A Draw of Death (Helen Binney Mysteries Book 3)

by Gin Jones

  The lock gave a squeal as I turned the key. I shoved hard against the warped door. Nothing happened. I put my shoulder into it and gave it another go. The door didn't budge.

  "Allow me," George said, stepping in front of me.

  Sure, why not. "Be my guest." I stepped aside.

  George looked at the door, running his hand along the edge near the top. He banged hard with his fist and then turned the knob and pushed. The door gave a groan as it swung inward. Creak. Creak. Creeeak. It got louder the wider George pushed it open.

  "I don't suppose you brought a flashlight?" he asked, peering into the shadowy gloom.

  I reached into my jacket and pulled out a small but powerful flashlight. "Wouldn't make me much of a contractor if I didn't."

  I flipped the light on and walked through the front door. The air was stuffy and smelled of old wood, mold, rotting linens, and something else I couldn't quite put my finger on at the moment. I shined my light around the large foyer. It was amazing.

  "Is that marble?" George asked, peering down at the floor.

  I crouched down and ran my hand over the dirty floor. It was cool and smooth. I used my jacket sleeve to rub a clean circle and shined the light on it. "Yep. Wow—this is a lot of marble." I followed the floor all the way to the sweeping staircase. These types of features, original high-end finishes, could up the value through the roof.

  "Beautiful," he said sincerely. I shined the light over at him.

  "Thanks." My flashlight caught on the intricate mahogany paneling coated with dust and grime, but salvageable. There were two large stained glass windows that followed the rise of the stairs up to a magnificent landing and then on up to the second floor.

  There was a receiving room or parlor off one side of the foyer. This room had an oversized fireplace, boarded up windows, and rotting green shag carpet over the hardwood floors.

  "Looks like this place had a 1970's update," George observed.

  I pointed my light at the ceiling. "Crap. Looks like we've got water damage up there."

  George walked over to the heavy orange-and-green curtains and gave them a tug. "I'll let some light in so you can get a closer look."

  I saw the curtain rod buckle and let out a yell. Too late. I rushed over to George, now covered in yards of musty old fabric. I dug through the layers and helped him sit up.

  "Are you okay?" I shined the light on him as he got to his feet. His hair stuck up in several places, and a fine coating of dust gave him a spectral-like quality. His linen pants were wrinkled, his jacket stained, and his white cotton shirt was a sickly shade of gray.

  He coughed and sputtered. "I'm fine…I'm fine." Then he gave me a wry look. "Twenty minutes with you and look at me. I'll be lucky not to get picked up for vagrancy on my way home."

  "Yeah, you don't look so hot. I'm not sure you're cut out for the rehab business."

  He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his face. I shook my head. What a dandy. "Nonsense. A little dirt isn't going to slow me down. Lead on." He pointed toward the foyer.

  I shrugged. "You're a glutton for punishment."

  "So I've been told," he replied cryptically.

  * * *

  The kitchen had also been redone in the 1970s and sported matching avocado-green appliances, brown laminate cabinets, electric-orange countertops, and a hole in the ceiling that was large enough to see the waning sunlight through. Nothing I couldn't fix, of course. But the dollars were adding up faster than a New York taxi meter in rush-hour traffic. The kitchen's gleaming tin ceiling was its only redeeming feature, and it would need intricate repair work once the hole was patched.

  "Whoa," George said, "you've got your work cut out for you in here."

  "Yeah, I knew it would be a gut job. All these old places are, but I'll probably use that soapstone sink and some of the fixtures. And just look at the beautiful tin ceiling." My mind was suddenly racing with all the possibilities of the room. Move the sink over to the window. Put an island down the middle.

  "You really do love your job, don't you?" He was looking at me with admiration in his eyes.

  "Don't you?" I asked curiously.

  He thought about it. "I'm satisfied with my job. But it's not quite the same." Our eyes held for a moment too long.

  I fidgeted and turned away, heading back toward the hall. There was a powder room under the stairs, sans toilet. "That's a little odd," George commented.

  I glanced in. "Happens more often than you'd think."

  "A secondary toilet market?" he asked quizzically.

  "Couldn't say, but these houses are always missing a toilet or two," I replied.

