Fatal Fixer-Upper (2 page)
Authors: Jennie Bentley
'So how come I never heard of Aunt Inga before?'
'Of course you've heard of Aunt Inga, Avery,' Mother said. 'You even met her once. We drove up to Maine and spent a few days with her the summer you turned five. Don't you remember?'
'We did?' I thought back. The summer I turned five was twenty-six years ago, so it had been a while. 'I don't think so, no.'
I could hear Mother's oversized earring clink against the receiver, and I could picture her, sitting on her patio, looking out over the Pacific, the ocean breeze ruffling her short hair. 'There were cats,' she said, obviously trying to coax some kind of memory out of me. 'Lots of cats. Five, at least. You played with them. Big cats with bushy tails.'
'Oh, Lord,' I said. As the song goes, it was all coming back to me now. Or maybe not all, but enough. We had rented a car and driven to Maine in the sweltering heat of summer, my mother and I—Daddy had been working—and it had been a long and agonizing drive, back in the days before in-car DVD players and Game Boys. Add to that the fact that I'd gotten violently nauseous whenever I tried to draw or look at a book, and it had made for a grueling experience for both of us.
Of Waterfield itself, I remembered very little. There had been cats, yes, and they had let me stroke and pet them until they got tired of me, and then they'd disappeared around the house toward the woods or across the road toward downtown and the harbor, their tails waving in the air like medieval plumes. There were also some vague memories of dirt and rocks and some mean little boys, although that could have been my imagination. But Aunt Inga herself was pretty much a blur in my mind, and my recollection of the house wasn't much better. It had seemed like a big, rambling place, full of dusty old things, but it was hard to say whether that was because I was smaller then, and used to life in a compact New York apartment, or whether it had actually been a large house.
'I remember the cats,' I said, 'and a little about the trip, but I don't really remember Aunt Inga or the house.'
'Oh, it's wonderful, dear!' Mother sounded delighted that I'd asked. 'A marvelous Victorian cottage with a tower and arched windows. And Waterfield is this lovely, picturesque little town on the coast. The third-oldest town in Maine, if you can believe it. And of course Aunt Inga's a real character. She never married, you know; it was just her and her cats for as long as I can remember. She's always been very reluctant to have anyone else in her home, and it was a fight getting her to agree to put us up when we came. Although I think by the time we left, she might have been a little sad to see us go. At least it seemed that way to me at the time.'
'So what do you think she wants with me now?' I asked.
Mother was quiet for a moment. 'She was very vague in her letter. There's only one way to find out, isn't there?' she said.
I made a face. 'I could call.'
'You could, except Aunt Inga doesn't have a phone. That's why she wrote instead of calling you.'
That figured. 'Do you know of any reason why she might want to talk to me? I mean, if she's only seen me once in thirty-one years . . . ?
'I have no idea,' Mother said, 'but if she'd told me, it wouldn't be a secret, now would it?'
Obviously.
'But I can't just leave . . .' I said plaintively.
'You're dating your boss,' Mother pointed out with just a hint of asperity. She doesn't like Philippe. She thinks he's too flamboyant, too flirtatious, and too good-looking to be trustworthy. 'Surely Philippe will give you a few days off to take care of a family emergency.'
As any halfway-decentperson would,
her tone said.
'Of course he would,' I said loyally. 'In fact, he's already told me that he thinks I should go. I'm not sure I'd call it an emergency, though. Whatever she has to say to me isn't likely to be anything life-changing. Plus I don't have any money to spend on travel. Airplane tickets aren't cheap, you know, especially last minute, like this.'
Being a designer sounds a lot more impressive—and lucrative—than it is. I don't actually make a whole lot of money. In fact, I could probably make more waitressing at Le Coq au Vin.
'So rent a car and drive up,' Mother said. 'Rental cars aren't that expensive. You've kept your driver's license cur rent, haven't you?'
'I have.' And a big pain it had been, too. Most New Yorkers aren't stupid enough to keep cars—the monthly garage rentals are insane; it costs as much to park the car as it does to park oneself—so my ability to practice had been severely limited. I wasn't about to rent a car just so I could practice my driving, and Philippe hadn't been eager to allow me behind the wheel of his beloved Porsche. 'But I can't drive to Maine,' I added. 'It's almost in Canada. Practically the end of the world. Don't you remember how awful the trip was back when I was five? It'll take days.'
