Fatal Fixer-Upper (3 page)

By the time I came back downstairs again, Mr. Rodgers had apparently finished his search of Aunt Inga's room and had moved on to the desk in the parlor. I came in just as he pulled out the top drawer, the shallow, middle one running along the underside of the top of the desk. I saw him freeze, and then I saw him reach in and pull out an envelope, the same kind of thick ecru envelope I had received in the mail.

'What's that?' I asked.

Maybe Mr. Rodgers was hard of hearing and hadn't realized I was there, because he jumped, clutching the envelope convulsively.

'Is it a will?'

'It's a letter,' Mr. Rodgers said somewhat reluctantly. I moved closer, and he added, 'It has your name on it.'

'It does?' I grabbed for it.

He held on a second too long, and I ended up snatching it out of his fingers.

'Sorry.'

My name was written across the envelope in the same elegant hand as the letter I'd received in New York, and my hands were shaking as I ripped it open. Maybe Aunt Inga had written down everything she had wanted to tell me, and I'd figure out what her secret was after all. The envelope contained another sheet of that same ecru writing paper, covered with my aunt's loopy, elegant script.

I, Inga Marie Morton, hereby leave all my property,my house, and everything in it, to my great-niece, AveryMarie Baker. Everything I own is to convey directly to myniece upon my death, without benefit of probate. I feelconfident that my niece will be able to handle everythingand will know exactly what to do about all my possessions, and furthermore, that she is the only person whowill properly take care of matters as relate to Jemmy andInky. Signed, the
18
th day of May, Inga Marie Morton.

'Wow,' I said, torn between being shocked, upset, and just a little amused. I was an heiress after all, just as Philippe had predicted. Wouldn't he be surprised when I told him? Of course, what I'd inherited was a run-down pseudo-shack in the middle of nowhere, full of bad furniture and framed pictures of cats, but still, I was an heiress. Mr. Rodgers looked poleaxed, like someone had suckerpunched him in the stomach. I added, 'Are you all right, Mr. Rodgers?'

He glanced over at me, then seemed to pull himself together. 'Indeed, Miss Baker, I am. A little surprised, I must say.'

'You're not the only one.' I looked at the letter in my hand again. 'It's not witnessed. Is it legal?'

'The state of Maine does recognize a holographic will,'

Mr. Rodgers said with the air of someone quoting, 'whether witnessed or not, as long as the signature and material provisions are in the handwriting of the testator. Section -.'

'Well, this is Aunt Inga's handwriting. Same as in the letter I got. So it's legal?'

The lawyer nodded. 'It is indeed, Miss Baker. My congratulations.'

'Thanks,' I said, looking around, 'I think.'

'Of course,' Mr. Rodgers added, 'there will have to be a waiting period before you can take possession. To give anyone with claims against the estate the opportunity to come forward.'

'What sort of claims? You mean, like other relatives?'

He nodded. 'Indeed, Miss Baker. Relatives. Lienholders. Or anyone who ever lent your aunt something that they want to ensure does not become part of the estate.'

'I see,' I said. 'If, for instance, that book in the other room, the one about Marie Antoinette, is a library book, the Waterfield Library will want to make sure I don't inherit it along with everything else.'

'Exactly,' Mr. Rodgers said, sounding pleased that I was catching on so quickly. 'But assuming everything goes smoothly, and no one makes any claims, after the waiting period is over, the house and personal property will be yours to do with as you please.'

'Gosh,' I said, wondering what I'd do with a house in Maine and how I could most easily get rid of it. Mr. Rodgers must have read my mind. 'Perhaps you would prefer me to handle the matter? I can arrange to have Miss Morton's possessions removed to a storage facility and the house offered for sale for you. That way, you may return to New York immediately, and you won't have to worry about the details of the estate.'

That sounded good. In fact, it sounded marvelous, but before I had the chance to say so, there was a knock at the door. 'Are you expecting someone?' I asked instead. Mr. Rodgers said he wasn't. 'May I?' He indicated the door.

'Please.' I stepped out of the way, and as such, my first impression of Melissa James was of her voice. It was a soft and feminine purr, with an undertone as crisp as a brandnew, crinkly dollar bill.

'Good afternoon, Graham.'

'Good afternoon, Miss James,' Mr. Rodgers answered politely.

'Such horrible news about Miss Morton. I could hardly believe it.'

