The Sky Beneath Her(33)
I couldn’t risk any of these people being connected to Alfred.
Chapter Eleven
Tula
Wednesday, June 10, 2026, 8:15 a.m.
The traffic was still light as we drove down the beach road, but that would change in the next hour as vacationers headed to the breakfast dives, beach, the shopping centers, or trinket stores. Today, like yesterday, was supposed to be clear, so the chances were good the crowds wouldn’t be terrible. Tomorrow’s weather predicted overcast skies and a little rain. Then the ripe-red bodies would flock from the sand and surf toward the attractions.
The Airbnb was a small third-floor condo just south of Duck. Located on the ocean side of the road, it embraced the mauves and grays of the early 1990s. The living room had a puffy couch, a few side chairs, and a bamboo coffee table. The deck looked out over the ocean.
But before this place could be rentable again, we’d have to clear out the explosion of trash scattered over every square inch.
“Did a bomb go off?” I asked.
Kaitlin shook her head. “Looks like it.”
“I thought these were easy cleans?”
“They usually are.” Kaitlin looked annoyed but not surprised.
The trash cans were overflowing, the refrigerator was full of half-eaten takeout, pizza boxes littered the place, and sand had been tracked over every square inch of floor.
“On a scale of one to ten . . .” I asked.
She regarded the first bathroom. “Eight. Maybe a nine. But no serious damage beyond the trash. Grab a garbage bag, start cleaning out the kitchen, and pick up anything that looks like it doesn’t belong.”
“What’s the deal with people?”
“They’re on vacation. Some just think that cleaning isn’t part of the package.”
I pulled on plastic gloves, half wishing I had a hazmat suit. “I can’t imagine a ten.”
“Because you’re a neatnik and control freak when it comes to organization.” When I looked up, she smiled. “And I love, love when people like you check out of one of my properties.”
“Cleaner than when they moved in, right?”
“Exactly. Amazing.”
“I left my dirty dishes in Dave’s sink before I left.”
She laughed. “Aren’t you the little rule breaker.”
“It kind of bothers me.”
“Let the land shark wash his own dishes.”
I dumped several pizza boxes into the bag. “Pizza is the cuisine of choice.”
“The seafood leftovers are generally in the refrigerator. At least I hope they are.”
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever found?”
“A handgun on the kitchen counter. Vibrators in a nightstand. Fish in the bathtub.”
“Were the fish alive?”
“At one time, but not by the time I found them.”
I refused to remind myself that I’d taken top honors in the paralegal program. Several instructors had suggested I consider law school.
Tierney, Brooks, and Bainbridge had been my first job offer. They liked that I worked hard in the mail room, and when they discovered I could write, the powers that be decided to train me in paralegal work. I’d been so grateful for the work that I didn’t realize that writing summaries and legal briefs didn’t energize me.
I filled three large green bags and hauled them outside to the dumpster. My next mountain to climb was the refrigerator. The renters had been here two weeks, and I bet they’d saved every bit of takeout since their arrival. Several of the meals and the milk had developed a real odor.
Doing my best not to gag, I dumped it all into the bag. Several whole fish lay in the icy freezer. Wide glossy eyes stared at me as if asking why anyone had bothered to catch them.
I used a blunt kitchen knife to pry the fish off the freezer bottom. “I hope they lose their security deposit.”
“They will.” Kaitlin appeared with three bags stuffed with clean linens.
After all the clutter had been collected, I wiped all the surfaces while Kaitlin tackled the sheets and bathroom. Within the hour, two vacuum cleaners were sucking up sand and debris.
The condo was still old and worn, but it was now immaculate and smelled of pine. Oddly, I felt a real sense of satisfaction. This was only two weeks’ worth of trash. Who knew what waited at the Southern Shores house, filled with a lifetime of stuff.
After we’d cleaned the next five condos, which thankfully were in good shape, we headed south. I asked, “Do we still have time to stop at the Brooks house?”
Kaitlin loaded her mops and the vacuum cleaners into the back of her van. “Sure. It’s on the way.”
When we pulled up in front of the old cottage, it was nearly three. The “flattop house” was one level and made of cinder blocks covered with sun-washed stucco. White hurricane shutters covered the windows facing Route 12. Cinder block homes like these had earned the “flattop house” name because the roofs were, well, flat. The horizontal roofs and large overhangs protected the originally un-air-conditioned interiors from sun and wind while blending with the landscape.
Many houses around this cottage had added a second floor or painted the exterior a bright color, but not this one. It looked as if it hadn’t changed since it was built in the 1940s. These homes had a mid-century modern vibe, and most had been renovated. Few remained in their original form, like this one.