“I can take a look at it with you, if you want,” Landon said. “I have tomorrow afternoon off.”
I turned around to look at him. “Why would you do that?”
“I build things,” he said, his velvet-brown eyes twinkling again. “I might come in handy. And I’ve always wanted to see a ghost. It’ll be fun.”
Fun? He had a funny idea of fun. But I didn’t want to visit a haunted house by myself, even if it wasmyhouse.
I nodded slowly, wondering who this generous guy was and what he’d done with my roommate. “You’d better bring a hammer. A big one.”
“All my tools are of more than adequate size,” he said, just loud enough that I could hear.
The corner of my mouth turned up of its own accord before I could quash my smile. I was struck with the idea that if anyone could make visiting a haunted house fun, it might be Landon.
Chapter 4
Milkweed Mansion was aptly named. I kind of liked the milkweed, with its orbiting butterflies. This place was butterfly heaven, with lots of wildflowers and thorny bushes in the scant sunny patches between the oaks and palms around the house.
I learned from the lawyer this morning that the nickname emerged after the property was essentially abandoned in 1962 and began its slow downfall in the hands of neglectful absentee owners, including the Sperm Donor, who picked it up for a song. Apparently ghost stories are not good for property values.
The once-grand mansion overlooked the Indian River Lagoon, which locals simply called the river. The wide stretch of sparkling water separated mainland Bohemia, where I lived now, from Bohemia Beach, where I spent my formative years.
The knotty old live oaks drooped over the weathered, rambling, two-story-plus Victorian as if they were protecting it from outsiders. The white paint on the clapboard siding was weathered and chipped with age, though an excess of faded gingerbread trim painted blue and light green held the promise of beauty.
The cone-shaped roof over a rounded section of porch on the southeast corner had damage to its tin shingles, probably from a long-ago hurricane. A tower on the next corner looked like a great place to lock up a madman. And an eclectic collection of weathervanes seemed to adorn every peak of the roof.
A decaying gazebo near the river edge of the property overlooked the lagoon with an air of shabby elegance, evoking garden parties and weddings. Surrounding the expansive, overgrown lot was a rusting, black, wrought-iron fence, and the metal gates didn’t look like they’d keep out a determined raccoon. The effect was one of stately gloom.
Landon had insisted on driving us over in his pickup truck — in case he needed any of those tools, he said with the faintest quirk of the mouth — and I’d reluctantly agreed. It was Friday, late morning, and I’d taken the day off. He said he’d finished his work earlier, though I learned as we chatted on the way over that he seemed to work weekends and odd evenings, too, whenever he was on a construction project that was behind deadline. He said he often supervised crews or dealt directly with clients but jumped in and did the hard work when necessary. So maybe he wasn’t partying all the time after all.
“And there’s all that networking on the golf course,” I remarked as we regarded the shiny chain and padlock on the gate. The lawyer hadn’t given me a key for the padlock.
“I hate golf.” Landon yanked on the chain. Solid.
“How can that be true?” I’d often seen him toting his clubs back and forth from the apartment. “And how can you hate golf with a name like Landon Putter?”
“Naming is destiny, I guess. My dad has stuffed golf down my throat my whole life. He says meetings are always better on the fairway.” Rocking jeans and a sinfully tight black T-shirt with a cartoon of a cute sea cow that said “My Patronus Is a Manatee,” Landon walked the few steps to the truck. He dug around in the back and emerged with bolt cutters. “He golfs every free minute. He watches it on TV. Even the office decor is pictures of famous golf courses. I keep telling him to buy some freakin’ art.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I know plenty of artists who could use the money.”
Landon clamped the tool on the fat links of the gate chain, breaking it apart. He unthreaded the links from the bars of the double swing gate and pushed it open. One side of the heavy gate creaked at the unexpected pressure and fell completely off, rusty hinges shattering. We both jumped back to save our toes from destruction as it clattered to the brick driveway. .
“Cha-ching,” I said, noting the first necessary repair in the small spiral notebook I was carrying.
“Let’s just hope your key works on the house.”
Weeds brushed at our jeans as we walked slowly up the drive to the front. I spotted a few empty beer cans and some trash amid the bushes, but it wasn’t as bad as it might’ve been. For instance, there weren’t any dead bodies.
Yet.
The porch wrapped around so far, I couldn’t see where it stopped. It crept around the west side of the house, ran straight along the front on the south side, then popped out in a big hexagon before continuing around to the east, where it faced the Indian River Lagoon. I could imagine folks a hundred years ago sitting out here on their wicker chairs, enjoying a pitcher of lemonade while sweating buckets under heavy skirts and suits and smacking at squadrons of mosquitoes.
OK, maybe it wasn’t so romantic after all.
Now it would be nigh impossible to relax on the porch, as we found when we climbed up the front steps. A few of the floorboards were rotten or nonexistent, like missing teeth, and the rest yowled underfoot like pissed-off cats.
“Cha-ching.” Another line in the notebook.
Avoiding the obvious holes, we made it to the door. It had been pretty once. It was carved and weathered, hinting at multiple layers of paint, and plywood was nailed over the middle of it, just like most of the lower-floor windows.