While she spoke, she slid smoothly past Mr. Rodgers into the front hall, and I got my first look at her. And I admit it: it was dislike at first glance. She was everything I wasn't, and everything I'd always wanted to be. It didn't help, either, that she looked quite a lot like Tara, Philippe's receptionist. Or Tara's older sister, anyway, since Tara was all of twenty-two, and Melissa was my age, at least. Like me (and Tara), she was a blue-eyed blonde, and like Tara—but unlike me—she was tall and shapely. Where my hair is a long tangle of bright yellow crimps, hers was a shining cap of pale moonlight, cut in a precise wedge along her elegant jaw. And where my eyes are the soft blue of chlorinated water, hers were a deep, vivid cerulean, immaculately made up. My nose is pert, with a dusting of freckles, hers was straight and elegant. And in addition to her Godgiven attributes, she clearly had excellent taste and enough money to indulge it. She had on a lovely, cream-colored designer suit that must have set her back quite a few hundred dollars, and she made me feel like a dirty-faced urchin in the cropped jeans and hand-painted cotton top I'd put on for the drive.

'This is Miss Avery Baker,' Mr. Rodgers said. 'Inga Morton's niece . . . and heir.'

Melissa's lovely eyes widened and registered shock for a moment, although she didn't say anything.

Mr. Rodgers continued, 'Miss Baker, this is Miss Melissa James with Waterfield Realty.'

I nodded politely and insincerely. Melissa did the same, looking down at me from her lofty height of five foot eight or thereabouts. I stared as hard as I could at the roots of her hair, but either she had an excellent stylist, or the shiny pale color was her own.

'Miss Baker has just driven up from New York,' Mr. Rodgers added, skipping lightly over the fact that when I left New York, I had no idea my aunt was even dead, let alone that I was her heir.

'My condolences, Miss Baker,' Melissa James said politely. 'Were you and your aunt close?'

I shook my head. 'Not particularly, no. She and my mother stayed in touch, though.'

'And you live in New York City?'

I nodded.

She whipped a business card out of her pocket and held it out to me. 'If you decide to sell the house, Avery—you don't mind if I call you Avery, do you?—I would love to help you. In fact, I have a client who is prepared to make you an offer of one hundred thousand dollars right now.'

She smiled.

'A hundred thousand?' I repeated, dismayed. 'That's all it would bring?'

Not that a hundred thousand is pocket change, of course. But a hundred thousand dollars for a whole house, when one-bedroom apartments in New York go for six times that?

'I'm afraid so,' Melissa said sympathetically. 'This house hasn't been updated since it was built a hundred and fifty years ago. Renovating it would be a massive job, even for someone who knows what to do, and it would cost a fortune. An investor would have to get it cheap to make it worth his while. Accepting one hundred thousand dollars would allow you to sell the house quickly and be able to move on. That
is
what you want to do, isn't it?'

Those blue eyes drilled into me. I felt the way I did when I was a teenager, and my math teacher caught me sketching designs in class instead of working on trigonometry:

'Graduating with good grades,
is
what you want to do, isn'tit, Avery Marie?'

'Of course it is,' I said. 'I live in New York. I have friends there, and an apartment, and a career. I don't need a house in Maine.' Even if my aunt had left it to me and hinted at deep, dark family secrets and things needing to be set right.

'Wonderful.' Melissa showed me all her lovely, white teeth again. 'Let me get a contract from the car, and we'll get it filled out.'

I nodded, but before Melissa could turn on her heel and slither out, Mr. Rodgers cleared his throat. 'Just a moment, Miss James. Miss Morton's will specified no probate, but there has to be a one-week waiting period to allow any claimants time to come forward. Miss Baker will be in no position to sign anything for a week, at least.'

Melissa pouted, but there was, after all, not much she could do. She turned to me. 'Where are you staying, Avery?'

'I thought I would be staying here . . .' I began, but before I could explain that that was before I realized Aunt Inga had died, she interrupted.

'Oh, you can't possibly stay here! This place isn't fit for man or beast.'

'My aunt lived here,' I said, stung. I felt the same way myself, but it wasn't Melissa's place to say so. She continued as if she hadn't heard me. 'You've just got to stay with Kate.'

'Kate?' I glanced over at Mr. Rodgers for an explanation.

'Caitlin McGillicutty,' Mr. Rodgers said. 'She operates a bed-and-breakfast in town.'

