Briefly, I considered fibbing, but I wasn’t very good at it. It was probably best just to get it over with. “I’m Martha Hudson,” I said with a sigh. “And I’m very sorry, but things have been kind of tight for a while, and I know that’s no excuse, but I really didn’t intend to do it. It just sort of happened, and, well, now it’s gotten out of control, I’ll admit it, but I guess I can go on a payment plan of some sort, right?”
A few seconds of silence. Then: “Could you tell me your mother’s maiden name, Miss Hudson?”
“Oh, for pete’s sake.” I rolled my eyes. “I already told you I’ll go on a payment plan. There’s no reason to drag my mother into this.”
More silence. Then, tentatively: “How about the names of your siblings?”
I stared at the phone. What was with this guy and his intrusive personal questions? Was this how bill collectors worked? Weren’t there laws about this sort of thing? Other than Always call during the dinner hour, that was?
“I’m an only child,” I snapped. “Sorry. You can’t extract any money there either.”
Still more silence. Then, cautiously: “Maybe you can verify your address?”
He had to be kidding me. As if the landlord wouldn’t have already given him that information.
“Humor me,” he said when I didn’t reply. “I have to make sure that I’m actually speaking to Martha Hudson.”
“I told you I’m Martha Hudson,” I said. “Why would anyone else accept the responsibility of paying my back rent?”
“Excuse me?”
I blinked. “That’s why you’re calling, right? About the rent?”
“This isn’t about any rent, Miss Hudson. This is about the beneficiary of the living trust and Last Will and Testament of your great-aunt, Kate Quigley. I represent her estate.”
“Wait.” I gripped the phone tighter. “I have a great-aunt Kate?”
“Not anymore,” he said. “She’s dead. I’m sorry to say.”
I had a great-aunt Kate? I tried to remember meeting her, or seeing pictures of her, or even hearing my mother mention her. I couldn’t. How could I not know about her?
While my mom and I had been close, she’d been about all the family I’d ever known. Dad had taken off before I was even born, and Mom had been an only child herself, her parents having passed away when she was in college. As a kid I’d actually fantasized about long-lost relatives finding us and turning our sliced turkey breast for two into a true Thanksgiving family feast like I’d seen in commercials on TV. Only in my fantasies the relatives had been alive and welcoming, not recently deceased.
“Are you sure?” I asked. The microwave dinged. I ignored it. “I mean, are you sure I’m her…”
“I’m sure,” he said. “According to her, you were her nephew’s daughter.”
Her nephew. My father. Another family member I’d never known.
“And,” he continued, “you’re her sole beneficiary, Miss Hudson.”
I fell back against the counter, stunned. “Her sole…”
“Beneficiary,” he agreed. “Kate never married or had children, and so her entire estate has been left to you. Including, of course, her home in San Francisco.”
Of course.
Wait.
Her home? I’d inherited a house? People like me didn’t inherit houses. We inherited Corelle dishes, table lamps with seashells in their base, and Aunt Stella’s costume jewelry collection.
I let out a shaky exhale. “Are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure,” he said again. “I drafted the paperwork for Kate myself, Miss Hudson. I’ll provide you with copies, of course.”
I’d inherited a house in San Francisco. The thought made me weak. I did a slow, exacting appraisal of my apartment, even though that was something best done quickly, with the eyes closed, to minimize the cringeworthiness. I could hardly believe that finally I’d be able to move out of this place. I’d dreamed of the day I could move out of this place and away from the ragged carpet, the dingy walls, the hit-or-miss hot water. Away from Mr. Bitterman and his culinary science experiments. Especially away from 2B. My new home was probably some fantastic place nestled into Lombard Street or along the Embarcadero. Maybe I’d have a next-door neighbor who owned a suit and tie and bought his wine in something other than boxes.
