I was still muttering and cursing my three not-so-feline friends under my breath when I shoved the door to the back lane open. I scanned the cracked asphalt until my gaze landed on a large object covered with a tatty old tarp. “Great.” I stamped past the brightly painted wall and the strings of fairy lights, which I assumed were Frankie’s handiwork, and tugged on the corner of the heavy cloth. “Let’s get this old clunker on the road…” My voice trailed away to nothing as the tarp fell back to reveal a gleaming, bright red Mercedes-Benz convertible. “Holy crap,” I breathed. “Not bad for a granny-mobile, that’s for sure.”
I hopped in the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition, reveling in the purr of the powerful engine. A wide grin spread across my face; if I was going to drive across town chasing after murder suspects, I might as well do it in style. I wrapped my fingers around the soft leather steering wheel and grimaced. Minor problem: I had absolutely no idea where I was going.
Too stubborn to ask the boys, I pulled out my phone and did a quick Google search to orient myself towards Harlow’s place, and then I was on my way. Traffic was light so it only took a few minutes to reach Mission Street. I circled the block a few times before spotting an exquisite Victorian mansion, freshly painted a bright shade of pink with a violet trim. I cocked an eyebrow as I eased the convertible into a vacant parking space; seemed like Agatha wasn’t the only one in her family who had a taste for over-the-top extravagance. I patted the car’s glossy red hood and made a silent promise that I’d bring it for a proper drive real soon before I straightened my shoulders and made my way toward Harlow’s colorful abode.
A massive, lion-shaped metal knocker hung on the oversized violet front door. I took in a deep breath and knocked it three times, my heart racing in my chest as I waited for someone to answer. I jumped when not two seconds later the door cracked open and a short, silver-haired man appeared on the other side of the threshold.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.” His voice was hushed and hurried, and he pushed the door closed before I had a chance to respond.
Seriously? I knocked again, and the door opened another crack. “I said, I’m not interested.”
This time I was ready, and when he pushed the door closed I held my hand out to keep it open. “I’m not selling anything. My name is Price Jones, I’m looking for Agatha Bentley’s cousin.”
The door remained still for a second, and then opened fully, revealing the man I assumed to be Harlow. He had an interesting face, not handsome exactly, but captivating all the same, his icy blue eyes pale and eerie against the silver of his combed-back hair.
“Pardon me?” His gaze remained fixed on my face, yet I had the unnerving feeling that I was still somehow being examined from head to toe. Like a jewel being inspected by a jeweler to determine its worth.
I was almost certain I was standing in front of Agatha’s cousin, but a little voice in the corner of my mind urged me to be cautious. I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, I’m looking for a man called Harlow Bentley, and I was told I might be able to find him here?”
The man’s silver eyebrows rose as he looked up at me. “Oh? And who might’ve told you that?”
I paused. “Er…” I couldn’t exactly say the ghost of old Agatha Bentley from the thrift store on Commercial. “Just, you know, some people. Somebody at Mrs. Bentley’s funeral, I can’t remember her name, sorry.” I affected my best vulnerable simper. “It’s been a pretty overwhelming few days.”
After another few moments of studying me intently, the man opened the door wide and stepped aside with a flourish of his hand. “I’m Harlow, please, come inside, Miss Jones. Step out of that wretched cold breeze.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bentley,” I said, trying not to gape at the lavish interior of his home. The inside of the house was just as grand as the outside, and I wondered just how much money this real estate man had.
“Harlow Monroe,” he corrected me. “Bentley was Agatha’s married name.” He closed the door and led me into a grand sitting room with a small table and two elegant chairs arranged in a bright bay window. I took the seat closest to the door and perched on it uneasily. I felt uncomfortable, like I was imposing.
I offered him an awkward smile, trying not to let the grandeur of the surroundings intimidate me. I felt the same way I used to when Gerard brought me to his business dinners; plain and cheap. I fumbled for something to say. “I didn’t realize Agatha was married.”
The expression that flitted across Harlow’s face was so subtle that it vanished before I could put a name to it, but I watched closely as he pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and ran it over his mouth. “Yes, Agatha was married for a brief time in her youth.” He glanced out the window for a moment. “The marriage didn’t last, unfortunately, but Agatha kept the name. She thought it suited her.” I smiled. Typical Agatha. Harlow narrowed his eyes and leaned his weight on the small polished oak table that lay between us. “What do you want from me, Miss Jones?”
I held his stare, battling the blush creeping its way up my neck. I wouldn’t be talked down to by another jerk in a fine suit. I was done with molasses and I was done with pussy-footing around. “I just moved to town. I was supposed to work for Agatha at the thrift shop. I arrived the day of her funeral.”
Harlow arched one silver eyebrow. “I know who you are, young lady. You’re the girl that Agatha left her estate to.”
I lifted my chin. “Yes, I am, Mr. Monroe, and quite frankly, I’m having a difficult time understanding why.” Harlow slid back in his chair a little, his mouth slightly parted. “I initially assumed maybe she didn’t have any family, but…” I motioned toward him and raised my shoulders in a soft shrug. “Here you are. Which, as you can imagine, puts me in a very awkward position.” I folded my hands on the table. Agatha had seemed convinced her cousin had a lamb’s heart, but if he did, he was a lamb in snake’s clothing. And if there was one thing that unsettled a snake, it was straight talking. “You probably thought Agatha was going to leave the house to you.”
Harlow’s face split into a wide grin and the room was filled with the sound of laughter so infectious that I felt my own lips curve. The old man coughed and smacked the table in front of him. “Oh dear,” he wheezed. “Oh dear, I’m sorry. If you knew my cousin you’d know why that’s funny.”
I drew my eyebrows together. “I would?”
The old man straightened himself and dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. “My cousin was the very definition of contrary, Miss Jones. If you said that door was white, she’d swear up and down that it was black. If you told her she had pretty hair, she’d hack it off with a spoon just to prove you wrong. When I told her I’d buy the store and the apartment and let her move to a safe, secure retirement village...”
“She told you, you’d never get your fingers on her house,” I finished.
Harlow nodded. “She’d sooner lick a cat’s ass than let me get my greedy paws on the building, I think those were her exact words.” I grimaced, assaulted by the unfortunate image of Agatha and the three cats. Oh god, the visuals. Ick. I forced my attention back to the silver-haired man. “Now, that’s not to say I wasn’t surprised when I heard she’d left everything to a total stranger.” Harlow gave me another appraising glance before turning back to the window, shadows lurking behind his eyes. “I mean, I knew I wasn’t getting a whiff of the inheritance, but I’d bet there were a few shocked people in Salem the day you were handed those keys.”