The county courthouse was a big building of salmon-colored masonry positioned between the north- and southbound lanes of the freeway. I parked on a side street and locked my car front to back. Skirting a couple of fellows making a drug deal on the courthouse steps, I passed through the security checkpoint, where I was relieved of my nail clippers, and took the elevator to the fourth floor. At the county clerk’s office, I shelled out twenty-two bucks for a copy of Edsel Northrup Harrington’s last will and testament. I was surprised at how easy it was; no one questioned my right to the information or demanded proof that I was related to the deceased. Disappointing, because I’d worked up a couple of plausible lies just for the occasion.
Back in the van, I propped the document against the steering wheel and read through it, not without some difficulty. It had been prepared by the law firm of Gussman, Saul, Nordberg & Klinghoffer, with offices on the fourth floor of the Jacobsen Storehouse in Arlinda. Shorn of all the wherefores and whereases, the bulk of the estate, after any debts and testamentary expenses had been paid, went to the Arlinda Botanical Society. Five thousand dollars had been left in trust for Lily Mae Brown, daughter of Merrit Esperanza Brown, to be put toward her education. Merrit herself had been left six rose plants of her choosing, including their root systems and any soil peripherally attached. A touching remembrance, but probably not as useful as a fat wad of cash, I thought.
There was an additional clause in the body of the will that I puzzled over for some minutes. I read it through three times and decided it had to be one of the “issues” referred to by Lois Hartshorne. Digging out my phone, I made an appointment to see Louis Klinghoffer, attorney at law, the following afternoon at three o’clock. Due diligence? I’d show Lois I could due-diligence my ass off. Then I hit the road north, headed for home.
I pulled into the space reserved for Unit 1 just after five. Our apartment—soon to be ex-apartment—was up a dark, musty flight of stairs accessed by a fire door off the back of Hancock’s Hardware and Gifts. I plodded up to the second story, each step feeling like a dozen. It had been a long day, and there was still the question of dinner.
But as I climbed an enticing smell of sautéed onions, garlic, and Italian herbs wafted over me. I unlocked the door and traversed the short length of hallway. Max was at the stove, stirring something thick and piquant in a saucepan. Tall and lanky, he had a white apron tied around his waist with a dish towel folded over the string. A shock of brown hair hung over his eyes.
“Homework?” I said.
He glanced up. “In process.” He coated a teaspoon with red sauce, blew on it to cool it, and took a taste, rolling the flavors around his tongue before adding a dash of black pepper and a palmful of leafy green stuff.
“Oregano,” he informed me, using a big wooden spoon to blend in his additions. He placed the spoon carefully on a folded paper towel and consulted a sheet of paper, presumably his recipe.
I dropped my bag on a stack of boxes and helped myself to a beer from the refrigerator. “This is for your cooking class?”
“Yep. Pasta and sauce. I get extra credit for the garlic bread.” He filled a saucepan with water from the tap and added a pinch of salt, then set it on the range, turning up the gas. “How’s five-thirty for dinner?”
“Perfect.” I flopped into a chair at the kitchen table, watching him cook. He fussed some more with the sauce.
“It really should simmer overnight for optimum flavor,” he said.
Optimum flavor? He sounded like one of those slick cable TV chefs who whipped out a five-course dinner in half an hour and never seemed to have to tackle their own dirty dishes. My own idea of optimizing flavor involved using the “medium” setting on the toaster to gently brown my Pop-Tarts. “You like culinary class, I take it.”
“It’s really pre-culinary. But it sets me up for the Culinary Arts program at Arlinda High.”
I almost groaned aloud. My son, in high school. It raised a lot of questions. Where had the years gone? Why hadn’t I achieved more in life? Would there be dessert?
“I took intro to Culinary Arts as a sophomore,” I said. “My favorite class. I had a great instructor.”
“Did you go through the whole program?”
“Nope.” I took a swallow of beer. “The instructor retired and they had trouble replacing her.”
