Death at a Fixer-Upper

by Sarah T. Hobart

  Merrit sighed in exasperation and leaned back. “Honey, we’ll be moving soon.”

  “I know. The flowers told me so.”

  “Did they, now.” She smiled at her daughter.

  “Have you decided which roses you’re going to take?” I asked her.

  She shook her head. “Plants belong in the earth,” she said. “It was a sweet thought of Eddie’s, though. I wish things had turned out for him and Vito. Family meant a lot to him. And Vito wasn’t a bad sort, from what Eddie told me. He always spoke kindly of him.”

  “I thought they had a falling-out.”

  “I just assumed it. What he told me was the boy was real handy with a shovel and a big help to him. Like I told you, gardening ran in the blood.”

  A quiver of nervous excitement started at the back of my neck and traveled down to my toes. “Did Eddie say what kind of help Vito gave him?”

  “Said he put in some plants, as I recall.”

  “Which ones? Do you know?”

  She thought it over with maddening slowness. “Roses, that’s for certain. Maybe the Queen Isabellas. Rich dark red, tendency to climb. They’re over in the far corner. No, must’ve been the Belle Stars. Pale pink, full-sized flowers, low-growing.”

  I was almost dancing with impatience. “Is there any way to be sure?”

  “Give me a minute to think back.” She concentrated, her brow furrowed. Then she shook her head. “Nope. I just can’t remember offhand.”

  “Shoot.” I scuffed my shoe in the grass.

  “ ’Course there’s records.”

  “Records?”

  “In the greenhouse. He kept everything there.”

  “I think we should take a look.” I waited till she was out of her chair, then herded her toward the glass structure, suppressing the urge to nip at her heels like a sheepdog. We entered the musty warmth of the greenhouse, and Merrit walked over to a wooden file box.

  “Never knew a real estate agent to take such an interest in flowers,” she said. She walked her fingers through the files, then pulled one out and opened it. Inside was a mildewed three-ring binder. Merrit began leafing through it while I hopped from one foot to the other.

  “Here we go. Yes. Look here.” She drew her finger down a column of dates, the ink so faded it was almost illegible. “I’ll be darned. Must be the Arlinda Junes.”

  I grabbed a shovel from the corner and trotted back to the rose garden while Merrit tucked all the paperwork away and followed me more slowly. Selecting a plant, I stabbed the blade of the shovel into the earth.

  “Can I ask what the hell you’re doing?” Merrit said, her mild tone robbing the words of any offense.

  “Digging up your legacy.” I worked my way around the shrub, jumping on the top of the shovel to drive it deep.

  “I already told you to forget it. Leave them be.”

  “In a minute. I need to check something.” I hauled back on the handle until the root ball tore free from the ground in a shower of rich loam. I set the plant aside and slid the shovel out from under it, using the blade to dig around the hole. Dirt and clay. Shoot.

  Lily waltzed over, her face bright.

  “This one’s pretty,” she said, pointing to another plant.

  Obediently I moved over and began to dig, wondering if other agents did as much shoveling in the course of their transactions as I was doing. Maybe just with words. Lily took off for the greenhouse, returning a minute later with another shovel and a hand trowel.

  When we’d dug all around, I levered out the second plant and deposited it on the grass. Then I shoveled dirt from the hole, prodding a little with the point of the blade. Instead of biting into the earth, it stopped with a muffled thump.

  Lily began clearing away loose soil. Some sort of rotted material came into view. We pulled it away in tatters, revealing a rectangular shape. I enlarged the hole until I could pry with the blade of the shovel. It was a battered metal box. Lily hauled it onto the grass, and I leaned on my shovel to catch my breath.

  “It’s locked,” she said.

  “Look out.” I gave the rusted hasp a sharp blow with the shovel and the lid popped open. We stood and stared. It was Merrit who finally broke the silence.

  “That plant never did grow right,” she said.

  —

  A team of student movers had hauled away our furniture, and I was running the vacuum over the putrid brown shag for the very last time when Bob Hancock arrived with his clipboard. He was breathing hard from the climb up the stairs. “Well, now,” he said. “I sure hate to see you go.”

