Faithless in Death (In Death, #52)(33)

“The owners relocated, with the in-laws, to New Mexico for the warmer, drier climate. Some health issues, and the owners’ daughter had moved there with her husband, and had children. They’d hoped to keep the property in the family, but their son didn’t want it, and lives—for several years now—in London.”

“So why not sell?”

“Sentiment. They thought to split time between New Mexico and New York, but it simply didn’t work. The health issues, the difficulty of the in-laws traveling. In any case, with one thing and another, several years passed, and they finally accepted they had to let it go.”

“So they finally put it on the market.”

“Actually, no. I know the son in London, and he contacted me. He hoped I’d take a look at it, and consider buying it, making the necessary fixes—as he’d come out to take a look a few months ago and realized how, well, sad it had become.”

“Mega sad,” Eve recalled. “What did he think you’d do with it?”

“Sell it or rent it out, which I would have done—the renting out part, as it’s too much of a jewel to sell. At least straight off. The only stipulation his parents had was that a family would live in it. He understood that couldn’t be legally binding, but he hoped I’d respect their wishes.”

“Now there will be.”

“And now there will be.” He topped off his wine, but Eve shook her head when he offered to do the same with hers. “I think you’ll enjoy this part of it. My acquaintance’s mother had some reservations about some performer and fashion designer living in the house where she’d been raised, where she raised her children.”

Eve’s back went straight up. “Getting pretty damn picky.”

“Sentiment and family homes. Strong things they are. Mavis tagged her up, had quite the conversation, apparently with Bella chiming in. Needless to say, the woman was completely charmed, and is now happy indeed that this family would live in the home she’d loved. There were tears, I’m told, on all sides.”

“One of those—what did you call it?—lovely turns in life.”

“Yes.”

Eve glanced back at the board. “Now I have to get back to an unhappy one. Do you have work?”

“A bit of this and that.”

“If you have time between this and that, do you want to run Huffman’s brother? I don’t see him in this, but I’m curious about him.”

“More fun for me. Cake?”

“Cake? Shit, I forgot about the cake. Now I’m too full for cake.”

“Later then. No, I’ve less to do tonight than you. I’ll see to the dishes.”

“I owe you.”

They rose, and he stepped to her. He brushed his hands through her hair, then skimmed a finger down the narrow dent in her chin. “I’ll collect,” he said, and kissed her like a man who meant it.

Jan Shelby kept her tiny apartment squared away. Though an organized soul by nature, she essentially lived in one room. More than two things out of place at a time?

Chaos.

She’d inherited her small, navy-blue convertible sofa from an aunt, her forest-green chair from a cousin. She used her mother’s ancient kitchen table—and sometimes actually ate a meal there. It had two mismatched chairs she—in a spurt of spatial improvement—painted navy and green.

Because it was cheaper and easier than painting the walls—the color of slowly decaying flesh—she hung signs she’d found in thrift shops. SLIPPERY WHEN WET, HELP WANTED, NO VACANCIES.

She’d never considered herself a quirky sort, but the signs amused her.

Since she had a free evening, she made herself some pasta, cracked a brew, and settled in to read on her tablet while she ate.

As far as she was concerned, the sounds of the city banging up to her second-story windows ranked as music. She loved the sounds of New York.

Since her unit didn’t rate a dishwasher, she washed and dried her dishes, put them away.

She was on the point of pulling out her sofa bed, stretching out to spend the rest of the evening watching something fun and easy on-screen, when her buzzer sounded.

She flipped the switch. “Yeah?”

“Oh, Jan! Thank God you’re home. Buzz me up.”

Maybe it was small, maybe it was petty, but Shelby went with it. “Who is this?”

“January, it’s Gwen.”

She said, “Oh.” And waited two full beats before releasing the street-level door.

She went into her skinny bathroom to check out her face in the mirror over the palm-size sink.

Good enough, she decided, especially with the hair. The hair rocked. And a woman was damn well entitled to a little vanity when her first lover paid a call.

Maybe she had pulled on her POLICE ACADEMY sweatshirt in anticipation of this particular visit. A good way to remind everyone just who January Shelby was.

She took her time answering the knock, then angled to block Gwen from just strolling in.

She’d changed clothes, Shelby noted, into what she calculated Gwen saw as down-market and friendly. Distressed designer jeans and a silky white T-shirt with a thin leather jacket the color of buttermilk.

“How’d you find my apartment? Cops’ addresses aren’t public.”

“I had to call your cousin Laurie, then she chatted at me for twenty minutes. Aren’t you going to ask me in?”