Home Field Advantage (27 page)

As soon as she'd turned her red Honda Accord into the lane,
however, her own gaze stole up to the house. With its conical towers and small
balconies, the intricate patterns of the fish scale shingling and the delicate
gingerbread, it would to Abigail be forever evocative of princesses and
dragons, of Rapunzel letting down her hair from the tower.

"It's magnificent!" Mr. Peterson murmured as the
car crested the drive and the house came into full view, down to its
granite-block foundation. "When was it built?"

"Eighteen ninety-one," Abigail answered
matter-of-factly. "Locally it's called the Irving House. William Irving
was a timber baron. His wife was English, and apparently he promised that if
she married him, she wouldn't have to give up anything. Remember that
Washington had only been a state for two years and the Puget Sound area was
still practically a frontier. It probably sounded like the ends of the earth to
a well-bred Englishwoman, but when the house was finished in 1893, she married
him."

Mrs. Peterson looked enraptured with the story. "How
romantic! And did they live happily ever after?"

"They had eight children," Abigail informed them.
"Who fought tooth and nail over Papa's empire after he'd died. In the end
two of them won. The oldest son took the timber business and the house, and
another the railroad and shipping interests. A couple of the daughters married
other local businessmen, and several of the children went back to England with
their mother, never to be heard of again. The house has been occupied by a
member of the family until the old man who owned it died just recently. That
partly explains why it's in such excellent condition."

"But you said it's occupied?"

A tiny frown creased Abigail's forehead, although she didn't
let her tone reflect her uneasiness. "Yes, by a renter. I called to let
him know we'd be coming."

Abigail couldn't entirely explain, even to herself, why she
was so worried about the renter. He'd been perfectly pleasant on the telephone,
informing her agreeably that he would be there, but he'd try to stay out of
their way. The man couldn't help the fact that he had such an unusual voice,
low and a little gravelly. Actually, it was rather sexy, bringing to Abigail's
mind a fleeting but all too vivid image of the rasp of a shaven chin against
softer skin.

Maybe that was the only reason she had this odd feeling
about him; he'd unwittingly reminded her of her own vulnerability, something
she'd as soon not think about these days. She was too busy supporting herself
and her four-year-old daughter, as well as trying to be a good single mother,
to waste time on romantic—or sexual—fantasies.

She suspected, however, that the small worry in the back of
her mind had originated the day she'd looked over the house with the present
owner, Ed Phillips, a great-nephew of the old man who had died. Standing out in
front by her car, she had asked him about the signs of occupation. The unwashed
breakfast dishes, the faded jeans tossed on the bed, the razor lying by the
bathroom sink, had made her wonder if whoever lived in the house had expected
this visit.

Ed Phillips was the area's biggest contractor, a strongly
built man in his early forties who was starting to put on a little too much
weight, although in his case it simply made his presence more imposing. He
could be very charming, although Abigail had a feeling that charm would
disappear quickly if he were crossed. She wasn't sure she liked the man, but
she was very eager to sell this house for him. He'd promised to throw more
business her way if she did, business she desperately needed.

At her question about the house's occupant, he had frowned
and glanced over his shoulder, as though he expected someone to appear on the
porch. It remained empty, of course, but for a moment he continued to stare
moodily up at the house. Clearly, Abigail had reminded him of something
unpleasant. It was an odd reaction, one that made her apprehensive.

But then, few things were ever as perfect as this deal
seemed to be. Wasn't there always a catch? The only question now was what Ed
was going to spring on her. Did the renter keep a killer Doberman pinscher
roaming the grounds that she would be expected to decoy whenever she wanted to
bring buyers out? Or did the man work at night, so that she would never be able
to show the house during the hours any sane person would want to see it? Or...
She rummaged in her mind through past experiences for something suitably
unpleasant.

But then Ed Phillips gave himself a little shake and turned
back to her with an easy grin. "Sorry. Did you ask about the renter?"

Abigail raised her brows slightly and nodded.