'Six hours,' mother said. 'Waterfield is three hundred and fifty miles from New York. If you leave now, you can be there before dawn.'
'You're kidding!' I said and then caught myself. 'Well, even if I did decide to go, I'm not ready to leave now. I'd have to rent a car first. And pack. And figure out where I'm going. Are you sure it's only six hours?' It had felt like an eternity back when I was a child.
'Positive,' Mother said. 'Although it felt a lot longer when I had to stop every twenty minutes so you could throw up. It took us most of the day, I think.'
I twisted my face. 'Thanks for reminding me.'
Still, I should probably do the right thing and go. My great-aunt had taken the trouble to write and ask for me. She had mentioned family secrets and confessions, and like most people, things like that make me curious. Plus, now that Mother had described it, I wanted to see the marvelous little cottage I had visited as a child and the picturesque little town it sat in. I'm a New Yorker born and bred, and I love the city, but sometimes it's nice to breathe fresh air, too.
'Why don't you get busy renting a car?' Mother suggested. 'If you leave at seven tomorrow morning, you can be in Waterfield by lunchtime. Let me know how it goes.'
She didn't bother with a good-bye, just hung up in my ear. I made another face as I crawled off the couch and over to the computer to Google car rental agencies.
2
––The third-oldest town in Maine turned out to be a pretty place, if one's tastes should happen to run to provincial towns on the outer edge of the back beyond. Mine don't particularly, but it was undeniably attractive, with its steep, cobblestoned streets and mixture of Victorian cottages and stately Colonial and Federal-style homes, interspersed with the inevitable weathered New England saltboxes. The air was fresh, too, with a hint of salt from the ocean. It looked like a nice place to visit, maybe even hang around for a day or two, but I wouldn't want to live there. There were no chic clothing stores, no theaters, no trendy restaurants, no Starbucks . . . just a bunch of houses, and the occasional antique shop or tearoom, with names like the Ancient Mariner and Thea's Teas. All in all, too quaint for words. The tinny, automated voice that had guided me onto the Cross Bronx Expressway and all the way to Aunt Inga's house finished the job by almost killing me just as I was getting to my destination. I was turning the corner of Outlook Avenue and Bayberry Lane, where Aunt Inga's house was, when suddenly a huge black pickup truck erupted out of the cul-de-sac and almost clipped the front of my zippy little convertible VW Beetle.
The driver of the pickup didn't even glance my way, and the windows were tinted almost as black as the paint itself, so I couldn't get a good look at him or her. There was a white magnet sign on the door advertising some kind of business, but I wasn't able to read it. While I was still trying to catch my breath, the truck accelerated and disappeared down the hill toward the center of town. I watched the taillights glow red as it braked for a token tenth of a second at the four-way stop halfway down the hill. And then the sight of Aunt Inga's house blew everything else out of my head. Mother's description of Aunt Inga had prepared me for the fact that the house would probably be in some need of repair. Aunt Inga was old, childless, reclusive, and not well off, so there had to be things—probably a lot of things—she wasn't able to keep up with. Things she couldn't do herself and things she couldn't afford to pay anyone else to do, with no family around to help out. I expected an overgrown yard, a few loose roof shingles, overflowing gutters, and maybe some rotted boards. The reality was so much worse than anything I could have imagined that for a second, I just stared, appalled.
The house must have been beautiful once. Like Mother had said, it was a fairy-tale Victorian cottage with a tower and arched windows. Unless my mandatory architecture classes betrayed me, I was looking at a Second Empire Victorian. Basically an Italianate style, identified by a square tower, mansard roof, and tall, narrow windows, arched or rounded on top. Named for the reign of Napoleon III (1852–1870), Second Empire was the first true architectural style of the Victorian era in the U.S.
Unfortunately, the wonderful house that Mother remembered had deteriorated more than a little in the past twentysix years. The windows were tall and narrow, four over four, but several of the panes were broken. The mansard roof was laid in an intricate flower pattern, but many of the old shingles were missing. The front porch looked like it was meant to be a pleasant, shady place to loaf on warm summer evenings, but at the moment the floor sagged ominously and looked none too safe. The paint had peeled and faded so far that it was impossible to guess the original color. And don't even get me started on the yard. Cultured heritage rosebushes were choked with weeds, and lilac trees were rubbing elbows with thistles. The small birdbath on the front lawn was almost invisible. The grass was easily a foot tall, obscuring the walkway from the sidewalk up to the front of the house. I couldn't tell whether I'd have to walk on brick, flagstone, gravel, or just plain packed dirt to get to the front door.
