Kristin Ashe: Disorderly Attachments Part 6

"Not like that," Nell corrected, when she caught me yanking a stalk without proof of an accompanying root. She demonstrated proper technique and watched me pull three more before she relaxed and concentrated on her own patch.

We chatted amiably for a few minutes before I came to the point. "So," I said lightly, "you're ready to sell the Fielder mansion?"

She gave a slight nod and tightened the drawstring on her hat. "I'll miss it, but it's time, past time. For years, I've tried to convince Mother to leave."

"Did you grow up in the mansion?"

"Some of the time. My parents bought the house when I was fifteen."

"When did your father die?"

"In nineteen seventy, when I was twenty-five."

"That's a long time for your mom to be alone."

Nell let out a snort. "She would tell you, not as long as their marriage."

"Your parents weren't happy?"

"No," she said briefly.

"You must have taken a chance on marriage. I met your grandson out back."

"Yes, that's Lyndon. I mean, Flax."

"Flax?"

Nell threw up her hands and rose to retrieve the garden hose. She took a drink from the nozzle before squirting her feet and hands. "He renamed himself this summer, but he has to remind me to use his new name. And yes, I did take a chance on marriage."

"Any husband now?"

She handed me the hose. "After the first two, I've settled for boyfriends. They provide the same benefits, without the legal mess. My last one, John, pa.s.sed away in the fall."

"I'm sorry," I said, interrupting my long drink to meet her gaze.

"Don't be. He enjoyed a full life, as full as they come. He was a great help with the mansion, which is part of why I'm selling. My son, d.i.c.k, lives with me, but he has no interest in the property."

I shut off the stream of water. "Your mom's okay with the sale?"

"It's taken years to convince her, but she accepts the change, more or less."

"Where will she so?"

"Didn't Roberta tell you? Mother will live in the carriage house until she dies or needs to move for health reasons."

"Roberta didn't mention that."

"That's why we accepted Roberta's offer. Philip Bazi, the developer, would have given us almost a hundred thousand more, but he made it clear that he intended to tear down everything on the block. The woman from Save Our Denver, Elvira Robinson, promised to find a buyer who would allow Mother to stay in the carriage house, but she never bothered to meet her. Roberta is the only one I trust to work around Mother's needs. She refuses to leave her home. She says everything she cares about is close by."

"Your mother wouldn't prefer to live in the main house?"

"No, and she couldn't. Parts of it are uninhabitable. Squirrels have nested and ruined the woodwork and floorboards. It's not safe and hasn't been for some time. We shut off gas, electric and water to the main building, which has helped financially. Some winters, the utility bills ran in the thousands."

I let out a low whistle. "You haven't had tenants to help offset the costs?"

"Not in years. Our last renter was one of Mother's close friends, Constance Ferro. I'm sure she didn't pay much, but Mother enjoyed the companionship."

"When did Constance leave?"

"At least twenty years ago. One day she was there, and the next, gone. Mother said she moved to California to be with her niece, but she left behind everything she owned. Some of it's still there. Mother refuses to let me clear out the room. Oh, well," Nell said gaily, "Roberta will have to deal with her. I'm not sure she knows what she's getting into."

"Your mom?"

"Roberta."

I nodded sympathetically. "Why not wait until your mother pa.s.ses away?"

"I wish I could, but I've been paying personal-care providers to come in and help Mother for the past year. My own funds are depleted. My son offered to lend me money or cosign a mortgage, but that seems foolish when the mansion sits empty."

"I agree."

Nell let out a long sigh. "Also, Mother seems lonely, although she'd never admit it. She rarely leaves the carriage house, only for doctor appointments and her trip to Blackhawk every Monday."

"She gambles that often?" I said, shocked at the prospect that slot machines in a former mining town represented Hazel Middleton's favorite pastime.

"And drives herself."

I cringed, recalling the narrow, winding highway with a rock wall on one side and a river on the other.

"This is the perfect solution," Nell said, whacking at a weed with relish. "If Mother won't leave her carriage house, I'll bring activity and stimulation to her."

I flashed her a questioning look. "Construction workers?"

"And Roberta."

I raised an eyebrow. "Will your mom see much of Roberta?"

"Roberta has promised to stop by the job site every day."

"Do they get along?"

"Famously. This is for the best," Nell said with forced enthusiasm. "After I sign the papers, I'll come home, drink a gla.s.s of champagne and toast new beginnings. For Mother and me."

I nodded. "I'm sure it'll be a relief."

Nell threw back her head. "You have no idea! When the sewer pipe broke last fall, the week after John died, I watched a backhoe tear up most of the yard and half of the driveway. After I wrote a check for fifteen thousand dollars, that's when I responded to Roberta's letter."

"Roberta had written to you?"

"Roberta Franklin has written every so often, for years. This time, I answered, but not until I sought the advice of a real estate agent. The agent made inquires, and before I knew it, I had four offers. I chose Roberta's, and here we are," Nell said, dusting off her hands.

I paused. "Urn, Roberta's heard rumors, and this may sound crazy..."

"Yes?" Nell rose with effort and glanced at me sharply.

"Is there any chance the house is haunted?"

When Nell Schwartz shook with laughter, I could feel my face redden.

In the time it took for her to respond, I felt like an idiot for having asked the question.

