by Diane Kelly
After closing the front door behind us, I unclipped the leash from Sawdust’s harness, setting him free to explore. Noting that the house felt warmer than expected, I checked the thermostat mounted next to the closet. It read seventy-two. That’s odd. Didn’t I turn it down to sixty the last time I was here? I hoped I’d merely forgotten to adjust it when I’d left. I’d hate to think the HVAC system might be on the fritz.
I reached out and gave the lever a downward nudge. The three of us wouldn’t be here long. No sense paying for heat nobody would be needing.
The thermostat adjusted, I swept my arm, inviting Buck to precede me upstairs. “After you, partner.”
We ascended the steps with Sawdust trotting ahead of us. On the way, Buck grasped both the wall-mounted railing and the wrought-iron banister and gave each of them a hearty yank, testing them for safety. While the banister checked out, the wooden rail mounted to the wall jiggled precariously. One glance at the support brackets told us why.
“It’s got some loose screws,” Buck said. “Just like you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ha-ha.”
“Put it on the list.”
“Will do.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and snapped a photo of the loose bracket as a reminder to myself.
As we topped the stairs, Buck came to a screeching halt, one work boot hovering over the carpet as he refused to step on it. “Yuck.”
Couldn’t say that I blamed him. The carpet was hideous, worn shag in the same greenish-brown hue as the hairballs Sawdust occasionally coughed up. Ripping out the carpet would give us no small pleasure. But I wasn’t about to let some ugly, balding carpet spoil my enthusiasm. I gave my cousin a push, forcing him forward. “Go on, you wimp. It’s not going to reach up and grab you.”
“You sure about that?”
To our left, the living and dining areas formed a rectangle that ran from the front to the back of the house. The master bedroom and bath mirrored the layout to the right. In the center sprawled the wide kitchen.
“Wait ’til you see this!” I circled around Buck and pushed open the swinging saloon doors that led into the space.
Buck proceeded through them and stopped in the center of the kitchen to gape. “What is this place? A portal back to 1970?”
Between the harvest-gold appliances, the rust-orange countertops, and the globe pendant light hanging from a loopy chain, it appeared as if we’d time traveled back to a much groovier era. But while the kitchen was hopelessly out of date, it was also wonderfully spacious. Plus, the cabinets would be salvageable if the outdated scalloped valances over the sink and stove were removed.
“Replacing the appliances and countertops is a no-brainer,” I said. “But look at all this space! And the cabinets just need refacing. They’re solid wood. That’ll save us time and money.”
Buck stepped over and rapped his knuckles on the door of a cabinet. Rap-rap. Satisfied by the feel and sound, he nodded in agreement.
The counters bore an array of Lillian’s cooking implements, including a ceramic pitcher repurposed to hold utensils. Cutting boards in a variety of shapes and sizes leaned against the backsplash. A recipe box stood between an ancient toaster and a blender. A quaint collection of antique food tins graced the top of a wooden bread box. Hershey’s cocoa. Barnum’s animal crackers. Arm & Hammer baking soda.
As Buck and Sawdust took a peek at the plumbing under the sink, I walked over to the end of the cabinets and spread my arms. “Let’s add an L-shaped extension here.” An extension would increase the counter space and storage, and after all, kitchen renovations were the most profitable rehab investment.
Without bothering to look up, Buck agreed. “Okeydoke.”
My cousin and I had an implicit understanding. He left the design details up to me, while I gave him control over the structural aspects of the renovations.
While he continued his inspection, I meandered around the kitchen, snapping several more pictures before stopping at the fridge. A dozen blue ribbons were affixed with magnets to the refrigerator door, proudly proclaiming Lillian Walsh the baker of the “Best Peach Pie” and “Best Peach Cobbler” at various fairs and festivals throughout the state. With my cooking skills, I’d be lucky to earn a participation ribbon.
A hutch on the adjacent wall was loaded with more cookbooks than I could count. I eased over to take a closer look. One book was devoted entirely to potato recipes, another to casseroles. A quick glimpse inside a few of the books told me the recipes were as likely to clog the arteries as fill the tummy. Some of them sounded darn delicious, though. I returned the books to the shelf and turned to find Sawdust traipsing along the countertop while Buck peered into the drawers.
