Anissa closed the door on them and they walked back to Kathy’s car. Mr. Jackson had taken meticulous care of the inside of his home but not the outside. Therefore, Tori could understand why his nearest neighbor wanted to wipe out the blight that was Jackson’s lot. The only question was, did Lucinda Bloomfield want to beautify the neighborhood badly enough to kill?
CHAPTER 6
The paint was dry on the north side of the bait shop when Tori and Kathy arrived back at the Cannon compound. Tori started the second coat while Kathy began work on restoring the aged wooden signs. First she scraped away the old paint, trusting it was oil based—not lead—and painted the background white before starting the red lettering with the black drop shadow. She’d finished the side of the sign facing east while Tori had repainted the north and east sides of the shop. During that time, the shop saw three customers enter its doors. A hopeful sign.
Tori approached. “It’s fifteen minutes until we’re supposed to meet the real estate agent,” she called.
Kathy put her brush down and admired her work.
“Not bad,” Tori said. “Looks like a pro did it.”
Kathy smiled. “Thanks. After supper I’ll tackle the other side. That is if you don’t mind doing the other two sides of the shop.
“I do—but it’s got to be done. You were right; I’m loving the color. I sure hope you’re also right that it will be good for business.”
“Trust me.” Kathy tamped down the lids on the paint cans. “I need to clean up and change before we head across the street. Is it okay if I leave these here?”
“I’ll move them over to the sidewalk outside the Lotus Lodge—just in case any of our boat people show up. It’ll look tidier.”
“There’s a Dumpster in your front yard and you’re worried about a couple of paint cans?”
Tori pouted.
“Okay, okay,” Kathy said affably. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She looked both ways before crossing the road. The speed limit on the bridge was only thirty miles per hour, but was raised to fifty-five immediately afterward and drivers didn’t hesitate a second before putting their pedals to the metal. She had no desire to be road kill.
Only a few motorcycles were parked in The Bay Bar’s parking lot, near her own car. Kathy hurried to wash and change. When she emerged from her room, she saw that Anissa had already arrived and she and Tori were leaning against the bar’s deck waiting for her. Anissa was wearing a tool belt strapped around her waist.
“You came prepared,” Kathy said, delighted.
“The place probably doesn’t have electricity. I brought a flashlight, a hammer, screwdrivers, a stud finder, and a couple of other things that might be useful.”
“Shall we walk over to the house?” Tori asked.
Together the women crossed the parking lot for the weedy patch of dirt that ran parallel to the road. The hedges at the side of the yard were completely out of control, soaring some fifteen or more feet into the air and adding to the aura of neglect that clung to the house. It looked even worse in the afternoon light than it had in the morning, but Kathy felt a thrill of excitement just looking at it. She’d looked at a lot of houses in Batavia and never had she felt such a sense of welcome as she got from this sadly abused dwelling. It was stupid. It was a ruin, but she wanted it as bad as a kid wants her first bike. She knew Tori would try to talk her out of it, which was why she was glad they’d asked Anissa to join them. Kathy had come close to putting an offer on another fixer-upper until she’d found out there were foundation issues. What idiot built a house on dirt? The beams were so far gone it was a miracle they supported the floor above them, let alone the rest of the building’s weight. What bad news would Anissa deliver when she looked over the place?
The front yard, if that’s what it could be called, was little more than a sand lot sprouting a variety of weeds. A couple hundred thousand years earlier where they now stood was once the bottom of Lake Ontario. It would probably need a couple of tons of topsoil before a decent lawn could grow.
“I’m going to walk around the building to see what’s up. Anybody want to join me?” Anissa asked.
Kathy looked down at her sandaled feet and bare legs and thought about snakes and ticks that might be lurking in the thigh-high grass and weeds. “Not right now. Besides, I need to wait for the real estate agent.”
“I’ll come,” Tori volunteered. She hadn’t changed from her jeans and sweatshirt.
Kathy watched them walk around the corner, and then turned her gaze back to the front of the house. Most of the paint had worn off the clapboards from years of hostile weather, but the naked wood didn’t look in too bad of shape. Kathy was about to mount the steps when a black SUV pulled into what was left of a gravel driveway. Kathy’s heart started to pound as a man with thick white hair, dressed in khaki’s and a green golf shirt, got out of the car, with a clipboard in hand.
“Kathy Grant?” he called.
“Yes. Mr. Peterson?”
“That’s me. Call me Jerry.”
Kathy met him halfway and they shook hands. “Hi, Jerry. I’m glad you could fit me into your schedule.”
“This place has been on the market so long, I didn’t want to miss a chance to show it. What kind of business were you thinking of building on the site? Restaurant? Convenience store?”
Kathy frowned. “Nothing of the kind. If I buy this property, I’d restore the house.”
Jerry scowled. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Well, my contractor is wandering around in the back. She’ll be able to give me a better idea once we’ve walked through the place.”
Jerry dug into his pants pocket and removed a key. He advanced toward the lockbox on the front door. “Let’s get to it.”
