Becky raised her hands in surrender. “You’re right, I’m sorry. This is a huge thing, and I’m sorry for pissing on it.”
We started back toward the house. “How much do you think a total face-lift will cost?” I asked.
“How much have you earned in the past nine years?”
“You’re still pissing.”
“Sorry.”
Olivia Garrett and Jane Spencer were walking up the pressed concrete driveway as we came around the house. Liv was balancing a champagne bottle and a picnic basket. Jane raced toward me, grabbing me in a tight hug that lifted me off the ground. Jane’s very athletic. In fact, we met at the gym. We pretended to be friends so we could take advantage of the two-for-one special. The friendship had lasted. The gym membership, at least for me, had been a one-visit thing.
Jane is an accountant who looks more like one of the Pussycat Dolls. Her hair is long and dark. Her smile is brilliant, and she has a body that looks better than the airbrushed models in fashion magazines.
Liv owns an event planning business with her partner, Jean-Claude. She’s as smart as she is beautiful. There’s something exotic about her features that makes men literally stop dead in their tracks. If I were a lesbian, I’d definitely go for Liv.
Spreading my arms, I said, “Welcome to Chez Tanner.”
“Oh my God!” Liv gushed.
“It’s perfect!” Jane practically squealed before covering her mouth with her hands. “I hear the ocean. I’m so jealous, I hate you,” she added, and then she looped her hand through my arm. “Finley, this is so great.”
As we walked to the front door, I felt my pulse quicken again. I fumbled inside my purse, feeling for the loose key I’d carefully tucked into the side pocket. My hand was actually shaking as I inserted the key, then I heard the unmistakable click of the dead bolt sliding open.
As soon as I pushed open the heavy teak door, I was slapped in the face with the foulest odor in the history of stench.
“What is that smell?” Becky gagged.
The alarm chirped seven times before I pressed the code to disarm it. Not an easy task, given the fact that my eyes were burning from the rancid fumes and I suddenly realized that my bare feet were wet. Looking down, I realized that I was standing on moldy, squishy carpet that was foaming as if having some sort of convulsion.
From the outside, the cottage looked fairly pristine. The inside looked like a scene straight out of Extreme Makeover Home Edition. Exposed wiring hung from the ceiling. Not a light fixture to be seen. Probably a good thing, since the standing water would have conducted current and we all would have been electrocuted.
I wondered if my mother had actually evicted Melinda or if she’d left of her own volition. Probably the latter. The house looked as if nothing but cursory repairs had been done in the three years since back-to-back-to-back hurricanes had slammed into Palm Beach.
“What is that?” Liv asked through her fingers, pointing at the wall.
Some sort of brown gunk dripped from the bowed ceiling until it met a furry patch of black mold leeching up from the mildewed carpet.
“It’s alive,” Becky mocked in a horror flick impression. “I can’t believe a tenant put up with this.”
Neither could I. Bravely, I walked through the living room toward double glass doors. My fingernail polish chipped as I battled the latch to unlock, then push open, the door. Blissfully, fresh air whooshed though the house, allowing us to stop using our hands as protective masks.
Sucking in a deep breath, I turned to see that I was standing in the center of a breakfast nook. I was no expert, but I was fairly sure the grout between the ceramic tiles covering the floor wasn’t supposed to be black. Nor was the kitchen counter supposed to have a crack in the granite that looked a lot like the San Andreas Fault. A grimy square outline marked where a stove had once been connected. Three of the cabinet doors were missing, as was the refrigerator.
Liv said, “Who would let a piece of primo real estate like this go to hell in a hand cart? Sorry, Finley, but this is a dump.”
“A dump smells better.” Becky’s voice was muffled by the hand she still had clamped over her nose and mouth.
“The mold might be toxic,” Jane suggested somberly.
Crying seemed like a good idea. “I hope it kills me quickly,” I said, hating that my voice cracked.
“Hang on,” Becky said, coming over to put an arm around my shoulder. “It’s still a beautiful location. It just needs some TLC.”
