The House on Prytania (Royal Street #2)(26)
Author: Karen White

 

Beau’s footsteps faded away as he disappeared into the back of the house; then he quickly returned. “It’s a camelback,” he said. “Can’t see it from the street, but there are stairs off the kitchen to the second floor.” He held out his hand palm up, just like I did for Mardi. “Stay here,” he reminded me.

 

“Whatever,” I said, keeping my hand on the doorknob, the door open just in case. “And I’m not a dog,” I added to his departing back.

 

“I’ve noticed,” he said, as his footsteps disappeared again. Before closing the door I waited until I heard the slow progress of his steps.

 

I began pulling aside the heavy velvet drapes on the tall windows, coughing as the layers of dust complained by erupting into clouds of thick motes that coated my nostrils and throat. Undeterred in my quest for brightness, I yanked open the shutters, allowing in streams of sunlight diluted only by windows that hadn’t been washed in years.

 

He returned quickly. “Did you see anything?” I asked, fiddling with the puddled fabric at the bottoms of the drapery panels.

 

“Nothing. All the windows and the back door are locked. There were only small footprints in the dust on the floor on the stairs and in the apartment on the second floor.”

 

“Did you . . . ?” I stopped, unsure how to continue.

 

“Talk to him? I mean, I think it’s a boy, but I can’t be sure. But no. I need to know he’s the only one here before I attempt to communicate. Maybe you can help me figure that out.”

 

“All right,” I said slowly.

 

“See what I did there?” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I just asked nicely for your help, and neither one of us burst into flames. That’s a good sign, right?”

 

“A good sign of what?”

 

Beau turned and yanked aside the curtains on the second window. With a sidelong glance and an arched eyebrow, he said, “I have no idea.”

 

The sounds of a car engine and then slamming doors brought our attention to the front of the house. Peering through the murky windows, we spotted a dark maroon late-model Buick sedan and two women who studied Beau’s truck before approaching the house.

 

“Isn’t that . . . ?”

 

“It is.” Beau swung open the front door and stepped out onto the porch. “Can I help you ladies?”

 

They looked at him with varying expressions of surprise. Mrs. Wenzel pressed her lips together before lifting the bird and its cage from the car. “Are you the buyers?” Honey asked excitedly.

 

“Potentially,” Beau said. “Or, at least, my grandmother, Mrs. Ryan, is. She sent my associate Nola Trenholm with me today to get a deeper understanding of any restoration work needed.”

 

They joined us on the porch, Mrs. Wenzel frowning deeply, scoring ridges on either side of her mouth. “The house is in perfect condition. I myself have seen to the upkeep over the last several years, so I would know. Ever since our half brother and family disappeared.” The small blue bird flapped its wings in agitation. Mrs. Wenzel leaned down to peer into the cage. In a sweet, high-pitched voice that seemed out of place on the elegant woman, she said, “I know, sweet baby. They left you behind, didn’t they? All alone with no one to care for you.” She straightened, the frown back on her face. “Zeus doesn’t like to be alone, so he goes with us everywhere now. This was his home. I thought he might want to see it one last time.”

 

“Mrs. Ryan is your grandmother?” Honey asked with a hopeful note.

 

“Yes,” Beau said, eyeing the bird with caution, his curious stare thankfully not reciprocated. “And I agree that the house appears to be in great shape. It’s just a bit dat—”

 

“Beau means to say that the décor is a bit too sophisticated for today’s buyer,” I interrupted. “That could be why you haven’t had any takers despite its having been on the market for so long.”

 

“And not having central air,” Honey added, looking like she almost believed it.

 

Mrs. Wenzel looked at her sister and shook her head. “Or,” she interjected, “it has more to do with the unsolved murder of our stepmother in the house, and the disappearance of our brother, his wife, and their young daughter. They call houses like this—”

 

“Murder houses,” Honey whispered loudly, leading her sister inside the house.

 

“We know,” Beau said. “Which is such a shame, because it’s just a gorgeous specimen of early twentieth-century architecture. We plan to really make it shine for today’s buyer.”

 

“Do you really think you can?” The older woman peered into Beau’s face. “Some people say these houses carry some very bad juju. You might want to focus on the out-of-towners, because anyone from here knows better.”

 

“It’s a shame,” Honey said, moving toward a stuffed floral armchair with a yellowed lace doily on the headrest. “It’s been in our family since it was built. Our grandfather worked on the docks and raised his eight children here, and our father chose to leave it to our half brother when he died.” Her lips tightened. “Joan and I spent a lot of happy times here as children visiting our grandparents. The kitchen was updated in the fifties by our grandmother, but I don’t think it’s been touched since, and most of the furniture is original.”

 

I bit my tongue before I could comment on the cracked-leather footstool with what appeared to be real alligator feet, or on the collection of taxidermied animal heads hanging on the walls. “How long did your brother and his family live here?”

 

The two women shared a look. “Jessica—our sister-in-law—moved in here first with our niece, Lynda, when she was just a baby. Our stepmother lived here alone after our father died, but apparently she and Jessica were very close. We think Jessica might have needed her mother-in-law’s help caring for Lynda. Jessica and our half brother, Mark, also owned a beautiful lakefront mansion, but I think she found it too big to manage. I believe she lived here with Lynda most of the time. As I mentioned earlier, we were estranged, so we have no idea what was going on with her and our brother, but that’s how I understand it. And then one day . . .” Mrs. Wenzel’s voice trailed off.

 

“Your stepmother was murdered, and your brother and family disappeared and haven’t been seen or heard from since,” Beau said.

 

Mrs. Wenzel’s lips tightened again. “Yes.” She pressed her hand against her heart. “Honey and I were interviewed by the police as if we had something to do with it.” Her crepey eyelids shuttered her eyes for a moment. “It was upsetting and humiliating. We were cleared, of course, but it was very traumatic for both of us.”