Death at a Fixer-Upper (5 page)

For breakfast I made an effort to sustain the level of haute cuisine established the night before by serving sliced bread, lightly toasted, topped with a purée of roasted peanuts and garnished with a compote of boiled fruit. Max was out the door before the last mouthful was swallowed, leaving me and Harley to tidy up and plan our day.

I cleaned the litterbox, then started on my “toilette,” going the extra mile by flossing my teeth and pressing a cold washcloth against my eyes to get rid of the little crusties. I passed up a chance to stand under tepid shower water—I suspected Bob of cranking down the setting on our water heater—and instead rinsed my head under the bathroom faucet. My hair was six weeks out from a cut at Steve's Barber ‘n' Brew but fell into perfect layers after a brisk rub with a towel, a testament to Steve's beer-fueled genius.

I dressed in clean Levi's and, after giving the armpit area a test sniff, opted for yesterday's little black shirt with an extra swipe of deodorant. The air in our apartment felt moist and sticky and our view of the Dumpster out back was clouded by humidity, so I dug deep in my closet and chose a linen jacket over my usual tweed. The material was the color and texture of a burlap sack and a bit itchy, but I liked the way it looked in the mirror; if I could refrain from scratching as if I had a bad case of fleas, I might pass as a professional.

I took a detour to the office to check for messages and update my lockbox card. The place was cold and empty, but through the window above the sink in the kitchenette I caught a flash of movement. I peered through the glass. A man was rolling up a bedroll on the back deck. I watched him secure each end with a strap and attach the roll to a battered pack frame. He was in his late sixties, long-legged and thin, with a fringe of gray under a faded Niners cap and a grizzled mustache and beard. This had to be Biddie's vagrant of yesterday morning. I'd be damned if I'd prove her right.

I yanked open the back door and he looked up. His eyes were a clear, untroubled blue, his expression mild and curious. The harsh words on my lips evaporated. Instead, I found myself saying, “Good morning.”

He nodded politely. I watched as he finished his packing and rolled to his feet with the ease of a much younger man. “Good day to you,” he said, then he hoisted the frame to his shoulders and stepped carefully down the stairs, strolling west on Sunset.

I went back into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee, all the while berating myself. I was soft, just as Biddie'd said. Naïve. A pushover. I poured coffee into a semi-clean travel mug and dumped the last of Biddie's half-and-half into it, then stirred in three packets of sugar, vowing to toughen up before the day was through.

A few minutes before eleven, I parked my car on Eleventh Street and started down Aster Lane, pausing to open the gate for my client. Blackberry canes grabbed at my jacket as I continued down the drive, skirting pools where the May rains had collected. In the murky water, scores of mosquito larvae practiced their aerobics routines.

The house was shrouded in fog. Oddly, it wasn't the light, sweet mist I'd experienced in town but something heavier and darker that pressed against my cranium like the seeds of a headache. With keys in hand, I followed the brick path around the side of the house toward the back door. As I was about to mount the steps, I heard a voice coming from the yard. I hustled around the rear of the house and saw the bulky shape of a man standing by the wishing well.

He spoke a few words into a cell phone, then tucked it in his pocket and took out a small ringed notebook. He was busily jotting down figures when I hurried up.

“Richard Ravello?” I said. “I'm Sam Turner.”

He tucked the notebook under his left arm and held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you. I hope you don't mind that I got started. I was a few minutes early.”

“No, that's fine. I didn't see your car or I would have found you sooner.”

“I parked on the street,” he said easily. He had sleek black hair combed straight back and a smooth, tight face with eyes so dark the pupils blended with the irises. His suit was navy blue and at least ten years out of style; the fit was tight across the shoulders, the fabric shiny with strain and the collar dusted with dandruff. The trousers were an inch too short, revealing black socks and patent-leather dress shoes. A travel mug sat on the wishing well, emitting little wisps of coffee-scented steam.

“I was just on the phone with my boss,” he said. “I'm encouraged by what I see here. Nice level parcel, good drainage, utilities already onsite. I see twenty, maybe thirty lots here once we clear the house and vegetation.”