  “Let’s just get this over with.”

  “No need to get huffy.” He cast an eye over the carpet and shook his head. “Sam, Sam, Sam. What have you done to my wall-to-wall? This goes way beyond normal wear and tear.” He made a note on his pad.

  “You know as well as I do it looked exactly like this when I moved in.”

  Bob looked at me craftily. “Got the photos to prove it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That’s a damn shame. Good-quality flooring don’t come cheap.” He ran an oily finger over the living-room wall. “You been hanging pictures, I see.”

  He fished a digital camera out of his pocket and took a close-up of the cheap paneling, then moved into the kitchen, making numerous notations and clucking in mock dismay at every new discovery. Finally he turned to me. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

  I fought the urge to plant my fist in the middle of his fat face. That sort of thing can become habit-forming, I’ve found. “Just tell me.”

  “Jesus, you’re so uptight. It’s all bad news anyway. I’m not even into the bedrooms and you got enough here to run through your entire deposit and then some. Guess it comes from all that hard living.” He leered at me.

  “But I have a week to fix it, right? Isn’t that how it works?”

  “You gonna replace the carpet? Paint the walls? You’re better off taking the loss on your deposit. Believe me, it’s not worth the fuss. I been doing this a long time, and the law’s on my side.”

  I drew a deep breath. Just then, fortunately, we were interrupted by a knock at the door. I crossed the hall and flung it open. Bernie Aguilar stood there, dressed in civilian clothes and holding a reusable shopping bag by the handle.

  “If you’re busy, I can come back,” he said.

  I stood aside somewhat reluctantly. “No, no, come in. My landlord’s here doing a walk-through, but he’s just about finished.”

  We moved into the living room. Bernie cast an eye around. “Looks like you’re all but moved out.”

  “Maybe one load to go, if that.”

  “I thought you could use a hand.”

  “I can manage.” I purposely made my tone brisk and tried not to imagine him naked. We were friends, for God’s sake.

  Bob popped back into the kitchen. “Don’t even get me started on the state of the bathroom—” He stopped and stared at Bernie.

  “Afternoon, Bob,” Bernie said affably.

  Bob shuffled his papers. “Chief. Always a pleasure. What, uh, brings you to our humble neighborhood?”

  “Just helping a friend.” He took a few steps toward the stack of moving boxes, and I noticed he was limping slightly. “You want these in the van?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I suppose. What’d you do to your foot?”

  He glanced down ruefully. “Rolled my ankle playing pickup ball with some of the guys from City Hall after lunch. It’s okay. Maybe a little tender. I’ll put some ice on it later.”

  Bob waddled toward the door. “I’ll be on my way. I’ll just make a copy of my notes and drop a set in your box.”

  I didn’t say anything. Bernie looked from me to my landlord. Then he turned away and worked his fingers under the box on top. “Met an old friend of yours today,” he said to Bob.

  “No shit. Small world.” He edged farther down the hall.

  “You got that right. Vernon Masters from the Building Department. M
atter of fact, I played basketball with him. He’s got a helluva jump shot.”

  Bob paused and cleared his throat. “Masters? The building inspector?”

  “That’s the guy. I guess you two go way back.” Bernie hefted up the box, assessing its weight, and then scooped up the one underneath it as well.

  Bob ran his tongue over his lips. He turned to me. “Leave your forwarding address at the front counter downstairs and I’ll send you a check within three weeks.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  Bob had his hand on the doorknob when Bernie spoke again. “Vern’s on a tear about substandard rentals. You should’ve heard him go on today. Says he plans to give new meaning to the words ‘code compliance.’ Nice to have someone downtown with a real zest for their job.” His eyes roamed innocently over the tattered curtains, worn carpet, and warped paneling.

  Bob’s face turned dark red and his right eye twitched. He released the doorknob and reached in his pocket.

  “As it happens, I have my checkbook with me. But you gotta be out today. Five o’clock sharp.” He scrawled out a check and tore it off the register, handing it to me.

