Secret of the Painted Lady Read online

  The lock gave a squeal as I turned the key. I shoved hard against the warped door. Nothing happened. I put my shoulder into it and gave it another go. The door didn't budge.

  "Allow me," George said, stepping in front of me.

  Sure, why not. "Be my guest." I stepped aside.

  George looked at the door, running his hand along the edge near the top. He banged hard with his fist and then turned the knob and pushed. The door gave a groan as it swung inward. Creak. Creak. Creeeak. It got louder the wider George pushed it open.

  "I don't suppose you brought a flashlight?" he asked, peering into the shadowy gloom.

  I reached into my jacket and pulled out a small but powerful flashlight. "Wouldn't make me much of a contractor if I didn't."

  I flipped the light on and walked through the front door. The air was stuffy and smelled of old wood, mold, rotting linens, and something else I couldn't quite put my finger on at the moment. I shined my light around the large foyer. It was amazing.

  "Is that marble?" George asked, peering down at the floor.

  I crouched down and ran my hand over the dirty floor. It was cool and smooth. I used my jacket sleeve to rub a clean circle and shined the light on it. "Yep. Wow—this is a lot of marble." I followed the floor all the way to the sweeping staircase. These types of features, original high-end finishes, could up the value through the roof.

  "Beautiful," he said sincerely. I shined the light over at him.

  "Thanks." My flashlight caught on the intricate mahogany paneling coated with dust and grime, but salvageable. There were two large stained glass windows that followed the rise of the stairs up to a magnificent landing and then on up to the second floor.

  There was a receiving room or parlor off one side of the foyer. This room had an oversized fireplace, boarded up windows, and rotting green shag carpet over the hardwood floors.

  "Looks like this place had a 1970's update," George observed.

  I pointed my light at the ceiling. "Crap. Looks like we've got water damage up there."

  George walked over to the heavy orange-and-green curtains and gave them a tug. "I'll let some light in so you can get a closer look."

  I saw the curtain rod buckle and let out a yell. Too late. I rushed over to George, now covered in yards of musty old fabric. I dug through the layers and helped him sit up.

  "Are you okay?" I shined the light on him as he got to his feet. His hair stuck up in several places, and a fine coating of dust gave him a spectral-like quality. His linen pants were wrinkled, his jacket stained, and his white cotton shirt was a sickly shade of gray.

  He coughed and sputtered. "I'm fine…I'm fine." Then he gave me a wry look. "Twenty minutes with you and look at me. I'll be lucky not to get picked up for vagrancy on my way home."

  "Yeah, you don't look so hot. I'm not sure you're cut out for the rehab business."

  He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his face. I shook my head. What a dandy. "Nonsense. A little dirt isn't going to slow me down. Lead on." He pointed toward the foyer.

  I shrugged. "You're a glutton for punishment."

  "So I've been told," he replied cryptically.

  * * *

  The kitchen had also been redone in the 1970s and sported matching avocado-green appliances, brown laminate cabinets, electric-orange countertops, and a hole in the ceiling that was large enough to see the waning sunlight through. Nothing I couldn't fix, of course. But the dollars were adding up faster than a New York taxi meter in rush-hour traffic. The kitchen's gleaming tin ceiling was its only redeeming feature, and it would need intricate repair work once the hole was patched.

  "Whoa," George said, "you've got your work cut out for you in here."

  "Yeah, I knew it would be a gut job. All these old places are, but I'll probably use that soapstone sink and some of the fixtures. And just look at the beautiful tin ceiling." My mind was suddenly racing with all the possibilities of the room. Move the sink over to the window. Put an island down the middle.

  "You really do love your job, don't you?" He was looking at me with admiration in his eyes.

  "Don't you?" I asked curiously.

  He thought about it. "I'm satisfied with my job. But it's not quite the same." Our eyes held for a moment too long.

  I fidgeted and turned away, heading back toward the hall. There was a powder room under the stairs, sans toilet. "That's a little odd," George commented.