Immediately on the heels of my excitement came a sharp regret that I’d never met my great-aunt Kate, had never even known about her. I wondered what she’d been like. Had she looked like me? Did I have her smile? How could I have not known she’d been living just a few miles away this whole time? I suddenly wanted to know everything I could about Kate Quigley. Because somehow Kate had known about me and had left me her house and everything in it.
Including tax and utility bills. Could I afford a house in San Francisco? Could I take care of it the way Kate had taken care of it?
“In case you’d like to take a look at your house,” Andrew Bonamassa was saying, “the address is 221 Baker Street. Kate had it put in a trust a few years back, so there’s no need to wait out probate on the property. You can pick up the key at my office at your convenience. I’m sure you’re eager to see the place.”
Eager was hardly the word. I arranged to meet Mr. Bonamassa at his office the next morning, accepted his somber condolences, and disconnected, still numb with disbelief and pretty sure that I wouldn’t be able to count on sleep to get me through the long hours separating me from my new life.
As soon as I’d reheated my dinner and sat down at the table, someone knocked on my door. Probably 2B still hoping to buy himself a romantic evening with a couple of Big Macs and some fries. He was delusional, but it didn’t matter. I was a homeowner now, and pretty soon I wouldn’t have to see 2B ever again.
But it wasn’t 2B at the door. It was Mr. Bitterman, clutching a Tupperware container in both gnarled hands. Mr. Bitterman was considered quite a catch among the widowed ladies in the building. His six hairs were always combed, he had two distinct eyebrows, and his clothes were always clean, even if they were usually mismatched. Plus rumor had it his railroad pension would allow him to live comfortably to the age of 112, a quality more prized by husband hunters than a GQ-worthy wardrobe.
He gave me a gummy smile, and his dentures shifted a little in his mouth. “Evening, Martha Hudson.”
Mr. Bitterman never called me Martha or Marty. Always Martha Hudson. Maybe because he wanted to double-check that he was talking to the right person.
I eyed the Tupperware container with deep suspicion. “Hello, Mr. Bitterman. What have you got there?”
“I tried out a new recipe today, and I made a little extra.” He held it out to me. “Thought I’d do the neighborly thing and share.”
I took it before he dropped it all over my carpet and it ate through to the floorboards. I didn’t stand a chance of seeing my security deposit returned as it was. Not that it was my fault the paint was peeling off the walls on its own accord.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said. He could have done the neighborly thing and dumped it down the disposal. The smells leaking out from beneath that lid would straighten my hair faster than a flatiron.
“I need an objective opinion,” he said. “You can be my tester.”
I sure hoped he was talking about aftershave, because I had no intention of tasting whatever was swimming inside that Tupperware.
“Besides,” he added, “an old man doesn’t like to eat alone.”
It occurred to me that that was what old women were for, but I didn’t have the heart to say so. The truth was, I liked Mr. Bitterman, and I really didn’t mind having dinner with him.
As long as it wasn’t his dinner.
“I understand,” I said. “I’ve got some sweet and sour pork in the fridge. Come on in.”
I’d given it my best and gentlest shot, but Mr. Bitterman and his mystery dish would not be separated. He followed me into the kitchen and settled in at my table with a grunt of exertion. “You might want to give t
hat a turn in the microwave,” he said. “It tends to congeal as it cools.”
Nothing unappetizing about that. I held my breath, spooned the contents of the Tupperware container into a bowl, and shoved it into the microwave. It didn’t look like it was congealing. It looked like it was breathing.
I slammed the door shut and turned the microwave to Incinerate.
“You know,” I told him, “I appreciate the gesture, but you could have had dinner with Mrs. Frist in 2E. I think she’s got her eye on you.”
“She’s got her eye on everyone,” he said. “She sits and stares out the peephole all day long. Her only exercise is when she changes eyes.” He grimaced. “And Mrs. Frist doesn’t know good food when she tastes it. You might want to give that a stir.”
I was afraid to give it a stir. If I opened the microwave, it might jump out and attack me.
