Omens

Chapter Sixteen

The front door opened into a vestibule with stairs going up and a perpendicular hall for the apartments. No locked door to pass through. No panels of buzzers to alert the residents to company. Not even names on the mailbox slots.

The hall was paneled plaster with a wooden floor. My knowledge of architecture was confined to the external, so I didn’t know how historically accurate this was. It looked right, though. It was definitely nicer than any of the apartments I’d visited so far. Yes, the floorboards were worn, unvarnished paths showing the main routes, and the walls could use fresh paint. But it had a comfortable, lived-in look. Benign neglect.

I looked down the main hallway. Two doors on each side, four apartments on each floor. Twelve overall, then. Small, but it certainly didn’t feel full. The long corridor was dimly lit and cool, like a cave. Smelled a lot better than any cave I’d explored. I picked up teasing traces of sandalwood. The sounds were as muted as the smells. Hushed. Not so much a cave, then, as a church after hours, dark and cool and peaceful.

I knocked on 1D, the number on the note. It took three tries for the landlord to answer, and when she did, the look she gave me said I should have taken the hint after the first two.

She was at least as old as her cousin in Chicago. Steel gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. Sharp nose. Sharp chin. Even sharper gaze.

“What?”

“Are you Grace?” I handed her the note without waiting for a reply. “Your cousin Jack in Chicago—”

An abrupt wave, silencing me as she snatched the paper. As she read it, her frown deepened, until she wouldn’t have been out of place perched on top of her building.

“Got one apartment,” she said. “Three hundred a month.”

“Could I see—?”

“No. Wasn’t expecting to be showing apartments today.”

“Is it one bedroom?”

“You need more? Too bad. It’s one.”

“One is fine. Separate kitchen and living area?”

“It’s five hundred square feet, girl. You won’t be doing much living in there. But if you’re asking if it’s all one room, like one of those bachelor pads, no, it’s a proper apartment. Kitchen, living room, bedroom, bath.”

“Furnished?”

“If you call a fridge, stove, twin bed, and sofa ‘furnished.’ Might not be up to your standards, though. Got them at a yard sale.” A pause. “Twenty years ago.”

“Could I replace them if I wanted?”

“Can do anything you want. Replace the furniture, paint, carpet. Hell, you can even clean the place. Might need it. Haven’t opened the door since the tenant moved out last year.”

Lovely …

“Okay, so three hundred a month,” I said. “First and last’s makes that six—”

“Did I say you could stay two months? You pay one. Then I decide if you can have it for another.”

Renting a place unseen was ridiculous. But three hundred was a steal, especially with no second month’s rent or damage deposit.

I took another look down the hall. I wouldn’t even want to think what I’d pay in a place like this in Chicago.

“I’ll take it.”

A grunt that might have been “good” but probably wasn’t. She held out her hand, and it took me a second to realize she wanted her money. Now. I peeled three hundred from my wad and handed them over.

She took a key ring from inside her doorway, then strode along the hall so fast I had to scamper to keep up. No arthritic knees or hips here, despite her age. As we walked, she didn’t say a word, just worked on getting a key off the ring.

We went up the stairs to the top floor. She walked to one of the front apartments and swung the door open. Left unoccupied and unlocked for a year?

The stink of must hit me as soon as the door opened. Nothing worse, though. A few hours—okay, a few days—with the windows open, and it would be fine.

As I followed her in, I realized she wasn’t kidding about the cleaning. There were newspapers and empty boxes littering a floor so thick with dust that I kicked up clouds with every step.

Still, as with the rest of the building, the apartment was in good shape. Pretty even, with worn wood floors and plenty of decorative flourishes. It just needed a thorough scrubbing. The mauve painted walls would have to go before they gave me a headache.

Grace handed me the key. Then, without a word, she walked out.

If it hadn’t been for the smell, I think I’d have collapsed on the bed and called it a day. But that stink got me out—with the windows left open.

Grace was on the front stoop, in a ratty lawn chair, surveying the street as if expecting an invasion of Mongols. I offered a cheery “Have a good morning!” as I started down the steps.

“Where you off to already?” she said.

“Job hunting.”

“You just got here.”

“I need a job.”

“Well, you won’t get one here. Not this fast.”

I walked back up the stairs. “The town doesn’t look like it’s hurting too badly. There must be jobs for someone willing to take what she can get, which I am.”

“Oh, there are jobs. But folks don’t know you yet. Not going to hire you until they do. Only ones who’ll take you so fast are other new people.” A dismissive wave at a young woman herding two preschoolers toward Main Street. “They’ll hire you to clean their houses and look after their brats.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do.”

She snorted and shook her head as I went back down the steps.

“Waste of time,” she called after me. “But if you insist on going out, might as well stop by the diner.”

I turned. “Do they have an opening?”

“No. I want a scone. One of those cranberry orange ones. If Larry says he’s out, you tell him Grace says he’s full of shit and he’d better find one.”