The Poe Estate (5 page)

Supernatural Salvage

P
ut on your boots, Sukie-Sue,” said Dad a few days later. I was sitting in the kitchen with Cousin Hepzibah, the only really warm room in the house. I had finished my history homework and was reading ahead to see what would happen to George Washington's battered army, but I clapped the book shut and jumped up from the hearth bench. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“Possible salvage.”

“Where?”

“New Hampshire.”

Dad liked me to keep him company, especially after Kitty died. He didn't usually say much, but it was companionable driving with him.

After a while, we turned off the main road onto a gravel road that led uphill. A plow had been through after the last heavy snowfall, but that was days ago. Since then, a few light dustings had left the road ghostly between looming trees.

The view opened up dramatically when we got to the top of the hill. What must once have been a lawn sloped down from a large old house. Despite a tangle of scrub and leafless saplings, you could see clear across a town-spattered valley.

The house itself was tall and graceful, with a pillared porch that sagged in the middle. A young tree was growing next to
the chimney, rooted in the roof. “They're tearing this down?” I asked.

Dad nodded.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Cost a lot to fix it, and they like modern.”

We went in, noting the heavy door and the windows on either side, each with sixteen panes of wavy glass. There was a built-in hall tree for hanging hats and umbrellas. It was in pretty good shape, its mirror glimmering dimly. The hall was surprisingly grand, with paneling and a marble mantelpiece.

The staircase listed scarily. “Mahogany,” Dad said approvingly, knocking on the banister. The newel was carved into a pineapple.

“When's the house coming down?” I asked.

“Soon. Bruce says they want to start building in the spring.”

That was good news. Dad's friend Bruce liked to hire Dad, and he always gave him first crack at the salvage. “And the property owners don't want to reuse any of this? Not even that awesome fireplace?”

Dad shook his head. “They're steel-and-glass people.”

“What a waste.” I patted the doomed pineapple finial.

When I touched it, something cold buzzed through my arm. It felt like the doorknob Elizabeth Rew at the flea market had bought, or the broom, or like the air just before Kitty shows up. I remembered how Elizabeth had sniffed at the doorknob.
Was she somehow sensing the same quality by smelling it that I sensed by touching it?

“You know what, Dad?” I said. “I bet that lady from the flea market last week is going to want this stuff.”

“Really? Why?”

I shrugged. “I don't know, I just . . . get a feeling. Remember how she was so interested in where those doorknobs came from? I bet she'll want to see this place before it gets demolished.”

He reached in his pocket and tossed me his cell phone. “Okay, call her. It's the last 2-1-2 number in my recent calls.”

I couldn't get a signal indoors or out on the porch, so I climbed to the top of the hill behind the house.

“Elizabeth Rew, acquisitions,” said the faraway voice in my ear.

“Hi, this is Sukie O'Dare. From the flea market—you bought a doorknob last week?”

“Oh, Sukie, of course I remember you. That was a great doorknob! Did you find anything more from that house?”

“Yes, another doorknob and some hinges. Dad's bringing them next weekend. But that's not why I'm calling.”

“Oh? What's up?”

“We're in a house right now that Dad's friend is planning to knock down. We came looking for salvage. I thought you would want to see it before it's gone.”

“That's so thoughtful. Tell me about the house—what made you think of me?”

“Well, it has some awesome details—paneling and mantelpieces and a really nice banister with a carved newel post, and
I don't know what else upstairs. But mostly it was just . . . I don't know, a feeling. The whole house somehow reminds me of that doorknob you bought.”

“Say no more. You've convinced me. Where is this house?”

“Southeast New Hampshire, near the Massachusetts border. It's on a private road. I'm not sure about the name, but I think that's Granton Village down there. Hang on. I'll get the address from Dad.”

“Does your phone have GPS? I don't need the address, if you could just text me the coordinates.”

“Sure—hang on.”

“Okay, got it,” Elizabeth said when I got back on the line. “We're on our way. Thanks, Sukie, I really appreciate this. See you in a little bit.”

“What—you're coming
now
? But it's hours from New York!”

“That won't be a problem. We'll be there very soon. Wait for us, okay?” She hung up.

“Okay,” I said doubtfully, going back into the house. Maybe she was already in New Hampshire for some reason?

Dad was walking around upstairs, making the ceiling creak. “Watch out for that fifth stair,” he called down to me.

I skipped the fifth stair altogether. The seventh wasn't in such great shape, either, but it held. I found Dad in a little room at the back, with a slanted ceiling and a broken window. A remnant of lace curtain flapped at the broken pane as if it was trying to get out, and the sill had rotted. On the mantel, someone had stuck a little bouquet in a jam jar a very long time ago. That cold feeling was strong in this room.

I handed Dad back his phone. “She wants to come look.
She says she'll be here soon. I guess she's in the neighborhood,” I said.

“Huh,” Dad grunted. “Hold that?” He gestured at the end of his tape measure. I helped him measure the wide pine floorboards, most of which were in pretty decent shape. He jotted the numbers in his notebook with a pencil and took pictures with his phone.

We'd gotten through the floors in three rooms when I heard a voice downstairs. “Hello? Sukie?”

I went out to the staircase and peered down. I saw three figures silhouetted against the door: Elizabeth, her enormous dog, and somebody very tall—that guy Andre.

“Wow, that was fast! We're up here,” I said. “Watch out for the fifth stair.”

“Mind if Griffin comes in? He's very careful,” said Elizabeth.

“That's fine,” I said, holding out my hand for the dog to sniff. He licked it and wagged his rear end—he had no tail. “It's not like he could ruin anything any more than it's already ruined. Just keep an eye on him—the floor's not in great shape and he's pretty big. It would be bad if he fell through.”