"He won't be any problem," Ed said. "I'm
lucky to have someone to keep the place up. Really lucky. And quite a bit of
the furniture in there is his. Dresses the house up a little. So don't worry.
It's a good thing he's here."

Abigail didn't probe. She also didn't believe him. He'd
sounded too much as though he were trying to convince himself. She could only
trust that he would have been honest with her if the renter was likely to
present her any particular problem.

Now, as she eased her car to a stop in front of the house,
Abigail could see the rear end of a pickup truck in the shadowy recesses of the
old clapboard-sided carriage house. She ignored its presence, however, as she
switched off the ignition and smiled at Mrs. Peterson, who was in the front
seat with her.

"It's too bad that the landscaping has been
neglected," she commented, having found in the past that bringing any sore
points out into the open worked best. In this case, the knee-high weeds that
choked the formal flower beds and the straggling boxwoods could hardly be
ignored. "But there are plenty of beautiful old plants here to work with. Well,
you can see that for yourself. It wouldn't be at all like starting from scratch
with a new house."

It was true. Huge old rhododendrons promised a spectacular
spring. Following the curve of the drive was a row of peonies with only a few
gaps, the plump deep-pink and white heads showing through the long grass. The
scent of the roses that scrambled up trellises beneath the front porch drifted
in the open car window along with the faint buzzing of the bees. Abigail didn't
make a move for a minute, subtly letting the sheer quiet of the country make
its effect felt on the Petersons. At last she opened her car door.

As they climbed the front steps, Mr. Peterson said,
"You're sure the place has been completely redone? It's impressive, I'll
grant you that, but Betty and I aren't prepared to pour time and effort into
the bottomless well I know these old houses can be."

"People do get in over their heads, don't they?"
Abigail agreed pleasantly. "But the Irving House is different. As I
explained to you, the owner, Mr. Phillips, is a highly respected local
contractor. Under his direction, the roof, the plumbing, and the wiring have
all been replaced. Mr. Phillips supervised the work himself. All that's left to
be done is decorating. I'm sure you'll find the wallpapers old-fashioned, for
example. But picking your own is the fun part, isn't it?"

The oval center of beveled glass in the elaborately carved
front door allowed a glimpse into the wide hallway laid with a muted rose
Oriental rug, while the tall leaded-glass windows on each side of the door
scattered the sunlight into glittering shards of color. The door opened easily
under Abigail's hand, and she put her key back in her purse.

"Hello?" she called into the silence. The muffled
clang of metal against metal somewhere in the far reaches of the house was the
only answer. "Hello," she called again, louder, but there was still
no response. Abigail hesitated, wondering whether she should track the man down
before she started showing the house, but decided not to. He expected them,
after all.

A wide, graceful staircase with beautifully turned balusters
rose from the elegant entry hall with its marble floor and polished oak
paneling. Mr. Peterson went one way, drawn by the beveled-glass-fronted
bookcases in the library, while Mrs. Peterson peered into the front parlor.
"The ceilings must be fourteen feet high!" she exclaimed, impressed.
"And the floors are beautiful. Are they oak?"

"No, maple," Abigail informed her. "The
wainscoting and woodwork in here are, too." A magnificent marble fireplace
dominated one end of the room, made airy by the extremely high ceiling banded
with delicate plaster garlands.

The front rooms were skimpily furnished; Abigail knew that
when he'd inherited it, Ed Phillips had emptied the house of the more valuable
furnishings, keeping a few treasures and selling the rest. She had to assume
the lovely pieces here belonged to the mysterious renter, who clearly had very
good taste and loved antiques.

It was while Mrs. Peterson was opening and closing cupboard
doors in the kitchen that Abigail first became conscious of the smell. Faint
but unpleasant, it had been with them since she first opened the front door,
she realized now. Neither of the Petersons had commented yet, so Abigail
glanced around casually, wondering if the renter needed to take his garbage
out. Something was certainly rotting somewhere. But the bag under the sink was
empty, and the sink itself and the new Italian tile counters were spotlessly
clean. Abigail frowned, and wrenched herself back with an effort to answer a
question from Mr. Peterson.

