Bones and Roses Read Online Free Page B

renters. No broken dishes, no towels or linens that “mysteriously” go missing. No overflowing toilet not reported in a timely fashion, or carpet stains resulting from someone having ignored the no-pet policy. (Believe me, I’ve seen it all in my line of work.)
    I open windows to let in fresh air. I arrange the cut flowers I picked up at Trader Joe’s in vases and distribute them throughout the house. Finally I see to the small details that escaped the cleaning lady’s attention: I change a light bulb that was burned out, clean out the lint trap in the clothes dryer, and replace the used soap bars in the bathrooms. The house is as welcoming as a smile and a handshake by the time I leave. I pause to gaze out the picture window in the living room on my way out. The beach spread out below, dotted with sunbathers and their colorful accouterment, looks like a giant sheet cake from this distance. Gentle waves roll in to lick the shore.
    I lock up and head back to my trusty green Ford Explorer, which I bought new with the commission from my first home sale. I climb in and start the engine. Two more stops before I have to be at the White Oaks self-storage facility. I can swing by the Trousdales’ after I’m done there; it’s on my way home.
    By four o’clock I’m winding my way along Old County Road, in the wooded hills above Cypress Bay. The breeze blowing in my open window brings the sharp menthol scent of the tall, shaggy-barked eucalyptus trees that line the road on either side. I love the peace and quiet out here, away from the bustle of the more touristy areas: the beaches; the Boardwalk that dates back to the 1920s and municipal pier with its souvenir shops and fish shacks; the marine center with its aquarium; and popular surfing and sightseeing spots. During the cold-weather months Cypress Bay is home to a population of roughly thirty thousand, but from late spring through early fall that number triples with the tourists who flock to our fair shores. Traffic along the main thoroughfares slows to a crawl and you’ll have an easier time scoring ganga from one of our local pot dealers than finding a parking space. At my favorite coffee shop, Higher Ground, that’s normally grab and go, it’s not unusual to have to wait in line for fifteen minutes. Normally I don’t mind the inconvenience, because I never lose sight of the fact that tourism is the lifeblood of this town and small business owners like myself; it’s the tourists themselves I find objectionable. The majority are law-abiding and respectful, but there are those who light fires on public lands in defiance of local ordinances, who don’t clean up after their dogs, who use our garden hoses without permission to wash the sand from their bodies after a day at the beach, and who block our driveways with their illegally parked vehicles. And that’s when they’re behaving themselves.
    I wonder again about my mysterious bequest and feel a flutter of anticipation. I could certainly use the extra cash if it’s anything of value. The renovations on my Craftsman bungalow wiped out the bulk of my savings, and the last vet bill for my tom after he got torn up in a fight with another cat took most of what was left.
    A few minutes later I’m turning through the gated entrance of the White Oaks self-storage facility—which consists of prefab metal units set in rows on a slope like risers on a staircase and a two-story gray cinderblock building that houses an office and what looks to be living quarters above—where I find Ivy waiting. I brake to a stop in front of the office, next to where her orange VW Bug, aka the Pumpkin—an ironic take on Cinderella’s coach—is parked.
    â€œIt doesn’t look too promising,” I remark, looking around me.
    â€œJust remember. A lost Rembrandt wouldn’t stay lost if it was somewhere obvious,” she says.
    Inside we find a man tapping