Still, standing on the sidewalk, staring at the house through a wrought iron fence which had clearly seen better days, I couldn't help but think either Mrs. Fisher hadn't left enough money or somebody needed to be shot.
The house wasn't exactly on its last leg but it was very, very close.
"I'm going to want to see the maintenance records for the entire time the house has been in trust and then I'm going to want them verified by a third party." I glanced at Darlene, not surprised at the look of disapproval on her face. "That won't be a problem, will it?"
"I don't see why." She pulled a massive keychain out of her purse, shoving a key which looked as if it went to the gates of Hell in the lock. She shoved the gate open with her shoulder, both of us wincing at the groaning squeak. "Just needs a little oil."
"I'm sure." I held my tongue as we made our way up the cracked walkway, tucking it in my cheek when we reached the steps, the first one creaking under our combined weight. "Let me guess? A few nails?"
"It's an old house." If her lips got any thinner, they'd disappear in her doughy face. "You have to expect there to be a few issues."
"Actually, I don't, but we can leave that discussion for after I view the house." I nodded at the door. "Shall we?"
While she fumbled with the keys, mumbling something under her breath about ungrateful heathens, I braced myself for whatever disaster I'd find on the inside. I'd already decided to buy-one, the kids and I needed the room and two, it would annoy the hell out of everyone in Cotton Creek, whether they knew me or not. What I wanted to know was how much ammunition I had to talk the estate down to a decent price and how much of a loan I was going to have to take out to do renovations.
Because, damn it, I wanted to be able to control my air conditioner with my phone, too.
"Here we go." Darlene pushed open the door, stepping in and moving to the side. "First floor is public space-sitting room, parlor, a nice space for your office, as well as a formal dining room and a kitchen with eat-in dining." Her heels clicked over the hardwood floors, which looked to be in decent condition-not great, but decent. The walls were either dull yellow or a white which had aged none too well but that was something which could be fixed without too much money. "The chandelier is original to the house and was brought over from France by Mrs. Fisher's great-grandfather."
I tuned her out, less concerned with the sales pitch than with the actual state of the house. I still wanted an inspector to come through and double check everything but it looked as if whoever had been in charge of the interior of the house had actually done the work they were being paid to do. There were little things here and there but nothing as disturbing as the exterior.
It didn't give me much to bargain with but I could probably get the estate to either knock a few grand off the asking price or pay for the exterior renovations out of the trust.
The kitchen needed work-about five or six grand, if I trusted the home improvement shows I was mildly and embarrassingly addicted to-and the bathrooms needed a facelift, too. Off the top of my head, I figured I was looking at close to forty thousand in renovations, maybe a little more
The estate was definitely going to need to come down on their asking price some.
"Tell you what, Darlene." I cut her off without a qualm, turning to her and shoving my hands in my pockets. "You and I both know this place needs work. We also know nobody in town wants to take this thing on-I'm probably the first person to tour it in at least five years, if not longer." When she didn't correct me, I continued. "You get the estate to fix everything wrong on the exterior-the sidewalk, the landscaping, the paint, all that stuff-and knock about twenty thousand off the price, and I'll sign papers today."
"Twenty thousand?" She snorted, almost delicately, but her eyes narrowed ever so slightly and I knew she was on the hook. "Honey, you're right about this place needing work but I don't think-."
"Call them and ask." I leaned back against the wall and nodded at her purse. "Might as well call the inspector, too. And if you've got someone in mind to do the renovations, get them out here, too." I smiled when her mouth fell open a little. "Time's a-wastin', Darlene. I don't believe in letting moss grow where it shouldn't."
CHAPTER FIVE
It took the better part of the day but by the time the bank closed at five, the paperwork for the purchase and for the line of equity I'd need for the renovations was already being pushed through. The estate hadn't gone for the full twenty thousand but they'd knocked off ten and promised to have everything on the exterior fixed within a week. The contractor dealing with the renovations had sworn he'd be able to get everything I wanted done within two weeks of the closing date. All things being equal, the kids and I would be able to move in three weeks, four at the most.
That was the one good thing I could say about doing business in my home town-the companies were so desperate for any sort of revenue they were willing to bend over backward to get you what you wanted, when you wanted it.
At the moment, though, the only thing I wanted was a burger and a beer.
It felt wasteful, probably because it was, but I'd been eating grief food for the last week and I wanted something which didn't come with the sticky strings of nosiness disguised as pity. Still, I sat in my car in the bank parking lot, debating with myself for a solid half hour before I caved and called Tammy.
"Hey, Aunt Jeannie." I could barely hear her over the noise of someone screaming at the top of their lungs in the background and she sighed. "Hold on a second." There was a faint rustle and I realized she must have covered the receiver with her hand since her answering yell was toned down to a dull roar. "I'm on the phone, damnit! Hush up!"
"Problem?"
"What?" Another moment or two of rustles and thuds and then not only was her voice clearer but there was almost no sound in the background. "Sorry. Dolly took Conway's baby doll and he was throwing a fit."
"Ah." The first time I'd seen my nephew dragging around a baby doll which had clearly been through hard times I'll admit I did a double take but after a week I was used to it. I knew-because the whispered conversations hadn't been whispered all that softly-that people in Cotton Creek thought there was something a little off with a boy who was happier playing with dolls and kiddie kitchens than mud pies and baseballs. I also knew none of them were stupid enough to say anything directly to me, not after the look I'd given old Mrs. Peterson when she made the mistake of trying to bring the topic up. "Couple few things."
"I'm listening."
"First things first, I bought us a house-the old Fisher place, to be exact."
"Shut the front door."
"You realize cursing isn't a sin, right?" Before she could answer, I continued. "It's gonna be a few weeks because there's repairs and upgrades and everything but we can last until then."
"Cool." She paused and I heard Dolly in the background whining about eating leftovers again. "You said a few things."
"Yeah." And now I felt even guiltier about wanting that burger. If I was sick of casseroles and soggy sandwiches, there was a good chance the kids were, too. "You guys eat yet or no?"
"I was going to start pulling stuff out of the fridge before I had to break up World War Three."
"Hold off on that. I'm thinking we go get something that didn't come out of a copy of Ladies Home Journal in the sixties." I paused, struck with an unsettling thought. "Tell me they've added another restaurant to Cotton Creek in the last fifteen years because if it's a poor version of a Mexican lasagna or the Chuckhouse, I think we're better off with the Mexican lasagna."
"Oh, no, the Chuckhouse closed down five or six years ago, right around the time Conway was born."
"Small miracles."
"We've got three or four restaurants but the only one open for dinner is the steakhouse." She paused. "Well, and the Watering Hole but we can't go there."
"Then I guess we're going to the steakhouse." I'd ask her about the bar-because what other kind of establishment could it be with a name like the Watering Hole-later. If I was relocating to a redneck version of Peyton Place, I was going to need ready access to alcohol. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Try to keep World War Three from breaking out until I get there."
THE STEAKHOUSE LOOKED exactly as I expected-overblown, wavy tan glass everywhere, dark red booths which were barely a step up from vinyl, fake wood everything, and seemingly every velvet painting in the tri-county area. The servers, bless their hearts, were decked out in white long-sleeved button downs, black pants and aprons, and ties which somehow managed to match the color of the booths. The menu, which didn't feature the official name of the restaurant, were leather bound but the leather was cracking and there were more than a few questionable stains on the cardstock interior pages.