by Cate Price
I scurried over to my friends, thinking that the newcomer’s gruff persona would be a good match for the builder. One was just as obnoxious as the other.
Chapter Five
When I got home, starving and chilled, Joe had already pulled the heavy curtains in the living room against the cold. I followed an enticing aroma toward the kitchen, where I found him stirring a huge pot of turkey chili.
“Wow. You have no idea how good it is to see you.” I breathed in the steam from the stove. “And your chili.”
“Hungry, Daisy?”
“I could eat my arm off, that’s how starving I am.”
Joe laughed, and while he opened a bottle of cabernet, I ladled the spicy bean mixture into two soup crocks. I set them on the table next to a basket of crusty French bread and farm fresh butter. As we ate, I told him about the meeting and the encounter with Fowler and the other man.
It was one of those nights when all I really wanted to do was snuggle on the couch with my husband and sip some more red wine, but once I’d finished eating, our retriever puppy, Jasper, fixed me with an unblinking stare, as if willing me to put my coat on.
I tried to squash the rising guilt as I rinsed the dishes and put the rest of the chili into plastic containers, some for the fridge and some to go in the freezer.
Like a lot of married couples, we’d made pacts about how to divvy up the household chores. Joe did the cooking and I cleaned up. He did the laundry and I walked the dog.
Most days I felt like I was getting the better end of the deal as, truth be told, I enjoyed the walks as much as Jasper, but on nights like tonight, I had to dig deep into my suitcase of courage.
Joe came up behind me, wrapped his arms around me, and I turned and kissed him. Things were progressing nicely until I heard the tiny whine in the back of Jasper’s throat. A bark I might have been able to disregard, but this plaintive plea was impossible to ignore.
With a sigh, I gently disengaged myself from my husband’s embrace and bundled up to brave the elements.
Outside, I gasped at the unforgiving chill and tucked my face inside the collar of my jacket like a turtle. Gray strips of clouds lay across the moon, like someone shining a torch through a mummy’s shroud. Ice-crusted snow on the grass verges crunched underfoot as we hurried down Main Street. Or at least I hurried, trying to keep the dog moving.
When we got to the end of Main Street, I took a right on Grist Mill Road. I’d already walked farther than I wanted to in this weather, but now I was so close to the farm, I had an urge to see it one more time.
What would happen if this land was turned into yet another cookie-cutter development? The wild turkeys, foxes, deer, and other wildlife would all disappear.
“Suppose I should thank you for keeping me fit, Jasper,” I huffed out against the wind. “There’s no way I’d have taken this walk tonight if not for you.”
The names of some of the developments in the surrounding townships gave a hint as to what had come before, like Meadow Farms or Hilltop Forest or Pleasant Woods, except there wasn’t a farm there anymore, and most of the trees were gone. The McMansion had ridden the wave of the real estate boom of the eighties and nineties, and there seemed to be no way to stop the powerful force of development raging through the remaining available land like a voracious combine harvester. It seemed as though the builders always won, and I sucked in a breath of frigid air at the thought of this peaceful expanse of countryside becoming yet another victim.
My face was freezing, and my gloves weren’t doing much to protect my icy fingers. I alternated keeping one hand in my pocket and one holding the leash. Jasper snuffled in the undergrowth by the side of the road, probably catching the scent of a rabbit.
Why had Sheepville Township done nothing to stem the flow of this destruction? Was there someone on the board, or close to them, who was doing a backstreet deal with the developers and had helped push deals through for Cassell before? Was Fowler accepting bribes to finance his wife’s political campaign?
Was Frank Fowler the rat in the woodpile?
* * *
On Friday, the bitter cold eased up a little, with a forecast of forty degrees later in the day. Early that morning, I walked up to the salvage yard. As I got closer, I caught a glimpse of Cyril’s cat disappearing through the flap into the trailer.