  “Get the rest of your stuff out and lock the door. You can drop the keys downstairs.” He left, slamming the door behind him. A shower of glittery ceiling texture sifted down like snow.

  I looked at Bernie. “You didn’t have to do that. I had it handled.” This was so patently untrue that I added, “But thanks.”

  “What are friends for?” Bernie was smiling. “Saves me the trouble of booking you for assault. Since I’m here, you might as well put me to work. Two can go twice as fast as one.”

  I’d have preferred to work alone, but the man had just saved me twelve hundred bucks. No sense being churlish. I’d made my bed. It wasn’t Bernie’s fault he wasn’t lying on it.

  “Right,” I said. “Let’s get started.”

  An hour later, the Volkswagen was packed floor to ceiling with the last of the Turner possessions. I left a phone message for Max, who was at practice until six. Then I locked the front door and trotted down to the hardware store, handing the keys to the cashier. Bernie was waiting by the VW when I returned.

  “I walked over from the office,” he said. “I’d be happy to help you unload at your new place in exchange for a lift back to town. If you don’t mind the company.”

  “Uh—yeah, okay. But I have to swing over to Calville Title and pick up the spare keys.”

  “No problem.” He levered his body into the passenger seat and adjusted the seatbelt, his long legs stretched out in front of him. I twisted the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life, mercifully ending any idle chatter.

  I drove through East Arlinda to the freeway on-ramp and headed north. The sky was overcast and a scattering of raindrops dotted the windshield. We crossed the Blue River and ascended the bluffs into Calville. The fog was patchy, but through it I could see the high surf crashing onto the shore, sweeping away the detritus of past storms in its roiling wake and leaving everything fresh and new. The view tugged at my heart, as it always did. It made all things seem possible.

  I parked at the title company and ran inside, returning a minute later with the keys and a sheaf of important-looking documents.

  Bernie caught my expression as I swung myself back into the bus. “Congratulations,” he said.

  “Thanks.” I didn’t want to start bawling or anything, so I tucked the papers into my bag and we chugged back toward Arlinda.

  Rain spattered against the glass as we rumbled south along the 101. It felt strange to bypass the familiar exit to Arlinda Corners and steer the bus past the college and up the wooded hillside to Fickle Court. A minute later, I was rolling into my driveway. My driveway. As long as I kept up the payments.

  “I like it,” Bernie said, running his eyes over the boxy structure with its silvery board-and-batten siding. “It suits you.”

  “You think?” I unbuckled my seatbelt. Hoisting the cat carrier, I climbed the stairs to the front door, using the key I’d received from the title company to unlock it. As I did, I felt a frisson of warmth. Bernie had moved closer, a lot closer, sending little jolts of current down my body. “Do you mind?” I snapped.

  He stepped back with a wide smile. “Sorry. Just thought you might want a boost over the threshold. It’s traditional.”

  “I’m fine. And—and you don’t want to aggravate that ankle.” Not to mention I couldn’t trust myself.

  It was toasty warm inside, the thermostat set to a comfortable sixty-eight, and the faint aroma of blueberry muffins from days past seemed to linger. Our furniture crowded the big living room. My cut-rate movers had chosen expedience over style, dumping chairs, tables, and box springs wherever there was sufficient floor space to accommodate them. I shut Harley in Max’s room along with his litter box and a dish of kibble. He’d need time to adjust. So would I.

  I showed Bernie the small kitchen with its scarred wooden countertops, the full bath, and the two bedrooms. The “master” was cluttered with odd bits of furniture and the mattress from my bed, which Bernie seemed to regard with a more-than-healthy interest. To distract him, I tapped his shoulder.

  “Check it out,” I said, opening the door to the tiny half bath off the bedroom. “I have my own toilet.”

  “Well deserved,” he said gravely.

  We returned to the living room. Bernie limped out to the van, returning a minute later with the shopping bag he’d been toting when he appeared at my door.

  “Voilà,” he said, extracting a bottle of champagne and two plastic flutes. “We should celebrate.”

