Jennie Bentley - Spackled and Spooked

“So Patrick’s the one who sold it to us?”

Derek nodded. “By proxy. I dealt with a lawyer in Portland. Patrick probably did his part by fax, from wherever he lives now.”

“You’ve never met him?”

He shook his head. “If I did, I can’t remember. He was no more than five or six when the shootings happened. Dark-haired, I think, but I’m not even sure about that.”

“I don’t suppose it matters. You know…” I looked around. “It’d be fun to do this up in true ’60s style. Mod. The Beatles, Twiggy, Mary Quant. Geometric rugs, plastic chairs, psychedelic wallpaper… Maybe I can finally get to put up those vinyl flowers you refused to let me glue to the wall in Aunt Inga’s house.”

“Let’s not go crazy,” Derek answered and put an arm around me. “Gluing four-foot vinyl flowers to the wall in a Second Empire Victorian is sacrilege. I don’t much like the idea of doing it here, either, but at least it fits. Kind of.”

“Really?” I looked up at him. I had mostly been joking-my personal style is a little too far out for most people-but I could see it now: bright pink walls in the hallway, with huge, white, textured Mary Quant daisies marching down toward the bedrooms. Derek looked down, smiling.

“I’m up for being convinced.”

“In that case,” I answered, snuggling closer, “we’ll talk more about it tonight.”

“I don’t doubt we will,” Derek said, not without a certain light in his eyes. I smiled and looked around, envisioning and planning.

This long, low ranch was as different as could be from Aunt Inga’s cottage, the last-the only-house we’d worked on together, but I could already see the finished product in my head. And there would be no pink walls or daisies. What there would be were gleaming hardwood floors instead of stained, tan carpets, walls painted in bright yet neutral colors-cocoa, gray, taupe-and some to-die-for retro accessories. Light fixtures, rugs, maybe some wallpaper or tile in the bathrooms. Something to really set the tone and the mood without turning potential buyers off. The kitchen would have to be gutted and modernized. Formica counters would be nice. Formica was huge in the ’60s, and these days, the new solid surface Formica is fabulous. And maybe we could put in some of those sleek, Scandinavian cabinets Derek had in his loft, along with some ultramodern stainless steel appliances…

“These appliances are hideous,” I said, reaching out a hand to touch the brick red stove next to us. “They’ll definitely have to go. And someone didn’t do a very good job cleaning up, either. There’s a big spill of something down the front of this thing. From the corner here, see? They probably didn’t notice, against the red. Looks like spaghetti sauce or ketchup or something.”

Derek’s arm stiffened around my shoulders, and when I looked up, I saw that he had a funny look on his face. “Oh,” I said, and snatched my hand away. Maybe not ketchup after all. We took a couple of synchronized steps away from the stove. “Um… where exactly did the shootings take place?”

“Bedrooms,” Derek said.

“Maybe someone came through the kitchen at some point. Trying to get to the back door, or something.”

The little boy… no, he wouldn’t have been in contact with any blood. One of the in-laws, maybe, fatally wounded, trying to make it to safety: staggering toward the back door, holding on to the stove for support. They would have cleaned up though, wouldn’t they? My stomach clenched.

“Let’s get out of here,” Derek said. “Have you seen enough?” It was a rhetorical question; he was already on his way out of the kitchen toward the front door, pulling me along with him.

“More than enough,” I answered, hustling to keep up. His legs are a lot longer than mine. “We’ll have to clean it up, you know.”

He glanced at me without slowing his stride. “Like hell we will. I’ll put on a pair of gloves and haul it out to the truck, but that’s the most I’ll do. Let the people at the dump deal with it.”

“Works for me. Like I said, the appliances will have to be replaced anyway.”

He nodded, yanking open the front door and shooing me toward it. “After you.”

I took a step forward and stopped on the threshold with a squeak, face-to-face with a menacing figure, one arm lifted and ending in a closed fist.

A second or two passed while I rocked back on my heels, trying to catch my breath, and while Derek peered around the doorframe to figure out why I wasn’t moving. “Who the hell are you?” he said.

The young man outside lowered his arm, and I realized he wasn’t near as menacing as I had thought. We had yanked the door open just as he was about to knock, and he looked as rattled as I felt.

I placed him somewhere around twenty, with a freckled face, pale blue eyes, and a prominent Adam’s apple, which suddenly bounced as he swallowed.

“Who are you?” Derek asked again, more calmly this time, and the young man shifted his attention from me to him.

“My name’s Lionel Kenefick. I live down the road apiece.”

His voice was a lot deeper and more resonant than I had expected, considering his small stature and narrow chest. He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. Derek nodded. I knew from experience that in Maine, down the road apiece could mean anywhere from three doors down to three miles out of town.

“Where the van’s parked out front,” Lionel clarified. Derek looked over Lionel’s shoulder. Being much shorter, I snuck a peek around Lionel’s far-from-imposing frame and spied a dirty paneled van in a driveway halfway down the block. A couple of ladders and some other paraphernalia were attached to the roof rack.

“Carpenter?” Derek inquired.

Lionel shook his head, causing strands of reddish hair to fall into his eyes. “Electrician.”

“Who are you working for? Yourself?”

“Subcontractor. I’m working in Devon Highlands.” He sounded proud, as well he should, considering that Devon Highlands was the biggest, most expensive development going into Waterfield at the moment, and the Stenhams were the biggest construction contractors in town. Poor guy, he couldn’t have known that mentioning the Stenhams and their development to either one of us was like waving a red flag in the face of a bull. Derek scowled but didn’t take the bait.

“What can we do for you, Lionel?” he asked instead, bluntly.

“Oh,” Lionel said. His blue eyes flicked back and forth. “I… um… saw the truck. Was wondering what was going on. Are you guys gonna be renovating the place?”

Derek nodded. “We’re buying it.”

“Oh,” Lionel said again. “Um… I thought maybe Pat was back…?” His inflection made it sound like a question.

“Apparently not,” Derek said. “He’s selling the house to us.”

“Did you know Patrick?” I interjected.

“Best friends when we were little. Till he left.”

“Did you stay in touch with him afterwards?”

Lionel shrugged narrow shoulders. “Tried. I haven’t heard anything from him for years now, though. But when I saw the truck, I thought maybe he was coming home.”

“Guess maybe he feels there’s nothing to come home to,” Derek said lightly. I nodded. I certainly wouldn’t want to move back into the house where my father had killed my mother and my grandparents. I’d do exactly what Patrick had done and off-load it tout de suite.

Lionel looked from one to the other of us. “Are you guys gonna be moving in?”

Derek shook his head. “We’re just planning to renovate it and put it back on the market. Make some money.”

“Derek lives in downtown,” I added. “I own a house on Bayberry.”

Lionel nodded. “Let me know if you need an electrician. I can always use some extra money.”