Page 10 of The Aura Answer
“Doesn’t the attic have a floor?” Evie’s veterinarian cousin asked. Iddy was usually too buried in work to join the family festivities, so the women were seriously worried.
Unlike the rest of her family, Iddy was tall, lanky, and black-haired, but she was definitely a Malcolm. She talked to animals. He checked, and even the Siamese cat had abandoned the box of lights to twist around Iddy’s ankles and appeared to be listening. Her blazer pocket squirmed, and a tiny furry kitten head peered out. At least she had left her raven home or it might be perching where the angel sat.
Jax tried to soothe their fears. “Contractors apparently lifted the floorboards to replace cannister lights and haven’t put them back. Working theory is that the shooter used the hole from a missing fixture to aim through. But he did so over Bertie’s body. Bertie must have taken advantage of the absent floorboards to place his sleeping bag on soft insulation next to the hole and probably fell asleep with the top off his water bottle. It leaked and soaked the aging plaster for days, and when the gun went off, the reverberation caused the entire section to cave.”
“But the killer didn’t fall through?” Iddy asked, apparently trying to picture it.
“He would have been kneeling on the floorboards. Most people know better than to touch insulation or kneel on plaster,” Jax explained, trying not to question the mental state of homeless Bertie out of respect.
“Well, it’s a good thing Larraine was safely in the judge’s chambers.” Mavis lit an evergreen-scented candle. “They’d either have shot her or accused her of murder.”
Larraine had been standing near the former mayor at the time of the shot, preparing for her turn to speak, but Jax refrained from correcting Evie’s mother. Their flamboyant new mayor had definitely not shot Block.
“You have no good reason to become involved,” he warned. “No one is accusing anyone of anything. Now, if I may be excused, I’d like to wash before dinner.” He hesitated, remembering the baking sheets of cookies. “Prisisfixing dinner, isn’t she?”
“Eventually.” Checking her phone, Evie waved away his concern. “And you may be wrong in your thinking. Tobias just offered a hundred thousand reasons for finding his father’s killer.”
Jax groaned. “Evie, youreallydon’t want to be involved, not even for a hundred grand. Block knew a lot of shady characters and owed a lot of money in the wrong circles. He’s not an innocent needing justice. I’m surprised his son has the money to offer.”
Surprisingly, Mavis agreed with him. “It’s Christmas, Evangeline. Let this one go. It’s not as if you’re making any money off this detective business.”
“Au contraire, ma mere.” Evie beamed and scooped up Psycat to prevent him from climbing the tree. “Bella’s insurance company rewarded us for finding the killer of the company’s CEO, and one of Dante’s archeological organizations paid us well for catching artifact thieves. Reuben and Roark are eager to earn more. They have a reputation to build.”
And way too much time on their hands. Jax needed to have a word with his gung-ho friends.
But Evie was right in her own way. They all needed money. They had talents that normal officialdom couldn’t bring to the table. And sadly, the world possessed way too much hatred and greed and too many guns for Evie’s fledglingSolutionsAgency to ever lack business.
He was just terrified Evie would die trying to find justice—as his parents had.
Nick whistleda merry tune as he carried the antique maple bedframe out to the carriage house. “A little refinishing, and this thing could bring in some cash,” he told Jax’s towering Italian cousin. The family Victorian accumulated more strays than a pet shelter. Nick didn’t feel too out of place mooching on their goodwill. He had lots of company.
Dante flung the ancient twin-size mattress into the back of Evie’s Subaru to take to the dump and slid back the carriage house door. “Alotof refinishing and you could turn Evie’s entire household into an antique store. I’m gathering our hostess isn’t much into sanding and staining.”
“And her family isn’t much into giving up their furniture. They’re hoarders, is what they are.” Nick carefully arranged the bedframe pieces along the wall with the cartons of who-knows-what accumulating in the empty space. At any given time, the family could produce vintage clothing from the last century, original rock albums from the sixties, and board games probably dating back to the 1800s. The ivory chess set and mahogany dominoes alone would pay the groceries for a month or more.
Not having money made him mercenary. He’d become used to ready cash these last years.
“You have to admit, it’s handy not having to buy anything to move in here. It’s just a matter of rearranging until we have what everyone needs. That tiny bed had to go.” Dante stretched his back. He’d apparently been sleeping with his feet dangling off the end of the small bed until his leg had healed enough to take the stairs to more suitable quarters—hence the frenzy of redecorating.
“And there are still how many more bedrooms packed with this paraphernalia? Plus an attic? They all need to have larger houses of their own.” Nick admired the gilded, ornate collection of picture frames that had accumulated along with the cartons. He didn’t admire the photos and paintings inside them, but he was no art expert.
“We all need our own homes,” Dante agreed. “But I already have one stuffed full of the same rubbish in Italy. All valuable for museums but worthless for modern use.”
“Hotels, restaurants.” Nick absently poked through a carton of wrapped ceramic figurines. “Huge business decorating with antiques and collectibles. I used to work with a chain that hunted through antique stores for their décor.”
He’d lived on the knife’s edge of poverty too, but those had been his student days. He’d learned how to mix with the movers and shakers since then. Once this damned trial was done, he’d have to go back to London, work through his contact list, get back in the groove. Poverty wasn’t his thing.
“Huh, send them my way if they ever come to Italy. I’d love to have LED lighting and closets instead of armoires and floor lamps.” Dante headed back to the house, uninterested in the cold dark garage.
Nick followed. “If my family had ever owned anything except cheap junk from a dustbin, I might have gone into the antiques business.”
“Don’t the Brits have enough of those already? You’re better off in marketing. Everyone needs marketing.” Dante still limped a little as he climbed to the back porch. The archeology professor had cracked a shin bone back before Thanksgiving and was using his inability to climb around caves as an excuse to hang out here a little longer.
Nick figured his real excuse was trying to entice Priscilla back to Italy with him and the twins, but that wasn’t any of his business.
“Yeah, but I’m good at recognizing the expensive pieces and selling them for top dollar to the right people. Just having a store isn’t enough. You have to know how to market the inventory.” Nick hesitated on the porch. He wasn’t family. He’d been sleeping in the cellar man cave as Jax’s guest. He felt intrusive joining in whatever family festivity followed dinner.
“C’mon, if we haul enough furniture, they’ll feed us Irish coffee and cake. I’m thinking there hasn’t been a man around this house in decades, and they’re taking advantage of us while we’re here, but I’m good with that.” Dante held open the screen door and gestured Nick inside.
