Читать книгу House of Strangers - Carolyn McSparren - Страница 8

Early March

“I’M SORRY TREY sold the house to a stranger,” Ann Corrigan said as she hooked her foot under a rung of her bar stool at the counter of the Wolf River Café. “Not that I really blame him. What else could he do?”

“Two years on the market without a nibble. I guess he could have burned it down and collected the insurance,” Bernice Jones answered. She ran a clean rag over the counter. “You want breakfast?”

“Just some iced tea, please. I would have bought the place myself if I had the money and could afford to fix it up.”

“What would you do with a big place like that?” Bernice shook her head, picked up a mason jar, filled it with ice and tea, then set it down in front of Ann. “It’s about ready to fall down. Trey jumped at that fool’s offer, don’t you think he didn’t.”

Ann peered across the counter. “Bernice, don’t you have any lemon?”

“If you’ll hold your horses, I’ll cut you some. The tea’s barely had time to steep.” Bernice reached for a wicked-looking paring knife, picked up a lemon and began slicing it with speed and accuracy. “Bet you couldn’t get iced tea this time of the morning up in Buffalo, could you?”

“Half the time I couldn’t get iced tea in the middle of the day up there. They have this weird idea that iced tea is for hot weather and never for breakfast. And they never even heard of sweet tea.”

“Ought to be glad you finished that job and got yourself back down south. You must be sick of blizzards.”

“I spent so much time restoring the proscenium arch in that old theater I didn’t much care about the weather outside. I do not want to see any more gold leaf for a while.”

“Not much of that next door at the old Delaney house.” Bernice set a dish of sliced lemons on the counter. “Be better if it collapsed on its own, except it would probably fall on the café and kill us all.”

Ann speared two pieces of lemon, squeezed them into her tea, then added a couple of packets of artificial sweetener. “Why are you so down on the place?”

“Everybody who ever lived in that mansion was miserable. Some houses are just unhappy from the get-go. You mark my words. That Frenchman has bought himself a heap of trouble.” Bernice looked past Ann’s shoulder. “Hold your horses, boys. I’ll be there with the coffee in a second.” She picked up the big pot and wended her way through the tables occupied nearly every morning by the same group of local farmers indulging in a second breakfast.

When Bernice set the coffeepot back on the warmer, Ann said, “I was happy there. Sometimes after my piano lesson Aunt Addy and I would have lemonade and homemade macaroons in the conservatory. That house is probably the reason I got into the restoration business. Every time I see an old building fallen on hard times, I just ache to make it glow again.”

“Huh. That house hasn’t done much glowing in my lifetime.”

“I hoped if it stayed on the market long enough, maybe Trey would donate it to the town for a museum. Endow it, restore it—something.”

“What does an itty-bitty town like Rossiter, Tennessee, need with a museum?” Bernice waved a hand at the walls of the café, which were hung with yellowed newspaper clippings going back nearly a hundred years. “This is as close as Rossiter gets to a museum. It’s not like that old house was built before the war.”

Ann knew the war in question was the Late Unpleasantness between North and South. Other wars were spoken of as World or Korean or Desert Storm. “I hate to admit this, but I used to swan down that staircase and pretend I was Cinderella. I dreamed about the way it must have looked all lit up for the cotillions and parties.”

“At least Trey sold the house to somebody who’s got the money to fix it up. And you got you a job close to home into the bargain. You met the new owner yet? That Frenchman?”

“Nope. Daddy’s supposed to be meeting him this morning to set up the schedule for the renovations. I might not see him for weeks if he commutes from New Jersey. And Daddy says he’s not French.”

Bernice leaned her elbow on the counter and rested her cheek on her hand. “What I want to know,” she whispered, “is why some bachelor would buy that old house in a little town like this and spend a bunch of money on it.”

Ann shrugged. “Daddy says he used to be an airline pilot. He got hurt and can’t fly big planes any longer. Maybe he’s buddies with some of the pilots who’ve redone the antebellum houses in LaGrange. He could have heard about the house from them.”

“Those pilots fly out of Memphis, so they have to live close by, and they’ve got families and more money than sense. He’s just some guy who showed up out of the blue, bought the place in five minutes and hired your daddy to fix it.” She shook her head. “I’m surprised he didn’t try to turn it into apartments or maybe tear it down and build something else—not that the town would let anybody do that to a historic property.” She nodded her head sagely. “They say he’s retired.” It sounded like an accusation.

