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Celeste
Apparently,I have a new handyman. Or handywoman. Is there a gender-neutral term for that? I have no idea. I only know that I now have one, and she’s also my new boarder. Better yet, it wasn’t my idea.
As promised, Tom broached the subject with Daisy. He says she wavered, but only because she didn’t want to impose. He convinced her that the help she provided would more than cover room and board, and she agreed. Without me needing to do anything like, oh, I don’t know, actually offer her the job?
Tom meant well with his matchmaking. A woman alone in the countryside, unpopular with her neighbors, already the victim of a break-in, and in possession of a house requiring repairs. Another woman who’s pretending she’s out seeing the world when, as Tom suspects, she’s down on her luck, maybe even temporarily homeless. A woman in possession of skills that would allow her to repair the first woman’s house.
A match made in heaven. Or so it seems to both Tom and Liam.
Thank the Lord for overprotective men. Now I have Daisy in my house, primed to solve my problem, and I argued with both men who suggested the arrangement.
Do I still wonder whether Daisy created the leak she’s fixing? Yes. And that’s fine. I understand desperation. But that won’t keep me from making an entry in my journal, elaborating on my fears and suspicions. It may come in handy later.
Now I’m sitting in the lanai with Tom, enjoying a coffee break. I even went so far as to invite Daisy to join us. Just being considerate, not wanting her to feel left out.
I snort at the thought.
Yes, I know myself better than that. The only thing I was considering was that, as much as I enjoy time with Tom, it’s a luxury I cannot permit myself. Yet Daisy had demurred, and Tom didn’t second my invitation. He just made sure she got a cinnamon bun before she headed out to examine the broken window.
We’re sipping coffee and eating the buns, which I will admit are delicious, if a little sweet for my tastes. While I wouldn’t exactly call Tom the strong, silent type, there’s a hint of that to him. A guy who can hold up his end of the conversation but doesn’t initiate. That’s my job, and I do it while he listens and eats.
“You know,” he says as conversation ebbs, “maybe with all this work Daisy’s doing, she’ll find Bill Turner’s treasure.”
I hesitate a split second before shaking my head with a low laugh. “I wish. Trust me, there’s no treasure.”
“You’ve looked, then.”
Oh, hell, yes, I’ve looked. I’ve decided that the only “treasure” is the house itself. That’s what I got from Maeve, and I am happy with it. I wouldn’t turn down more, but I have priorities, and treasure hunting is not currently among them.
Bill Turner’s treasure is local lore. Apparently, Maeve’s husband had been a shady character who struck the criminal jackpot shortly before his death, pulling off some heist and then double-crossing his associates. Legend says that, on his deathbed, he told Maeve where to find the money, only she didn’t want tainted goods and left it in place. On her deathbed, Maeve told me where to find it, too. Not a place, but a clue I was supposed to understand. A clue that meant nothing to me.
“Well,” he says. “Probably better it’s never found. If it ever turns up, I suspect it’ll be a disappointment to all. What counted as a small fortune to folks around here forty years back would barely pay for a few new windows. Speaking of which, I should get back to work on that.” He rises, mug and plate in hand. “Thank you for the coffee and the company, as always. It’s nice to talk to you, Celeste.”
I murmur something suitably demure as he collects my dishes and takes them to the sink.
Daisy
No one broke into the house. The window was shattered from the outside, presumably with something soft, muffling the noise. But in minimizing noise, the “intruder” also minimized breakage, leaving a hole so jagged that no one could climb through without slicing themselves to ribbons.
I don’t know what to make of this.
Who has the key? As far as I know, only Celeste. Liam rang the bell when he arrived.
That intruder wasn’t the only one inside last night. I told Celeste that I just happened to be using the bathroom. That’s a lie. I’d been poking around the basement crawlspace when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I’d stayed where I was until I realized the sounds came from the upper level. So I’d snuck up to the main level and gone into the bathroom in case I was caught. The intruder must have heard me and begun his flight.
I recognized the sounds of running footfalls and reached the base of the steps just in time to be smacked by a figure, who then raced to the back door. By the time I got onto the rear steps, the yard was empty.
I didn’t see who struck me. I only glimpsed a dark figure barreling down the stairs and sending me flying. By the time I recovered, the intruder was on the run. Then I stepped on glass, slowing me further, too much to get a closer look.
The window suggests this wasn’t a normal break-in. Yes, the intruder did grab the laptop, the most valuable—and pawnable—thing in the house, but a laptop has value beyond its ability to be wiped and resold. I’ve been snooping around, looking for information that might answer my questions. If I’d been thinking faster, I could have hidden the laptop and pretended the thief got away with his treasure.
My bigger concern is that this wasn’t an addict looking for items to fence. If it was a professional, that suggests I’m not the only person following this particular trail.
I missed an opportunity last night. Several, in fact. I can’t let that happen again.
