Page 9 of One Hundred Humbugs

“Huh,” she muttered, frowning. “I guess the mountains are different than I thought.”

She had imagined getting here and seeing lushgreen pines and underbrush that was just as vibrant. But when they call the Rockies the high desert, they weren’t kidding. She made a mental note to brush up on the local geography. If she was going to sell this place, she’d need to know how to pitch it.

Ruby finished her crackers and peanut butter, washing them down with tap water from a glass she’d rinsed about five times, just to be safe. As she set the glass down, her eyes caught on a small leather-bound book wedged between a tacky ceramic rooster and what looked like a vintage cigarette dispenser.

Curiosity piqued, Ruby extracted the book. Its cover was worn soft with age and use. Opening it, she found pages filled with Uncle Peter’s messy scrawl. It seemed to be some sort of journal.

“Well, Uncle Peter,” Ruby said with a smirk, “what have you been hiding in here?”

She flipped it open to a random page and began to read:

June 15, 1985 - Note to self: Never try to charm two sisters at the same town picnic. Especially if one of them is married to the sheriff. On an unrelated note, the jailhouse sandwiches in Gold Gulch aren’t half bad.

Ruby’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh my,” she laughed, flipping to another entry.

August 3, 1990 - Acquired a delightful antique barometer today. The seller seemed quite eager to part with it. Unrelated: Discovered I’m allergic to mercury. Currently writing this with my toes as my fingers are temporarily the size of sausages.

September 12, 1995 - Note to self: When a lady asks if her dress makes her look fat, ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’ is not an acceptable response. Even if you’re in the middle of organizing your Vatican commemorative plate collection.

Ruby laughed out loud. Each page revealed a new facet of her uncle’s colorful life—his flirtations, his misadventures, and his seemingly endless capacity for collecting the weird and wonderful.

“Oh,” Ruby sighed, her voice caught between fondness and exasperation. “What am I supposed to do with all of this?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered. Ruby set the journal aside and stood up, stretching. She needed a shower and a change of clothes if she was going to face the day—and the daunting task of dealing with Uncle Peter’s estate.

Navigating to the bathroom was an adventure in itself. Ruby had to squeeze past a tower of oldNational Geographicmagazines, dodge a precariously balanced collection of what looked like vintage fishing lures, and almost tripped over a box labeled “Misc. Knick-Knacks Possibly Cursed???”

The bathroom, when she reached it, was thankfully less cluttered than the rest of the house. Still, it had its quirks. The shower curtain was adorned with a map of the world, with little red stickers stuck in various locations. Ruby wondered if these were places Uncle Peter had visited or places he’d planned to go.

As hot water sputtered from the showerhead, Ruby let out a sigh of relief. She stepped under the spray, letting it wash away the travel grime and the lingering disorientation of waking up in a strange place.

Under the steam and solitude of the shower, Ruby’s mind wandered. What would her life in Chicago look like right now if she hadn’t received that letter? Another day of juggling freelance gigs, dodging her landlord, and trying to ignore the gnawing feeling that she was just treading water?

Here, at least, she had ... what? A house full of junk anda to-do list a mile long? But also, maybe, a chance at something different. Something she couldn’t quite name yet.

Ruby shook her head, sending water droplets flying. “Get it together, Rubes,” she said. “You’re here to sell, not soul-search.”

Feeling somewhat refreshed, Ruby stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel that had seen better days but smelled clean enough. She wiped the foggy mirror with her hand, studying her reflection.

The face that looked back at her seemed different somehow. Maybe it was the mountain air, or the strange sense of possibility that hung around this place like a mist. Or maybe she was just overtired and under-caffeinated.

Back in the bedroom, Ruby rummaged through her hastily packed suitcase for something to wear. She settled on jeans and a soft sweater—it looked cooler outside than she’d expected.

Dressed and marginally more put together, Ruby made her way back to the living room. It was time to face reality and call that real estate agent. She picked up her phone and the crumpled paper where she’d scribbled Marge Gunderson’s number last night.

Ruby took a deep breath and dialed. After a few rings, a crisp, no-nonsense voice answered.

“Silver Springs Realty, Marge Gunderson speaking.”

“Hi, Ms. Gunderson. This is Ruby Whitaker. I inherited a property in Aspen Cove from my uncle, Peter Larkin, and I was hoping you could help me sell it.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Peter Larkin’s place? Well, honey, that’s quite a ... unique property. Why don’t I come take a look? I can be there in about an hour.”

Ruby agreed, feeling a sense of anxiety. An hour. Sheglanced around the cluttered living room. There was no way she could make this place presentable in an hour. Or a week, for that matter.

True to her word, Marge arrived precisely an hour later. Ruby watched from the porch as a meticulously maintained vintage Cadillac pulled up in front of the house. Marge Gunderson stepped out, every inch the professional in a smart blazer and practical shoes.

“Well,” Marge said, surveying the overgrown yard with a raised eyebrow, “I can see we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

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