Death at a Premium (2 page)

The large symmetrical building faced the street with matching two-story towers on either end. A deep porch spanned the front of the house with steps at one end leading to wide French doors. Above the door, a secondfloor sleeping porch filled the space between the towers. Dozens of many-paned windows embellished the first two floors. Three hipped gables jutted out of the mansard roof, each equipped with three identical shuttered windows. The shingles had weathered to a silvery gray in the island’s salt-laden air. All trim had been painted glossy white.

“Fresh paint job?” Sam asked.

“Yes. The last owner’s attempt to increase what Realtors call ‘curb appeal’ these days. And the curb is pretty much where the appeal stops.”

The couple got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk toward the porch steps. The wooden porch floor hadn’t been painted in years. An old, beat-up rattan welcome mat inadequately covered the threshold, and Josie tripped over a turned-up corner on her way to the door. She put the key in the lock and turned. The door wouldn’t budge. She tried again with the same result. Sam took the key from her and tried. The door swung open.

“How did you do that?”

“It wasn’t locked. When you turned it, you were actually making it impossible to get inside,” Sam explained, waving her in the door before him.

“I wonder why it was left open.”

Sam didn’t respond to her statement. He was staring at the foyer walls, his mouth open, amazed by what he saw.

TWO

“HIDEOUS, ISN’T IT?”

“Actually, it’s quite evocative,” Sam answered, never taking his eyes off the huge pink and orange paisley design covering the walls.

Josie frowned.
Evocative
quite possibly would be the last word she would have used to describe this. Actually, when she thought about it, she couldn’t remember ever describing anything as evocative.

“Reminds me of my college days,” Sam continued. “I used to date a girl who had this wallpaper in her bedroom.”

Josie knew Sam was going to enjoy his walk down memory lane and through the bedrooms of his youth a whole lot more than she would. “The living room is over there—through that arch.”

Sam went where she indicated, and Josie, heading in the opposite direction toward the dining room and kitchen, could hear his amazed exclamation. She had had an identical reaction when confronted with the op art on the walls, the out-of-date furniture, and stained flokati rug on the floor, although she hadn’t sounded nearly as appreciative.

The dining room was dominated by a glass and chrome elliptical table surrounded by twelve white Plexiglas chairs. Josie thought it was horrible; she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to look at their own legs— or the legs of their tablemates—while eating, especially since the sight would be reflected endlessly in the mirror tiles lining the walls. Heavy linen curtains printed with thick waves of black, brown, and white hung in the bay window. The effect made her slightly seasick, so she continued into the kitchen—a nightmare of avocado appliances, fake walnut cabinetry, faux Mexican tile floors, worn orange Formica counter tops, and peeling metallic wallpaper.

Tripping over a cracked edge of linoleum, Josie pulled open the refrigerator. Cold air escaped and she closed it quickly. Good. A functioning kitchen would make the beginning of the remodel easier. There was even a tiny half bathroom around the corner. Avoiding another loose tile, she peeked in: pink and white paisley wall paper, pink and white octagonal tiles on the floor, a pink and purple striped shower curtain. Josie left the room and pulled the door closed before nausea struck.

Sam had followed her into the kitchen and was examining a row of enameled copper canisters on the counter top. “I remember when these things were popular— everyone I knew had a set.”

Josie resisted the rising urge to make a sarcastic comment concerning the good old days.

“Is this whole place furnished?” he asked.

“Sure is. There’s mainly old wicker stuff in the bedrooms, as well as what used to be known as campaign chests—remember those dressers with extra brass hardware on the corners? My mother stored out-of-season clothing in one up in our attic.”

“Very swinging sixties,” Sam said, nodding.

“And you won’t believe the lamps. They hang over all the beds and some of the chests. They’re all different but they’re the strangest shapes.”

“I can’t wait to see them. Are they anything like the one over the dining room table?”

