Selling Murder House

Chapter 6 (Continued)

I stopped at the café for two coffees before making my way to the Madsen House for my appointment with Paul. I hadn't gotten approval from Leo on the listing, but I sure as hell wasn't going to cancel any plans just yet. I hadn't gotten a surefire No, so I was moving forward with it as if it were a Yes.

My stomach turned with nerves as I walked up the drive to the front door. I wondered how much cleanup Paul had achieved since we last spoke, but when he opened the door to greet me, there was no sign of mop buckets or pink-tinged rags.

"Come on in," he said.

I handed him a paper coffee cup, and his eyes brightened at the sight.

"I hope cream's okay," I said.

"It's perfect," he said, and sipped the drink.

He had cleaned himself up a bit since the last time I saw him. His hair was still damp from a shower, and his beard was considerably neater. He wore a preppy green sweater and trousers that didn't suit him. I wondered, with a slight chill, if he'd raided Henry's wardrobe for this occasion.

I stepped over the threshold and into a grand foyer.

"Oh wow," I said, craning my neck and twirling around to take in the scene. "It's . . ."

"Hideous?" Paul offered.

I laughed, a sharp exhale.

The interior of the Madsen House was nothing I could have ever expected, and the brief peek inside I'd had the day before had not prepared me for this sight. The foyer was a narrow hallway leading toward an huge white archway, where a curved staircase led to the second floor. Beyond that, I could see another archway leading to a sitting room. Everything was ornate and overdone with decadence, from the gold-framed mirrors, the floral vases, and the dramatic chandelier that hung low from the high ceiling. But the thing that had caught my breath were the walls: every wall I could see from my vantage point was the same dusty rose shade of pink, wainscoted with white and gold trimming. I'd anticipated beauty and charm and a fair amount of flamboyance, but this was beyond my wildest expectations. Walking into the house gave me the strangest sense of breathlessness, like the house had not only taken my breath away, but throttled it out of me, then smothered me with a frilly throw pillow.

An awkward silence elapsed while I wrestled with this feeling. Paul must have seen a horrified look on my face, because he continued: "It's okay, you can say it's hideous. This was my grandmother's style. She was . . . eccentric."

I laughed, because I still couldn't find the right words to describe the house. I wanted to say that walking in had felt like I was being transported to another time, another century, when wealth was meant to be displayed and enjoyed. That wasn't quite right, though, because Paul was right, the overall effect of the exuberance, the florals, the vomit of pink, it was hideous. It was like how someone might style a movie set for a period piece made for children, where a poodle speaks with a French accent and a beautiful servant girl is asked to a ball. None of it felt real.

"It's certainly a . . . cohesive design," I said, lamely.

Paul led me past the staircase and through the archway leading to the sitting room. The same pink walls continued through it, and were further accentuated by a tray ceiling that was also painted the same rosy shade. This room was brighter, with large windows curtained with layers of sheer white ruffles and pink flowers lined with little hanging pom-poms. The rug at the center of the room matched the curtains, white with pink roses. Two loveseats and two upholstered armchairs were arranged in a circle around a round coffee table, where a porcelain tea set showed a fine layer of dust. Above the conversation circle was another ornate chandelier, with clear, dripping crystals turned pink from the walls behind it.