Pages of Sin (2 page)

I had plenty of friends whose only means of communication with me was through e-mail, so who was I to judge? “At least she finally had some contact with the outside world.”

“Yes. And thank goodness for online shopping, not to mention the TV shopping networks.”

“Right. No reason to leave the house ever.” I sipped my lukewarm tea. “How did her husband handle her staying home all the time?”

“Byron has essentially lived his own life, but he’s never left her, so that’s something.” Mom gazed casually at the ceiling. “Of course, he was very close to Wanda’s sisters, too.”

My eyes narrowed in on her. “I’m hearing something in your voice. What was going on there?”

“Nothing that I know of. It’s just that they were always very . . . close. That’s all.”

“Mom, spill the beans.”

She sighed again. “Byron grew up next door to the Bradford girls. According to some of the locals who lived here back then, he was always dating one sister or the other, then switching back to another one. By the time we moved here, they were all in their twenties, and he and Elaine seemed to have settled into a serious relationship. But then he married Wanda. And yet, they were all very close for years, until Elaine stopped visiting.”

“Interesting.” I turned back to the original subject. “So I take it Wanda has a bunch of books that Byron wants to get rid of.”

Mom nodded. “Right. He’s such a sweetie. When I ran into him at the market yesterday, I offered to help him clean out Wanda’s things. I know that sort of task can be so difficult for the spouse left behind. And it might be tough for her sisters, too.”

“That was nice of you.” But I shivered a little. Nice, maybe, but it was slightly creepy to think of my mother rummaging through a dead woman’s personal things. I’m not sure I could offer to do something like that for someone other than a close family member, and even that would be difficult. But clearly my mother didn’t have a problem with it.

“I swear, I thought Byron was going to burst into tears, he was so grateful.” Mom stood, walked over to the sink and adjusted the mini-blinds so more of the morning sunlight could pour into the kitchen. She turned around and folded her arms across her chest. “He said it had been such a long time since anyone had come into the house, he was a little uncomfortable about it. But he finally accepted my offer.”

“Lucky you.” So it was official. My mother was a much better human being than I was.

“I needed to get an extra house key from him,” she continued, “so I followed him home. And that’s when I understood why he was uneasy.”

“You went inside the house?”

“Not exactly.” Mom sat back down at the table and poured more tea into our cups, emptying the pot. “I told him I would wait on the porch and he seemed relieved. But when he walked inside, I managed to get a glimpse of the living room before he closed the door.”

I sat forward. “How did it look?”

She frowned. “There’s just a lot of stuff everywhere. I mean,
everywhere.
I was shocked.”

“So she was a hoarder.”

Mom’s lips twisted as she considered, then said, “I guess that’s another matter of opinion. It’s all very neat and organized, but yes, there was a lot of stuff.”

I made a face, but didn’t comment.

“But the place seemed clean,” Mom added quickly. “I didn’t get a big whiff of mildew or dust in my face, so that’s a good thing.”

“I guess.” I took a bracing sip of my now lukewarm tea and imagined the worst case scenario. I couldn’t help it; I was morbidly hooked on the TV show
Hoarders.
I pictured junk stashed everywhere. “So when are you going to start cleaning out her stuff?”

She smoothed the tablecloth some more before meeting my gaze again. “Byron said I could start next week, but it just so happens that I baked a taco casserole for him. I told him I’d drop it by today.”

“Oh, really?” I laughed.

“Yes,” she said defensively, but she was smiling. “And while I’m there, I might look around and maybe start going through some closets. Just a preliminary look-see to judge how much work I’ll have to do.”

“Will he be there?”

“No, he’ll be at work. But I have the house key now.”

“And you’d like me to come with you.”

“If you want the books, yes.”

“That’s a pretty weak bribe,” I said, laughing again. “You should have made a taco casserole for me, too.”

“I did,” she said, patting my hand. “I froze it, so we’ll have it for dinner later this week. But even if I didn’t, you’d still come with me. There’s a room full of old books waiting to be rescued. You can’t help yourself.”

