Fatal Fixer-Upper (4 page)

'And he told you Aunt Inga is dead?'

'He did. And he didn't say anything about suspicious circumstances, so I guess it was just an accident.'

'Well, what else could it be?' Mother asked reasonably, rallying a little. 'I guess you have no idea what she wanted to talk to you about then, do you?'

'Unfortunately not. But get this, Mom. We found a will, and she left everything to me. Her house and everything in it. I don't even have to wait for probate. Just a one-week waiting period for anyone who needs to, to file claims against the estate, and then it's all mine.'

'Goodness gracious,' Mother said.

'I know. Isn't it crazy? Why would she leave it all to me? But everything's a lot more run-down than the last time you were here—the house probably needs a ton of money's worth of repairs—but there was a Realtor there, who said she had a client who'd pay me a hundred thousand for it, just the way it is.'

Mother hesitated for a moment. 'So what are you going to do, Avery?'

'I'm not sure,' I admitted. 'A hundred thousand's a lot of money, even after taxes. Although it seems like it ought to be worth more, doesn't it? I'll have to think about it.'

'You do that, dear,' Mother said. She sounded relieved.

'Keep me updated, OK?'

I promised I would, just as Mr. Rodgers's Cadillac pulled to the curb outside a white picket fence.

3

––The Waterfield Inn turned out to be every bit as lovely—and expensive—as Melissa James had said. A true Queen Anne Victorian, the inn was a mix of architectural styles and angles. Two and a half stories tall with a square tower, like Aunt Inga's house, it also had a round tower with an onion dome, like the Kremlin in Moscow. The square tower had a mansard roof topped by a widow's walk. There was a bay window on the first floor; a wraparound porch; gingerbread trim; narrow, arched windows; and gables sticking out in every direction. In other words, the house had every Victorian excess imaginable—the very hallmark of the Queen Anne style—and everything was painted a sunny butter yellow with gleaming white accents.

Its proprietor was another pleasant surprise. I had imagined someone older—a retired schoolteacher or librarian, perhaps—with white hair and a prim cardigan, sitting behind an old-fashioned desk in the main entry of the inn, just waiting for me to arrive. The kind of person I could imagine moving to a place like Waterfield to start a B and B. Kate McGillicutty was something quite different.

My first impression was of her posterior, bent over a flower bed in the front yard of the inn. She was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt, and when she straightened up, I saw that she was in her late thirties, with flaming cocurls, a freckled nose, and a broad smile, not to mention a figure that could have put Jane Russell to shame. 'Hi there. What can I do for you?'

I told her who I was and explained that I had come to Waterfield to visit my aunt Inga but found things to be a little different from how I'd expected. 'I thought I'd be staying with her, but under the circumstances . . .'

Kate had already heard about my aunt's death. She nodded. 'Too uncomfortable. I understand.'

Also too premature, but I didn't see the sense in mentioning that. 'Melissa James suggested that you might have a room I could rent for the night.'

Kate put a hand on her generous hips. 'Did she, now? And did she suggest that I might give her a referral fee, too, for sending you here?'

'Not to me,' I said, taken aback.

'Hrrumph! It's coming, I'm sure.' She pulled her gardening gloves off and extended a hand. Her grasp was firm and strong, the grip of a woman not afraid of hard work.

'Sorry about the attitude, but Melissa seems to think that because she was my Realtor when I moved here, she's entitled to referral fees for the rest of her natural life. I don't expect to receive part of her commission when I refer someone to her, so I don't know why she should expect to get part of my profit when she sends someone to me, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you.'

'That's OK,' I said. 'From the way she talked, I assumed you two were close friends.'

Kate snorted. 'She wishes. No, our only connection is that she was my Realtor five years ago, and that we serve on a few of the same committees. We usually end up on different ends of the spectrum whenever there's a vote, too. Melissa wants to make Waterfield into a big town, with more business, more development, more people . . . I left Boston to get away from all that.'

I nodded. I'd never willingly leave the hustle and bustle of Manhattan for this backwater, but I could understand why someone who valued the peace and quiet here might not want it to change.

'But you're not interested in all that,' Kate added.

