Ladies' Night, Andrews, Kay [best time to read books .txt] 📗

Gulf Vista. She wished she had her camera to capture the early morning sun, the tropical gardens of palms, bromeliads, crotons, bougainvillea, and hibiscus.

Grass was sparse here. Instead, the small yards seemed to consist of dense plantings of vines and ferns and flowers. Lizards darted across the narrow sand-strewn road, and she saw hummingbirds hovering over the thick hedges of ixora with their star-shaped coral blossoms.

It seemed the whole world was still slumbering, until she came across a house that stood out like a sore thumb on this block of neatly maintained homes. The curb was heaped high with trash, the yard weedy and strewn with dead palm fronds and fallen limbs. Barely visible, behind an overgrown hedge of ficus, she could see a glimpse of faded white siding.

Also blocking her view was the mountain of refuse. Two big city-issued receptacles were spilling over with plastic bags of garbage. Alongside these were sodden cardboard boxes overflowing with old clothes and shoes and more. A stained king-sized mattress leaned against the receptacles and was propped up by two cheap fiberboard nightstands.

Grace heard a screen door slam, and, as she watched, an old man muscled a long rattan couch through the doorway and into the yard. He cursed softly as he pushed and shoved the sofa to the curb.

“Hey,” he said, barely noticing Grace. He dumped the sofa, wheeled, and went back into the house.

Something about that sofa caught her eye. She glanced at the house, to see if the man was watching, but he’d disappeared.

The rest of the discards at the curb were junk, cheap, soiled, ruined junk. But this sofa … Grace squatted to get a better look.

The rattan arms formed huge pretzel-like shapes. It was a three-seater, and it looked, she thought, like it could be by Paul McCobb. The rattan wrappings were in surprisingly good shape, and all the seat supports looked intact.

A moment later, the screen door slammed and the man reappeared, this time with a wheelbarrow heaped with thick cushions covered in a hideous orange and rust synthetic plaid fabric. He dumped the cushions without comment and wheeled back inside.

Grace was intrigued. She walked across the street, down the block, and then doubled back again. It was like a floor show whose second act she couldn’t bring herself to miss.

By now, an armchair had joined its matching sofa. And the man with the wheelbarrow was back, this time bringing a low-slung, boomerang-shaped rattan coffee table with a yellow pine top, which he unceremoniously dumped on end. The table’s top, Grace saw, was marred with cigarette burns and water rings, but the legs and the rattan wrappings were in fairly decent condition.

The man looked annoyed at having a spectator. He was tall and thin, with a high forehead and thinning gray hair and a lit cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. He wore a pair of loose-fitting khaki slacks and a shapeless gray T-shirt.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Grace blushed. “Did somebody die?” she blurted out.

“I wish,” he said. His voice was gravelly. He set the wheelbarrow down, took a wrinkled handkerchief from his back pocket, and mopped his face.

“My damned tenants moved out and left me with this mess,” he said, removing his eyeglasses and wiping them down.

“That’s awful,” Grace sympathized.

“You don’t even know,” he agreed. “Three months back rent owing, not to mention they trashed the house so bad, I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get it into shape to rent again.”

He was gazing at her, taking in her sweaty, disheveled appearance. “Don’t I know you?” He gestured at her ball cap, with the Sandbox logo. “Maybe from the bar?”

Now that he mentioned it, she did think he looked familiar. “Maybe. I’m Grace Davenport. Rochelle’s daughter.”

“Riiight,” he said, wiping his hands on his pants and shaking her hand. “And I’m Arthur Cater. I knew your daddy. Took him fishing a couple times. Butch was a great guy. How’s your mama gettin’ along?”

“She’s good,” Grace said. “We miss him, but if you know Rochelle, you know she’s a tough old bird.”

“She is that,” he said with a laugh.

Now he gestured toward the mountain of trash. “Should have trusted my gut instinct. But they were a young couple, and my wife felt sorry for ’em. Famous last words.”

Grace gestured toward the mound of trash. “You’re throwing all of this out? Not even calling Goodwill to come pick it up?”

He snorted. “Goodwill wouldn’t take this mess. Would you? Mildewed, pee-stained. They had dogs, even though the lease specifically forbids pets, and they swore they didn’t have any. So everything is crawling with fleas.”

Grace shuddered and took a tiny step backward.

He flicked his handkerchief at the rattan sofa. “This was my grandmother’s. She left me the house, and this was always in it, as long as I could remember. We’ve been renting this house, furnished, with no problems for fifteen years, and then these bums move in, and now it’s not fit for the dump.”

He was mopping his neck. “You see anything here you want, be my guest.”

“The rattan furniture is actually very pretty,” Grace ventured. “Probably from the forties. You’re sure you don’t want to keep it? Maybe have the cushions redone?”

“Nah,” he said dismissively. “We got a house full of furniture. And my wife doesn’t like this old grandma stuff.” He studied her. “There’s an end table and another armchair inside, that goes with this set, if you think you might want it. Course, you’d have to haul it off yourself.”

“I just might want it,” Grace said, surprising herself. And then she had an idea.

“Would it be all right if I came inside, took a look at the furniture?”

“You got a clothespin for your nose? And if you get bit up by fleas, don’t blame me.”

The walkway to the front door was brick, but it was barely visible beneath the tendrils of vines and weeds that grew up in the sandy yard. The house was raised up from ground level on concrete block