Damn it, she was right. When it came to books, I was a shameless scrounger and a glutton for punishment. I might not be happy about creeping around Wanda’s stacks of crap, but I wanted those books. On the semibright side, Wanda had already passed away, so I was pretty sure I wouldn’t stumble over any dead bodies. That was a win-win in my book.

I drained the last of my tea. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

We took my car and drove by the market to pick up some boxes for packing books, then headed over to Byron Frawley’s home. As I rolled to a stop at the red light, I thought how lucky Mom and I were that my bookbinding class didn’t start until tomorrow night. I had a full day and a half with nothing to do but hang out with her and help clean up Wanda’s stuff.

As I waited for the light to turn green, my thoughts went to my boyfriend, Derek Stone. It was something my thoughts did a lot lately.

I smiled, thinking the term
boyfriend
seemed totally wrong and unsuitable when referring to the tall, dark, hunky, gun-toting former MI6 British intelligence officer and Royal Navy Commander that Derek was.
Boyfriend
didn’t begin to describe either Derek—he was no
boy,
that was for sure—or our relationship, which had grown so much more complicated than that sweet, simple word could convey.

Thinking about Derek made me miss him more than ever. And if that sounded like the plaintive cry of a needy, insecure girlfriend, it wasn’t. I swear. I had always been perfectly happy on my own, by myself. I grew up in a big family and knew I could call on friends and siblings or parents whenever I wanted to. But I was just as happy to sit alone in my workshop and rip apart a good book. I knew how to have a good time all by myself.

Still, I missed him. Now that Derek was in my life, everything seemed brighter, more interesting, more intense in a good way. I was having more fun. He challenged me. He made me laugh. And he was absolutely the best looking, sexiest man I’d ever met, which counted for a lot, right? No wonder I was happy.

The only less than sparkly thing about my life was that, lately, I kept stumbling upon dead bodies. That had never happened before Derek came along. I lived in hope that it would never happen again.

“Green light,” Mom said.

“What?” I blinked as my surroundings came back into focus. “Oh. Thanks.” I stepped on the gas and drove toward Big River Road where Byron lived.

“Where’d you go just then?” Mom wore an amused grin, meaning she’d probably guessed exactly where my daydream had taken me.

I could feel my cheeks heating up. “Just thinking about things. Nothing important. So talk to me about these books. Did Byron tell you about them or did you actually see them?”

She laughed at my obvious attempt to change the subject. “I got a quick glimpse of them stacked up against one wall. I saw lots of leather-bound books, so I made a comment to Byron about them. He said to help myself to whatever I wanted.”

“I hope they’re filthy and falling apart.”

“A girl can dream.” With another laugh, she gave me directions on which way to turn.

A few minutes later, I pulled up in front of a large, two-story California bungalow on what looked like at least a half acre of land. It was surrounded by a tall concrete wall. I couldn’t see much else except for a few tall trees scattered around the extensive property. As I turned off the engine, something occurred to me and I glanced over at my mother. “You never told me how Wanda died.”

Mom stared straight ahead, not meeting my gaze. “Pills. Self-inflicted. She committed suicide.”

Mom pushed open the heavy wooden gate and we walked into a veritable Garden of Eden. The air was still cool as we followed the long, winding walkway leading up to a wide, welcoming porch that wrapped around at least three sides of the house. Delicate white roses and fragrant jasmine twined around the white wooden columns of the porch. Chunky ceramic pots held lush flowering vines that spilled over the sides and tumbled down the railings. Two wrought iron park-style benches sat on either side of a front door that was painted bright red with a gleaming brass door knocker. It was storybook perfection.

Once on the porch, I looked back to get a better view of the English style garden that had been planted along the terracotta wall. Rows of purple foxglove, pastel hollyhocks, and rich blue delphiniums flitted in the gentle wind. Pink, orange, and white poppies lined a narrow, pebbled path that led to the backyard. A worn, wooden bench was set back from the path, surrounded by a profusion of lavender stalks that wafted in the breeze.

“She was an artist with flowers,” I murmured.

“Yes,” Mom said softly.

“It’s a shame she was unable to share this space with anyone.”

