“Realtor?” I said. Venetia smiled. Her teeth were yellow as old ivory between her unpainted lips.
“That woman your boyfriend brought here ten years ago. His wife.”
It had, in fact, only been about six years since Derek and Melissa came back to Waterfield so Derek could join his father’s medical practice, but I had a more important point to make. “Ex-wife, please. They’ve been divorced for five years by now. So Melissa James was here, was she? When? What did she do?”
“Walked around with a camera,” Venetia said. “Taking photographs and measurements. Of the house and yard. Like I said, it must have been a couple of weeks ago now. Maybe as much as a month.”
While Patrick Murphy had been considering our offer to buy the house, then. Melissa must have gotten word that the house might be available, and she had stopped by to see how much it might be worth and maybe also whether her boyfriend, my cousin Ray, would be able to knock the house down and build something else here instead. Several somethings, if I knew Ray. Like a whole little development of townhouses, for instance. The yard was certainly large enough for more than one house, and if Ray and Randy had gotten approval to knock down Aunt Inga’s house in the historic district, surely they’d have no problem getting permission to do the same here.
Much as I disliked Ray and Randy, I had to admit that for once, it wasn’t a bad idea. Razing Aunt Inga’s Second Empire 1870s Victorian was one thing; razing this prosaic 1950s brick ranch was quite another. This was no architectural gem that had to be preserved for posterity, and tearing it down to start over might also remove the stigma attached to the murders. People are more likely to buy a brand-new construction on the lot where a house stood where a murder once took place than they are to move back into the house where the ghosts are still-supposedly-walking.
“I’d love to pin this murder on Melissa James,” I said, as much to myself as to Venetia, “but I just can’t see her killing someone and burying them in the crawlspace. The digging would chip her manicure. She might have rigged the screaming, though-and the footsteps-to try to scare us into giving up the renovations so she and the Stenhams could swoop in and buy the house out from under us. They’re probably planning to subdivide the lot.”
“Harrumph!” Venetia said.
“Right. It doesn’t matter, anyway, since it’s not going to work. We’re not selling the house again. Not until we’re ready. So you’ve never seen or heard anything unusual during the time you’ve lived here?” Venetia opened her mouth to answer, and I added, quickly, “Anything supernatural, I mean? Screams? Footsteps? Lights going on and off?”
Venetia shook her head. “Nothing like that. Just comings and goings by people with no business being here, mostly.”
“The squatters and the teenagers?”
She nodded.
“Anyone you recognized?”
“Several. Lionel Kenefick. That young policeman who’s next door. His girlfriend. Holly. Denise. Her husband.”
“Who are Denise and her husband?”
“They live down the street,” Venetia said. “You’ll meet them.”
I stood up. “I should probably go.”
Venetia stood, too, to walk me to the front door. “Back to the house?”
“Back to town. Wayne… the chief of police won’t let me do any work to the house until they finish with the crawlspace. That will probably be tomorrow. I’ll find something to do at home while I wait. Maybe stop by the hardware store and pick up some paint swatches, or go to some of the junk stores to see if I can find some retro pieces of furniture I can use to stage the house, or something…” I trailed off, already scavenging in my mind.
“Have a good time,” Venetia said, from far away, and I pulled myself back to reality.
“Thank you. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She inclined her head, and I slunk out, feeling stupid for fading out like that.
Here’s the thing: I love junking, and I can totally lose myself in the thrill of hunting second-hand bargains. Salvage stores, thrift stores, consignment stores, flea markets… I love them all. My New York apartment had been mostly furnished from second-hand pieces I had sanded and polished, reupholstered and/or repainted. Some of the furniture I’d even found on the street. New Yorkers tend to put their discards out on the curb for the trash trucks to pick up, and for someone thrifty, who doesn’t mind getting up early-which I do; although the five A.M. alarm on trash day had usually been worth the trouble when I managed-the pickings can be surprisingly good. I’d found a lovely futon frame once that, with some glossy black paint and a new mattress and cover, had been the center-piece of my living room for a while, as well as a nice, sturdy bookshelf that just needed a coat of paint to fit right in. Bought new, it would have been a couple hundred bucks, easy-it was a very nice bookshelf!-and I got it for the price of cab fare from Midtown to my apartment.
When I left New York, the woman who took over my lease asked to keep a lot of the furniture, though, so upon arrival in Waterfield, I had to start over. Aunt Inga’s house had been furnished, for the most part, when I inherited it, but a lot of what my aunt had owned was ugly 1970s stuff, and even the things I’d liked needed reupholstering, sanding, and painting. I’d been busy this summer recovering Aunt Inga’s pieces and hunting for cheap replacements for the ones I absolutely couldn’t live with. And since the Mainers didn’t have the same habit of putting discarded furniture out on trash day, I’d had to become familiar with the various thrift, junk, and salvage stores in the area.
The crowd outside had swelled by this time, and on a whim, I wandered over to the small group of what I assumed were neighbors. I hadn’t met any of them, save for Lionel Kenefick, but as I was now a homeowner on their street, I figured I’d better introduce myself. They probably had some questions and comments about the situation, which it might do them good to get off their chests, and who knew; maybe I’d learn something.
“Hi!” I divided a bright smile between them. There were five people in the cluster, counting Lionel. The woman with the hair rollers and bathrobe, whom I’d noticed earlier, was one of them. The others were a businesswoman in her thirties, dressed in a suit and high heels with a briefcase in her hand, and with brown hair so severely pulled back from her face that her eyebrows were elevated; a younger woman, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three, who had a chubby baby on her hip and looked like she hadn’t slept or taken a shower in at least two days-she was wearing faded jeans, which were a size too small, and a T-shirt pulled too tightly across her breasts; and, finally, an older man in wrinkled khakis and a blue windbreaker holding the leash of a grumpy-looking shih tzu with a red bow on the top of its head. The dog barked shrilly when I got too close, and I jumped back a pace.
“Sorry,” the owner said. “Stella, no.”
He jerked the chain halfheartedly, and Stella huddled behind his legs but kept growling at me. I wondered if I ought to crouch down and try to make friends with her, but I decided it wouldn’t be worth the trouble. My chances of having anything to do with Stella after this were slim, and I depend on my hands too much to want to play fast and loose with them.
Instead, I smiled sweetly at Stella’s owner. “My name is Avery Baker. My boyfriend and I own this house. Since about Monday or so.”
“Arthur Mattson. I live at number fifty-three.” He pointed down the street.
“Irina Rozhdestvensky,” the immaculately turned out businesswoman said, with a faint Russian accent. I didn’t ask her to repeat the surname, but she must have seen my reaction anyway, because she added, with a smile, “You may call me Irina.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, smiling back. “Please call me Avery.” Her teeth were crooked, but the smile was genuine and friendly.