He unlocked the door and held it open for Kathy to go inside. The air was stifling, and smelled of must, stale urine, and dry rot, but Kathy was not deterred. What had once been a large open foyer had been closed in with drywall, delineating what looked to be a couple of small apartments. The drywall to the left looked like someone had taken an ax to it, and faded pink fiberglass insulation seemed to seep from the wounds. The ceiling above sported peeling paint and lath with missing plaster, making Kathy’s heart ache to see such neglect.
“As you can see, the place is in major disrepair,” Jerry said unnecessarily.
The door to the left hung on unsteady hinges. Kathy pushed it open and stepped inside. The floor was black and badly water damaged.
The filthy empty fish tank that lay on its side explained that story. A stained-and-torn mattress had been shoved against one corner of the room, and the fireplace was filled with paper, cans, bottles, and other trash. It had been boxed in. Could there be treasure—tile, stone, or a lovely old mantle—under the sheetrock? The tangled mess of what had been the framework of a suspended ceiling hung in ruins overhead, but Kathy could see above it cove molding, and again her heart started to beat faster.
A noise behind her made her jump. “Boy, what a dump,” Tori said.
Kathy cringed before forcing a smile and making introductions, while Jerry eyed Anissa with consternation. “You’re not local,” he said, his voice flat.
“Nope. I’m from Rochester. Tori and I are old friends.”
“You’re a contractor?” he asked skeptically.
Anissa shot a look at Kathy and smiled. “You don’t think a woman is up for the job?”
“Oh, no—not at all. It’s just—” But he didn’t offer a further explanation.
“Is this place safe to walk through?” Tori asked, sounding worried.
“We’ll find out,” Anissa said, and turned for the hall that led to the back of the house.
They wandered through the rest of the first floor, which had been turned into three apartments. All the rooms seemed to be filled with trash from its former occupants. The apartment in the back had once housed what seemed to be the original dining room and a large kitchen, the latter of which had been divided to include a terrible litt
le bathroom whose tiled surround seemed to now fill the undersized bathtub.
The kitchen cabinets weren’t original, the counter was littered with mouse droppings, and the floor was worn with many holes, revealing layers and layers of old linoleum and even the wide planks of the original subfloor. Kathy’s heart sank as her logical mind started totaling up the cost of gutting and replacing just about everything on the first floor.
“Shall we go upstairs?” Anissa asked.
“You go, I’ll just hang around down here,” Jerry said. He looked discouraged, as though he’d already decided that showing the house had been a colossal waste of his time.
Anissa led the way and Kathy and Tori followed after her. The wide stairs must have once looked magnificent, but many of the balusters were missing, as was the finial on top of the newel post.
“Kath, you can’t possibly think this place is worth saving,” Tori said.
Kathy looked at Anissa, who merely shrugged.
The top floor had been divided into another three apartments, whose conditions mirrored those below.
“If you’re thinking of turning this joint into a B and B, the bathrooms they added to the top floor will make it worthwhile. That is if they aren’t full of galvanized pipe,” Anissa said. “You never know what’s there until you start pulling the walls apart. If it’s got a decent attic, you might fit in another two guest rooms.”
“What’s your assessment so far?” Kathy asked, dreading the answer.
Anissa shrugged. “I dunno. The electrical needs a total revamp. There are fifteen amp fuses in the box at the end of the kitchen—and that’s just plain dangerous in a house this size. Did you notice that every room only has one electrical outlet? That’s got to change. The roof is iffy. There isn’t one gutter on the entire place, which is why there’s so much wood rot. And I really need to look at the basement and the furnace and water heaters, which could reveal another whole set of problems.”
“Kath, you need to walk away from this money pit,” Tori said, her brow furrowed with honest concern.
“Not necessarily,” Anissa said, and Kathy noted the angry look Tori shot in her childhood friend’s direction
“What do you mean?”
“It depends on your goals. How bad do you want a historic property? How much are you willing to spend to bring it back to a habitable state? How much intestinal fortitude do you have to see the whole restoration project through, and how much do you just plain want it?”
“What do you think it would cost to bring a place like this back to life?” Kathy asked, and her gut tightened.
Anissa shrugged. “It depends on your definition of restoration. Rehab is cheaper. You could do it for maybe fifty or sixty grand if you went on the cheap. Double, triple, or even more if you want historical accuracy.”
“Have you ever restored an historical home?” Kathy asked.
“I’ve worked on a couple of them, but I’ve never been a general contractor on such a big project.”
“Do you think you could do it?”
Anissa smiled. “I’d sure like to try.”
Tori shook her head. “Kath, you can’t be serious. This place is a wreck.”
Kathy frowned. “I’m not in a hurry. You know I’ve got another four months before I get my inheritance. Is anyone else likely to try to buy this place in the interim?”
“Anything’s possible,” Anissa said.
“You don’t have to make a decision today, tomorrow, or even next week,” Tori said adamantly.
“That’s for sure,” Kathy admitted.
“Let’s try to find that attic access, and then I’ll check the basement,” Anissa said.
Kathy nodded, trying to avoid Tori’s angry glare.
Anissa found a narrow set of stairs that led to the attic, but neither Kathy nor Tori deigned to follow her up, leaving the two friends alone.
“Kath,” Tori began.