“Are you on LSD?” I asked. “The whole place has to be gutted.”
“And?” Becky prompted.
I blinked a few times, my mind in hyperdrive. She was absolutely right. I started looking around. Really looking. If I started from scratch, I could turn the place into my dream house.
“I could make this whole back wall doors and glass,” I said, excitement budding in my stomach. “A sleek kitchen with a wine chiller.”
“You’ll need a lot of wine to forget about the mold,” Jane said. “How could anyone live here?”
I shot her a stern look. “I don’t know, but I guess that’s why my mother arranged for my bank to give me a home equity loan for repairs. I knew there was a catch. I feel like a fool.”
“Don’t,” Becky said. “Look on the bright side. The place has potential. Forget the mold for now.”
“You’re right. I can get rid of the skanky carpet. Hardwood floors, maybe?” Leaving my shoes, tote, and purse on the counter, I went off to explore.
My friends followed along, crouched behind me so that we looked like the Tin Man, the Lion, and the Scarecrow on their way to see the great and powerful Oz. There was a small powder room off the hallway. The toilet bowl and sink were missing. “At least I won’t have to pay to have them removed,” I said, thinking aloud. Farther down the hall I found two small bedrooms opposite one another. There was another bathroom, sans shower stall. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall.
“It’s small,” Liv said. “How many foster children lived here at one time?”
“No clue,” I answered absently. “I can take down this wall,” I suggested. “Combine the master bedroom and one of the other ones. I can build a killer closet and maybe do a spa bath.”
Jane wandered over to the accordion doors lining one wall. As soon as she touched the scratched knob, the door fell off its tracks. The closet was narrow, and the rod was missing. She laid the cheap door on the floor, stepped over it, and walked into the adjoining bathroom.
Coming up behind her, I placed my hand on her hip and moved her to one side. It looked like something you’d find in a youth hostel. Tiny tub, sink affixed to the wall. Mirror hanging above the chipped sink and a toilet sandwiched in between. There was a narrow rectangular window mounted in the shower stall near the ceiling line. Judging by the blistering of the plaster, I was already resigned to the fact that it leaked.
“So,” I said as I rejoined Liv and Jane in the bedroom. “I guess I’ll need a Home Depot credit card.”
“No,” Jane scoffed. “You need an Extreme Home Makeover.” Her green eyes glinted mischievously. “The team can do the house and I’ll do Ty Pennington. Deal?”
“I get Ty!” Jane called as she headed back toward the smaller bedrooms.
“Was that champagne you brought?” I asked Liv.
She nodded. “And some fruit and cheese. I didn’t bring an ice bucket because I thought—”
“C’mon,” I interrupted, leading Jane and Liv back down toxic alley to the kitchen. “You coming?” I called to Becky as we passed the smallest bedroom.
“Be right there.”
So what if my new house was uninhabitable? It didn’t have to stay that way. I had my apartment, so it wasn’t as if I’d have to sleep in moldville. “Sam will help.”
“We’ll all help.” Liv started gathering up the picnic basket, and I grabbed the champagne. “Jane, run out to my trunk and grab the blanket. We can have drinks on the beach.”
J
ane half-ran, half-hopped across the living room mush, muttering curses as she went.
I heard a loud bang and yelled, “Becky, what are you doing?”
“Trying to open the frigging closet in here,” she called back.
“Leave it. We’re going out to the beach.”
“I can make this work,” I told Liv a few minutes later as I twisted the metal net off the top of the champagne bottle. Using the hem of my skirt, I eased the cork loose without losing a single bubble.
“Nice,” Liv complimented as Jane arrived and spread the blanket on a level patch of sand.
Looking back at the house, I had a zillion ideas running through my head. Okay, so I was discouraged, but I was also excited by the challenge. “I wonder how much it will cost.”
“Won’t be cheap,” Jane said as she held up a flute for me to fill. “But you can’t go wrong.”
“I can’t?”