His shoulders twitched and I thought he would say something, but he clammed up. I took that as an invitation to chatter on. “I ended up in wood shop my junior year, but that wasn’t a good fit. Barely made it out with all my digits. I forget what I took senior year. Typing or something.”
Harley, our gray-and-white cat, strolled out of Max’s room, pausing to stretch elaborately. Like Max, he was in his teens now, the round softness of kittenhood replaced by a lean, manic energy and an enormous appetite. He fixed an eye on my shoe, arched his back, and danced up to it, swatting it with a lightning paw before streaking off to climb the curtains. I watched morosely.
“Bob’s gonna nick us for claw marks on his curtains,” I said. Our landlord had recently issued us a sixty-day notice to vacate, in no uncertain terms, for violating his pet policy and because he was an asshole in general.
“Tell him it’s the distressed look.”
“I’ll try that, but I’m not one of his favorite people. How’s the packing coming?”
“Just about done.” The water in the saucepan had achieved a full rolling boil, and Max dropped in a handful of spaghetti, stirring with a pair of tongs. I jumped up and sprinkled a few bites of kibble in Harley’s dish. In a flash he was at my feet, winding himself around my ankles with a thunderous purr. Finally, someone who appreciated my skills in the kitchen. I plunked the dish down on the table, and he dug in.
“I need a favor,” Max said.
“Anything. Just name it.”
“Wow. How about a bigger allowance?”
“Sure. Since you’re making dinner. What else?”
He left the stove and went down the hall to his room, returning with a crumpled piece of paper. “I was supposed to have you sign this form. It’s from our race sponsor.”
I looked over the document. It had been folded into a small square and gave every indication of having been dampened, dried, and possibly used as a napkin. When I spread it out flat, I saw traces of powdered cheese in the creases. “How long have you been carrying this around?”
“I dunno. A week?”
“At least.” I scanned the text. It was a waiver releasing SmithBuilt Construction from any liability arising from participation in Saturday’s Kinetic Sculpture Race, covering such unforeseen events as loss of life, traumatic injury, and/or dismemberment. That was comforting.
“You’ll be careful, right?” I asked him.
“Don’t worry. Nothing’ll happen.”
I frowned. The race, created more than two decades earlier by a couple of guys bowling around the street on modified tricycles, had rapidly mushroomed into a grueling pilgrimage across forty miles of the North Coast’s streets, sand dunes, and waterways. Every year the field grew larger and the machines more elaborate. Hard to believe a spectacle of such overweening silliness could also be dangerous, but the risks were undeniable: crashes, traffic, exposure to sun, wind, rain, and junk food, a capsize during the water crossing…yikes! Better not to think about all that.
I picked up a pen, then noticed the date. “You were supposed to turn this in on the fifteenth.”
He had the good grace to look sheepish. “Spaced it. Team captain says if I get it in by the end of the day tomorrow I’m good to go.”
“Fine.” Signing my name in an artistic scrawl, I pushed the form toward him. He made no move to pick it up.
“Here’s the thing,” he said.
“Let me guess. I have to deliver it.”
“I have practice after school.”
I glanced at the address. SmithBuilt had a new complex on Salmon Bay Boulevard, only a few blocks west of Arlinda proper. But I was irked nonetheless.
“Sorry.”
“Three showings. And a meeting in the afternoon.”
“That’s awesome.” He flashed me one of his crooked smiles. Ugh.
“You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood.”
“Thank you. I mean it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I fell silent, lost in thought. Should I tell my son his father was in town? Was I absolutely sure of it? I gathered my courage. “Max.”
He was back to stirring his sauce. “Yeah?”
“I, um…” Damn! I’d lost my nerve.
“Don’t skimp on the garlic,” I said.
—
After a dinner that lived up to its olfactory promise, I retired to a comfy spot on the couch to sort out my thoughts. There was Aster Lane and my three new clients. There was Wayne. And there was Bernie. I moved restlessly. Better not go there.