“No. They’re made from colored glass—brightly colored glass. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Sam followed Josie up the stairs and they examined the bedrooms on the second floor, and then continued on to the third. “Actually, my favorite room is up here,” she explained as they stood on the upper landing. She opened the first door they came to. “You’ll need to duck your head. The ceiling’s awfully low.”

They were underneath the eaves and above the secondfloor bay window. A window seat had been built beneath the three wide multipaned windows. Skylights pierced the roof and the room shimmered with light.

“No sixties furniture in here,” Sam commented, bending down to look out the window. “Hey, you can see over the dunes to the ocean.”

Josie nodded. “Nice, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

“There’s a matching room at the back of the house, but some idiot turned it into a bathroom decades ago. There’s a window seat there, but it’s been covered with stained old Contact paper. I can’t wait to remove it.”

“This place is remarkably symmetrical: matching tower rooms on the second floor, the two eave rooms up here . . .”

“And the tops of the towers were turned into identical closets, one at either end of the hall here.”

“This is going to be a huge private home,” Sam commented, walking down the hallway and opening door after door.

“Yeah. It’s been on the market for years. The couple who ran it as a bed-and-breakfast claimed to barely be paying the taxes and keeping the building standing on what they made taking in guests. But it seemed too big to sell for a private home. Everyone assumed whoever bought it would keep it as a bed-and-breakfast.”

“Who did buy it?”

“Seymour and Tilly Higgins. I haven’t met them, but apparently they’re wealthy enough to buy this place and remodel it—and old enough to have six grandchildren to occupy all the bedrooms when they have family gettogethers. I just hope they have plenty of money and care about their family enough to do everything the right way.”

“Well, the money’s there. Seymour Higgins is one of the most influential men on Wall Street,” Sam said.

“Rich?”

“Really, really rich.”

“Good, because this place is going to need a lot of money to pull it out of the swinging sixties and into this century.”

“Interesting that he’s buying a place here rather than out in the Hamptons with the rest of the rich and famous.”

“The island has sentimental value for them. He and his wife met here—apparently they both worked on the island one summer when they were in college.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, but I’m meeting with Mrs. Higgins in a few weeks to review some of the finishing details. Maybe she’ll tell me all about it then.”

“That should be interesting,” Sam said. He had lifted an orange vase off a hall table and was examining its base. “You know, these things are collectable.”

“By who?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she began to wonder if
whom
was proper. Sam would know, of course, but he was too nice to correct her.

“There are lots of collectors of mid-century furniture and accessories,” Sam answered without comment.

Josie didn’t say anything. She didn’t share Sam’s fondness for anything made in the 1950s and ’60s. Perhaps because she hadn’t been born until almost two decades later. “Well, if Seymour Higgins is a big shot in financial circles, maybe he’ll know where to sell them.”

Sam was looking out a window.

“Can you see the bay from here?” Josie asked, joining him.

“No, but I was looking at the backyard. There’s a three-stall garage out there.”

“Yes, but there’s only space for two cars. One of the stalls was converted to a laundry room. There are two washer and dryer combos as well as a bathroom. There’s also an outdoor shower around back.” She frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“I was wondering how the electric comes into the buildings. Maybe I can keep the power on there when the house is disconnected from the grid. I think I’ll go down and check it out. Can you hang around a bit longer?”

“Sure, let’s go take a look.”

They went back downstairs, this time passing through the kitchen into the small pebble-strewn backyard. An old-fashioned wooden clothesline had once stood there. Now its ropes, torn by winter storms, lay on the ground, clothespins still attached.

A door had been installed in the middle of one of the old-fashioned garage doors. Sam grabbed the knob and it opened easily. “This is unlocked too,” he said.

Josie nodded. “But it may not have been unlocked for long. I know the architect’s been here a few times— perhaps he left it open. We’ll lock up before we leave.”

Sam was no longer paying attention. The far wall of the garage was covered with car posters. “That’s a Jaguar X-type. Probably nineteen sixty-four . . .” he said, moving toward them.