Melissa nodded. 'It's just the most darling place, Avery. I sold it to her. It was my first big sale, five or six years ago, and she's just done wonders with it. It's a little pricey, but if you tell her I sent you, I'm sure she'll give you a discount. If she has any rooms available, of course. The Waterfield Inn is the most popular B and B in town.'

I hesitated. If Melissa thought it was a little pricey, it was probably way beyond what I ought to be spending for a night's lodging. Maybe I had better look for a Motel or a Days Inn; something downtrodden and cheap. If something as plebeian as a cut-rate motel existed in this quaint, oldfashioned town.

'I feel certain Miss Gillicutty will be able to accommodate you,' Mr. Rodgers said, misunderstanding the reason for my hesitation. 'The height of the tourist season hasn't started yet, and it is the middle of the week. I doubt every room in her very nice inn is filled.'

'If you want,' Melissa chirped, 'I can take you down there and talk to her for you. I'm sure she'll do her best for another client of mine.' She smiled.

'Thanks,' I said, 'but I'm sure I can figure it out on my own.'

'In that case, just let me know when you're ready to sell. Nice to have met you, Avery. Graham, always a pleasure.'

She gave Mr. Rodgers a dazzling smile and sashayed to the door, hips and hair swinging. Her car was waiting at the curb. It was a late-model Mercedes-Benz, the same creamy color as her suit, and I waited until she had tucked her long legs under the steering wheel and had pulled away before I turned to Mr. Rodgers.

'She didn't waste any time, did she?'

Aunt Inga was probably not even in the ground yet, and Melissa James was already trying to muscle in on her house.

'Miss James is one of the most successful real estate professionals in Waterfield,' Mr. Rodgers said. With tactics like these, I wasn't surprised. The obituary had probably run in today's paper, and the lovely and successful Miss James had descended like a vulture on the remains.

'Is my aunt even buried yet?' I demanded. 'Or couldn't she even wait that long?'

'Miss Morton is at the medical examiner's office in Portland,' Mr. Rodgers said, neatly sidestepping the question.

'It is a necessary complication with any unexpected death, I'm afraid.'

'They're cutting her open?'

Mr. Rodgers hesitated. 'I feel certain they will be respectful, Miss Baker.'

And how, exactly, would they manage to do that? I wondered. 'When will the body be released? Will I have to arrange the funeral?'

Mr. Rodgers shook his head. 'Miss Morton already made her own arrangements with the funeral home and the chapel. There is to be no memorial service, no flowers, and no graveside ceremony. Miss Morton wanted to be buried quietly, like she lived.'

'So I can't even be there?' That didn't seem fair. After driving all the way up here, only to be cheated out of seeing my aunt because of her untimely death, I wouldn't even get to say a final good-bye.

'I'm afraid not, Miss Baker,' Mr. Rodgers said. 'Miss Morton was adamant about not wanting a fuss.'

'Fine.' My voice, I'm sorry to say, was snippy. 'It's too late for me to drive back to New York tonight, so I guess I may as well spend the night. Where may I find this B and B that Melissa James talked about?'

'I'll drive down there now,' Mr. Rodgers said helpfully, 'and you can follow me. That way, you won't get lost. These steep, winding roads can be challenging for someone who is not familiar with them.'

'That'd be great,' I said, feeling ashamed of my own bad attitude when he was so nice. 'Thanks.'

Mr. Rodgers smiled, his cool, gray eyes crinkling at the corners. 'It is my pleasure, Miss Baker. My very great pleasure. Now, shall we?' He gestured toward our two cars waiting patiently at the curb. I nodded and preceded him down the path to the sidewalk.

. . .

The first thing I did when I got in the car was call California. Mother picked up on the first ring, excited to find out what was going on. 'Hi, Avery. Are you in Waterfield? Did the drive go OK? How's Aunt Inga?'

I took a deep breath, hating what I had to do. 'I'm in Waterfield. The drive was fine. But Aunt Inga is dead. I'm sorry, Mom.'

'Dead?' my mother repeated, her voice shaky. I nodded into the phone. 'I'm afraid so.'

'But . . . how?'

'Apparently she had an accident. When I got here, her lawyer was at the house, and he told me she had fallen down the stairs.'

'Old Horace Cooper?' Mother said, diverted. 'Wasn't he even older than Aunt Inga? How can he still be practicing?'

'Not Horace Cooper. This was someone named Graham Rodgers.'