Nora Roberts - Tribute

She pulled her phone off her belt when it rang, then closed her eyes as she answered. “Hello, Mom.”

“Cilla, for God’s sake, what’s going on out there?”

“I had some trouble. I’m handling it. Listen, could you contact your publicist? You’re still using Kim Cohen?”

“Yes, but-”

“Please, contact her and give her this number. Ask her to call me as soon as she can.”

“I don’t see why I should do you any favors after the way you treated-”

“Mom. Please. I could use some help.”

There was a beat of silence. “All right. I’ll call her right now. Were you in an accident? Are you in the hospital? Are you hurt? I heard some crazy man thought you were Mama’s ghost and tried to run you over with his car. I heard-”

“No, it’s not like that. I’m not hurt. I need Kim to help me straighten it out, get out a statement.”

“I don’t want you to be hurt. I’m still mad at you,” Dilly said with a sniff that made Cilla smile. “But I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“I know, and I’m not. Thanks for calling Kim.”

“At least I know how to do a favor,” Dilly said, and hung up.

Cilla couldn’t deny it as the publicist called within twenty minutes. In another twenty, they’d refined a statement between them. By the time Cilla hung up, she knew she’d done the best she could.

“I’M NOT MAJOR JUICE,” Cilla said to Ford as they drove from the doctor’s office to the appointment with the realtor. “But there’s always some ripples when there’s any sort of violence or scandal. And the Hardy connection may give it a little more play. But the statement should cover most of it. There won’t be much interest.”

“There will be locally. It’ll be big news around here, at least for a few days. And if it goes to trial. Did you get in touch with the cops?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t-and yes. I know Wilson thought I was the crazy one for asking if they’d consider Hennessy’s emotional and mental state.”

“What did he say?”

“Psych evals are already in the works. One from the defense, one from the prosecution.”

“Dueling shrinks.”

“It sounds like it.”

“I’d say it’s going to be pretty clear to both that Hennessy downed a big bowl of crazy.”

“Yeah. I guess the upshot depends on what the prosecution’s guy has to say as to whether or not the DA holds on the charges, makes a deal or recommends a psychiatric facility and treatment. The house is coming up on the left. The little Cape Cod there.”

“Huh?”

“Red compact out front. She’s already here. Vicky Fowley. It’s a rental-empty-the owner wants to unload. And Vicky’s anxious to get it off her list.”

Ford looked at the overgrown, weedy front yard and the small brown box of a house sitting on it. “I can’t imagine why. Could it be the extreme uglies?”

“Perfect attitude. Keep that up, seriously.” She gave his hand a bolstering pat. “And let me do the talking.”

Ford knew he had a strong imagination. He considered himself to be a man of some vision. As far as Cilla’s "little Cape Cod” went, he couldn’t imagine how anyone could define it, however loosely, as a house, and could only visualize it being mercifully razed.

Stains of a suspicious and undoubtedly unpleasant nature stamped and streaked the carpet in the pint-sized living room. He could only be grateful he’d let Spock play job dog again, otherwise Spock would’ve been honor bound to re-mark all the previously marked areas.

Either an animal or an army of rodents had gnawed on the baseboard. The ceiling, also unpleasantly stained in one corner, was bumpy with what Cilla called popcorn.

The kitchen was a truly ugly hodgepodge of mismatched appliances, torn linoleum and a rusted sink. The stingy counters carried the round burn marks of pans carelessly set on blue-speckled white Formica. Grime, and God knew what else, lived in the corners.

In his mind’s eye he imagined cockroaches flooding out of that rusted sink, armed with automatic weapons, driving tanks and armored vehicles to wage war against spiders in combat gear firing bazookas.

He found it easy to let Cilla do the talking. He was speechless.

The second floor consisted of two bedrooms scattered with the debris of former tenants and a bathroom he wouldn’t have entered while wearing a hazmat suit.

“As you can see, there’s work to be done!” Vicky showed white, white teeth in what could only be a pained, somewhat desperate smile. “But with some elbow grease and sweat equity, it could be a little dollhouse! Such a cute starter home for a young couple like yourselves.”

“A couple of what?” Ford said and got the fish eye from Cilla.

“Vicky, would you mind if we just looked around on our own for a few minutes? Talked about it?”

“Of course not! Take all the time you want. I’ll just step outside and make some calls. Don’t rush on my account!”

“Why does she say everything in exclamation points?” Ford asked when Vicky was out of earshot. “Is it fear? Excitement? Does she have multiple, spontaneous orgasms?”

“Cute.”

“Cilla, I think that pile of what may have once been clothing in that corner just moved. There may be a body in there. Possibly an army of cockroaches waiting to ambush. We should leave. And never come back.”

“If there was a body, it would smell a lot worse than it does in here.”

“How much worse?” he muttered. “And have you ever actually smelled a body?”

She gave him the fish eye again. “Cockroaches may be a factor, however. If the seller had any brains, he’d have cleaned this place out, ripped up this incredibly smelly carpet. But his loss could be our gain.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. The only thing we could gain from this place is a rampant case of typhoid. Or bubonic plague.” He kept a wary eye on the pile of rags. He wasn’t entirely sure it hadn’t moved. “Cilla, this place has no possible redeeming value.”

“Because you don’t know where to look. Deal was, you don’t want to risk it, you don’t. But let me give you the idea first. There’s hardwood under this carpet. I checked when I went through before.”

She walked over, crouched to pull up a loose corner. “Random-length oak, and in surprisingly good shape.”

“Okay, it’s got a floor.”

“And a good foundation, a nice-sized lot.”

“That looks like a minefield. Probably booby-trapped by the atomic spiders.”

“New sod,” she continued, undaunted, “some plantings, a pretty little deck on the back. Gut the bathroom.”

“Wouldn’t it be more humane to bomb it?”

“New tub, new sink, a nice ceramic tile. For a room that size, I could probably find enough of a discontinued style, neutral color. All the carpet goes. Replace the closet doors, add shelves. Redo the ceilings, paint. You’ve got a couple of nice kids’ rooms.”

“And where would the parents sleep?” He slid his hands into his pockets rather than risk accidentally touching something. “In a hotel if they have any sense.”

She crooked her finger. “This wall moves out fifteen feet.”

“It does?”

“It will and, running the width of the house, will hold the master suite, overlooking the backyard. Walk-in closet, attached bath with soaking tub and separate shower. Double sinks, granite countertop. Maybe slate tile. Have to price that out.”

“What holds it up? Hopes and dreams?”

“The new kitchen/great room.”

“Oh, that.” But oddly enough, he began to see it as she did. Or as he thought she did.

“Horrible carpet treads out, oak treads in,” she said as she started down the steps. “Replace skinny banister. Carpet goes, ceilings redone, new trim, some crown molding. New windows throughout. Gut kitchen.”