House of Strangers. Carolyn McSparren
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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.
CHAPTER TWO
PAUL’S SHOULDER ached. He drove back to his motel using only his left hand. His right arm would never be really strong again. Even with all the physical therapy and the operations he’d endured, he’d been warned the pain might never completely leave him.
The damp chill in the Delaney house wasn’t helping. He probably shouldn’t have explored the place again after Buddy left. He hadn’t uncovered anything worth noting, anyway. The dirt floor in the basement, which hadn’t been disturbed since the house was built, was as hard as concrete, and the attic seemed to hold no hidden spaces. He decided he’d explore further when he was rested.
Another night in a good bed was more necessity than indulgence.
Time enough to organize his camping equipment tomorrow. And if he hated staying at the house, he could always check back into the motel.
He shut the door of his room behind him, tossed the key on the dresser and collapsed onto the king-size bed. In his years of flying he’d spent too many nights in anonymous rooms like this. Sometimes when his wake-up call came, he’d have to check the notepad beside the telephone to remember where he was. He never thought he’d miss those days, but now if he had his right arm and shoulder back the way they’d been before the attack, he’d never complain about his crazy flight schedule again.
Not going to happen. But at least he’d managed to pass the physical for a Class III commercial pilot’s license. He could still fly his own small plane and would be flying a cropduster for the local fixed-base operation in a few weeks. So in some sense, he still had the sky. Doug Slatterly and Bill McClure would never be able to fly again. Doug still had memory lapses and tremors. Bill had lost the sight in his right eye and along with it, his depth perception.
And all because one of their colleagues had decided to crash the L-10 transport they were flying so that his family could collect double indemnity on his life insurance.
They’d all had military experience, but even so, the attack was so sudden, so unexpected, that they’d all been badly hurt before they’d fought back. It was a miracle Doug had stayed conscious, keeping the man at bay to give Paul a chance to turn the plane and keep it level.
In the end, they’d managed to disarm the man and land the plane safely with no loss of life on the ground, but at a horrific cost to