Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3) Gemma Halliday (13 ebook reader TXT) 📖

"I'm not ready to give up on it that fast," I said. "You might be able to buy any house you want, but I'm not that lucky. I think we should go inside."

Irene shrugged. "I can take it if you can."

I wasn't convinced that I could, but I hauled in a deep breath and led the way up the walk. It took both of us to shoulder the door open, and when we had, we stepped into a cool, dark foyer. When I found a light switch, the weak, sickly glow of a single Tiffany knock-off table lamp revealed a horror show.

Irene's jaw dropped. "Wow. They were wrong all these years. I think Jimmy Hoffa could be buried here."

"That's not funny," I told her. How could my great-aunt Kate have lived here? Orange shag carpet, dark brown paneling, dated furniture. Heavy insulated drapes, so old they were shedding their linings on the carpet like a dusting of snowflakes, shrouded a pair of ancient, probably drafty windows. Any one of those things would have been bad enough, without the stacks of old newspapers, books, and magazines piled on every flat surface or the unsealed boxes scattered across the floor, bulging with who knew what, the paper bags full of canned goods and boxes of cereal, the plastic tubs filled to the brim with what looked like towels and linens and probably a few moths. Dust powdered every surface, and a musty smell hung over everything like a fog.

I felt a stab of sympathy. "My aunt was a hoarder."

"You think?" Gingerly, Irene lifted a yellowed magazine from the nearest pile. "Life. They stopped publishing this years ago." She poked through a box of magazines at her feet. "Look at this stuff. The Beatles coming to America. The assassination of JFK. Neil Armstrong walking on the moon." She glanced up. "She hadn't thrown away a magazine since the '60s."

"She was a history buff." I touched the cover of the Life magazine almost reverentially, as if it might link me to the woman to whom it had once belonged.

On a small table beside the door sat a collection of dusty framed photos. I picked one up and found myself staring into the face of a woman who had my eyes. The photo must have been taken several years ago, as she looked to be in her 40s or 50s, slim, blonde hair, giving the camera a wry smile as if she had been caught unaware or unwilling to pose. I felt a lump form in my throat as I set the photo of my great-aunt Kate back on the table.

Irene nudged a box with the toe of her sleek pumps. "You can call a service to haul this junk out of here. I've seen them on TV. You know, on those shows about hoarders."

"I don't want it hauled out," I said. "Not yet anyway. I want to go through all of it first."

"Why?" Irene asked. "It's old moth-eaten stuff. It's no good to anyone."

I fingered a crocheted blanket slung over the corner of a high-backed wing chair. "It was Kate's. I know it sounds funny, but it's all I have of her. I'd like to get to know her a little somehow."

Irene's expression softened. "It doesn't sound funny at all, Mar. I'm sorry. I'm not being fair. Where do you want to start?" She gingerly lifted her heels over a line of cardboard boxes.

"I think we should do a walk-through," I said. "Maybe all of this stuff is here because she was getting rid of it." I glanced toward the staircase and saw nothing but shadows on the upstairs landing. I shivered. The second floor could wait. "Let's start with the living room."

"I think the Victorians called it a parlor," Irene said. "Maybe a sitting room. Didn't Victorian women go to their sitting rooms to recover from the vapors?"

"The vapors?" I grinned at her.

She shrugged. "I'm thinking they're like a hangover. If I'd lived in Victorian times, I'd have been drinking all the time." Irene shuddered. "Imagine having to wear a corset every day."

I didn't want to imagine it. I didn't even want to imagine wearing Spanx every day. Some days were just made for elastic waistbands.

"I wonder what this property's worth," Irene mused as she picked her way through, past, and over Kate's things. "You could probably fix this place up and make some nice cash."

Something caught my eye. "Right, like I could afford to fix it up." I paused to pick up a music box with a single ballerina in a pink tutu poised en pointe on a little white pedestal. I twisted a lever on the bottom, and the ballerina began to twirl as the first bars of Für Elise wafted through the room like a haunting perfume.

"Well, there must be some value in the land itself." Irene's hands went to her hips. "You could sell it as is and probably buy a turnkey condo with the proceeds." She paused, looking around. "Or at least afford a down payment on one."

I set the music box down carefully on an end table. "If I sell it for the land value, someone will tear it down."

Irene nodded. "If they're smart."

"But this house has something."

"Sure it does," Irene said. "It has drafty windows and slanted floors and a leaky roof."

"Look at the trim," I said. "It could be gorgeous." I pointed. "And underneath all the dust, those are real crystals on that chandelier."

"You're right. This place is a flipper's dream. Fix it up, and sell it, Mar. Quickly. Before anything else falls apart."

"It's not that bad," I argued. "The insulated drapes will help with the drafty windows. The floors aren't that uneven. And we don't know that the roof leaks."

"Right,"