  I glanced in. "Happens more often than you'd think."

  "A secondary toilet market?" he asked quizzically.

  "Couldn't say, but these houses are always missing a toilet or two," I replied.

  We found an enormous ballroom divided by massive pocket doors. The floors were badly scarred, but the rest of the room was in good order. Unfortunately, the solarium off the back of the ballroom was not in as good of shape. Most of the windows were broken. I wasn't sure I'd be able to afford to repair them. I might end up tearing that down. Something I hated to do.

  "Well, this is a real shame," George murmured looking around. "We had a solarium in our home in London. The things you could grow there in the dead of winter. Truly extraordinary."

  His serious, articulate voice contrasted sharply with his grimy, disheveled appearance. I giggled. "You look ridiculous."

  He pursed his lips. "Kicking a man when he's down? What would Janiece say?"

  I narrowed my eyes. "She'd say, and I quote, 'You play with fire, don't whine about getting burned.'"

  He laughed. "I can hear her saying that. And that horrible bird of hers squawking in agreement. Every time she calls me to change her order, all I can hear is that bird haranguing her in the background."

  "Smitty takes some getting used to," I agreed. Gram's sixty-year-old parrot was a bit eccentric, to say the least. She'd acquired him when she'd married my grandfather. Gram said he went with the house. So I suppose if anything happened to Gram, I was next in the bird inheritance line. Oh joy.

  "That," George said, returning my smile, "is an understatement. I know he's had a long life, but he looks to be at death's door. I wouldn't think living at Rockgrove would've been so taxing on the poor thing."

  "According to Gram, he was never much to look at, and he's a bit more bedraggled lately," I admitted. "But he's got personality." Although I didn't exactly love the bird, I didn't like to hear strangers talking trash about the family mascot.

  "Touché," George said with a wave of his hand. "Throwing my words back at me. What's that look for?"

  I couldn't contain myself another moment. "Who says things like 'touché'? It's like you walked out of a Monty Python skit. Who are you?"

  George stared at me for a long minute. "That's an interesting question." He nodded and left the room. I hurried behind him with the flashlight.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  I caught him as he started to climb the stairs. "It means it's nearly dark, and we've still got the second story to look over. However, I'd love to have a more detailed discussion over dinner sometime."

  The invitation caught me off guard. "Are you asking me out?"

  "If I did," he said looking down at me, "what would you say?"

  "Probably no," I answered honestly.

  "Then I won't ask you now." He turned and started up the stairs.

  "Hey," I yelled, following him, "you can't do that. You have to ask and take your chances."

  "You'll have to show me that one in the dating rule book," he said, not breaking his stride.

  I grumbled all the way up the staircase, forgetting to check for damage. Who did he think he was? Mr. Preppy was going to teach me about dating? No way.

  We made our way through the five bedrooms. Two had been part of the 1970's renovation. Thankfully, the other three just needed new windows and a fresh coat of paint. Unfortunately, the master bathroom had been part of the renovation.

  "They had a penchant for avocado, didn't they?" George said, peering over my shoulder.

  "Yeah, a real penchant
," I said with an eye roll. This guy.

  We left the master bedroom and headed down the hallway. "What's that smell? I don't recognize it."

  George sniffed delicately. "That's strange." He sniffed again.

  "What's strange?" I asked.

  "It smells like lime."

  "Lime? Like the citrus fruit?"

  George shook his head. "No, like the lime farmers spread on fields."

  I sniffed again. "It smells weird. Like sickly sweet."

  We reached the hallway bathroom, and I turned the crystal knob. The door creaked and swung open. The smell was stronger in here. The bathroom was tiled in black and white subway tiles from ceiling to floor. A toilet and sink sat in one corner, and a huge claw-foot tub stood in the other, with an old shower curtain drawn across it.

  "Score!" I cried. "Original tub." These tubs were big, beautiful, and indestructible. Buyers loved them. My light caught something on the floor. A man's flip-flop.

