I plowed up the remaining bit of hill and hit the front porch steps with a wince, my mind still so full of the images of today. Liza’s raw grief. Mr. Sherwood’s face when he accused me of hurting “his Tina.”
And that Senior Alert necklace Liza made mention of that wasn’t around Madam Zoltar’s neck or anywhere near her fallen body. Maybe I’d just missed it, but it was poking at me something fierce. I didn’t want to believe she’d been murdered, but my gut said something quite different.
As I climbed the steps, I wondered if they’d even hold my weight. I was no size two. I wasn’t even a size eight. And they looked mighty weak. I’d had a hella bad day. Adding falling through some rotting stairs to my death to the roster would send me right over the edge.
I stepped onto the porch with great care and took my first look around. The stained-glass door with a beautiful pattern of greens, blues and maroon I couldn’t make sense of was warped, but could be quite lovely refinished and re-stained. It was wide and thick, handcrafted rather than bought at a local box store.
The sprawling porch, flanked by four pillars, wrapped around each side of the three-story house. Planks of wood popped up, the boards were loose and splintered, the paint peeling everywhere. An enormous hole by one of the thick pillars looked like someone had dropped a heavy ball through it.
“The key’s under the mat.”
Winterbottom’s statement made me wonder how long he’d owned this dump. I stooped, lifting up the disintegrating, soggy mat covered in slimy leaves, and found a shiny brass key. Pushing it into the keyhole, I turned it—with no luck.
“It’s jammed. Bummer. Guess I’ll have to pay for another cab ride home you can put on your final bill. Too bad, so sad.”
“Did you always give up this easily when you were a witch? Lift the handle and turn.”
With a defeated sigh, I did as instructed. Popping the door open, I squinted and scanned the gigantic square entryway as my eyes adjusted.
Someone had knocked the wall out between the parlor and the entry. I say “knocked it out” because it literally looked as though someone had plowed through it with their body. The hole was jagged and rough, the sheetrock crumbled and littering the floor.
I gave a good look around the place, my eyes going to the staircase on my left, winding upward to the second floor where window upon window lined the head of the steps.
If you looked directly across the entryway and down the short hall, there was a room I guessed was a kitchen, but I couldn’t see much other than more windows and junk. All manner of fast-food cartons and pizza boxes, crushed beer and soda cans were strewn from one end of the entry to the next. It was filthy and smelled like desperation and cat urine.
“So, what do you think?” Win asked, as though he were proudly asking me to rate on a scale of one to ten how cute his newborn baby was.
“Who’s your decorator, Marilyn Manson?”
“Oh, it’s all fun and games until you find out I actually know a Manson. Charlie, to be precise. Isn’t that right, Stevie Like-Nicks-the-Singer?”
Laughter gurgled from my throat against my will. I’d give Mr. British Guy this, he could make with the funny.
But how peculiar he should mention knowing one of America’s most controversial serial killers. What had been Winterbottom’s profession before he’d died? My guess was prison guard.
My eyebrow rose as I stepped over a torn bag of Funyuns and an empty six-pack of Dr. Pepper. “You know Charles Manson?”
“Well, I don’t know him know him. We don’t lunch or anything. I met him. Once. I interviewed him about another case that didn’t involve him, but was similar to his portfolio of crimes.”
A case? Curioser and curioser.
“Okay, so did his cellmate help you decorate this place?” I asked, my fingers trailing over the thick covering of dust on a three-legged end table by the side of the stairs.
“They were beyond helpful in my quest to make sure the paint peeled in all the right places.”
I glanced around again at the wall that looked as though someone had tried to scratch their way out of the parlor from behind the sheetrock and nodded. “Tell him job well done. He’s an overachiever.”
Winterbottom’s chuckle, deep and rich, swirled in my ears, sweeping over the room. “And it’s all yours.”
Say what now?
I kept my surprise on the inside, but I gripped the wobbly square finial on the staircase banister to steady myself.
“It’s what?”
“All yours, if you’ll have it.”
I held up a hand, setting my purse on the warped hardwood floor so if he chose, Belfry could poke his head out when he was done napping. “I think I need some clarity. Who were you when you were alive and how can you give me an entire house?”
There was a pause, as though he was gathering steam to prepare me for something heinous. It hadn’t occurred to me up to this point, but what if he was a bad guy? What if he was some crappy shyster of a real estate developer who stole from seniors, or a Bernie Madoff type dude?