“I’m coming with you.”
“Oh, Frank.” I waved a hand. “You don’t want to get involved.”
“I’m coming with you,” he said, lifting his chin. “I’m always hearing about your adventures secondhand. Not anymore! This time, I want in.”
“Careful what you wish for,” I said.
“Ol’ Frankie Boy can handle himself just fine in a crisis.”
“If you say so.”
He swung a fist and declared, “Adventure awaits!”
Chapter 17
We left Frank’s car at the library, and I drove Foxy Pumpkin, since the point of our excursion was to bring the car to Harry—assuming he was haunting around his former home.
We pulled up to the Blackstone residence as the rain poured down.
The house was a modest rancher that fit in with the other forty-year-old houses in the neighborhood. There was an attached single-car garage, and a dense hedge on either side.
In front of the house, a brunette in a skirt and heels was pounding a For Sale sign into the lawn. It was Reyna Drinkwater, the same real estate agent who was selling the Moore house. What a coincidence. When I’d met her on my street, she’d also been putting up a For Sale sign. Once again, the heels of her pumps were sinking into the soggy grass. She must go through a lot of shoes, I thought.
“Reyna Drinkwater,” Frank Wonder said, reading her name off the sign. “Is she the one you told me about? The one who’s selling the house next door to yours?”
I turned off the car’s engine and turned to grin at Frank. “You mean the house you’re going to put an offer on?” For a moment, I forgot all about our ghost fishing expedition to focus on my other pet project: Getting Frank to buy Chet Moore’s house.
Frank snorted and replied in his fake Southern accent. “While I certainly do appreciate your constant harassment, Zara Riddle, there is simply no way I’ll be purchasing the house next to yours.”
“The price is very reasonable,” I pointed out. “And the neighbors are fantastic.”
“You know me. I’m more of an apartment guy.”
“Your apartment is haunted,” I scoffed. “That whole creepy building is literally crawling with tortured spirits.”
“They’re not that tortured,” he scoffed right back. “I leave them alone, and they leave me alone.”
“What’s your real objection to buying a house? Are you worried about maintenance and upkeep? Don’t be. Chet’s place looks like an old house on the outside, but Chet renovated that place from top to bottom with nothing but the best. It’s basically new inside.”
Frank was quiet for a moment. Had I finally gotten through to him?
“Nope,” he said with a note of finality. “I like living at the Candy Factory.”
“Marketing hype,” I snorted. “That old building was barely a candy factory. It was Wick Pest Control for decades, and before that, wasn’t it a prison for the criminally insane?”
“Yes. And before that, it was a leper colony,” he said proudly.
“That place gives me the heebie-jeebies, and I’m a witch.”
“But the light,” Frank said with a sigh. “And the ceiling height. You really can’t beat a loft for the light and the vertical space.”
I pictured a flamingo flapping his wings above Frank’s tasteful living room furniture. “Frank! Don’t tell me you fly around inside there!”
He smirked. “Sometimes, after a long day, you just wanna get home and spread your wings.”
“Okay. I get it now. I guess I’ll stop bugging you about the Moore house. It’s a great place, but you could never shift inside. Not unless you converted the attic and raised the roof.”
“Would the city allow that?”
“Frank.” I gave him my serious look. “I happen to know people at the Permits Department.” My aunt was the head of some semi-fictional subdepartment that did secret projects. As for Frank’s potential renovation, I felt confident Zinnia could pull the right strings if I asked sweetly.
Frank rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
There was a knock at the driver’s side window. We both started.
The real estate agent was standing next to the car in the rain. She cupped her hand around her mouth and yelled through the glass, “Are you here about the new listing?”
“Hi, Reyna!” I opened the car door and stepped out. The wind picked up just then, and the rain cut sideways, straight into my eyeballs. “It’s me, Zara Riddle. From Beacon Street.” I caught a mouthful of rain.
“Oh! Hi, Zara. It’s nice to see you again.”
“Is it?” I squinted against the rain. “It could be nicer.”
“Let’s talk inside,” the agent said with a light laugh, smiling over at Frank, who’d also stepped out of the car.
Reyna Drinkwater led the way up an overgrown walkway, past a small porch containing two wooden chairs topped with folded blankets, and straight into Harry Blackstone’s house.
“That’s better,” she said once we were inside the home’s entryway.
The house was dim and murky, even with the lights on. The walls were covered with the kind of wood paneling that was already going out of style the year the home had been built. All the fixtures and finishes were original, from the pointy-stuccoed ceilings to the shaggy brown carpeting on the stairs, which led both up and down off the entryway.
“This is a split level?” Frank asked, pointing to the stairs.
“One of the few in the neighborhood,” Reyna answered. “You don’t notice from the outside because of the low roof profile, but the home is bigger than it looks. It has over twenty-five hundred square feet of livable space, not including the garage.” She wiped her shoes on the mat, not quite removing the chunks of mud and grass from the heels. “I have an appointment back at the office shortly, but I can give you a quick tour right now, plus a features sheet.”
“Reyna, we wouldn’t want to put you out,” I said.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, smiling professionally. “It’s my job!”
