Three Bedrooms, One Corpse(15)
90
~ Charlaine Harris ~
“Good night, Aubrey,” I said in a small voice. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, sweetheart,” he said with some sadness. He kissed me again and was gone.
I dragged myself up the stairs to the bedroom and undressed, moving slowly with an exhaustion so deep it was like a drug. Once I’d washed my face and pulled on my nightgown, I crawled into bed and was out when my head hit the pillow.
Iwoke up slowly the next day. It was sunny and cold. The tree on the front lawn of the townhouse row flicked its bare branches at my window. I was house- hunting this afternoon and had a date for the evening: that made it a very crowded day indeed, by my recent (non-working) standards. I pulled on an old pair of jeans and a shirt, some thick socks and sneakers, and made myself a big breakfast: biscuits, sausage, eggs. Then I had three hours before Eileen picked me up. Rather than wander around restlessly thinking about Martin, I began to clean. Starting with the downstairs, I picked up, scrubbed, dusted, vacuumed. Once the downstairs was done to my satisfaction, I moved to the upstairs. The guest bedroom was full of boxes of things from Jane’s I’d decided to keep, and another bedstead was leaning up against the wall; so cleaning wouldn’t be of much use. But in my bedroom I really went to town. My sheets got changed, the bed was per- fectly made, the bathroom shone with cleanliness, the towels were fresh, and all my makeup was put away in the drawer where it belonged instead of cluttering the
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top of my vanity table. I even refolded everything in my chest of drawers.
Then I decided to pick out my clothes for the eve- ning, in case I had a lot of houses to look at today and got home late. What did you wear to a presumably fancy restaurant with a worldly older man you had the hots for?
I’d recently discovered a women’s clothing place in the city that stocked things just for petites. My pur- chases there were among my best and most becoming, because my friend Amina’s mom’s shop, Great Day, just didn’t carry that many petites. Now that I had money, I could buy things even when I didn’t need them at the moment. I had one dress I’d been saving for something fancy, if only I had the guts to wear it. It was teal and it shone; it was a little above the knee and had a low neck- line and was cut exactly along my body. I took it out of the closet and eyed it nervously. It wasn’t what I thought of as indecent, but it certainly complemented my figure. Now came the indecent part. On the same day, I’d
bought an amazing black lace bra and a matching garter belt. This was being seriously naughty for me, and I had been very embarrassed at the cash register. With a sense of casting all caution to the winds, I laid out these garments on the bed, along with some sheer black hose and high-heeled black pumps, and hoped I wouldn’t disgrace myself by falling over in them. I wasn’t at all sure I had enough confidence to wear this ensemble, but the time was now, if ever. I would aim for this, and if my confidence seeped away during the day and I wore more ordinary undergarments, no one would know I’d chickened out but myself.
92
~ Charlaine Harris ~
It was now almost time for Eileen to come, and I walked through the whole townhouse checking it for details. Everything was clean, orderly, and inviting. I only hoped I wouldn’t run into Martin today, since I looked my worst right now.
The doorbell rang at one o’clock on the dot, and when I opened it with my purse in hand and coat halfway on, I was relieved to see Eileen wasn’t wearing one of her “Realtor” outfits, but a pair of nice slacks and a blouse, with a bright fuchsia jacket and sneakers. “Hi, Roe! Ready to start looking?”
“Sure, Eileen. Is the wind blowing?”
“You bet, and colder than a witch’s tit.” At least it wasn’t raining or snowing. But by the look of the leaden sky and the way the trees were toss- ing, it felt as if it would be raining before long. “You seemed unsure about what you really wanted,” Eileen began when we were buckled up, “so I just called around and found out what I could show you to- day, in your size and price range. We have five houses to see.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“Yes, better than I expected at such short notice. The first one’s on Rosemary. Here’s the sheet on it . . . it has three bedrooms, two baths, a large kitchen and family room, a formal living room, small yard, and is all electric . . .”