She shook her head. “It’s location, Finley. Since you barely paid anything for the property, whatever you put into this place, you’ll get back at least fifty times over. Palm Beach real estate is a great investment. If this place was built prior to 1929, I can even help you apply for some tax deferment programs and rehab grants.”
“Really?”
“You’ll need a contractor,” Liv said. “Though I’m all for calling in Ty Pennington.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Get a hot contractor,” Jane insisted. “You don’t want some old, fat guy with a bad comb-over and his butt crack showing.”
“To Finley’s new status as a land baron. And to hot contractors,” Liv said, raising her glass.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Becky?”
“Naw, we’ll just refill our glasses.”
I grinned at Liv, enjoying the soft tickle of the dry champagne as it washed over my tongue. “The lease on my apartment isn’t up for another three months. Think that’s enough time?”
“Probably not. You need to talk to someone who knows construction,” Jane said. “What about Liam?”
“He’s still on my To Be Avoided list.”
“I thought what he did was gallant,” Liv sighed, then popped a grape into her mouth. “Any other guy would have screwed your lights out.”
I wish. My cheeks felt warm. I’m not sure whether it was because I was imagining Liam and myself together or remembering that he’d declined my offer to do just that. “Sam probably knows someone.”
“True, but I doubt he knows anyone as hot as Liam McGarrity.”
“Sure he does.”
Jane shot me a glare as she reached for a wedge of cheese. “Heterosexual hot guys.”
Liv reclined on her elbows, her gaze fixed on the house. “Are you going to name it?”
“Name what?”
“The house. People on Palm Bach name their houses. You know, Hidden Palms. Restless Waters. Something beachy and pretentious.”
“You really think I need to call my house something?”
Becky rushed out and said, “This place is a crime scene.”
“It is not. It just needs a redo.”
“No,” Becky said in a single, clipped syllable. “I mean it’s an actual crime scene.”
“So someone stole the appliances and some of the fixtures. It’s not like—”
“No, Finley! Call the police. I just found a dead guy in the closet.”
Whoever said dead men tell no tales didn’t have
a dead person stuffed in their closet.
two
THAT IS DISGUSTING,” I said, speaking over the lump of revulsion lodged in my throat.
That was a partially visible body protruding from a half-rotted box shoved into the back corner of the master bedroom closet. Even more disgusting was the state of the corpse. The arm hanging out of the trunk was almost all bone, but from what I could see from my vantage point, the skull still had long brown hair attached in places. “I don’t think it’s a dead guy.”
Becky gagged, backing into me as she retreated, hand over her mouth. “Of course it’s a guy. It has an opposable thumb. See?”
Looking at the curled, fleshless fingers, I agreed that the remains were human. “Look at the hair, though,” I said. “I think it’s a dead girl.”
“Girl, guy, who cares? Dead is dead. We have to call the police,” Liv insisted. “Let them figure out the gender after they get it out of here.”
“I think we should wait outside,” Jane quavered, her voice shaking slightly. Understandable, since she was already falsely arrested for murder earlier this year. “Does anyone remember what I touched?” She pulled a tissue and a trial-sized container of Purell from her purse and wiped down the doorknob. “Where I might have left prints?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Liv said. “There’s no way we can get into trouble for this. That poor soul has been dead for too long.”
“But we should definitely wait outside,” Jane insisted.
“We should,” Liv agreed. “If only to get away from the creepy factor.”
“Let’s go.” Becky backed out of the room.
I wanted to be right on their heels, but I waved them on, an odd tightness in my throat as I fixed my gaze on the small round object clutched in the deceased’s curled fingers. My heart seized in my chest as I focused on the familiar green enameled palm fronds just visible through the cracks in the finger joints.
Glancing over my shoulder to make certain I was alone in the room, still battling my revulsion, I made a first, tentative grab for the medallion. I got within a hair of the skeleton, then snapped my hand back while swallowing the squeal of serious eewww in my throat. It took three tries until I was finally able to grip the medallion with my fingernails and give a tug. The medallion came loose, as did the forefinger of Dead Girl.
