Murder Mansion

by M K Scott

  Taber exhaled a long smoke stream. “You’d make a hell of a detective.”

  “Wouldn’t get paid as well,” she countered the remark before realizing it was a compliment.

  “True,” he agreed without any rancor. “The idea of you toting a gun is a scary one.”

  Her brother had bought her a gun for safety and now Mark didn’t want her to have one. “Why shouldn’t I have a gun?”

  Mark chuckled. “That attitude for one. You might not shoot people who irritate you, but there’s a good chance you’d intimidate them.”

  Her arms folded under her breasts as she huffed her disbelief. “You make me sound like a bully.”

  “Not a bully.” He paused, causing Donna to lean closer to avoid missing the pronouncement of what she was. “A driven individual. A woman on a mission.”

  It sounded like code for bully. A sinking feeling sucked at her emotions, pulling at her, dragging her into a dark place she didn’t want to be. It never occurred to her before today that she was well on her way to being the grouchy old woman who lived down the street. The realization lodged in her throat like an unchewed piece of meat. Lifting her hand in a wave, she turned toward her car. “I need to go.”

  Taber called after her. “I’ll call you once we know when you can get back into the house.”

  Chapter Ten

  Taber’s words took form the way smoke does, hanging in the air before vanishing. Donna would usually answer, but not now, as she half-jogged to her car. The image of her walking around with an oversized tape measure flickered at the edge of her consciousness. Why were grumpy old men amusing? There were even several movies about the subject. Double standards, that’s what it was. An opinionated older woman develops a reputation as a nag, hag, or whatever unflattering term implied crotchety female. Old men could be wise, gentle and a mentor. Only older women who had married and had children received any of the pleasanter descriptions.

  She shifted her car into gear as she silently fumed. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as she drove at a circumspect speed, although she wanted to stomp on the gas. “Spinster, nag, dried-up old prune, sexless biddy,” she half-growled, glad no one was in the car to hear. Plenty of terms for women who never married, all derogatory. “Makes it sound like marriage is some grand prize that all women aspire to.”

  The bridal industry worked that angle, making the bride feel like a sweepstakes winner who had thousands of dollars to throw away on her fairy tale wedding. “Hmpft.” She snorted her contempt. Anyone who didn’t marry became a pariah of sorts. Most people had good enough manners not to mention it, but it happened just the same.

  In her twenties and part of her thirties, friends tried to matchmake, often without her permission. She wasn’t totally against it, but her long hours, tallness and opinionated attitude worked against her. Still, seriously, why would she be interested in a man who couldn’t stand up to her? Daniel was the only male who’d faced her down. He told her once she was an eight on the attractiveness scale. Of course, he added, she had more balls than most men did. At the time, she considered it a compliment. What if it wasn’t? Her vision got foggy. Stupid defroster, it should work better than this. Her finger pushed the fan lever to high, blasting warm air on the windows. It didn’t help much.

  She blinked, sending tears cascading down her face. Her right hand touched her cheek in disbelief. Tears. That couldn’t be right. Sissies cried. She could remember her father’s words as if it were yesterday. Tears rolled down her face then too as she lay on the grass after tumbling from a stone wall she’d been walking on. It didn’t matter she’d been told numerous times not to walk on the wall. All her father saw was weakness. He also probably saw the boy he didn’t have and was determined to make her tougher, less girlish. By the time Daniel came along, most of the softer, gentler emotions had vanished from her personality. At least she thought they had. Maybe they had only been hiding.

  A bent knuckle wiped away the tears. Why was she crying? She’d accepted a while back that marriage, the picket fence enclosed yard and a home with 2.5 children was not her dream. Her life hadn’t been horrible. Other nurses, weighed down with financial responsibilities of motherhood, envied her ability to travel. However, her single travel life was not the one featured in movies. Solitary Sojourner Tours sounded much cooler than they were. Women comprised 80 percent of the group, mostly widowed or divorced with a few never marrieds. The men who chose the tour were a handful of lonely widowers and the scum who preyed on lonely wealthy widows. While she did manage to travel the world with other people, the experience often left her feeling even more alone.

