Crooked River

13

Loren Mayfield, Esq., was poring over the final pages of a particularly complex irrevocable trust when a knock sounded on the door of his inner office. He put the document down with relief and called, “Come in.”

The door opened and Evelyn, his secretary, stuck her head in. “That woman who called you this morning for an appointment is here, Mr. Mayfield.”

“Good. Please send her in.” Mayfield pushed the trust document aside and straightened his tie. The woman had refused to say what she wanted to see him about. As a lawyer, Mayfield liked a mystery. The more mysterious, the greater the potential for a sizable retainer.

When the woman was shown in, however, Mayfield temporarily forgot about money. She was young, extraordinarily beautiful, and wore a dress that, although prim and conservative, could not hide the contours of her body.

He stood up, his instincts as a lawyer immediately reasserting themselves. Down, boy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Loren Mayfield. Please have a seat.” He pointedly did not mention the fine weather they were having, or how well his visitor looked today, or any other ice-breaking small talk of that ilk.

“I’m Constance Greene. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“My pleasure.” Now that the initial surprise was wearing off, Mayfield realized that the woman’s clothing was not just prim but downright old-fashioned. Nobody wore ankle-length dresses on Sanibel; just slipping into a pair of flip-flops was considered formal. He wondered if perhaps she was Amish, or a member of some other antique Christian sect. He glanced out the window but saw no three-wheeled bicycle parked outside. No matter; he’d find out soon enough. He rested his elbows on his desk and interlaced his fingers, giving her his full attention. “How may I help you, Ms. Greene?”

“I’m here about the Mortlach House.”

“Ah.” Perhaps that explained the dress. Did she want to use the house for some kind of photo shoot, maybe? If so, she’d have to hurry up.

“I was told to direct any inquiries to you.”

Mayfield nodded. “I represent the current owner of the house, yes.”

“Excellent. We wish to rent it.”

“We?”

“My guardian and I.”

“For what purpose?” A fancy-dress ball? Mayfield wondered. Something kinky?

“To reside in, naturally. It seems ideally situated.”

At this, the lawyer had to chuckle. “I’m sorry, Ms. Greene, but I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Why? Is there a problem with the house?”

“No. It’s been meticulously maintained.”

“Are others living there? Or perhaps it’s unfurnished, or requires cleaning?”

“In all cases, the answer is no. The Mortlach House cannot be rented because it is scheduled to be demolished in a matter of days.”

This information did not surprise the young woman. She smoothed down her dress with remarkable composure. “So I understand. But certainly some accommodation could be reached.”

Mayfield shook his head. “Ms. Greene, I wish you had walked in here five years ago.”

“Five years ago I would not have been in a position to rent that house.”

“No. What I mean is, five years ago an offer like yours would have seemed a gift from God. Now, however, I’m afraid it’s simply too late.”

Ms. Greene raised her eyebrows in mute inquiry. Lawyer though he was, Mayfield was tempted to forgo his natural reticence and mention a detail or two. Doing so would, at least, keep this attractive woman in his office a little longer and delay a return to the irrevocable trust.

“My client bought the Mortlach House not quite a decade ago, when it was somewhat the worse for wear,” he told her. “He lives up north — in the greater New York area — and thought it would make a good investment property, winter rentals and so forth. He replaced the roof and some rotted timbers, had it furnished and redecorated and repainted. But rentals turned out to be few and hard to come by.” He leaned forward. “You know small towns and their gossip.”

“I assume you’re referring to the murder.”

Mayfield sat back at once. “Yes. It took place in 2009. I don’t know all the details, beyond the fact that the owner was murdered — with an ax, apparently, judging by the, ah, evidence left behind — and the murderer never caught. Naturally, the disappearance of the body made the gossip, if anything, even more active than it normally would have been.” Mayfield pursed his lips. “The owner’s estate really should have included this information in the seller’s disclosure. Instead, they waited until things quieted down and then sold the property to somebody far away who didn’t know the history.”

“The buyer could have sued.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t get into details of that sort, especially since I did not represent him until after the sale was complete. Suffice it to say, my client believed a total restoration would take care of things. Unfortunately, that was not the case — again, thanks to these island folk and their gossip.”

“Your secretary mentioned to me that no matter how many times they repainted the walls, blood kept oozing out. And that the few people who stayed overnight reported tapping noises and once or twice the clanking of chains, echoing faintly in the small hours.”

He would have to talk to Evelyn about this. “Ridiculous, don’t you think? In any case, my client has patiently kept the house in perfect shape, but with this nonsense refusing to go away, and seasonal visitors always getting wind of the stories somehow, it’s become a money sink rather than an investment. Condominium developers have been interested in the parcel all along, and my client has determined the time has come to demolish the house and sell the land.” At a nice profit, he thought privately. “It is, quite simply, an albatross of a property.”

“But I’ve told you already. We would like to rent it.”

Mayfield shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid things have gone too far for that now.”

The office fell silent for a moment. Then Ms. Greene said: “It’s a shame to raze such a beautiful structure. I’m surprised the local historical society isn’t doing something about it.”

“Oh, they’ve done all they can. Held candlelight vigils, put together one fund-raiser after another. But my client was determined and had the zoning laws on his side, and they weren’t able to meet his price. Maybe if the murder had been solved, things would be different, but it’s still on the books, and so...” Mayfield spread his hands in a gesture of futility.

While he’d spoken, his visitor had been writing something. “To my mind, an unsolved murder is merely icing on the cake. If you can have the house aired and cleaned, we’ll move in tomorrow.”

“But, Ms. Greene, I’ve explained to you that—”

There was a low sound as the woman tore away a strip of paper, then handed it across the desk. Mayfield saw it was a check, from a private New York bank, made out to his firm in the amount of ten thousand dollars. The handwriting was old-fashioned and self-assured. On the memo line was written Week no. 1.

Week number one.

“May I assume, Mr. Mayfield, that amount will stave off the bulldozers and wrecking balls — at least temporarily?”

Mayfield looked from the check to her and back again. “I...” he began.

Ms. Greene seemed to take this as assent, because she rose from her chair. “Thank you so much for your consideration. We’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon for the key. May I suggest four o’clock?”

And when the lawyer made no reply, she smiled, inclined her head ever so faintly, then turned and exited the office.