The Unexpected Landlord

by Leigh Michaels

  The Unexpected Landlord

  By Leigh Michaels

  PBL Limited

  www.pbllimited.com

  Copyright 1992, 2010 by

  Leigh Michaels

  all rights reserved

  ISBN 9781892689849

  CHAPTER ONE

  If a casual observer had wandered down Pine Street, climbed the steps to the old railed porch of the faded, mustard-yellow house and come inside, the front room would have looked as if a dozen four-year-olds had spent the afternoon at play.

  A tea set was jumbled on a small table by the wide front windows, and the matching chairs were overturned as if the party had been interrupted in mid-sip. A hundred teddy bears had cascaded over the area rug in front of the fireplace, and a group of racing cars lay upside down in a corner as if they had hit the wall at top speed. A pair of rocking horses stood awkwardly in a corner, nose to tail as if fending off flies in the wild.

  But there was not even pretend tea in the tiny china cups. The teddy bears were too uncrushed ever to have known the hug of a child. The racing cars were still bright with paint, and the rocking horses proudly displayed every single strand of yarn in mane and tail.

  And the casual observer couldn’t come in, anyway—not until the weekend, when the sign would be hung on the porch rail and Small World would officially open in its new location.

  Thank heaven for that much, Clancey Kincade thought. She still had two more full days before Friday’s grand opening to reduce this mess to neatness, to make the place look like a toy store and not a warehouse that had been hit by an earthquake. And it was going to take every minute. The hallway was still stacked with boxes, the stockroom was piled, and as for the apartment upstairs—well, she’d spent last night on the living-room floor because she couldn’t find all the pieces of her bed, and it looked as if tonight would be no different.

  She took the last picture book from the box and placed it neatly on the lowest shelf next to the fireplace. Then, tucking a loose lock of strawberry blond hair back into her barrette, she pulled another box toward her. “I hope you don’t mind working late, Eileen,” she said. “I seem to have underestimated the amount of time it would take to get the other store closed and all the inventory moved and arranged.”

  A dark-haired young woman turned from the baby dolls she was arranging in a big antique cradle. “No, I don’t mind. I’ve got nothing better to do, anyway. I’m certainly off parties at the moment, after that disaster last night.”

  “Why? Weren’t there any eligible men?” Perhaps listening to the ongoing saga of Eileen’s love life would take her mind off the cramp developing in her lower back. Sitting cross-legged on a hardwood floor was the only way to get these shelves arranged, so there was no point in complaining.

  “Eligible? There was no one who was even interesting. The only man who was even a possibility turned out to be wearing a toupee.” Eileen finished the cradle and began setting up collectors’ dolls in a glass display case. “Is it asking too much for there to be one man in the world who’s really my type?” she asked mournfully. “All it takes is one.”

  Clancey tried to hide a smile. “You’re beginning to sound desperate.”

  “Well, what if I am? I’m almost thirty.”

  “And your biological clock is starting to tick?”

  “Don’t laugh. When yours starts, you won’t think it’s a joke anymore. And face it, Clancey — when you’re not drowning in work, you spend some time thinking about getting married, too.”

  “Oh? How do you know?”

  “It’s obvious. A woman doesn’t start a toy store unless she’s fond of kids. Besides, you wouldn’t let Hank Gleason hang around if you weren’t thinking of marrying him.”

  Clancey frowned. “What’s wrong with Hank?”

  “Frankly, watching ice melt would be more interesting.”

  Clancey unpacked two more boxes while she thought that one over. Eileen had a point; Hank was all right, but he didn’t rate when it came to sheer excitement. “Hank isn’t any more interested in a serious relationship than I am. He’s too busy.”

  “So why do you keep going out with him?”

  “Well, you don’t meet eligible men by hanging around home. Besides, Hank and I have an arrangement. Neither of us has time to get involved right now, so seeing each other lets us have the occasional night out, and it keeps all our well-meaning friends from fixing us up with blind dates.”

  “If that was a warning, don’t worry. If I find an eligible man, I certainly won’t be fixing him up with my friends.”

  They worked for another hour in companionable silence, the only noises the rumble of traffic on Pine Street, the rustling of tissue paper and delicate fabrics, the ripping of tape and corrugated cardboard. The sun dropped low into the west, and the slanting late-afternoon light poured through the beveled-glass panel on the stair landing. Rainbows began to chase each other through the hallway.

  Clancey finished the books, stretched gratefully and moved over to the pile of teddy bears. Each had a discreet loop sewed into the back of the neck, and she began to hang them one by one on a specially modified coat tree, turning it into a mountain of stuffed animals.

  She saved her favorite for the very top. It was a panda bear, smaller than most of the others. It was the perfect size to share a baby’s crib, in fact, and with more expression in his eyes than any other stuffed bear she’d ever seen. He looked a bit sad, actually, as if wondering how long he was going to have to wait to meet that special baby.