“So?” Ann asked. “Lots of men retire early.”

“Not that early. According to Lorene Hoddle, he’s no more than thirty-five or -six. I tell you, Ann, there’s something strange about it.”

“Oh, come on, Bernice. You think he’s going to set up a crack house or a high-class bordello?”

“Hush. Anyway, Miss Ann, you and your daddy take care not to do all that work and let him skedaddle without paying you.”

“Daddy’s checked out his credit references. He’s got the money to pay us, and most people don’t run out owing the chief of police money.” She considered. “Gangsters wouldn’t set up drug operations or prostitution in a town of 350 souls, most of whom are kin and all of whom know one another’s business. Why drive way out here from Memphis to sin? And with legal gambling just south of the border in Mississippi, he’d hardly be likely to open an illegal casino in west Tennessee.”

“Well, just you wait. There’s something not right about it.” Bernice refilled Ann’s glass. “I thought he might be one of those professional decorators—you know, like Patsy’s boy Calvin that went away to New Orleans—him not being married and all, but Lorene says he seems real macho. And real handsome. Now, Ann, if you play your cards right…”

Ann laughed into her tea so hard she sputtered. “Bernice, one minute you’re convinced he’s a drug dealer, the next you’re telling me to go after the poor man. No, no and no.”

“Why not? You been divorced almost two years. You’re too young not to get married again, have some babies.”

“Bernice, I love you, but I’m not looking for another handsome man—certainly not one who’s retired, as you say, at thirty-five, and definitely not one who bought my family’s old homeplace. He’ll be my client for as long as it takes to finish the Delaney mansion, then I’m off to restore something else. I’ve got good reason to know that good-looking men tend to think the rules don’t apply to them.”

“Then find a man who looks like a boot. But find somebody before you get too old for the market. So far you’ve turned down every man who’s even asked you out since you came home.”

“I’m not in town often enough these days to date anybody. How can I have a decent relationship when I’m off on a job in Buffalo for three months, and then maybe it’ll be Chicago or some railroad town in Iowa that’s got an old movie theater they want to restore to its former glory?”

“You’re home now.”

“This will be the first time I’ve done a restoration job in Rossiter since I came back with my tail between my legs and started working for Daddy. There aren’t that many people around who can afford me or who live in houses old enough to need restoration.”

“Well, that one is going to take some time.” Bernice hooked a thumb over her shoulder toward the Delaney house. “Miss Addy didn’t do a lick of upkeep on the place in the twenty years she lived there after Miss Maribelle died and left it to her.” She leaned closer and whispered, “I swear every field mouse in Rossiter had been living over there, and once Miss Addy died, they all came over here. I had to fumigate twice to get rid of them.”

“Not all of them moved. Daddy said they had to have the fumigators twice in January.”

From outside the front door came a long, low moan. It grew in intensity and pitch until it sounded as though the town had cranked up its tornado siren.

A grizzled farmer sitting with half-a-dozen friends over the dregs of his coffee sighed and peered over half glasses at Ann. “Fix that. A man’s got a right to a quiet breakfast.”

“Yes, sir.” Ann tossed two one-dollar bills onto the counter and started out.

A second low moan began to escalate. Behind her, Ann heard the assembled farmers snicker. “It’s okay, Dante,” she called to the giant mournful-looking black hound tied to a rail in front of the café. He shook the heavy folds of skin that hung from his cheeks, but he stopped howling. “Okay, boy, time to go to work.”

PAUL BOUVET had discovered on his first visit to Rossiter that the café next door to the Delaney mansion functioned as a sort of town clubhouse. He’d have to find some way to be, if not accepted, at least tolerated by the locals who ate there regularly. If his mother had come as far as Rossiter before she disappeared, someone might remember her. After all, thirty years ago there couldn’t have been too many strangers showing up in Rossiter.

He didn’t have a clue how to find out. He didn’t dare come out and ask. Nobody could know who he was or why he was here until he’d found out everything he needed to know. The private detective Uncle Charlie had hired never was able to trace his mother’s movements beyond the bus station in downtown Memphis. The trail went cold at that point and had stayed cold until six months ago.

