Spackled and Spooked (15 page)

Next door, we were going for as much spacious openness as possible. We were planning to sand the floors and paint the walls in light, fresh colors, and when we staged the house for prospective buyers, we’d try to buy or borrow minimalistic furniture—glass, chrome, and light wood. Danish Modern. Venetia had gone to the other extreme. The floors were covered with plush, rose-colored, wall-to-wall carpet. The walls in the L-shaped living room and dining room had striped wallpaper and a border running along the top, underneath the ceiling. It had pictures of what I thought were magnolia blossoms. The furniture was overstuffed: a couch, a matching loveseat, and a big chair, all upholstered in shades of green, ranged around a large coffee table in dark wood. The top of the table was so highly polished I could have seen my reflection in it. The dining room was in similar straits: striped walls and rose pink floor, with an oversized sideboard up against the back wall and an oval table with heavy, carved legs, surrounded by six large chairs upholstered with rose-colored damask, in the middle of the floor. On the table sat an enormous, fake arrangement of waxy magnolias and glossy leaves in a large, green vase, and the framed painting above the sideboard was of Vivien Leigh in Scarlett O’Hara’s green dress, the one she made from the curtains at Tara. Venetia was one of those people who keep their dining room table always set, and the settings—arranged on rosy damask placemats—had plates showing scenes from the same movie.

“Nice place,” I said politely—and untruthfully. I’d go crazy living in Venetia’s house, and although I agree that
Gone with the Wind
is a masterpiece and that Clark Gable
was
Rhett Butler, I don’t think he’s hot enough that I’d want to eat my dinner off him.

Venetia smiled tightly. “Thank you, Miss Baker. Have a seat. Tell me, what’s going on next door?”

“Nothing that wasn’t going on three hours ago,” I said, sitting down in the overstuffed armchair. “The police are down in the crawlspace, digging. Derek is watching. And the crowd outside is growing bigger. Wayne is concerned about the media.”

Venetia waved a dismissive hand. “The newspapers have already come and gone. And I guess the news can’t have reached Portland yet, as we don’t have anyone from WMTW hanging around.”

WMTW, channel eight, is the local ABC affiliate. Aunt Inga hadn’t owned a television set, but I’d succumbed over the summer and bought one, and I was becoming familiar with the various Waterfield stations.

“Do you think the national news will be interested in this?” I asked nervously.

“That depends on what
this
turns out to be,” Venetia answered tartly, which I would have figured out for myself, too, had I thought about it. “If it turns out to be a dead squatter, probably not. Unless it’s an illegal alien. The immigration issue is a political hot button these days. But if it’s a murder victim—someone that Brian Murphy killed and buried under the house before he killed himself and the rest of the family—then yes, the national media will have a field day. The whole story about the Murphy murders will be dragged out again and splashed across the front page of every newspaper in the country, and news vans from every major network will be camped outside your house. And mine.” She sent me a disgruntled look.

“Gee,” I said, leaning back and worrying a fingernail, “that could be bad.”

It was just a few days ago that I’d been concerned about how the long-ago tragedy of the Murphy murders would affect the resale of the house, once we finished fixing it up and got it back on the market. And now here I was, faced not only with having all of that dredged up again, and reimpressed on people’s minds, but with the additional discovery of a skeleton buried in the crawlspace. All we needed at this point was to find out that the skeleton had been murdered upstairs in the house, and my life would be complete. We’d never be able to sell the house. We’d end up in foreclosure, and I’d have to bag groceries as Shaw’s Supermarket to make a living. It was a real shame that there weren’t more people like Kate in the world, who wanted to live in haunted houses.

“You’ve been living here a while,” I said. “Lionel Kenefick—you know, from down the street?”

Venetia nodded, her rather large nostrils flaring. I deduced she didn’t entirely approve of Lionel. I couldn’t blame her, since I didn’t entirely approve of him myself. Not that I had any real reason to disapprove; I just didn’t like the way he looked at me. Or the fact that he’d scared me the other day.

