Pages of Sin, page 2
Thinking about Derek made me miss him more than ever. And if that sounded like the plaintive cry of a needy, insecure girlfriend, it wasn’t. I swear. I had always been perfectly happy on my own, by myself. I grew up in a big family and knew I could call on friends and siblings or parents whenever I wanted to. But I was just as happy to sit alone in my workshop and rip apart a good book. I knew how to have a good time all by myself.
Still, I missed him. Now that Derek was in my life, everything seemed brighter, more interesting, more intense in a good way. I was having more fun. He challenged me. He made me laugh. And he was absolutely the best looking, sexiest man I’d ever met, which counted for a lot, right? No wonder I was happy.
The only less than sparkly thing about my life was that, lately, I kept stumbling upon dead bodies. That had never happened before Derek came along. I lived in hope that it would never happen again.
“Green light,” Mom said.
“What?” I blinked as my surroundings came back into focus. “Oh. Thanks.” I stepped on the gas and drove toward Big River Road where Byron lived.
“Where’d you go just then?” Mom wore an amused grin, meaning she’d probably guessed exactly where my daydream had taken me.
I could feel my cheeks heating up. “Just thinking about things. Nothing important. So talk to me about these books. Did Byron tell you about them or did you actually see them?”
She laughed at my obvious attempt to change the subject. “I got a quick glimpse of them stacked up against one wall. I saw lots of leather-bound books, so I made a comment to Byron about them. He said to help myself to whatever I wanted.”
“I hope they’re filthy and falling apart.”
“A girl can dream.” With another laugh, she gave me directions on which way to turn.
A few minutes later, I pulled up in front of a large, two-story California bungalow on what looked like at least a half acre of land. It was surrounded by a tall concrete wall. I couldn’t see much else except for a few tall trees scattered around the extensive property. As I turned off the engine, something occurred to me and I glanced over at my mother. “You never told me how Wanda died.”
Mom stared straight ahead, not meeting my gaze. “Pills. Self-inflicted. She committed suicide.”
Chapter Two
Mom pushed open the heavy wooden gate and we walked into a veritable Garden of Eden. The air was still cool as we followed the long, winding walkway leading up to a wide, welcoming porch that wrapped around at least three sides of the house. Delicate white roses and fragrant jasmine twined around the white wooden columns of the porch. Chunky ceramic pots held lush flowering vines that spilled over the sides and tumbled down the railings. Two wrought iron park-style benches sat on either side of a front door that was painted bright red with a gleaming brass door knocker. It was storybook perfection.
Once on the porch, I looked back to get a better view of the English style garden that had been planted along the terracotta wall. Rows of purple foxglove, pastel hollyhocks, and rich blue delphiniums flitted in the gentle wind. Pink, orange, and white poppies lined a narrow, pebbled path that led to the backyard. A worn, wooden bench was set back from the path, surrounded by a profusion of lavender stalks that wafted in the breeze.
“She was an artist with flowers,” I murmured.
“Yes,” Mom said softly.
“It’s a shame she was unable to share this space with anyone.”
“Oh, but she did,” Mom said. “Her photographs of her gardens appeared in lots of home and garden magazines.”
“Honestly? Could she do that without leaving her property?”
Mom nodded as she continued to take in the lush beauty of Wanda’s gardens. “Computers and the Internet changed her life.”
“That’s amazing.” I took hold of her hand. “Come on, Mom. Let’s go inside.”
“If you’re ready.”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
The inside of Wanda Bradford Frawley’s house was much cleaner and more organized, in a manner of speaking, than I had imagined it would be. I guess I’d seen too many episodes of Hoarders, because while driving over there, I’d had visions of scary, smelly stacks of dirty animal pens surrounded by tons of bizarre, trashy junk shoved into every corner.
But as we crossed the threshold into Wanda’s house, my eyes widened in fascination. The fantasy that began in the gardens continued into the spacious front room. I had to stop at the edge of the entryway to take it all in.
The place was literally packed wall to wall with furniture, but it was . . . charming. Delightful. Eccentric, yes. Cluttered, yes. Wanda obviously had been a hoarder, but one with lovely taste in furnishings.
There were dozens of pieces of Regency and Georgian era furniture and accessories in this one room alone. Everything looked old and expensive. A number of grand, elegant armoires lined the walls. Throughout the room, mismatched but fancy chairs and dainty settees had been arranged in small conversation circles, each complete with coffee and end tables and a chandelier overhead.
Every inch of the table surfaces was taken by silver tea sets and vases and dozens of filigreed and wood and silver picture frames holding photographs of family and friends and flowers. There was a frightening amount of fragile objet d’art.
Each conversation circle butted up against another one. It looked like the most whimsical Victorian tearoom. On drugs.
There was more ormolu and toile and brocade than I’d ever seen in one place. Most pieces appeared to be genuine antiques and even though some looked a bit well-worn and frayed around the edges, each was highly polished and free of dust. The room smelled fresh and clean with a hint of rosewater in the air.
