Eden Larsen. Olivia Taylor-Jones. As for what her arrival in Cainsville portended ... The cards were, as usual, long on declarations and short on interpretations.
The girl had stopped on the stoop of Grace's building. She was staring up into the corner of the front doorway.
What was she gaping at? Whatever it was, it held her attention for at least a minute before she opened the door and walked through.
Rose picked up her binoculars from the table and peered out. She looked where the girl had been staring. Nothing. She adjusted the lenses and looked again. It didn't help. She was looking right at the spot.
There was nothing there.
Chapter Sixteen
The front door opened into a vestibule with stairs going up and a perpendicular hall for the apartments. No locked door to pass through. No panels of buzzers to alert the residents to company. Not even names on the mailbox slots.
The hall was paneled plaster with a wooden floor. My knowledge of architecture was confined to the external, so I didn't know how historically accurate this was. It looked right, though. It was definitely nicer than any of the apartments I'd visited so far. Yes, the floorboards were worn, unvarnished paths showing the main routes, and the walls could use fresh paint. But it had a comfortable, lived-in look. Benign neglect.
I looked down the main hallway. Two doors on each side, four apartments on each floor. Twelve overall, then. Small, but it certainly didn't feel full. The long corridor was dimly lit and cool, like a cave. Smelled a lot better than any cave I'd explored. I picked up teasing traces of sandalwood. The sounds were as muted as the smells. Hushed. Not so much a cave, then, as a church after hours, dark and cool and peaceful.
I knocked on 1D, the number on the note. It took three tries for the landlord to answer, and when she did, the look she gave me said I should have taken the hint after the first two.
She was at least as old as her cousin in Chicago. Steel gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. Sharp nose. Sharp chin. Even sharper gaze.
"What?"
"Are you Grace?" I handed her the note without waiting for a reply. "Your cousin Jack in Chicago--"
An abrupt wave, silencing me as she snatched the paper. As she read it, her frown deepened, until she wouldn't have been out of place perched on top of her building.
"Got one apartment," she said. "Three hundred a month."
"Could I see--?"
"No. Wasn't expecting to be showing apartments today."
"Is it one bedroom?"
"You need more? Too bad. It's one."
"One is fine. Separate kitchen and living area?"
"It's five hundred square feet, girl. You won't be doing much living in there. But if you're asking if it's all one room, like one of those bachelor pads, no, it's a proper apartment. Kitchen, living room, bedroom, bath."
"Furnished?"
"If you call a fridge, stove, twin bed, and sofa 'furnished.' Might not be up to your standards, though. Got them at a yard sale." A pause. "Twenty years ago."
"Could I replace them if I wanted?"
"Can do anything you want. Replace the furniture, paint, carpet. Hell, you can even clean the place. Might need it. Haven't opened the door since the tenant moved out last year."
Lovely ...
"Okay, so three hundred a month," I said. "First and last's makes that six--"
"Did I say you could stay two months? You pay one. Then I decide if you can have it for another."
Renting a place unseen was ridiculous. But three hundred was a steal, especially with no second month's rent or damage deposit.
I took another look down the hall. I wouldn't even want to think what I'd pay in a place like this in Chicago.