Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3), Gemma Halliday [free ebooks romance novels txt] 📗

"I'm an only child," I snapped. "Sorry. You can't extract any money there either."

Still more silence. Then, cautiously: "Maybe you can verify your address?"

He had to be kidding me. As if the landlord wouldn't have already given him that information.

"Humor me," he said when I didn't reply. "I have to make sure that I'm actually speaking to Martha Hudson."

"I told you I'm Martha Hudson," I said. "Why would anyone else accept the responsibility of paying my back rent?"

"Excuse me?"

I blinked. "That's why you're calling, right? About the rent?"

"This isn't about any rent, Miss Hudson. This is about the beneficiary of the living trust and Last Will and Testament of your great-aunt, Kate Quigley. I represent her estate."

"Wait." I gripped the phone tighter. "I have a great-aunt Kate?"

"Not anymore," he said. "She's dead. I'm sorry to say."

I had a great-aunt Kate? I tried to remember meeting her, or seeing pictures of her, or even hearing my mother mention her. I couldn't. How could I not know about her?

While my mom and I had been close, she'd been about all the family I'd ever known. Dad had taken off before I was even born, and Mom had been an only child herself, her parents having passed away when she was in college. As a kid I'd actually fantasized about long-lost relatives finding us and turning our sliced turkey breast for two into a true Thanksgiving family feast like I'd seen in commercials on TV. Only in my fantasies the relatives had been alive and welcoming, not recently deceased.

"Are you sure?" I asked. The microwave dinged. I ignored it. "I mean, are you sure I'm her…"

"I'm sure," he said. "According to her, you were her nephew's daughter."

Her nephew. My father. Another family member I'd never known.

"And," he continued, "you're her sole beneficiary, Miss Hudson."

I fell back against the counter, stunned. "Her sole…"

"Beneficiary," he agreed. "Kate never married or had children, and so her entire estate has been left to you. Including, of course, her home in San Francisco."

Of course.

Wait.

Her home? I'd inherited a house? People like me didn't inherit houses. We inherited Corelle dishes, table lamps with seashells in their base, and Aunt Stella's costume jewelry collection.

I let out a shaky exhale. "Are you sure about this?"

"I'm sure," he said again. "I drafted the paperwork for Kate myself, Miss Hudson. I'll provide you with copies, of course."

I'd inherited a house in San Francisco. The thought made me weak. I did a slow, exacting appraisal of my apartment, even though that was something best done quickly, with the eyes closed, to minimize the cringeworthiness. I could hardly believe that finally I'd be able to move out of this place. I'd dreamed of the day I could move out of this place and away from the ragged carpet, the dingy walls, the hit-or-miss hot water. Away from Mr. Bitterman and his culinary science experiments. Especially away from 2B. My new home was probably some fantastic place nestled into Lombard Street or along the Embarcadero. Maybe I'd have a next-door neighbor who owned a suit and tie and bought his wine in something other than boxes.

Immediately on the heels of my excitement came a sharp regret that I'd never met my great-aunt Kate, had never even known about her. I wondered what she'd been like. Had she looked like me? Did I have her smile? How could I have not known she'd been living just a few miles away this whole time? I suddenly wanted to know everything I could about Kate Quigley. Because somehow Kate had known about me and had left me her house and everything in it.

Including tax and utility bills. Could I afford a house in San Francisco? Could I take care of it the way Kate had taken care of it?

"In case you'd like to take a look at your house," Andrew Bonamassa was saying, "the address is 221 Baker Street. Kate had it put in a trust a few years back, so there's no need to wait out probate on the property. You can pick up the key at my office at your convenience. I'm sure you're eager to see the place."

Eager was hardly the word. I arranged to meet Mr. Bonamassa at his office the next morning, accepted his somber condolences, and disconnected, still numb with disbelief and pretty sure that I wouldn't be able to count on sleep to get me through the long hours separating me from my new life.

As soon as I'd reheated my dinner and sat down at the table, someone knocked on my door. Probably 2B still hoping to buy himself a romantic evening with a couple of Big Macs and some fries. He was delusional, but it didn't matter. I was a homeowner now, and pretty soon I wouldn't have to see 2B ever again.

But it wasn't 2B at the door. It was Mr. Bitterman, clutching a Tupperware container in both gnarled hands. Mr. Bitterman was considered quite a catch among the widowed ladies in the building. His six hairs were always combed, he had two distinct eyebrows, and his clothes were always clean, even if they were usually mismatched. Plus rumor had it his railroad pension would allow him to live comfortably to the age of 112, a quality more prized by husband hunters than a GQ-worthy wardrobe.

He gave me a gummy smile, and his dentures shifted a little in his mouth. "Evening, Martha Hudson."

Mr. Bitterman never called me Martha or Marty. Always Martha Hudson. Maybe because he wanted to double-check that he was talking to the right person.

I eyed the Tupperware container with deep suspicion. "Hello, Mr. Bitterman. What have you got there?"

"I tried out a new recipe today, and I made a