Carl and I had lived in a modern ranch house in River City. Our lives had been full of love, work, and laughter. We’d gone out to eat, had friends in, but mostly, we had each other. Once Carl was gone, my social life shrank. I received invitations, but rarely accepted. Our friends were couples, and I was the odd woman out. My flower shop business saved my sanity through those first months, but coming home to an empty house had been difficult.
The solitude had forced me to make a drastic decision. I’d taken Carl’s life-insurance money and made the down payment on this house with the idea of surrounding myself with people, even if they were renters.
I walked down the rest of the staircase and turned so my gaze could follow the graceful curve of the stairs. The balustrade drew the eye to a balcony that circled the upper floor. The doors to all seven bedrooms were closed, but the smell of new wood and fresh plaster had seeped into the main house. It was a comforting aroma, one I needed this morning. Toby’s death weighed heavy on my heart.
My father came out the library door, saw me, and pointed to the kitchen. “Please, go eat your breakfast. Abby just called. She’s about a mile down the road. If you cooperate, daughter, we’ll get this show on the road before schedule.”
I liked the sound of that, so I hurried across the hall and entered DeeDee’s domain. The room was state of the art for creating exquisite cuisine. White walls, white floors, stainless-steel appliances, copper-bottomed pots and pans hanging from hooks over a preparation island, and every electric convenience known to woman. Bright red, blue, and yellow calico-print curtains and chair cushions softened the sterile environment, giving the room a bright, homey feeling. The television was tuned to the food channel. Wolfgang Puck was removing the bones from a chicken.
DeeDee didn’t take her eyes off the TV screen. “Albert told me to f-fix you a s-substantial breakfast. I heard you coming down the s-stairs, though you t-took longer than usual. I hope your f-food isn’t cold.”
I sat down and unfolded my napkin. Glancing up at the television, I saw raw pink flesh and blood-tipped bones. When Wolfgang picked up a cleaver, I grimaced. “Can we dispense with the chicken surgery until after I’ve eaten?” DeeDee hit the remote button and the screen faded to black. I smiled my appreciation. “Thanks. Maybe you can catch a replay another time.”
“He’ll be on later t-today.” She poured coffee for both of us and sat down. “Are you ready for the m-meeting with the decorator?”
“As ready as I’m going to be.” I lifted the warming lid that covered the plate and sighed happily. Coddled eggs were nestled in a blue dish that was surrounded by slices of oranges, strawberries, and kiwi fruit. Crisp curls of turkey bacon begged me to take a bite. Calorie wise, this was a dieter’s dream. That it was attractively presented was an added bonus.
Since DeeDee had discovered that she loved to cook, I’d reaped the benefits. She revised high-fat recipes to suit my dietary needs. The results were always scrumptious. With her expertise, I figured she could take an old piece of shoe leather, arrange it on a plate, and the sight would make my mouth water. But I didn’t have to contend with shoe leather. Everything she made was luscious, and my weight remained stable.
The front doorbell rang. Our heads swiveled in that direction. My father bellowed from the hall, “I’ve got it. Don’t come out. Stay right where you are.”
I rolled my eyes and picked up my fork. The bite of egg was as tasty as usual, but annoyance with my father made the yolk stick in my throat. I took a swallow of hot coffee, and then popped a piece of kiwi into my mouth to cool off my scalded tongue. The tartness of the fruit made my lips pucker.
DeeDee caught my sour expression and said, “Give them a ch-chance, Bretta. I think Abigail’s ideas are v-very good.”
I didn’t bother to explain why I was making a face. “You’ve seen these ideas?”
“I haven’t s-seen anything, but Albert needed s-someone to talk to, so he used me as a s-sounding board.”
“You never said anything to me.”
She shrugged. “I was s-sworn to s-secrecy.”
“I can appreciate that, but I want to know more about these ideas.” Seeing her mulish expression, I lowered my voice. “Look at it this way. If I’m prepared, I won’t blurt out some awful remark that will cause trouble.”
DeeDee nodded. “You do have a knack for s-speaking your mind.”