“There may be a little issue with that,” I said. “Something to do with the will. I have a copy of it and this afternoon I'm meeting with the attorney who wrote it up, so I'll be able to tell you more then.” Was that diligence or what?

Ravello merely shook his head. “Doesn't worry me. Things like that have a way of resolving themselves.” He winked and smiled, a smile that never reached his dead-alive eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that in my experience a fat wad of cash usually removes most obstacles. Take my word for it.”

He pulled a tape measure from his jacket pocket and retrieved his mug. “I need to take a few measurements of the house to pass on to our demolition team. Lead the way.”

We retraced our steps to the back door. Before using my key, I rapped on the glass panel.

“Is someone home?” Richard said. “I thought the place was cleared out.”

“I always like to double-check,” I said, remembering more than one occasion when I'd entered a vacant home and surprised an occupant. “But no, there shouldn't be anyone home.”

We entered the kitchen. While Richard took measurements, I placed my business card on the kitchen table. He paced off the kitchen, then poked his head into the tiny room off the back. “Servants' quarters, eh?”

I turned away, in case my feelings were written across my face. “Do you want to see the upstairs?”

“A quick look. I need to get the paperwork going. I'll only be in town a couple of days.”

I bolted the door, and we started down the long hallway. Richard whistled when we reached the curved mahogany staircase.

“They sure knew how to build 'em,” he said. “Do me a favor and hold this end, would you?” He offered me the metal tip of the tape measure, then began to retreat toward the kitchen. A minute later, he reappeared. “Perfect. You can let go now.” I watched as the tape got sucked back up into its housing.

We went up the stairs to the second floor. Richard gave each room a cursory glance, making a few notes in his notebook. He was all restless energy, peering into every closet, eyes flicking about like a cat's watching a flock of small birds. His phone chimed and he pulled it out, staring at the display. He tapped on the screen, presumably replying. Then he turned to me.

“I'd like to take a look at the foundation, then put in a call to my company. Ready?”

“Sure.” We started down the stairs. My feet seemed to drag on the treads as we passed the spot where Biddie had her weird turn, but I forced myself on, following on Richard's heels. We reached the back door and he passed through. Something about the way the knob twisted in his grasp nagged at me, but I was hard-pressed to keep up as he jogged down the stairs and turned left.

“I think the front of the house is our best vantage point,” he said.

“Go ahead. I just need to lock up.”

He disappeared, and I gave myself a mini-lecture as I turned back to lock the door. My client was right. Money always trumped sentiment.

I paused with the key in my hand. I'd locked the deadbolt before we went upstairs. Or had I? The door had opened easily when Richard turned the knob. I shrugged as I made sure both locks were securely fastened. Probably I'd made a mistake. It wouldn't be the first time.

I found Richard outside the library window trying to pick his way through the tangle of blackberries and roses. He'd removed his jacket and held it, folded, over his arm. I couldn't help noticing a gusset had been sewn into the seat of his trousers.

“This is a goddamned jungle,” he said, struggling to extricate himself from the vines and spilling his coffee in the process.

“Let's try a little farther along,” I suggested.

Muttering under his breath, he followed me another quarter turn around the house. On the west side, we found a gap in the wall of green. He handed me his jacket and plunged in while I admired the scenery. A length of rubber garden hose was intertwined in the vines, and the weathered legs of a wooden ladder protruded from a clump of shrubs.

Richard tromped back, panting with effort. “Foundation's in good shape,” he said grudgingly, as if conceding a point. “Post and pier, no signs of dry rot or insects. A pity. Sometimes we give an old house a nudge with a bulldozer and down she goes. But that won't work here.”

“Built to last,” I said.

He gave me a level look. “Maybe the Fire Department wants to do a practice burn here. Give the volunteers some hands-on training.”

I didn't have a response for that, so I handed him his jacket, hoping he wasn't psychic. I'd had my fill of Richard Ravello.

“Let's write up that offer, shall we?” he said.

