Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Judy Penz Sheluk
hardwood. Small mercies. That rug’s days were seriously numbered, and stripping carpet was something I could do myself. It would save a bit of renovation money for another project. From the looks of this place, fifty thousand dollars wasn’t going to go far. If I wanted to sell in a year and get a decent amount for the place, I’d have to put in a lot of elbow grease.
Another hallway led out of the kitchen and dining room and into a main bathroom in shades of 1970s pink, and two bedrooms painted builder’s beige. The smaller room was barely larger than a walk-in closet. The master bedroom was just large enough to fit a queen-sized bed if you were the kind of person who didn’t care about night tables. The eyesore of a rug continued throughout. I lifted up another heat vent and found evidence of more pale blonde hardwood.
Both bedrooms had decent-sized windows, with the master affording a view of the backyard. I noticed the sprawling lilac, not yet in bud. It was early May after an unseasonably harsh winter. It could be at least another month before it would be in full bloom.
I opened the master bedroom closet and made note of a small footstool and attic entry. According to Leith, my mother’s things would be stored there. I wasn’t looking forward to rummaging around an attic—thoughts of mice poop and spider webs sprang to mind, and I really hated closed-in spaces—but it would have to be done, and sooner rather than later. If I could solve this supposed “mystery” or prove there was no mystery to solve, I could go back to my life in downtown Toronto. It might not have been exciting, but it was cloaked in anonymity, something the recluse in me relished. Five years in my condo rental, I had yet to get to know any of my neighbors. One hour in Marketville and I already had the neighbor inviting me over for a drink or dinner.
I continued with my investigation of the house. A narrow stairway led to the basement. I’m not a huge fan of basements. They always feel vaguely creepy to me, and the low ceilings and dark wood paneling did nothing to warm me to this one. There was a separate room with an ancient washer and dryer not long for this world. It wasn’t a ringer washer, but it wasn’t far off. A second room housed the furnace, original to the house from the looks of it. It would probably need to be replaced before next winter. I mentally tallied up the renovation expenses I’d made note of so far and tried to shake off a feeling of gloom. It looked like I had inherited a money pit, and maybe a haunted one at that.
As if on cue, the furnace made a strange, belching noise before shuddering into submission.
“I hear you,” I said, and scampered up the stairs, taking them two steps at a time.
Chapter 5
The movers weren’t expected to arrive for about an hour, which gave me time to hang up the clothes I’d brought, along with some basic kitchen essentials—kettle, tea, mug, and a package of chocolate chip cookies. I also managed to find a spot for three tubes of cocoa butter lip balm, one in a kitchen drawer, one in the bathroom, and another in the bedroom, temporarily on the window ledge until my bedside table was in place. The fourth tube I kept in my purse. Maybe it was a little neurotic, but there are worse addictions.
Thankfully, the movers were on time. It was a relief given all the horror stories I’d been reading in the papers about various moving companies scamming customers. Most of the scams seemed to involve movers who refused to unload a person’s belongings unless they agreed to demands for hundreds more in additional fees, such as negotiating stairs—I’d heard as much as fifty dollars per stair—and other miscellaneous charges. I’d been careful to get references, but you never knew if those were faked. Working in the bank’s call center in the fraud unit, I’d pretty much heard it all.
A couple of burly guys hopped off the truck, surprisingly graceful given their bulk. The
Another hallway led out of the kitchen and dining room and into a main bathroom in shades of 1970s pink, and two bedrooms painted builder’s beige. The smaller room was barely larger than a walk-in closet. The master bedroom was just large enough to fit a queen-sized bed if you were the kind of person who didn’t care about night tables. The eyesore of a rug continued throughout. I lifted up another heat vent and found evidence of more pale blonde hardwood.
Both bedrooms had decent-sized windows, with the master affording a view of the backyard. I noticed the sprawling lilac, not yet in bud. It was early May after an unseasonably harsh winter. It could be at least another month before it would be in full bloom.
I opened the master bedroom closet and made note of a small footstool and attic entry. According to Leith, my mother’s things would be stored there. I wasn’t looking forward to rummaging around an attic—thoughts of mice poop and spider webs sprang to mind, and I really hated closed-in spaces—but it would have to be done, and sooner rather than later. If I could solve this supposed “mystery” or prove there was no mystery to solve, I could go back to my life in downtown Toronto. It might not have been exciting, but it was cloaked in anonymity, something the recluse in me relished. Five years in my condo rental, I had yet to get to know any of my neighbors. One hour in Marketville and I already had the neighbor inviting me over for a drink or dinner.
I continued with my investigation of the house. A narrow stairway led to the basement. I’m not a huge fan of basements. They always feel vaguely creepy to me, and the low ceilings and dark wood paneling did nothing to warm me to this one. There was a separate room with an ancient washer and dryer not long for this world. It wasn’t a ringer washer, but it wasn’t far off. A second room housed the furnace, original to the house from the looks of it. It would probably need to be replaced before next winter. I mentally tallied up the renovation expenses I’d made note of so far and tried to shake off a feeling of gloom. It looked like I had inherited a money pit, and maybe a haunted one at that.
As if on cue, the furnace made a strange, belching noise before shuddering into submission.
“I hear you,” I said, and scampered up the stairs, taking them two steps at a time.
Chapter 5
The movers weren’t expected to arrive for about an hour, which gave me time to hang up the clothes I’d brought, along with some basic kitchen essentials—kettle, tea, mug, and a package of chocolate chip cookies. I also managed to find a spot for three tubes of cocoa butter lip balm, one in a kitchen drawer, one in the bathroom, and another in the bedroom, temporarily on the window ledge until my bedside table was in place. The fourth tube I kept in my purse. Maybe it was a little neurotic, but there are worse addictions.
Thankfully, the movers were on time. It was a relief given all the horror stories I’d been reading in the papers about various moving companies scamming customers. Most of the scams seemed to involve movers who refused to unload a person’s belongings unless they agreed to demands for hundreds more in additional fees, such as negotiating stairs—I’d heard as much as fifty dollars per stair—and other miscellaneous charges. I’d been careful to get references, but you never knew if those were faked. Working in the bank’s call center in the fraud unit, I’d pretty much heard it all.
A couple of burly guys hopped off the truck, surprisingly graceful given their bulk. The
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