by Molly Greene
Gen glanced at the phone. With her eyes on the door, she slipped off the handset and depressed the only line that was lit on the console. She held her breath and covered the mouthpiece as she moved the phone to her ear.
“Weren’t there?” Velasco screamed. “What do you mean you weren’t there?”
An unfamiliar voice replied. “I thought it best to distance myself. I scheduled a trip to the doctor this afternoon. I wanted someone else to sign the papers. I assumed you would have a representative in place to ensure everything went as planned.”
“Distance yourself? Buddy, you’re as close to this as it gets. I paid for your signature on my client’s documents, moron. You better find a way to cancel that sale and make sure the right party gets the property.”
“I can’t. It would draw too much attention to the transaction. Someone might get suspicious and check into it. I won’t risk my job. Even worse, prosecution. If I’m implicated, you can be sure I’ll spill my guts about the whole thing.”
The attorney’s voice rose again. “Forget your job, asshole. You’re going to lose your fingers if you don’t pick up a pen and sign that house over to who I say. That’s a promise.”
“Too late, Velasco. It’s out of my hands. And remember, if I tell what I know, you’ll be disbarred. You just better hope the buyer cancels for some reason, or try to scare them off after the sale closes. I’ll courier your money over Monday. I’m sorry I took it in the first place. As of now, you’re on your own. I’m out of this.”
The phone slammed down.
Genevieve replaced the handset. She crept to the door on tiptoe and eased it open, then peered out to be sure no one was passing. She was about to leave when she heard a woman’s voice coming from Velasco’s office. She stopped to listen, surprised that someone else had been privy to his tirade.
“Well, Levi,” a woman said. “You and I are not in the position you promised we would be today. That makes me extremely unhappy.”
A chair squeaked. Someone was leaving. Gen pulled the door open and slipped out, then raced through the abandoned foyer. Again, the hall was deserted. Afraid to push her luck and wait for the elevator, she took the stairs to burn off the spike of adrenaline that had her shaking like a grade school kid pulling a prank on a substitute teacher. She ran down countless flights before leaving the safety of the stairwell for a bank of offices on the fifth floor.
Gen punched the elevator button, half afraid Velasco would be in the car. The doors opened. She held her breath, only exhaling when she saw the lone occupant, a short, elderly lady in a sweater set and sensible pumps. The woman’s back was straight as a ramrod.
Probably an executive’s loyal minion, on some errand to administer to her boss’ needs. Gen nodded in greeting.
“Never depend on a man to make your life work, my dear,” the woman said.
Genny chuckled. This gal didn’t take any guff.
“I hear you, sister.”
* * *
Genevieve hit the street with her arms swinging and almost danced toward the parking garage two blocks south. The fact she’d gotten away with eavesdropping made her feel bigger than life. She began to hum an out-of-tune rendition of a Timberlake ditty, then tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and burst into laughter. Someone grabbed her from behind. She assumed it was a Good Samaritan trying to help and whipped around with a ready smile.
A furious Velasco glared at her with spittle in the corners of his mouth. “Bitch,” he screamed. “If you had anything to do with this–” His eyes bulged, then fell into angry slits.
“Levi.” Gen’s stomach churned. She tried to pry his hand loose from her arm. “Whatever could be wrong, darling,” she prattled. “If you’re referring to our tête-à-tête last week, I apologize. I had way too much bourbon to remember anything I said, or anything you said, for that matter. I do recall I adored your company. Did we make a date and I forgot?”
He fisted his free hand and raised it toward her. “What are you doing here, on the street outside my office?”
“I was feeling like a corporate drone and needed to get out, so I delivered deadline paperwork for a client.” Her mind raced. “Dunsmere and Bragg, just down the street.”
Velasco loosened his grip on her arm. He stepped away, shaking. “Too much of a coincidence, seeing you. But you’re not smart enough. There’s not been time to move against me.”
“Is everything all right here?” Gen looked up and caught the concerned gaze of a businessman in a perfect suit. The knot of his striped silk tie was visible over her tormentor’s head. She took note of his blonde locks and serious brown eyes.
The man put his left hand on Levi’s shoulder. Velasco grimaced with pain as he tightened his grip. No ring. Gen smiled. Velasco broke free, then turned on his heel and scuttled away.
“Does this mean I’m fired?” She called after him. Her eyes cut to her rescuer. “A court appearance went badly for the poor little guy.” She shook the stranger’s hand. “I’m Genevieve Delacourt. Can I buy you a drink? I insist on thanking you properly for coming to my aid.”
Chapter Eleven
A heap of framed pictures tilted haphazardly against Madison’s living room wall, stacked among random possessions and packing supplies. She sat cross-legged in the midst of the disarray. A grubby yellow dust cloth, a dozen jacketed books, and an open, empty Sterling Vineyards carton were within reach. A half-full glass of chenin blanc balanced precariously on the coffee table, wobbling on a makeshift coaster of bubble wrap and rags.
In the slanted light of early evening, the final rays of the sunset struggled to cling to what little life was left in the day. The ceiling fan circled overhead, nudging the muggy air with a soothing, lazy breeze that held the sticky humidity at bay. The radio was tuned to local oldies station KFMZ. She sang along in a pitchy attempt to mimic Frank Sinatra as he crooned the words to a well-known mid-sixties hit.
