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

piers. It had a steep gabled roof with slatted wooden air vents near the V-shaped peak and a half-shed tin-roofed porch with large wooden brackets supporting the overhanging porch eaves. The siding was aluminum, and it was pulling away from the house in several spots.

Arthur Cater yanked open the screened door, and she followed him inside.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. She was on a screened porch, or what was left of it. Most of the rusty screens were torn, and in some cases, they were missing entirely. Two cheap plastic armchairs were overturned, and the painted wooden floor was littered by overflowing trash bags.

Her new friend pushed open the front door. “After you,” he said with a flourish. She was greeted with a pungent smell—a mixture of urine, mildew, and stale cigarette smoke.

“Oh my,” she gasped, forcing herself to breathe through her mouth.

“Now you see what I’m dealing with,” he said.

The front of the cottage was basically one room. They were standing in the living room. Its windows were cloudy and smeared with dirt. Venetian blinds hung crazily from one hook on a long window that looked out on the porch. The rattan armchair was pushed up against the wall, heaped with an old sleeping bag and pillow, and a matching end table rested, upside down, atop it.

“That’s it, right there,” the man said. “And I warn you, it’s heavier than it looks.”

Grace upended the table, setting it on the filthy avocado-green shag carpeting. Its top had more water rings and cigarette burns, but she loved its rounded-off triangular shape. She gingerly removed the bedding from the armchair and concluded that it, too, was in sound shape, although the cushion was ruined.

“You really don’t want these?” she asked Arthur, who’d walked to the other end of the room. Which was a dining room, from the looks of it. The only furniture here was a flimsy card table and a pair of old-timey folding aluminum beach chairs with rotting plastic webbing. A cheap brass chandelier dangled over the table, but only one of its candle arms was lit.

“What?” He turned around. “Nah. But I would have liked the dining room furniture that used to be here.”

Grace went over to join him. “They stole your furniture?”

“Yup,” he said. “Mahogany table and chairs, and a buffet kind of thing. Those were my mama’s. I thought about taking ’em out of here, but we didn’t have room at the house, and I thought they’d get ruined if I left them in the garage.” He shrugged. “I’d love to know how they got that heavy stuff out of here. They didn’t have but one car, and that was a crappy little Kia.”

“Mm-hmm.” Grace wasn’t really listening. She was taking a good look at the house itself now.

It was a typical Florida cracker house, she thought. These walls were board and batten, probably old pine under the multiple layers of paint and dirt. The ceilings were quite tall, also board and batten, although they’d never been painted. Through a tall doorway, she could see into the tiny galley kitchen.

“Okay if I look around, Arthur?” she asked.

“Just watch your step,” he advised, heading back toward the porch with another load of trash.

A single grungy window over the kitchen sink let in feeble light. Grace found a light switch, and as the ceiling fixture flickered on, half a dozen cockroaches skittered for the shadows. She shuddered, but was not surprised. Roaches were as much a part of living in Florida as palm trees and sunshine. Her least favorite part.

The kitchen was something of a time warp. The countertops were speckled gray formica. The cabinets were wooden, with gummy-looking chipped white enamel paint. There were two wooden upper cabinets, one on either side of the sink, and two lower ones, each topped by a drawer. The cabinet doors were all ajar, and she could see a sad assortment of mismatched pots and pans, some cloudy glasses, chipped plates. An old avocado-green stove sat at the far end of the counter, its surface spattered with grease and food particles. A small saucepan with an unspeakable layer of burnt … something … sat on the front burner. The oven door was open, and when Grace closed it she saw another scattering of roaches.

Turning around, she saw the refrigerator. It was a somewhat newer model than the stove, but its white surface was freckled with rust. To the left of the fridge was another counter, with a pair of wall-mounted upper cabinets. Beneath the counter there was nothing but an open space, where an evil-smelling plastic trash can was tipped on its side.

Through a second doorway was a short hall. An open door showed the bathroom. The black-and-white penny-tile floor was now a grimy gray. The sink, commode, and bathtub were pale pink, which meant, Grace knew, that they probably dated from the early fifties.

There were two more doors, both closed. Grace was about to open one when she heard a faint scratching sound coming from inside the room.

She took a step back. Rats? She took another step back.

Arthur poked his head inside the hall. “I wouldn’t open that door unless you wanna get attacked,” he warned.

Grace decided she’d seen enough of the house.

“Bad enough those lowlifes trashed the house like this,” he said. “They went off and left their damned dog behind. I ask you, who moves out and leaves a dog behind?”

“No,” Grace said, appalled. “There’s a dog in that bedroom? Can I see it?”

“Look all you want,” Arthur said. “I penned her up in there because with me coming and going outside, I was afraid she’d run out and get hit by a car. I’m no dog lover, but even I couldn’t stand that.”

20

As she and Arthur talked, the scratching grew more intense, and now it was accompanied by a series of high-pitched yips.

She put her hand on the doorknob. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Arthur said.

Grace pushed the door