I knocked on the door before I went in, just to be on the safe side, but there was no sign that his owner had returned. I swallowed against a rush of disappointment. I’d have put up with any amount of tongue-lashing to know that Cyril was still around.
The little cat peeked at me from behind the grandfather clock as I filled his food and water bowls. “It’s okay, buddy. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
He blinked his topaz-colored eyes, but didn’t venture any nearer.
The other end of the trailer served as Cyril’s office, and I hung a CLOSED sign on the door. In some silly way it made me feel better, as if he would be coming back at any minute.
I trudged back up the long potholed driveway to the intersection with Main Street. Seeing as it was Friday, Laura would be managing the shop, but there were no auctions on my schedule because Angus and I were going house hunting with Patsy Elliot and her daughter, Claire. As a first-time home buyer, Patsy had asked us to come along and give the benefit of our experience.
When I arrived in Sheepville, I stopped at the hardware store to pick up some more pet-safe ice melt and a few other necessary items that I couldn’t get in Millbury. Apart from the specialty stores like mine, there was only the post office with a tiny convenience shop attached and the diner. That was it, apart from farm stands in the summer. Residents had to make this five-mile trip for any major shopping. As I walked out, the sun was shining, and the snow was melting in earnest on the salt-encrusted sidewalks.
Suddenly I gasped as I saw Ruth Bornstein walking along the other side of the street with an attractive man in his forties.
I skidded on a patch of slush, dropped the bag of ice melt, and grabbed hold of a lamppost for balance. Ruth was laughing up at the man, who had his arm around her. I peeked around the pole, wondering if they’d seen me, but they were too engrossed in each other.
According to Jewish custom, Ruth should be sitting shivah at home, at least for a week, shouldn’t she? Should I say anything to Detective Serrano about this merry widow?
I pulled out my cell phone and stood there for a few moments, wracked with indecision.
Come on, Daisy. Why don’t you mind your own business for once?
Time was ticking away and I didn’t want to be late, so I stuffed the phone in my pocket, threw the ice melt in the trunk of the station wagon, and headed up Sheepville Pike toward Backstead’s Auction House.
The auction building sat on three acres, with parking for a hundred cars, plus room for more on the surrounding fields. I pulled up in front of the low-slung corrugated metal structure and parked next to Angus’s Ford F-150 pickup truck.
“Hullo, Brat,” he greeted me as he strolled out of the double front doors, wearing his usual uniform of plaid shirt, jeans, and mountain boots. He handed me a coffee to go from the snack bar.
“Ah, a savior has come! Thank you, Angus.” I took a grateful slurp of the caffeine. “This is so exciting, isn’t it? It’s been a long time since I went house hunting.”
Angus grunted. “Yup. We just need to make sure that crazy gal doesn’t buy some ol’ money pit today.” He crossed his massive arms across his chest. “You know, Daisy, I still miss my Betty, but teaching Patsy the ropes around here is helping take my mind off things.”
A month or so ago, Angus’s wife had left him after twenty-five years of marriage, saying she wanted to “find” herself. Poor Angus didn’t really know what that meant and was utterly devastated, until Patsy, who had been a part-time auctioneer, quit waitressing and came to work for him full-time. With
her no-nonsense practicality, she was pushing Angus to revamp his ancient business practices and distracting him from pining so much for his lost love.
At that moment, a gold-colored sedan that had seen better years zoomed along Sheepville Pike, clanged into the parking lot, and came to a stop in a cloud of smoke.
Claire, Patsy’s ten-year-old daughter, rushed out of the car and into my arms, reminding me of a galloping colt with her long limbs and shining dark hair. “This is so fun, isn’t it, Daisy?” she exclaimed, echoing my enthusiasm for the outing.
“You’re getting too tall and grown-up. You need to stop that right now.” I grinned at her as I hugged her back. I’d insisted she call me Daisy, instead of Mrs. Daly or Mrs. Buchanan or whatever else I could be.
