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

Irene said. "I'm sure that hole up there repels the rain. I hope she didn't store too many things in the attic." She took another glance around. "What am I saying? The attic is down here."

I noticed a stack of ancient TV Guides teetering on the end table next to the music box and resisted the urge to sigh.

"So your options are: keep it and drown in ongoing repairs, sell it and level it, or flip it." She paused. "I still say you'd make a nice profit if it were in the right condition."

I glanced around. "Okay, I'll bite. What do you think it would cost to put it in the 'right' condition?"

Irene shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe two or three."

"Thousand dollars?" I asked, wondering where I could possibly find that much.

She snorted. "Try hundred thousand."

This time there was no resisting the sigh that escaped me.

"You know, I could loan you the money—" Irene started.

"No!" I shook my head emphatically. We'd been down this road before. While Irene was generous to offer, there was no way I wanted her bailing me out of every situation that my barista income stuck me in. She was my best friend—I refused to look at her like a bank. Besides, despite Irene's idealism, I knew flipping houses was risky business. A house this old could easily eat away profits with one faulty pipe or hungry termite family. I wasn't willing to risk Irene's money like that, let alone our friendship. "Thank you, but you know I can't accept that."

She shrugged again. "Suit yourself. But this place looks one stiff breeze away from being condemned."

I wished she wasn't right so often.

The front door creaked open, and someone called out "Hello?"

"In the living room," I called back.

"Sitting room," Irene yelled.

Seconds later, a chubby Asian woman with a short, blunt haircut and pale pink cat-eye glasses hustled in flapping an envelope at us. She hardly seemed to notice the mess as she stopped in front of Irene and peered at her through thick lenses. "My name's Lucy Chu. I live next door to this…" She rolled her gaze around the room. "…house. The mailman misdelivered the mail again." She waved the envelope in front of Irene's nose. "I swear that man can't read. Look: 2-2-1. It's as clear as day. Here. Take it."

Irene pointed to me. "You want to give that to her. That's Kate's great-niece, Marty Hudson."

"Oh?" Lucy Chu swung around to peer at me. "You're a girl. What kind of name is that for a girl?"

I felt my smile waver. "It's short for—"

"I didn't know Kate had any family," she cut in. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"I didn't know I had her for family either," I said, taking the envelope. "Thanks for bringing this by. I hope it didn't inconvenience you."

"If it did," Lucy said, "it's not the first time. At least once a week, the mailman misdelivers the mail. I swear that man can't read. Look, it says 2-2-1. It's as clear—"

"Thanks again," Irene said. "It was good to meet you, but we're a little busy here."

"I can help," Lucy said. "I offered to help Kate before. I'm happy to help. Last month I helped 215 box up old coats for charity. You have old coats?"

I stared at her. "I don't—probably?"

"Everybody has old coats," Lucy told me. "They're like old magazines. They multiply." She glanced around. "But you already know about that. Anyway, you want my help, I'm happy to help. I have boxes."

Irene grinned at me over Lucy's shoulder. "She has boxes, Mar."

"Thank you for the offer," I said. "I'll keep it in mind. But I'd like to take my time going through the house before I start throwing out anything."

"Sure, sure," Lucy said. "You'll be seeing more of me either way. The mailman always misdelivers the mail."

Irene rolled her eyes.

"Did you know my great-aunt Kate well?" I asked.

Lucy shook her head. "Not really, no. She mostly kept to herself. I can't say that anyone in the neighborhood knew her well. She didn't have many visitors, and I rarely saw her go out. She just seemed to stay at home." Another glance around, accompanied by a wrinkling of her nose. "With all this."

A sudden thought struck me. "Do you happen to know how she died?"

"I really don't," Lucy said. "I haven't even heard a whisper about it. And that's odd, in this day and age, if you ask me, when everything shows up on the internet whether you want to see it or not. You might ask the police that question. They're the ones who found her body. Got a call about a smell from the neighbor on the other side."

Irene shot me a look. "Another point in the house's favor," she muttered.

I pursed my lips, suddenly sad at the thought of my aunt dying alone, her body being found by strangers and not someone who knew and loved her.

"Well." Lucy backed toward the foyer. "My offer stands. Call me if you need me. Lucy Chu." And she backed out of sight.

Irene burst into laughter.

"Don't," I said. "She was only trying to be helpful."

"She was trying to be nosy," Irene said. "What'd she bring you there?"

I glanced at the envelope. It was an advertisement for a home repair contractor. Considering the condition of the house, Kate had probably gotten a few of those a week.

Irene took a look. "You might want to hold on to that."

I dropped it on the pile of TV Guides. "Maybe I should visit the police. You know, as next of kin. See if she had personal effects to collect?"

"That's a good idea," Irene said. "I could use some fresh air. And so could this house."

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later, we were staring at