  Clancey found herself cuddling the bear as if he were the infant in question. Maybe she should just take him upstairs for her own collection. Someday...

  Darn Eileen and her biological clock, she thought. Now she’s got me started.

  She hastily put the bear into his place at the top of the coat tree and told herself not to be silly. It wasn’t an urgent matter, after all. She was twenty-seven; she had plenty of time.

  Eileen was around the corner in what had once been the dining room, arranging music boxes on the built-in sideboard. She was winding each one and letting it play, making certain the movement had survived the cross-town trip, and the resulting mosaic of lullabies was enough to drive sensitive ears mad.

  “You’re going about this all wrong, you know,” Clancey said finally.

  “What do you mean, wrong? You can’t even see what I’m doing.”

  Clancey peered into the room. “The music boxes? No, they’re fine. I mean the way you’ve been looking for men.”

  Eileen leaned against the sideboard and fanned herself with her hand. “And I suppose you’re the expert? What’s wrong with my methods?”

  “Well, they don’t seem to be working, do they? Tell me again about the man with the toupee, for instance.”

  “What’s to tell? That says it all, don’t you think? I mean, a man who wears a rug, for heaven’s sake—”

  “He might be a wonderful man underneath the toupee. And he could take it off, you know. That last nut you dated had some faults that couldn’t be removed so easily.”

  Eileen shrugged. “You never know unless you try. Some character defects just don’t show up till you get better acquainted. He was certainly good-looking.”

  “That’s part of the problem, you know. There’s a limited number of rich and sexy guys out there, and—”

  “I can’t wait to hear your strategy for finding them,” Eileen said sweetly. “There are such hordes of eligible men waiting on your doorstep. I think you’re tog weak from hunger to be logical, dear.”

  Clancey grinned. “You’re right about that much. Why don’t you run out for pizza? We can use a break.”

  “What you really mean is you need to finish thinking o
ut this wonderful idea. Pepperoni, olives and extra cheese?” Eileen grabbed her jacket and purse and was already at the front door when Clancey nodded her agreement. She tugged on the handle. “Damn, the door’s stuck again.”

  “That’s because it’s not the door that belongs here.”

  “It’s because you forgot to call the locksmith.”

  Clancey planted a foot on the jamb and wrapped both hands around the knob. “That, too. I wonder what the original door looked like. It was probably very ornate, with beveled-glass sidelights to match the window upstairs—it’s too big an opening for an ordinary door. And it would have been solid, so it wouldn’t have warped like this modem monstrosity.” The door relented with a screech. “There,” she said, dusting her hands. “Just leave it slightly ajar till you get back.”

  “I could pick up a battering ram if you like,” Eileen offered. “It might come in handy.”

  Clancey made a mental note—it was at least the hundredth item on her list—to call the locksmith first thing tomorrow, and washed her hands in the half-bath tucked beneath the front stairway. It was too tiny to be practical, and every time she looked at it she shuddered. The plumbing had been run through holes cut in the staircase, ruining the paneling.

  Not that this house had ever been a mansion, exactly, she reminded herself. It wasn’t big enough or grand enough for that. Even its location at the edge of the retail district indicated that its original owner had been only modestly wealthy. But it had once been a family’s pride, that was obvious. It had been a gracious home with big rooms and pleasant views, with a floor plan that showed great thought. Now, after decades as an apartment house and a couple of years of standing empty, it showed the sad, tired signs of neglect and abuse.

  She leaned against one of the twin pillars that supported the arched doorway between the entrance hall and the front parlor. At least, she thought, once upon a time the room had been a beautifully proportioned Victorian parlor. But that had been years ago, before the deep crown moldings had been covered with mud- colored paint, and before the corner had been knocked off the intricately carved mantel. She could see the grain of golden oak lurking under the layers of paint, and she longed to start sloshing paint remover around until the wood shone through again.

  First things first, she told herself. Someday perhaps she would be able to do that, but not just yet. If all went well, and her move into this bigger space created the increase in profits she hoped for, she’d buy the house and start slowly renovating it, wiping out those marks of fatigue and neglect and abuse. In the meantime, the owner had agreed to a three-year lease, and that would let her get her feet on the ground, recuperate from the financial strain of the move, and be absolutely certain that this was the best permanent location for her business.

  Footsteps sounded on the porch. Eileen must have found a pizza place nearby, she thought idly. That knowledge would be useful, with the busy retail season coming up. She’d have to work hard and put in long hours, but if she had a good Christmas season, she’d be well on her way to success.

  She was straightening out the rocking horses so they stood primly side by side when the front door squealed open. “Well, that was certainly fast,” she said over her shoulder. “I hope you got napkins and things, because I wouldn’t be able to find any upstairs if I looked for a week.”