“So?” I said, whirling my hand in a get-with-it motion.
DeeDee stared at me with troubled brown eyes. She glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen door before whispering, “Attic.”
I pushed my plate aside and leaned my elbows on the table. “What is it with the one-word clues? First Sid, and now you. Attic, huh? Well, I’m not in the mood to play Sherlock, or Nancy Drew, or Miss Marple.” I scooted back my chair. “I’m going to the library and get this over with. I have other fish to fry. Other papers to peddle. I’m out of here.”
I got up and started for the kitchen door. As I passed DeeDee, she put a hand on my arm. “You’re at the sh-shop all day, so you haven’t s-seen how hard Albert has worked. He l-loves you and wants to please you. Give him a ch-chance.”
I didn’t say anything, but my exasperation fizzled. Knowing my father, I was sure he had worked diligently. Look at how he’d wrestled that trunk from the attic. I frowned as I left the kitchen. And why was he doing all the heavy work? Why wasn’t Abigail helping? I caught sight of my grumpy reflection in a mirror that hung by the dining-room door.
I stopped and gave myself a pep talk. “Be nice. Be polite,” I murmured. “Be open-minded. Look for something that can be complimented.” I tried a smile but it was too forced. “Relax,” I said under my breath. “Be charming.” I eased my lips into a slow, gentle curve. “That’s much better.” Chuckling, I gave myself a congratulatory cheek-splitting grin that exposed all my pearly whites.
The library door opened. In the mirror my gaze connected with my father’s. My affected smile dissolved into slack-jawed embarrassment.
He shook his head and motioned for me to go in ahead of him. “We’re ready for you.”
In a hearty tone, I said, “And I’m ready, too.”
My father wasn’t fooled. In a soft voice, he said, “Abby and I have taken this decorating very seriously. I had hoped that you would, too.” He put a hand on my back and gently propelled me forward.
Contrite, I shuffled into the library. With the walls paneled in dark walnut, the room would have felt oppressive if I hadn’t lightened the mood by having the furniture reupholstered in moss green, cream, and gold. The Oriental rug picked up those colors and added a bold splash of peacock blue.
Posters and swatch books covered the sofa. A portable movie screen had been set up in front of the bookshelves. In my swift appraisal of the room, I also saw an overhead projector, but then my father directed my attention to the woman standing by the fireplace.
“Abby, this is my daughter, Bretta. Bretta, this is Abigail Dupree.”
She looked younger than thirty-two. She had a round, cherub face sprinkled with freckles. Her auburn hair was twisted into a braid that reached below her narrow waist. She wore a pair of khaki slacks, topped with a white knit shirt. Her smile was shy, but her blue eyes twinkled with excitement.
She made the first gesture, holding out her hand. “Bretta, I’ve looked forward to meeting you. I have everything lined up, ready to go. Albert told me you were crunched for time. We can get started right away.”
I gave her hand a light clasp. “Nice to meet you,” I murmured. My first thought, that Dad was infatuated with this woman, bit the dust. She wasn’t his type. But something was going on between them. It was as if they were on the same brain wave. She had only to glance across the room and my father adjusted the blinds. He lifted one shoulder, and she gave him a tight smile and nodded.
My father was an active man—an active, wealthy man. I’d kept him busy with the remodeling upstairs, but that job was completed. Was he looking for a new vocation with
Abigail? Was she looking for an investor in a fledgling business?
Dad urged me toward a chair that had been placed facing the screen. “Sit here,” he said, “and we’ll begin.”
Abigail picked up a notebook from a table next to me. Her hands trembled. My father had said he’d told Abigail that I would be a hard sell, which couldn’t have eased her mind about making this presentation.
My attitude softened toward her. “Relax,” I said, and flashed a genuine smile. “I’ll try not to interrupt your delivery, and I’ll try to be open-minded.”