Josie, knowing how much Sam loved classic cars, left him to peruse the collection and continued into the laundry area. The layout was pretty much as she remembered it: the far wall was lined with a pair of washer and dryers. A pile of broken-down plastic laundry baskets had been dumped beneath the large, battered oak table which dominated the middle of the room. Josie was examining the bank of outlets on the wall behind the appliances when Sam joined her.

“That’s one of the best collections of sixties car posters I’ve ever run into. Too bad no one took care of them: in good shape, they’d be worth some real money.”

“Why don’t you take them? I’m thinking of setting up a table saw out here. A thick layer of sawdust won’t increase their value.”

Sam frowned. “I can’t just remove things without the owner’s permission.”

“It’s just a few old posters.”

“They do belong to someone though, and they need to be protected. Maybe you could take them down and put them somewhere safe before you begin work.”

“Maybe.” Josie wasn’t going to promise anything. “Look, we’re going to have to empty the house before we start demolition. We could put a bunch of the furniture in this bay and cover it with heavy tarps . . .”

“That’s a good idea. I’m no expert in mid-century furniture, but I believe some of those lamps you hate so much are Holmegaard glass—popular in the sixties and not cheap even then. If they are Holmgaard, they’re worth real money to collectors.”

Josie frowned. “Not good news,” she announced.

“Why not?”

“Because when they were worthless, I was going to toss them in a pile, cover them up and forget about them. Now they’ll have to be protected until someone in the Higgins family figures out what to do with them. Clearing the place will take an extra day or two—I hate to get behind schedule early on a job.”

“You don’t even have a crew for this one.”

“That’s not going to be a problem!” she protested and glanced down at her watch. “In fact, Nic should be arriving back soon. As soon as I talk to her, I’ll know who I need to look for. I’ll call around, and Island Contracting should be up and running in a day or two. You know I rarely have trouble finding workers.”

“There’s an awful lot of building going on on the island this summer and more than one new construction company,” Sam pointed out. “Basil said he couldn’t find a free plumber when a pipe broke in one of his kitchens over the weekend.”

“Really?” Josie sounded doubtful for the first time. “I wonder who he called . . . Did you hear something outside?” she asked, interrupting herself.

“Just shouting. Probably neighborhood kids.”

“I don’t know why neighborhood kids would be calling my name,” Josie said, starting toward the doorway and using her hand to shield her eyes from the bright sun. “I think . . . Oh, god, it must be Nic. She drives the only purple pick-up on the island. She’s probably in the house looking for me. I’ll be right back,” she promised.

Fifteen minutes passed before she returned to the garage. Sam, who had kept himself amused browsing through a pile of old car magazines he had discovered in a corner beside a rusting hot water heater, was surprised by the expression on his fiancé’s face: she was scowling.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I have a problem . . . a legal problem.”

“Finally something I can help you with.” He stood up. “What exactly is wrong?”

“I . . . Well, you’re not going to like this, but you know I told Nic to go ahead and offer jobs to a few people on my approval. I trust her, and she was going to be seeing old friends—women she had worked with before. Well, it never occurred to me that there might be a problem. After all, the convention she was attending was for women in the construction industry . . . it never occurred to me . . .” She stopped speaking.

“What never occurred to you? Did she offer someone a job—someone you don’t want to hire?”

“Exactly. Could that be a problem?”

“Probably not. I assume whoever was looking for a job understood that you have the final say . . .”

Josie nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

“So, if you think one of the people Nic wants isn’t qualified to work for Island Contracting, I can’t imagine that there would be a legal problem. You have the final say over who you hire.”

“We already agreed to that,” Josie pointed out.

“Unless of course you don’t want to hire them because you don’t like their race or religion.”

“And that would be illegal, wouldn’t it?”

“It would be, but it doesn’t sound like you, Josie. You’ve never seemed at all prejudiced and you’ve hired lots of minorities. What’s the problem?”

“A man. Nic inadvertently offered a job at Island Contracting to a man. An exceptionally good-looking man. And he flirts.”