“No, no, not at all,” I lied. “I just wondered where it came from. It’s not the sort of thing you hear in the city.”
“I guess not,” Tom chuckled as he walked away, Kali bouncing around his feet. I turned back to the calmness of the lake, stretched, forgetting that I still had coffee dregs in the bottom of my cup, then swore as they dripped onto my face. It was time to face the real work of the day.
Still not hurrying, I wandered back to my cabin to pack some lunch supplies and the paperwork, did a quick run to the kitchen to fill my trusty thermos flask, then headed off down the road to the Netherby house. As soon as I left the sealed road, my driving became overly cautious as I hugged the edge, slowing for each corner, holding my breath till I was safely around the bend. By the time I turned into the Netherby gate I was exhausted. I pulled the car to a halt in front of the deck and relaxed back into the seat with a sigh of relief. In an instinctive motion, I reached into my pocket for my phone, then realised I hadn’t thought about it all morning – a huge change from my city self who would have checked it every few minutes. It was still in the silent mode I had switched it to just before I had climbed into bed. I had been sure Simon would have called or sent texts and I was right. I noticed the five missed calls and deleted the texts without counting how many he had sent. Too many. I decided to leave the phone on silent. If someone important wanted to contact me, I could call them back. Simon I could do without.
As I braced myself to get out of the car and actually do some work, I remembered Gail’s warning that Maggie Netherby had been a hoarder. Dreading what I was going to find, I climbed the steps to the deck, unlocked the door and threw it open. The house stank.
I clamped my hand over my mouth to hold back the stench that engulfed me, and bolted off the deck, swerving around my car, catching my hip on the fender as I dashed past in my rush to reach the boundary fence in time to be sick into the weeds. The fence post provided an uncomfortable prop as I bent over, eyes closed, breathing deeply, until the nausea went away and I could turn back to face the house. I needed a drink of water to take away the disgusting taste in my mouth but that would mean going inside. Leaning against the fence post in the fresh air seemed like a better idea, so for a while I stayed there, doing nothing, until the need for a drink forced me into action.
“Get a grip!” I spoke out loud, then automatically looked around to see who had heard me talking to myself, a habit I should have grown out of years ago. In the next paddock a sheep stared at me as if it agreed. I was right, though, I did need to get a grip; the house still needed to be sorted, so I needed to toughen up and go in. The stench needed to be dealt with and the sheep wasn’t going to do it.
I straightened up, stretched and prepared for action, sizing up the distances between the door and the windows. My plan was to take a huge breath, run inside, open a window and run back out. One window at a time, then the French doors, then wait until the house had ventilated enough to venture inside. Surprisingly for me, as Simon always told me my plans were ill-conceived, it was a good plan, even when the window catches stuck and I was sure I was going to pass out before I got back to fresh air. When the house was open I slowed down, pulled my t-shirt up over my mouth and nose to lessen the smell, took a deep breath and stepped inside. It wasn’t what I had expected.
At least half of the original villa had been converted into one large room. A modern kitchen filled one corner and a retro Formica dining table sat under the front windows, while the rest of the vast space was filled by an oversized, sagging lounge suite clustered around a huge log burner. Every wall was covered by bookcases, overflowing with books, magazines, random loose papers and quirky ornaments, It wasn’t the cluttered hoard Gail had led me to expect but Margaret Netherby had a lot of belongings and the house still stank.
I retreated to the deck for air then tried again. The smell seemed to be coming from the kitchen. I flicked on the light switch beside the door to check an idea and the lack of response from the lights confirmed my suspicions. No power, therefore whatever had been left in the refrigerator had gone bad. The thought of clearing it out made me shudder. I retreated back to the deck to pluck up courage for the task.
Outside, the sound of an engine made me look up as a familiar dirty Land Rover pulled into the driveway.