The walls were painted a pale sky blue and light, filmy drapes and soft carpeting complimented the color. Except for the overly ornate chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the lighting fixtures were actually subtle. There were Tiffany-style sconces on the wall and Satsuma vase lamps with white shades on several of the end tables. I only recognized the Satsuma style because my knowledgeable friend Robin had once pointed them out to me when we were shopping.
“It’s like every gay decorator in the city decided to store their best stuff here,” Mom whispered.
I snorted a laugh. But it was true. Everything was in exquisite taste, fit for minor royalty. There was just too damn much of it. And yet the overall effect had a certain fanciful appeal. I wondered if Wanda had spent time in each of those chairs or divans, sipping tea or reading. Did she and her husband sit in here together? Knowing Byron, I couldn’t imagine he would feel comfortable in this distinctly feminine room.
“I should have worn my tiara,” Mom said as she scanned the old jeans and funky T-shirts we’d worn to clean out Wanda’s closets.
“There’s got to be some dust balls in here somewhere,” I muttered. If there wasn’t any dust, I was going to be very depressed. How could a deceased hoarder keep a cleaner house than I did?
Mom led the way along a four-foot-wide carpeted path that had been cleared for walking. The path was bordered on either side by the backs of settees, a few sets of neatly stacked tea tables, a small writing desk here, a drop-leaf table there.
“This looks like a genuine Chippendale escritoire,” Mom murmured reverently as she stopped to examine the refined little desk. “Robson would love it.”
“It’s pretty,” I said.
“I’ll have to ask Byron what he plans to do with all this furniture.” She continued to examine the antiques as she walked slowly along the narrow carpeted path. The trail meandered through the large room and then narrowed and forked three ways. One thin pathway led to a staircase, another headed toward a darkened hallway, and the third went into the kitchen.
I shuddered as I pondered which path would lead to the site where Wanda’s body had been found. But that was me, always wondering where the bodies were hidden.
“Let’s open these drapes and get some light in here,” Mom said, and pulled the heavy cord. The curtains slid open, revealing another splendid view of the colorful front gardens. It cheered me to know that despite being housebound, Wanda had managed to surround herself with beauty.
She never would have made it onto the Hoarders show. Her home was way too pretty and dust-free. Wanda may have had her problems, but dirt wasn’t one of them.
Mom went straight into the kitchen and a few seconds later, I heard the refrigerator door open. I figured she was tucking the taco casserole into the freezer.
“It’s spotless in here, too,” she announced.
“Good.” I’d remained several yards behind her, fearing what we might find in the kitchen. What could I say? Mom was made of tougher stuff than me. But with her announcement, I let go of the uneasy breath I’d been holding and stepped around the corner to take a peek.
The kitchen counters were indeed clean and free of the sorts of crap I’d seen on the show. There were no animals anywhere, thank God, unlike that one Hoarders couple who’d kept hundreds of rabbits inside their house. The little critters had multiplied to such an extent that they’d taken over the couple’s kitchen, turning it into a hideous sea of dirt and rabbit feces.
Now, that was one nasty episode. It left me with the sad awareness that bunnies are just not that cute.
I shook off the visual and turned back to take a better look at the beautiful things Wanda had been hoarding—er, collecting, all these years.
“I can’t believe Byron will leave all this stuff as it is,” I said.
“Probably not.” Mom slid past me to check out one of the armoires. It looked old and French and very froufrou. She turned the old-fashioned key and pulled the wooden door open. Hanging inside was a full row of dresses. She pulled one out at random. “They still have their tags.”
“Wow.” So Wanda collected clothing, too. “Do you think her sisters will want those?”
“I have no idea.” Mom hung up the dress and closed the armoire door. “Byron’s got a cleaning service coming out next week to appraise and categorize everything he doesn’t want to keep. It will either be sold or thrown away or given to charity.”
“He can’t throw this stuff away. Why not have a garage sale?”
She made a face. “Not likely.”
“Right,” I said, reminding myself that Byron’s wife had killed herself. Would he really want to draw attention to that fact? Having a yard sale would bring everyone in town over to rummage through the detritus of his wife’s sad life. “Probably not a good idea.”
Mom pulled a small notepad and pen from her purse and began jotting something down.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I told Robson I would make a list of things we could use at the town hall. It’s all up to Byron, of course.” She pointed to the wall on the opposite side of the room. “There are your books.”
“Yeah. Wow.” I had expected to see several large bookshelves full of books, but there were no shelves. Instead, many hundreds of books were stacked one on top of the other all the way up the wall, stretching well above my head. Some books were stacked directly on the floor; others were stacked on tea tables. Most of the stacks stood at least six feet high against the wall.
“How tall was Wanda?” I asked, frowning at all those towers of books.
“About your height,” Mom said.
I shook my head. “She would have needed a library ladder to get to the top of those stacks.”
Mom nodded, then wandered off to inspect the antique furniture, making notes as she went. Being my efficient, anal-retentive self, I started calculating, counting books to figure out how many there were. It took a minute, but I estimated about eighty books in the first stack. Then I counted the stacks themselves. There were twenty-six of them butted up against this wall alone, and although the stacks were uneven, that still meant that there were approximately . . . okay, here came the hard part, doing multiplication in my head. But the total I came up with was well over two thousand books.