My dark thoughts vanished. “Really? I mean, of course. I thought you needed to check in with your firm.”

“Already got the green light. We're putting in a full price bid.”

My heart skipped a beat or two. “Should we head back to my office?”

He shook his head. “I spend most of my days behind a desk. This is fine, right here. You have a contract with you?”

“Here in my bag.” We seated ourselves on the front steps. Two offers in two days! Maybe I was on the path to superagent status after all.

We worked our way through the purchase contract line by line. “I assume you have a lender your company usually works with?” I said when we got to the section on financing.

For the briefest of moments, his expression was blank. Then his face cleared. “Yes, of course. The Redding First Mercantile. We'll put thirty percent down, the balance not to exceed eight percent, with a balloon payment in three years.”

My pen hovered over the page. I didn't want to admit I wasn't sure how to write that up, so in the end I checked off a box that said, “Other financing,” and wrote in exactly what he'd said. When we'd worked our way through all twelve pages, he shook my hand.

“A pleasure working with you, Sam,” he said. “You'll keep me posted?”

“Absolutely. And I need to get you a copy of this.”

He handed me a business card. “My email's at the bottom.”

“Let me walk you out,” I said, tucking the card in my pocket.

“No need.” He turned on his heel and started down the driveway.

I stared after him, then looked back at the house. I'd thought I loved my job. Now I wasn't so sure.

My gaze fastened on the arched window that looked out from the tower. Something had moved.

I blinked and rubbed my eyes. Had I imagined it? Certainly everything was still as a graveyard now. I smacked my forehead, chiding myself for that turn of phrase. But I could have sworn there'd been a flicker of motion behind the broken panes, a shift from deep black to gray and back. An unpleasant little thrill traveled down my frame. Maybe I couldn't afford to scoff at the notion that something otherworldly lived on inside the house, something that didn't walk only at night….

A hand fell on my shoulder and I jumped about a foot and half, then whirled around. Loretta Sacchi stood there.

“Boo,” she said. “Sorry. Ghost-hunter humor. Did I startle you?”

“No,” I said, though in truth I'd come close to wetting my pants. “I was just, er, lost in thought. Where's your car? I can help carry some of your equipment.”

She patted a nylon bag at her side, suspended from her shoulder by a wide strap. “Everything I need for today is in here. If the results are promising, I'll haul out the big guns.” She was dressed for action in mock-safari: formfitting bush jacket of beige gabardine with matching slacks, soft black knit shirt, a pale violet silk scarf around her neck. My eyes traveled down to her shoes: black pumps with three-inch stiletto heels that weren't in keeping with the rest of her rough-and-ready outfit. She followed my glance and laughed.

“Hard to get a city girl out of her heels,” she said. “I almost turned an ankle coming up the drive.”

“You could have parked here at the house.”

“I wanted to take some baseline readings from the street.” She reached into her bag and produced a device that looked like a cross between a remote control and a vibrator. The device hummed in her hands, and a row of small LED lights flashed on and off.

“What's that?” I said.

“Multifunctional field transponder. It's a little custom job we fabricated for initial screenings. It's not the most accurate tool in our arsenal, but it measures electromagnetic fields and changes in temperature and has a built-in video recorder. Plus it's lightweight and compact, and goes with any outfit.” She flashed a smile at me.

“And the little lights?”

“EMF readings. Nothing off the charts at this point. Let's go inside.”

I still had the keys in my pocket, so I led her around to the back door and opened it, standing aside to let her pass through. She did a slow scan of the kitchen. “Kitschier than I expected. When was the place built?”

I stole a glance at my notes. “Eighteen eighty-one. Most of the living over the last twenty years has been done on the ground floor.”

“Then let's head upstairs.” She swept down the hall with me on her tail, holding the transponder before her like a scepter. I felt a nervous giggle welling up in my chest and quashed it firmly, wondering if I had another blank purchase contract stashed away in the bus. Maybe the spirits had been kindly toward Loretta's company and it could afford to pay cash.