She drew a hand across her brow and heaved a deep sigh. “Whew, that takes the pressure off.” She giggled as she took a firmer grip on the notebook. “I’ve felt like an invader, coming around while you’ve been at work, but Albert thought that was the best way to gather our data. Your home is lovely. The woodwork with its scrolls and carvings are superb. I liked that you stayed with the period of the house for the decor downstairs, but for a boardinghouse, where each room is the living quarters for an individual, I felt that the decorating theme needed to be modernized.”
Modernized how? With zebra and leopard print? I gnawed my bottom lip to remind me that I’d said I’d keep quiet.
Abigail smiled. “I can see you don’t agree, but have you thought about the type of person who might want to rent a room? Wouldn’t they bring their own memorabilia? Decorating a boardinghouse is different from a bed and breakfast. With the latter, your guests arrive with luggage, to spend a few days before leaving. You provide a lovely, comfortable room with chairs, bed, tables, and such. But what about renters who want to move in with their own bed or Grandma’s favorite rocking chair? What if those items don’t fit into the room’s color scheme or decor?”
Abigail held out her hands. “I’ve tried to work around your idea of a boardinghouse, but I’m stymied. How much furniture do we incorporate into the theme? Do we simply paint the rooms and furnish window treatments? Or do we go all the way and add accessories such as prints, vases, and figurines? These are questions you need to consider, but because you’re pressed for time, we’ll skip that discussion and move on.
“Albert liked the idea of naming each room for identification, rather than tacking a number on a door. The blue room, the pink room sounded too mundane for such a classy old house. Since flowers are an integral part of your life, we researched that category. I have to say we’ve considered everything from amaryllis to zinnia.”
Zinnia reminded me of my conversation with Bailey concerning the stages of an investigation. My mind flitted away from Abigail’s words. What had Sid found out? Would he tell me if I called him? Had he questioned the proprietors on Hawthorn Street? What would he ask each one? Did he have a suspect yet?
“—that’s why we settled on it,” finished Abigail. “There are so many different varieties with such visual names, though I wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to tag your private quarters. We’ve chosen only six names for the seven bedrooms.”
She consulted her notebook. “Golden Dawn. Crimson Charm. Vanilla Blush. Lavender Lace. Cocoa Magic. Coral Duet.” When she raised her gaze to meet mine, her eyes were shining. “Doesn’t each name evoke its own portrait? Once we’d settled on the names, the rooms seemed to take on lives of their own.
“Golden Dawn calls for buttery yellow accents against fern green walls, with contrasts of deep indigo blue. Crimson Charm begs for brass and glass with touches of elegant damask in shades of rich, vibrant burgundy. Vanilla Blush is a perpetual bloomer with red hips among luscious ivory flowers that are tinged with shell pink.”
Abigail waved her hand. “I could go on and on, but a picture is worth a thousand words. Albert, if you’ll dim the lights, it’s time to show Bretta our incentive for making the bedrooms fabulous.”
I’d lost the thread of Abigail’s speech while I was daydreaming, but picked it up again when she mentioned “red hips.” I assumed she was talking about roses. She switched on the overhead projector and slid a transparency into place. An exquisite picture of a rose came into focus on the screen. Under the photo, in elegant script, were the words “Lavender Lace.”
Abigail’s voice was soft. “See how the petals are infused with splashes of deep purple edged with white fringes? I visualize pale gray walls, a deeper gray carpet with an undertone of lavender. Accents would be with pewter and touches of dainty lace trim. It would be a feminine room, but I think any woman would love to call it home.”
As Abigail talked she put another image under the projector. This time I saw the words “Cocoa Magic.” A russet rose with a chocolate glaze was the only way to describe the sensational reddish-brown color combination.
“This would be a man’s room,” continued Abigail. “The wood floor would be left exposed, but area rugs in cream or ecru would add contrast. There’s a sleigh bed in the attic that would set the room off to perfection.”
She turned to me, and I saw her teeth gleam in the dusky light. “And speaking of the attic. There’s a gold mine of antiques upstairs. Most are in excellent condition. Some need a few minor repairs, but I know a man who does wonderful restoration. But getting back to the roses. Your father painted all the transparencies. Once the walls are finished, we’ll use this overhead projector to cast the image of the rose on the wall of the corresponding room that bears its name. Your father will then paint that image directly on the plaster, giving the room its monogram.”