“Don’t,” Kathy warned. “May I remind you that you’re trying to resurrect your grandfather’s failing bait and tackle shop?”
“Yes, but all it’s costing me is a few cans of paint, a little elbow grease, and a lot of hope. The work it would take just to revive this old house, let alone make it pay for itself, is tremendous.”
“I watch the same home renovation shows you do. I have a pretty good idea of what I’d be in for. And you’ve got to know that a big part of the appeal in buying this place is that you’d be across the road.”
Tori shook her head. “I don’t know where I’ll be in a couple of months.”
“I do,” Kathy said with conviction.
“You can’t stake your future on what I may or may not do.”
“But I can stake my future on what I’ve been planning, saving, and dreaming about since I was seventeen years old.”
Tori held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I won’t say another word.”
“Thank you.” Kathy looked around the ruined, water-damaged wall in the hall. “I want to walk through the whole house at least one more time. I need to make some notes and take some measurements.”
“I’ll meet you back at the bait shop,” Tori said, gave the hall another onceover and shook her head before she started down the stairs. Kathy followed at a slower pace.
The front door was open and Kathy could see Jerry standing by his car talking on his phone. She turned and entered the apartment on the right. The room had originally been a parlor. It was in the same shape as its twin across the hall, but the room seemed to have double the amount of trash piled almost waist high in some spots. Kathy saw nothing worth salvaging and wondered how many Dumpsters it would take to clear out the place.
She followed a narrow path through the clutter, being careful not to let any of the trash touch her bare toes, making her way across the room to the fireplace. This hearth hadn’t been boxed in and was framed by a scarred, but still-beautiful wooden mantle and a Victorian tile surround depicting sweet blue flowers that resembled nothing in a real garden. A few tiles were chipped or cracked, but for the most part they were in better shape than the rest of the house. Like the rest of the room, the firebox was full of trash. A part of a curtain rod lay at her feet. Kathy picked it up and poked at the rubbish, trying to dislodge it to get a better view of the back of the fireplace when she spied a worn black leather wallet. It took three tries before she was able to extricate it. The thing was probably rife with germs, but her interest was piqued. She unfolded it, finding it devoid of cash and credit cards, but there was a valid driver’s license lodged in the back behind the picture of two young African-American children. She read the name and address as a wave of cold passed through her.
Michael Jackson, who lived on Resort Road.
#
Anissa had taken one look at the picture in the wallet and burst into tears. She’d recognized the children in the picture: herself and her older brother at ages eight and ten. Jerry had not been pleased when Kathy had called the Wade County Sheriff’s Department to report the find. He wanted to lock up, go home, have a beer, and get ready for the baseball game on TV that evening. It took more than an hour before the lead investigator in the case, Detective Osborn, had shown up at the ramshackle old house.
“You say you found it in the fireplace?” Osborn practically growled. Had he, too, been anticipating an evening home in front of tube? He’d donned latex gloves before handling the wallet.
“That’s right,” Kathy said.
“Did anyone other than you touch it?”
“His daughter, Anissa,” Kathy said, pointing to the weepy woman who sat on the wooden step in front of the house.
Osborn frowned. “You probably obliterated any fingerprint evidence.”
“How was I to know the wallet belonged to a murder victim?” Kathy said in her own defense.
“Can I close up the house and go home?” Jerry asked impatiently.
“No. I need to get a lab team out here to search for any other evidence,” Osborn said.
&
nbsp; Jerry glowered, looked like he wanted to hit something—or someone—and stormed off for his car to once again sit in the driver’s seat and fume.
“Let’s go over it all again,” Osborn said.
Kathy sighed. “We arrived at the house.”
“Just the three of you?”
“No, my friend, Tori Cannon, was with us. She went back home—across the street—to start a second coat of paint on the bait shop. Anissa was checking out the attic, and Jerry was standing in the front yard on his cell phone when I found the wallet.”
Osborn looked back at the house. “Were there any windows or doors open when you first went into the house?”
“No.”
“And the house was locked?”
“Jerry had to get the key from the lock box hanging from the front door to open it.”
“Was there a time when any of you were alone in any of the rooms?”
Kathy shrugged. “As I said, Anissa went to the attic. None of us were in this room alone, so you can count us out as suspects, if that’s what you’re trying to infer.”
Osborn’s gaze hardened, then he turned back to look at Anissa. “Do you think she’s ready to talk?”
“You make it sound like she’s a suspect.” Kathy was getting a little annoyed at this guy’s line of questioning.
“At this point, everybody’s a suspect.” He headed for the steps outside. Kathy followed.
“Miss Jackson?” Anissa looked up. “Do you feel up to answering some questions?”
Anissa rubbed her bloodshot eyes and nodded.
“Have you ever seen this wallet before today?”
“Of course I have. I made it for my Daddy when I was at summer camp about a million years ago, that’s why he never replaced it.”
“When was the last time you saw it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a year or two ago.”
“And to your knowledge he never had a different, newer wallet.”
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you know if he had any credit cards?”
“I know he had at least one, but I don’t know what company it was with.”
“Do you know why someone would want to rob and then kill him?”
With Baited Breath Page 7