My cell phone rang and I picked it up. It was Gail. We made a little small talk, and then I told her about the third showing.
“Two o’clock?” she said. “I should be done at the dentist. Any chance you can pick me up at the office?”
“Sure. Unless it’d be easier to meet at the property.”
“Jim’s taking the minivan in for service. He’s going to run me to and from the dentist in his truck in case they gas me.”
“That’s a thoughtful man.”
“Bernie would do the same for you, if you’d let him.”
“Don’t start.” I didn’t tell her about our dinner date. It was already creating a hum of anxiety in my gut. “You ever have any dealings with Lois Hartshorne? She was downright antagonistic on the phone today.”
“You’d be antagonistic, too, if you’d been married to Everett Sweet.”
My mouth dropped open. “Our boss?”
“The one and only. It didn’t end well, or so I’ve heard.”
“You’re a mine of information.”
“I hear things,” she said modestly. “Hey, I’d better go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She paused. “So you’ve got three showings with three different clients on the same day.”
“Weird, huh?”
“Amazing is how I’d describe it. Damn. What are you doing for marketing? Shopping carts? Refrigerator magnets?”
“I swear they just called out of the blue. It’s great, but…I don’t know. I’m waiting for the other shoe to fall.”
“It’ll fall, all right,” she said. “Right into your bank account.”
Chapter 5
For breakfast I made an effort to sustain the level of haute cuisine established the night before by serving sliced bread, lightly toasted, topped with a purée of roasted peanuts and garnished with a compote of boiled fruit. Max was out the door before the last mouthful was swallowed, leaving me and Harley to tidy up and plan our day.
I cleaned the litterbox, then started on my “toilette,” going the extra mile by flossing my teeth and pressing a cold washcloth against my eyes to get rid of the little crusties. I passed up a chance to stand under tepid shower water—I suspected Bob of cranking down the setting on our water heater—and instead rinsed my head under the bathroom faucet. My hair was six weeks out from a cut at Steve’s Barber ‘n’ Brew but fell into perfect layers after a brisk rub with a towel, a testament to Steve’s beer-fueled genius.
I dressed in clean Levi’s and, after giving the armpit area a test sniff, opted for yesterday’s little black shirt with an extra swipe of deodorant. The air in our apartment felt moist and sticky and our view of the Dumpster out back was clouded by humidity, so I dug deep in my closet and chose a linen jacket over my usual tweed. The material was the color and texture of a burlap sack and a bit itchy, but I liked the way it looked in the mirror; if I could refrain from scratching as if I had a bad case of fleas, I might pass as a professional.
I took a detour to the office to check for messages and update my lockbox card. The place was cold and empty, but through the window above the sink in the kitchenette I caught a flash of movement. I peered through the glass. A man was rolling up a bedroll on the back deck. I watched him secure each end with a strap and attach the roll to a battered pack frame. He was in his late sixties, long-legged and thin, with a fringe of gray under a faded Niners cap and a grizzled mustache and beard. This had to be Biddie’s vagrant of yesterday morning. I’d be damned if I’d prove her right.
I yanked open the back door and he looked up. His eyes were a clear, untroubled blue, his expression mild and curious. The harsh words on my lips evaporated. Instead, I found myself saying, “Good morning.”
He nodded politely. I watched as he finished his packing and rolled to his feet with the ease of a much younger man. “Good day to you,” he said, then he hoisted the frame to his shoulders and stepped carefully down the stairs, strolling west on Sunset.
I went back into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee, all the while berating myself. I was soft, just as Biddie’d said. Naïve. A pushover. I poured coffee into a semi-clean travel mug and dumped the last of Biddie’s half-and-half into it, then stirred in three packets of sugar, vowing to toughen up before the day was through.
A few minutes before eleven, I parked my car on Eleventh Street and started down Aster Lane, pausing to open the gate for my client. Blackberry canes grabbed at my jacket as I continued down the drive, skirting pools where the May rains had collected. In the murky water, scores of mosquito larvae practiced their aerobics routines.