  There was no cheerful answer, no footsteps—just a deep, disquieting silence.

  Clancey’s skin started to quiver as if the individual cells were trying to run for cover. The wind blew the door open, she told herself.

  But there was no wind. And in any case, even if a breeze was strong enough to open that heavy door, how could it turn around and close it? For the door had closed. There was no draft, no sensation of crisp fall air moving through the house. It was strictly an internal chill that was making Clancey’s blood turn to ice.

  Behind her, a masculine voice said, “What in the hell is going on here?”

  She drew a shuddery breath, wishing she’d been less adamant on the subject of violent toys. Even a plastic handgun would be a comfort just now—if it looked realistic.

  She turned around slowly. Should she make a dash for the door or would it be better to try to get a good look so she could identify this intruder? If it was money he wanted, there was little enough of that here.

  The question of getting a good look was a moot one; the figure was no more than a shadow in the hallway. The afternoon had faded so gradually into evening that Clancey hadn’t even realized how dark it had become. All she could see was a general shape. He wasn’t awfully tall, but that wasn’t a lot of comfort since she was hardly an Amazon herself. He might not be huge, but he was a good six inches taller than she was, and he looked solidly built. He was wearing a soft cap with a narrow brim that shaded his face, and under his topcoat she could see the gleam of a white shirt, a striped tie and the edge of a jacket lapel—

  A burglar who wears a suit to work? she thought. This is incredible!

  This time his voice was a little louder. “I said, what the hell are you doing in my house? And what is all this—stuff?”

  It wasn’t an unpleasant voice; despite the tough-guy edge, it had a mellow sort of undertone that made Clancey think of soft summer days. Then she realized what he’d said.

  “Your house?” she managed to croak. “This is my house!”

  He wasn’t a burglar, then. Just an ordinary run-of- the-mill psycho, confused about the facts. Or perhaps he was drunk and had simply stumbled into the wrong house.

  Some comfort that is, Clancey, she told herself dryly. The shadowed figure went on. “Not anymore, it’s not. I assume that you’re Leonard Schultz’s—what? Not wife, surely.”

  She wasn’t quite sure whether he had intended to insult her, but it certainly felt that way. “You got that much right,” she snapped. “And I’m not his daughter, either.” Reluctantly she had to admit that he didn’t have the wrong house, or he wouldn’t know the owner’s name. And he didn’t sound mentally off-balance. Or drunk. But if he was sober and in his right mind, what on earth was going on?

  “Lady friend, then?” He didn’t sound interested. “You don’t look quite the type, but...”

  Now she was certain she should feel offended. “Thank you very much for that observation.”

  “My pleasure. In any case, it doesn’t matter what good old Leonard is to you.” Slowly he started to move toward her.

  Clancey took a single, unwilling step back. “He’s my landlord,” she said hastily. Her voice trembled a little, despite her best efforts to keep it steady.

  “He can’t be.”

  “He is so. I have a lease to prove it.”

  That made him pause for an instant, but then he shook his head and took another step toward her. “It doesn’t matter what you have, because he doesn’t own the place anymore. I do.”

  There was such a note of certainty in his voice that it was impossible not to believe him.

  Clancey gasped. “Do you mean to tell me he sold it? That sleazy crumb-cake. He didn’t even let me know. When?”

  His words came slowly and deliberately. “I got full possession just today, but—”

  Relief washed over her in a wave. “Today? Well, then it doesn’t matter. You’ll have to take it up with Leonard—I mean the little matter of not telling you about a tenant when he signed the papers.”

  “Your lease is no good, Miss—whatever your name is.”

  She ignored the half-question. “It’s perfectly in order. My lawyer approved it. And since I signed it six weeks ago, I’m sure it predates the sale.”

  But was it possible that good old Leonard had already sold the property before he wrote the lease? He wasn’t known around the city as the most ethical of businessmen, but surely he wouldn’t pull a stunt as clearly illegal as that, would he? And even if he’d tried, Hank would have caught it when he looked over the lease and checked out the details.

  “It’s a matter of common sense,” she went on, “
that existing leases take priority. I’m sure you’ll find that in your sales contract somewhere. It’s a standard clause, I believe. So accept my congratulations on your purchase, and I’ll see you in three years when my lease is up and it’s time to renegotiate. Good night.”

  She took a step toward him and put a hand on his arm to urge him to the door. Under the buttery-soft tweed sleeve of his coat, his arm was warm and solid.

  Very solid. Immovable, in fact. So now what do I do?

  She backed away again. He didn’t seem to notice he’d been touched at all.

  “There is no sales contract,” he said, “so leases don’t come into it. I didn’t exactly buy the house in the usual way.”