Page 2 of Holiday Hideaway
“The Crowe’s Nest. On Beaverton, facing the bay.”
“I see,” Tilly said. She grabbed the sleeping bag, pulled it over her head, and crouched on the floor, hoping her voice wouldn’t be audible.
“Sir, our records show that the owner of that property is Augustus Crowe. Is Mr. Crowe aware that you’re inside his residence?”
“Augustus isn’t currently aware of anything. He died three weeks ago.” The caller sounded absolutely cheery about this turn of events.
“Oh. Well, er, please accept my condolences.”
Tilly had met Augustus Crowe, Piney Point’s richest citizen, only once, when, as a teenage cashier, she’d rung up his groceries at the Stop ’N’ Shop and had earned a withering tongue-lashing when she’d made the mistake of placing a twenty-five-cent dented can of tomatoes on top of a loaf of sandwich bread. He’d called for her manager and attempted to have her fired on the spot. Fortunately for Tilly, the Stop ’N’ Shop manager was her mom, who let her off with a stern look and an offer to replace the old man’s bread.
She felt briefly ashamed of being glad the old man had passed. Nobody at Piney Point Vacation Rentals would be mourning the loss of their most irascible homeowner.
“Thanks. He was ninety-six and as miserable a human being as ever walked the earth,” the caller said.
“Wow. Harsh,” Tilly said.
“No.Harshwas him disowning my uncle for marrying a Unitarian,” the man said. “Harshwas him boycotting my mom’s funeral because she voted for Hillary Clinton.”
“So you’re related?” Tilly asked cautiously. “I wasn’t aware Mr. Crowe had any family.”
“None that he spoke to, anyway,” the caller said. “I’m his great-nephew, George. As a token of his utter disdain forour family, Uncle Gus left his millions in a trust for his cat, Emmaline. He left this decrepit money pit to my cousin and my sisters and me, and I drew the short straw, which means I get to figure out how to get it cleaned out and ready to put on the market ASAP. Over Christmas.”
“You’re selling the Crowe’s Nest?” Tilly asked, aghast. “That house is a local landmark. Mr. Crowe always said he’d never part with it. Every summer, we had sellers asking, and the answer from your great-uncle was always the same: ‘Over my dead body.’”
“He got his wish,” George said, chuckling. “Anyway, about that junker car ...”
“Yes, er, it belongs to one of our maintenance workers.” Her thoughts raced. “The battery died when he was out there doing a routine property check. We’ll send someone to remove it.”
“Another thing. When I got in the house, I actually found food on the kitchen counter. Eggs, bacon, Cheez-Its, Cheez Whiz, and a two-pound bag of Peanut M&M’s. Even a bottle of really cheap wine. And also a little Christmas tree, set up in the parlor. Has someone been in here?”
Tilly’s cheeks grew heated with embarrassment. She’d turned to stress eating after the divorce. Now, her brain scrambled for an explanation. “That would be our Piney Point Vacation Rentals complimentary welcome package. We had a guest booking, and they chose the holiday option, which comes with all the trimmings. Unfortunately, the guests canceled at the last minute.”
“Kind of a bizarre holiday welcome basket, if you ask me. Just as well, though. I drove up from Boston just now and didn’t stop for groceries. Say, what did you say your name is?”
“Er, Tilly,” she said, her stomach growling at the mention of the food she’d bought.
“Okay, Tilly. Well, I guess I’ll drop by the office later this week. I’m assuming you guys will need some paperwork signed before I list the house?”
“I suppose.”
After he’d disconnected, George set his suitcase down at the foot of the elaborately carved front-hall staircase and walked slowly through the rooms on the first floor, making a mental inventory of all the work that would have to be done. He tried to remember the last time he’d been inside the Crowe’s Nest. Twenty years, at least. Maybe Christmas, his junior year of high school?
Funny, he could remember the menu—a dried-out ham, canned Le Sueur peas, and instant mashed potatoes—but not the reason for the rare invitation to dine with the old man. What he did remember was his mother jumping to her feet during dessert—slices of fruitcake left over from the Mesozoic Era—grabbing her pocketbook, and running, red faced and in tears, out of the house. What had the old man said to upset his usually placid mother? He had never known.
The dining room looked much the same as it had on his last visit. It was clean enough, but who would choose this mausoleum as a place to spend a week at the beach? And over Christmas? The house was dark, drafty, and depressing. Not exactly the kind of halls a sane person would want to deck with boughs of holly. The floral wallpaper was faded and peeling away from the walls. The pattern in the vividly hued Oriental rug was worn through and threadbare in places. China and knickknacks were scattered about on yellowing doilies.
“Gotta get rid of the wallpaper.” George dictated a memo into his phone. “Paint. Ditch the carpet. Donate all this old crap.”
The parlor was furnished in ornate satin-upholstered sofas and stiff-looking chairs, with a huge dust-encrusted crystal chandelier overhead. Fussily swagged velvet curtains dripping with gold fringe hung at the windows. A three-foot fake Christmas tree, complete with twinkling multicolored lights, sat on an ebony table near the fireplace—the single note of cheer in the whole house as far as he could tell. Would anybody want this stuff?
Maybe he’d ask the property-management gal he’d talked to earlier. She’d have a handle on what buyers were looking for in this small coastal tourist destination.
His phone rang. Vanessa. He sighed and put her on speaker. “Hey, babe.”
“I thought you were going to call me as soon as you got to the house. I was starting to worry.”
“Sorry. Just got here and doing my walk-through to figure out what all I need to do these next few days.”