Abigail switched off the projector, and my father turned on the lights. She locked eyes with me. “I know this is too much to take in all at once. I have more elaborate sketches of each room, with placement of the furniture and the fabrics I’d like to see used. I can leave everything for you to look over, or you can ask me questions, if you have time?”
My mind was in a whirl, but in a good way. I was truly impressed. I loved the use of the roses. I loved the names attached to the rooms. In fact, I didn’t see anything that hit a jarring note.
Abigail and my father stood side by side watching me, waiting for my reaction. I had plenty of questions, but asked only one. “Dad, what was in the trunk you brought down from the attic this morning?”
Before he could speak, Abigail said in a dramatic whisper, “A corpse in need of a final resting place.”
I supposed she was trying for humor, but I wasn’t amused. I cocked an eyebrow, but kept quiet.
Abigail’s lightheartedness vanished. She glanced at Albert as if for help, then back at me. “I—uh—you—uh—your father has told me about your extracurricular activities.” Her voice grew cool. “Since my spiel only prompted a question concerning the trunk, I thought I needed to grab your attention another way.”
“I’m listening,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “But are you seriously interested?”
Keeping my voice even, I replied, “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
My father stepped forward. “Now, girls,” he began, but choked off in midsentence.
I glanced at him and caught a pained expression. Concerned, I touched his arm. “Dad? What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
He shook his head. “No. No. Disappointed is more like it. I’d hoped this first meeting would be productive as well as amicable. Bretta,” he said, “I know you’re upset about your friend’s death, but try to be patient.” Looking at Abigail, he added, “Let’s keep to the business at hand. Show her the contents of the trunk.”
Abigail pressed her lips tightly together and led the way around the sofa. The piece of furniture had blocked my view, so I was surprised to see the carpet spread with bright pieces of material. The fabrics had been carefully fanned out in color-coordinated stacks.
“These vintage textiles are fabulous,” said Abigail. She picked up a shimmering piece of vermilion-colored cloth, unfurling it like a flower opening its petals. “I’ve done a fabric identification using the burn test. This is pure silk.”
My gaze swept the fabric, but I saw nothing that marred the sheen. “Burn test?”
Still miffed,
Abigail replied in a monotone. “I snipped a piece from the selvage, touched a match to it to determine if the fabric is natural, man-made, or a blend of natural and man-made fibers. Silk is a protein fiber and usually burns readily. The odor reminds me of singed hair. The ash crumbles easily, but the fire can’t be extinguished as quickly as it can with linen or cotton.”
I picked up the edge of the fabric and let the sensuous material slip though my fingers. “So this is real silk? It feels wonderful, but I’d be afraid to use it. With my luck, I’d spill something on it and it would be ruined.”
Abigail’s lips twitched. “I can be a klutz, too, but silk is wearable, durable, and is a classic. It never goes out of style. No other fabric generates the same reaction as silk. It’s one of the oldest textile fibers know to man and it’s the strongest. A filament of steel the same diameter as silk will break before a filament of silk.”
“Stronger than steel?” I stared down at the fabric in my hands. “If it does all you say, then why isn’t it used more often in clothes and such?”
“Cost. Pure silk like this is taken from the cocoon of the silkworm.”
I nodded. Anything that took time to produce raised the price. I looked down at the other fabrics displayed on the sheet-covered floor. “Are these silk, too?”
“Some are.” Abigail gently folded the length of silk and placed it back with the others. Pointing to a fuchsia piece that was almost transparent, she said, “That’s chiffon. Over there is a georgette sheer crepe. It’s heavier than chiffon and has a crinkle surface. Organza is similar to cotton organdy except it’s made with silk.”
“And those heavier-looking materials?” I pointed to a lovely plaid of scarlet, green, and navy.
“That particular piece is tartan. It’s made from wool and is a twilled plaid design that originated in Scotland.”
“Since you had Dad bring these fabrics down from the attic, I’m assuming you have plans to use them in the decorating upstairs?”
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