  A final sniff accompanied by a deep inhale stopped the waterworks. No time for such nonsense. Besides, she might be getting into her inn soon. For that, she needed paint. Primer first since the half dozen viewings of the house revealed damaged walls from the various tenants. A little digging in the newspaper archives at the local library revealed the grand home had passed through several hands including a stint as a VFW when they covered the plaster walls with paneling and had installed pool tables. The image of aged veterans sitting on bar stools swapping war stories as they sipped beer caused a physical cringe.

  Spilled beer and cigar ashes rubbed into the wooden floors made refinishing a must. The last owner did nothing to the place as far as she could tell. The papers reported the VFW moved to a new location with better parking while a foreign interest bought the residence. If nothing else, the owner had removed the paneling, the pool tables and bar. Too bad about the bar, that may have been useful, but probably wouldn’t suit the atmosphere. Standing unused for years dissipated the cigar smell but allowed the market price to plummet.

  Vacant buildings resembled unemployed people in the regard they were both undesirable. Rather like unmarried women, people assumed some horrible affliction troubled the older single woman from nagging to hoarding. No one ever believed a woman chose not to marry. Whenever her marital status would come in an introduction, people stumbled over Miss or Ms. She’d end their quandary by asking them to call her Donna. She didn’t care for the titles and they invited probing such as asking if she were divorced. When she confessed she wasn’t, people managed a sympathetic expression and then whispered widowed. Apparently, all those who lost a spouse were addressed in hushed funeral home voices.

  Once the busybodies went through their repertoire of nosy questions and discovered she never married, little antennae emerged from their skulls and waved wildly as they processed the information. The antennae might not be visible, but she could hear the crackle of their thoughts. The next foray into no-boundaries inquisitiveness would be if she had a significant other. The end goal would be to decide if she were lesbian by the name of her beloved. Sometimes to befuddle the nosey parkers she’d mention a sweetheart by a sexually ambiguous name such as Taylor or Morgan. Occasionally, she mentioned her dog, Jasper, to stop the questioning.

  A request to call her by her first name made her sound much more laid back than she actually was. Housekeepers of the last century or more often referred to themselves as widows. A never-married woman wouldn’t have been able to land a plum domestic assignment such as housekeeper. The mantle of marriage, no matter how brief, bestowed both respectability and competence on the Victorian woman. It may have stopped unwanted inquiries too. No one questioned a widow because it could trigger tragic memories.

  The idea of posing as a widow had merit. She could even scatter photos of her beloved around the house. Some of the dishes she’d call her late husband’s favorites. Something like Josiah’s Best Loved Scalloped Potatoes. Definite promise. Her dear husband’s benign ghost could haunt the place; he would have more a tendency to turn down the lights as opposed to scaring guests. Josiah believed in saving energy. A grin worked its way across her face as she created the personality of her late husband.

  The only problem with the mythical spouse was if someone mentioned she had never married. “Daniel.” The word came out as a snarl. Her brother
figured prominently into her restoration plans and part of the day-to-day services, although she hadn’t approached him about it yet. Daniel would never remember she had a deceased husband, making her a somewhat tragic figure. Even his wife Maria might accidentally mention it. If she wanted a friendly ghost, she’d have to look elsewhere.

  A long soak in the tub with a mystery novel she’d started beckoned with a siren call as appealing as any dark chocolate ganache. Odd, she found herself turning into the oversized parking lot of the home and garden store. Tired, a part of her dared whimper, while the other part, the one that didn’t cry, decided now would be a perfect time to load up on primer. The good stuff that didn’t allow colors to melt through the paint. Some stains and colors had the same tenacity as bloodstains in a haunted house that continued to appear no matter how often they were scrubbed.

