfound resolutions. By the time I got back downstairs, after washing and brushing and putting on clean clothes, I could hear prying and banging noises from the kitchen. When I stopped in the doorway, I saw that Derek had already ripped up several square feet of ancient vinyl. As I watched, he inserted his forked metal bar under another section of flooring and heaved.

The muscles in his arms strained against the sleeves of the T-shirt, and the vinyl groaned. I smiled appreciatively. His personality might benefit from a few weeks at charm school, but there was nothing wrong with his looks.

The floor uncovered by the removal of at least three layers of ugly, outdated vinyl was another story: dried-out hardwood, almost black with age and old, hardened glue. I eyed it with disappointment. It bore no resemblance to the gleaming hardwoods in Kate's house, or even to the dusty and scuffed wood floors in the rest of Aunt Inga's house. No wonder it had been covered. Derek might as well just put another layer of vinyl over it. Or maybe some tile. Or even industrial tile, the kind in video stores and health centers.

The whole industrial look was popular in New York at the moment: lofts and warehouses being turned into living space, with exposed ductwork crisscrossing the ceiling and stainless steel everywhere. Aunt Inga's house, with its tall windows and taller ceilings, would be a great candidate for the loft look.

'What are you doing?' Derek asked curiously. He had stopped working and was looking at me.

I flushed; apparently I had been standing like a statue, staring into space, muttering to myself. Bad habit. 'Sorry. I was just redesigning the kitchen in my mind. You know, picturing a new floor and new cabinets . . .'

'What do you want new cabinets for?' Derek wanted to know. 'Nothing wrong with these. Solid wood, custom built sometime in the 1930s, by the look of 'em.' To prove his point, he thumped the nearest cabinet door with his fist. The resulting thud was certainly solid.

'They look like something the cats dragged in,' I ob jected and went on to elaborate, colorfully, 'off the beach, somewhere. From a hundred-year-old shipwreck.'

'Nonsense,' Derek said dismissively. 'They don't make cabinets like these anymore. Not unless you're willing to pay a craftsman a lot of money. You clean 'em, you sand 'em, you stain 'em or paint 'em . . . they're good as new.' His hand slid caressingly along one cabinet front, the way another man might touch some shapely part of his girlfriend.

'I was thinking maybe something more modern . . . ?' I said. 'The industrial look is very popular right now. My . . . um . . . someone I know in New York just redid his kitchen with a concrete counter and industrial tile on the floor. Very current. Very hip. Very urban.'

Derek's face congealed. 'Industrial look?' he repeated. I nodded brightly.

'Did you say a
concrete
counter?'

'And stainless steel appliances. Exposed brick walls, air ducts running underneath the ceiling; very utilitarian. The industrial look is the hottest thing in interior design in New York this year.'

'Right,' Derek said. 'You may not have noticed, Miss Baker . . .'

'Call me Avery.' Or Tinkerbell. Anything was better than the formal Miss Baker.

'. . . but you're not in New York anymore.'

'Still,' I said, 'Miss James told me that stainless steel and granite is popular here in Waterfield as well . . .'

Derek's eyes narrowed. 'Who?'

'Melissa James. You know, the real estate agent?' From the way she'd talked, I had assumed that everyone in Waterfield knew Melissa James.

'I know Melissa,' Derek said. It could have been my imagination, but it looked like his hand tightened on the crowbar. I took a prudent step backward. 'Melissa told you to tear out the old kitchen cabinets and put in stainless steel and granite?'

'Well . . . she didn't exactly tell me to do it. Not in so many words. It was more of a suggestion, I guess. She said that's what buyers are looking for.'

Derek muttered something. From the look on his face I assumed it would be unprintable, so I didn't ask him to repeat it. 'Listen, Miss Baker,' he said. I opened my mouth, and he added, quickly, 'Avery, I mean. Avery, there's nothing wrong with these kitchen cabinets. They're solid wood, well made, much better quality than anything you'll find these days, and there are plenty of 'em . . .'

'But they're a little old-fashioned, don't you think?'

'Nothing wrong with being old-fashioned,' Derek said stubbornly.

'Of course not,' I agreed, although I tend to think there are all sorts of things wrong with it. 'But if we're going to try to sell this house for top dollar, to get us both as much money as possible—and you're getting ten percent, remember?— don't you think it would be better to give the people what they want? It's not like either you or I will be living here a few months from now.
We
don't have to look at it.'

'I'm not putting in a concrete counter,' Derek said. 'I don't care how urban and hip you say it is. This is a Victorian house; a concrete counter wouldn't look right.'

'But it's
my
Victorian house. And
my
money you're using to renovate it. Don't you think that gives me the right to have whatever kitchen counter I choose?'