“He told us that he’s heard screaming from the house at night. And a couple of days ago, I heard footsteps inside when no one was there.”

“I told you. I’d never heard anything spooky—until last night,” Venetia said, “and you told me that was one of the cats.”

I shook my head. “It wasn’t. Derek thinks something was rigged to go off when we opened the door. We looked again this morning, but we didn’t see anything. No wires or speakers or anything like that. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed anyone hanging around, that shouldn’t have been? Either lately or a few years ago, when that body may have been put in the crawlspace?”

Venetia shook her gray head. “No one I haven’t told you about. There were the squatters two years ago. The teenagers a couple of years before that. Since then, I’ve only seen the folks that were supposed to be here. The lawn care people, the handyman, the person servicing the heat-and-air system. The meter readers, every month. A suit, walking around making notes on a clipboard a few weeks ago.”

I had an insane vision of a man’s suit walking around on its own, clipboard and pen held in an invisible hand. It had probably been the lawyer from Portland, preparing for the sale.

Venetia continued, “I or one of the other neighbors will walk around the house once in a while to make sure there are no broken windows or doors. The mailman comes by once a day, but of course he doesn’t deliver anything. Same with the newspaper boy or girl. Every so often, some nosey parker will drive up, gawk at the house, maybe peer through the windows, and drive away again. I don’t know whether they’re looking for ghosts or hoping to see old bloodstains, or simply want to buy the house. Oh yes, and that realtor was here a couple of weeks ago, too.”

“Realtor?” I said. Venetia smiled. Her teeth were yellow as old ivory between her unpainted lips.

“That woman your boyfriend brought here ten years ago. His wife.”

It had, in fact, only been about six years since Derek and Melissa came back to Waterfield so Derek could join his father’s medical practice, but I had a more important point to make. “Ex-wife, please. They’ve been divorced for five years by now. So Melissa James was here, was she? When? What did she do?”

“Walked around with a camera,” Venetia said. “Taking photographs and measurements. Of the house and yard. Like I said, it must have been a couple of weeks ago now. Maybe as much as a month.”

While Patrick Murphy had been considering our offer to buy the house, then. Melissa must have gotten word that the house might be available, and she had stopped by to see how much it might be worth and maybe also whether her boyfriend, my cousin Ray, would be able to knock the house down and build something else here instead. Several somethings, if I knew Ray. Like a whole little development of townhouses, for instance. The yard was certainly large enough for more than one house, and if Ray and Randy had gotten approval to knock down Aunt Inga’s house in the historic district, surely they’d have no problem getting permission to do the same here.

Much as I disliked Ray and Randy, I had to admit that for once, it wasn’t a bad idea. Razing Aunt Inga’s Second Empire 1870s Victorian was one thing; razing this prosaic 1950s brick ranch was quite another. This was no architectural gem that had to be preserved for posterity, and tearing it down to start over might also remove the stigma attached to the murders. People are more likely to buy a brand-new construction on the lot where a house stood where a murder once took place than they are to move back into the house where the ghosts are still—supposedly—walking.

“I’d love to pin this murder on Melissa James,” I said, as much to myself as to Venetia, “but I just can’t see her killing someone and burying them in the crawlspace. The digging would chip her manicure. She might have rigged the screaming, though—and the footsteps—to try to scare us into giving up the renovations so she and the Stenhams could swoop in and buy the house out from under us. They’re probably planning to subdivide the lot.”

“Harrumph!” Venetia said.

“Right. It doesn’t matter, anyway, since it’s not going to work. We’re not selling the house again. Not until we’re ready. So you’ve never seen or heard anything unusual during the time you’ve lived here?” Venetia opened her mouth to answer, and I added, quickly, “Anything supernatural, I mean? Screams? Footsteps? Lights going on and off?”

Venetia shook her head. “Nothing like that. Just comings and goings by people with no business being here, mostly.”

“The squatters and the teenagers?”

She nodded.

“Anyone you recognized?”