The house on Rosemary needed new carpet and a new roof. That was not insurmountable. What struck it off my list was the narrow lot. My neighbors could look right in my bedroom window and shake hands with me, if they should be so inclined. I’d had too many
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years of townhouse living for that. If I was going to own a house, I wanted privacy.
The next house had four bedrooms, which I liked, and a poky kitchen with no storage room, which I didn’t. The third house, a two-story in a rather run-down part of Lawrenceton, was most attractive. It needed some renovation, but I could pay for that. I loved the master bedroom, and I loved the breakfast area over- looking the backyard. But the house next door had been divided into apartments, and I didn’t like the thought of all the in-and-out traffic—there again, I’d had enough. The fourth house was a possible. It was a smaller house in a very nice area of town, which meant it cost the same as a larger home elsewhere. But it was only ten years old, was in excellent shape, and had a beautifully landscaped, low-maintenance yard and lots of closets. Also a Jacuzzi in the master bath, which I eyed with in- terest. It was over my price limit, but not too drastically. By the time we pulled up in front of the fifth house, Eileen and I had learned a lot about each other. Eileen was intelligent, conscientious, made a note to find out the answer to each and every small query I had, tried to stay out of my way as I considered each property, and was in general a really great Realtor. She at least pre- tended to consider that not knowing exactly what you wanted was normal.
I was trying to overlook things that I could do some- thing about if I were really interested in the house, and concentrate instead on things that would absolutely knock the house out of the running. These things could be pretty nebulous, though, and then I felt obliged to come up with a concrete reason to give Eileen.
94
~ Charlaine Harris ~
The fifth house was the killer. There was nothing wrong with it. It was a three-bedroom with a pleasant yard, a small but adequate kitchen, and the usual num- ber of closets. It was certainly big enough for one per- son. If toys were any evidence, it was not quite big enough for a couple with several children. It was very similar to its neighbors . . . the exterior was one of three or four standardly used in this subdivision. I was sure anyone on the street would have no trouble finding her way to any particular room or closet in any house. “I hate this house,” I said.
Eileen tapped her fingernails absently on the imita- tion wooden-block Formica of the kitchen counter. “What is it you dislike so much, so I won’t waste our time showing you anything else with that feature?” A reasonable question.
“It’s too much like all the other houses on the street. And everyone else on this street seems to have little children. I wouldn’t feel a part of the neighborhood.” Eileen was resigning herself to the fact that I wasn’t going to be the easiest sell she’d ever had. “This is just the first day,” she said philosophically. “We’ll see more. And it’s not like you have a time limit.” I nodded, and Eileen dropped me back at my place, thinking out loud the whole time about what she could line up to show me in the coming week. I listened with half my attention, the other half wrapped up in my date tonight. I was trying to keep my mental screen ab- solutely blank, trying not to imagine any scenes from the evening, trying not even to conjecture on its outcome. Of course, I still had time to kill when I got home, and with the house clean and my clothes selected, noth-
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ing to kill it with. So I turned on the television, and when that failed, I tried to concentrate on an old Catherine Aird, counting on her never-failing blend of humor and detection to get me through a couple of hours. After ten minutes of concentrated effort, Aird worked, as she always did. I even forgot to look at my watch for minutes at a time.
Then I remembered I hadn’t done my exercise video that morning. Madeleine came to watch with her usual amazement, and I worked up quite a sweat and felt very virtuous.
Finally it really was time for a shower. I hadn’t scrubbed myself this much since my senior prom. Every atom of my skin and inch of my hair was absolutely clean, every extra hair was shaved from my legs, and when I emerged I slapped everything on my- self I could think of, even cuticle cream on my messy cuticles. I plucked my eyebrows. I put on my makeup with the care and deliberation of a high-fashion model, and dried my hair to the last strand, brushing it after- ward at least fifty times. I even cleaned my glasses. I wiggled into my incredible underwear without look- ing in the mirror, at least not until I pulled the black slip over my head. Then, very carefully, the teal dress, which I zipped up with some difficulty. I switched purses, put on my high-heeled pumps, and surveyed myself in Jane’s mirror.