When she spoke, her reply upset me even more. "That's what I'll miss the most-the ghosts!"

Chapter 8.

The ghosts.

Apparently, they were more prevalent than I knew. I spent the next few days in the Western history section of the Denver Public Library, where I discovered that many of Capitol Hill's grand homes were purported to be haunted.

Between trips to the library, I saw little of Fran, which was just as well, but on Wednesday, she caught me off guard when we crossed paths at the office.

"Bert gave me a jingle. Said she hadn't heard from you. Wants you to call her today with an update."

"Today?" I said, my voice squeaking.

"That a problem?"

"Not exactly, but I haven't made much progress."

"Must have. Haven't seen you in forever," Fran said amiably before slapping her forehead. "Hold up! You ain't switch-hitting on me, are you?"

"Please!" I said, avoiding a direct answer.

"You wouldn't double-cross me and try to work the Destiny case?"

I adopted a pained expression. "I've had trouble getting in touch with Elvira Robinson, the lady at the historic society. Philip Bazi, the developer, stood me up. And the Western history section of the library's only open limited hours."

Fran looked at me steadily. "Enough said. Spinning your wheels. Happens sometimes. Carry on. Just keep Bert in the loop."

I wondered what Fran was up to, but she didn't volunteer a progress report on Carolyn O'Keefe, and I didn't ask. I'd noticed that she was out and about a fair amount, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Fran Green had more hobbies, interests and volunteer commitments than ten people combined. She carried two calendars to track it all and never confused a detail or date.

I barely could handle a limited number of engagements per week, with no desire for more, and when I woke up Thursday morning, I didn't need a single Daytimer to remind me of my most pressing appointment.

I couldn't have forgotten the fund-raiser at the Botanic Gardens if I'd tried.

It would be the first time I'd see Destiny with Carolyn O'Keefe, and the thought made my stomach ache. Who knew what indigestion lay ahead?

The day broke with gray skies, seventy degrees and high humidity. When I called the weather line, the forecast called for a forty percent chance of rain. Not the best weather for an outdoor event. Having grown up in Denver, however, I knew all too well the pattern of over-prediction and felt depressingly certain the Urban Teens fund-raiser would go on as scheduled at six o'clock.

Just my luck.

I pa.s.sed the time in the morning as best I could by tackling the writing portion of Roberta Franklin's a.s.signment. From a sheaf of notes, I compiled a first draft for the marketing materials and sales presentations, detailing the history and lore of the Fielder mansion.

Between sentences, most of which I borrowed from newspaper articles written at the turn of the twentieth century, my mind drifted, repeatedly rebounding to thoughts of Destiny. I pondered our recent lovemaking, unable to fathom Destiny's hands touching another woman. Maybe I'd exaggerated the danger Carolyn O'Keefe presented to my relationship and life. Maybe I'd blown it all out of proportion. How could Destiny, who displayed such pa.s.sion for me, be falling for someone else at the same time? She knew every part of my body, exactly what I liked. Every time we made love, we shared something familiar and comfortable, yet different and remarkable.

How could Destiny fake that?

Again and again?

Before I could answer, the door opened with a bang, signaling the arrival of Fran Green in one of her more distinct outfits. Her neon pink shirt announced, "It's A Girl Thing," but she'd countered the femme look with work boots, a trucker's cap with an oversized bill and aviator sungla.s.ses.

She threw the gla.s.ses and hat on the couch, moved her f.a.n.n.y pack around to below her gut and plopped into her chair with a thump. "Boy, dating ain't for p.u.s.s.ies."

Accustomed to her drama, I barely glanced up from the computer screen. "Rough night?"

Fran let out a derisive moan and ran her hands through her hair. "You said it."

I pushed back from the keyboard. "Instant dating is tough?"

"Speed-dating, Kris," she said as she pulled a toothpick from the wooden beaver on her desk and began to gnaw on it. "Exhausting, but quite the fascinating experience at Java Jo's. Little coffeehouse on Pearl Street, had a room to ourselves. Mingled for a few minutes as everyone arrived, then at the stroke of eight, got down to business. Picked numbers out of a hat and took a.s.signed seats. Spent ten minutes with each gal, boom, on to the next prospect."

"Did you meet anyone you liked?"

She raised a hand to stop me and pulled out a small notebook from the side pocket of her cargo shorts. "Have to fill you in from the beginning."

I rolled my eyes. "You took notes?"

"Jotted highlights. Recorded the event, too. I'll transcribe the tape for you later. Consider this a summary, full disclosure to follow."

I frowned. "Were you supposed to tape-record it?"

"Who knows? Made up my own protocol. You interested or not?"

I shifted in my seat and said good-naturedly, "No, but tell me about your dates."

Fran moved the notebook to within an inch of her nose, then out to the full reach of her arm. Back and forth, slowly and quickly, in fractional increments and gross movements, all the while squinting. "Forgot my specs.

"Do you want me to read it?"

"Impossible to decipher my codes. Have to manage myself. Here goes. Tall woman a possibility. Interesting story. Grew six inches one year in high school and gained forty pounds. Endured brutal physical therapy sessions to help accelerate muscle development. Nothing kept pace with those bones. Still has problems with tendons in her knees."

I stared at Fran, astonished. "You learned all of this in ten minutes?"