All these years later Paul still believed he knew what had happened to her. All he had to do was prove it.

She would have called his father from the bus station. No doubt he jumped at the chance to pick her up there or meet her somewhere he couldn’t be identified. Mr. Hotshot Delaney didn’t want an inconvenient French peasant girl interfering with his life in Rossiter. She had to disappear.

So he met her, killed her and hid her body so well it had never been found.

What kind of man would do such a thing to a woman who’d loved him so deeply she’d left her own country for him, searched for him for six years and never stopped believing he loved her?

Paul had lived with the specter of his dead mother and her murderer—his father—for most of his life. It wasn’t any easier now that the murderer had a name.

The whole sordid story had to come out. His mother’s body had to be found and properly buried. Paul wanted the present generation of Delaneys to acknowledge the monstrous thing their father had done.

He wanted them to suffer as he had suffered.

He wanted them to be ashamed.

He slipped into a booth at the café, opened the Memphis newspaper and folded it in fourths as he had learned to do when riding on buses and subways in New York and New Jersey. He was surprised when the owner, a tall, handsome blond woman, set down a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. “Coffee?” she said.

Apparently one didn’t ask at this hour of the morning. One simply accepted that coffee was the drink of choice.

“Uh, thank you.”

“Cream’s on the table. What can I get you?”

“Plain wheat toast and a large orange juice, please.”

For a moment she stared down at him. Then she sniffed, went behind the counter at the end of the room and disappeared into the kitchen. He glanced at the group of farmers two tables away.

In a bar in France at this hour of the morning, the farmers would be on their third coffee and brandy. These men, who looked every bit as craggy as French peasants, were mopping up the last bits of egg with their biscuits.

Tante Helaine and Giselle would no doubt have turned up their noses at the food. But after years of grabbing godawful airline meals in flight and even worse in airports, Paul was happy with the menu at the café. These people served actual green vegetables, not simply fried potatoes.

“Wheat toast.” His waitress had returned.

“I think we’re going to be neighbors,” he said.

Instantly her face broke into a smile that lit her hazel eyes. “Wondered if you was him. Hey.”

As he was about to get to his feet, she flipped her hand at him. “We don’t stand on ceremony. I’m Bernice. Nice to meet you. Thought you was getting together with the chief this morning.”

“The chief? Not that I’m aware of.”

She laughed. “Buddy Jenkins, chief of police. He’s Jenkins Renovation and Restoration.”

“Oh, then yes, I am meeting him.” He checked his watch. “In about ten minutes.”

“You eat up. Buddy’s always on time unless there’s a law problem he has to handle. We mostly only get speeders out on the highway and drunk drivers.” She looked at him hard. “We have some drug problems in the county, but we sure as shootin’ don’t want any more.”

He smiled. “I’m sure you don’t. Thank you.”

As he bent to read his newspaper, he realized that all conversation had ceased. The farmers at the other table had swiveled in their chairs so that they could watch him. The moment he smiled at them, however, they turned away, hunched over and began to speak softly.

As a stranger moving to a small town, he’d expected to be checked out, but this was ridiculous.

He ate his breakfast, paid his bill, tipped the waitress generously, nodded to the farmers and left.

In Manhattan, piles of dirty snow still lined the streets. Here fifty miles east of the Mississippi River, the March wind was chill, but it smelled of fresh grass and newly turned earth. He’d been warned that west Tennessee summers were brutal, but he was ready to endure almost anything for this gentle early spring. Besides, he planned to install central air-conditioning in his new house.

At some point between the end of the Civil War and prohibition, Rossiter must have been prosperous. The small plaque that leaned against his front steps said that the Delaney house had been built in 1890. A dozen similar mansions along Main Street looked as though they dated from the early 1900s.

The railroad still ran along the far side of the open square that separated the town from the Wolf River bottoms on the north side, but the trains no longer even slowed to acknowledge the existence of the town.

Once there must have been a station. Probably it had stood where the small park with the shiny, ornate Victorian bandstand now perched across the parking lot from the café.

The café stood on one corner of what remained of the town square. About the time the Delaneys decided to build a fine house and move into town from their plantations, the area must have been a crush of mule-drawn wagons piled high with bales of cotton. Probably the café hadn’t existed then. He doubted the high-and-mighty Delaneys would have chosen to build their mansion next door to a café.

