“Stranger things have happened, young lady. And you can’t deny the smell of mystery hangs in the air of this decrepit old house.”
Actually, that was probably just the lemony scent of the homemade polish Mara had used on the woodwork yesterday. And “decrepit” was a little strong, wasn’t it? Sure, all five bathrooms—one downstairs, four up—needed a complete gut job. The furnace rattled and old windows did little to deny wintry drafts.
But couldn’t Mrs. Jenkins see the charm underneath it all? Hadn’t she noticed the stained-glass window behind the registration desk downstairs? Or the ornate woodwork of the staircase banister? The tray ceilings and crown molding?
Mrs. Jenkins thumped the wall again. “Shall we?”
Mara swallowed her sigh and skirted around the woman. She nudged the door the rest of the way open, stepped inside, and waited as her potential boarder shuffled in behind her. And then, just like Mara had known she would, Mrs. S.B. Jenkins gasped.
“I know. They’re a bit much.” Porcelain dolls—dozens of them, with painted bow lips and beady glass eyes—peered from ghostly white faces all around the room. They were crowded onto every surface—the mahogany dresser, wall shelves, even the window seat with its faded mustard yellow cushion that matched the poster bed’s lacy canopy.
The other guestrooms had their quirks, but this one was just plain creepy, right down to the antique clock ticking loudly in the corner.
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” Mrs. Jenkins stuttered.
A nightmare.
“Beautiful.”
Mara nearly choked. “Wait. What?”
“Heaven only knows why you didn’t show me this room first. It’s positively delightful.” She straightened a doll’s dress. Opened a dresser drawer. Pushed aside a curtain, letting in what little muted light the overcast day had to offer, and wandered to the open closet.
“In that case, if you’re thinking of staying, we have nightly and weekly rates. Breakfast is included, of course, and—”
Mara was cut off by a screech. Mrs. Jenkins jumped and backed up, bumping into the bed, glasses sliding down her nose.
A telltale meow drifted from the closet, and a second later a tawny feline sauntered to Mara’s feet and batted at the hem of her sweater. So this is where the annoying furball had been hiding since last night.
Wrinkles folded into each other on Mrs. Jenkins’s forehead. “You have a cat.” Her voice was flat.
“I don’t have a cat. He doesn’t really belong to anybody.” According to Lenora, the cat came with the place when she’d purchased the property last year. But as long as Mara had been here, he’d come and gone at will, sometimes disappearing for days at a time.
Mrs. Jenkins took off her glasses and stuffed them into her purse as if she’d seen enough—or too much, perhaps. “I don’t do cats.” She pulled a tissue from her purse, punctuating her irritation with a sneeze. “I’m dreadfully allergic.”
She whisked from the room and Mara spun to follow, nearly tripping over the cat. “You just had to show up now, didn’t you?” She hissed the words over her shoulder before hurrying after Mrs. Jenkins.
“I can keep away the cat. He won’t come near you. Honestly, I don’t like him all that much either.”
Mrs. Jenkins’s cane bopped against each step as she moved down the staircase. “Thank you, but no. The house is completely unsuitable.”
“B-but the dolls. You liked the dolls.”
In the lobby Mrs. Jenkins reached for her suitcase. “I was temporarily distracted from the rest of it. The atmosphere is most assuredly not adequate.”
Mara followed her to the porch. “Mrs. Jenkins, please, I—”
But it was too late. The woman had made her decision and there was nothing to do but watch her march down the porch steps and across the lawn. Within minutes her Lincoln disappeared down the lane, its rumbling engine joined by the groaning of the stooping elm tree.
The wind carried off Mara’s sigh and lifted her already unruly hair, reddish strands fluttering over her eyes. I tried, Lenora. I really did.
But apparently she didn’t possess the same inviting warmth and knack for welcoming guests as the Everwood’s owner. She never had been any good at impressing folks. But she’d thought the house’s charm might make up for the lack of her own.
She cinched her sweater’s belt. On a different day, she might make herself feel better with a stroll over the patchy lawn. She might pass under the arbor at the side of the house, imagining spring and flowers and rolling green reaching into the trees, while her heart tested out the word that never seemed to fit anywhere else—home.
But it was too cold for that on this March day and those bundled clouds overhead, too gray.
So she went only as far as the mailbox. She plucked a lone letter from the box and turned back toward the house.
And then froze halfway across the lawn, two boldfaced words on the outside of the envelope marching into focus—Foreclosure Notice.
The leaning elm whimpered again. So much for home.
Pounding his fist on his captain’s desk was going too far. Marshall knew it when a framed photo of the man’s wife tipped. Knew it when stale coffee sloshed over the edge of a forgotten mug, slicking down to stain letterhead bearing the precinct’s emblem.
But when Captain Wagner’s granite gaze seized his . . . that’s when he felt it, the sickening thud in his stomach an echo of his mistake. Only the latest in a reckless series.
It should’ve been enough to still his tongue.
But no. “You can’t release him. I still have two hours.”
“And what exactly are you going to accomplish in those two hours that you haven’t been able to in the past forty-six?” Movements methodic, Captain Wagner angled in his chair, pulled a wad of tissues from the Kleenex box on the windowsill behind him, and wiped up the coffee. “I hope you realize how much restraint it’s taking me right now not to make some snide comment about the irony of cleaning up your mess.”
Any other time, a rumble of laughter might lighten his commanding officer’s tone, even during a scolding. Not this time.
Too far.
Rain drizzled down the window in rivulets, the Milwaukee evening sky outside as gray as these unadorned office walls. He rubbed sweaty palms over his tan pants. Had he been wearing these since Saturday? “Captain—”
“Save it.” With a final swipe, Captain Wagner shoved aside the wet mess and fastened his dark eyes on Marshall’s once more. “You should never have brought him in. I know it. You know it. Every cop out there who’s spent all weekend trying to dig up evidence just to make your arrest stick knows it.”
Marshall couldn’t make himself turn to glance where the captain pointed, to the glass overlooking the pod of desks that made up the detectives’ bullpen. Didn’t have to. He’d already seen the circles under Tracy’s eyes earlier this morning, after a night spent wading through street camera footage. He’d spotted Larry napping in the precinct lounge a couple hours ago. Must not have gone home last night either. Bailey and Lewis had been pulled off a case to help out too.
And Alex. His focused efforts over the past two days had nearly outrivaled Marshall’s, so much so that his wife had taken to texting Marshall, asking if she was ever going to see her husband again.