My cousin pulled out what appeared to be a caulking gun, along with a heavy metal lever-like tool with a rubber-coated handle. The latter resembled an airplane throttle. He held them up for me to see. “What the heck are these gadgets for?”
“You’re asking the wrong person.” While I loved working on kitchens, I didn’t particularly like working in them once they were complete. Boxed mac and cheese marked the pinnacle of my culinary skills.
“Let’s have Colette take a look,” he suggested. “She might could use some of these things.”
While Colette already had an extensive complement of kitchen equipment, this room contained items that probably hadn’t been produced in half a century or more. If nothing else, she’d find these artifacts intriguing.
Having fully explored the kitchen, Buck and I moved on to the master bedroom. Like the kitchen, the room was dated but spacious. The walls bore peeling wallpaper in a flocked fleur-de-lis pattern. Only the bed and a night table remained. A stack of books towered on the night table, some hardcover, some paperback. Sawdust hopped up onto the bed to inspect the random items that had been placed there. Several pairs of ladies’ shoes. A stack of Sunday dresses still on the hangers. A small jewelry box. A quick peek inside told me it contained only a few pieces of what I assumed to be cheap costume jewelry. I let Sawdust take a quick and curious sniff before closing the lid.
We continued into the master bath, which featured a once-fashionable pink porcelain tub, toilet, and sink. Wallpaper in a gaudy yet charming rose pattern adorned the walls. Fresh, if faded, towels filled the under-sink cabinet, along with an assortment of medications and beauty products. A tin box sat next to the sink. The top was open, revealing a trio of pink soaps in the shape and scent of roses. As we looked around, Sawdust leapt up onto the edge of the tub and circumnavigated it with the ease and agility of a tightrope walker.
I snapped a pic before turning to Buck. “Let’s replace that old bathtub with a walk-in shower, and add a jetted garden tub over there.” I pointed to an open space under the window.
He pulled out a measuring tape to size up the space and, satisfied the tub would fit, issued an mm-hmm of agreement.
Having completed the tour of the master suite, we made a quick pass through the living and dining rooms, which contained a slouchy velveteen sofa, a framed still-life painting depicting a bowl of assorted fruit, and a glass-top coffee table that bore the sticky telltale fingerprints of spoiled grandchildren. A small wooden box sat atop the table. The box was intricately engraved with hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs along the sides, and a fancy letter W on the lid. The lid was open, revealing two yellowed decks of playing cards nestled inside. The cards rested face up, the two jokers at the top of the decks grinning wickedly up at me as if they shared a sinister secret. Sawdust seized the opportunity to sharpen his claws on the couch before following us downstairs.
Creak. Creak. The bottom step complained under my weight, then Buck’s. Looks like we’ve got a loose tread. Sawdust stepped soundlessly down, too light to elicit a response.
Other than a rusty washer-and-dryer set and a couple of wire hangers on a rod, the laundry room was empty. The guest bedroom contained a full-size bed covered in a crocheted afghan and a basic bureau with three empty cans of Budweiser sitting atop it. They appea
red to be only the latest in a long series of beers enjoyed in the bed, as evidenced by a pattern of ring stains roughly resembling the Olympic symbol. I wondered who Lillian’s beer-guzzling guest had been.
The other bedroom had been converted to a sewing room and appeared untouched. A white Singer sewing machine sat on a table, while a bookshelf to the right sported a selection of thread and rickrack, as well as a pincushion in the quintessential tomato shape. A plastic box filled with spare, shiny buttons sat open on one of the shelves like a miniature treasure chest filled with gold. Swatches of fabric were draped over a quilt rack.
After a quick trip to the garage, the tour was complete. The bottom step creaked again as we made our way back up to the front doorway. There, I shared my overall vision for the house. “Classic black-and-white tile in the baths and kitchen. Paint in robin’s-egg blue for the walls.” The look would be neutral and timeless, and would tie in well with the exterior colors. “Black hardwood floors would be a nice complement, too.”
