Beach Thriller(4)

Better than the one at my old apartment, thought Holly. She might not have an idea for her next book, but she was going to work in a sadistic, greedy landlord—modeled after the one who evicted her—who dies a grisly death.

She had lived in a rent-stabilized apartment, and he claimed to have made major upgrades to the building as an excuse to justify the obscene (and unaffordable) rent increase. It was bullshit.

She couldn’t pay, even if she had wanted to. Her complaints to the Department of Homes and Community Renewal went unanswered long enough for her to accumulate massive back rent. When an inspector finally arrived, he sided with her landlord, who happened to be his cousin. Unbelievable.

Holly couldn’t believe Gail Provost, either. She ventured into the kitchen and found her plugging in the refrigerator.

“This still works, too,” said Gail, patting the sturdy appliance as if it might appreciate the praise. “They don’t make things like they used to. I have to replace my modern fridge every five years.”

Holly could confidently say there was nothing modern in this kitchen. The linoleum floor was the color of coffee-stained teeth, the old wood cabinets were clinging to the walls like desperate mountain climbers, and the round table where she had consumed countless bowls of Cocoa Puffs was scratched and covered in dust. The appliances were all aged white metal with chrome accents. But they still worked, including the refrigerator, which hummed as though it had been roused from a long nap.

Chester finally mustered the courage to abandon his crate. He darted into the kitchen, displaying impressive dexterity despite having only three legs. Holly had known from the moment she laid eyes on him at the shelter, hobbled from a car accident that would have killed him if not for his nine lives, that he would be hers forever—or at least twelve to eighteen years, depending on how things went. She was hoping for as long as possible.

Using the kitchen table as a springboard, Chester climbed onto the windowsill and took in a view of the unappealing backyard. He jumped down, brushing up against Gail’s legs.

“Oh my, what an absolute cutie,” said Gail, barely paying Chester any mind. Chances were she only paid close attention to things she could sell. “What’s her name?”

“His name is Chester,” Holly replied.

Chester was thirsty. The smarty-pants cat made his way to the sink. But what came out of the faucet was brown and didn’t clear, even as Holly let the water run. She shut it off, noticing the countertop around the sink had bubbled.

“I need a handyman,” Holly said. “Do you have any recommendations?”

Gail’s face lit up like Christmas had come early. “So you’re fixing the place up to sell? Oh, let me help.” She clapped her hands with delight. “A vacation rental investor would snap this up in no time.”

“I have a lot of legal issues to look into before I can consider selling. But I need someone to do repairs so I can live here, at least for now.”

Gail smiled, unfazed. “I know just the handyman for the job. Mind if I look around upstairs?” The Realtor was on the move before Holly gave her blessing.

“Be my guest,” Holly said to Gail’s back. She followed her up to the second-floor bedroom she had once shared with Anna.

The sisters had stayed here every year, from the moment school ended through Labor Day weekend, soaking up summer until it gave its first pre-fall yawn. The bedroom walls were still a vibrant robin’s-egg blue, but the dresser with an attached mirror needed a good cleaning.

Two twin beds, their mattresses encased in plastic, lay like prone sentries keeping watch all these years. Everything was as Holly remembered, and it all hurt. She felt as though she’d stepped into a photo album, except everyone Holly loved, all the people who made this place special, were gone.

Gail peered out the bedroom window, marveling at the view, commenting on Holly’s good fortune.

The Realtor didn’t realize Holly’s so-called luck had come at a steep cost: losing her father when she was only a year old, then her grandfather when she and Anna were still in their teens. But the loss of her sister was the most gut-wrenching of all. It happened unexpectedly the year Holly turned twenty-two. Anna was just two years older. Soon after, her mother began experiencing depression-induced dementia. Now Mom was gone, and this house was all Holly had to remember them by.

Some luck there.

Holly stood next to Gail by the window, catching another whiff of her perfume—Eau d’Argent, she dubbed it—French for money. Below them, the sea spread out like a vast dark carpet sprinkled with flickering drops of sunlight. Colorful umbrellas dotted the nearby shoreline. As Holly struggled to lift the window, Gail helped pry it open, letting in a blast of ocean air.

Gail sighed, then muttered to herself, “A unique residential property that offers the fortunate buyer an incredible opportunity for seaside living.”

Holly’s mouth dropped open. “Are you writing the listing in your head?” By this point, Holly found Gail more amusing than detestable. This woman certainly put the g in gall.

“I can’t help it,” said Gail. “The listing writes itself. Stunning, panoramic ocean views, footsteps from one of the best beaches in the Northeast, and just a stone’s throw from a dizzying array of restaurants, galleries, and shops.”

Gail certainly took her always-be-closing mantra literally. Holly sniffed the air. “Is that black mold?”