I chose not to go down the steps to meet him, remembering instead another of Simon’s body-language lessons about bosses having higher chairs to emit authority. From the deck I struck what I hoped was a pose that said don’t mess with me - straight back, arms folded, looking down at him as he walked towards me. I didn’t think he was fooled.
“Morning.” His lopsided smile was tentative, as if he expected me to be angry, which made me suspicious.
“What brings you here?” I had no plans to let him off that easily, no matter how many muscles were hidden under the grubby Swanndri jacket.
“An apology.”
I waited. We stared at each other. Finally he realised that we weren’t playing conversation tag and it was still his turn.
“I really am sorry about yesterday, about the ditch. I wasn’t being careful enough and I should have stopped to see if you were okay. In my defence, it really was an emergency. I really was in a hell of a hurry.” He tried the lopsided smile again.
“Right. Well, thank you for stopping by, Mr Brown, but I need to find out what’s rotten in this kitchen, so I don’t have time to stop and chat.”
“Oh, well, whatever. Have a good day then.” He turned to leave. “By the way, my name’s not Brown.”
That threw me. Now it was my turn to apologise.
“Sorry. Tom at the campground called you Brownie, so I assumed your name was Brown.”
He turned back, stepping up to my level on the deck, laughing.
“Tom’s called me that since I was a kid. My name is actually Bruno, Bruno McTavish. And I gather you are Andrea North.”
“Known as Andy, except to my ex, who not only insisted on Andrea but pronounced it On-dray-a.” I held out my hand to shake his. “Pleased to meet you, Bruno McTavish, maybe we should pretend yesterday never happened and start again.”
“I would like that.”
The handshake went on just a little bit longer than politeness demanded, which was fine by me. It was Bruno who broke the moment with a sniff.
“Where is that smell coming from?”
“The kitchen, I think. I’ve been running backwards and forwards, holding my breath, trying to open the house up, and I am pretty sure it is coming from the fridge.”
“Oh, gross! Hang on, I’ll be back in a minute,” Bruno jumped off the deck to rummage in the Land Rover. “Here,” he waved something white in the air, “these might help. Face masks.”
He sprinted back up the steps two at a time and handed me a flimsy piece of white fabric with an elastic strap. I was surprised that, coming out of his filthy vehicle, the mask was clean, then ashamed at myself for assuming it wouldn’t be. With a murmured thanks, I held it to my face and pulled the elastic tight behind my head as he did the same. Nodding to each other, we simultaneously sucked in a lungful of fresh air and entered the house. I didn’t need to lead Bruno to the kitchen, by his quick movements it was obvious that he knew the house layout well, so I followed and let him be the one to open the fridge door. Apart from a wilted lettuce, it was empty.
We looked at each other, miming confusion by flapping our hands. Bruno shrugged, then with a flick of his fingers, indicated he had thought of another place the smell could be coming from. At the back of the kitchen an open door led to a small room that would originally have been a bathroom but was now a spacious laundry, containing the largest freezer I had ever seen in a domestic house. Bruno hovered his hand over the lid, reluctant to open it. I nodded encouragement. He lifted the lid a few centimetres, which was quite enough to prove him right, then shut it quickly as the smell wafted out. We retreated outside where we could pull off the masks.
“Oh, that is just too disgusting,�
�� I said, watching the blond streaks in Bruno’s hair glisten as he ran his hands through it in a way that was quite the opposite of disgusting.
“I don’t even want to know what is in there,” he answered. “I can guarantee one thing though, it won’t be anything you need to account for on your asset list. Tell you what,” he continued as I nodded in agreement, “let me give Tom a ring and see if he can come and give me a hand to get that freezer out of the house and onto my truck. Then I can take it to the dump. It’s not like the freezer is salvageable. Let’s just dump the whole lot.”
“Good idea. I would appreciate that,” I agreed. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to help lift that thing, especially if it’s full, and I don’t intend to empty it unless I have to.” Leaving him pulling out his phone, I decided to check out the rest of the house.
