Read Online Inadvertent Disclosure by Melissa F Miller - Free Book Online
Authors: Melissa F Miller
Ads: Link
the Olympics are in
town or something.”
Russell clamped his mouth shut
all of the sudden, like he realized he’d been rambling. He looked up at the
metal clock on the wall. “Well, you got some time to kill. Want to pay Danny
Trees a visit?”
* * * * * * * * * *
Russell brought his Crown Vic
to a stop in front of an old Victorian mansion on the edge of town. The house
had once been gorgeous, but its grandeur was faded. Paint peeled down from the
outside walls in long, limp curls. Several ornate, hand-turned wooden spindles
on the curved porch were either broken or missing entirely. And where Sasha
imagined starched white lace curtains had once hung, grungy woven blankets now
served as window dressing.
“This is it,” Russell said, killing
the engine. “The McAllister mansion. Now home to Danny Trees and PORE’s
headquarters. This place is on the National Registry of Historic Places.”
As they stepped out of the car,
Russell holstered his service weapon and radio. Sasha stared up at the blighted
house.
“It’s a shame.”
“It is, and it isn’t,” Russell
answered, as they picked their way across the cracked walkway, dotted with
weeds. “It’s a big, expensive house. To restore and maintain it would cost more
than anyone around here is willing to pay. Danny may not be keeping up
appearances, but he pays the taxes and hasn’t let the place crumble to the
ground just yet. He says it would be wasteful not to use the house, given how
many trees were massacred—his word—to create it.” He shrugged and pointed over
his shoulder to a house directly across the street. “It’s better than what
happened to the old Wilson place.”
Sasha turned to look. It was
another Victorian, this one with a turret and wide wraparound porch. A
dilapidated gazebo peeked out from the backyard, mimicking both the
architecture and the current state of the home. Judging by the plywood nailed
over the front entryway, and the missing glass in the front upstairs windows,
it was abandoned.
“What’s the story?”
Russell rested his arm against
a stone lion guarding the steps from the street to the front yard. “Clyde
Wilson had a prosperous home heating business in the 1950s and ‘60s. He
installed oil-fired furnaces in a territory that covered the entire county.
That’s a lot of homes. But when the oil crisis hit in the ‘70s, he missed the
handwriting on the wall. Instead of branching out into electric heat, he just
clung to the idea that his market would rebound. Instead of cutting back, he
continued to spend money like he had an endless supply. Anything his girls
wanted, they got. His wife had family money, and they ran through it pretty
quick. So, old Clyde went and got a high-interest loan and pledged everything,
and I do mean everything, they owned as collateral. The bank called the loan
and they lost their house, their furniture, you name it. The house was sold at
auction to a developer who cut it up into apartments and rented it out. Over
time, the caliber of tenants he could attract declined and it ended up, well, a
flophouse. It’s condemned now.”
Sasha stared at the sad house.
“What happened to the family?”
“They moved to the wrong side
of the tracks. Clyde committed suicide and left his wife and two daughters
destitute. They squeaked by, barely. The girls have done well for themselves.
Their mom died a few years back.”
They started up the stairs to
the porch. The wood boards creaked under their feet, effectively announcing
their arrival, if the presence of the sheriff’s car hadn’t. The wide double
doors swung open, and a woman stepped out to greet them. She wore her long hair
in a braid and her peasant skirt billowed out above her bare feet. Sasha
recognized her from the parking lot. Judging by the spark of fear in the
woman’s blue eyes, she recognized Sasha, too.
“Melanie,” Russell greeted her,
with a tip of his deputy’s hat. “Is Danny around?”
Melanie blinked and
town or something.”
Russell clamped his mouth shut
all of the sudden, like he realized he’d been rambling. He looked up at the
metal clock on the wall. “Well, you got some time to kill. Want to pay Danny
Trees a visit?”
* * * * * * * * * *
Russell brought his Crown Vic
to a stop in front of an old Victorian mansion on the edge of town. The house
had once been gorgeous, but its grandeur was faded. Paint peeled down from the
outside walls in long, limp curls. Several ornate, hand-turned wooden spindles
on the curved porch were either broken or missing entirely. And where Sasha
imagined starched white lace curtains had once hung, grungy woven blankets now
served as window dressing.
“This is it,” Russell said, killing
the engine. “The McAllister mansion. Now home to Danny Trees and PORE’s
headquarters. This place is on the National Registry of Historic Places.”
As they stepped out of the car,
Russell holstered his service weapon and radio. Sasha stared up at the blighted
house.
“It’s a shame.”
“It is, and it isn’t,” Russell
answered, as they picked their way across the cracked walkway, dotted with
weeds. “It’s a big, expensive house. To restore and maintain it would cost more
than anyone around here is willing to pay. Danny may not be keeping up
appearances, but he pays the taxes and hasn’t let the place crumble to the
ground just yet. He says it would be wasteful not to use the house, given how
many trees were massacred—his word—to create it.” He shrugged and pointed over
his shoulder to a house directly across the street. “It’s better than what
happened to the old Wilson place.”
Sasha turned to look. It was
another Victorian, this one with a turret and wide wraparound porch. A
dilapidated gazebo peeked out from the backyard, mimicking both the
architecture and the current state of the home. Judging by the plywood nailed
over the front entryway, and the missing glass in the front upstairs windows,
it was abandoned.
“What’s the story?”
Russell rested his arm against
a stone lion guarding the steps from the street to the front yard. “Clyde
Wilson had a prosperous home heating business in the 1950s and ‘60s. He
installed oil-fired furnaces in a territory that covered the entire county.
That’s a lot of homes. But when the oil crisis hit in the ‘70s, he missed the
handwriting on the wall. Instead of branching out into electric heat, he just
clung to the idea that his market would rebound. Instead of cutting back, he
continued to spend money like he had an endless supply. Anything his girls
wanted, they got. His wife had family money, and they ran through it pretty
quick. So, old Clyde went and got a high-interest loan and pledged everything,
and I do mean everything, they owned as collateral. The bank called the loan
and they lost their house, their furniture, you name it. The house was sold at
auction to a developer who cut it up into apartments and rented it out. Over
time, the caliber of tenants he could attract declined and it ended up, well, a
flophouse. It’s condemned now.”
Sasha stared at the sad house.
“What happened to the family?”
“They moved to the wrong side
of the tracks. Clyde committed suicide and left his wife and two daughters
destitute. They squeaked by, barely. The girls have done well for themselves.
Their mom died a few years back.”
They started up the stairs to
the porch. The wood boards creaked under their feet, effectively announcing
their arrival, if the presence of the sheriff’s car hadn’t. The wide double
doors swung open, and a woman stepped out to greet them. She wore her long hair
in a braid and her peasant skirt billowed out above her bare feet. Sasha
recognized her from the parking lot. Judging by the spark of fear in the
woman’s blue eyes, she recognized Sasha, too.
“Melanie,” Russell greeted her,
with a tip of his deputy’s hat. “Is Danny around?”
Melanie blinked and
Similar Books