The pickup trucks and stock trailers parked haphazardly in the area now were not nearly as romantic.

Bank, mom-and-pop grocery, and dingy pool hall sat on the south side across the street from the café. Three handsomely restored row houses formed the west side. The lower floor of the first held his real-estate agent’s office and the second a florist shop. On the front porch of the third building, a twelve-foot black wooden grizzly bear advertised something, but Paul couldn’t begin to guess what.

Those few small stores constituted the entire business district of Rossiter. The nearest shopping mall was more than twenty miles away, on the road to Memphis.

Paul checked his watch and sauntered along the sidewalk toward his house. His house. He still couldn’t believe he’d done such an insane thing. He didn’t generally operate on impulse.

The sidewalk was dangerously buckled and broken by the roots of several giant oaks and magnolias in his front yard. Didn’t the city council, or whatever passed for government in this village, pay attention to things like dangerous walkways? Perhaps nobody in Rossiter actually walked.

When he reached the snaggle-toothed brick path that led up to his front porch, he simply stood and gloated. His house was younger, smaller and less splendid than Tara, but it must have been imposing in its day.

Unfortunately, at the moment it looked like an aging whore trying to cadge money for her next drink.

“I own your house, Daddy, you bastard,” Paul said louder than he’d planned.

Behind him he heard tires squeal. A squad car with the Rossiter seal slid to a stop by the curb. A man climbed out of the driver’s seat.

Paul had met Buddy Jenkins only once before, just after his bid to buy the house had been accepted. At the meeting in his real-estate agent’s office, Buddy had worn jeans and a University of Tennessee sweatshirt. They’d spoken on the telephone a number of times while Paul was winding up his affairs in New Jersey and storing his few possessions, but Buddy had never mentioned he was the chief of police.

In a town like this, being chief of police probably wasn’t a demanding job. No wonder he’d started his renovation company.

At first Paul had been reluctant to give the restoration contract to a local construction firm. How could anybody working out of a town the size of Rossiter be any good?

But when he’d inquired about renovation and restoration experts in the Memphis and west-Tennessee area, Buddy Jenkins’s name had come up repeatedly at the top of the list. After Paul checked out the mansions, theaters, government state houses and private homes that Jenkins had restored, he’d decided to hire the man.

“Don’t know if you can get him,” Mrs. Hoddle, his real-estate agent, had said. “He’s usually booked up pretty far in advance. But because the house is in Rossiter, you may be able to convince him to do the job for you.”

Buddy’s preliminary estimates on doing the job had taken Paul’s breath away until he found out what his New York friends were paying to renovate their brownstones.

Paul wanted the job done right. Now that he had committed to this crazy charade, this crazy crusade, being able to resell the house for a profit would make his victory even sweeter.

“Hey, Mr. Bouvet,” Buddy Jenkins said as he came forward and stuck out his hand. In uniform the man looked even larger. His starched shirt was perfectly pressed and tailored to his barrel chest and broad shoulders. His boots were spit-shined. What little hair he had left was cut in a gray fringe that barely showed against his tanned skin.

Jenkins probably carried 250 pounds or more on his six-three frame. God help the drunk driver who gave this man any lip. At six feet even and 175 pounds, Paul felt almost small by comparison.

“Ready for the bad news?” Jenkins said happily.

“Not really, but there’s no sense in putting it off.”

“First the good news. In three months or so this old place can look better than it’s looked since the day the Delaneys first moved in.”

“Three months?”

“Maybe five.”

“And the bad news?”

“Come on, I’ll walk you through.” Buddy reached into his pocket and drew out a key.

“If you don’t mind, Buddy, I’d like to use my key.”

“Sure.” Buddy grinned. “First time you’ve used it?”

“Since I had the new locks installed.” The front door was original, complete with an etched-glass oval in the center. Although the original brass lock remained, the shiny new Yale lock was the one that worked. Paul thought he’d feel a surge of triumph when he stepped into the house again. He felt nothing.

“Let’s start in the basement,” Buddy said. “We’ve got a temporary permit for the electricity, so we can see while we replace the wiring.”

“All of it?”

“Every whipstitch,” Buddy said. “Phone lines, too.” The old oak floors echoed their footsteps. “Watch your head.”