“Oh, but she did,” Mom said. “Her photographs of her gardens appeared in lots of home and garden magazines.”

“Honestly? Could she do that without leaving her property?”

Mom nodded as she continued to take in the lush beauty of Wanda’s gardens. “Computers and the Internet changed her life.”

“That’s amazing.” I took hold of her hand. “Come on, Mom. Let’s go inside.”

“If you’re ready.”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The inside of Wanda Bradford Frawley’s house was much cleaner and more organized, in a manner of speaking, than I had imagined it would be. I guess I’d seen too many episodes of
Hoarders,
because while driving over there, I’d had visions of scary, smelly stacks of dirty animal pens surrounded by tons of bizarre, trashy junk shoved into every corner.

But as we crossed the threshold into Wanda’s house, my eyes widened in fascination. The fantasy that began in the gardens continued into the spacious front room. I had to stop at the edge of the entryway to take it all in.

The place was literally packed wall to wall with furniture, but it was . . . charming. Delightful. Eccentric, yes. Cluttered, yes. Wanda obviously had been a hoarder, but one with lovely taste in furnishings.

There were dozens of pieces of Regency and Georgian era furniture and accessories in this one room alone. Everything looked old and expensive. A number of grand, elegant armoires lined the walls. Throughout the room, mismatched but fancy chairs and dainty settees had been arranged in small conversation circles, each complete with coffee and end tables and a chandelier overhead.

Every inch of the table surfaces was taken by silver tea sets and vases and dozens of filigreed and wood and silver picture frames holding photographs of family and friends and flowers. There was a frightening amount of fragile objet d’art.

Each conversation circle butted up against another one. It looked like the most whimsical Victorian tearoom. On drugs.

There was more ormolu and toile and brocade than I’d ever seen in one place. Most pieces appeared to be genuine antiques and even though some looked a bit well-worn and frayed around the edges, each was highly polished and free of dust. The room smelled fresh and clean with a hint of rosewater in the air.

The walls were painted a pale sky blue and light, filmy drapes and soft carpeting complimented the color. Except for the overly ornate chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the lighting fixtures were actually subtle. There were Tiffany-style sconces on the wall and Satsuma vase lamps with white shades on several of the end tables. I only recognized the Satsuma style because my knowledgeable friend Robin had once pointed them out to me when we were shopping.

“It’s like every gay decorator in the city decided to store their best stuff here,” Mom whispered.

I snorted a laugh. But it was true. Everything was in exquisite taste, fit for minor royalty. There was just too damn much of it. And yet the overall effect had a certain fanciful appeal. I wondered if Wanda had spent time in each of those chairs or divans, sipping tea or reading. Did she and her husband sit in here together? Knowing Byron, I couldn’t imagine he would feel comfortable in this distinctly feminine room.

“I should have worn my tiara,” Mom said as she scanned the old jeans and funky T-shirts we’d worn to clean out Wanda’s closets.

“There’s got to be some dust balls in here somewhere,” I muttered. If there wasn’t any dust, I was going to be very depressed. How could a deceased hoarder keep a cleaner house than I did?

Mom led the way along a four-foot-wide carpeted path that had been cleared for walking. The path was bordered on either side by the backs of settees, a few sets of neatly stacked tea tables, a small writing desk here, a drop-leaf table there.

“This looks like a genuine Chippendale escritoire,” Mom murmured reverently as she stopped to examine the refined little desk. “Robson would love it.”

“It’s pretty,” I said.

“I’ll have to ask Byron what he plans to do with all this furniture.” She continued to examine the antiques as she walked slowly along the narrow carpeted path. The trail meandered through the large room and then narrowed and forked three ways. One thin pathway led to a staircase, another headed toward a darkened hallway, and the third went into the kitchen.

I shuddered as I pondered which path would lead to the site where Wanda’s body had been found. But that was me, always wondering where the bodies were hidden.

“Let’s open these drapes and get some light in here,” Mom said, and pulled the heavy cord. The curtains slid open, revealing another splendid view of the colorful front gardens. It cheered me to know that despite being housebound, Wanda had managed to surround herself with beauty.