“I know the signs,” he said. “They’re looking for new husbands, all of them. They bring me enough casseroles and Bundt cakes to open a restaurant.”
Casserole and Bundt cake didn’t sound so bad to me. I cast a baleful glance at the microwave. He was sitting on real food, and I got stuck with that.
He shook his head. “None of them will let me cook dinner. Won’t let me near the stove. They insist on feeding me.”
Guess he couldn’t take a hint.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “And you’re right. I’m candy for the ladies.”
Yeah. That was what I’d been thinking.
“But I got plans,” he added. “I’m writing a cookbook. It’s going to be huge. I’m calling it the Bitterman Diet Plan. What do you think?”
Something popped inside the microwave, and he made a better-check-that gesture that I deliberately ignored. I wasn’t opening that door. The smell would get out.
“If you want to help people lose weight,” I said, “I think you’ve got a winner.”
He seemed pleased. He moved his dentures around until they got out of the way and smiled at me. It was a lovely Hallmark moment.
Until our dinner whistled, sizzled, and exploded in the microwave.
Mr. Bitterman shrieked like a little girl and ducked his head.
I rushed to open the door, but I was too late. For the dinner and the microwave. It looked like a scene from Ghostbusters in there. There was no saving it. Even if I managed to scrape the remnants of Cabbage Surprise off the walls, I doubted I could purge that smell.
But I’d rather smell it than taste it.
CHAPTER TWO
“Maybe he got the address wrong,” Irene said.
We were standing on the sidewalk outside 221 Baker Street, staring up at a crumbling Victorian. There were empty gaps where gingerbread trim had once hung. Gutters were missing. The paint was a washed-out blue that might have been pretty forty years ago, when it had been applied, but now resembled acid-washed jeans.
I bit my lip. “I’m positive he said 221.” I checked the paperwork that Andrew Bonamassa had handed over along with the key. He’d said 221. I sighed and shoved the papers into my bag. So much for my chic new home. My inheritance was going to need a complete overhaul just to make it habitable. And that was just on the outside. I couldn’t imagine what it looked like on the inside. Did it even have walls? This wasn’t exactly the hoped-for step up from my apartment. More like a head-long plunge down a set of stairs.
And it probably didn’t even have a microwave.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to see the house without the neglect and decay. It must have been something years ago. I could almost imagine colorful shutters, cheerful flowers springing from a well-tended garden, a plump calico cat curled up in the front window, basking in the sun.
Irene brushed at the grime coating the mailbox. The box teetered over and crashed to the ground.
She looked at me. “Maybe your great-aunt Kate didn’t like you.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said, squinting up at the roofline. Who was I kidding? It was worse. My imagination wasn’t that good; there were no shutters or flowers or fat, contented cats. And I was no roofing expert, but I was pretty sure that it shouldn’t look like a mildewed newspaper up there.
Irene cupped her ear. “Do you hear that?”
I blinked. “What?”
“That white elephant.” Irene dropped her arm. “This place is a money pit. What else did she leave you?”
“I’m not ready to give up on it that fast,” I said. “You might be able to buy any house you want, but I’m not that lucky. I think we should go inside.”
Irene shrugged. “I can take it if you can.”
I wasn’t convinced that I could, but I hauled in a deep breath and led the way up the walk. It took both of us to shoulder the door open, and when we had, we stepped into a cool, dark foyer. When I found a light switch, the weak, sickly glow of a single Tiffany knock-off table lamp revealed a horror show.
Irene’s jaw dropped. “Wow. They were wrong all these years. I think Jimmy Hoffa could be buried here.”
“That’s not funny,” I told her. How could my great-aunt Kate have lived here? Orange shag carpet, dark brown paneling, dated furniture. Heavy insulated drapes, so old they were shedding their linings on the carpet like a dusting of snowflakes, shrouded a pair of ancient, probably drafty windows. Any one of those things would have been bad enough, without the stacks of old newspapers, books, and magazines piled on every flat surface or the unsealed boxes scattered across the floor, bulging with who knew what, the paper bags full of canned goods and boxes of cereal, the plastic tubs filled to the brim with what looked like towels and linens and probably a few moths. Dust powdered every surface, and a musty smell hung over everything like a fog.