'Come on in, and I'll show you the rooms.' She tucked the gardening gloves into her back pocket and indicated that I should follow her. 'We have five. Captain Cabot's Room, Mrs. Mary's Room, Anna Virginia's Room, John Andrew's Room, and the Widow's Walk. John Cabot was a sea captain in Waterfield a couple hundred years ago, and all the rooms are named for his family.' As she was talking, she led me toward the front door, along a graveled path bordered by perennials in all the colors of the rainbow. 'You can pick any room you'd like. Midweek like this I'm usually not busy at all. And you get the midweek discount, too.' She smiled. 'The weekends are a different story, of course. Come Friday, I'll be full up, and you'll be lucky to find a broom closet to sleep in. If you're still around by then, you're going to have to move into Shannon's room, because everything else is reserved.'

'I'm sure that would be fine,' I said. 'Was Shannon another of the Cabots?'

Kate laughed, her bright hazel eyes dancing when she turned to look at me. 'Shannon's my daughter. She's nineteen and studies history at Barnham College.'

'Oh,' I said, feeling stupid. 'Pardon me.'

She shrugged. 'How could you know? Barnham is just a few miles down the road, so you probably passed it on your way into town. And don't worry about putting Shannon out; she's used to it. Half the time she's not here, anyway.' She gestured me up the front steps to the porch.

'I see,' I said. 'I appreciate it, but I doubt it'll be necessary to impose upon her. I don't plan to be here long.' If I couldn't do anything about Aunt Inga's house for the next week, I might as well be back in New York, enjoying my job and my boyfriend.

Kate nodded. 'If you're Inga Morton's niece, I've got something that belongs to you.'

'You do? What's that?'

'I'll show you after you're settled. Come on in.' She opened the front door and ushered me into a high-ceilinged entry. I stopped and gasped.

The outside of the inn had been only the beginning. Inside, it was like stepping into a magazine spread. Persian rugs covered the polished oak floors, gorgeous tiled fireplaces held valuable knickknacks on their ornately carved mantels, and antique furniture abounded. Twelve-foot ceilings soared above my head, and soothing classical music played softly from hidden speakers. The air was permeated by the smell of fresh flowers, blooming in vases on every flat surface.

'Wow,' I said, too impressed to come up with anything more articulate.

Kate beamed. 'It's taken me five years to get it to this point, and I'm not finished by a long shot. There are still rooms on the third floor that I haven't touched, not to mention the servants' quarters above the carriage house out back. Once Shannon has flown the coop and it's just me, I plan to move out there and rent out every room in the main house. Let me show you the bedrooms.'

She started up the curving staircase to the second floor with me tagging along behind, gawking right and left. The guest rooms were just as lovely as the inn's common rooms, each with its own fireplace and private bath. I don't usually go in for feminine frills, but after careful consideration, I settled for Anna Virginia's Room, a gorgeous, peaceful retreat with frothy curtains, flowered wallpaper, and a four-poster bed with white canopies and lots of plump pillows that were just begging me to sink in. Looking at it, I suddenly felt a wave of fatigue wash over me, and all I wanted to do was crawl into that inviting bed and pull the down comforter up over my head.

'You look beat,' Kate McGillicutty said in her direct way. 'Maybe you should lie down and take a breather. You've probably had a lot going on in the past few days.'

'You don't know the half of it,' I answered. Between the late night last night and being up earlier than usual this morning, and then the long drive and the shock of finding out that my aunt had passed away, I felt bushed.

'Most B and Bs are only licensed to serve breakfast and boxed lunches. But there are several restaurants in walking distance. When you come back downstairs, I'll give you some recommendations.'

I nodded. 'That'd be great. Thanks.'

Kate smiled. 'Rest up. I'll see you later.'

She closed the door behind her on the way out. I fell into the soft comfort of the bed, closed my eyes, thinking for a moment that I should call Philippe but then deciding to surprise him with my news in person—and just like that, I was asleep.

. . .

When I woke up again, it was the next day. Bright sunshine was slanting through the white curtains, and I was still fully dressed, lying across the bed with my head buried in the lace-trimmed throw pillows. One of them had made a perfect impression of eyelet across my right cheek. After a quick shower and blow-dry I felt a little more human again. Human enough to pay special attention to my attire. I was afraid I'd see Melissa James again at some point, and I was damned if I would let her make me feel like an unwashed urchin two days in a row. So I put on highheeled, strappy sandals and a yellow polka-dotted sundress with black piping and a thick border of stylized Scottie dogs with red bows around their necks along the hem. A designer original, it was hand-cut and sewn by yours truly. There's not much I can do with my hair, but after slathering on some mascara and colored lip gloss, and hooking a pair of hoops through my earlobes, I descended the magnificent staircase and followed my nose to the dining room, my stomach growling in accompaniment to the clicking of my heels. I had slept right through dinner, and lunch yesterday hadn't been much of an affair, either—a Big Mac and French fries while I steered the car with the other hand—so I was ready for some real nourishment. And whatever it was smelled really good.

