Your House or Mine?. Cynthia Thomason

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СКАЧАТЬ of spaghetti and I’ll be out anyway. I’ll bring it by.”

      He disappeared into the barn and Meg stared at the shadows that had swallowed him up. “Well, thanks, then,” she hollered back and headed toward the house and all its uninhabited twelve rooms. Not only did she not have any answers, now she had even more questions.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      WADE TOOK HIS beige uniform shirt out of the dryer, examined it for wrinkles, and slipped his arms into the sleeves. He was buttoning the front as he came from the garage into the kitchen.

      Roone looked up from the sink where he was standing a clean plate in the dish drainer. “How late you gonna be tonight?” he asked.

      “Midnight or so I imagine, assuming there are no emergencies. I’ll sweep the businesses along Center Street a couple of times and probably nab a few speeders on the county road.” He caught his daughter’s eye as she dried a plate and stacked it in the cupboard. “If it’s like every other Friday night, the high school boys will try to turn Route 21 into a drag strip.”

      Jenny spun around and glared at him. “Oh, great. I can just see my popularity soaring in this podunk town.” Under her breath she added, “Everybody already hates me as it is.”

      Wade tucked the shirt into his trousers and buckled his belt. “I don’t think anybody hates you, and besides you’re only thirteen. You’re not even in high school yet.” Quietly, he said, “Thank God.”

      She took the next plate from the drainer. “So what am I supposed to do tonight?”

      “How about homework?”

      She rolled her eyes. “Dad, it’s Friday.”

      Having expected that reaction, he chuckled. “Maybe Gramps will take you to the Video Market to rent a movie.” He gave his father a pleading look.

      “Sure, why not?” Roone said. “I think there’s a Rambo flick I haven’t seen yet.”

      Jenny groaned and Wade winked at his father. “Too bad, Pop. I think you’re stuck with Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise.”

      “Puh-leeze,” Jenny moaned. “They’re so old!”

      “Sorry, pumpkin. I guess I missed a couple of issues of Teen Idol,” Wade said and then checked the snap on his holster. While he’d never have considered patrolling the streets of Manhattan without a weapon, he hated carrying one in Mount Esther. He thought the image of deadly force was inappropriate in the quiet community, but the sheriff had told him that first day on the job that small towns weren’t exempt from crime. He emphasized his motto that a smart cop was a prepared cop. So Wade sported a Smith and Wesson 40 caliber automatic, though in six months, he’d never had the safety off unless it was to test the weapon at a firing range.

      Ready to go, Wade picked up a plate of spaghetti from the table. “Okay you guys, behave yourselves. And Jen, tomorrow we’ll take Lady Jay to the equestrian park. Sound good?”

      “Yeah, I guess so…” She never finished her sentence because she burst into a fit of laughter which was obviously aimed at her father. “Are you sure you want to go out like that, Dad?”

      “Like what?”

      She circled around him and pulled something off the back of his shirt trailing a crackle of static electricity. When he turned around, he saw a tank top in her hands that didn’t look like it would fit a Barbie doll. It was a postage-stamp-sized piece of white jersey with shoulder straps the size of pencils. Across the front was the image of Lady Liberty with sparkling paint on her torch. “Tell me that’s a costume for one of your dolls,” he said.

      She gave him one of those looks teenagers use when they are talking to clueless antiquarians. “Geez, Dad. We donated my dolls to that kids’ charity in Brooklyn, remember? I don’t play with dolls anymore.”

      “More’s the pity,” he said and then hesitated as he tried to erase an image from his mind that would make any father’s blood flow cold. “Then…you actually wear that thing yourself?”

      She stretched the top against her chest where her small breasts barely made an impression in the jersey. Still, the fabric was flimsy enough to interest an adolescent boy’s imagination. “Of course I wear it,” she said. “Just not around you or Gramps.” She sighed dramatically. “I guess I goofed when I put it in the washer with your uniform.”

      “Oh, yeah. You’re busted.”

      “Dad…”

      “Tomorrow, Jen. Make some time for me to take a tour of your closet.”

      She put a fist on her hip and gave him a pinched-lip, how-dare-you look of a woman filled with righteous indignation. “You can be so ridiculous.”

      “So I’ve been told. But heck, you’re stuck with me.” He went to the door. When another disturbing thought occurred to him, he stopped, looked at the spaghetti, and then narrowed his eyes at his father. “You didn’t put any Tabasco in Meg’s sauce, did you?”

      Roone hung the dish rag over the sink divider and stared at his son. “No, but I thought about it. I still don’t know why you’re being so neighborly to a woman who’s determined to pull our house out from under us.”

      Wade thought they’d put this discussion to bed earlier, but he should have known better. Feisty old Irishmen live to hold a grudge. “For one thing, I’m not jumping to any conclusions about Meg Hamilton’s motives or her plans.” He stared down at the plate in his hand. “For another, I ate your spaghetti myself tonight, and I think serving her up a plateful ought to send enough of a message that she’s in for the fight of her life.”

      “You’re a funny man, Murdock,” his father called as Wade made his escape out the door. “But you ask her to show you that deed. Until we see that document in black and white, everything she says is just her blowing smoke.”

      Wade waved toward the back door where his dad was silhouetted against the kitchen lights. “Will do, Pop.” He set the plate on the floor of his patrol car, backed out of the drive and headed toward Ashford House. His dad was ornery, but he was also right.

      MEG LOOKED DOWN at the mess she’d created in the middle of the parlor and released a long groan of frustration. She’d opened every drawer in every end table, desk, and cabinet and pulled out a mountain of paperwork chronicling her aunt’s life. She’d scrutinized each scrap and found receipts dating back to the 1940s, warranties from companies that had long since gone out of business, and phone numbers that consisted of only four numbers on note paper that had yellowed with age. But she hadn’t found the deed prepared just four years ago.

      She stepped carefully among the debris of her aunt’s past, hoping that maybe this time she’d see the legal document she’d missed on first inspection. “There has to be a copy here somewhere.”

      Disappointed, she sat heavily in a frayed old wing chair and grimaced at the chaos of paper that marked a fitting end to a demoralizing day. Besides the fruitless result of her investigation, she’d discovered after a brief tour through the rooms, that Ashford House was in need of numerous repairs. The wainscoting was rotted and mildewed. The wallpaper was dry and peeling. And the windows—Meg decided that nothing short of a miracle kept the cracked and scratched panes in the frames.

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