“Works for me,” Buck said.
After noting that the thermostat reading was on its way down, I patted my leg and called for my cat to meet us on the landing. “Sawdust! Here, boy!” When Sawdust trotted up the steps, I reattached his leash to his harness and we headed out the door into the gathering winter dusk. With my hands full of keys and the cat’s leash, I left the tax-preparation ad hanging from the knob to be dealt with later. Buck and I agreed to meet at the house at noon the following day to take measurements and start on the demolition. House flippers don’t take weekends off.
Buck raised a hand out of the window of his van as he backed out of the driveway and drove off. I looked up at the house one more time, feeling heartened and hopeful. Yep. A fresh start.
CHAPTER 3
HARD LANDING
WHITNEY
Having spent a dateless Friday night at home and too excited to wait until noon, I arrived at the flip house at nine Saturday morning. I’d need Buck’s muscles for the heavy lifting later, but for now I could get started cleaning out closets and cabinets. I set my toolbox down on the porch, noting that the advertisement that had been hanging from the doorknob was now gone. A glance around the porch and yard showed no sign of it. Looked like the ad had blown away.
Cradling Sawdust against my chest, I unlocked the front door and went to push it open. It barely budged. What the heck?
I pushed harder, putting my shoulder into it this time. The door opened an inch more but that was it. Something inside was blocking the doorway.
Unable to see anything through the small gap, I cupped my hand around my eyes and put my face to the frosted glass, doing my best not to squash my cat. Though I could see something lying on the landing inside, I couldn’t make out exactly what it was. My eyes could only distinguish several blurred colors. Had the coat closet’s overburdened rod or shelf given way? It seemed so. It also seemed any effort to get through the front door would be futile, so I pulled the door closed and relocked it.
Sawdust seemed to realize something was amiss and looked up at me. Meow?
“Something’s blocking the door,” I explained. The fact that he couldn’t understand me was no excuse for ignoring his question. “Let’s try the garage.”
Returning to my SUV, I retrieved the remote and jabbed the button to raise the bay door. I ducked under it as it squealed and rattled its way up. Once inside the garage, I strode to the interior door and pressed the doorbell-style button mounted beside it to send the garage door squealing and rattling back down again. A squirt of WD-40 should do the trick. I had a can in my toolbox, which I’d left on the porch. I’d grab it once I got the front door open.
I set Sawdust down, unclipped his leash, and unlocked the interior door, opening it for him. “There you go, boy.” I ruffled his head, tucked his leash in my pocket, and headed after him into the house.
From the bottom of the staircase I could see a pile of mixed fabrics on the landing. Looked like I’d been right. Either the coat-closet rod had broken or the shelf had collapsed. Maybe both. Ugh. The list of repairs keeps growing.
The bottom step creaked as I stepped onto it. Above me, Sawdust hopped up onto the clothing heap, climbing down the other side. As I ascended the stairs, my eyes spotted something white and fluffy among the fabric. Did the stuffing come out of a torn coat? As I drew closer, my foot involuntarily stopped and hovered over the final step, much as Buck’s had done the day before.
That’s not stuffing. That’s hair!
What’s more, the hair was still attached to a head—an elderly woman’s head. Her head was bent at an unnatural angle. The rest of the woman was bent at odd angles, too, as if she were playing a solo game of Twister and giving it her all. She lay on her stomach, her right cheek pressed to the green linoleum, her right arm crooked out of sight under her belly. Her eye was closed. I was grateful for that.
There’s no way the woman can still be alive, is there?
The odds seemed infinitesimally small. Still, what kind of person would I be if I didn’t make sure she was truly beyond hope? Taking a deep breath, I bent over her and pressed my hand to her neck to feel for a heartbeat. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”
The lack of response along with the cold, stiff skin and absence of a pulse told me the woman was anything but okay. My mind went woozy, my vision tunneled, and my heart and stomach fought to see which could occupy my throat first. Who is she? What happened? How did she end up dead in the doorway of an unoccupied, locked house?
