August had moved to this place last year, rented this furnished and run-down town house cheaply, and made the necessary repairs himself. He had painted it and scrubbed the kitchen and bathrooms until they shone, and he cleaned the furniture and polished the floors daily. His lease ran out on May first, only twenty days from now. He had already told the owner he was planning to leave. By then he would have had Matthews and it would be time to move on. He would be leaving the place greatly improved. The only thing he would have to take care of was to whitewash all the improvements he had made to the secret place, so no one would ever guess what had happened there.
How many cities had he lived in during the last ten years? he wondered. He had lost track. Seven? Eight? More? Starting with finding his mother in San Diego. He liked Washington, would have stayed there longer. But he knew that after Bree Matthews it wouldn’t be a good idea.
What kind of guest would she be? he wondered. Tiffany had been both frightened and angry. She ridiculed the books he bought for her, refusing to read to him. She told him her family had no money, as if that was what he wanted. She told him she wanted to paint. He even bought an easel and art supplies for her.
She actually started one painting while she was visiting, a painting of a man and woman kissing. It was going to be a copy of Klimt’s The Kiss. He tore it off the easel and told her to copy one of the nice illustrations in the children’s books he had given her. That was when she had picked up an open jar of paint and thrown it at him.
August Mensch didn’t quite remember the next minutes, just that when he looked down at the sticky mess on his jacket and trousers, he had lunged at her.
When her body was pulled out of a Washington canal the next day, they questioned her ex-boyfriends. The papers were full of the case. He laughed at the speculation about where she had been the three weeks she was missing.
Mensch sighed. He didn’t want to think of Tiffany now. He wanted to dust and polish the room again to make it ready for Matthews. Then he had to finish chiseling mortar from the cinder blocks in the wall that separated his basement from hers.
He would remove enough of those blocks to gain entry into Matthews’ basement. He would bring her back the same way. He knew she had installed a security system, but this way it wouldn’t do her any good. Then he would replace the cinder blocks and carefully re-cement.
It was Sunday night. He had watched her house all day. She hadn’t gone out at all. Lately she had stayed in on Sundays, since Carter stopped coming around. He had seen him there last a couple of weeks ago.
He brushed away an invisible piece of dust. Tomorrow at this time she would be with him; she’d be his companion. He had bought a stack of Dr. Seuss books for her to read to him. He had thrown out all the other books. Some had been splattered with red paint. All of them reminded him how Tiffany had refused to read to him.
Over the years, he had always tried to make his guests comfortable. It wasn’t his fault that they were always ungrateful. He remembered how the one in Kansas City told him she wanted a steak. He had bought a thick one, the thickest he could find. When he came back he could see that she had used the time he was out to try to escape. She hadn’t wanted the steak at all. He’d lost his temper. He couldn’t remember exactly what happened after that.
He hoped Bree would be nicer.
He’d soon know. Tomorrow morning he would make his move.
“What is that? Bree muttered to herself as she stood at the head of the stairs leading to her basement. She could hear a faint scraping sound emanating from the basement of the adjacent town house.
She shook her head. What did it matter? She couldn’t sleep anyway. It was irritating, though. Only six o’clock on a Monday morning, and Mensch was already on some do-it-yourself project. Some neat-as-a-pin improvement, no doubt, she said to herself, already in a bad temper.
She sighed. What a rotten day it was going to be. She had a lousy cold. There was no point getting up so early, but she wasn’t sleepy. She had felt miserable yesterday and had stayed in bed all day, dozing. She hadn’t even bothered to pick up the phone, just listened to messages. Her folks were away. Gran didn’t call, and a certain Mr. Kevin Carter never put his finger on the touch tone.
Now cold or no cold, she was due in court at nine A.M. to try to make that first contractor pay for the repairs she had to do to the roof he was supposed to have fixed. To say nothing of getting him to pay for the damage inside caused by the leaks. She closed the basement door decisively and went into the kitchen, squeezed a grapefruit, made coffee, toasted an English muffin, settled at the breakfast bar.
She had begun to refer to this town house as the dwelling-from-hell, but once all the damage was repaired she had to admit it would be lovely.
She tried to eat her breakfast, but found she couldn’t. I’ve never testified in court, she thought. That’s why I’m nervous and down.
But I’m sure the judge will side with me, she reassured herself. No judge would put up with having his or her house ruined.
Bree — short for Bridget — Matthews, thirty, single, blue-eyed and dark-haired, with porcelain skin that wouldn’t tolerate the sun, was admittedly jumpy by nature. Buying this place last year had so far been an expensive mistake. For once I should not have listened to Granny, she thought, then smiled unconsciously thinking of how from her retirement community in Connecticut her grandmother still burned up the wires giving her good advice.
Eight years ago she was the one who told me I should take the job in Washington working for our congressman even though she thought he was a dope, Bree remembered as she forced herself to eat half of the English muffin. Then she advised me to grab the chance to join Douglas Public Relations when I got that offer. She’s been right about everything except about buying this place and renovating it, Bree thought. “Real estate’s a good way to make money, Bree,” she had said, “especially in Georgetown.”
Wrong! Bree frowned grimly as she sipped coffee. My Pierre Deux wallhangings are stained and peeling. And it’s not wall paper, mind you, not when you spring for seventy dollars a yard. At that price the stuff becomes wall hanging. She frowned as she remembered explaining that to Kevin, who had said, “Now, that’s what I call pretentious.” Just what she needed to hear!
Mentally she reviewed everything she would tell the judge: “The Persian carpet that Granny proudly put on the floor of her first house is rolled and wrapped in plastic to be sure no new leaks can damage it further, and the polish on the parquet floors is dull and stained. I’ve got pictures to show just how bad my home looks. I wish you’d look at them, your honor. Now I’m waiting for the painter and floor guy to come back to charge a fortune to redo what they did perfectly well four months ago.
“I asked, pleaded, begged, even snarled at that contractor, trying to get him to take care of the leak. Then when he finally did show up, he told me that the water was coming from my neighbor’s roof, and I believed him. I made a dope of myself ringing his bell, accusing poor Mr. Mensch of causing all the problems. You see, your honor, we share a common wall, and the contractor said the water was getting in that way. I, of course, believed him. He is supposed to be the expert.”