  We both stared at the incongruous object. Why would there be a flip-flop in the bathroom? "Looks like we might have squatters." Great, just great. Freeloaders who were nearly impossible to get out through the court system. "What's all that white powder?" I pointed my flashlight at the floor. There were also small drops of something darker peppering the white powder.

  George walked into the room and leaned over the bathtub. He didn't say anything for ten seconds. Then, "It's definitely lime."

  "Why would there be lime in the bathtub?" I asked, walking toward him.

  He held up a hand to ward me off. "To cover up the smell of the dead guy," he said, pointing at the tub.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The police arrived within five minutes of my 9-1-1 call. Three hours later, George and I were still answering questions. It turns out the guy in the bathtub was a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flop wearing tourist with a bullet hole in his temple. What he was doing fully dressed in a bathtub with no running water was anybody's guess. The first officer on the scene had secured the area and taken us down to the kitchen for questioning. A crime scene team had arrived shortly thereafter and had been in the bathroom ever since.

  "Detective Marshall, it's nearly nine. If you need anything else from Ms. Jordan or me, we'll be happy to meet with you in the morning," George said smoothly.

  The detective glared at him. "I don't know where you're from originally, Mr. Fontaine, but around here bodies don't just turn up in bathtubs on a regular basis."

  I thought the detective was stretching the truth a bit there. The town wasn't called Danger Cove for nothing. We'd had more than our fair share of foul play over the years.

  "Of course," George said. "I understand. I'm just thinking of Ms. Jordan and her grandmother. I understand Mrs. Jordan depends on her granddaughter quite a bit." George glanced pointedly at me.

  I nodded. "Yes, I really need to get home and help her." Gram would definitely raise a brow if she'd heard that little white lie. She was proud of her independence, and more often than not, she was the one helping me.

  I didn't know Detective Marshall personally, but I was pretty sure his mother was in Gram's quilting group. He must've realized the same thing. There was less machismo in his tone when he replied, "Okay, we'll be in touch tomorrow. Don't come back into this building for any reason until it's been cleared by the department."

  Holy crap! "How long will that be?" I asked with rising panic. I needed to start work tomorrow if I was going to make my deadline to get the house on the market. If I didn't have a buyer within three months, I would have to start paying the full mortgage instead of making interest-only payments on the property during construction. My bank account was not prepared for that hit.

  The detective shrugged. "Couple of weeks. Give or take. Finding the perp would speed things up significantly." He looked hard at both of us. "So if you know anything—and I mean anything—call us."

  We walked back to my truck in silence. I clicked the fob, and the headlights flashed. George opened the door for me and offered me a hand as I climbed into the cab.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  I shook my head. "Nope. I never pictured a dead guy holding up this project," I said in wonder. "Mold, rot, termites, sure—but a dead guy? Never saw that one coming."

  "What sort of deadline are you up against?" he asked, staring thoughtfully back at Marlton House.

  I sighed. "I've got forty-five days max to get the house on the market. Then I cross my fingers and hope it sells before my three-month construction loan has to be converted to a regular mortgage."

  George nodded. "Chin up, Alexandra. We'll figure something out." He gave me a wave and walked down the street, whistling.

  As I started the engine, I wondered about his use of the word we.

  * * *

  As I turned up Cliffside Drive, I gave a grateful sigh. Rockgrove, the stately mansion that had sheltered generations of Jordans, was just a little way down the road. Where most people saw grand style and old-world elegance, I saw the banister I used to slide down and the attics I played hide-and-seek in. I parked in the detached garage and took a deep breath before walking through the side door into the mudroom. A room Gram still referred to as the "service entrance."

  Gram was waiting to pounce as I entered. "Did you hear there was a murder downtown?"

  I handed her the bedraggled flowers and plunked down in the nearest armchair. "I heard."

  "Where have you been? Why didn't you answer my texts?"

  I glanced up at her. There wasn't a hair out of place on her powder-white head. She was still dressed in a well-tailored pantsuit. Gram wouldn't dream of changing into something more comfortable until she "retired" to her rooms for the evening.