Andre laughed. “Don't worry, Griffin always lands on his feet. Don't you, boy?” He and the dog took the stairs two at a time, stepping over both problematic stairs. Andre was wearing a pair of flip-flops with woolly hiking socks and dangling a pair of hiking boots by the laces.

Elizabeth followed more slowly. She had her boots on her feet and was carrying an old-fashioned walking stick. It looked like Cousin Hepzibah's cane.

Dad came out of the front bedroom and introduced himself.

“It's nice to meet you in person, Mr. O'Dare,” said Elizabeth. “I brought Andre Merritt—he's a page at our library.”

“Call me Kevin,” said Dad, shaking hands with both of them. Andre shifted the boots to his left hand to free up his right.

“You didn't have to take those off,” I said. “The floors are pretty far gone. A little snow won't make a difference.”

Andre shrugged. “Habit, I guess,” he said.

“How'd you get here so soon?” Dad asked. “Were you nearby?”

“Close enough,” said Andre.

“This is a great area for hiking,” said Elizabeth. “Cool house! You were right, Sukie. Mind if we take a look around?”

“Be my guest,” said Dad. “Watch out—some of the floorboards are loose.”

“It's okay, we're used to that,” Elizabeth assured him.

Dad went back to taking pictures of the paneling in the front room. Andre walked over to the top of the staircase, squatted, and stared down the banister as if judging its straightness. He gave it a knock.

“It's mahogany,” I said helpfully.

“Uh-huh. What do you think of this, Libbet?”

She leaned over the banister and sniffed. What
was
her sniffing all about? Could she tell mahogany by the smell? Or was she sniffing for something else? “It's the real thing,” she said. Griffin sniffed at it too, then licked his nose.

I leaned over the banister myself and breathed deep, but all I could smell was dust and the moldy damp of a house with windows broken for decades.

Andre straightened his long legs and strode down the hallway, pausing every few steps to stare at a spot on the wall or the ceiling. There was something powerful and yet a little goofy about the way he moved, like a panther walking on its hind legs. Elizabeth followed him, sniffing. He opened the door to one of the bedrooms, and Elizabeth walked through.

“Hawthorne, do you think?” Andre asked. He had to duck so he wouldn't hit his head on the lintel.

“I'm pretty sure that's oak,” I said, following them into the room.

He gave me a blank look. “What?”

“The door. I think it's oak, not hawthorn,” I said. “The door frame, too.”

“Oh. Yeah. It does look like oak.”

“It's too late for Hawthorne,” said Elizabeth.

“Irving?” suggested Andre.

What were they talking about?

“Irving's even earlier. And his stuff's all in New York,” said Elizabeth.

“You're right,” said Andre. “What about James or Wharton?”

“I guess it's possible, but most of those are European, and they're usually fancier,” said Elizabeth.

“Not always. There's the Frome house,” objected Andre.

“Mm. But that's probably in Massachusetts, and it's not really . . . you know.”

“I don't know. It's gothic enough,” said Andre. “But okay, I hear you.”

“I'm thinking maybe Freeman,” said Elizabeth, fingering a rag of curtain in the next bedroom. “No, maybe it's late Flint.”

“Could be,” said Andre.

“What
are
you guys talking about?” I asked.

They glanced at each other. “We're trying to figure out the origins of this house,” said Elizabeth.

“You mean like who built it? Who the architect was?”

“Yes, something like that,” said Elizabeth.

“It looks to me like it's from around the 1860s, 1870s,” I said. “Maybe the owner would know. Dad can ask his friend.”

“Thanks, Sukie. That could be helpful.”

When they got to the bedroom in the back, the one with the glass of dead flowers, all three of them froze. Griffin gave a low, thoughtful growl. “Oh,” breathed Elizabeth.

“Yeah,” said Andre. “This is the real deal.”

They went quickly down the landing to the front bedroom where Dad was kneeling by the fireplace peering up the flue. Andre had to duck again to get through the door. “We'll take it,” said Elizabeth.

“Great,” said Dad, getting up and brushing soot off his knees. “What do you want? Hardware, mantelpieces, bathtub? What about the appliances? There's a nice old range in the kitchen.”

“All of it. The whole house,” said Elizabeth.

“Oh.” Dad sounded dubious. “I guess I wasn't clear. The property's not for sale, just the salvage. The new owner's taking down the house and putting up a new one on this site.”

“No, I get that,” said Elizabeth. “The repository I work for wants the building, not the land. We're making a collection of historic structures with certain . . . characteristics, and this house fits our collecting mission perfectly. We can take it off
the owner's hands and save them the cost of demolition waste disposal. We'll use our own transport team.”

“Oh.” Dad didn't look so happy. “Well, Bruce generally lets me handle the salvage, and I usually help with the demolition. I guess this would be a cheaper option for him, but . . .”

Elizabeth said quickly, “Don't worry, you won't lose money on the deal. We'll be happy to pay your standard rates for whatever you would normally be salvaging, along with a finder's fee.”

Dad brightened up. “I think we can work something out.”

• • •

As Dad and Elizabeth discussed business details, Andre wandered out of the room, leaning down to inspect the chair railing that ran along all the walls.

I followed him, trailing my fingertips along the railing. It felt cold and zingy, like the banister. “Hey, Andre, what's a page?” I asked.

He straightened up and looked down at me. “What?”

“Elizabeth said you were a page,” I said. “What's that?”

“Oh. It means I work at the library,” said Andre. “The repository. I re-shelve things and bring patrons the items they're borrowing, stuff like that.”