The remaining part of the original villa contained a plush master bedroom suite with a walk-in closet that must have once been a smaller bedroom and, on the other side, an extravagant bathroom in which ornate taps shaped like golden swans decorated a huge corner spa bath. I gave Margaret Netherby points for style, even if the end result was unfinished, the swans failing to conceal the unpainted plaster board on the walls and the lack of a door on the peach marble vanity unit. The luxury was still a work in progress.
I peeked into the walk-in wardrobe and wished it was mine. It was a closet to die for. A cleverly-designed system of racks and shelves covered three walls, with a full-length mirror and a pull-down ironing table, pulled down and permanently set up with an iron still plugged into the power but not switched on, taking up the space behind the door. Every rack was full of expensive, if old-fashioned, clothes while the shelves held an assortment of colourful hats with matching shoes and handbags. My idea of Margaret Netherby as a quaint country farmer blew out the window.
I retreated, shaking my head. I was still not seeing the proof that she was a hoarder. Why did Gail think she was, when the house was telling a different story? Maybe Bruno could give me more information. I found him back in the smelly laundry, attempting to move the freezer. He had taken off the Swanndri, so I was content to stand and watch his muscles flex as he struggled. Eventually he gave up, grinning as he noticed me watching.
“It’s too much for me. I don’t think it’s budged an inch. Just as well help’s on its way.”
“Just as well. I thought you were going to burst something.”
“Yeah, so did I. I’ve always wondered why dead stuff is so much heavier than the same thing when it’s alive. And I think there’s a dead elephant in here.”
“A dead, frozen elephant.”
“Not frozen any more - if it was, it wouldn’t smell so bad. Let’s go outside and get some fresh air.”
“Speaking of dead things,” I said as I followed him through the lounge to the deck, “do you always carry dead pigs around or was yesterday a special treat?”
Bruno stopped and frowned back at me. “Yesterday was a sodding disaster!”
Suitably told off, I kept my thoughts to myself, at least until we got outside. Then I had to ask.
“So what do you do for a job that involves racing around the country with pigs, or taking time to move freezers? Are you a farmer or a pig hunter?”
I didn’t get an answer as we were interrupted by the arrival of an ancient flat-deck truck followed by a pristine and expensive SUV. Tom and another older man clambered out of the truck, to be joined by two young men from the car. All four were clad in various colours of Swanndri, similar to Bruno’s. Maybe the town got a bulk discount. Bruno greeted them all with much hand shaking and back slapping, then introduced them to me as Bob, Jake and Johnny, all apparently from the pub. I didn’t ask if they owned it or just propped up the bar, instead I left them to work out how they were going to move the freezer and continued my perusal of the strange house.
Leading off the deck were two more bedrooms, both partially finished and sparsely decorated. One held a single wrought-iron bed covered by a handmade patchwork quilt while the other, the one with the best view down to the lake, contained nothing but a huge rocking chair with an accompanying side table holding a single book. The title surprised me. I hadn’t been told much about Margaret Netherby and I certainly hadn’t been told she was an author and an expert on wetlands.
Loud noises and colourful swear words drew me back to the laundry where the four men had succeeded in moving the freezer as far as the back steps. At least it was now outside the house, even if it was about to fall.
“For gawd’s sake, don’t let it go,” Tom bellowed. “We don’t want it to tip over and dump that shit here.”
“Hold her right there,” Bruno joined in. “Just keep it from slipping. Tom, we’ll hang on here if you go and bring the truck around, Back it right up to the steps and we might be able to push it straight on.”
Tom took off in a shambling run and soon his truck appeared around the side of the house. In a piece of precision driving, he turned the truck in the tight space and backed it to the steps in one move, then with a lot more swearing and grunting, the freezer was efficiently dragged on and secured with ropes. One of the young men, Jake or Johnny, I wasn’t sure who was who, pulled a six-pack of beer seemingly out of nowhere and handed them around. I wasn’t offered one.