  Donna forced herself out of the car, reining in the emotional side that decided to emerge after all these years. Weariness pressed down on her as she strode toward the entry doors. Plenty of times, she worked back-to-back shifts, not because she wanted to, but because there was no one else to do them. After being on her feet for twenty-four hours, she insisted on driving home as opposed to using a hospital bed. It didn’t matter if the linen was fresh. Hospitals bred super germs, not the thing she wanted to inhale into her vulnerable lungs as she slept. It didn’t matter if her feet were barely moving or her driving suffered in her fatigued state. She often was unaware if she was stopped at the light or if she still moved. In the end, she made it home where the worst issue was inhaling dog hair as she slept.

  A haphazard collection of carts awaited her at the door. Her hands landed on a standard oversized shopping cart, which she pushed into the brightly lit warehouse store. The shelves shot up to the ceiling, holding everything from glass-fronted security doors to power washers. An indistinct voice mumbled something about help being needed somewhere. Her experience with the place was you had to find stuff on your own. She made a hard left toward the paint section. The cart pulled to the right while making an ominous thumping sound. Defective, no wonder it was on the edge of the carts, rejected.

  Instead of returning for a new cart, she wrestled her current one into compliance. At least into some semblance of making it down the center of the aisle without hitting any of the tired-looking people pushing their own recalcitrant buggies. Half dozen gallons of primer should weigh the cart down too.

  Cardboard banners proclaimed the abilities of each primer. One declared that it dried in thirty minutes. Good deal since she didn’t have all that much time. Six gallon cans sat in her cart as she calculated how much she would need. The tiny print font stated it covered 450 square feet. That referred to a perfect wall with no dips or gouges. Her lips twisted to one side as she considered the can. It might not be the right kind.

  “Look who’s here.” A familiar masculine voice had her looking over her shoulder where Daniel and Maria stood with a loaded cart.

  “Come here,” she remarked, waving her brother closer. He abandoned the full cart along with his wife, whose lips pursed. Donna noted the expression and surmised she might not be the first person Daniel had recognized in the store. Maria, while typically a kind, giving woman, had issues with sharing her husband. Construction workers worked long hours during peak season, but Daniel’s time waster tended to be socializing. The man had never met a stranger.

  Holding up a can of primer, she asked, “Is this the type that fills in the holes?”

  Her brother’s hand wrapped around the can handle, turning the front label to face him. “Nope. This is just primer. What you need is a primer that’s a sealer too. Should have been suspicious since this is only $28.”

  Maria pushed their cart up to hers and laughed before Donna could respond. “He makes dollars sound more like pennies.” The exotic-looking woman continued talking before Donna could hazard a response. “He assumes everyone knows the different types of paint.”

  Donna’s brows lowered as she realized her sister-in-law lumped her in with all the other clueless people. “It’s not paint. It’s primer.”

  Maria shrugged her shoulders. “What’s the difference?”

  Before she could enlighten her that primer was only the start of a job while paint indicated a finished product, Daniel elbowed her, inadvertently causing her to bite her tongue. A dark look and a short stare acknowledged her brother’s warning.

  Ah yes, the beautiful woman syndrome. She forgot. No one corrected beautiful women no matter how stupid their comments might be. If they did, they came off looking petty. Besides, Maria loved her brother and might be Donna’s only hope of having nieces and nephews. It would do her well not to alienate the woman. If her brother had to choose between her and Maria, she knew she’d end up with the short end of the stick.

  Daniel put the cans of primer back on the shelf before answering his wife. “It’s more like the moisturizer you put on before the foundation. It prepares the walls to accept the paint. Otherwise, it can be splotchy in spots.”

  Donna’s head swiveled between her brother and Maria nodding in understanding. Her brother had managed a relevant comparison without sounding superior. He loaded her cart with the more expensive primer sealant as she considered the changes love had made in her brother. Yep, it could work for some people. Mentally she tabulated the cost as he added each can. This would cost a fortune.