A ten-year-old Cadillac in immaculate condition sat at the curb, and because I was so busy looking at the house, I almost plowed right into it. Only the good Lord and quick reflexes saved me, but even so, the front bumper of the Beetle kissed the back bumper of the Caddy before I backed up again to a decorous two-foot distance.
Swinging my legs out from the Beetle's interior, a little stiff after six hours behind the wheel, I shuffled carefully through the tall weeds along the invisible front walk. The entrance to the house was inside the tower in a dusky corner of the porch. The Victorian front door had a window in the top half, and while I stood there trying to decide whether I should knock or employ the ancient twisting doorbell, I went up on my tippy-toes and peeked through the window. And saw a pair of feet in black dress shoes and matching socks sticking out of a door halfway down the hall.
I'll be the first to admit that I have a vivid imagination, honed by years of watching bad TV shows, and for a second or two, the world stood still while I tried to process the fact that there appeared to be a dead body in Aunt Inga's house. Immediately, I was certain that the person in the black pickup had murdered my poor aunt—probably bashed her over the head with the proverbial blunt instrument—and left her to die on the floor. Why my elderly aunt should be wearing size ten men's dress shoes and charcoal gray trousers I didn't really know, but I wasn't thinking too clearly at the moment. I could feel the blood draining out of my head, leaving me light-headed and dizzy. When I put a hand on the door to steady myself, it opened with a long, drawn-out squeal of hinges; the kind of sound you hear in horror movies.
I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or even more surprised when the corpse moved. The feet disappeared, and a few moments later, a shocked face peered out into the hallway. I stared back, wide-eyed.
Whoever it was, it wasn't my Aunt Inga. This was a man; old, but not as ancient as my aunt. He might have been around seventy or seventy-five, a spare man with gray hair combed over the top of his head, nattily dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and a striped tie. There was dust on his knees. I tore my eyes away from it and up to his face.
'Excuse me. My name is Avery Baker. I'm looking for my aunt.'
For a second he just looked at me. I couldn't tell whether he was dazed—from that blow on the head I'd hypothesized— or just surprised. In hindsight, I realize he probably just couldn't see me too well in the semidarkness of the hallway, and my appearance had shocked him. 'Miss Baker?' he repeated finally.
I nodded. 'I'm looking for my aunt. Inga Morton. She wrote and asked me to come see her.'
The gentleman brushed off his sleeves before he came toward me. 'I'm sorry, Miss Baker. I guess you haven't heard.'
'Heard what?'
'I'm afraid Miss Morton has passed away.'
For a second the house, the porch, everything, spun crazily. 'Passed away?' I repeated stupidly. 'You mean she's dead?'
The man nodded. 'My condolences, Miss Baker. Were you and your aunt close?'
'Not really.' I shook my head, partly to dispel the dizziness. 'I'd only met her once. But she can't be dead. She's expecting me. She wrote me a letter just last week.'
'I'm afraid Miss Morton died two days ago,' the gentleman said. He looked me up and down for a moment before he added, 'Would you like to come in for a moment and sit down? You look upset.'
'Please.' I brushed past him into the house and, spying an old love seat in the room on the left, went over to it and collapsed onto the worn velvet. The old guy watched me from his vantage point in the middle of the hallway. After a minute or so, he stepped over to the doorway. 'You did say that your name is Avery Baker?'
I nodded. 'My mother was Rosemary Morton, until she married my father. Inga Morton was her aunt a few times removed. Or something.'
'And she contacted you recently? Did you exchange letters on a regular basis?'
I shook my head. 'Aunt Inga and my mother stayed in touch,' I said, even if the staying in touch had been confined to once a year, for Christmas, 'but I haven't seen her for years. Or heard from her, either.'
'What did she want when she asked you to visit?'
'No idea,' I said, leaning my head against the gray velvet back of the old sofa. I felt very shaken. Honestly, I wasn't entirely sure why the idea of Aunt Inga's death had affected me so strongly. I hadn't known her, and she'd had a long life; it was probably just time for her to go. It had sounded like she was preparing for it, anyway, with her letter to me and her mention of coming clean before dying.
'She just said she had something to talk to me about.'
'I see,' the old gentleman said. He was staring into the distance. I contemplated him for a moment.