“Cheers, mate,” Bruno acknowledged the hard work by raising his beer as a toast. “Thanks, guys, I appreciate your help.”
“She’s right, mate,” Bob replied on behalf of them all. “We’ll get this down to the dump and you can get on with your day.”
“Yeah.” Bruno looked at his watch. “Hell yeah. Amy’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.” He pulled his phone from his jean’s pocket, checked it and grimaced. “Oh yeah, three missed calls. I’d better be going. Thanks again, guys.” He flicked me a casual salute as he walked away. “Have a good rest of your day, Andrea North. I might catch you down at the pub later.”
“Yeah, come and have a drink with us later,” Bob agreed. “No, better than that, come to the pub for tea. We do a great venison pie.”
I nodded, smiled and waved them goodbye without conscious thought because my brain was running an irritating loop. Amy. There’s an Amy. An Amy who’ll be wondering where he was. Damn. Who cares if there’s an Amy? Why do I care that there’s an Amy?
“Bugger Amy,” I said to myself. “And bugger having no power in this place. I need a decent coffee.”
I still hadn’t asked Bruno, or Tom, why Gail had said Margaret was a hoarder so it was time to investigate the rest of the house – if I could figure out how to get into the other half. There were no doors off the passage that I hadn’t opened and no doors off the lounge except the one onto the deck. I walked around the outside, looking carefully at where the two houses connected, then went through the rooms again, staring out windows to regain my bearings. It took a while but I worked it out. Margaret Netherby had a sense of humour. As, with a suitably ominous creak, a bookshelf pulled away from the wall to reveal a room, I realised that I would have liked Margaret. I wished I had the strength of character to be the sort of person who lived in a crazy house with a secret room, instead of being a downtrodden victim of a narcissistic bully. Maybe I could be. The days of being bullied were over. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do after this job was finished, but why couldn’t it include a crazy house that showed my personality? If I could remember what that was.
I found the hoard. The room was the original lounge of the cottage. From it, a passage led to two other rooms, both bare tongue and groove timber walls and both filled with cardboard boxes. I groaned. There was nothing on the boxes to suggest what was inside them, there were hundreds of them and they smelt bad. I could see mould growing on most of them and, when I stopped and stood still, I could hear mice. I groaned again, shuddered and backed away. The hoard could wait.
At least the smell of the rotten meat had mostly disappeared from the front of the house. Hopefully it would soon be clear enough to close some windows as I was gett
ing cold, which made me think of electricity. I did a quick search of the obvious places and soon found a power bill, then pulled out my phone to have the power turned back on, which they promised to do, but not until tomorrow. For today there was no other option than to zip up my jacket and carry on.
My preliminary list divided Margaret’s assets into categories including kitchen utensils, crockery, clothing, books and ornaments, all of which needed to be sorted into piles before I contacted the second-hand dealer who would value them for me. My second piece of paper listed the large furniture items, including the freezer to which I added a note saying it had been dumped as unsalvageable.
Once the furniture list was complete, I felt justified in stopping for the day. My watch told me it was almost mid-afternoon, which explained why I was hungry, and I desperately wanted to get warm. A venison pie in the pub sounded like a plan. With a quick final check on the rooms, I closed all the windows and locked the doors, justifying my leaving by telling myself that tomorrow the house wouldn’t smell bad and would have power so I would have light and heat, and I could make as much coffee as I liked.
As I looked out from the deck, I realised there was something else I needed to check. On the other side of the parking area there was an old barn, divided into a garage, an open bay and an enclosed area with a huge door. The open bay held nothing but a few bales of hay, so I tried the garage. It took all my strength to drag open one side of the dilapidated double doors and, after the secret room, I should not have been as surprised as I was to be confronted by an immaculate vintage Studebaker, complete with running boards and gleaming headlamps.
Deep in the Shallows Page 3
