Page 46 of Falling for the Grumpy Stranger

Several days had gone by without a word from the unpleasant neighbor. Audrey wasn’t willing to give up the rent money or break the contract, but she did promise not to extend the lease after it finished. Rhett’s lawyers were working on a new deal, and since it was none of my business, I didn’t bring it up.

My research and the incredibly helpful newspaper article that Rhett found about the chandelier catastrophe had brought me all the way up to the 1930s in Grimstone’s history. Rhett had gone through most of the bookshelves, and that brittle newspaper had been the last helpful artifact. I had to rely on the internet and the county website for more information about the subsequent owners. I knew there were stretches of time when the house was vacant; I just didn’t realize for how long. It seemed after the terrible chandelier disaster, Agatha’s widower, Abel, packed up and left the house for good. Not surprising. It was also not surprising that he couldn’t find a buyer for the house. The shocking deaths really sealed the deal on the curse rumor. Abel’s name was on the title for the house until his death in 1943. The house stood empty all that time. The county took over title when no heirs could be found. Shockingly, my research showed it was empty until 1960 when an architectnamed Jerald Moore bought it to restore. Then the curse reared its sinister head again. According to the county website, permits were pulled and work was set to begin, but it never happened. A bit of research into the semi-well-known architect showed that he had some undiagnosed illness that affected his balance. He gave up on the idea of restoring Grimstone Manor and retired to Portugal. The house was left vacant again and was returned to the county’s ownership. From what I could tell, it remained empty for the next thirty years, falling farther into disrepair.

My phone beeped. I was glad for a reason to take a break, and it was good news from the editor. “Great work on part one of the Grimstone Manor curse. Just turned the final draft into the team. Your first piece will be in this week’s edition. Congratulations.”

“Yippee!” I got up and did a little shuffle dance across the floor.

Ava came out from the bathroom with wet hair. “What did I miss?”

I pushed my phone so enthusiastically into her face she had to lean back to read it. “Congrats, El! We should have a party this weekend. It’ll be my last chance to see everyone before I take off.”

“I love that idea. Let’s throw that brilliant idea Isla’s way, so she can figure out what to cook and bake.”

My phone rang. “Woot, more phone fun. It’s Rhett.”

“Published author Ella Lovely speaking. My article will be in the next edition. Margaret Grimstone is finally going to have her fifteen minutes of much deserved fame.”

“That’s amazing. Good for you, Ella. It’s a great piece. I think you did old Mags proud.”

“Thanks. Now enough about me and my surefire journey to a Pulitzer Prize, how did it go with the contractor?” There was enough of a pause to assure me it didn’t go well.

“I don’t know, Ella. Maybe I’m delusional thinking I can get this place renovated. Contractors don’t seem the least bit interested in restoring old houses. They’re all trying to convince me to tear this house down and start from scratch. Easier path for them I suppose.”

“No, you can’t. That house deserves more. Margaret worked so hard to make it her dream home, and you can see under all its old battle scars that she’s a beauty. And you know what? I think that poor house got a bad rap. People never gave it much of a chance after the chandelier accident. And that was the fault of the brass band and a badly hung light fixture, not the house. I found out some more history. Do you want to hear it?”

“Not sure. Does it involve one of the owners getting eaten by Bigfoot or having a meteor kill them in the backyard?”

“Nope. It’s all quite mundane after Agatha’s death. Aside from a short moment of light when an architect drew up plans to renovate, the house was basically empty for nearly six decades.”

“What happened to the architect? It was Bigfoot, wasn’t it?”

I laughed. “No, it wasn’t Bigfoot. Though, now that you mention it, I wish it had been. That would make a terrific story. No, the architect got sick, and the doctors couldn’t give him a proper diagnosis.”

“Aha, the dreaded mystery illness. That was next on my bingo card. Did it kill him?”

“Hmm, not sure. He gave up on the house plans, signed the place over to the county and left for Portugal. Don’t know what happened after that. I guess I should find that out.”

“Well, I’ve crossed most of the local contractors off the list, so I’m not sure where to turn next.” His phone beeped. “Got another call. I’m waiting to hear from my lawyer. I was hoping to see you this afternoon. I could go to town and buy some ingredients for spaghetti, and by ingredients, I mean noodles and a bottle of spaghetti sauce.”

“Hey, I’m not picky when it comes to noodles on my plate. I’ve got some more work to do and a few chores, then I’ll head over. See you then.”

“Great. See you later.”

I put the phone down and released a long sigh. Ava poked her head out from the bedroom. “That sounded like a ‘I’m so darn happy’ sigh. Did you tell him about the party?”

“Oops. Forgot. I’m going to see him later. I’ll let you ask Isla about food.”

“I suppose, since it was my idea. Maybe we can invite the new neighbor,” she said with a grin and disappeared back into the room.

I got up and walked to the kitchen. If I leaned and turned my head to the left, I could see the front corner of Audrey’s cottage and a section of the back patio. No sign of the dreaded new neighbor. I hoped it stayed that way.

Chapter Thirty-Four

RHETT

Idashed out to the store. A drizzle had swept in on a sudden cold front. The morning had started out sunny, but clouds and a bitter chill had moved in—a cold front from the north was what the weatherman had warned. I had time, so I decided to make a trip to Fairview, the next town over. I planned to buy a block of good parmesan and a baguette to spruce up the meal. I reached the parking lot and paused to button my coat. My phone rang. It was Rich Seton, my lawyer. The earlier call had been from one of the first contractors letting me know to call him if I reconsidered a tear-down and start from scratch. He even promised to rebuild the new house in the Arts and Crafts style, which I questioned greatly.

“Hey, Rich, thought I’d hear from you earlier. How’s it going?”

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