If These Walls Could Talk

Chapter 2

The young man was halfway up the stairs when he heard footsteps. Turning around, he pointed his flashlight downward and took the worn, wooden treads two at a time to return to the bottom of the entrance hall. A cavalcade of disturbed dust particles floated in the dim air around him just as the door creaked open, and a woman hesitantly peeked her head in.

Still unnoticed, the man remained quiet, and the newcomer slowly stepped inside. Snowflakes decorated her blonde ponytail, a designer purse hung on her elbow, and she clutched a pill bottle as if her life depended on it.

"Who'd you have to kill to get in here?" He blurted out, eying the sticky, red substance covering the woman's hands.

She jumped, her eyes wide with surprise as they focused in his direction. "I . . . I could bloody well ask you the same thing, considering I have the keys." Her voice was shaky, but he had to admit, she was quick on her feet.

He smiled. So this was the art historian – or whatever qualifications antique dealers needed – sent by the auction house? Not only was she cute, but he also had a soft spot for British slang. Maybe this job wouldn't be as mundane, after all. But she was now looking at him suspiciously, a harsh scowl having replaced her previous startled expression, and he had to think fast.

"The door was open." He stepped forward, flashing his brightest smile and extending his hand. "Michael Davenport." He took another look at her still muddy hands and pulled away. "You know I think I saw a kitchen back there where you could wash up."

The woman smirked and shut the door behind her. "I'd appreciate that."

Michael led the way through the darkness. "I'm sorry, but I didn't get your name." He scratched his wiry, black hair as he glanced over his shoulder.

"Lucy Montgomery," she stated flatly, following closely behind. "Why are you here again, Mister Davenport?"

"Call me Michael," the young man offered. "And I'm here for the same reason you are: to see if there's anything left of value to cover the estate's extensive debts."

The woman grabbed his arm and stopped him from going further. "The solicitor didn't tell me he engaged another firm."

Michael brushed the wet clay from his sleeve. Turning serious for the first time, he drew his lips into a thin line. "That's because he didn't hire me. The people the estate owes did."

"Ah." Lucy let out a quiet syllable of understanding before wrinkling her brows. "But why haven't you lit any of the lights?" She looked around.

"Lit? None of the switches work." Michael shrugged before turning back toward the kitchen. Using his flashlight, he took quick, long steps into the darkness.

"That's because they're gaslights. It's a good thing you didn't blow yourself up," Lucy mumbled as they arrived in the kitchen. "You don't have a lighter or match, do you?"

Michael shook his head. "I don't smoke." He waved the flashlight over the room, landing on a nearby cupboard. He found success in the first drawer and handed over the box of matches to his companion.

Stepping to a nearby wall sconce, Lucy struck a match before turning a knob on the base of the fixture. She then lifted the glass cover and held the flame to the mantle. With a soft whoosh, the lamp came to life, burning brightly and illuminating the space.

"Here we are." Lucy smiled in the warm glow as she secured the glass in its place. After handing the matchbox to Michael, she headed for the sink. "I hope you don't mind doing the rest."

Michael nodded. She was giving him a perfect excuse to hang back and observe, before searching the rest of the house. "No problem."

He moved to another fixture on the opposite side of the kitchen, as a rattling sound echoed through the space. Glancing toward Lucy, he was just in time to see her jump backward.