Fatal Fixer-Upper (6 page)

I showed the threatening letter to each of my friends, when I got together with them for the good-bye lunches and dinners I'd scheduled, and solicited their opinions on what I should do. But in the end, I didn't see that I had much choice. I had agreed, in writing, to let Laura's friend sublet my apartment, so even if I wanted to stay in New York, I couldn't stay there. Several of my friends offered to let me bunk with them, but given the small size of most New York apartments, we'd be on top of each other. Not to mention that they all had irritating habits. One smoked, one liked to bring her boyfriend home and have noisy sex, and one owned three rabbits, which stunk up her tiny place. And then there was the untidy one, the pack rat, whose sofa was always buried under piles of books, clothes, newspapers, and old Chinese take-out containers. And although Mother and Noel would undoubtedly be happy to have me, I didn't want to impose on them for the rest of the summer, either. So spooky letter with skull and crossbones not withstanding, I pretty much had to go to Waterfield. And hope against hope that when my unknown correspondent threatened me with a fate like my aunt's, he or she meant I would live to the ripe old age of ninety-eight and die accidentally in my own home.

A little over a week after the first time I'd cruised into town in my rented Bug, I was back in Waterfield. This time I'd taken a plane to Portland and a cab the rest of the way. The cab had three suitcases containing all my summer attire in the trunk. Only summer clothes, since I didn't plan to stick around long enough to need winter ones. The only other thing of note that I brought—other than my makeup bag and sewing machine—was a home equity line worth twenty thousand dollars that I'd taken out on Aunt Inga's house. I had called Mr. Rodgers to let him know I was coming back and to leave the key under the mat for me. He had in turn informed me that although someone had come forward and tried to claim that Aunt Inga had been non compos mentis when she wrote her holographic will, the claim had been easily routed, and the house and everything in it was mine.

I had been in touch with Kate and asked her to have her friend Mr. Ellis stop by the day after I arrived, so I could ascertain whether he wanted to help me with the repairs and whether I could afford him if he did. I had even contacted the post office and had my mail forwarded to Aunt Inga's address. I was all set, or so I thought.

My sunny disposition got its first check when the plane was delayed and I arrived in Portland four hours late. By the time the cab pulled up to the front of the house, it was getting dark, and I had yet to change the sheets on Aunt Inga's bed. The sight of the house squatting there like something out of a horror movie didn't improve my mood. In fact, for fifty cents I would have turned around and walked away. But that was a luxury I couldn't afford. Laura's friend would be moving into my apartment the next day, and since it was Friday, Kate wouldn't have had any rooms available, even if I had been willing to spend my limited funds on lodging. Still, it took all the courage I had to dig the key out from under the mat and insert it in the lock.

Mr. Rodgers had made sure that the electricity was on, so things could have been worse. I turned on the light in the hall and outside on the porch before I closed and locked the door behind me.

The place didn't look that different from the last time I was there. There was furniture on top of furniture, boxes along the walls, knickknacks everywhere . . . I didn't remember it being quite so chaotic—at least half the boxes were open, with their contents trailing out and across the floor—but I'd been pretty overwhelmed last week, and it wouldn't be surprising if my mind had glossed over some of the more upsetting aspects of the visit. Plus, that had been in broad daylight; everything seemed a lot creepier now in the dark. Still, at the back of my mind, I had a feeling that something wasn't quite right. I managed to keep it together pretty well, though, until I walked into the kitchen.

The last time I'd seen the kitchen it had cracked vinyl on the floor, a rusted wall sink, chipping paint, and cabinets that looked like they had been put together out of wood salvaged from a shipwreck. Frankly, it had been too depressing to contemplate. But bad as it was last week, that's all that had been wrong.

This week, I stopped in the doorway, gaping, my heart beating so hard in my chest I could hear it.

Shards of broken pottery, a sea of porcelain pieces, were strewn across the floor, as if an earthquake had hit Waterfield while I'd been away, knocking all the flatware, glasses, and utensils out of the drawers and off the shelves onto the cracked vinyl, breaking whatever could break on impact. There were even some broken jars from the refrigerator among the mix, and the sour smell of pickles permeated the air.