Patsy got out of the car, too, but the unfortunate vehicle still sounded like it was running along the road until she thumped the hood a couple of times and it shuddered into silence. She had the same slim build as her daughter, and she wore jeans that encased her long legs, plus a red T-shirt under a leather jacket. “Yo, guys, wazzup?”
Angus glared at the beat-up contraption. “You need to get rid of that crappy car, missy.”
Patsy frowned. “What for? It runs fine.”
“Gimme a break. I can tell you’re coming a country mile away by the black clouds.”
“House first, and then maybe I’ll think about getting a new ride. My sister’s been awesome, but I think she’s really ready for us to get our own place.”
Patsy and Claire had been living with her sister in the same condo development as Serrano, and while they had the whole huge finished basement to themselves, there was nothing like owning your own home. At a recent auction, the antique doll collection on sale had blown the doors out with the sky-high price it fetched. In fact, it was the biggest auction that Backstead’s had ever seen, and Patsy’s share of the healthy commission was enough for a down payment on a house, and then some.
Thinking how Cyril and I had restored a Victorian dollhouse for Claire’s birthday this past Halloween brought a rush of renewed anxiety for his safety, but I tamped it down and pasted a smile on my face.
Claire kept an arm around my waist as she looked up at her mother. “Do you think we can be in the new house by Christmas, Mommy?”
“Not sure about that, sweets. Heck, Christmas will be here before we know it. Look at all the stuff in the stores already, and it’s not even Thanksgiving. Drives me crazy.”
I winced as I thought of my festive and decidedly Yule-like store.
“I don’t understand why you guys don’t just move in with me,” Angus said. “I got lots of room. Hell, I’m rattling around that old place by myself.” He nodded toward the pristine white stucco three-story farmhouse across from the auction building. Angus had sort of adopted these two, like the child and grandchild he never had.
Patsy stifled a sigh, as if they’d had this conversation many times before. She looked at me with a plea in her eyes.
I cleared my throat. “Well, that’s certainly very generous of you, Angus, and I’m sure Patsy appreciates the offer. But with you two working together, it might be best for all concerned if she had her own home. As a woman, I can tell you that sometimes we just need our space.”
Angus grunted, but he was a smart enough man to know that three females were too much to take on at once.
We’d arranged to meet the real estate agent at the first listing, so we piled into Angus’s truck and headed toward the south end of Sheepville.
“The first one we’re going to see is a resale in a development that Beau Cassell built a couple of years ago.” Patsy consulted her sheaf of property listings. “Fairview Farm Estates. He’s still building over in the newer section, but this one’s well within my budget.” She directed Angus through the development until we found the right road.
The agent was waiting for us in a common parking area near a row of beige single homes, built close together with tiny yards in front.
“Are we the only crazy people looking for a house at this time of year?” Patsy called to her as she got out of the truck. Claire bent and gathered some snow into a snowball.
The real estate agent shook her head and smiled. “It’s the serious buyers who are looking now, and so sellers are generally willing to make a deal. But I have to point out up front that this one is a foreclosure.”
“So? What’s your point?” Patsy demanded.
“Foreclosures can be tricky because you’re dealing with the banks. It could take longer than the average sale and may not go through at all. But if it works out, you can get a great value. Anyway, here’s the house.”
She led the way to one at the end of the row.
“This is it?” Claire murmured, dropping her snowball in dismay. “Ooh, Mommy, it’s ugly!”
“Shh. Knock it off,” Patsy hissed over her shoulder as she followed the agent into the foyer.
I had to admit it wasn’t the most attractive place I’d ever seen. Just a plain shingled box with four windows and a door in the center of the bottom story.
Glancing back toward the newer section, I saw the same unappealing cubes going up in rapid succession. Even a gable or two or some decorative feature above the front door would have helped. Guess Beau Cassell hadn’t spent much on architectural design. This one could have been sketched on the back of a napkin.
The previous owners hadn’t done any additional landscaping either. The three stunted bushes that the builder had originally supplied were spaced far apart, far too few for the front of the house.