'Not if I'm doing the renovations,' Derek said.

'Then maybe I should find someone else to do the renovations.'

He grinned. 'Maybe you should. Good luck finding someone else who'll do it for six hundred dollars a week.'

I scowled. 'Fine. Have it your way. I'm going to tackle Aunt Inga's desk. I'll be in the front parlor if you need me.'

I didn't wait for an answer, just turned on my heel and marched down the hallway, ignoring his chuckle. Had there been a door to slam, I would have slammed it. The parlor had doors, but they were the sliding kind—solid wood pocket doors—and they didn't make anything like a satisfying bang when they met in the middle. Still, they served to keep me in and Derek out, and muffled considerably the sounds of his labor as I sat down at Aunt Inga's ugly 1970s desk and began tossing things around.

. . .

My aging aunt may have had a method to her madness, but if so, it wasn't discernible to me. The desk was just as disorganized as the rest of the house. The top surface was a jumble of receipts, opened and unopened mail—the unopened presumably brought in by Mr. Rodgers in the days since Aunt Inga's death—grocery coupons from Sunday's newspaper supplement, and little pieces of paper with scribbles on them, where Aunt Inga had added or subtracted numbers from her checkbook or written little reminders to herself to buy cat food or lightbulbs.

The top drawer was in a similar state, with the addition of about a half dozen pens and blunt pencils, some rubber bands, assorted paper clips and other fasteners, a bottle of Elmer's school glue, a wooden ruler that looked like it dated back to Aunt Inga's own school days, two rolls of Scotch tape, and a slew of other small items of the sort that most people accumulate over time and keep around to make their lives easier.

The bottom drawer held hanging file folders for Aunt Inga's bank account statements, income taxes, paid bills, and the like. I gave them a cursory glance, but as Mother had said, Aunt Inga hadn't owned much. I didn't find anything to contradict that impression.

Derek had gone to lunch sometime between eleven and noon, and I had taken advantage of his absence to sneak into the kitchen to see what he'd accomplished. So far, so good: the vinyl floor was gone, and so was the ugly half-circular sink that had hung on one wall. Or not gone, exactly; there was a big pile of debris on the lawn outside, but at least it was out of the house. I'd made myself a sandwich while I was out there, and had eaten it standing on the blackened floor, leaning against one of the (well-made, perfectly good) kitchen cabinets that Derek had insisted on saving. Now I was back at Aunt Inga's desk, turning over papers, digging for anything that might give me some idea why Aunt Inga had summoned me to Waterfield and what the big secret might be.

I was just lifting out a thick manila folder labeled with the word
Cats
when there was a knock on the front door. Startled, I jumped, and the file slipped from my hand and hit the edge of the desk, where it exploded all over the parlor floor.

'Damn!' I muttered, as papers flew everywhere. Then I raised my voice, 'Yeah, yeah. Hold on, I'm coming.'

I assumed it was Derek, back from lunch, and I was rather looking forward to taking some of my bad mood out on him. But instead, I saw the bright curls and brighter eyes of Kate McGillicutty through the window in the front door.

'Hi!' she said brightly when I opened the door. 'I brought you your critters.' She'd offered to keep them for the weekend, until I was settled in.

I looked around. There was nothing in her hands, not that I expected the regal Jemmy to have allowed himself to be carried. Or that Kate would have wanted to haul his bulk around. 'Where?'

Kate waved a hand toward the street. 'They took off as soon as I opened the car door.' I looked past her to the tan station wagon parked at the curb. 'They'll be back when they get hungry. Don't worry about them; they know how to get around.' She peered curiously over my shoulder into the semidarkness of the house.

'In that case,' I said and took a step aside, 'would you care to come in?'

Kate grinned. 'I thought you'd never ask.'

'You've been here before, right?'

Kate nodded. 'I came with Wayne to pick up the cats after your aunt . . . you know.'

'Well, I've cleaned, and Derek Ellis has torn up the floor in the kitchen and removed the sink, but that's pretty much it so far.' I wandered along the hallway toward the kitchen as I talked, with Kate trailing behind. 'He refuses to take down the old cabinets; says they're constructed better than anything I'll be able to find these days. Never mind the fact that they're ugly as sin and not at all what I want. I was tempted to borrow that crowbar thing he's been using, and try to take them down myself, but he took it with him when he went to lunch.' He'd been grinning when he walked out with it over his shoulder, too, as if he'd known what I was planning.

Kate giggled. 'He isn't the easiest person in the world to get along with.'

'No kidding.'

'Although if you let him have his way, he might surprise you.'

'It's
my
kitchen!' I said.