Over the next hour Paul listened to Buddy’s litany of disaster. Maybe the house hadn’t been such a bargain, after all.

“Need to jack up at least one corner of the house to replace sills,” Buddy said. “Termites.”

“The house has stood this long with termite damage. Why disturb it?”

“Because it may decide some night in a storm that it has stood plenty long enough and fall down around your ears. Besides, you won’t get any inspector to sign off on the renovations unless we do.”

Paul nodded.

“I’ll show you when we get to the attic. Needs a new roof and decking, of course.”

Another hour of crawling through attics, poking into bathrooms, peering up fireplaces, left Paul even more dispirited.

When at last they moved into the kitchen, Buddy said, “You need new appliances and stuff. I got a kitchen designer working on a plan for a whole new kitchen.” Buddy looked at him. “How you holding up?”

“I’ll survive. At least I think I will.”

“Now we get to the restoration part. Come with me.”

Buddy shoved the pocket doors aside and ushered Paul into the back parlor. Buddy pointed at the Steinway grand piano in the bay window.

“It’s not quite a concert grand,” Buddy said, “although Miss Addy used to tell her students it was.”

“It’s a beauty.”

“It’s yours.”

“I know, but I don’t understand why it was built into the house that way.”

“The Delaney who built the house in 1890 thought any daughter of his ought to be able to play the piano. He bought this one and literally had the music room—that’s what this is officially—built around it.”

“But I was under the impression that the man who built this house had only one son.” Paul could have bitten off his tongue. At this stage, he wasn’t supposed to know anything about the Delaneys except their name.

“Had a daughter died of the yellow fever when she was no more than four or five, so I’ve heard.” Buddy looked at Paul curiously. “How come you know about the son?”

“I, uh…after I bought the house I did a bit of checking with the historical society about it. Just curiosity, you know.”

“Uh-huh.” The chief seemed satisfied, but Paul knew he’d have to be more careful in the future.

Buddy walked over to the piano and plinked middle C with his index finger. “Needs tuning. Ann thinks she can restore the strings and pads and the ivory on the keys.”

“Ann?”

“Ann’s the restoration part of Renovation and Restoration. She’s the one who’s going to strip all that paint off your fireplaces and re-create the old crown molding that’s missing. And a bunch of other stuff.”

“I see.”

“Mostly she redoes the cosmetic stuff. Like that mural in the dining room. It’s a fine Chinese rice paper old Mr. Delaney imported. You weren’t thinking of stripping it and throwing it away, were you?”

“Not if it can be restored.”

“If it’s possible, Ann’ll do it. It’s amazing what she can do. She worked as an art restorer in Washington and New York for a while.”

“Then Ann it is.” Paul turned to look out the dirty bay window. “What’s that old building down there behind the house?”

“Summer kitchen. It may be too far gone to save, but we might be able to salvage enough old wood to rebuild the gazebo so you could use it for a pool house, maybe, if you ever put one in.”

“No pool, thank you. Maybe eventually a fountain.”

“When you going back to New Jersey?”

“I’m not. I’ve sublet my apartment.”

“You’re not expecting to live in the house, are you?” Buddy looked horrified. “Not until it’s finished, I mean.”

“Actually, I am. I’m used to camping out. If the plumbing works, I can make do with a cot in the back bedroom.”

“Son, it still gets very cold at night. The old water heater may hold up until we replace it or it may not. Plus the dust and the noise. You sure you want to stay here?”

“I’ll give it a try. If I get uncomfortable, I can always spend a night in a motel.”

Buddy scratched his balding head. “Your choice, but I wouldn’t advise it. You surely don’t plan on cooking, do you?”

Paul laughed. “Not with the café next door.”

“Good, ’cause that old stove might blow up the first time you try to light the pilot.”

Paul followed Buddy to the front door and opened it for him. He was, after all, the host. Odd feeling. He’d never owned a house or even a condo in his life.

“My crew will be here first thing tomorrow morning,” Buddy said. “I got to get back to police work.”

“Fine.” Paul closed and locked the front door of the house behind the man. He planned to absorb the atmosphere of the place. Maybe meet a ghost. Weren’t ghosts supposed to be troubled spirits doomed to walk the earth to pay for their crimes in life?

If that was true, then he knew of at least one ghost who ought to be walking the halls of the Delaney mansion in torment. His father.