Frank and I exchanged a look. We’d come to skulk around looking for a ghost. Getting a guided tour of the deceased’s home was more than we’d expected. However, I noted to myself, the real estate agent might sell Frank on the idea of home ownership, which meant I’d be that much closer to getting my wish of manipulating—um, gently assisting Frank into becoming my neighbor. Talk about killing two birds with one stone.
* * *
The house had been emptied of all Harry’s personal effects, except for a few pieces of furniture, interspersed with generic items likely rented from a home staging company. Harry didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who collected decorative bowls full of seashells.
At the end of the house tour, Reyna was giving us some numbers regarding the home’s typical utilities bills—surprisingly low!—and the property taxes—quite reasonable!—when she abruptly lurched forward and slapped both hands on the kitchen counter to steady herself.
For the length of the tour, I had been searching for Ghost-Harry in all the dim corners, and hadn’t looked at the real estate agent that closely. Now I saw that her cheeks looked waxy, and her skin had a yellow cast. Her eyes had the sanpaku presentation—whites visible on three sides. The whites were also tinged with yellow. Bilirubin? She was jaundiced. It could have been a genetic condition, a disease, or perhaps something was poisoning her liver.
“Reyna, are you feeling okay?” I asked.
“I think so,” she said, frowning. “Probably just detoxing.”
Detoxing? Frank and I exchanged a look.
“Have you been eating a lot of peppers?” I asked.
She coughed and let out an embarrassed laugh. “I’m just doing one of those vegetable juice cleanses right now.”
“Peppers?” I asked again, this time with increasing concern.
“No peppers,” she answered. “Mostly greens, garlic, and raw carrot juice.”
I looked at her more closely. Ingesting a lot of garlic an
d carrot juice could affect the skin, but the whites of the eyes? I didn’t think so.
A more likely explanation was poison. Like what had killed Harry.
I walked over to the refrigerator. Had the home stagers emptied the fridge? If Reyna had nibbled on the same tainted foods that Harry Blackstone had eaten, she might need to be rushed to the hospital.
I heard Frank say, “Maybe you should sit down before you pass out.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, but she didn’t sound fine.
I yanked open the fridge door.
Chapter 18
The fridge was empty. I was both relieved and disappointed.
I yanked open the freezer compartment. It was also empty.
I quickly checked the cupboards and drawers, opening each one in quick succession. There were some dishes, but not much else.
As I ransacked the kitchen, Frank watched both me and the wilting real estate agent with horrified, widened eyes.
Reyna, the consummate professional, didn’t miss a beat. She hadn’t even taken a seat, and was still bracing herself upright with the counter.
“The kitchen would be a great place to start upgrades,” Reyna said, forcing a cheerful tone despite her yellow cast and shakiness. “New appliances and counter tops would transform the space. The layout is efficient, and the cabinets are solid wood. You could even paint the doors white to freshen them up. People do that all the time. And you’d want to change out the knobs, of course.” She looked right at Frank. “So? What do you think?” She had identified him as the potential buyer, since she knew I was happy in my house.
“The house does have great bones,” Frank said. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“I’m fine. How do you like the kitchen layout? There’s a nice work triangle.”
“Uh, yeah,” Frank said. “It’s a nice work triangle.”
I poured the woman a glass of water and insisted she drink it. She took the water and used it to wash down some pills from her briefcase. They were unmarked, and she casually mentioned they were “vitamins and electrolytes.”
After a moment, her color returned to normal, and the shakiness subsided. Perhaps I had overreacted, mistaking a little dehydration for liver failure.
Frank poked around the kitchen some more, then asked, “Why are the owners selling?”
“The owner has moved on,” Reyna said.
Not really, I thought.
“Downsizing?” Frank asked.
“You could say that,” she answered.
“You’re being awfully vague,” Frank said, giving her a skeptical look. “The owner has moved on? You could call it downsizing? I may not be fluent in many languages, but I do speak Real Estate, if you know what I mean. I’m guessing the owner’s new, smaller home is a coffin?”
Reyna’s face froze. Barely moving her lips, let alone any other muscles, she regurgitated a prepared speech. “As per the real estate bylaws of this town as well as my professional code of ethics, I am obligated to disclose to potential buyers any recent deaths on the premises. I assure you there have been no recent deaths or major crimes on the premises that I have been made aware of.”
“But whoever used to live here is dead now?” He rested his elbows on the counter and casually prodded the bowl of plastic fruit.
The brunette wiped her brow with the back of her hand. She was sweating, visibly rattled, possibly from Frank’s direct questions.
I looked over at the refrigerator, which might have held photos of friends and family before the cleanup and staging. I wished I could have seen the place as it had been when Harry had died. I mentally kicked myself for not rushing over and letting myself in the first time I’d seen Harry as a ghost. But I couldn’t have known that even after two weeks, Bentley wouldn’t have closed the case.
As for the refrigerator photos, there might not have been much to see. Harry was a loner, a genius inventor who’d kept to himself after taking an early retirement from the DWM. He’d never married, and had no children. He didn’t have any heirs, except for a brother who lived in Wisteria. The brother was a wealthy businessman who wouldn’t have been financially motivated to kill his sibling—at least not according to Bentley, who’d looked into the possibility. According to Bentley, the brother had been out of town for weeks, up to and including the day Harry died.
