Inheritance (The Lost Bride Trilogy, #1)(61)

“Thanks.” Cleo spread her arms. “I don’t know who could resist a place like this, but I’m not one of them.”

From the library, Cyndi Lauper rang out with “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

“And that,” she said with a laugh, “is only one more reason why. Did everybody but Sonya know the place is haunted?”

“She had full disclosure there.” Trey hooked his thumbs in his jean pockets. “She wasn’t buying it.”

“So that’s not unusual?” Sonya asked. “Cuing up songs on my tablet?”

“They like music,” Trey said simply.

“And you.” She pointed at Owen. “No reaction?”

“I’m more into rock than pop, but Lauper’s always cool.”

“My friend’s a realist.” Cleo gave Sonya a one-armed hug. “So this is a little tough for her. I’ll balance that out.”

“Let’s not keep these men and their dogs standing in the foyer. We’ve got things moving from there to here, and here to there. If any of it’s too much, that’s fine. But I have beer.”

She led them up to start with the Victrola.

“That’s a nice piece.” Owen ran a hand over the wood cabinet. “In damn good shape, too.”

“I meant it, Owen. If you want something, it’s yours.”

“He can’t have the mermaid.”

Interest flickered as Owen turned to Cleo. “What mermaid?”

“She’s in another section—a floor lamp—but you can’t have her. She’s already mine. I’ll negotiate on the desk in case it has any sentimental meaning. I’ll go as far as rock, paper, scissors on the settee we already moved, but I stand firm on the mermaid.”

“Anything but the mermaid,” Sonya qualified. “I want to move the Victrola down to the music room. Unless you want it, Owen.”

“I’m good.”

They hauled it down, then the cabinet for sheet music while Sonya and Cleo carried boxes of old records.

The dogs trailed up, trailed down. Then sensibly wandered into the library to nap by the fire.

“That’s where I want to put Collin’s painting. Johanna’s portrait. I can find another place for the still life. If you need a break—”

“Sonya.” Trey set a hand on her shoulder. “We carried two pieces. I think we’ve got more in us.”

“We’ve got the mermaid, and a big desk. Cleo’s taking over Collin’s studio.”

“You paint?” Owen asked as they started back up.

“Now and then. I make a living illustrating.”

“What’s the difference?”

“How much time do you have?”

“Dumb it down.”

“Okay, condensed version.” She gestured to a painting as they walked. “Stands on its own, eye of the beholder. An illustration is connected to text, to serve a purpose, and—hopefully—they enhance each other.”

“Okay.”

They wound their way up, and to the mermaid.

“Okay,” Owen said again, with reverence. “Okay, she’s a beauty.”

“Mine.”

Ignoring Cleo, he ran his hand over the carving, the long fall of windswept hair, the knowing smile, the smooth breasts.

“She’s solid mahogany, Trey.” He glanced at Cleo. “What’s her name?”

Cleo had already given him points for helping Sonya, had added more for Jones. With the question, she doubled them. “Circe.”

“That works. Circe’s no lightweight.”

“The desk won’t be either,” Sonya warned.

“All right.” Rubbing his hands together, Trey nodded. “A challenge.”

“Somebody got it up there, so somebody can get it down.” Owen worked his way to it, crouched down to test the drawers. “Cherrywood, pristine. The wood’s a little thirsty. This and the mermaid need a good buff with paste wax. Don’t be using any supermarket spray shit on these pieces. Any of them. You can do the lemon oil, orange oil between, but once, maybe twice a year, you buff with a good paste wax.”

“We’ll get some.”

“None of my business.” Owen straightened, turned to Sonya. “But do you figure the two of you can maintain all this furniture the way it needs to be? Keep it dusted, protected? Not to mention the acres of wood floors?”

“No.” Sonya huffed out a breath. “No, I have to swallow getting a cleaning service. It’s on my list for next week, or the week after. I wish you’d take something, Owen. More than one something.”

As she spoke, a sheet slid slowly to the floor. Sonya gripped her elbows.

“That’s creepy. Come on, that’s just creepy.”

“Little bit.” But Owen walked over to the chest of drawers with the sheet now pooled at its feet. “Needs a little work. Got a handle missing. The bottom of this drawer’s cracked. Looks like some dog chewed on the front leg here. I’ll take it.”

“Really?”

“I can fix it. And maybe you’ll stop feeling so damn guilty.”

And with that, he earned more points on Cleo’s scoreboard.

“Look at the back, Owen.” Trey crooked a finger and grinned. “Somebody—probably a kid—carved his initials down at the bottom. ODP. Owen David Poole. Your initials, too.”