“But you’re going ahead whether I help or not?”
“I said I’d do it so I will,” she said simply. “Sorry, didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Maybe another time. Nice meeting you, Mr. Barrett.” She was already halfway to the door.
“Hey, wait up, I didn’t say I wouldn’t help.”
“You mean you will? Great! Does seven thirty work for you?”
“Tonight? Um, sure, that’s fine.”
“Good, I’ll meet you there. I’d better get back to the shop. And thanks.” She waved a cheery goodbye to Phil and bustled out. The energy level in the room dropped by eighty percent.
“Nice-looking woman,” Phil observed.
“I guess.”
“I thought you hated execution sales.”
“I do, but the guy squatting at the Potter house is a goon. I couldn’t very well let her go there alone.”
“What were you doing at the Potter house?” Phil was eyeing me oddly.
“Lurch held a private sale last night. Probably trying to beat the execution sale.”
“That’s illegal, isn’t it?”
“Not if he hasn’t been officially notified of the sale. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. People say the place is haunted.”
“It looks like it should be. Somebody said a photographer committed suicide there.”
“Jerome Potter. The last of his sorry-ass line.”
“You knew him?”
“Met him.” There was an “end of story” chill in his tone so I changed the subject. Phil and I don’t need to share any ghost stories. We’re living in one.
Karla Frantzis climbed out of a hot pink VW as I pulled up in front of the Potter house that night. The car suited her. Perky and bright. Phil was right. She was a good-looking woman. Funny I hadn’t noticed before.
“Hi, I was about to give up on you.”
“Am I late?”
“Nope,” she grinned, “I’m always early. Shall we?”
I followed her up the steps and she rang the bell. A woman/girl answered, dishwater blonde, unkempt hair, soiled T-shirt and shorts, dark circles under her eyes. She was only twenty or so. A hard twenty.
“Trane ain’t here.”
“Actually, we’re not here to see him,” Karla said, giving the girl a hundred-watt smile and a business card. “We’re the appraisers. For the execution sale tomorrow?”
The girl frowned at the card, her lips moving as she read it. “What’s this supposed to mean?”
“We need to price things for the sale. The city clerk said you’d been notified.”
“Trane said somethin’ about it. Never tells me squat anyway. What do you want to see?”
“Pretty much everything, I’m afraid,” Karla said, trailing the girl into the living room. “Your name is...?”
“Chastity. That’s a hoot, huh? There ain’t much left; Trane already ditched most of it. Help yourself. I never go upstairs anyway. Place creeps me out. Frickin’ wind howls around this house like a coyote. You want me, I’ll be in my bedroom watchin’ TV. The stuff in there is mine, personal, I mean. Stay the hell away from it.”
She shuffled off to her bedroom, closing the door. And locking it with an audible click.
“Can she do that?” Karla asked. “I thought the execution lien covered everything in the house.”
“You’re right, it does. Stand back, I’ll kick down her door.”
“Wait a minute!” She grabbed my arm, pulling me away from the door. “Are you nuts! You can’t—” I tried to keep a straight face, couldn’t quite manage.
“You jerk!” she said, punching my shoulder.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist. But you’re right. Technically, everything in the house is supposed to be sold, but nobody expects us to unplug that kid’s TV. The city doesn’t really care about the money from the sale anyway. They want Lurch to move on and an execution sale is one more way to turn the screw.”
“Lurch?”
“The butler from the Addams Family? This place reminds me of their haunted house. What’s his real name again?”
“Trane. John Thomas Trane.”
“Lurch suits him better. Let’s try to wrap this up before Mr. Trane pulls into the station.”
The Potter house was a rambling wreck of a place, three floors with a dozen rooms each. Still, cataloging the furnishings wasn’t difficult. Trane and his girlfriend were only using a few rooms on the first floor. The others were either empty or trashed. Walls kicked in, ceiling fixtures ripped down. Senseless carnage.
We found a few pieces of chipped china in the kitchen, some filthy flatware. One of the dinette chairs looked like part of a Gambles set, but the seat had been recovered with terry cloth and the legs were rusty. Two bucks instead of two hundred.
All the living room furniture was third- or fourthhand, castoffs Goodwill wouldn’t bother picking up.
“Look, I’m sorry about this,” Karla said. “If the sale doesn’t earn enough to pay for your time, I’ll make up the difference.”
“Forget it, a deal’s a deal. Besides, this is kind of fun, like exploring a haunted castle.”
“Complete with an evil giant. Maybe we’ll have better luck upstairs.”
And we did, sort of. The second floor was closed off to save heat and a few rooms still had some original furnishings. Or what was left of them.
Chairs had been torn apart, linings slashed. A turn of the century sleigh bed had been kicked to pieces.
“My god,” Karla said softly, “this must have been a lovely home once. How could anybody do this to it?”
“Maybe Lurch was looking for something. Loose change, a lost doobie? Or maybe kids trashed it before he moved in. It’s slated for demolition anyway so I don’t suppose it matters.”
“But even that seems like a crime. I thought the Downtown Development Authority was supposed to preserve old houses. Look at this woodwork, the moldings, the mantels above the doors. All oak and at least a century old. Isn’t it worth quite a bit?”
“It’s certainly worth more than the furniture we’ve seen. I expect the contractor will recover it before they raze the place. C’mon, let’s finish up. This is beginning to bum me out.”
The other rooms were the same, a shambles. But at the end of one hall, a mystery.
The room was windowless, its walls lined with shelves, most torn down. Metal bins scattered around. Karla glanced the question at me.
“I think this was probably a darkroom. The previous owner was a photographer, Jerome Potter. I was told he committed suicide here.”
“In this room, you mean?”
“I don’t know. He supposedly hanged himself so I guess it could have been here. These shelves look strong enough.”
“Thanks for sharing that,” Karla shivered. “Is this stuff worth anything?”
“Not in this condition. Most of the trays are too banged up to be of any use.” I opened a storage closet... and froze. Trying to understand what I was seeing.
“What is it?” Karla asked, moving up beside my shoulder.
“I’m not sure.” The closet was deep, lined with bookcase shelving. But one of the bookcases was on hinges. It was pulled away from the wall, revealing another cubicle beyond it.
“Whoa, a secret room?” Karla asked.
“Looks like it,” I said, swinging the bookcase/door open a little wider. I thought the hidden room was just another storage closet. Until I noticed the small three-step ladder. And the sliding panel set high in the wall. Curious, I stepped up and slid open the panel.
“What is it?”
“A peephole,” I said. “I’ve only seen them in movies. You can see into the next room from here.”
“What’s in there?”
“Nothing now, it’s as trashed as the rest of the house. But there are clothes hooks and a couple of smashed mirrors. Maybe it was a dressing room.”