I looked over at Reyna Drinkwater, who was finally answering Frank’s question, speaking her words carefully. “The man who lived here did pass away recently. He died peacefully in his sleep, and the event did not take place on the premises.”
Frank tapped his fingers on the stack of features sheets thoughtfully. A playful look crossed his face. Frank was enjoying our amateur sleuthing.
He licked his lips before saying to the agent, “I wonder, Ms. Drinkwater, if there’s any way you can guarantee that this house isn’t haunted? My current home is crawling with tortured spirits.” He waved his hand. “I have an uncle who claims to be clairvoyant,” he explained. “I’ll have to take his word for it, but if I were to pick up and move, I certainly wouldn’t want to jump from the proverbial frying pan into the fire.”
“Haunted?” Reyna’s face went through a series of expressions, as though she was trying them on. She settled on a calm, playful expression that matched Frank’s. “Actually, this place is very haunted.” She leaned toward him and patted his arm with loose fingertips. “Haunted by some bad decorating choices, if you know what I mean! But nothing a few cans of paint and some fresh carpeting wouldn’t solve.” She winked at Frank.
He pointed a finger at her and winked back. “Good one.” He turned to me. “Any questions?” He raised his eyebrows. “Did you see anything unusual while we were on the tour?”
I shook my head. “Nothing but bad decorating decisions.”
Frank shrugged. “Wood panelling is easy enough to replace.”
“Or paint over, for a seaside look,” Reyna Drinkwater said. She was packing some things into her briefcase. “If you like the coastal vibe.” She looked up at us and smiled as she snapped the briefcase shut.
“A coastal vibe,” Frank said. “You’re a good Realtor.”
“Thank you,” Reyna said.
“She is good,” I agreed. “Say, Frank, did I happen to mention to you that Reyna is also the listing agent for a house on my block? It’s right next to mine.”
Flatly, he said, “You may have mentioned that.”
“That one’s a great character home,” Reyna chimed in. “High quality renovations. The previous owners had excellent taste, and are very much alive, so you need not worry about hauntings. Similar price range as this one. I’ve got an Open House coming up.” She reopened the briefcase and handed Frank a color flyer with a photo of my neighbor’s house. The image captured both the charming goat weathervane on the roof and the circle window in the attic. So cute. If I didn’t already have a house, I’d be tempted.
Reyna went on to tell Frank more about the Moore residence, comparing and contrasting it with the Blackstone house. By juxtaposing the two houses, she somehow managed to make both of them sound better and better by the minute. She really was good.
Wrapping things up, Reyna said, “Thanks for braving the rain and stopping by!” She started moving toward the front door. “My number’s on everything I gave you, and I’m available any time for questions.” She paused. “There’s just one thing I should tell you.”
Frank and I made curious sounds and waited.
“Here’s the thing,” she said breathlessly. “I know you hear a lot of hype from people in my profession, but I’m being honest with you guys. There actually has been a lot of interest in this listing.”
We made more curious sounds.
“I’ve had requests for showings from a number of interested parties,” she said. “I’ve never had so much interest in a residential listing. Everyone has been so curious, and eager to get inside.” She shrugged. “It seems these old split-level homes are having a moment with the hip and trendy
crowd.”
Frank and I exchanged a look. People were curious, and eager to get inside? That sounded a lot like the new visitors we’d had at the library, descending like a swarm of locusts, kicking the locals off the computers, blocking aisles with their backpacks, and spreading their “evidence” across every free inch of study-table space.
I asked the agent, “These requests for showings, have they been from out-of-towners?”
“Yes. Why?”
Frank and I exchanged another look.
“Why?” Reyna asked again, frowning. “Is something going on that I don’t know about?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said.
Her skin took on a slight yellow tinge again. “What’s going on?”
I felt bad for the woman. She was clearly suffering from her carrot-garlic cleanse, plus I felt guilty about wasting her time on a home tour. I didn’t want to spread more gossip around town, but she would find out eventually, and I might save her some time to make up for what we’d wasted.
“This is going to sound strange,” I said carefully. “Reyna, have you ever been on any internet forums about ghost sightings?”
“Huh?” I could tell by her reaction that she had not.
Frank and I proceeded to admit that we worked at the library where Harry Blackstone had died. We told her what had been happening there recently, with the “rumors” of the ghost being around.
“That’s so strange,” she said, wide-eyed. And then her face twisted into an angry frown. Now she looked like someone who would—allegedly—release wild animals plus a donkey inside a residence to drive down the price. She growled, “Who do these out-of-towners think they are?” She shook her head. “They shouldn’t be posing as buyers. In my industry, we do not tolerate this sort of thing.”
“At least you can screen them,” Frank said. “At the library, we’re sort of all about tolerance.”
She turned her rage toward Frank. “Speaking of tire-kickers, are you actually looking for a house?”
Frank swallowed so hard, I heard it. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve been talking to Zara about it for weeks.”
Wishful Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 3) Page 11