  We found an enormous ballroom divided by massive pocket doors. The floors were badly scarred, but the rest of the room was in good order. Unfortunately, the solarium off the back of the ballroom was not in as good of shape. Most of the windows were broken. I wasn't sure I'd be able to afford to repair them. I might end up tearing that down. Something I hated to do.

  "Well, this is a real shame," George murmured looking around. "We had a solarium in our home in London. The things you could grow there in the dead of winter. Truly extraordinary."

  His serious, articulate voice contrasted sharply with his grimy, disheveled appearance. I giggled. "You look ridiculous."

  He pursed his lips. "Kicking a man when he's down? What would Janiece say?"

  I narrowed my eyes. "She'd say, and I quote, 'You play with fire, don't whine about getting burned.'"

  He laughed. "I can hear her saying that. And that horrible bird of hers squawking in agreement. Every time she calls me to change her order, all I can hear is that bird haranguing her in the background."

  "Smitty takes some getting used to," I agreed. Gram's sixty-year-old parrot was a bit eccentric, to say the least. She'd acquired him when she'd married my grandfather. Gram said he went with the house. So I suppose if anything happened to Gram, I was next in the bird inheritance line. Oh joy.

  "That," George said, returning my smile, "is an understatement. I know he's had a long life, but he looks to be at death's door. I wouldn't think living at Rockgrove would've been so taxing on the poor thing."

  "According to Gram, he was never much to look at, and he's a bit more bedraggled lately," I admitted. "But he's got personality." Although I didn't exactly love the bird, I didn't like to hear strangers talking trash about the family mascot.

  "Touché," George said with a wave of his hand. "Throwing my words back at me. What's that look for?"

  I couldn't contain myself another moment. "Who says things like 'touché'? It's like you walked out of a Monty Python skit. Who are you?"

  George stared at me for a long minute. "That's an interesting question." He nodded and left the room. I hurried behind him with the flashlight.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  I caught him as he started to climb the stairs. "It means it's nearly dark, and we've still got the second story to look over. However, I'd love to have a more detailed discussion over dinner sometime."

  The invitation caught me off guard. "Are you asking me out?"

  "If I did," he said looking down at me, "what would you say?"

  "Probably no," I answered honestly.

  "Then I won't ask you now." He turned and started up the stairs.

  "Hey," I yelled, following him, "you can't do that. You have to ask and take your chances."

  "You'll have to show me that one in the dating rule book," he said, not breaking his stride.

  I grumbled all the way up the staircase, forgetting to check for damage. Who did he think he was? Mr. Preppy was going to teach me about dating? No way.

  We made our way through the five bedrooms. Two had been part of the 1970's renovation. Thankfully, the other three just needed new windows and a fresh coat of paint. Unfortunately, the master bathroom had been part of the renovation.

  "They had a penchant for avocado, didn't they?" George said, peering over my shoulder.

  "Yeah, a real penchant
," I said with an eye roll. This guy.

  We left the master bedroom and headed down the hallway. "What's that smell? I don't recognize it."

  George sniffed delicately. "That's strange." He sniffed again.

  "What's strange?" I asked.

  "It smells like lime."

  "Lime? Like the citrus fruit?"

  George shook his head. "No, like the lime farmers spread on fields."

  I sniffed again. "It smells weird. Like sickly sweet."

  We reached the hallway bathroom, and I turned the crystal knob. The door creaked and swung open. The smell was stronger in here. The bathroom was tiled in black and white subway tiles from ceiling to floor. A toilet and sink sat in one corner, and a huge claw-foot tub stood in the other, with an old shower curtain drawn across it.

  "Score!" I cried. "Original tub." These tubs were big, beautiful, and indestructible. Buyers loved them. My light caught something on the floor. A man's flip-flop.

  We both stared at the incongruous object. Why would there be a flip-flop in the bathroom? "Looks like we might have squatters." Great, just great. Freeloaders who were nearly impossible to get out through the court system. "What's all that white powder?" I pointed my flashlight at the floor. There were also small drops of something darker peppering the white powder.

  George walked into the room and leaned over the bathtub. He didn't say anything for ten seconds. Then, "It's definitely lime."

  "Why would there be lime in the bathtub?" I asked, walking toward him.

  He held up a hand to ward me off. "To cover up the smell of the dead guy," he said, pointing at the tub.

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