She felt the sudden prick of tears, no doubt due to the nostalgia of hearing one of her mother’s favorite songs combined with the wine she’d consumed. Madison tucked a book into the cardboard box, then swallowed hard and linked stiff fingers behind her head. She arched her back in a slow stretch.
The threat of tears diminished.
Feeling safe, she reached to pluck a photo from the shelves. The poignant notes of Ole Blue Eyes’ sexy ballad intervened and she stood, lifted the glass from its place among the ancient, torn-up t-shirts used to wipe up dust and grime, and walked to the French doors.
When the ice cubes in the goblet clinked with the movement, Jack shifted in his bed and raised his head to watch her progress. He returned to his dream when he realized she was not going outside.
She stood at the window, humming along with the melody. Her throat constricted and she stopped, watching as the final bit of light faded behind the distant hills. She felt like an outsider who’d stumbled on a private scene of passion, yet couldn’t tear her eyes away from the lovers.
A breeze stirred the soft, translucent sheers, and Madison moved with them, back to the kitchen for a refill. She returned to her task with a full glass, kneeled among the rags, and reached for the silver frame that held a candid shot of her parents on a trip to Paris.
Jennifer Boone smiled straight into the camera. Her mother looked strong and sure, wearing a bewitching look that only hinted at the joy billowing just beneath the surface. As always, John Boone’s eyes were fixed adoringly on his wife. He was probably speculating how he ever got the smart, witty beauty to marry him.
He often wondered that aloud while he was alive.
Madison wiped the glass with a clean rag, kissed the photo tenderly, then held it out and tried to imagine herself in the scene. Jack whimpered in his sleep. In the background, Sinatra crooned about the march of years and the women who had passed through his life.
She hugged the picture to her chest, then swaddled it in bubble wrap and packed the memory away.
Chapter Twelve
“Hey, Gen.” Mad
ison turned on the speakerphone, then sealed a thick manila envelope. “Velasco Fed-exed disclosures today.”
“Executor is exempt from providing a seller’s disclosure in a California probate, right?”
“I believe so.”
“Scare tactic?”
“Pretty sure he wants to make me think twice about going through with it.”
“What’s it say?”
“Other than the termites, rodent infestation, dry rot, mold, and lead paint, the only surprise was the fact that owner Mallory Blackburne was found dead in her bedroom.”
“Yowza.”
“He actually included the coroner’s report.”
“An obvious attempt to terrify you with the morbid revelation.”
“You think? Paperwork says the cause of death was cardiac failure. According to the preliminary title report, Edward and Mallory Blackburne purchased the land in 1945 and built the same year. They were the original and only owners.”
“Huh. Velasco called her an Irish broad.”
“The head parson had a bit of a Blarney accent, too. Someday I’ll do an Internet search on Mallory, see if I can find out where she was born. Makes me curious.”
“Does it make you want to back out?”
“Heck, no.” Madison picked up the phone. “I signed everything already. I just sealed the envelope, and I’m going to send it back this afternoon.”
“That’s my girl. Watch out though, he’ll have more up his sleeve if I know that little rat bastard.”
“There’s already more. He’s denying access, asking for a formal lender’s prequalification, and wanting me to sign all kinds of waivers saying I’ll hold everyone harmless if the roof falls in or the floor collapses, or I fall into an abandoned well shaft. Stuff like that.”
“How’s that make you feel?”
“Game on. I wonder if there is a well? Wouldn’t that be grand.”
“I taught you good.”
“Yeah, you did. I am what I am because I hung out with you when I was a kid. But hey, if Velasco really does muck things up I might need an attorney, and it can’t be you. We don’t want him to know you blabbed.”
“He probably has his suspicions.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Ahhhhh, no.”
“Best if it stays that way, don’t you think? Keep your nose clean.”
“Agreed,” Genny said. “My work is done here.”
Chapter Thirteen
Velasco refused to return calls for several weeks and ignored requests for property inspections. Madison had been about to ask Gen to recommend a lawyer when word came they’d be allowed in. She had no time to speculate about what had changed his mind.
The gate was open when she arrived at Mallory’s house. A rusty old Falcon with mud in the wheel wells was pulled up tight to the flowerbeds. Madison parked in a patch of weeds at one side of the drive.
The front door opened as she climbed out of the car. A disheveled figure carrying a dust mop and wearing rubber gloves and an apron stood, frowning, in the foyer. The woman pushed frizzy blond hair out of her eyes, rubber glove and all. She hitched up a leg of the denim overalls that had slipped beneath the heel of her Converse tennis shoes.
Although she looked about fifty, the outfit and her rundown demeanor aged her further. Her forehead was creased with concern. Wrinkles marred her upper lip, and she had the mottled teeth of a smoker. Her nose was crisscrossed with broken veins.
Sun damage, Madison figured. She hadn’t learned the value of sunscreen early on. Too bad, she’d probably been a looker when she was younger.