"Yes, the sink and countertops are new. There is a
disposal now, and, of course, a dishwasher."

The Petersons murmured as they wandered through the kitchen
with its glass-fronted maple cabinets, and Abigail lapsed into silence again.
She liked to give potential buyers the space to really get a feel for what they
were seeing. At the moment, though, there was more to it. She was increasingly
bothered by the odor, which she was certain was becoming stronger. Mrs.
Peterson's nose twitched a little as she, too, looked into the cupboard under
the sink as though involuntarily drawn. Another housewife wanting to throw out
the trash, Abigail diagnosed.

She cleared her throat, forcing a chuckle. "Smells like
the renter must have made egg salad sandwiches this morning, doesn't it?"

They both laughed, too, and seemed to relax. "Is there
a bathroom on this floor?" Mr. Peterson asked.

Abigail didn't like the association, but smiled. "Yes,
indeed, and three more upstairs. There's a utility room back this way, too,
with a chute from both floors above. I'm sure with children you'll appreciate
that!" She led the way, her high heels clicking on the polished wood
floor.

The instant Abigail swung open the bathroom door, she wished
she hadn't. A condensed odor that any pulp mill would have been proud to claim
wafted out, a thickness in the air so palpable it should have been visible.
Gagging, she stumbled back a step, bumping into Mr. Peterson, who was
retreating just as quickly. Abigail had just the presence of mind to pull the
bathroom door with her, sealing the worst of the sulphurous stench in.

Her desperate need for fresh air took control, leading her
at a trot into the utility room. The Petersons were right on her heels. When
Abigail flung open the back door, all three of them leaned out, sucking in the
blessed spring air.

Mr. Peterson regained control of himself first, although his
expression was still tinged with green. "Did you get a good look? Was
something dead in there?"

Abigail closed her eyes and took one more fortifying breath
of air before mumbling, "Unfortunately, no."

She'd have almost preferred a dead body in the bathtub to
the reality, which was a plumbing problem. An acute one. Her one extremely
fleeting look into the bathroom had left her with a vision of the back off the
toilet and the floor scattered with wrenches and sundry other tools. Apparently
the renter was doing his best to fix the problem. Why the hell hadn't he called
her with a warning? However, she was looking forward to finding out what was
going on.

"Did I hear someone?"

Speak of the devil, Abigail thought grimly, turning to face
the possessor of that very interesting voice. "In here," she answered
through a pinched nose.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and a moment later the man
appeared in the doorway of the utility room, his expression inquiring and a
little concerned. Abigail promptly forgot the smell. An odd little shiver ran
down her spine, almost as though his fingers had lightly traced it.

He was entirely too attractive for his own good, or maybe it
was for her own good. He wasn't handsome in a pretty way like a male model; his
looks were grittier than that, wholly masculine. He must have been six feet
tall, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, and the long, supple muscles of a
natural athlete. It was hard to miss noticing, dressed as he was in faded jeans
that clung to his hips and thighs and an equally faded sweatshirt with the
sleeves pushed up to expose strong brown forearms. In one long-fingered hand he
held a wrench. His dark-blond hair, shortish and pushed untidily back from his
forehead, was streaked by the sun. A straight, positively aristocratic nose and
beautiful cheekbones were emphasized by the strong grooves that ran to each
side of his mouth. And then there were his dark-gray eyes....

Which, Abigail realized with acute embarrassment, were
inspecting her just as thoroughly, and with a very disturbing glint in them.
More disconcerting, though, was the small frown that creased his brow. He was
the one who looked disconcerted, she suddenly realized, as though for some
reason she had taken him by surprise and he didn't like the sensation.

She did her best to gaze coolly back at him, although she
was certain some color had crept into her cheeks. She couldn't remember the
last time a man had looked at her with such blatant awareness. Especially one
who made her own blood race. The timing was lousy, though. She was a
professional woman doing her job, with her clients standing at her elbow, for
heaven's sake. And here she was blushing like a teenager and nervously
smoothing tendrils of her curly dark hair back from her face.