I stood frozen for a second, in shock, before I backed slowly out the door. In the hallway, I turned tail and walked briskly to the front door, ears straining. I knew there hadn't been an earthquake in this part of the country in the past few days. Someone had lifted the plates, cups, and glasses off the shelves and flung them against the floor and walls to break them. Someone who had been in Aunt Inga's house while I was away. Someone who might still be here. It took an eternity for my shaking hands to undo the lock on the front door, and every moment I stood there fumbling, I expected to hear footsteps behind me. But whoever had been here—kids, maybe?—was long gone. Still, I didn't draw a deep breath until I was outside on the sidewalk, well away from the house. Once I could breathe normally again, I pulled out my cell phone.

After I had introduced myself to the 911 operator and explained the situation, I settled down on the curb to wait for someone to arrive. Given the fact that it wasn't actually an emergency, I figured it would be a while, but less than ten minutes later a squad car came quietly rolling up the street. It parked a few feet away, and Police Chief Wayne Rasmussen unfolded his lanky length from behind the wheel. 'Evening, Miss Baker.'

'Avery,' I said, 'please. Nice to see you again, Chief Rasmussen. Quite an honor, having the chief of police answering my call.'

Wayne Rasmussen's lips quirked. 'Recognized the address. Figured it was you.' He looked around at the dark and overgrown yard and the light spilling out of the open front door, before turning his attention back to me. 'Wanna tell me what happened?'

I nodded, still a little shaky. 'Well, you know I've spent the past week in New York. Settling my affairs, as Mr. Rod gers put it.' A little sinister, that expression. That's what people do before they die, isn't it? What Aunt Inga had been trying to do, when she asked me to visit. 'The flight was delayed, or I would have been here hours ago. When I walked in, I discovered that someone had been in the house. There's broken china all over the kitchen floor. And after that letter . . .'

'Maybe Mr. Rodgers dropped a stack of plates?' Wayne suggested.

I shook my head. 'Every plate, glass, and bowl in the house is broken. It looks like someone opened the cabinet doors and dumped everything.'

Wayne Rasmussen glanced at the house. 'I'll just take a look. You can wait right here.'

'Don't mind if I do,' I said, turning to watch as his long legs ate up the distance between the sidewalk and the porch. Just before he disappeared inside, he unholstered his gun, and I went back to chewing on my bottom lip. He came back a few minutes later and stopped in front of me, rocking back on his heels, thumbs hooked under his belt. I squinted up at him. He nodded. 'Sure doesn't look like any accident I ever saw. I'll get somebody out tomorrow to look things over. Maybe we can pick up some fingerprints or something. Or at least figure out how they got in. You take the key to New York with you?'

I shook my head. 'Mr. Rodgers kept it. Just in case he needed to get in while I was gone, I guess.' Not that I was accusing Mr. Rodgers of running amok in Aunt Inga's kitchen. 'And because the house wasn't actually mine until now. The waiting period, remember?'

'How'd you get in, then, if Mr. Rodgers had the key?'

'I called him a few days ago,' I explained, 'to find out how things were going. When I told him I was coming back, we arranged that he would leave it under the mat.'

'Could you tell if anything's missing?'

I smiled in disbelief. 'You're kidding, right? I've only been here once, for a few minutes; I have no idea what Aunt Inga owned or didn't own. And you've seen the inside of the house; there's no way to know what's there and what isn't, or if something is gone that ought to be there.'

Wayne nodded. 'I'll see if Graham Rodgers made an inventory. Chances are it's just a case of vandalism, though. Kids or something. Never heard that Miss Morton owned anything anyone would have wanted.'

'That's what Mr. Rodgers said,' I confirmed. We stood and sat quietly for a few seconds. 'Don't suppose you wanna stay here?' Wayne broke the silence. I shook my head. 'Why don't you get in the car. I'll take you down to Kate's. She'll put you up for the night.'

'But it's Friday,' I protested weakly. 'The inn must be full.'

'Shannon's probably spending the night down at the college again, so her room's empty. And Kate would give anyone who needed it the shirt off her back. Don't worry, she'll take care of you.' He held out a hand. I allowed myself to be hauled to my feet and put into the police car.

. . .