“Madison Boone?” The woman extended her hand. “I’m Janice Young, a neighbor. The estate pays me to clean the house. They sent a key and asked me to come over today because you wanted to get inside on such short notice. No one else was available.” She blew at an errant hank of hair plastered to her cheek. It didn’t budge.
“Nice to meet you,” Madison replied. “You clean the house but you didn’t have a key? Anyway, it wasn’t exactly short notice, I’ve been trying to get in for weeks. I can’t tell you how excited I am to finally be here, standing out in front. With the door open.”
The woman fisted a hand on her hip, effectively blocking the passage.
An awkward silence descended.
Madison cleared her throat.
“Do you mind? I’d like to go in and have a look.”
“Oh. Well. I suppose.” Janice dropped her arm and turned into the house.
Madison made a pissy face at the woman’s retreating back and followed her in, then stopped in the hallway leading from the entry to the living room.
A narrow antique table with a green-veined marble top was placed against the wall to her left. A dozen round antique lidded crocks of varying heights were arranged artfully beneath it. She hadn’t noticed the vignette on her initial, albeit brief, expedition. Above the table hung six matted prints of some type of water bird.
She recognized them from the photo inventory.
“I see you’re admiring the loons,” Janice said. “He was an ornithologist, you know. If you don’t need me for anything, I’ll, ah, just go about my business. They’ve asked me to stay around and lock up after everyone today. And tidy up a bit while I’m here.”
Despite her words, she dawdled in the dining room by the kitchen door, watching Madison from beneath lowered lashes. “I don’t mean to offend, but you won’t take anything, will you? I was told to watch. It’s not yours yet.”
Madison’s eyes flew open in surprise. “Well, my mom raised me right, so no, I hadn’t planned to snitch a thing. But just so we’re on the same page, you haven’t taken anything yourself, have you?”
Janice froze. Her pupils widened. Her lashes fluttered half a dozen times before she fixed Madison with a steely stare. “Okay, so we’re even.” She turned and pushed through the door into the kitchen. “I’ll just pop in once in a while to check on you.”
Madison glanced around at her new quarters. The circular landing on the stairs reflected the curved fireplace hearth in the south wall. The warm glow of the ancient eight-inch plank flooring was enough to make her drool.
Around the corner, she re-discovered the study she’d climbed into that first afternoon. The walls were unplastered, revealing the rough fieldstone. The attached bathroom would make it a great guest suite.
Cars sounded on the drive. She returned to the front door in time to see the home inspector pull behind her SUV. A van with the words Sonoma Termite lettered on the side stopped in the shade behind it. When the drivers stepped out of their cars, she beckoned for them to come in. Paperwork was reviewed and signed. The men began their separate tasks, leaving Madison free to climb the stairs to the second floor.
The spacious upstairs rooms were filled with natural light, with pitched ceilings that mimicked the steep roof overhead.
The master had an attached sitting room that boasted a view toward the lake. She was astonished to find a deep, walk-in closet still filled with clothing, including a few period pieces carefully shrouded in plastic.
The large en-suite master bath exceeded her expectations. In perfect condition, it contained a claw foot tub and a separate shower. The tile work was exquisite. Real beadboard paneled the walls.
Another bedroom and bath were furnished with more pine antiques and a huge distressed cupboard.
Madison adored everything.
Delighted, she went back downstairs to check on the home inspector. He was in the kitchen, knocking on the cabinets with a puzzled look. Janice was scrubbing the porcelain farmhouse sink.
“What is it?” Madison asked.
“Nothing to be concerned about,” he answered. “The wall here is over three feet thick. I’ll assume it’s a bearing wall supporting the roof, although I’m not sure why the builder would have done that. Looks like the masonry is solid enough, but I’ll check it out from the attic. You couldn’t really tell from here without ripping into it. That would be a sha
me. Although I see someone has managed to ding the plaster.”
She fingered the gouges. “The stone is beautiful. I might just take the plaster off, or distress it even more. Make it look older.”
“Suit yourself,” he replied. “So far, it looks like you made a sound investment. They don’t build them like this anymore. I should be done in the main house in forty-five minutes or so. I’ll review my findings with you then, and we’ll go over the report room by room.”
When he left, Madison pulled a chair up to the kitchen table and sat. In her best attempt at chatty, she asked, “Did you actually know the Blackburnes?”
Janice started. She turned and scoured Madison’s face with her eyes, as if to gauge why the question had been asked. “No.” She blinked, then dragged the heel of her palm across her forehead. “But I hear they were private old geezers. Kept to themselves.”
She turned away and dabbed at the brass faucet with a cloth. “Before the old man died, folks say you never saw one or the other alone. Attached at the hip. Always together, in the yard, going for a walk. Even in the grocery store. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. Why was the place vacant so long?”
“Didn’t they tell you?” Janice chuckled. “Hasn’t exactly been empty. Mrs. Blackburne left everything to Finnegan.”
“Finnegan?”
“The friggin’ cat. She willed the estate to Finnegan for the rest of his life. I fed the damn cat for months before he went missing. But do you think he would let me near him? I despise cats.”
“No, they didn’t tell me.” She wondered if Janice had hated the poor creature enough to do it in. “So where is this cat now?”
