The plaster was peeling away from the walls in big chunks, baring the lathe made of fish crates. The first owner, a young architect who had designed homes for the very wealthy, couldn’t afford the expensive supplies when he built his own house. The skeleton revealed his cost-cutting measures, but the house, when it was first finished, had been magnificent. That had been more than a hundred years ago.
Now the floors were littered with the discarded remains of lives lived – broken furniture, clothing, old books, toys, hockey equipment, now all chewed and covered in rat excrement.
Jared MacPherson stood up and planted a big dirty boot right on top of a plastic place mat featuring the infamous satellite photo of The Shores, now covered in red clay and old urine. The diamond had lost some of its sparkle.
Jared had plenty of warning of the new owners’ arrival. He was still in the house, up on the second floor, from where he could see well down the road. He happened to be looking at the hill when they crested it. He couldn’t have known they were coming here, but something told him that they were – a ragtag bunch, just the types to fall for this old place. Damn – he’d only searched a handful of rooms, and not all that well. It might be found under the floorboards, in the walls. And he didn’t even know what he was looking for. The Sullivan Legacy. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
“You’ll know it when you find it,” he’d been told.
He didn’t think he’d find it here. It was an old library, cradled in the large middle gable of the house. It had built-in shelves and benches, and rotting books – eaten away and pissed on by rats, mildewed by the damp air, a fuzzy white mould growing on them. Jared kicked a few books around and began to sneeze.
He finished his cursory search of the room– and then scurried down the stairs, out the back and through the ripped tarpaulin. There was no snow, and the red clay was frozen solid, so he left no tracks.
Perfect conditions for thieving. But what was there to steal?
Acknowledgements
Thanks to all the usual suspects:
My friend Janet Campbell for her terrier-like support.
My daughter, Kirsten MacLeod, for never losing faith.
The Acorn Press publisher Terrilee Bulger and former publisher Laurie Brinklow for their faith in the series. And editor Sherie Hodds for her intuitive and sensitive approach.
Matt Reid for his inspired cover art, which everyone comments on, and his overall design talents.
And to some new partners in crime:
JoAnne Wilson for her guerilla publicity strategies.
And to my internet agents Nikita and Red.
Mind Over Mussels Page 29