The house was shrouded in fog. Oddly, it wasn’t the light, sweet mist I’d experienced in town but something heavier and darker that pressed against my cranium like the seeds of a headache. With keys in hand, I followed the brick path around the side of the house toward the back door. As I was about to mount the steps, I heard a voice coming from the yard. I hustled around the rear of the house and saw the bulky shape of a man standing by the wishing well.
He spoke a few words into a cell phone, then tucked it in his pocket and took out a small ringed notebook. He was busily jotting down figures when I hurried up.
“Richard Ravello?” I said. “I’m Sam Turner.”
He tucked the notebook under his left arm and held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you. I hope you don’t mind that I got started. I was a few minutes early.”
“No, that’s fine. I didn’t see your car or I would have found you sooner.”
“I parked on the street,” he said easily. He had sleek black hair combed straight back and a smooth, tight face with eyes so dark the pupils blended with the irises. His suit was navy blue and at least ten years out of style; the fit was tight across the shoulders, the fabric shiny with strain and the collar dusted with dandruff. The trousers were an inch too short, revealing black socks and patent-leather dress shoes. A travel mug sat on the wishing well, emitting little wisps of coffee-scented steam.
“I was just on the phone with my boss,” he said. “I’m encouraged by what I see here. Nice level parcel, good drainage, utilities already onsite. I see twenty, maybe thirty lots here once we clear the house and vegetation.”
“There may be a little issue with that,” I said. “Something to do with the will. I have a copy of it and this afternoon I’m meeting with the attorney who wrote it up, so I’ll be able to tell you more then.” Was that diligence or what?
Ravello merely shook his head. “Doesn’t worry me. Things like that have a way of resolving themselves.” He winked and smiled, a smile that never reached his dead-alive eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that in my experience a fat wad of cash usually removes most obstacles. Take my word for it.”
He pulled a tape measure from his jacket pocket and retrieved his mug. “I need to take a few measurements of the house to pass on to our demolition team. Lead the way.”
We retraced our steps to the back door. Before using my key, I rapped on the glass panel.
“Is someone home?” Richard said. “I thought the place was cleared out.”
<
br /> “I always like to double-check,” I said, remembering more than one occasion when I’d entered a vacant home and surprised an occupant. “But no, there shouldn’t be anyone home.”
We entered the kitchen. While Richard took measurements, I placed my business card on the kitchen table. He paced off the kitchen, then poked his head into the tiny room off the back. “Servants’ quarters, eh?”
I turned away, in case my feelings were written across my face. “Do you want to see the upstairs?”
“A quick look. I need to get the paperwork going. I’ll only be in town a couple of days.”
I bolted the door, and we started down the long hallway. Richard whistled when we reached the curved mahogany staircase.
“They sure knew how to build ’em,” he said. “Do me a favor and hold this end, would you?” He offered me the metal tip of the tape measure, then began to retreat toward the kitchen. A minute later, he reappeared. “Perfect. You can let go now.” I watched as the tape got sucked back up into its housing.
We went up the stairs to the second floor. Richard gave each room a cursory glance, making a few notes in his notebook. He was all restless energy, peering into every closet, eyes flicking about like a cat’s watching a flock of small birds. His phone chimed and he pulled it out, staring at the display. He tapped on the screen, presumably replying. Then he turned to me.
“I’d like to take a look at the foundation, then put in a call to my company. Ready?”
“Sure.” We started down the stairs. My feet seemed to drag on the treads as we passed the spot where Biddie had her weird turn, but I forced myself on, following on Richard’s heels. We reached the back door and he passed through. Something about the way the knob twisted in his grasp nagged at me, but I was hard-pressed to keep up as he jogged down the stairs and turned left.
“I think the front of the house is our best vantage point,” he said.
“Go ahead. I just need to lock up.”
Death at a Fixer-Upper Page 5