  "The police had my phone," I said.

  "The police." Her cultured voice rose several octaves. "What is going on, Alexandra?"

  I held up a hand. "I need something to eat and a beer. It's been quite a day."

  "Then we'd better head to the kitchen. I had Dolly wrap up a plate for you."

  Dolly had been Gram's cook since I was a little girl. She was more companion than cook now. Over time the household staff had been downsized from a dozen to just Dolly. I'd delicately mentioned the expense of keeping any household staff on several occasions to Gram, and the topic had been shut down without discussion.

  I put my plate into the microwave and then popped the top on a beer. It was heavy, dark, and hopsy. Heavenly. Gram tapped her manicured nails impatiently on the countertop.

  "The good news first," I said, making a little toast with my beer. "You are looking at the proud new owner of Marlton House."

  Gram nodded as if she'd expected no less from her family. "And the bad news."

  "The house came with a little surprise—a dead guy in the bathtub."

  "Oh my," Gram said and took a seat at the oversized butcher-block kitchen table.

  "Yep." I took another swig of beer. I spent the next fifteen minutes answering her questions and eating a melt-in-your-mouth chicken casserole.

  "I'm so sorry, dear. You've been doing such a wonderful job with your business. It's a shame to see it in jeopardy. Perhaps George will be able to help."

  "I'm not sure what help George could be. He's not exactly…" I searched for the right word. "The manly, catch-a-murderer type."

  Gram tutted. "He's just the type," she insisted. "Why, he reminds me of William Powell from The Thin Man series. So dashing and smart."

  I shook my head. Gram loved her old black-and-white movies. The Thin Man series featuring Nick and Nora Charles was one of her favorites. "Wasn't Nick Charles drunk all the time?"

  Gram waved her hand. "Everyone was drunk back then. And we all smoked like chimneys," she added with a laugh.

  "Sounds like fun." I gave her a smile, and she patted my hand.

  "You have no idea, dear."

  "Where's Smitty?" I asked, glancing around the kitchen.

  "I put him in the parlor and covered his cage. He's been such a rascal today. He stole half a pim
ento loaf sandwich off the counter and called Dolly a wench when she tried to take it away from him. I haven't seen him so riled up since we took him to the vet."

  Smitty was usually pretty low-key. As a whole, sixty-year-old parrots didn't have a lot of pep in their step. Last year, we had taken Smitty to the vet because of a persistent wheeze. This was only the second time in Smitty's long life he'd been to a vet. The first time was fifteen years ago when he'd broken his wing chasing the neighbor's cat around the backyard.

  I laughed. "He called the vet a varmint and bit his ear."

  "Poor man, he didn't know what to do with our Smitty, did he?" Gram asked with a smile.

  The bird had flown wildly around the small office, cursing and knocking things over. The vet, who had never seen a sixty-year-old parrot before, gave us some antibiotics and recommended an avian specialist in Seattle if we had any further needs.

  I put my plate into the dishwasher and grabbed a second beer from the fridge. "I'll let him out for a little while."

  Gram rose and put a hand to her back. "Well, I'm exhausted. I think I'll retire for the night. I'm so sorry for your troubles, dear." She leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. The smell of Shalimar drifted softly in her wake, stirring up childhood memories.

  I watched her wobble a bit as she made her way across the kitchen and wondered how much longer I'd have her. Gram had been my world since I was born. My parents had died in a car accident when I was an infant. Instead of retiring to Florida with her friends, Gram had started over again, raising a baby in her sixties. It hadn't been easy for either of us, but as Gram liked to say, "We'd muddled through nicely."

  I passed from the kitchen into the room Gram called the parlor. It was more of a den with a wide stone fireplace and big windows that faced the Pacific Ocean. There were large, weathered leather couches and oversized armchairs littered with throw pillows and handmade afghan blankets. I flicked on the TV and made my way to Smitty's cage. He fluffed his feathers and stirred as he heard me approach.