I felt a stab of sympathy. “My aunt was a hoarder.”
“You think?” Gingerly, Irene lifted a yellowed magazine from the nearest pile. “Life. They stopped publishing this years ago.” She poked through a box of magazines at her feet. “Look at this stuff. The Beatles coming to America. The assassination of JFK. Neil Armstrong walking on the moon.” She glanced up. “She hadn’t thrown away a magazine since the ’60s.”
“She was a history buff.” I touched the cover of the Life magazine almost reverentially, as if it might link me to the woman to whom it had once belonged.
On a small table beside the door sat a collection of dusty framed photos. I picked one up and found myself staring into the face of a woman who had my eyes. The photo must have been taken several years ago, as she looked to be in her 40s or 50s, slim, blonde hair, giving the camera a wry smile as if she had been caught unaware or unwilling to pose. I felt a lump form in my throat as I set the photo of my great-aunt Kate back on the table.
Irene nudged a box with the toe of her sleek pumps. “You can call a service to haul this junk out of here. I’ve seen them on TV. You know, on those shows about hoarders.”
“I don’t want it hauled out,” I said. “Not yet anyway. I want to go through all of it first.”
“Why?” Irene asked. “It’s old moth-eaten stuff. It’s no good to anyone.”
I fingered a crocheted blanket slung over the corner of a high-backed wing chair. “It was Kate’s. I know it sounds funny, but it’s all I have of her. I’d like to get to know her a little somehow.”
Irene’s expression softened. “It doesn’t sound funny at all, Mar. I’m sorry. I’m not being fair. Where do you want to start?” She gingerly lifted her heels over a line of cardboard boxes.
“I think we should do a walk-through,” I said. “Maybe all of this stuff is here because she was getting rid of it.” I glanced toward the staircase and saw nothing but shadows on the upstairs landing. I shivered. The second floor could wait. “Let’s start with the living room.”
“I think the Victorians called it a parlor,” Irene said. “Maybe a sitting room. Didn’t Victorian women go to their sitting rooms to recover from the vapors?”
“The vapors?” I grinned at her.
She shrugged. “I’m thinking they�
�re like a hangover. If I’d lived in Victorian times, I’d have been drinking all the time.” Irene shuddered. “Imagine having to wear a corset every day.”
I didn’t want to imagine it. I didn’t even want to imagine wearing Spanx every day. Some days were just made for elastic waistbands.
“I wonder what this property’s worth,” Irene mused as she picked her way through, past, and over Kate’s things. “You could probably fix this place up and make some nice cash.”
Something caught my eye. “Right, like I could afford to fix it up.” I paused to pick up a music box with a single ballerina in a pink tutu poised en pointe on a little white pedestal. I twisted a lever on the bottom, and the ballerina began to twirl as the first bars of Für Elise wafted through the room like a haunting perfume.
“Well, there must be some value in the land itself.” Irene’s hands went to her hips. “You could sell it as is and probably buy a turnkey condo with the proceeds.” She paused, looking around. “Or at least afford a down payment on one.”
I set the music box down carefully on an end table. “If I sell it for the land value, someone will tear it down.”
Irene nodded. “If they’re smart.”
“But this house has something.”
“Sure it does,” Irene said. “It has drafty windows and slanted floors and a leaky roof.”
“Look at the trim,” I said. “It could be gorgeous.” I pointed. “And underneath all the dust, those are real crystals on that chandelier.”
“You’re right. This place is a flipper’s dream. Fix it up, and sell it, Mar. Quickly. Before anything else falls apart.”
“It’s not that bad,” I argued. “The insulated drapes will help with the drafty windows. The floors aren’t that uneven. And we don’t know that the roof leaks.”
“Right,” 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.”
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