  “Don’t forget the rollers and drop cloths,” he reminded her.

  From birth to teen years, she had supervised her brother, reminding him of common sense safety precautions that he probably already knew. As a result, he took every opportunity to do the same now. The roles were not reversed. He just liked to annoy her.

  “Got it.” A pair of rollers and assorted drop cloths landed in the cart. She picked them at random, not even paying that close of attention. Her brother picked up the drop cloth and eyed it with disdain, his nose crinkling.

  “Okay.” She grabbed it before he could comment, placing it back on the hook. “I meant to get this one.” Her fingers landed on the most expensive, heavy drop cloth. Her eyebrows shot up at the price. Old sheets could work just as well.

  “Seriously, Donna do you have money to throw away?” Daniel cut her a knowing look at the same time Maria’s hand landed on her brother’s shoulder.

  “I’m exhausted, sweetheart. Why don’t we go home? We could stop by the Chinese place.”

  Thank goodness, Maria had saved her from an unwelcome lecture about money. “Yeah, you kids should get home and get something for dinner. Why are you here anyhow?”

  Daniel directed a loving look at his wife before answering. “We’re remodeling the guest bathroom.”

  Their cart held bathroom fixtures, a heated towel rack and an ornate bathroom light. Yeah, she wanted to say good luck with that but didn’t. Maria would find out soon enough that the construction boss’s family would be the last to get anything done on their own house.

  Maria waved and pushed the heavy cart forward on her own, causing her brother to leap into action to wrestle it from her. His actions amused her. She’d bet Maria was as strong, or stronger, than she was. No man jostled for the opportunity to push her cart. Oh well, she needed to get home and pacify her dog anyway.

  The cart proved to be even more cantankerous when weighed down. The third wheel froze in place, preventing forward movement. Pushing on the cart offered no results. A good tug backward could snap the wheel in place. She gave it a hard tug that released the buggy from its initial position and sent her windmilling into a display of metal paint trays that hit the floor in a crescendo of metallic clangs.

  Several trays bounced off her arm as they fell. The pain shooting up her humerus bone had her sucking in her lips. A roll of blue painter’s tape bounced off her head. Her fingers wrapped around it before it escaped.

  A couple stared at her as they strolled by with a cart loaded with indoor tropical plants. No offer to help, no inquiry if she were all right. She could hear muffled laughte
r drifting out behind the couple.

  It would be nice to abandon the mess, stroll out the front doors and head home. The trays scattered around her feet earned a glare. Typically, she’d pick them up. Not today. Her purse lay open on its side among the paint pans. She reached for her bag just as she heard a voice.

  “I thought I heard something.”

  The words held her in place. They had found her before she had the opportunity to escape. A white-haired man trailed by a slender youth both turned the corner at the end of the aisle before she could knock the stubborn cart into motion. Their matching blue vests identified them as employees. Great.

  Vanishing into the next aisle, leaving her cart abandoned in the aisle tempted her, especially the way the man rushed up the aisle. Would he insist she pay for all the paint trays or perhaps some legal release he would coerce her into signing, leaving the store clear of any legal ramifications?

  “Ma’am, ma’am, are you all right?”

  The man placed a large hand on her arm. Generally, she’d give the hand a pointed look, which served as message enough.

  His concerned expression along with his anxious hazel eyes stopped her action. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

  The fact she hadn’t said anything might worry the man that she’d slapped the store with a liability suit for some outlandish reason. “Uhm, I’m all right.” Probably have a huge bruise on her elbow, but other than that, no damage.

  The younger man hung back. He could have viewed her as dangerous. Smart. “My cart.” She gestured to the problem buggy that somehow managed to make it halfway down the aisle as if distancing itself from her. “It has a frozen wheel and I was trying to get it to work when it spiraled out of control, sending me into the paint pan display.