Page 10 of Housesitter

Shepherd blinked.

That would be…problematic.

“Of course,” he said. “If it helps, though, it’s part of the house-sitting contract for the owner to provide an inventory of contents and their condition before the service starts. I could ask the company to forward that to your office.”

Doncaster looked dubious.

“It’s notarised?” Shepherd offered.

Doncaster looked intrigued. Why not. Small town officials, especially those whose job was decided by committee, not popularity, loved a cost-saving, notarised-for-their-protection shortcut.

For that matter, there probably was an actual, signed-off inventory on list somewhere. It wouldn’t be what Doncaster would get, though.

When your clientele was mostly the damned and departed, laws didn’t matter so much. Legalities, yes. Laws, no.

“Well,” Doncaster said. “If it was recent and Madden signed off on it, that should be acceptable.”

He looked around the kitchen and gave a creeped-out shudder. It was actually the most mundane room in the house. Dio Madden had apparently drawn the line at letting the house’s ‘damned AND Victorian’ vibe deny him a lazy susan or Shaker-style doors, but Doncaster was unmoved at that.

“I’ll definitely be more popular if I don’t have to ask any of my people to spend hours in here.” He pointed at the range. “That? That was where they found Amy Culper’s fingers after she spent the night here, severed and baked into a pie.”

They all looked at the heavy, bakelite green appliance.

“What sort of pie?” Shepherd asked.

It was the wrong thing to ask. He could tell from the look of curdled disgust that Doncaster gave him. That happened sometimes. Shepherd did pretty well at reverse-engineering being a member of society, but not always. It had seemed like the obvious question to ask. He tried to recover with a quick pivot.

“It might have been a clue as to where to find the rest of her.”

Doncaster still looked disturbed. That did surprise Shepherd. He would have put money on that being in the ballpark of a normal, socialised interaction. It was engaged, helpful, and showed investment in the sorts of things people in society put emphasis on…like true crime.

Maybe it was Doncaster’s problem.

“Plus,” Kel interrupted. “Not to be a killjoy, but I think Uncle Dio probably replaced that one. I doubt the man has been reheating his kievs in a people smoker.”

Doncaster gave him an irritated look.

“My point,” he said sharply, “is that it happened. Within living memory, someone’s fingers were found cooked in this actual kitchen. That’s the sort of thing that makes people not want to spend time somewhere.”

…in Shepherd’s experience, only if the fingers were poorly prepared. He did understand that wasn’t standard, though. Well, he knew. If knowing and understanding were the same thing, he’d have been able to fit better into the world.

The fact that the only paperwork he had was a death certificate for him as an infant would probably still have been a problem. Socially, though.

Which reminded him that Doncaster’s expectant look required a response.

“I’d certainly not buy the place,” he said, with a grave nod.

Mostly because he was in the sort of financial state where he had to think seriously about signing up for a NYT crossword subscription. Doncaster didn’t have to know that, though. He took it as agreement and gave Kel a pointed look.

“See?” he said. “Don’t go counting your chickens before they’re hatched, Ezekiel Laker. Even if Dio Madden doesn’t have a wife or a kid somewhere, this place might end up being more of a millstone than a payday.”

Kel pulled a ‘sure’ face and toasted Doncaster with his mug. “Still, it’s my civic duty, isn’t it?”

An hour into meeting Kel—and distinctly attracted to his particular blend of hot, hapless, and crooked—and it was still Shepherd who snorted at the idea of that being Kel’s motivation. It made Doncaster snort with vindicated laughter, and a moment later the lanky sheriff took his envelope and his leave. Shepherd walked him out. Just in case the house was still cranky.

It was a good thing he did, too. A stray root from the yew had crawled up from under one of the paving stones. It caught the sheriff’s foot as he passed and nearly sent him face-first into the concrete.

Shepherd caught his arm to steady him.