Inside, it was frigid and the living room carpet was badly stained and needed a good vacuuming. It looked as though someone had punched a huge hole in the drywall in a fit of rage.
Patsy flipped a light switch, but nothing happened.
“The electricity was shut off. By the electric company,” said the agent apologetically. “The couple who owned the house are getting divorced and I guess they didn’t pay the bill.”
The tour didn’t improve as we continued. In the kitchen, white countertops made of laminate to look like Corian were marred by cigarette burns and red wineglass stains that no one had bothered to try to remove.
I swallowed against the acrid odor of bleach overlaying mold. The owners must not have emptied the fridge when they left, and when the electricity was turned off, everything had rotted. Now the door was propped ajar from a recent cleanout. I wondered if the real estate agent had done it.
“Guess we’d need a new icebox.” Patsy shrugged her shoulders as she inspected the upper kitchen cabinets.
Feeling my stomach lurch, I blew out a breath and hurried out of the kitchen with Claire right behind me.
“I don’t like this place, Daisy,” she whispered. “It feels bad.” Claire was normally a sweet-natured child, but she was obviously violently opposed to the two-year-old building with holes in the walls. She’d once shown me a painting of her dream house for herself and her mom that won first prize at a country fair. This was definitely not it.
I had to agree with her. Houses had personalities just like people, and there was something very angry and bitter about this one.
By the time we made it down to the basement with its broken window and piles of black garbage bags holding who knows what, Claire had had enough.
“Mom! I don’t want to live here. It’s a horrible house.”
“Yo, don’t be a brat. Lose the addi-tood.” Patsy ruffled her hair. “Just use your imagination. Picture this place with some fresh paint and cleaned up a bit.” She glanced around. “Okay, maybe a lot.”
I could tell that the ever-practical Patsy liked the low price and the idea of getting a real bargain. Some might call her tough, and she could be brash at times, but she was also good-hearted and devoted to her daughter. Despite a hard start in life, she was making her own way.
“I’m glad you coul
d come, Daisy,” she said to me. “You know about all the things that could possibly go wrong in a house.”
I chuckled ruefully. “Sad, but true.” Our Greek Revival had been a never-ending repair story. Even now, some thirty years later, we still weren’t finished working on it. Speaking of money pits, Joe and I knew we’d taken on a big challenge when we bought it. But it didn’t matter—we’d fallen madly in love and had overlooked the leaking roof, ancient electrical fuses, and drafty windows. Angus had been a big help with fixing up the house as well as remodeling my store.
I thought it would behoove the bank to pay a few bucks to get this place properly cleaned if they wanted to see it sold. Most buyers were distracted by details like carpets that needed vacuuming and wouldn’t be able to see the potential.
The smell of mold was strong in the basement, too, which was surprising for a young house built using modern drainage systems. I couldn’t see any water on the floor, but it could be a potential issue down the road.
We headed upstairs where the same sad feeling pervaded. The bathroom tiles were grungy, a broken venetian blind hung down in one of the bedrooms, and the closet doors were off the track. There was another hole smashed in the drywall.
Angus was inspecting the master bedroom. He had worked in construction for years before he opened his auction business. “Well, I don’t need a split level to see that the walls aren’t true. Even when this place was brand-new, it wasn’t up to snuff. In my opinion you’d be better off with an older home with solid construction and good bones. Something with only some cosmetic touches needed. I can help you with that.”
Patsy glared at him. I’d seen that same bullish expression on Angus’s face a thousand times before. If a person didn’t know otherwise, it would be easy to think that they were father and daughter. Of course, the fact that they were alike in lots of ways meant they butted heads all the time, but I knew Angus hoped Patsy could take over the business someday. He absolutely doted on Claire, too.
Patsy hitched her leather jacket back and stuck her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “I can’t deal with pink-tiled bathrooms and psychedelic wallpaper, Angus. I don’t want to do a lot of rehab. I want something newer.”