Sawdust, on the other hand, was unfazed. With feline curiosity, he poked the woman’s cheek with his paw.
I gasped. “No, boy! No!” As I reached out to grab my cat, an unmistakable and terrifying sound met my ears.
Creak.
Someone was coming up the stairs behind me.
CHAPTER 4
CAT’S CURIOSITY
SAWDUST
Sawdust wasn’t sure why Whitney had scolded him. He’d only poked the woman to see if she was alive. Sawdust couldn’t help himself. Just like he couldn’t help himself now when he peeked around the wall to see who had caused the stair to creak on the lower flight.
A guy in rumpled clothes was coming up the stairs. Who is he? What’s he doing here? Should I run, or might he have a tuna treat hidden in the pocket of his pajamas? There was a time, not so long ago, when Sawdust would have dashed away immediately like the fraidy-cat he’d been. But he’d become braver since successfully scaring off an intruder who’d tried to break into his and Whitney’s home.
Unsure, Sawdust looked up at Whitney to gauge her reaction. When Whitney shrieked in terror, Sawdust joined in, arching his back and hissing. Though instinct told him to run, he wasn’t about to leave Whitney in danger and unprotected. He whipped out his claws and readied his paw. I’ll shred this man if I have to!
CHAPTER 5
MISSTEP OR MURDER?
WHITNEY
The shriek seared my tonsils. There was no time to dig through my purse for the pepper spray. I grabbed the mangled umbrella from the coat closet and brandished it at the skinny, ginger-haired young man coming up the stairs in a rumpled T-shirt, stretchy lounge pants, and bare feet. “Stop right there, kid!”
Sawdust joined in, hissing and spitting in warning, his claws raised at the ready.
The young man stopped his ascent and held up his hands. “It’s okay! I’m Lillian Walsh’s grandson. Dakota. And I’m not a kid. I turned twenty-one last month.”
I lowered the umbrella a little to get a better look at him. While he definitely had a baby face, on a closer look I could see it bore some light peach fuzz along the jawline. “What are you doing here?”
He kept his hands up. Smart guy. One wrong move and I’d poke him in a far more violent manner than Sawdust had been poking the body lying behind me. Did Dakota have something to do with this woman’s death?
“I slept here the last few nights,” he said. “I’d been crashing on a buddy’s couch, but he kicked me out. Guess I overstayed
my welcome. Granny always let me stay here when I was between places.”
His presence explained why the thermostat had been cranked up. While I was relieved to know the heating system wasn’t malfunctioning, I had much bigger problems at the moment. “How’d you get here?” I hadn’t seen a vehicle outside, and there’d been none in the garage, either.
“Hitch-a-Ride,” Dakota said, referencing a new ride-sharing service that touted itself as a discount Uber and advertised with a tongue-in-cheek slogan: RIDERS ALWAYS GIVE US A THUMBS UP! He continued, “The bank repossessed my car three months ago. I got a little behind on my payments again, and they wouldn’t work with me this time.” He leaned slightly to the side and spotted the body behind me. His eyes went wide and his mouth gaped. “What happened to Mrs. Dolan?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing. You don’t know how she got here?”
He shook his head. “Is she…”
Though he didn’t finish his sentence, it was clear what he was getting at. “I’m afraid so.”
The woman now had a name, Mrs. Dolan, though I still had no clue what she was doing in my house or exactly how she’d perished. Dakota had startled me, and my mind had jumped to murder. But statistically, it was far more likely she’d died of a health condition or as the result of an accident.
Uh-oh.
A horrible thought entered my mind and a sick feeling flooded my stomach. Had the banister come free and caused her to fall down the stairs? I chanced taking my eyes off the guy for a split second and forced myself to take a look. The railing on the upper flight of stairs was still attached to the wall. Thank goodness! Still, seeing as she appeared to have fallen down the stairs, it seemed strange she hadn’t grabbed the loose banister. Maybe she’d suffered a massive heart attack at the top of the stairs and been dead before she’d begun to fall. Or maybe arthritis prevented her from successfully clutching the rail. Who knows?