Stand Down by J. A. Jance Page B

few meetings with Helen Tate, the Realtor, hadn’t gone well. She had evidently checked up on the value of our home in Seattle on the Web, and I could see the dollar signs swimming in her eyes the first time she showed up to take me looking at properties. She had been somewhat dismayed when I fell in love with a vintage-­but-­dilapidated three-­bedroom midcentury modern. Located in the Bayside area of Fairhaven, with a spectacular, cliffside view, it was listed as a “fixer-­upper.” With plenty of sixty-­year-­old plumbing issues, lots of dry rot, and a sagging roof, not to mention a collection of more recent but steamy dual-­paned windows that had long since lost their seals, the place should have been listed as a tear-­down. There was only one problem with that—­I wanted it.
    The original owner, a widower, had recently been carted off to an Alzheimer’s’ facility. His son, who lived out of state, simply wanted to dispose of the place with the least possible amount of effort and fuss.
    The thing is, I could tell that underneath all the filth and trash, the house had good bones. The spectacular view of the bay, the interior courtyard, and the expansive windows all beckoned to me. There was so much glass that, once the fogged windows were replaced, we’d be able to see right through the house from back to front. You can get those kinds of views in high-­rise condos occasionally, but finding them in a house was unusual.
    Even so, I hoped it would be possible for Mel to see past the neglect to the house’s buried charm. Something about the old place felt familiar and inviting and made me want to bring the derelict back from the dead. That stormy day in February, when Mel agreed to meet Helen and me at the house during her lunch break, both the Realtor and I held our collective breaths as Mel, dressed in her uniform and heels, wandered thoughtfully from room to room.
    â€œI see what you mean,” Mel said at last, picking her way through yet another minefield of debris as she returned to the living room. “The place does have good bones, but it’s going to take a lot of work. Are you sure you’re up to it?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWhat happens to all this stuff?” Mel asked, gesturing at the piles of junk surrounding her.
    â€œThe owner’s son lives out of town. He doesn’t want any of it, and he doesn’t want to have to deal with it, either,” Helen explained. “He’s ready to be done with it.”
    â€œWe’d be buying the place as is, contents and all, no contingencies,” I added. “That means whatever is left here, we’d have to haul away, and whatever’s broken, we’d have to fix. I’ve already called Jim Hunt to see if he’d be willing to come take a look and give us some suggestions.”
    Mel eyed me speculatively. “Jim Hunt, as in the guy who designed both your bachelor pads?”
    I nodded, guilty as charged. After Karen divorced me, I had moved into a unit at the Royal Crest in downtown Seattle with little more than the clothes on my back and the one piece of furniture that Karen had allowed me to take—­my recliner. One of the secretaries at the department had referred me to Jim, and he had done a complete job of creating a livable condo from a barren shell, up to and including linens and pots and pans. Our only disagreement was over the recliner. He wanted it gone, but I was adamant. The recliner was mine, and I was keeping it. In the years since it had been recovered more than once.
    Mel wandered over to the spot where a baby grand piano peeked out from under a mountain of magazines and newspapers. “You say everything stays, even this?” she asked, pausing long enough to open the dust-­laden lid and play a scale. Even I could hear that the piano was hopelessly out of tune.
    Helen nodded. “That, too,” the Realtor said helpfully.
    â€œAll