Two thousand books. It was overwhelming. I couldn’t take them all with me, of course, but I supposed I could start picking out the ones I wanted. But how? If I pulled one out, the entire stack might topple over. The movement could cause the next tower of books to fall, starting a chain reaction that could bring them all down in a chaotic heap, burying both me and my mother in a pile of pulp and leather.
How had Wanda managed to keep all these high stacks in such neat rows? I guess it offered her something else to obsess over, but why didn’t she get some bookshelves? She had every other kind of furniture in this place. What if there was an earthquake? She would have been drowned in books.
Since Wanda wasn’t around anymore, I took a moment to feel more sympathy for the books than for their owner. I couldn’t help it; I was a book person. And this stacking method was one of the worst ways to store good books.
How many times in a book-repair class or at a book festival workshop had I decried this very thing? It was especially bad for leather-bound books whose covers, when pressed tightly together in stacks like these, would “sweat” against each other, causing water damage, sticking, tearing, and warping.
I knelt down on the carpet and placed one of the packing boxes beside me. Then I stared up at all those books towering over me and wondered if this might be a bad way to accomplish the task. “I’m afraid if I remove one book, they’ll all fall down.”
“We can always restack them,” Mom said easily, still taking notes on the other side of the room.
That was not a good answer. “You’d have to do it alone. I’d be lying unconscious from all these books battering me in the head.”
She looked over and smiled indulgently. “Then don’t do anything yet. I’ll help you in a minute.”
“Okay, thanks.”
As Mom continued exploring the room and making notes, I stood and skimmed the book spines for titles. Besides looking for books to repair, I was looking for books to read for pleasure.
I’d always thought I could never get enough books, but I think Wanda had come close to it.
In one stack alone, there were three copies each of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. Wanda was obviously a fan of the Bronte sisters, as well as Jane Austen, Trollope, Mary Stewart, Raymond Chandler, and a huge number of contemporary authors.
Two tall stacks were devoted to romance novels. Another two or three were all mysteries and thrillers. I noticed she didn’t mix hardcovers with paperbacks. And as Mom had promised, there were piles of leather-bound classics in abundance. It was a booklover’s fantasy and a bookbinder’s dream.
“What makes someone start hoarding stuff like this? I mean, I love books, too, but this is ridiculous.” I stretched to reach a book at the top of a stack of leather-bound classics, but couldn’t get hold of it.
Mom glanced at me from thirty feet away. “I have no idea.”
“Is it a control issue?” I said, then added, “But then she lost control. Sad and weird.”
“Maybe she always planned to buy some nice bookshelves to organize everything, but then couldn’t decide what style to buy.”
“So she never bought any?”
Mom shrugged. “Who the heck knows?”
“They’re just bookshelves,” I muttered, then felt guilty for judging the deceased woman. “I guess some people have a hard time making a decision.”
“That was Wanda.” Mom chuckled, but there was a touch of sadness to the sound. “She used to drive me to distraction over the simplest little choice. Chocolate or vanilla? Coffee or tea?”
“Now wait a minute,” I argued. “Who wouldn’t have a problem deciding between vanilla and chocolate? I assume we’re discussing milkshakes.”
“Yes,” she said, chuckling again. “But Wanda would act as if the fate of the world depended on her decision. Whenever we went out to lunch, I would have to grab the menus and order for her. She couldn’t handle reading all the choices. We used to laugh about it, but I can see now how that little quirk might have developed into a real sickness with her.”
“That’s so sad.”
Mom looked thoughtful as she gazed around the room. “At least she surrounded herself with beautiful things.”
“That’s something, anyway,” I murmured, glancing at the profusion of “things.” I wondered if Mom was trying to picture her old friend living amidst this overabundance. “Did Wanda and Byron have children?”
“No, they never did. I imagine she wanted to. I think she would’ve been a good mother. She always loved you kids.”
“She was always so nice to us.” As I studied the cracked leather spine of Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence, something sparked a memory and I looked over at Mom. “What was that cake she used to bring us?”
“Oh.” Mom smiled, reminiscing. “She used to make a cinnamon coffee cake for you kids. It came from an instant mix, I think, but it didn’t matter. You loved it.”
“That’s right.” I smiled, too. “We would shadow her from the front door to the kitchen table. As soon as she set the plate down, we’d gobble it up like piranhas. She must’ve thought we were little monsters.”
“You were,” she said, chuckling. “But she enjoyed you all.”
I put the Wharton in the packing box. Then Mom joined me and we worked as a team for the next twenty minutes. We filled four boxes quickly, despite my rule that we keep the selection limited to leather-bound books that needed repair. I noticed Mom sneaking a few current paperback thrillers into the box and I have to admit I did the same.
I was perversely thrilled to find that a number of the leather bindings were indeed warped and peeling from being compressed together so snugly. Despite wincing each time I spotted any damage, I reminded myself that these books would give me and my students more to work on and learn from.
I leaned back to look up at all the books I hadn’t reached yet. Pointing, I said, “She’s got three volumes of Jane Austen at the top of that stack, but there’s no way I can reach them.”
“You’ll get them later,” Mom said from her crouched position.