“Several. Lionel Kenefick. That young policeman who’s next door. His girlfriend. Holly. Denise. Her husband.”

“Who are Denise and her husband?”

“They live down the street,” Venetia said. “You’ll meet them.”

I stood up. “I should probably go.”

Venetia stood, too, to walk me to the front door. “Back to the house?”

“Back to town. Wayne . . . the chief of police won’t let me do any work to the house until they finish with the crawlspace. That will probably be tomorrow. I’ll find something to do at home while I wait. Maybe stop by the hardware store and pick up some paint swatches, or go to some of the junk stores to see if I can find some retro pieces of furniture I can use to stage the house, or something . . .” I trailed off, already scavenging in my mind.

“Have a good time,” Venetia said, from far away, and I pulled myself back to reality.

“Thank you. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She inclined her head, and I slunk out, feeling stupid for fading out like that.

Here’s the thing: I love junking, and I can totally lose myself in the thrill of hunting second-hand bargains. Salvage stores, thrift stores, consignment stores, flea markets . . . I love them all. My New York apartment had been mostly furnished from second-hand pieces I had sanded and polished, reupholstered and/or repainted. Some of the furniture I’d even found on the street. New Yorkers tend to put their discards out on the curb for the trash trucks to pick up, and for someone thrifty, who doesn’t mind getting up early—which I do; although the five A.M. alarm on trash day had usually been worth the trouble when I managed—the pickings can be surprisingly good. I’d found a lovely futon frame once that, with some glossy black paint and a new mattress and cover, had been the center-piece of my living room for a while, as well as a nice, sturdy bookshelf that just needed a coat of paint to fit right in. Bought new, it would have been a couple hundred bucks, easy—it was a
very
nice bookshelf!—and I got it for the price of cab fare from Midtown to my apartment.

When I left New York, the woman who took over my lease asked to keep a lot of the furniture, though, so upon arrival in Waterfield, I had to start over. Aunt Inga’s house had been furnished, for the most part, when I inherited it, but a lot of what my aunt had owned was ugly 1970s stuff, and even the things I’d liked needed reupholstering, sanding, and painting. I’d been busy this summer recovering Aunt Inga’s pieces and hunting for cheap replacements for the ones I absolutely couldn’t live with. And since the Mainers didn’t have the same habit of putting discarded furniture out on trash day, I’d had to become familiar with the various thrift, junk, and salvage stores in the area.

The crowd outside had swelled by this time, and on a whim, I wandered over to the small group of what I assumed were neighbors. I hadn’t met any of them, save for Lionel Kenefick, but as I was now a homeowner on their street, I figured I’d better introduce myself. They probably had some questions and comments about the situation, which it might do them good to get off their chests, and who knew; maybe I’d learn something.

“Hi!” I divided a bright smile between them. There were five people in the cluster, counting Lionel. The woman with the hair rollers and bathrobe, whom I’d noticed earlier, was one of them. The others were a businesswoman in her thirties, dressed in a suit and high heels with a briefcase in her hand, and with brown hair so severely pulled back from her face that her eyebrows were elevated; a younger woman, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three, who had a chubby baby on her hip and looked like she hadn’t slept or taken a shower in at least two days—she was wearing faded jeans, which were a size too small, and a T-shirt pulled too tightly across her breasts; and, finally, an older man in wrinkled khakis and a blue windbreaker holding the leash of a grumpy-looking shih tzu with a red bow on the top of its head. The dog barked shrilly when I got too close, and I jumped back a pace.

“Sorry,” the owner said. “Stella, no.”

He jerked the chain halfheartedly, and Stella huddled behind his legs but kept growling at me. I wondered if I ought to crouch down and try to make friends with her, but I decided it wouldn’t be worth the trouble. My chances of having anything to do with Stella after this were slim, and I depend on my hands too much to want to play fast and loose with them.

Instead, I smiled sweetly at Stella’s owner. “My name is Avery Baker. My boyfriend and I own this house. Since about Monday or so.”