'I'm sorry, sir, but who are you?'
'My apologies, Miss Baker.' He came closer and ex tended a hand. 'My name is Graham Rodgers. I'm her attorney.'
'Nice to meet you,' I said, standing up to shake hands. 'I don't suppose you have any idea what my aunt wanted to tell me?'
Mr. Rodgers hesitated. 'I'm afraid not, Miss Baker.'
'Were you looking for something?'
He glanced over at me, startled, and I added, apologetically, 'I saw you. On the floor, earlier.'
He gathered himself. 'Oh, yes. Indeed, Miss Baker, I was. I was looking for any will your aunt may have written.'
'If you're the family attorney, don't you have one on file?'
'Indeed I do, Miss Baker. The office does have a will on file, which I drew up for your aunt some years ago. But it is customary for the executor of the estate to go through any paperwork to ensure that the decedent has not had a change of heart.'
'I see,' I said. 'I guess you probably looked through the desk, then?' The desk stood in the middle of the room we were in, a yellow oak monstrosity from the 1970s, hideously out of place in the high-ceilinged Victorian room. But Mr. Rodgers admitted that he had, in fact, not. 'The room across the hall,' he explained, 'was where your aunt spent most of her time. I thought it best to start there.'
'May I?' I walked down the hall to the door I'd seen him sticking out of earlier, and peered in.
Once upon a time, this must have been the formal dining room. It had lovely crown molding and an elaborate chair rail, not to mention a heavily carved fireplace on one wall. With proper dining room furniture—something like what Philippe had designed for the Hamiltons, with a jazzier, more upbeat fabric on the chairs—it would look fabulous. However, at this time, the room was dominated by Aunt Inga's bed, a hideous postmodern construction of sleek yellow oak, similar to the desk in the parlor. It must have been left untouched after Aunt Inga died, because it still sported the rose-printed sheets she must have favored. The pillow even bore the imprint of a head. 'Did she die in that bed?' I asked, my voice hushed.
Mr. Rodgers shook his head. 'She was found over there, on the floor.' He gestured toward the front hall, where I'd come in. 'The police ruled it an accident. Apparently she was on her way down the stairs and lost her balance.'
'And fell?' How horrible.
'I'm afraid so,' Mr. Rodgers said with a practiced, sympathetic look.
I forced a smile and looked around. The rest of the room was filled with what must have been Aunt Inga's treasures or her favorite and most necessary things. A microwave, unplugged, stood on a rolling cart in one corner, along with an instant coffeemaker. A stack of colorful magazines sat on the bedside table next to a cup of dark sludge and a small plate with only some fossilized crumbs left. On top of the pile was a biography of Marie Antoinette, written by the same woman who wrote that best-selling novel about Elizabeth I a year or two back. A pair of fuzzy old-lady slippers was left halfway under the bed, toes pointing in, and an oldfashioned nightgown, yellow with white lace, was folded neatly across the footboard. A medical supply walker stood at the foot of the bed, and a manual wheelchair sat in the corner.
'Unless she had an appointment with her doctor,' Mr. Rodgers said, 'or an appointment with the veterinarian, she saw no one and rarely left the house.'
'My mother told me she was reclusive.' I nodded. 'Did you know her well?'
Mr. Rodgers gave the dignified lawyerly equivalent of a shrug. 'As well as anyone. We had lunch together every Friday.'
'I see.' I had a last look around the dining room before I went back out into the hallway. 'Would you mind if I hung around a little longer? I don't want to get in your way, but I spent some time here as a child, and I'd like to say goodbye.' Not to mention that I was curious. What could my aunt have wanted to tell me?
Mr. Rodgers hesitated, but in the end, there wasn't a whole lot he could say. He may have been tempted to warn me against sticking anything in my pocket, but if so, he managed to refrain from saying it. Not that there was a whole lot of items sitting around I'd like to have, frankly. The rooms in the rest of the house had been closed off, with covers over the furniture and a velvety layer of dust over anything that wasn't covered. The upstairs consisted of three bedrooms and a bathroom, with a footed tub and cracked vinyl on the floor. The downstairs had the front parlor, where the desk was, the dining room, where Aunt Inga's bed was, another living room, and the kitchen. The wood floors throughout the house were scuffed and dull, with gouges and scratches. The wallpaper was faded and peeling, the paint was chipping, and everything that could sag or crack was sagging and cracking. It was depressing beyond belief.
