“It’s been empty for a little more than two years. It’s not as bad as it could be. At least if the bats are still here, you’ll be a second option to attack.”
He grinned. “I’ll be the distraction while you escape, is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“Queen Anne Victorian, yeah?” Paul said. “Slate roof looks good. If cared for properly, they can last more than one hundred years, unless they used soft slate. Any idea if this roof is original to the house? I’m guessing this house was built in the 1880s? This roof would still be good if the slate came from Virginia and isn’t the ribbon slate from Pennsylvania. Would you look at those sash windows, wavy glass and all.” Paul hopped over the broken plank and followed the wraparound porch to the side of the house, brushing his fingers against the windowpanes. “All original.” A breeze kicked up dirt from the boards, creating miniature dust spirals that danced around his heavy boots. “This is a gem, Ms. Tessa. I can understand why you don’t want to see it taken apart.”
Tessa stumbled through the front-yard overgrowth. Two butterflies danced through the thistles. “How do you know so much about Victorian homes?”
He pressed his fingertips to one of the windows. “Received an MA in architecture in Boston.”
“But . . . but aren’t you a travel writer?” She’d assumed his masters was more closely connected to his writing.
Paul’s expression dimmed for a few seconds. Then he walked toward her, grabbed the skeleton key from her hand, and headed for the front door. “Can’t I be both?”
She followed behind him. “Butwhy?”
“Why am I a travel writer, why did I receive an MA, or why am I both?” Paul slipped the key into the lock. A zipping sound like a jolt of electricity crackling down a live wire whizzed past Tessa’s ears. Paul jerked his hand away from the door. “Ow!”
“What happened?”
Paul shook out his hand a few times. “It shocked me. Static electricity?” But he didn’t sound convinced. He hesitated a second before reaching for the key again. This time the key turned in the antique lock without incident, and Paul pushed open the door. “As to why am I a travel writer with an MA in architecture, I counter withwhy not? As to how life led me here, that’s a complicated answer,” he said. “Best discussed over dinner. First, let’s take a look inside.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand. “After you, Ms. Tessa.”
Dinner?That one word caused her emotions to quiver. For a brief moment, she imagined them dining out while Paul told her stories of his exotic travels and she gushed at him over polished silver and starched white napkins.
Paul removed the key from the lock and returned it to Tessa’s outstretched hand. His boots thudded against the foyer floor as he walked toward the living room. He jumped up and down a few times. “Floors feel solid.” He bent down and rubbed his hands across the wood. “There’s a bit of buckling near the back corner,” he said and motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. “But with sanding and polishing, these will be beautiful again.”
The crystal chandelier in the foyer tinkled as though blown by a wind. “You saw the bulldozer, right?” Tessa grumbled. “It’ll be back tomorrow, and it won’t matter if these floors are Makassar ebony. They’ll be part of a heap before noon.”
Paul admired the cast-iron mantel adorning the pass-through fireplace. Tessa rushed forward, waving her hands in front of her in an attempt to warn Paul.
“No, no, no,” she said, unable to form more eloquent words.
Paul stopped walking. “I feel as though you should have addedbad dogto the end of that scolding.”
Tessa blushed. “No, it’s just, well, there are bats in the chimney. They attacked me yesterday.”
He continued toward the fireplace and squatted in front of it. He pointed to the grate. “Guano. Definitely bats. Did you know the Incan empire assigned abundant value to guano? Though not from bats. Guano from seabirds. If anyone disturbed the birds, they were killed. Pretty intense, right?” he said. Then he stuck his head into the fireplace.
Tessa gasped. “Don’t!”
“Hellooooo,” he called up the chimney. Then they waited. Nothing happened. “It appears as though your bats have vacated.”
Tessa’s shoulders lowered from her ears. She exhaled, pressed a hand to her chest, and asked, “Do you think they’re gone for good?”
“Doubtful,” he said. “But you’re safe for now.” He reached out and smoothed his fingers over the cast-iron mantel and tile work surrounding the hearth, rubbing away years of soot, which blackened his fingers. “I haven’t seen a mantel like this since I was in Cardiff doing a piece on the Llandaff Cathedral. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was shipped over from the United Kingdom.” He tapped one finger against a spot on the mantel. “Something is missing here. There’s dust everywhere but in this spot.”
“Well, Sherlock Holmes, I found a book there. The previous owner of Honeysuckle Hollow—a local doctor—kept his family home, but he didn’t use this as his residence. I’ve only recently learned that he allowed people to stay here who were down on their luck or passing through town and stuck here for various reasons, sickness or hardship. Dr. Hamilton, that was his name, offered the house to them rent-free for as long as they needed it. The book is full of their stories and their thank-yous. There are more volumes of guest books in the family room.”
Paul nodded. “So that’s what you meant about this place being a haven.” He wiped his fingers on his jeans. “What else do you know about Honeysuckle Hollow?”
While they walked through the house, Tessa filled Paul in on what she knew about the history of Honeysuckle Hollow. She hadn’t done as much research into the historical records as she would have liked, but growing up in Mystic Water had given her some background information passed down through the years.
Paul leaned against the island in the kitchen. “The graffiti is an unfortunate addition to the home, and it’s a travesty what they did to the floors and the French doors when they dragged out the appliances.” He rapped the island with his knuckles. “But I wouldn’t think those were cause for demolition. Don’t you want to find out what the investor offered for the land?”
“Why would it matter?”
“It’ll cost Mrs. Steele to tear down the house and have it hauled off to clear the land. I’d say at least $70,000. That’s money out of her pocket from the overall sale. Perhaps a bid could be made that wouldn’t cause the owner to part with any money for demolition.”