  “You shouldn’t have.” Really.

  “There’s more.” He reached into the bag and brought out a small foil box tied up with a filmy bow. “Something no new homeowner should be without,” he said, handing it to me.

  I took the box from him and removed the lid. Nestled inside were four perfect chocolate truffles, their luscious dark exteriors dusted with cocoa powder. Oh, boy.

  “Aguilar, you’re the limit,” I said.

  “So I’ve been told.” He worked the twist of wire off the champagne, pointed the bottle toward the ceiling, then braced with his thumbs and pushed. The cork shot off and disappeared in the maze of boxes. Bernie poured us each a measure of pale bubbly and handed me a glass.

  “To friendship,” he said.

  Our glasses touched with a click of plastic, and I sipped. I wasn’t a connoisseur of fine wines but it tasted pretty good to me—a little tart, with bubbles that danced on my tongue. I smiled at Bernie. Maybe friendship wasn’t so bad.

  We perched on a couple of kitchen chairs and sipped in silence. I bit into a chocolate truffle, which was filled with rich ganache, and stifled a moan. Heaven.

  Bernie shifted forward to refill our glasses and winced as his weight rested briefly on the injured ankle.

  “That’s really sore, huh?” With the champagne sending its warm tendrils through my system, I felt much more compassionate.

  He shrugged. “Not too bad. Maybe a little.”

  “You should elevate it.” I jumped to my feet, clearing boxes off the couch and padding it with a few stray pillows I found scattered around the room. After Bernie was stretched out, I tucked a pillow under his ankle. In the freezer of the small fridge we’d inherited with the house, I found a tray of frost-covered ice cubes. I emptied them into a plastic bag and handed the cold pack to Bernie. “Keep that on for at least twenty minutes,” I said, recalling Max’s various sprains and strains over the years.

  “Why, Ms. Turner,” Bernie said. “I had no idea you were so nurturing.”

  His eyes, rich and dark like chocolate, met mine. Something stirred inside me, a feeling as warm and delicious as that first exquisite bite of truffle.

  “Just watch. I can nurture the hell out of you,” I said. Then I leaned forward and kissed him.

  It was a casual, friendship-grade kiss. His mustache tickled my lip, and I decided a second kiss couldn’t hurt. This
time I tasted champagne and chocolate and something else. A dizzying rush of feeling traveled from my lips south. This couldn’t be happening.

  Bernie tilted his head back. “Tell me,” he said, his fingertips brushing my face. “What happens when the twenty minutes are up?”

  What, indeed?

  “Maybe it, um, takes longer,” I said.

  The ice bag hit the floor as Bernie swung his legs off the couch. He rolled to his feet, scooping me up in one smooth motion. The rush became the thunder of the Pacific, its waves of endless surf washing over me. Bernie pulled me close.

  “Damn the ankle,” he said. “Let’s find out.”

  To my extraordinary human and animal family, who make me feel very lucky indeed.

  Acknowledgments

  Grateful thanks to Sgt. Gary Whitmer, Eureka Police Department; to the Humboldt Botanical Society; to Emma Breacain, 2007 Rutabaga Queen; to Shalise Miles, First Priority Mortgage, for her loan expertise; to Joshua Kaufman, attorney-at-law; to Courtney Blake, Blake’s Books, and Austin Dach, California Lifestyles Realty, for their continuing encouragement; to Stephany Joy, whose enthusiasm keeps me going; to dedicated proofreader and mystery buff Christine Randall; and as always, to B. A. Whitney, for his unflagging technical support.

  PHOTO: B. A. WHITNEY

  SARAH T. HOBART is a writer and real estate agent on the rugged northern California coast. A former newspaper reporter, Ms. Hobart obtained her real estate license in 2007, and quickly distinguished herself as the only North Coast agent known to have closed a deal using a shovel, a wheelbarrow, and a Snickers bar. Writing as Muriel Wills, she is the author of the novels Good Bones and Like a House on Fire. She lives with her husband and two children in a majestic fixer-upper overlooking State Highway 101.

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