The white stone facade of Ten Marlborough Street shimmered in the midmorning sun. The three-story building on a historic street was elegant and understated, clean and well kept. The Back Bay area of Boston was a hub for tourists, old Bostonians, college students, and shoppers. It was expansive and quaint, bracketed by Fenway, the famed baseball stadium, on one end and the Public Garden and Boston Common on the other. Within it were charming, tree-lined streets where tourists flocked for iconic pictures.
On either side of number ten were Victorian redbrick buildings so snug, there wasn’t an inch of space between them. Two tall, dense hedges separated the yard from the sidewalk, and the stone walkway to the building was absent of autumn debris. The path divided the yard in half, the yard itself landscaped in perfect symmetry, with lush flower beds and stone planters that teemed with maroon, orange, and yellow flowers. The white stone steps with black iron railings held a pumpkin symmetrically on either end of each stair. The double doors, framed by iron lanterns on either side, were austere in their cool black lacquer sheen, more intimidating than inviting. The gold-colored doorknobs were attached to wide rectangular plates of the same metal. An ornate keyhole lay beneath the knob on the right-hand door. The gold number plate stood next to the gold mail slot on the left-hand door. No dust or handprints to be seen.
It was rare for Meena to be awestruck by a building, but her hand shook as she reached the knob. There was something unwelcoming about the pristine, tall doors.
Meena pushed aside her nerves. There was nothing to fear. The apartment in this building was hers only in the technical sense. She pulled the keys from her jacket pocket. The large one, with faint puppy teeth marks, had sharp edges and a long metal bar attached to a full loop at the end. There was an E etched into the bar. The key looked as if it would fit the keyhole in front of her. The others were the usual kind, likely for the inside doors. A sticky note tucked into the envelope indicated the four-digit alarm code. Old-world elegance with new-world practicality. Meena spotted the gold entry box to the right and slid the cover upward to reveal the keypad. She typed in the sequence and heard a faint snick.
As she turned the knob on the door on the right, Meena noticed the letter E etched into the gold plate that surrounded it. She pushed through and stepped into the quiet hallway. The small space was brightly lit by the high chandelier overhead. Its crystals twinkled in the light from the bulb in the middle. The scents of sage and cedar were incongruous after the cool starkness of the exterior facade, as if warmth were reserved only for those inside.
The door to her right was ajar, a fall wreath made of pine cones and berries attached below the gold knocker. Unit 1. Opposite was number 2. A matching wreath adorned the door. Meena frowned. She placed her backpack on the ground and pulled out the packet from the lawyer to confirm this was the correct apartment. She glanced at the wreath. Maybe the people from across the hall had put up the decoration.
She’d been told that this unit was unoccupied, waiting for her. She slid a key into the lock, anticipating it might not be the right one. But it went right in. She turned the knob and tried pushing the door open only to realize that she’d locked it instead. The place had been left unlocked. Puzzled, Meena turned the key again to unlock the door and gingerly nudged it open inch by inch. She stood at the threshold bewildered by the scene in front of her. The place was fully furnished, complete with unopened mail on the small table next to the door, as if someone still lived there.
She took a few steps into the apartment. It was clean, though cluttered with an overwhelming amount of stuff. The throw pillows on the sofa were fluffed and arranged on each end. Books, lamps, ottomans, and chairs were packed tightly in the large living area. Dozens of knickknacks covered every surface. It was bright and cheerful, even with the dark wall-to-wall built-in shelving.
Color exploded in the room. A pair of deep-blue reading chairs sat on either side of the fireplace. A bright-yellow sofa, large enough to fit three, marked the edge of the open living area. A dark coffee table sat in front of it. A stack of books was on one corner and a set of antique coasters on another. Meena moved farther into the apartment. Half-used candles perched in massive iron holders. The gray rug was thick under her feet. Books filled every shelf built into the walls. It was as if the apartment were in an old library, minus the dust. Sunny-yellow paint covered the walls of the small bathroom and kitchen. The place seemed to be frozen in time. A snapshot. Even the air was slightly pungent from the leftover scent of cleaning supplies.
It was as if Neha had gone out to run an errand and never returned. This wasn’t the home of someone who had known she was going to die. Meena wandered into the enormous bedroom. The bed was covered with a bright-pink comforter and deep-coral pillows. You never know the last time you’ll sleep in your own bed. Meena felt sympathy for the woman who had lived here. Neha must have loved this place. She must have lived here a long time to accumulate so many things. Oddly, there were no photos. No wedding pictures in silver frames or family photos on the fireplace mantel. The apartment was absent of anything personal. Only art, abstract and kitsch, hung on the few walls that had no shelves.
“Who are you?”
Meena turned at the sharp voice by the front door. A woman in a red silk shirt and black pants stood with her arms crossed.
“Meena. And you are?”
“The caretaker of this building,” the woman said. “What are you doing here?”
Meena held up the keys. “I’m the new owner.”