'There you are,' Kate said with a welcoming smile when I stepped into the dining room. She was sitting at one of the small tables scattered throughout the room, across from a man in uniform. 'I was starting to worry about you.'

'Guess I must have been more tired than I thought,' I answered apologetically. 'I went to sleep right on top of the covers, fully dressed.' I shifted my eyes to the man on the other side of the table. He was middle-aged—mid-to late forties, maybe—with dark hair shot through with gray and a weather-beaten face with crinkly crow's feet at the corners of the eyes. The uniform was navy blue and belonged to the police.

'This is Police Chief Wayne Rasmussen,' Kate said.

'Wayne, this is Avery Baker. She's Inga Morton's niece, up from New York.'

Chief Rasmussen stood up to shake my hand and showed himself to be a lanky six foot four or five. 'Nice to meet you, Miss Baker.' His voice was deep and mellow and his handshake gentle.

'Likewise,' I said, glancing at Kate. 'Um . . . is everything all right?'

Chief Rasmussen folded himself back down onto the chair, his eyebrows tilting up at a comical angle. Kate giggled.

'Sure. Wayne's here for you, not me.'

'Me?' I looked from one to the other of them. 'Why?'

'Just to give you my condolences on the loss of your aunt,' the chief said easily. 'I guess Mr. Rodgers called to tell you she'd passed on?'

'Actually,' I said, 'when I came, I thought I was coming to see Aunt Inga. She sent me a letter a couple of weeks ago, inviting me up for a visit, but because she didn't put enough postage on it, I only got it the day before yesterday.'

Chief Rasmussen's eyes sharpened. 'Did it say anything of any consequence?'

'That depends on what you consider consequential, I guess. I have it here, if you want to see it.' He nodded, and I dug it out of my bag and handed it over to him. He scanned it quickly, then read it over again more slowly before hand ing it back.

'Must have known she was close to the end, it seems. It's funny how people sense it sometimes. But I guess at almost one hundred, she had lived with the possibility for a while.'

'I guess so,' I agreed, folding the letter and stuffing it back into my bag. 'Mr. Rodgers said she fell down the stairs?'

The chief of police nodded. 'Death must have occurred pretty quickly. And she didn't feel any pain. Her neck was broken.'

'Gosh,' I said, and fell silent. It was good that she hadn't suffered but bad that it had happened at all, and while she was alone, too. If someone had been with her, maybe she could have been saved.

'Wayne was just stopping by to tell me he's heading out of town for the day,' Kate said. 'He's driving down to Boston to interview a witness in a missing person case.'

'Oh?' I said, with a glance at Chief Rasmussen.

'Shannon and her friends are just devastated,' Kate added. 'They really liked Professor Wentworth.'

'Professor Wentworth is the missing person?'

Chief Rasmussen nodded. 'Ay-yup,' he said, with the typical straightforwardness of a native Mainer. Kate wasn't. 'Martin Wentworth. He's a history profes

sor at Barnham College. Nice man, very interested in the history of Waterfield. He drove Shannon home once, after a special project, and stayed for dinner. I told him about the Cabots and showed him some of the things we found when we were renovating the house. Did you know that when people built houses back in the day, they would leave something of their own in the construction for luck? We found a penny from 1889—the year the house was built—and a picture of Margaret Campbell among the insulation in the attic. Margaret was Anna Virginia's daughter, and it was her husband who built the house.'

'That's interesting,' I said.

'Isn't it? Old houses are great. It's so much fun bringing them back to what they should be. You know, undoing all the terrible things people perpetrate over the years. Paneling, shag carpets, acoustic ceilings, popcorn . . .' She shuddered. 'This place was cut up into three apartments when I bought it, with three separate gas and electric meters and three rinky-dink kitchens. I spent a year converting it back to a single-family home before I could even think about starting to take in guests. Some of the things we found were incredible. Beautiful oak floors under four layers of vinyl in the kitchen, gorgeous silk wallpaper under the paneling in the front parlor, a claw-foot tub covered with drywall upstairs . . . That lovely ribbon tile in your bathroom was hidden under a couple of layers of vinyl, and the mantel over there,' she nodded toward the gleaming mahogany fireplace on the far wall, 'was painted with purple granite paint on top of at least five other layers. It took two weeks just to get it all off.'