When we got to the inn, Kate ushered us into her own personal quarters, away from the parlor and front porch, where those of her guests who weren't at dinner were whiling the time away chatting and watching TV. 'You poor thing!' she exclaimed when Wayne had explained what I was doing there and what had happened. 'No wonder you look like something one of the cats dragged in. Here, have a seat. Let me get you a drink. Of course you must stay here tonight. Shannon's never around anyway; she hasn't slept in her bed for three or four days. And you can't stay in that place until you've made sure that nobody can get in again. Wayne . . .'

Chief Rasmussen nodded. 'I'll send Brandon out in the morning to look around. Probably won't find much, but we'll check it out.' He turned to me. 'Miss Baker—Avery— any idea who might have wanted to break into your aunt's house?'

I shook my head, wrapping my hands around the cup of sugary hot tea Kate had poured. 'Teenagers? They knew the house was empty and wanted somewhere to hang out? Or someone who thought there might be something of value there, and who got angry when they didn't find anything to steal? She didn't own a computer, or a stereo, or even a TV, and the fridge can't be worth more than twenty-five dollars.'

'Silver?' Kate suggested. 'Jewelry?'

'If so, Mr. Rodgers didn't mention it. Or my mother, either.'

'Unless Miss Morton was a lot better off than anyone knew,' Wayne said, 'I can't imagine anyone in town think ing there was anything in her house worth breaking in for.

Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to upset you?'

Wayne's gaze was firm. I shook my head. 'No, of course not. I don't know anybody here. Except you two and Mr. Rodgers.'

'And Melissa,' Kate reminded me.

I hid a smile. The temptation to blame the perfect Miss James was almost irresistible, but I couldn't in good conscience sic the chief of police on her just because she reminded me of the girl who had stolen my boyfriend. 'Why would Melissa James break into Aunt Inga's house and smash all her china?'

Kate shrugged. 'I didn't say she would. But since you asked: maybe because you told her you'd let her sell your house and then you changed your mind?'

'Don't be silly,' I scoffed. 'She's a professional; she wouldn't do something like that. Would she?'

Kate and Wayne exchanged glances. 'No way of knowing,' Wayne said. 'Don't know her well. She's from away. Hasn't been here but a few years.'

Kate added, 'I've heard some stories about her temper, though. From someone with firsthand experience. It wouldn't be the first time she's broken crockery.'

'Still,' I said, 'I doubt she would have vandalized my house just because she didn't get to sell it. Surely other people must have turned down her offer of representation before.' And I hadn't even really turned it down. Not yet. I just hadn't called her, was all.

Kate shrugged.

'Anyone else?' Wayne asked. 'Do you think this could be connected to that letter?'

'Mr. Rodgers told me that someone had tried to contest the will, although he wouldn't tell me who. I brought the letter for you.' I dug my hand into the bright corduroy tote bag that doubles as my purse. Meanwhile, Kate cleared her throat diffidently.

Wayne turned to her.

'Yes, Kate?'

'I was just thinking . . . what about the twins?'

'The twins?' I repeated, glancing up.

Wayne sent Kate a quelling look but answered my question anyway, if a little reluctantly. 'Kate is talking about Randall and Raymond Stenham. Local boys, owners of a construction company.'

I looked from one to the other of them. 'Why would they break into Aunt Inga's house?'

'They're upset,' Kate explained.

'They'd have to be, to smash that much china. But why would two people I've never heard of break into my aunt's house and destroy her kitchen?'

'She was their aunt, too,' Kate said. Wayne leaned back on the sofa, rolling his eyes. I stared.

'Excuse me?'

'She was their aunt. Or great-aunt, like she was to you. They're your cousins, a few times removed. Actually, the three of you and your mother were probably Inga's only living relatives. Wayne grew up here; he can explain it to you.'

She looked at him. Wayne sighed but rose to the occasion. 'Your mother was Rosemary Morton, right? Her father was John Morton. He had a sister named Catherine. Catherine married Hamish Kendall and had a daughter named Mary Elizabeth, who married Roger Stenham and became the mother of Randall and Raymond. They're a couple of years older than you, I think.'

'I see,' I said. 'So my mother and their mother are second cousins?' Wayne nodded. 'Why would they break into Aunt Inga's house and destroy her stuff?'

'They're angry,' Kate said again. 'They assumed they'd inherit.'