I grimaced as the bone dropped to the floor, then rocked back and forth before settling against my instep. I leaped away from the bone as if it might bite me, all the while wondering if I could be charged with some crime for de-fingering a corpse.
Putting aside any thoughts of the legalities of my actions, I inspected the medallion cupped in my hand. Though it was badly tarnished I could tell it was silver and approximately two inches in diameter. The side facing up was familiar. It bore the green enameled palm fronds and polo stick logo of The Palm Beach Polo Club. Adrenaline raced through my veins like a triple shot of Brazilian Roast. I knew I had to turn it over to the police, but I hesitated as a million fears, questions, and possibilities raced through my mind.
“Stop making yourself strange,” I chided in a whisper. “What are the chances?” I slowly flipped the medallion. My heart fell to my feet as I read the inscription…
Love you, Daddy. F.A.T.
I’d had those words engraved on the medallion myself. A gift I’d given nearly twenty years earlier. A memento to Jonathan for being named Club Player of the Year at The Palm Beach Polo Club. I hadn’t seen it in forever. I’d assumed my mother had either thrown it away or tucked it into one of the zillion boxes she had in storage units all over the county.
So how did a gift I gave Jonathan when I was ten end up in Dead Girl’s fist? Did my mother know? No. My mother wouldn’t cross the threshold of a place in this condition, let alone go ferreting through closets. Melinda would have to know. Hard to believe she’d moved out without checking the closet. I glanced at the skeleton again. Maybe not. I was no expert, but based on the way the skeleton was shoved in between the exposed framing, it almost looked like the skeleton was a recent addition. Except that she was holding Jonathan’s medallion.
Distant sirens split through the silence of the early evening. Panic welled up inside me. I didn’t know how my long-deceased stepfather’s medallion had ended up in the hand of a corpse, but I figured it was something I wanted to keep to myself until I had answers.
Knowing the police would be there in a matter of seconds, I freaked out wondering where to hide the thing. They were sure to go over the house with a fine-tooth comb—which su
rely would include my purse and tote—so I had no choice but to sneak it past them. Unfortunately, neither my adorable skirt nor my cute cami had pockets, and I’d left my suit jacket in Becky’s car. The only viable hiding place was my bra. Quickly, I stuffed the cool medal, covered no doubt with dead person cooties, into place and rushed out to join my friends.
My first mistake was making eye contact with Becky. One look and she knew something was wrong.
“What did you do?” she asked.
Her question-slash-accusation drew the attention of my other two friends. Suddenly I had three pairs of eyes trained on me just as four police cars came screeching to a halt. One, I noted, parked on the lawn, leaving deep tracks in the grass.
As fully armed officers descended upon us, I could only remain mute and hope it wasn’t called a wonder bra for nothing. And as if robbing a corpse wasn’t bad enough, an unmarked West Palm Beach car arrived a fraction of a second later. Palm Beach does have a police force, but it’s small, and I could only conclude that for serious matters such as dead people, they called for reinforcements. Unfortunately for me, out stepped Detectives Steadman and Graves.
They hated me.
Graves, who looked a lot like the star of the Ving Rhames cable remake of Kojak, had a body of solid muscle and the personality of a toad. His partner, Detective Steadman, was one of those women who confused being assertive with being a bitch. She was square and compact, a lot like Sponge Bob. Having a history with the two detectives didn’t bode well for any of us. Particularly Jane, who, I could see, had started to shake. Not that I could blame her. These were the same detectives who had dragged her off to jail and charged her with Paolo Martinez’s murder.
The fact that she was exonerated probably screwed with their case closure rate, not to mention the fact that it must have caused them some personal embarrassment. At any rate, neither detective looked too happy to see us huddled together in the front yard.
The feeling was mutual, but I slapped a smile on my face and tried my very best to appear grateful for their presence. “It’s in there,” I said, pointing toward the house. “I mean, she’s in there.”
3 Fat Chance Page 3
