Maggie Moves On(27)

“I bet you didn’t even keep the portrait. You probably just chucked everything into the garbage.” He was working himself up into a good fit, and Maggie had concerns about whether or not his heart could handle one.

“Why don’t we have a seat,” she suggested and led the way back to her office.

Blustering about progress and the disrespect youth had for the past, Wallace followed. His tirade cut off abruptly when he stepped into the room.

She smiled as he eyed up the art she’d collected from the first floor and stacked up against the walls. Knickknack treasures found in built-in curio cabinets were half-packed in boxes with bubble wrapping. Framed photos were spread out on a second table.

“Where’s the furniture? You chop it up for kindling?” he demanded.

“We moved it into the garage for safekeeping.”

He didn’t acknowledge her answer. “This must be your sorting pile for the trash,” he said, eyeing the paint-splattered worktable that held a few treasures she was keeping unboxed so they could be photographed first. There was an exquisite crystal decanter, an old inkwell, a few antique glassware items, and the needlepoint she’d rescued from the front den. It said: WHERE IS THE ADVENTURE IN FINDING ONESELF IF ONE USES SOMEONE ELSE’S MAP?

“Mrs. Campbell stitched that herself, according to her granddaughter,” he said, peering at the needlepoint. “Not that you’d care. It’s hung on that wall in Aaron Campbell’s study for over a hundred years.”

“It will hang there again once we refinish the floor and fix the plaster ceiling,” she told him.

“You don’t even realize what you’re sitting on,” he muttered to himself, settling heavily in the metal chair opposite her.

“Then tell me. I don’t just fix things up; I also tell the stories of what happened within the walls I’m fixing.”

“Aaron Campbell put this town on the map,” Wallace snapped. “His novels still to this day bring in tourism dollars because he was a master storyteller. Have you bothered reading even one?”

“Not yet.”

“His books are still in print, you know. The royalties are paid into the trust the Campbells left to the town. You could use that fancy show of yours to encourage those screen addicts to pick up a book, put some money in the town’s pockets. But you’ll probably just turn all those volumes spine-in on the shelves for aesthetics.”

“So the house and the royalties went into the trust,” she noted. “The Campbells must have loved this town.”

“They did,” he said. “Mrs. Campbell always said it was the first place that finally felt like home to her. ’Course there’s the mystery surrounding how they managed to build this house. But you wouldn’t be interested in that.”

“Wasn’t Aaron Campbell a successful novelist?” she asked.

His eyebrows winged up at her as he took a sip of lemonade. “’Course he was,” he said. “But his first book wasn’t published until over a year after this place was completed.”

Maggie’s interest was piqued. “What about the family jewelry stores?”

“What are you asking me for? How should I know how two jewelry stores in Idaho in the late 1800s run by a father and three sons could afford a place like this? Especially when the homes of the other partners looked like shacks in comparison.”

Perhaps Aaron Campbell had taken more than his fair share, she mused. “What about Mrs. Campbell? Maybe she came from family money.”

“Ava Dedman Campbell’s family allegedly came from some wealthy European dynasty,” he said.

“Allegedly?”

“No one’s had any luck tracing the ancestry.”

Interesting. She wondered if any of the Campbell ancestors had done DNA testing from one of the genealogy sites.

She interlaced her fingers on the table. “Mr. Pfeffercorn, things will change here. But not everything. I’m not going to knock it down and start from scratch. I want to bring it back to life. Maybe with a few modern conveniences, but without taking away the historical significance.”

He didn’t look appeased. “That’s what you say now to get me out the door. Then the thick-headed hammer swingers start putting holes in walls.”

“I am one of the thick-headed hammer swingers, and I only put holes in walls that require them,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah. Women’s lib. You can do a man’s job. Don’t get your petticoat in a twist.”

She sighed and tried another tactic. “Mr. Pfeffercorn, do you know what YouTube is?”

“I don’t give a good dog crap about YouTube. I care about what this place means to this town. Just because it’s not a museum anymore doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve some dignity,” he grumbled into his lemonade.

“I’m here to bring the house into this century and make it into a home again. But I’m also here to tell a story. This house’s story. I do that through a show on YouTube. I think viewers would be interested in your expertise.”

“A home or one of them condominiums that rents out to hippies and yuppies that come here for a week to stink up our air with their giant SUVs and take up too many restaurant tables?”

She pressed her lips together and held back a laugh. Wallace might be the grumpiest grumpy old man she’d ever encountered.